As he stepped into the hallway he realized that his breath was feathering in the cold air. He stopped, frowning. His hands were cold and he blew on them, then realized his feet were freezing, too. He stamped his Hush Puppies on the hardwood floor , but it didn’t warm them and it didn’t make any sound. A wave of fear swept over him, the hairs on his neck stood on end and his stomach started to cramp. The urge to panic and run became almost uncontrollable as he spotted a wisp of yellow smoke at the bottom of the front door. His eyes widened as the plume of smoke grew larger, thicker and darker until he could hardly see the door at all. The temperature dropped even further and he began to shiver uncontrollably. He backed down the hall as the smoke began to coalesce.
His legs had gone numb and he could no longer feel his feet. He took a step back and almost stumbled. Ice was forming on the walls. The smoke was shimmering as if it was made of ice crystals. Something formed within the cloud. A face, but not a human face. Then a claw, but not the claw of any animal Nightingale had ever seen. Another face formed, a girl, crying, then it disappeared and lower down a mouth filled with teeth appeared, snarled and then vanished. Nightingale shivered, then shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The shifting cloud was closer now, so close that he could almost touch it.
He retreated along the hall, and into the living room, slamming the door behind him. He pushed an armchair against the handle, then watched in horror as the yellow smoke reappeared on his side of the door. Within seconds the smoke started to coalesce again. Faces. Shapes. Talons. A shifting mass of horror. Ice began to form on the walls and his breath was feathering as soon as it left his mouth. Nightingale staggered around one of the sofas and as the solidifying cloud followed him. He stumbled towards the door, flung it open and hurtled down the hall and into the kitchen.
Nightingale became aware of a dog barking, in the distance but getting closer. There was a knife block by the sink with half a dozen wooden-handled knives embedded in it. Nightingale pulled out a carving knife just as the swirling cloud oozed into the kitchen.
He held the knife in front of him, swishing it from side to side. The barking was louder now and then a Rottweiler came hurtling down the corridor and hurled itself at the cloud. As soon as the dog penetrated the fog it went silent and seemed to explode into a pulpy mass of fur, blood and bone that slopped to the floor.
Nightingale stepped forward and slashed at the cloud. A face formed, an old man with parchment-like skin and watery eyes, then it faded and something lizard-like snarled at him. He slashed the cloud again, taking care not to touch it with his hand, but the blade had absolutely no effect. Nightingale took a step back. A few fragments of a spell surfaced in his memory and he struggled to say the words but the fog kept coming towards him.
Nightingale tried reciting the Lord’s Prayer but it was as ineffective as the incantation he’d tried. The fog was almost on him now, and it gave a roar of what might have been triumph as grinning faces swirled at its centre.
Nightingale threw the knife at the cloud and then stumbled around the island in the center of the kitchen and into the hallway, his mind racing. Spells hadn’t worked, neither had the Lord’s Prayer, and the knife had been useless. He ran out of the kitchen and slammed the door but within seconds smoke began oozing underneath it. He rushed into the dining room as the smoke started to solidify. He pulled open the ebony box and grabbed a fish knife. Stainless steel hadn’t done any damage but silver would sometimes accomplish what a regular blade couldn’t.
As he turned he felt the air go suddenly colder and he turned to see the cloud oozing into the room. His hands were sweating so he wiped his right hand on his raincoat before gripping the handle tightly. Nightingale stepped forward, thrusting the knife into the cloud. There was a loud roaring sound from somewhere within the cloud, then a face appeared, a young girl with her mouth open in pain which quickly morphed into a bald man with a scarred cheek and yellowed teeth, screaming for all he was worth. Green slime gushed from the fog over Nightingale’s hand. He thrust the knife deeper into the fog but then it slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
Nightingale dashed to the table and grabbed the nearest candelabra, holding it by the candle holders. He thrust it into the cloud and this time there were a dozen screaming voices - men, women, children and animals. The fog began to swirl around and Nightingale pushed the candelabra. It seemed to meet resistance and the screams intensified. Nightingale pushed harder and there was a bright flash of blinding light, then a rent appeared in space and the cloud disappeared with a wet sucking sound. The candelabra clattered to the floor. Nightingale got to his feet but then he felt the strength drain from his legs and he put a hand against the wall to steady himself for a minute or so. It was only when he was lighting a cigarette with shaking hands that he realized the green slime had vanished from his coat. It was as if the terrifying creature had never existed.
CHAPTER 17
Nightingale fumbled to get his car door open, climbed in and sat there panting, trying to regain his composure. He looked across at the house but there was nothing out of the ordinary, no hint of the horrors that it had contained. He switched on the engine with a trembling hand, then drove away. He waited until he was a mile away before calling Wainwright on the hands-free. The young Texan picked up on the first ring. “Listen, Joshua, when your guy went around to Mitchell’s house, everything was okay, right? Nothing happened?”
“What do you mean?” asked the Texan.
Nightingale explained what had happened the previous day.
“You’re a lucky man, Jack, Mitchell could have had brass candelabras,” said Wainwright once Nightingale had finished. “Elementals can be vicious sons of bitches, I’ve heard.”
