All at once the Wights in the cellar caught on fire. They ran wildly around, banging into the walls and into each other. Nightingale could hear more of them howling and smashing into the walls upstairs, but after a minute or so all was quiet. The ones in the cellar were on the ground, their fat sizzling and sputtering in the silence of the night.
Nightingale removed the gag from Laura’s mouth and untied her. Haverford groaned on the ground, a pool of blood forming around him.
‘How did you know that would work?’ asked Laura.
‘I didn’t.’
‘You were lucky.’
‘Yeah, sometimes I am,’ said Nightingale.
* * *
Twenty-four hours later Nightingale was on the train back to New York. His wounds were superficial – some scratches and a few bruised ribs, a mild concussion – and he didn’t want to hang around for the investigation into what had happened in Bulger. An hour outside the Big Apple, his cellphone rang. It was Joshua Wainwright. ‘Where are you?’
His tone suggested that he already knew.
‘I’m on a train,’ said Nightingale.
‘Going where?’
‘Back to New York.’
‘From where?’
Nightingale swallowed. He knew there was no point in lying to Wainwright. ‘Bulger.’
‘I thought that was you. What the hell were you doing there?’
‘Doing the Wight thing, I guess.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny? English humour?’
‘Just trying to lighten the moment. Anyway, it’s all done now.’
‘To be honest with you, you did me a favour. Earl Haverford has been a pain in my butt for more years than I care to remember. One of those Satanists who give us all a bad name. We’re better of without him.’
‘So all’s well that ends well?’
‘Just get back to New York. I’ve a job for you.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Wainwright ended the call. Nightingale put his phone back in his pocket and looked out of the window. When he looked back, Proserpine was sitting next to him. He flinched. ‘Would you not sneak up on me like that?’ he said.
Her dog was at her feet, ears pricked. She patted it on the neck. ‘My, you’re jumpy,’ she said.
‘After what I’ve been through, it’s hardly surprising.’
‘That’s why I popped by. To thank you.’
‘A demon from Hell saying thank you, that has to be a first.’
‘I needed that taken care of and you came through. So yes, it’s only right that I should acknowledge what you did.’
‘So you owe me one, right? A quid pro quo.’
Her jet black eyes hardened. ‘I owe you nothing, Nightingale.’
There was a flash of lightning outside and Nightingale looked through the window as a peal of thunder made the window rattle. When he looked back at the seat next to him, Proserpine had gone. Nightingale smiled to himself. Despite what she had said, he knew that she owed him a favour, and at some point he would claim it.
The Undead Page 5
