Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (33 page)

75

M
itchell took the oxygen mask away from his face. ‘What’s he doing?’ he croaked. ‘No spell can stop her – she’s too strong.’

‘What’s going to happen, sir?’ asked Sylvia.

‘She’ll take his soul,’ said Mitchell. ‘Nightingale’s got balls all right, but he’s as good as dead.’

He pushed himself out of his seat to get a better look at what was happening on the terrace. Proserpine was moving closer to Nightingale. She was saying something to him but Mitchell couldn’t make out what it was. Nightingale was being buffeted by a strong wind, his hair in disarray, his coat whipping around his legs like a living thing, but Proserpine was totally unaffected by it.

Nightingale was reading from the book, his head down as he concentrated, ignoring the devil that was now only feet away from the pentagram.

‘He’s wasting his time,’ muttered Mitchell. ‘It’s over.’

‘The lights, sir,’ said Sylvia. ‘Nightingale said we should turn on the lights.’

‘It won’t make any difference,’ he said. He dropped the oxygen mask onto the chair. Proserpine was next to the pentagram now, her black eyes glaring at Nightingale, her fingers curved into talons, bent forward at the waist like a wild animal preparing to spring.

Nightingale stopped reading and closed the book. He held it out to Proserpine.

‘No, never allow contact!’ said Mitchell.

‘The lights, sir,’ said Sylvia.

‘Yes, okay,’ snapped Mitchell. ‘Put the lights on, but it won’t make any difference.’ He stared at Nightingale, who was still holding out the leather-bound book to Proserpine.

Sylvia’s heels clicked on the wooden floor as she hurried to the switches. She placed her hand against the panel and flicked the three together. The room was flooded with light.

Proserpine’s head jerked and she stared at the french window, snarling when she saw Mitchell standing there. ‘Mitchell!’ she screamed, so loudly that the glass rattled. Mitchell took a step back and his leg banged against the chair behind him.

Nightingale dropped the book and the dagger was in his right hand. He brought it down in an arc towards Proserpine’s chest. There was a flash of lightning, then another, and a howl from Proserpine as she staggered backwards. Black blood gushed from the centre of the golden ankh, pulsing out in a stream that splashed over Nightingale’s legs. The lightning flashed again and there was a clap of thunder so loud that the ground shook.

Nightingale stepped out of the pentagram and stuck the knife into her chest again and again, his face contorted. He was screaming at her but the wind was tearing the words from his mouth and ripping them away.

‘No . . .’ said Mitchell, clutching the chair for support. ‘It can’t be.’

Proserpine’s dog ran away, tail between his legs, ears flat against his head, keeping low to the ground as if he hoped to escape unnoticed.

Proserpine fell back, arms flailing. Lightning flashed again and again, with simultaneous booms of thunder. Nightingale straddled her and used both hands to slam the knife down into her chest.

She bucked and kicked, and then lay still.

‘I don’t believe it,’ whispered Mitchell. ‘He’s done it.’ He glanced at the clock. It was barely two minutes after midnight. He looked back at the terrace. Nightingale was standing up, the dagger in his right hand, the wind tugging at his coat. ‘Sixty years I’ve studied, and I couldn’t have accomplished that.’ He looked at Sylvia, who was still standing at the door, her hand on the light switches. ‘Nightingale’s worked a miracle. Did you see that, Sylvia? Did you see what he did?’

‘I saw, Mr Mitchell.’

‘He killed a demon. He killed a demon from Hell.’ He stood with one hand on the armchair, shaking his head in bewilderment.

76

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ightingale stood looking down at the body, his ears ringing from the thunderclaps. The knife dropped from his nerveless fingers. His body was drenched in sweat and the strength had drained from his legs. Lightning flashed and the earth shook with another rumble of thunder.

He heard the french windows open behind him, but he didn’t look around. ‘You did it, man!’ shouted Mitchell.