“What the hell is an Elemental?”
“They’re summoned from Hell, to the bidding of whoever calls them,” said Wainwright. “There are four types – earth, fire, water and air. Sounds like yours was a water one. Silver kills them. And gold. Base metals aren’t so effective. Lead kills the air one, I think. Fire kills earth. Trouble is there isn’t much known about their weaknesses because whenever they’re summoned they usually kill the object of their affections.”
“I wondered if maybe Mitchell was using it as a sort of guard dog but if it wasn’t there when your guy went round then someone else must have set it up. The Apostles, maybe?”
“To get Mitchell if he went back?”
“To get Mitchell or anyone else snooping around, such as yours truly. Damn near worked, too.”
“You really need to be careful. Even if that first Elemental was just a guard dog, if they have that credit card, they could send another, targeted just for you. Now are you any closer to finding out what the hell’s going on?”
“A little.”
“The clock’s ticking, Jack. These people need to be stopped.”
“I’m on it, Joshua. Mitchell gave me two names. Lucille Carr and Kent Speckman.”
Wainwright let out a long whistle. “No shit? They’re Apostles?”
“That’s what Mitchell said. I’m doing some digging as we speak. Also I have a diary he left behind, it’s in Latin, but I’m planning to get it translated pretty soon.”
“Be careful, Jack.”
“Careful is my middle name,” said Nightingale. “Actually that’s a lie. My middle name is scared shitless.”
“You hide it well.”
“We’ll see.”
CHAPTER 18
On the way back to his hotel, Nightingale spotted a jeweler’s shop, its window filled with old rings and necklaces. He parked the SUV and walked back to the store. A bell pinged as he pushed open the door and a balding man in a black suit looked up from a display of wedding rings. The man straightened up and held his hands together in front of his chest as if he was about to pray.
“I’m looking for a silver knife,” said Nightingale.
“What type?” asked the man. “I have carving knives, silverware, fruit knives.”
&
nbsp; “It’s a gift, I was thinking a pen knife or something like that.”
The man nodded. “For a man or a woman?”
“My uncle,” lied Nightingale. “He used to have a penknife but he lost it a few years ago and it’s his sixtieth next month, so I thought…”
“You’d replace it? Wonderful idea. I might have just the thing.” He went along to a glass cabinet, opened it and took out a white penknife, four or five inches long. “Now, strictly speaking this is lady’s fruit knife, but it’s a penknife by any other name.” He handed it to Nightingale. “Sterling silver, hallmarked obviously, made in 1896 in Sheffield, England.”
Nightingale held the knife in the palm of his hand. The handle was mother-of-pearl that glistened under the overhead lights.
“It was manufactured by William Needham, a very respected silver-maker. And that is genuine mother-of-pearl.”
Nightingale pulled open the blade. There was no locking mechanism but the blade looked strong. He pressed his thumb against the blade and could feel its sharpness.
“It’s larger than the normal pocket fruit knife,” said the salesman. “And as you can see, it’s in pristine condition.”
“Perfect,” said Nightingale. He looked at the price tag. It wasn’t cheap but he’d be using one of Wainwright’s credit cards and it was a valid expense. “I’d also like a silver cross on a chain, the bigger the better.”
“Another gift?”
“For my aunt,” lied Nightingale.
The salesman rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to say that most people prefer their crosses to be made of gold,” he said.
“My aunt has always preferred silver,” said Nightingale.
The salesman went over to another display case and peered into it. “I have several small ones,” he said. He took out a cross and held it up. Nightingale wrinkled his nose. “I was hoping for something bigger,” he said.
The man straightened up. “Let me check out the back,” he said. “We had some items in from an estate sale last week, I seem to remember there was a large cross but I’m not sure what it was made of.” He disappeared through a door leaving Nightingale alone in the shop. Nightingale was surprised at being left alone but then realized that the shop was covered with three CCTV cameras.
The man was only away for a minute and he reappeared with a red velvet box. “I was right,” he said, opening the box and holding it out. Inside was a large silver cross, about three inches long and two inches across. There was a ring at the top through which was threaded a thick silver chain.. “It’s quite heavy, but not hallmarked,” said the salesman. “Central European, we think. Probably mid-nineteenth century, I’m guessing once owned by a high-ranking church official.”
Nightingale picked up the cross. It had a rough texture, like wood, and seemed to have been cast in one piece. The chain was almost three feet long so it would have hung down almost to the wearer’s waist.
“It’s an unusual piece,” said the salesman. “Probably too large for your aunt.”
“No, I think it’ll be perfect,” said Nightingale. He gave it back to the salesman along with a Visa card that Wainwright had given him. “I’ll take them both.”
“I haven’t put a price on the cross yet,” said the salesman, frowning.
“Whatever you think is fair will be fine with me,” said Nightingale.
“Excellent,” said the salesman. “Would you like them gift-wrapped?”
Nightingale shook his head. “I’ll do that at home,” he said.
Five minutes later he was back in his SUV. He slipped the penknife into his right pocket and the cross and chain in his left. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to face an Elemental again but if he did at least this time he’d be prepared.
