The ritual answer came from twelve mouths at once.
“Thy Will be my Will, O Abaddon.”
“May Satan be with you all,” said Abaddon. She rang the bell again and they began to file out of the temple.
CHAPTER 59
Nightingale was startled from his sleep by the buzzing of the intercom. He padded over and pressed the button. “Yeah?” he said sleepily.
“It’s Dragan. I’ve got something for you.”
“A book?”
“No flies on you, Nightingale. Buzz me in.”
Nightingale pressed the button to open the door downstairs. Chen’s bedroom door opened and she ran a hand through her hair as she squinted at him. “Who is it?”
“Dragan. He has the book for me.”
“What time is it?”
“Seven.”
“How does a book get delivered at seven in the morning?”
“I’m guessing that Wainwright had it flown in.”
Chen rubbed her face. “I’ve got to be in the office at nine.”
“No problem, I can look after myself today.”
“I’m going to need the car.”
“I’ll use taxis.”
Chen nodded. “Cool. Make me coffee, will you, while I shower.” She closed the door. Nightingale pulled on his shirt and jeans before there was a knock on the door. He opened it and Dragan handed him a leather briefcase. “With Mr. Wainwright’s compliments,” he said. “You’re to call me and give me the money when you have it.”
Nightingale took the briefcase and thanked him.
“You planning on being busy today?” asked Dragan.
“Here and there, I’ll be using cabs. I’ll be up at Nob Hill later this morning.”
“Same places as yesterday? Steiner Street?’
“You were there?”
Dragan grinned. “Of course we were there. And up to the Carr place, too. That’s what surveillance means, Jack. We watch you, Like hawks.”
Nightingale nodded, impressed. “I didn’t see you.”
“We wouldn’t be doing our jobs if you did,” said Dragan. “Be lucky.” He waved and headed down the corridor.
Nightingale closed the door and made two coffees. He decided to have a go at breakfast and had managed to scramble half a dozen eggs by the time Chen reappeared, wearing a black pant suit and a dark blue shirt, her gun on her hip. “What are your plans for today?” she asked.
“I’ll take the book to Dukas and see what he gives me in exchange. I’ll probably pop over to see Gabriel Starr. And I’ll keep an eye on the tracking units.”
She nodded. “I’ll take one of the iPhones. But call me if anything happens, I’m not going to be able to sit glued to the screen.” She nodded at the eggs. “Are those all for you?”
Toast popped out of the toaster. “I wanted to make you breakfast. To show my appreciation and all that.”
He put the toast on a plate, divided the eggs in half and sat down at the breakfast bar with her. “You’ll make someone a wonderful wife,” she said.
“Chance’ll be a fine thing.”
“Only two more days to go before the blue moon,” she said.
“I know.”
“You’re sure about this? You’re sure that this is all real, the whole human sacrifice thing?”
“Are you having second thoughts?”
She shrugged. “It’s just so fantastic,” she said.
Nightingale reached over for the iPad, switched it on and tapped on the tracker app. He cursed as he stared at the screen.
“What’s wrong?” asked Chen, a forkful of eggs frozen in the air.
He showed her the screen. The lines of the two cars had intersected. She put down her fork and took the iPad from her. “Two o’clock in the morning,” she said. “Stationary for two hours. Leaving at four. She was in the Mercedes.”
“The witching hour,” said Nightingale.
“I thought the witching hour was midnight?’ She used her fingers to home in on the place where the two vehicles had intersected.
“Three o’clock in the morning. They say that Jesus died at three o’clock in the afternoon so Satanists use three a.m. as their most potent time.”
“Oh my God,” said Chen, her eyes widening as she stared at the screen. “Take a wild guess where they went last night?”
“The Elms Mansion,” said Nightingale. “Home of Jerry King and Suzi Brook.”
“You got it in one.” She put down the iPad. “Does that mean the children are dead? Did it happen last night while we were asleep.”
“I’ll check with the crystal as soon as you go,” he said. “I’ll call you. There could have been another ceremony, Starr was sure that the day was the blue moon on Wednesday.”
Chen looked at her watch. “Damn, I’ve got to go. I’ve a case meeting at nine.” She bolted down the last of her eggs, drank her coffee and hurried out.
CHAPTER 60
Nightingale showered and put on the robe and used the crystal over the hairbrush and baseball cap. Ten minutes later he was satisfied that Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker were still alive. He phoned Chen and told her.
“There’s no doubt?”
“The crystal behaved exactly the same way as last time.”
“So what happened last night? What were Speckman and Carr doing?”
“Maybe another ritual,” said Nightingale. “A rehearsal. Who knows? Amy, we need to get inside The Elms.”
“That’s not going to happen without a warrant. And I doubt any judge will give us a warrant based on a crystal and illegally-planted trackers.”
“We got inside the homes of Speckman and Carr.”
“We got to see their cars. There’s a big difference between that and looking for a Satanic temple at The Elms. They’re not going to let us wander around opening doors, are they.”
“But what if the kids are being held there?”
“The only evidence we have for that is the crystal ball,” said Chen. “Do you think any judge is going to take that seriously? Look, that meeting is about to start. Let’s talk later.”
