He took a deep breath but immediately began coughing. His eyes were watering and he wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. He managed to stop coughing and began to read the Latin words, slowly and precisely. When he reached the final three words he said them loudly, almost shouting. ‘Bagahi laca bacabe!’
The fumes from the burning herbs began to swirl in a slow, lazy circle and then behind him was a flash of lightning and the smell of a burning electrical circuit. The concrete floor began to vibrate and the cloying fog grew thicker. He forced himself to breathe shallowly through his nose, trying to minimise the damage to his lungs.
The fog swirled around him, faster and faster. It was now so thick that he could barely see the brick walls of the garage and the fluorescent light was just a dull bright patch above his head. There was another flash of lightning, then another, the cracks so loud that they hurt his ears.
He stared ahead, tears streaming from his eyes. Then space folded in on itself and there were a series of bright flashes and she was there, dressed in black as usual, her black and white collie dog at her side. Proserpine. A devil from Hell. One of many, but one of the few that Nightingale knew by name. Her face was corpse-pale, her hair jet-black and cut short, her eyelashes loaded with mascara and her lipstick as black as coal, emphasising the whiteness of her small, even teeth. She was wearing a long black leather coat that almost brushed the floor over a black T-shirt cropped so short that it showed the small silver crucifix that pierced her navel. Her tight black jeans were ripped at the knees and she wore short black boots with stiletto heels.
She stared at him with her cold black eyes, her upper lip curled back in a sneer. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ she said. The dog growled as its hackles rose. She had it on a steel chain and she pulled on it to get its attention. ‘Hush, we won’t be here long,’ she said. The dog sat down and stared at Nightingale with eyes as cold and black as those of its mistress. ‘I told you last time, I’m not to be summoned on a whim.’
‘This isn’t a whim,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need your help.’
‘We’re not friends, Nightingale. We never were and we never will be.’ She looked around the garage and smiled. ‘Salubrious,’ she said. ‘Looks like you’ve fallen on hard times.’
‘It’s private, that’s all that matters,’ said Nightingale. ‘It doesn’t matter where the pentagram is, all that matters is that you have to stay between the triangle and the circle until I say you can go.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Proserpine. ‘The other way is that so long as I’m here you’re trapped inside that puny little circle with nowhere to go. I could easily just stand here until you die of old age and your bones crumble to dust.’
‘So it’s a Mexican stand-off. Let’s keep it as short as we can, shall we?’
‘What do you want, Nightingale?’
‘I need some questions answering. About Shades.’
‘Try Wikipedia.’
‘I don’t believe anything I read in Wikipedia.’
‘But you believe me?’
‘Sounds crazy I know, but yes. So will you help me?’
‘No,’ she said flatly.
‘No?’
Proserpine shrugged carelessly. ‘Why should I?’
‘What if I did a deal?’
‘You’re offering me your soul?’
Nightingale laughed, but it sounded like a harsh bark and the dog pricked up its ears. ‘I only need information,’ he said. ‘My soul’s worth more than that. But I can offer you something else.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Help.’
Proserpine tilted her head to the side. ‘Help?’
‘I’m starting to understand how things work,’ said Nightingale. ‘You and your kind move in and out of this world but there are things you can’t do yourselves.’
‘That’s your great insight, is it?’
‘I know, we’re ants compared to you, but we’re still here and you’re still dealing for souls and not just taking them. That’s always had me thinking. You’re all-powerful devils from Hell, why don’t you just take our souls, harvest them like a farmer culling cattle?’
Proserpine said nothing.
‘I’ll tell you why. Because there are some things that you just can’t do. Either because there are rules that you have to follow, or because there are physical constraints on what you can do. Either way, sometimes you need help. You need us to do things that you can’t. So here’s the deal. Answer my questions about Shades and I’ll owe you one. If you need something doing, something you can’t do yourself, you can ask me.’
‘That’s very open-ended.’
‘I’ll risk that,’ said Nightingale. ‘You’ve always played fair with me.’
‘Plus I’m assuming you’re reserving the right to refuse?’
‘Like I said, I think you’ll respect the deal.’
‘And not ask you to kill a child?’
Nightingale stiffened, wondering if Proserpine was toying with him. Did she know about Bella Harper already? Did she know what Mrs Steadman had asked him to do?
Proserpine laughed and the garage walls shook. ‘If I do a deal with you, how do I know you’ll stick to it?’
‘Because I always keep my word.’
She laughed again and this time dust showered down from the ceiling and a jagged crack appeared in the concrete floor. ‘I’ll need more than that,’ she said. ‘I tell you what, if you refuse to do whatever I ask in return, then I get your soul.’ She watched him with unblinking black eyes.
Nightingale took a long breath and exhaled slowly as he considered his options. He needed Proserpine’s help but he didn’t want to put his soul at risk, not after he’d gone to so much trouble to make it his own. ‘What will you ask me to do?’ he said.
Proserpine smiled coyly. ‘Now if I told you that, it would spoil all the fun, wouldn’t it?’
‘I’m not prepared to kill for you.’
‘Fine.’
‘Or to do something that would result in someone dying.’
‘Fine.’
