She walked over to the child, bent down and picked her up as if she had no weight at all.
Nightingale strained at the duct-tape over his mouth, trying to force out some words to beg them to stop. Dudák never even glanced at him, just bent down and whispered in the child’s ear. ‘Naomi. It is time to wake now. You must give yourself as a willing sacrifice to your master. Wake now. Wake now.’
The child’s eyelids flickered and opened. Dudák put the girl down and helped her to stand. Naomi stared at the altar, seemingly oblivious to Nightingale and her uncle sitting in the pews.
Dudák took the girl’s hand and they walked together to the altar. They stood there, hand in hand, a blank gaze on Naomi’s face, a serene smile across the woman’s lips. She spoke to the child again.
‘Are you ready, Naomi? Will you sacrifice yourself willingly?’
‘Of course, Miss Goldman,’ said the child, in a flat entranced tone.
Tyrone used his left hand to pick up a handful of herbs and threw them into the golden bowl. The flame flared up strongly, and a plume of purple smoke rose to the chapel’s vaulted ceiling.
Tyrone kept the shotgun aimed at Nightingale and Wainwright as he spoke to Naomi, no emotion showing on his face. ‘Do you give this sacrifice willingly?’ he said.
The child looked blankly past him. ‘I do,’ she said.
‘Then give it.’
He picked up the knife with his left hand and gave it to her.
‘No!’ shouted Wainwright. ‘Please, no!’
Nightingale was frantic with his vain effort to break the tape that was binding his wrists, veins standing out on his reddened face, his eyes protruding, sweat pouring down his forehead.
Naomi held the knife in her right hand, the blade pointing towards her throat.
‘Take me,’ grunted Nightingale against the duct tape gag, ‘Take my soul. Take me instead.’
‘Nooooo!’ wailed Wainwright, as Naomi pushed the blade into her throat and up into her skull.
And then it was over.
CHAPTER 73
Naomi Fisher’s body lay at the foot of the altar, her blood still running from the huge gash in her throat.
Dudák was leaning against the wall, eyes rolled back in its head, a flush of blood creeping up the neck as it fed on the death energies of the child. An occasional groan of satisfaction came from between the red-painted lips.
Tyrone gave the shotgun to Dudák and knelt in front of the altar, a red aura dancing around his body as he trembled and groaned either in pain or pleasure. Nightingale couldn’t see his face, which was turned towards the altar.
Wainwright had slumped in the pew, a look of desperation etched into his face.
A figure floated from the mouth of the huge Goat of Mendes on the altar. It was wrapped in grey smoke, and virtually transparent, but it was recognisable as a dwarf, about three and a half feet tall, the disproportionately large head covered in curly black hair, the eyes blood-red. It was dressed in a red hunting jacket, with gold trim and buttons, black jodhpurs and shiny black riding boots.
Nightingale had seen Lucifuge Rofocale before, but his form had always been far more solid. This time the malevolent manikin seemed almost a wraith, as it drifted from the goat to where Tyrone knelt, his whole body shaking. The dwarf turned his face towards Nightingale, twisted his features into a leer of pure malevolence, and then started to envelop Tyrone’s body, dissolving as it did so. For an instant Tyrone was wreathed in crimson and black fumes, then the mist seemed to enter completely into him, and he gave a roar of triumph.
‘It is done,’ he shouted in a voice that shook the walls. ’It is done. My master’s pledge has been kept. Oh, oh...I understand. I understand so much now. Such beauty. It is all so clear, so clear. And such power. Such will.’
Tyrone staggered to his feet. He still had his back to the pews. The ceremonial knife had fallen from Naomi’s hands and lay on the floor. It was closer to Wainwright and Nightingale glared at him, then at the knife. Wainwright followed his look and shuffled along the pew. He bent low as he reached the knife, grabbed it and hurried over to Nightingale.
Nightingale held out his hands and rubbed the duct tape against the knife. The razor-sharp blade made short work of the tape. Nightingale grabbed the knife and turned towards Dudák.
Dudák had been staring at the altar but sensed Nightingale’s attack and turned, swinging up the shotgun. Nightingale hit the barrel away with his left hand and thrust the knife into the woman’s chest, praying that whatever magic it had been infused with would work against the demon inside her.