“Can we at least take a run up there after you’ve finished work?”
“Maybe,” she said. The line went dead.
Nightingale dressed and an hour later he stepped out of a taxi in front of Dukas’s house. He was carrying the briefcase that Dragan had given him. He looked around but couldn’t see any sign of Dragan or his team. His mobile buzzed in his pocket, letting him know he’d received a text message. He fished out the phone. It was from Dragan. “DON’T WORRY, WE’RE HERE”. Nightingale smiled as he put the phone away. Damn, Dragan was good.
The maid showed him into Dukas’s study again. Still the pretty young Latina didn’t speak, and Nightingale really was beginning to wonder whether she was dumb. Dukas greeted him and rubbed his hands together as Nightingale put the briefcase on the desk and opened it. The little man was again immaculately dressed, this time in a blue blazer and black slacks, a white shirt and a blue and red striped tie. He picked up the book reverently, sniffed it and then gently opened it as if he feared he might damage the spine. “You have no idea how long I have craved this volume, Mr. Nightingale,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough for bringing it to me.”
“Just so long as Mr. Wainwright gets his money and I get the information I need,” said Nightingale.
Dukas opened a drawer and took out a cashier’s check. “I’m assuming that Mr. Wainwright does not insist on cash,” he said.
“I’m sure he’ll be happy with a check,” said Nightingale. He took it from Dukas, put it in his raincoat pocket, and sat back on the sofa. Dukas reached forward and pressed an electric bell on his desk. Conchita opened the door almost at once. “Conchita, a hookah, if you please.” He looked over at Nightingale. “Will you take one sir?”
“I prefer cigarettes if that’s OK,” said Nightingale.
“As you please the smell does not offend me, and some brandy, Conchita.”
“Not for me,” said Nightingale. “It’s a little early.”
“Bring two glasses anyway, Conchita, you may well be needing one, sir when you have heard what I have to tell you.”
Neither of them spoke until Conchita had placed the hookah in front of Dukas, and a silver tray with a bottle and two glasses between them. Dukas filled both glasses, then took a long suck on the hookah. Nightingale lit a cigarette but ignored the brandy in front of him. Dukas took a drink, and puffed at his hookah again. Finally he broke the silence.
“Now, sir. Ordinarily I would never speak of this to anyone, but the circumstances are alarming, and I also wish to earn my prize. The Grimoire Of Hippolyta gives a description of just such a ritual and such sacrifices as you mention. It is a brutal and Godless process, yet it is just a beginning. A system for storing up power in a circle before the Adepts use that power to perform the final abomination. A ritual performed at least once before, in 1906. By my great great-aunt. The book also contained a letter, written by my great-grandfather, detailing the circumstances of her treachery. I mentioned to you yesterday that my great-grandfather’s book had been copied It was his sister who copied it, drew immense strength from it and dared to attempt the ritual.”
“Causing the earthquake?” asked Nightingale,
“Pure conjecture,” said Dukas. “The story told in the letter was that she tried to perform a forbidden ritual, though until I read the book last night I had no idea of the full extent of it. She and all her circle died in the earthquake, or subsequent fire, and her house was destroyed. Apparently her name was never to be mentioned in the family again. Her husband had killed himself a year before this, and only her daughter survived, and inherited enough to make her a rich woman at just two years old. Extremely rich by the time her trustees handed over her fortune on her twenty-first birthday. By my father’s time he had lost touch with that branch of the family. I have never bothered to try to find them, and I consider them lost. Unsurprisingly, no woman has ever wished to breed with me, and, in any event, I would not wish to risk passing on my deformity to a future generation. As far as I am concerned the Dukas line dies with me, and I wished to have no dealings with the descendants of the witch Agatha.”
“Tell me more about the ritual.”
“You know the first part, sir,” said Dukas. “The slaughter of twelve virgins within the circle in a hideous parody of the deaths of the apostles.”
“But why?” asked Nightingale.
“To draw down power for the final act.”
Nightingale looked at the man’s small hands which were shaking as he lifted his glass again. He was terrified, reluctant to give out any information, possibly regretting ever reading the Grimoire. Nightingale spoke softly, trying to persuade the man to take the final step and confide fully in him. “I need to know, Mr. Dukas, if I’m going to prevent it.”
“I doubt you, or anyone else could. It is the Rite of... Bimoleth.”
Dukas pronounced the name slowly and dramatically, as if expecting a reaction. Nightingale didn’t oblige.
“What’s a Bimoleth?” he asked eventually.
Dukas dropped his voice, until it was barely a whisper. He kept glancing around the room, as if he expected to be overheard by someone. “Be thankful you have never heard of it before,” he said. “Soon you will wish you never had. It is an ancient story, known to a few, and rarely spoken of. I had heard of it from my father, and he from his father. It is a story which came from the East, reached Europe, Greece and then traveled to the New World.”
Nightingale was beginning to lose patience, but kept quiet. Dukas seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice, but there was nothing to be gained by trying to hurry him. Let the man tell it at his own pace.