‘And it’s a one-off deal. You ask me to do something for you and I do it. Then we’re good.’
‘And if you refuse to do what I ask, you forfeit your soul.’
Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘Agreed.’
‘Okay, it’s a deal,’ she said. She held out her hand. ‘Let’s shake on it, shall we?’ Nightingale instinctively reached out to shake her hand, but pulled it back when he realised what he was doing. She laughed. ‘Almost got you.’
Nightingale stared at her hand, just outside the protective circle. The pentagram only kept Proserpine from him so long as he didn’t breach it.
‘So, ask away,’ she said.
‘You know about Shades?’
‘Of course I know about Shades. Nasty pieces of work, but nasty for nasty’s sake.’
‘As opposed to your lot, you mean?’
‘My lot, as you call it, serve the Lord Lucifer. Shades serve no one.’
‘So they’re not devils? Or demons?’
‘You are forever using terms that you don’t understand, Nightingale. But no, Shades are not demons or devils, or angels or spirits. They never have been nor will they ever be. Shades are Shades.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You have come across one?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘Nightingale, you seem to think I take a personal interest in your comings and goings. That is so typical of your kind, thinking that the universe revolves around you. You are nothing to me. You are less than a speck of nothingness on nothing. I have not given you a single thought since the last time we met and immediately I have left this place you will be gone from my mind.’
‘So I should take you off my Christmas card list, then?’
She laughed and the sound seemed to come from the bowels of Hell itself, a deep throbbing roar that he felt in the pit of his stomach. The ceiling shook and plumes of dust scattered down through the fog.
�
�You’re a very funny man, Nightingale. But if you are planning to interact with a Shade, be very careful.’
‘They’re dangerous?’
‘Lethal. Do not get too close.’
‘They bite, is that it?’
Proserpine shook her head. ‘They are more insidious than that. They get inside your head. They plant thoughts, thoughts that you wouldn’t normally have. They bend you to their will.’
‘By talking?’
‘That’s what they do. That is their power. They don’t stab or shoot or bludgeon, they suggest. They manipulate. They charm.’
‘And they are always evil? There are no good Shades?’
She threw back her head and laughed again, louder this time. The shutter pulsed back and forth with the sound of tearing metal and Nightingale felt a hot blast of wind across his face that made him gasp.
‘No, Nightingale, there are no good Shades.’
‘Then answer me this. What do they want? What is their purpose?’
‘Their purpose? They want to cause chaos. They want to cause pain. But it’s instinct, nothing else. There’s no plan, no rhyme, no reason.’
‘So they won’t stop? Once they’ve started?’
‘There is nothing to stop them. They’re not working to a plan or a timetable. They just keep on doing what they do.’
‘And what stops them? Say they move into a body and take it over. How long can they stay?’
‘That depends,’ said Proserpine.
‘On what?’
‘On the strength of the Shade. On the condition of the host. The host will decay. Slowly, but it will decay. And eventually it will die and the Shade will die with it.’
‘And how do you kill a Shade?’
‘That’s what you want to do, Nightingale?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘You try that and I’ll never be able to hold you to your end of the deal. How can you kill something that can change your every thought? Point a gun at a Shade and you’ll shoot yourself in the head. Try to stab a Shade and you’ll put the blade through your own heart.’
‘Assuming that’s true, assuming that you could get close to one, how do you kill it?’
‘I have heard that there are knives, blessed knives, and you have to drive them through the eyes and the heart of the host. But seriously, Nightingale, the best thing to do is to run and to keep on running.’
Nightingale nodded. At least Proserpine had confirmed what Mrs Steadman had told him.
‘Who told you about the Shades?’ asked Proserpine.
‘Why do you think anyone told me?’
‘Shades pass unnoticed in your world,’ said Proserpine. ‘They inhabit the recently dead and are rarely discovered. Was it Mrs Steadman?’
‘I’m going to pass on that,’ said Nightingale. ‘No comment.’
Proserpine laughed and Nightingale felt the vibrations through his feet. ‘You need to be careful of that one,’ she said.
‘She’s on the side of the angels,’ said Nightingale.
‘Are you asking me, or telling me?’
‘She’s never steered me wrong yet,’ said Nightingale. ‘I trust her.’
‘Well, good luck with that,’ said Proserpine. ‘Don’t come crying to me when it goes bad. And it will.’
‘What do you mean?’
Proserpine smiled. ‘For the answer to that question, I’d need your soul,’ she said. ‘Give me your soul and I’ll answer any questions you want.’
‘My soul’s not for sale.’
‘So you say,’ said Proserpine. ‘But you can call me when you change your mind. In the meantime we’re done here. Let me go.’ The dog growled menacingly at Nightingale. Proserpine flicked its chain. ‘It’s all right, we’re going now.’ She looked up at Nightingale. ‘Time to say the words, Nightingale. I’ve got people to see, places to go.’
Nightingale nodded, looked at the piece of paper he was holding, and said the words to release her. Space folded in on itself, there was a flash of light and she and the dog were gone.
Nightingale’s phone rang and he took it out of his pocket. It was Robbie Hoyle. ‘Where are you?’ asked Robbie.
‘The lock-up,’ said Nightingale.
