San Francisco Night (25 page)

There were five of them in the temple, the minimum for a Sabbat, one for each point of the pentagram. They stood at the five points, facing inwards as the black candles illuminating the temple spluttered and flickered. In the center of the pentagram herbs were burning on hot coals in a large brass bowl. Peter was there with him, along with Thomas, Bartholomew and John.

John was holding the ceremonial bell and he rang it, six times.

Abaddon invoking the four crowned princes of Hell: Satan to the east, Beelzebub to the north, Astaroth to the west and Azazel to the south, before raising her hands above her head and saying the words that would result in the creation of the Elemental.

When she had finished she nodded at Peter. Peter produced the business card of Inspector Amy Chen of the San Francisco Police Department. She held it in the air while Abaddon said the final words of the ritual. As soon as she had finished, Peter stepped forward and dropped the business card onto the burning coals. It burned quickly with a greenish hue. Abaddon raised both arms above her head. “It is done,” she said. “Satan be praised.”

“Satan be praised!” chorused the four Apostles, their hands above their heads. “Death to our enemy!”

Nightingale walked out of the station, lit a cigarette and blew smoke up at the evening sky. They had given him back his belongings and he took out his phone, figuring he should call Chen and tell her what had happened. A figure burst through the doors and hurried down the steps after him. It was Karl Woods, the journalist.

“Jack, hey, hold on!” he called.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Nightingale, putting his phone away. He offered his pack to Woods and the journalist took one. Nightingale lit it for him.

“I hear you’ve been winning friends and influencing people,” said Woods.

“Wrong place, wrong time.”

“A dead dwarf. Sounds like an episode of
CSI
.”

“I was just an innocent bystander.”

“You were inside the house?”

“For a very short while, yes.”

“See anything?”

“The place was full of smoke. Why do you ask?”

“Because the cops are being cagey about who was in there and what state the bodies were in. I asked if it was the fire that killed them and they clammed up.”

Nightingale nodded but didn’t say anything.

Woods narrowed his eyes. “Come on, Jack. I’ve got a reporter’s nose for a story. There’s something you’re not telling me. Spill the beans. I helped you with the info on the missing kids, the least you can do is to return the favor.”

“You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours?” Nightingale blew smoke. “The story I’m working on is … well, it’s complicated.”

“I’ve got all the time you need to explain it,” said Woods.

“Off the record?”

“Sure. I’ve no problem keeping your name out of it.”

Nightingale took another long drag on his cigarette. “Okay, you didn’t get this from me, you’ll need to check with someone in the medical examiner’s office. But Dukas, the dwarf, was tortured before he died. And his maid’s neck was broken.”

“So there was an intruder in the house?”

“Probably several,” said Nightingale. “Dukas was a collector of books on the occult. Satanism, devil worship, witchcraft, stuff like that.”

“So why torture him?”

“I’m not sure.”

“And what was your connection with Dukas?”

“I’m working an angle about Satanism and missing kids. Human sacrifice. I thought with his collection he might be able to help.”

Woods frowned. “You think devil worshipers have grabbed those missing kids?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Is that why you were asking about devil worshipers before?”

“It’s one hell of a story, Karl. The problem is, I’m not sure that anyone is going to believe it. But maybe you should take a good look at Dukas. See what you can dig up.”

“I’ll do that. Give me your number and I’ll call you if I come up with anything. If this devil worship stuff pans out, we can work the story together.”

Nightingale gave him the number of his latest Sim card.

“This does sound crazy, you know that?” said the journalist, putting away his notebook.

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

Amy Chen frowned as she stared at the iPad.  The two tracking devices were at The Elms again and had been there for the best part of an hour. She picked up her cellphone and called Nightingale but it went straight through to voicemail. It was the third time she called so she didn’t bother leaving a message. “Where the hell are you, Nightingale?” she muttered to herself. Nightingale had been specific that the children would be killed on the night of the blue moon and that was still one day away. But what if he had been wrong, what if the Apostles were doing it tonight?

She walked over to the kitchen area and poured herself a glass of wine, then curled up on the sofa and tried Nightingale’s phone again. Still no answer. She felt sweat bead on her brow and she realized it was getting warm.  She went over to the thermostat but it read the same as always. Her shirt was damp with sweat and she undid a couple of buttons. She went over to one of the windows and cracked it open, then flopped down onto the sofa again.

