Heaven's Gate Read Online Free PDF

bared a pair of fangs in a ghastly smile. Bob knew the type, though it had never occurred to him that showing off might be a weakness shared by a monster such as this. Being clever wasn’t good enough, it wanted someone to see its genius. Bob resolves to make it regret that arrogance, as he surreptitiously slides a bullet from his belt and tries to force it into the empty chamber of his revolver with shaking fingers.
     
    Samuel holds his breath now, trying to find some way to penetrate the false perceptions that surround him. Had something just touched him? Was that laughter or breath against his ear? Near his throat? His hand tightened on his sabre’s hilt but he dared not move until he was sure of his target, once he moved from the position wherehe knew he was standing, Rydal might subtly manoeuver him anywhere. Better to wait and respond to attack than to flail about and succumb to Rydal's trap. With iron discipline, he stands stock still in the middle of the street, awaiting the impact of a bullet, the sharp touch of a blade or worse of all the pressure of teeth. Again the laugh echoes around him, full of triumph, cut off abruptly by the sound of gunfire.
     
    The recoil feels like the kick of horse and Bob’s hand flails backwards, but his aim is true and the undead creature jerks with the impact of the bullet. The creature whirls on Bob fixing the upstart with furious, bloodshot eyes, too late Rydal remembers the greater danger and turns back to face Samuel’s onslaught. The grey claws sweep up to ward off the Pilgrim’s attack and Bob laughs to think that the creature could hope to resist the razor edge of the sword with only empty hands, but to his surprise the Pilgrim lets the weapon drop. The two come together in a blurred melee of impossible ferocity, Rydal's claws and fangs drawing blood from the bigger man’s chest and arms, until, with an exercise of pure strength and unflinching will the Pilgrim brings his own flat, strong teeth down upon the neck of the struggling vampire. With no hollow fangs, Samuel’s work is necessarily gory, with sharp jerking motions he worries open the throat of the undead thing, gulping sickening mouthfuls of fetid blood and drawing with it the strength of the damned creature. Bob watches this conflict with horror, without the strength to load another bullet into his gun or any faith that it would do him any good anyway.   He spends the seemingly endless seconds of the struggle reminding himself that, however ruthless the Pilgrim seemed to be or what hungers might drive him, the man had said he’d intervened in order to help.
     
    At length Samuel feels that he has taken all the strength from Rydal that he can, he throws his head back, sick with remorse and horror at what he is forced to do to simply survive. The Lord’s Prayer will not come. He cannot mention his daily bread with this carrion slumped in his arms like a tired lover and the slow dark gore as his communion wine.
    “Forgive us our trespasses,” he manages to stammer out to the star-filled sky, “As we forgive those who trespass against us.”
    There is no release in it. There never is, no matter how pious his intent, the black miasma of blood is still thick in his throat; the sin of Cain; the lusts of Gomorra; a vile mockery of Christ’s Eucharist. Another black soul has joined his own on its quest for salvation. Already he can feel Rydal taking his place with the others, his knowledge and power oozing slowly through him on a tide of unholy blood, ladening his soul with more sin, viewed in grizzly flashes, experienced from behind the eyes of a monster. Helpless to stop it, he bends under the weight of new sins that were not his, until he claimed them with the rite of blood, crimes and vices that could not be shed with regret or prayer. Those sins and many others, committed or stolen, would weigh yet heavier on him if he allowed himself to die. Samuel knew he was not ready for that reckoning, he had felt the