‘That bloody car of yours is a money pit,’ laughed Robbie.
‘It’s a classic.’
‘It’s an old banger. I need to see you, mate.’
‘The Swan?’
‘You read my mind. I’ll be about an hour. Mine’s a pint.’
82
Nightingale saw Robbie walk into the pub and ordered his lager before turning to shake his hand. ‘This is turning into a right can of worms, you know?’ asked Robbie.
‘I’m fine thanks, all good,’ said Nightingale. ‘Whatever happened to the social niceties?’
‘You want small talk or do you want to talk about what’s going on?’
‘I don’t know what’s going on, that’s why I called you.’
The lager arrived and Nightingale paid the barman. He gestured at a table by the fireplace. ‘Bit quieter over there,’ he said.
Robbie took off his overcoat and draped it over the back of a chair before sitting down. Nightingale sat opposite him and sipped his Corona. ‘You should drink that in a glass,’ said Robbie.
‘Tastes better out of the bottle.’
‘Rat piss,’ said Robbie.
‘Nah, I’m serious.’
‘I mean rat piss. Rats run across the crates and pee on the bottles. Mate of mine runs a pub and he says never drink from a bottle, always use a glass.’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s what makes it taste so good.’
Robbie laughed and shook his head. ‘You’re mad,’ he said.
‘Yeah, they do say.’ He put down his bottle. ‘So you’ve got something for me, yeah?’
‘You wanted to know if anyone connected with Bella Harper had died recently. Apart from the nurse who killed his family?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you want to tell me why?’
‘It’s a case, sort of.’
‘Sort of?’
‘I’m just making some enquiries, Robbie.’ He took a drink from his bottle. ‘Have you found something?’
Robbie nodded. ‘I did, yeah. A suicide. Freelance journalist killed himself in Clapham.’
‘What’s the Bella Harper connection?’
‘He talked to her about three hours before he died.’ He saw the look of astonishment on Nightingale’s face and raised his glass. ‘That good enough for you?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘As cancer, mate. He went into a corner shop, bought a bottle of drain cleaner and drank the lot. How do you do that? How do you drink a bottle of it? It’s as corrosive as hell.’
‘I heard of a guy who killed himself by drinking a bottle of furniture polish.’
‘A lovely finish?’
Nightingale grinned. ‘It’s an old joke. So what’s the story?’
Robbie leaned closer as if he was worried about being overheard. ‘Guy’s name was Jeremy Barker. He was a freelance reporter but he wasn’t averse to taking photographs of celebrities behaving badly. He sold titbits to the tabloids and the overseas press. Living hand to mouth, pretty much. His death was suicide, no question of that, but in his jacket was a digital camera and a voice recorder. There were two photographs of Bella Harper on the camera.’
‘Shit. How did he get to her?’
‘Did I say he was wearing a white coat and carrying a stethoscope? Bastard pretended to be a doctor and walked right in. The Sussex cops have checked the hospital’s CCTV and there’s footage of him going in and out.’
‘And the digital recorder?’
Robbie nodded. ‘I thought you’d pick up on that,’ he said. He took an iPhone from his pocket. ‘I couldn’t take the recorder but they were okay with me making a copy. He was only with her a few minutes.’ Robbie tapped on the screen of his phone, then held it out. Nightingale took it and held it to his ear. He frowned as he listened. The end of the
conversation was impossible to hear. He switched it off and gave it back to Robbie.
‘So she whispered to him? Something about Jesus?’
‘The whole conversation is weird, Jack. How did she know he was a reporter? How did she know his name?’
‘Had she met him before?’
‘Doesn’t sound like that. The thing is, there’s no doubt that it’s suicide. The shopkeeper saw him drink the drain cleaner. So it’s not as if it’s a murder investigation. The detective who caught the case listened to the recorder thinking it might be a verbal suicide note, but then realised it was Bella. So he’s passed it on to the detectives on that case. But they’re not really interested because Barker wasn’t involved in the abduction.’
‘Never wrote about it?’
Robbie shook his head and put the phone back in his pocket. ‘Nope. Not a word. Looks like he was after an exclusive, he’d be able to sell the story and pictures for a lot of cash, maybe not in the UK but the foreign papers would have bitten his arm off.’
‘Like you said, the big question is how did she know who he was. He was dressed like a doctor, right?’
‘I haven’t seen the CCTV footage but I spoke to the detective who did and yes, you can see him walking through the hospital in his white coat with his stethoscope around his neck. Looked like any other doctor and no one paid him any attention.’
‘But she knew he was a reporter.’
‘And she knew his name, Jack.’
‘Did he have a badge on? With his name on it?’
Robbie shook his head. ‘I asked that. No.’
Nightingale sat back in his chair and swirled his lager around in the bottle. ‘So somehow she knew his name and that he was lying about being a doctor, and then she wants to whisper something about Jesus to him?’
‘Do you have any idea what’s going on here, Jack?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’m as bemused as you are.’
‘I’m not bemused, I’m fucking gob-smacked. Who the hell drinks drain cleaner? And why? He was short of cash and owed a few grand on his credit cards but who doesn’t these days?’
Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller Page 27