Dudák roared in pain and Nightingale thrust the knife in again. And again. Kill the host and destroy the demon, Mrs. Steadman had said. But did the one lead to the other? The thought kept running through his mind as he stabbed and stabbed, blood spattering over his hands as he thrust the knife deep into the woman.
Dudák staggered back, blood pouring onto the chapel floor. The shotgun slipped from her fingers. Nightingale left the knife in Dudák’s chest and grabbed for the shotgun.
He took a step back, aimed, and fired. The blast hit Dudák square in the chest and she fell back, arms flailing. She hit the floor and lay still, blood pooling around her.
Nightingale turned to see Tyrone advancing towards him. Nightingale pumped in a second shell and pulled the trigger. As he did, Tyrone raised his hands, his lips curled back in a savage snarl. The shot exploded from the end of the barrel but then seemed to move in slow motion for just a couple of feet and then fell to the ground, tinkling like rain on the flagstones.
Tyrone laughed in triumph. ‘You have no idea of the power I have!’ he shouted.
Wainwright roared and charged towards Tyrone, his bound hands in the air. Tyrone waved his left hand and Wainwright flew backwards through the chapel and slammed into the far wall. Nightingale was sure that Tyrone hadn’t connected with Wainwright, he had used some sort of supernatural force to land the blow.
Wainwright slid to the floor, stunned, and Tyrone turned his attention to Nightingale.
‘You said Lucifuge Rofocale would lie, that he wouldn’t keep up his end of the bargain, but look at what he has done for me!’ shouted Tyrone.
He waved his hands again and Nightingale felt himself being lifted off the floor. Another wave of Tyrone’s hands and Nightingale was thrown against the wall. His legs kicked out in vain and he felt something fasten around his throat.
‘I could snap your neck like a twig,’ he said. ‘But we need your body.’
He looked over at Dudák. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘The vessel is ready to be filled.’
Dudák rose up from the floor, swinging upright as if being pulled on an invisible rope. There were no wounds on her body, no stains on the robe, though the chapel floor was still glistening with wet blood. She grinned at Nightingale. ‘It is time,’ she said. She took a step towards Nightingale. Then another.
The grip around Nightingale’s neck tightened and his eyes began to bulge. He clawed at whatever it was that was around his neck but his fingers found nothing.
‘It’s no use struggling,’ said Tyrone. ‘In a moment you’ll be dead, Dudák will inhabit your body, and your soul will stay in limbo forever. My master wishes it. Let it be so.’
He clenched both his hands, and Nightingale felt an indescribable pain rising from the pit of his stomach, as if his very essence were being sucked out of him. He cried out in agony, but the noise was drowned by a peal of thunder from the rear of the chapel. A flash of lightning shot across the altar, a soft voice said, ‘Enough,’ and the pain inside Nightingale subsided. The pressure went from around his neck and he fell to the floor, gasping for breath.
‘You’re looking uncomfortable there, Nightingale,’ said Proserpine as she walked down the aisle towards the giant statue of the Goat Of Mendes. ‘I did warn you about trusting the wrong people.’
Her coal-black eyes gazed at him briefly, and he found he could sit up and get to his feet. She kept walking, the
long black leather coat billowing around her slender frame, the black and white collie trotting faithfully after her.
Tyrone had turned at the sound of her voice, and started to speak but she stopped him with a wave of her leather-gloved right hand.
‘We haven’t met, and Nightingale seems a little too upset to manage introductions. I have many names, but you may perhaps have heard of me as Proserpine. Princess of Hell, to give myself the full title. I won’t say “at your service”, since you’re at mine.’
Tyrone was shaking, blinking in terror, but he made an effort to compose himself. ‘Mistress Proserpine, I d-d-do n-n-not understand what b-b-brings you here,’ he stammered. ‘I serve another. M-m-y m-m-master is Lucifuge Rofocale.’
She smiled. Nightingale knew her well enough to know that there was no good humour in that smile.
‘Don’t you just. Lucifuge Rofocale is your master, and you have served him well. And now, after all these blood sacrifices, he has kept the pact he made with you. You have all the knowledge and earthly power a man could desire, and he has granted you the power of an Ipsissimus, the supreme position of an adept of the left-hand path. Congratulations.’