He heard Mitchell step out onto the terrace, and only then did Nightingale turn. He was standing there, his blue silk pyjamas rippling in the wind, with Sylvia behind him, her hands clasped as if she was in prayer, and four heavies, guns at the ready.

‘I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,’ said Mitchell. He walked unsteadily across the flagstones and grabbed Nightingale’s arm, his fingers digging into him like talons. ‘You killed her. How did you do it? How in God’s name did you do it?’

‘God had nothing to do with it.’ The voice was a deep growl that came from behind Nightingale.

Mitchell stiffened, and Nightingale stepped away from him, leaving him standing alone with his arms outstretched. They both stared down at Proserpine. She was smiling. As they watched, she pivoted upright, the wounds on her chest vanishing.

Mitchell took a step backwards, his mouth working soundlessly, his hands clutched to his chest.

‘Nice to see you, Sebastian,’ said Proserpine, in her little-girl voice. ‘It’s been a long time. But not as long as you’re going to burn in hell.’

Mitchell threw up his hands to cover his face. ‘You set me up,’ he hissed at Nightingale.

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I did a deal,’ he said. ‘Your soul for mine.’

‘You bastard!’ screamed Mitchell.

‘Sticks and stones,’ said Nightingale.

Mitchell started to turn. Proserpine laughed and waved her hand. Mitchell’s feet sank into the stone slab he was standing on. He swayed unsteadily. ‘Where do you think you’re going, Sebastian?’ she asked.

‘Shoot her!’ screamed Sylvia. The four heavies fanned out across the terrace. The one on the left, holding a machine pistol, was the first to fire. Bullets smacked into Proserpine but she smiled. She made a motion with her left hand and a bolt of lightning hit the man in the chest. He fell back, smoke belching from a gaping wound.

The other three fired their weapons. Nightingale heard a growl and turned to see the collie running across the grass out of the mist towards the terrace. It leaped into the air, and as it did so it rippled and doubled in size. It was as big as a tiger, and its fur had become hard and scaly. Its four massive paws hit the terrace and it sprang into the air again, passing so close to Nightingale that he felt the rush of wind as it went by. It had three heads now, dog-like but with massive fangs and forked tongues, and there were bony spikes down its spine. It hit the flagstones and now it was the size of a large car. Two of the heads bit into one of the men and the third ripped an arm off the other. The last turned to run, but the dog, or whatever it had turned into, jumped onto his back and ripped him into a dozen bloody pieces.

Sylvia screamed, but Proserpine made another motion with her hand and the woman fell silent. ‘Am I going to have a problem with you, Sylvia?’ she asked.

Sylvia shook her head.

‘What do you think, Nightingale? Does she live or die?’

‘It’s up to you,’ he said. ‘None of them means anything to me.’

Proserpine looked at him suspiciously. ‘Are you trying to play me, Nightingale? You think if you pretend not to care then I’ll spare her?’

‘I’m not that devious,’ he said.

‘Where’s your chivalry, then? She’s a woman. You don’t care if she lives or dies?’

‘I think you’ve made up your mind already,’ Nightingale said quietly. ‘I think that nothing I do or say matters any more. I’m just a spectator. Do what you have to do and be done with it.’

‘Die, then,’ said Proserpine flatly. She made another motion with her left hand and Sylvia burst into flames. She screamed and ran off the terrace towards the garden but barely made half a dozen steps before she fell onto the grass in a smouldering heap.

The dog had reverted to a collie and was sitting at Proserpine’s feet, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

Proserpine walked towards Mitchell, hands swinging, head up. ‘I have a deal,’ said Mitchell, his voice a raspy croak. ‘I can get you whatever you want.’

‘I have what I want,’ said Proserpine. ‘I have you.’

‘I can get souls for you, all the souls you want.’ He coughed and bloody spittle frothed between his lips. ‘Just listen to—’

Proserpine waved her hand and Mitchell fell silent. His mouth worked but he made no sound. Proserpine smiled. ‘Go to hell, Mitchell,’ she said.