“In ancient times, or so the story runs, Bimoleth was a demon. A Prince among demons. It sat at Satan’s right hand with the other Princes and ruled armies of minor demons elementals and abhumans. A trusted aide to the Lord Of This World, but an immensely powerful and ruthless creature. Equal in power to Astaroth, Beelzebub, Choronzon.”
“I’ve heard of the others, but not Bimoleth,” said Nightingale.
Dukas frowned in annoyance at the interruption, took another puff at his hookah, but continued.
“Quite. The legend says that Bimoleth was a creature of unbounded ambition and intense hatred. It rebelled against Satan himself, tried to lead a demon army against the Fallen Angel in an attempt to seize control of this world from him. A foolish endeavor, since Satan and his Princes were too strong, and its rebellion was crushed. Then there came a difficulty. Satan would have slain it, but none but God himself can destroy a Prince, so he was unable since he would not seek God’s help. Yet, he could not permit such a dangerous creature to continue to live. So, Bimoleth was placed in Limbo, for all eternity, only to be released at the End Of Days, when all will be judged. Its name was never to be spoken, and it should be as if it never existed.”
Nightingale took a long sip of the brandy, and lit another cigarette. Dukas went on with his story.
“For immeasurable time, Bimoleth has waited in Limbo, its hatred growing ever stronger, but it has been decreed that it shall never be released. Its name is all but forgotten, and I had thought never to hear it pronounced again in my lifetime.”
“You keep saying it,” said Nightingale. “Most of the demons I’ve heard spoken about were male or female.”
“I am not sure the concept applies, I have never met a demon and have no wish to. It is true, some have a gender ascribed to them, but never Bimoleth. Always 'it’ for that creature.”
“OK, so it’s a nasty piece of work, but what’s it got to do with the Apostles sacrificing virgins and abducting kids?”
“It seems that the Apostles are trying to re-enact the ritual which Agatha Dukas failed to perform correctly all those years ago.”
“And caused the Earthquake?” said Nightingale. “I checked, there’s no proof of that.”
“That probably is just a rumor, though a credible one, great power would have been released. The location of the ritual is critical, as well as the timing, it must be performed where there is a fault in the earth, where power and energy can easily cross over.”
“The San Andreas Fault?” said Nightingale.
“Exactly,” said Dukas. “The very thing which renders the ritual possible also vastly increases the danger. So much energy in one place.”
“So what is this Ritual?” Nightingale needed an answer now. “Spit it out. What are they trying to achieve?”
“Quite simply, it is a ritual by which Bimoleth may be freed to walk the Earth once again, and take control of it. Or destroy it.”
“But why? Why would anyone want to free this thing, if it would lead to so much destruction?”
“The usual reason,” said Dukas. “The lust for power urged on by overweening, stupidity. Perhaps they imagine that if they could control Bimoleth, then they would rule the world. The arrogance. Impossible of course, no humans could control a demon, I doubt they would survive long enough to appreciate what they had done. And then, of course, there is the fact that Lucifer himself is the Lord Of Misrule, so creating chaos is an end in itself, and it is hard to imagine greater chaos than Bimoleth walking the Earth.”
“But if Bimoleth is an enemy of Satan, how can setting him free to wreak havoc serve Satan’s purpose?” asked Nightingale.
Dukas thought for a moment.
“It appears illogical,” he said. “Yet chaos is, as I said, an end in itself, and perhaps there can be no rules to it.”
“What has your family got to do with it all?” asked Nightingale.
“We are of Greek origin, said to be descendants of Hippolyta herself, and the book has been in the family for generations. It came with us when my ancestors came to America, and we have guarded it well. Always we were warned against its power. It was passed from father to son, though it came with a solemn warning against allowing the women of the family to study it, but those were less en
lightened times. I heard rumors in my youth that an acquaintance of my great-grandfather took a copy of some parts of the book around the turn of the last century and attempted a ritual from it. Neither they nor the coven survived the attempt.”
Dukas drained his brandy glass, pushed away the hookah and rang the bell.
“What about stopping it? How can the ritual be stopped?’
“The Grimoire does not contain that information. But I shall look elsewhere in my collection. There may be a clue there. Can you come back tomorrow?”
“We’re running out of time,” said Nightingale. “The blue moon is just forty-eight hours away.”
“I am aware of that, Mr. Nightingale. Please come back tomorrow at the same hour, and I hope to have more information for you then. And I suggest you take great care, these are not people who will care to have their plans thwarted.”
Nightingale nodded. “I’d already reached that conclusion myself,” he said.
CHAPTER 61
Nightingale stood outside Dukas’s house, a Marlboro between his fingers to settle his shaken nerves. The story of Bimoleth would have struck him as ludicrous a few years before; now it chilled him to his soul. He knew what even minor demons were capable of, but the concept of a Prince of Hell let loose on the earth was unimaginable. A black SUV drove by, slowly. Nightingale tensed then he saw that the driver was a young blonde woman and there were two young children in car seats sitting in the back and he forced himself to relax. He called Wainwright. “Jack? You getting anywhere?”
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