Tyrone bowed his head in acknowledgment, and his smile showed his returning confidence. ‘Thank you, Mistress Proserpine. It’s true. I feel the power burn within me, after years of study and work, after eliminating any rivals, I stand alone in power. And I understand all there is to be understood by a man.’ His stammer had gone as his confidence had returned.
‘You do, indeed,’ said Proserpine, a sly smile spreading across her deathly pale face. ‘You have achieved more power than any human could dream of. You got what you wanted. What you asked for. Well done, you.’
Tyrone seemed to remember to whom he was speaking, and his smile changed to a puzzled look. ‘But why are you here, Mistress Proserpine? I have no pact with you, and no quarrel either.’
Proserpine smiled. ‘Quarrel? That is a strange word to use. I do not quarrel, Tyrone. I take souls, I wreak havoc, I make the legions in Hell bow down before me. That’s what I do.’
‘I did not wish to offend you, Mistress Proserpine,’ said Tyrone, his newly-found confidence rapidly evaporating.
‘Your very existence offends me,’ she said. ‘But I am about to remedy that. Your pact with Lucifuge Rofocale is fulfilled. You wield supreme power, as promised. And I have come to take it from you. Together with your life.’
Tyrone gaped at her, seeming not to comprehend the words he had just heard.
‘B-b-but...b-b-but...I was promised. A p-p-pact was signed. I g-g-gave my soul for this.’
‘And the pact was kept. Nothing was said about how long you might enjoy your power, and you humans have such limited lifespan. And no pact ever promises immortality.’
‘But what is it to you? Why are you interfering?’
She frowned. ‘So many questions from a dead man. I too make pacts, Tyrone, and I made one with Margaret Romanos a while back. The woman who called herself Abaddon and tried to possess herself of Bimoleth. She promised me her soul, I promised to take from Wainwright everything he loved and I have held up that end of the bargain.’ She turned to Nightingale. ‘And she wanted to live long enough to see you die, Nightingale. And I agreed to that. And, as you know, I am a woman of my word.’
Tyrone was on his knees now, grovelling before her, his face lifted up in supplication. ‘But M-M-Mistress...no...you c-c-can’t...’
Again she frowned.
‘Can’t, Tyrone? Can’t? That’s really not a word you want to be using to a Princess of Hell. I can’t say it’s been a pleasure, I haven’t much liked what I’ve seen of you. Time for Lucifuge Rofocale to collect on his deal. Time for your soul to be in Hell. Goodbye.’
Tyrone held up his hand and stared at her. ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘I forbid it. I am an Ipsissimus and I forbid it.’
Proserpine threw back her head and shrieked with laughter, and Tyrone’s hand was gone from his wrist. He stared at the bloody stump uncomprehendingly, too shocked to scream in pain. Blood spurted across the stone floor.
Tyrone glanced desperately to his left. ‘Dudák,’ he shouted, ‘help me!’
Dudák stared back at him, her face a blank mask.
‘No one is going to help you,’ said Proserpine. ‘It is time to pay the piper. Absolutely no pun intended.’
The dog growled and Tyrone stared at it in horror. The small black and white collie was moving forward, growing and changing shape with every step. It doubled in size, then doubled again, the black and white fur shimmered and became scales, its head seemed to split, and now it had three heads, waving on long necks. Each head had a huge, gaping mouth, dripping with hot saliva. The creature opened its mouths to bark furiously, and Tyrone saw the yellowed fangs, and forked tongues, the last thing he would ever see, as the creature leaped at him.
Nightingale buried his head in his hands, shutting out the sight, but not the appalling noise of the blended screams and barking. Proserpine gazed at the mess with no sign of interest. One of the three heads had what looked like part of a leg in its mouth.
‘That’s enough, boy,’ she said. ‘Put it down now, we don’t want you getting an upset stomach. All done now, Nightingale.’
Nightingale opened his eyes, and tried to avoid looking at the remains of Tyrone, which was difficult as they were scattered all over the chapel. The collie dog was once again by Proserpine’s side, licking her hand devotedly.
