73
Sebastian Mitchell kept the oxygen mask over his mouth as he took deep breaths, his eyes on Nightingale, who was slowly chalking a pentagram on the stone slabs. There was a clock on the wall and he squinted at it. Eleven forty. Twenty minutes before Proserpine would come to take Nightingale’s soul.
Sylvia walked into the room, her high heels clicking on the wooden floor. ‘I’ve stationed extra men around the house, and we have three dogs in the garden now, sir.’
‘Thank you, Sylvia,’ wheezed Mitchell. ‘But there’s no danger for us. It’s Nightingale she wants.’
Nightingale placed the metal suitcase in the centre of the pentagram. He took out an ornate gold dagger and held it up. It glinted in the spotlights covering the terrace. He waved the knife over the five points of the pentagram, then slid it into the inside pocket of his raincoat. ‘You’re wasting your time, Nightingale,’ Mitchell muttered. ‘Knives are useless against devils.’
Nightingale took a piece of a branch from the case and slowly went over the chalk outline with it. Then he sprinkled water from a small bottle around the perimeter. ‘Consecrated salt water,’ Mitchell wheezed, ‘but it will do you no good. It will keep her out but you will still lose your soul.’
Nightingale put the branch and the bottle back into the case and took out a small leather-bound book. Mitchell frowned. ‘What’s that? Sylvia, can you see what book he’s holding?’
Sylvia walked over to the french windows and peered through the glass. ‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘There doesn’t appear to be a title but it looks old.’
‘What are you up to, Nightingale?’ muttered Mitchell.
Nightingale sat cross-legged in the centre of the pentagram with the book in his lap, staring out over the garden.
‘Now what’s he doing?’ said Sylvia.
Mitchell looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘He’s waiting,’ he said. He looked back at Sylvia. ‘Turn the lights off,’ he said. ‘We might as well give him a chance.’
74
Nightingale could feel his pulse racing and kept his breathing slow and even. Behind him, the lights in the drawing room went out. The spotlights around the terrace were still on and he was bathed in a clinical white light. There were lights around the perimeter wall, too, casting long shadows from the trees that dotted the garden.
He didn’t have to look at his watch to know that there were still ten minutes to go. There was nothing he could do to speed up the process. Proserpine would come exactly at midnight because that was when his soul would be forfeit. There was no point in trying to summon her. All he could do was wait until she showed up of her own accord.
An owl flew overhead, its wings beating silently in the still air. Then it swooped down to a patch of grass under an oak tree, grabbed something small and furry in its claws and flew up towards the roof.
Nightingale closed his eyes. He could hear a far-off rumble of traffic but other than that the night was silent. There was no sound from the house behind him but he was sure that Mitchell was watching. He tried to visualise him sitting in his chair, the oxygen mask pressed to his mouth, staring out of the window. Sylvia would be there, too, close to Mitchell’s protective pentagram, watching and wondering.
The seconds ticked by. Then the minutes. A breeze blew from the north, ruffling Nightingale’s hair. He opened his eyes. The trees were swaying in the wind, their shadows writhing on the grass like living things.
His knees cracked as he got to his feet. He held the book to his chest and licked his lips. He wanted a cigarette desperately but that was impossible.
A mist had gathered around the lawn, patchy at first but soon thickening, and the security lights around the walls became glowing balls that grew dimmer with each second that passed. A dog barked in the distance but the sound was cut short as if its leash had been pulled harshly.
Nightingale stared ahead. He could no longer see the wall surrounding the garden, or the trees. He could see the terrace but only a few dozen yards of lawn before it was swallowed in the mist. Then the air in front of him cleaved apart, folded in on itself, shimmered – and she was there, standing about twelve feet from the pentagram, a sly smile on her face. Her eyes were dark pits, her lips black and glossy. She was wearing the same black skirt and boots as before but a different T-shirt, black with a gold ankh cross on it. Her collie circled her, his eyes continually watching Nightingale, tail twitching from side to side. Proserpine grinned. ‘Time to pay the piper, Nightingale,’ she said.
He ignored her. He had already marked the page he was to read. He opened the book and read the Latin words slowly and precisely, his eyes fixed on the page. The wind was getting stronger now and he held on to the book tightly, fearful it would be whipped out of his grasp.
‘You’re wasting your breath,’ said Proserpine. She took a step towards the pentagram. ‘It’s midnight. Time for me to take what is mine.’
75
Mitchell took the oxygen mask away from his face. ‘What’s he doing?’ he croaked. ‘No spell can stop her – she’s too strong.’
‘What’s going to happen, sir?’ asked Sylvia.
‘She’ll take his soul,’ said Mitchell. ‘Nightingale’s got balls all right, but he’s as good as dead.’
He pushed himself out of his seat to get a better look at what was happening on the terrace. Proserpine was moving closer to Nightingale. She was saying something to him but Mitchell couldn’t make out what it was. Nightingale was being buffeted by a strong wind, his hair in disarray, his coat whipping around his legs like a living thing, but Proserpine was totally unaffected by it.
Nightingale was reading from the book, his head down as he concentrated, ignoring the devil that was now only feet away from the pentagram.
‘He’s wasting his time,’ muttered Mitchell. ‘It’s over.’
‘The lights, sir,’ said Sylvia. ‘Nightingale said we should turn on the lights.’
‘It won’t make any difference,’ he said. He dropped the oxygen mask onto the chair. Proserpine was next to the pentagram now, her black eyes glaring at Nightingale, her fingers curved into talons, bent forward at the waist like a wild animal preparing to spring.
Nightingale stopped reading and closed the book. He held it out to Proserpine.
‘No, never allow contact!’ said Mitchell.
‘The lights, sir,’ said Sylvia.
‘Yes, okay,’ snapped Mitchell. ‘Put the lights on, but it won’t make any difference.’ He stared at Nightingale, who was still holding out the leather-bound book to Proserpine.
Sylvia’s heels clicked on the wooden floor as she hurried to the switches. She placed her hand against the panel and flicked the three together. The room was flooded with light.
Proserpine’s head jerked and she stared at the french window, snarling when she saw Mitchell standing there. ‘Mitchell!’ she screamed, so loudly that the glass rattled. Mitchell took a step back and his leg banged against the chair behind him.
Nightingale dropped the book and the dagger was in his right hand. He brought it down in an arc towards Proserpine’s chest. There was a flash of lightning, then another, and a howl from Proserpine as she staggered backwards. Black blood gushed from the centre of the golden ankh, pulsing out in a stream that splashed over Nightingale’s legs. The lightning flashed again and there was a clap of thunder so loud that the ground shook.
Nightingale stepped out of the pentagram and stuck the knife into her chest again and again, his face contorted. He was screaming at her but the wind was tearing the words from his mouth and ripping them away.