She picked up her glass and sipped her wine, then her frown deepened as she saw the wisps of fog drifting under her door. She stared at the thickening fog, unable to believe her eyes. Fog didn’t happen indoors. Ever. Her face was now wet with sweat and her shirt was soaking. The fog began to swirl and coalesce. Something formed in the middle of the mist, something with a pointed nose and sharp ears. It was rat-like but it wasn’t a rat, it had double rows of teeth like a shark and gold eyes that were staring straight at her. It rippled and then morphed into the face of an old Chinese lady that for a second reminded Chen of her late grandmother, then it changed again, this time into a featureless face with rows of sharpened teeth.

Chen cursed and put down her glass. Beads of sweat trickled down her back. Her gun was in its holster on the coffee table in front of her and she reached for it. She grabbed it with trembling hands and took aim, then realised there was good chance it would have no effect. What had Nightingale said? Lead was good against only one of the four types of Elementals. She picked up a cushion to muffle the sound and fired a single shot into the centre of the fog. It had no effect and the bullet smacked into the plaster above the door.

She backed away from the swirling mist. Another face appeared. A young man, snarling with contempt. Then a baby, crying. The mist began to move in two parts as if trying to get around her. She took a step back, her mind racing. Silver. She had to try silver. She put the gun down, stood up and moved to the side, shuffling along the sofa.

She got to the end of the sofa and looked over at the bedroom door. She could get to it easily enough, but what then? She didn’t know if a locked door would keep the thing out but somehow she doubted it.  Her only way out was through the front door and the Elemental was blocking her way. But even if she got out, what then? The Elemental had materialized from thin air, it could presumably appear anywhere. Nightingale wasn’t around so the Elemental could only have been sent for her.

She was panting now, the air was so hot it was burning her lungs and her stomach was churning. She fought the urge to throw up as she looked over at the kitchen area. There were knives there, lots of knives, but none of them was made of silver. The fog passed by a side table and there was a crash as a lamp hit the floorboards. She backed towards the kitchen, her mind racing. The fog seemed to sense her panic and emitted a terrifying roar that shook the entire apartment. The windows rattled so hard that she was sure that the glass would shatter. One of the framed photographs fell off the window sill and crashed onto the floor, smashing the glass. She rushed towards the window. The mist moved with her, slowly, keeping between her and the door, but Chen wasn’t thinking about escaping. She grabbed the silver-framed wedding photograph and turned to face the fog. She slashed the frame back and forth, slicing it through the fog. “Die you bastard!” she screamed, but after the second slash she knew that the frame was having no effect. The mist continued to ooze towards her. She threw it at the dark centre of the fog but it went right through and hit the sofa before crashing to the floor.

She backed away, frantically trying to remember what Nightingale had said. Base metals. Silver. What else? Fire? And water.

She turned and ran to the kitchen area. The handle of the fridge was hot to the touch as she pulled open the door. There were two bottles of Fiji water at the back and she grabbed one and twisted the top off as she turned.

The fog was almost upon her. A face appeared, a teenage girl with blank eyes. The mouth opened showing three rows of teeth and then it screamed, an ear-shattering whine that made Chen’s teeth vibrate.  Chen splashed water at the fog and scream changed tone, from anger to pain. She flicked the bottle again and more water splashed out. The mist was retreating and Chen took a step forward, splashed more water and then threw the whole bottle. There were more screams now and she grabbed the second bottle of water from the fridge and uncapped it. The mist had shrunk to half its size and was moving back towards the door. Chen hurried after it, throwing as much water as she could. There was a loud crack that made her flinch, a flash of blue light, and it was gone. She stood stock still, her heart pounding. Condensation had formed on the windows and she was soaking wet. She drank what was left of the ice cold water in the bottle and sat down on the floor, exhausted.

Nightingale wasn’t sure exactly where he was, but it clearly wasn’t one of the more salubrious parts of San Francisco. The area had more than its fair share of homeless people, and April was still chilly enough for the homeless to be huddled round braziers, dressed in heavy coats and gloves. Nightingale kept looking around for a taxi but there were few cars around and the only taxis he saw had passengers in the back.

“Got any spare change, mister?”

Nightingale flinched as if he’d been stung. He looked around for the girl who had spoken. She was sitting in a shop doorway, her black spiked fringe hanging down over her eyes. She was wearing a calf-length leather coat over a short black dress, and long studded black boots. Inverted crucifixes hung from her ears and a there was a spiked dog collar fastened around her neck. Next to her sat a black and white collie sheepdog, licking her hand.