‘Pity you couldn’t have turned up sooner,’ said Nightingale.
‘And why, pray tell?’
‘Naomi would still be alive.’
‘Weren’t you listening? She had to die. Wainwright had to be punished.’ She looked over at Wainwright who was sitting with his back against the wall, his knees up against his chest. ‘You understand, don’t you, Joshua?’
Wainwright nodded but there was only blankness in his eyes.
She looked back at Nightingale. ‘See, he understands. Margaret Romanos promised me her soul, and I am making Wainwright suffer in torment. Naomi had to die. That was the deal.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘I couldn’t possibly have intervened while Lucifuge Rofocale’s pact was still incomplete. Neither could your beloved Mrs. Steadman. We can’t interfere in a pact freely made. I rather think Mrs. Steadman expected you to ride to the rescue and save the little girl in the nick of time, but that was never going to happen.’
‘How do you know what she said to me?’
‘You think I can’t move as freely on the Astral Plane as I can here, or in the chasms of Hell? I go where I want to go, Nightingale. There are no secrets from me.’
Nightingale closed his eyes, and shook his head. He opened them again and gazed into the deep pools of nothingness that were her eyes. The eyes were meant to be the windows of the soul, but no light shone through hers.
‘Chin up, Nightingale,’ she said, ‘you can’t win them all. It’s not like in the movies. Out here in the real world, the bad guys generally win.’
‘What shall I do, Mistress?’ It was Dudák, who had been standing motionless since the dog had ripped Tyrone apart.
‘Oh, just go to Hell, Dudák.’ She didn’t bother to turn, just waved her hand dismissively. A green spark flew across the room, there was a sharp crack as Dudák left the realms of Earth, and the lifeless body of Carol Goldman lay on the ground, finally at peace.
The dog licked Proserpine’s hand and growled softly. She scratched the black ears and smiled down at the animal.
‘And what happens to me?’ asked Nightingale. ‘I have to die as part of the deal you did for the soul of Margaret Romanos?’
‘Allegedly,’ she said. The sly smile was back on her face.
‘At least you won’t have my soul,’ he said.
‘There is that,’ she said.
Nightingale braced himself for whatever was to come.
‘You don’t want a cigarette?’ she asked.
> Nightingale had forgotten his Marlboro and lighter were still in his pocket. He took them out and lit one, drawing the soothing smoke deep into his lungs. The condemned man’s last cigarette, he realised. He tried to blow a smoke ring up at the ceiling and failed miserably.
He took a deep breath and forced a smile. ‘Might as well get it over with,’ he said.
She shook her head, an amused smile on her face. ‘You can be so melodramatic at times,’ she said. ‘I’ll miss that.’
She blew him a kiss, then time and space seemed to fold in on itself, there was an ear-splitting crack and a flash of light and she and the dog were gone.
Nightingale stared at the spot where she had been in astonishment. Why was he still alive? Hadn’t that been the deal Romanos had done with Proserpine?
‘What just happened?’ said Wainwright, his voice trembling.
Nightingale took another drag on his cigarette and blew smoke down at the floor. ‘Joshua, I have no bloody idea.’
CHAPTER 74
Margaret Romanos lay in bed, the machines breathing for her, tubes running in and out of her veins, monitors attached to other machines by her bedside. The doctors had told her that the previous damage had worsened, but the main problem had been the stroke, which had effectively cut off her all bodily functions below the neck and robbed her of the power of speech. They weren’t sure if she could hear or understand. She couldn’t even tell them to turn the machines off and let her die, and there was nobody to take that kind of decision for her. Nobody that dared come near her any longer. Tears ran from her eyes, as she thought once again of all she had lost. Once she had been Abaddon, and had as much power as anyone in America, now she lay helpless, waiting to die.
She blinked the tears way, but there still seemed to be a blur in the air. Time and space seemed to fold in on itself, and then Proserpine was there, leaning over Margaret’s bed, the dark soulless eyes boring into hers, the pale almost bloodless face devoid of any expression. ‘Just a social call, Margaret, No need to get up.’ The scarlet lips twisted into a cruel smile. ‘Not looking good, Margaret, How are the mighty fallen, eh? Still, they can do wonders these days. Probably not for you though.’
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