There was a ripping sound and the air behind the old man split and folded in on itself. Figures moved about him, rippling like dark mirages. Mitchell screamed and coughed more blood, and things with scales and red eyes, tails and claws reached for him, things that smelled of decay and death, sweat and fear, things that hissed and growled and grunted. Mitchell was dragged away, screaming and crying, and the air folded again and it was as if he had never been there. Proserpine turned to Nightingale. She smiled. ‘I do hate long goodbyes,’ she said.

‘This was planned from the start, wasn’t it?’

She shrugged carelessly. ‘It worked out all right in the end, didn’t it?’

‘You got what you wanted.’

‘And you got your soul back. So all’s well that ends well.’ The collie made a soft woofing sound. ‘Yes, baby, soon,’ Proserpine whispered to him. She patted his head as she continued to smile at Nightingale.

‘You used me to get Mitchell,’ said Nightingale.

‘It was your idea, Nightingale. Remember? You summoned me. You negotiated.’

‘Which is what you intended, right from the start. All those people telling me I was going to hell, it was to put the frighteners on me. Then anyone who might be able to help me, they died. Except Tyler. Because he pointed the way to Mitchell, and Mitchell was who you wanted all along.’

‘I’m just glad you’re a better negotiator than you are an interrogator,’ she said.

‘The key to a good interrogation is only to ask questions to which you know the answers.’

‘But doesn’t that rather defeat the point?’

‘All those people dead,’ said Nightingale. ‘My aunt. My uncle. Robbie. What about my parents? Did you kill them?’

‘Do you want to deal, Nightingale? How about you offer me your soul and I’ll tell you everything?’

Nightingale stared at her but didn’t say anything.

‘Many happy returns, Nightingale.’ She blew him a kiss and turned to go.

‘Wait!’

She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. The dog growled, hackles rising. ‘Do not try my patience, Nightingale,’ said Proserpine, her voice deeper now and more menacing.

‘My sister?’

Proserpine shook her head. ‘Not my problem.’

‘My father sold her soul, too.’

‘Not to me.’

‘To whom, then?’

Proserpine laughed. It was a deep, booming sound that echoed off the house and reverberated around the garden. Nightingale shivered. ‘Who gets my sister’s soul?’ he shouted.

Proserpine winked at him. ‘Unless you want to put your eternal soul on the table, you’ve got nothing left to bargain with, Nightingale. We’re done. Catch you later.’

She walked away, the dog following in her footsteps. She waved without looking back. Then reality shimmered, bent in on itself, and they vanished. The wind gradually died down and the trees stopped whispering. The mist had cleared and he could see the gardens again. Two of Mitchell’s heavies were standing by a willow tree close to the perimeter wall, scratching their heads. One was holding a leash but there was no sign of his dog.

Nightingale took out his packet of Marlboro and lit a cigarette. He held the smoke deep in his lungs and relished the feel of the nicotine entering his bloodstream, letting him know that he was still alive. He blew a smoke-ring towards the moon, and smiled to himself. ‘That went well,’ he muttered. ‘All things considered.’

77

T
here were five candles spaced around the circular table and Nightingale lit them one by one. ‘Very romantic,’ said Jenny.

‘If you don’t take this seriously, I’ll do it myself,’ said Nightingale.

‘How can you use a ouija board yourself?’ said Jenny, scornfully. ‘The whole point is that it’s a joint effort.’

Nightingale went up the stairs, switched off the lights and came back down into the basement. He had found the ouija board in the bottom drawer of Gosling’s desk. It was made of oak that had cracked with age, the words ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ in the top corners and the letters of the alphabet embossed in gold in two rows across the middle. Below the letters were the numbers zero to nine in a row and ‘Goodbye’.