There was a cardboard sign on the sidewalk in front of her. On it, written in capital letters in what might have been dried blood, were the words - YOUR SOUL IS MINE JACK NIGHTINGALE.

She gazed up at him for a moment with black featureless eyes, the irises so dark that they merged seamlessly into the pupils. She gave him a mocking smile. “How’s it going, Nightingale?”

“Proserpine.” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not for me,” she said. “No time has passed since we last met. Or maybe our last meeting hasn’t happened yet. Or perhaps this is our first meeting. You never did understand time, did you?”

“Not really,” said Nightingale. “It just flows one way for me.”

“Must be terrible,” she said. “Got a cigarette?”

Nightingale said nothing, just took out his pack and tossed her a cigarette. It would probably have been safe to hand it to her since he hadn’t actually summoned her, but who knew the rules with Hell-spawned demons? Better safe than sorry. She caught it in her left hand, gazed at it and watched it light by itself. She took a long drag then smiled at him through the smoke as she blew it slowly through her nostrils.

“Keeping well, Nightingale?” she asked. “How’s life on the run?”

“It has its moments,” he said. “So, just a social call? Or did you miss me?”

She smiled. “Same old Nightingale,” she said. “Always think you’re the center of everyone’s world. I’ve told you before, you don’t occupy my thoughts at all. I just like to check on my investments occasionally. Sticking your neck out a little at the moment, aren’t you?”

“There are two kids’ lives at stake,” he said.

“Heartbreaking,” she said. “Do you know how many children die every day in this city? Quite a few are down to me.”

Nightingale shuddered. “The Apostles aren’t working for you then?” he said.

Proserpine’s eyes narrowed but she didn’t reply, just blew a tight plume of some into the night sky. 

“This Bimoleth not a friend of yours?”

This time it was Proserpine who shuddered.  “Not a name I ever care to hear mentioned,” she said.

“I thought you told me once that nothing scared you?” said Nightingale.

“I said that very little scared me, Nightingale. Bimoleth is in a whole different category. Maybe you’ll find out, though chances are it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

“Doesn’t sound like a good plan,” he said. “Stopping him works for me.”

She laughed again.

“Hah. And you think you know how? You’re always so easy for people to play, Nightingale, because you never learn. You persist in trusting people. Long after anyone with any intelligence would have seen through them. Take Wainwright. You know what he is, you know how he’s used you, but you’re still here running around for him, as if he always had your best interests at heart. He’s dropped you into this, and won’t care if you don’t get out. Cared more about that bloody book than you, didn’t he?”

“I know what I have to do now. I’m playing for the right team here.”

She threw her heard back and laughed. “Oh I love that. You don’t play much chess, do you Nightingale?”

“I’ve played,” he said

“Chess players don’t always take the white or the black pieces,” she said. “Some days you play one, some days the other, but all you care about is winning. From either side. And you never, never care about what happens to your pawns after the game.”

“I’m nobody’s pawn,” said Nightingale. “If that’s what you’re trying to tell me.”

“You’re everybody’s pawn. You only know what people tell you and you never think to question it. Believe me, Nightingale, it’ll cost you.” She stubbed out her cigarette, bent down and patted the dog on the head.  It growled softly. Its eyes were as black and featureless as hers, like polished coal. “Shall we help him, boy?” she said. “Shall we let him in where he needs to be? Might be fun for you. But then he’d never believe it of us, he only trusts angels. Little does he know, huh?” The dog licked her hand, then growled again.

She looked up at him and smiled, showing perfect white teeth. “Bear in mind everything I’ve said, Nightingale. I’ll be interested to see how it plays out...or played out...or is playing out. It’s all the same, you see. Always comes out the way it’s written. Question is, which edition are we reading? The one where you live, the one where you die, the one where you were dragged screaming down to Hell on your thirty-third birthday or the one where you were never born at all? They’re all out there somewhere.”

“What are you talking about, alternative realities?”

She laughed again, and shook her head. “You’d never be able to understand. You’ll always just try to play the knight in shining armor, that’s your thing.  Just remember, Nightingale, he who lives by the sword can die by the sword anytime he sticks his stupid neck out. Now off you go. And watch out for that truck.” She gestured behind him.

Nightingale turned his head to look, but the road was empty. He turned back and started to speak but she had gone. The sign now read HOMELESS
AND
HUNGRY SPARE SOME CHANGE, and there was just a bundle of rags behind it in the shop doorway.