CHAPTER 19
Nightingale woke early and after showering and shaving he went out to buy a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle. Lee Mitchell’s murder was on the third page, including a photograph of the man standing next to his Porsche that appeared to have been lifted from a Facebook page. Nightingale went to a nearby diner, ordered coffee, toast, scrambled eggs and bacon and read the article as he waited for his food to arrive. The headline was 'Mutilated Body Of Young Banker Found On Alcatraz’ which summed it up, pretty much. Twenty-two year old Lee Charles Mitchell’s body had been found washed up on San Francisco’s famous prison island. The young man had worked for the Bay Banking Corporation in their securities department, where he was described as a 'rapidly rising star’, but hadn’t shown up to work for two days. A security guard making her rounds of the island had found the body in the small hours, and it had been identified by the credit cards and driver’s license in the billfold. The body had severe injuries, leading police to suspect Mitchell had fallen from a boat, been hit by the propeller, then carried by the fierce currents onto the island.
Nightingale wasn’t convinced. He was pretty sure that Mitchell had suffered most of those injuries before they put him in the water. And the fact that the body had been found so quickly indicated that the killers wanted to send a message.
Nightingale’s phone rang as he stepped out of the diner. It was Mrs Steadman. “I haven’t called at a bad time, have I?” she asked. “I can never get the hang of time differences.”
“It’s fine,” said Nightingale, shutting the door.
“I do have someone you can talk to there, though he now lives outside San Francisco. It’s been a few years since I spoke to Father Benedict but I’ve spoken to him and he’s happy to help if he can.”
“Brilliant,” said Nightingale, reaching for a sheet of hotel stationery and a pen.
“He’s the abbot of Our Lady Of Spring Bank Cistercian Monastery out near Santa Teresa, which is about sixty miles from San Francisco. But he lived in the city for many years and is very familiar with it.”
Nightingale frowned. “Now that’s one heck of a coincidence,” he said.
“What is?”
“A monk from that monastery went missing about five months ago.”
“Do you think that is connected to the Satanic group you were talking about?”
“I hope not,” said Nightingale.
“You can tell Father Benedict everything,” said Mrs Steadman. “I’ve known him a long time.”
“Do you know if he reads Latin?”
“I would be very surprised if he didn’t.”
“You’re an angel,” said Nightingale.
Mrs Steadman chuckled. “Now we both know that’s not true,” she said. “But I do appreciate the flattery. And remember what I said, Jack. Be careful.”
“I will be,” said Nightingale. “Cross my heart.”
She paused and for a moment Nightingale thought he had lost the connection. He moved the phone to his other ear and was just about to speak when she continued. “Something happened, didn’t it, Jack? You were in danger.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I crossed paths with something that didn’t appear to have my best interests at heart,” he said.
“Tell me.”
Nightingale grimaced. After all her warnings, he was reluctant to tell her what had happened in Mitchell’s house, but he had the feeling that she already knew. He told her, but kept the details to a minimum.
“It was a Water Elemental, Jack,” she said. “Do you realize how much danger you were in?”
“Of course. But all’s well that ends well. Really.”
“Only the most powerful Satanists are capable of summoning and controlling a Water Elemental. You were lucky. They’re creatures born from filth and putrescence. Pure metals like gold and silver are about the only weakness they have.”
“Yeah, I was lucky.”
“I’ll say you were. But if they can summon one, they can summon more. And next time you might not be so lucky.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open.”
“I’m serious, Jack. This Elemental was guarding a house, you say?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what happened, yes. I went in an
d then it just sort of materialized.”
“Then hopefully that will be the end of it,” she said. “But from now on you must be very careful. The people you are dealing with are capable of summoning other Elementals to pursue you.”
“How exactly?”
“If they get a lock of your hair, for instance. Or something very personal to you. They can summon an Elemental and send it after you. It will appear wherever you are. There would be no escape. Wherever you are in the world, it would appear.”
Nightingale flashed back to the hellish cloud and he shuddered. “I’ll be careful, Mrs Steadman.”
“There are four types. Earth, Fire, Water and Air. All are deadly.”
“That’s what Joshua said,” began Nightingale, then he screwed up his face. Mrs Steadman didn’t have a high opinion of Joshua Wainwright.
“I’m not surprised he is aware of Elementals,” she said frostily.
“He said fire would kill an Earth Elemental, is that right?”
“I believe so. And Fire Elementals can be killed with water. Pure water. The purer the better. Base metals can kill an Air Elemental. But Jack, you don’t want to go anywhere near an Elemental.”
“I’ll do my best to avoid them,” said Nightingale.
“I’m serious, Jack.” She sighed. “I wish there was something else I could to help,” she said. “But my best advice would be for you to leave town right now. But even as I say that I know it’s not going to happen.”
CHAPTER 20
It took the SatNav just over an hour to guide Nightingale to the Our Lady Of Spring Bank Monastery. He drove up the tree lined main entrance and parked in front of the 'Welcome Center’. The place looked more like a modern school than any monastery he’d ever seen before, though the chapter house and church looked more like Nightingale’s idea of traditional religious buildings. Everything was bare stone, no paint to be seen. Nightingale walked through some tall arches and followed the sign for reception.
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