The planchette was made from ivory or bone, cool to the touch and as smooth as marble. He had put the board on a circular table in the middle of the basement with a crystal vase containing freshly picked flowers and a crystal glass of distilled water. He had placed the five large church candles around the table. He took a small bowl of sage and sprinkled it onto the burning candles, then smudged some over the board and the planchette. He had also prepared bowls of consecrated salt and lavender, which he sprinkled over the board before taking two high-backed wooden chairs and putting them together at one side of the table. He waved for Jenny to sit down. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ she asked.

‘We won’t know until we try it,’ said Nightingale, taking his seat. ‘Come on, sit down. It won’t bite.’

‘I wish I had your confidence,’ she said, and sat. She looked at the candles. ‘Shouldn’t we have a protective circle or something?’

‘This isn’t about raising demons,’ said Nightingale.

‘That’s right,’ said Jenny. ‘All we’re doing is talking to the recently departed.’

‘Relax,’ said Nightingale.

‘That’s easy for you to say,’ said Jenny. ‘Why the salt and herbs and stuff?’

‘It’s what you’re supposed to do.’

‘And the flowers and the glass of water?’

‘Spirits love flowers and water.’

‘What about the ones with hay fever? Or the ones that died of rabies?’

Nightingale looked at her sternly. ‘You’ve got to take this seriously or it won’t work,’ he said. ‘The table has to be free of all negative energy or the spirits won’t come.’

‘It’s a kids’ game, Jack.’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’ve read some of Gosling’s books on it, and it’s deadly serious,’ he said. ‘Over the years it became a game, a bit of a laugh, but the ouija board is a genuine way of conversing with spirits.’ He reached over and took her hands. ‘Close your eyes,’ he said.

‘You’ve got to be joking.’

‘Jenny, just do as you’re told. If nothing else, do it to humour me.’

Jenny closed her eyes. Nightingale began to speak, clearly and loudly so that his voice echoed around the basement. ‘In the name of God, of Jesus Christ, of the Great Brotherhood of Light, of the Archangels Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel and Ariel, please protect us from the forces of evil during this session. Let nothing but light surround this board and its participants, and let us only communicate with powers and entities of the light. Protect us, protect this house, the people in this house, and let there only be light and nothing but light. Amen.’

He squeezed her hand. ‘Amen,’ she said.

They opened their eyes. ‘Now, this bit is important,’ said Nightingale. ‘You have to imagine that the table is protected with a bright white light. First you imagine it coming down through the top of your head and completely surrounding your body. Then push it out as far as you can go. Can you do that?’

‘I’ll try,’ said Jenny.

‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Now we put our right hands on the planchette. If anything goes wrong, we move the planchette to “Goodbye” and we say it firmly. Then I’ll recite a closing prayer.’

Jenny took her hand off the planchette. ‘What might go wrong?’ she said.

‘A malicious spirit might try to come through, that’s all.’

‘Oh, that’s all?’ she said.

‘Jenny, it’ll be fine, just trust me. Now put your hand back.’

Jenny slowly reached out with her right hand and touched the planchette.

‘Now visualise the white light. Okay?’

Jenny nodded.

Nightingale took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. ‘We’re here to talk to Robbie Hoyle,’ he said.

The candle flames flickered.

‘Robbie, are you there? Please talk to us.’

Jenny looked around the basement, then back at Nightingale. ‘Jack . . .’

Nightingale ignored her. ‘It’s Jack, Robbie, and Jenny. Are you there? We need to talk.’

He took another deep breath, then exhaled slowly.

‘This is a waste of time,’ said Jenny.

‘I have to try,’ said Nightingale. ‘He said he knew something about my sister.’

‘He’s dead, Jack. Robbie’s dead.’

‘I know that.’

‘So this isn’t going to help.’

Nightingale glared at her, then looked up at the ceiling again. ‘Robbie? Robbie, are you there?’

Jenny was just about to take her fingers off the planchette when it twitched. Her mouth opened in surprise.

Nightingale smiled. ‘Robbie,’ he said, ‘is that you?’

The planchette slid slowly across the board until its point was resting on ‘Yes’.