Proserpine’s dog growled and moved forward, changing form with each step. It rippled and doubled in size, its fur became hard and scaly. It growled and leapt and as its feet left the ground it changed again. It had three heads, all dog-like but with huge yellowed fangs and slimy forked tongues and with a line of barbed bony spines. When it hit Lucifuge Rofocale it was the size of a small car. One of the gaping jaws fastened onto Lucifuge Rofocale’s left arm and another seized his throat. Green blood spurted from the wounds and Lucifuge roared in pain.
Lucifuge Rofocale span around, his wings scraping against the walls. One of the dog’s three heads was barking furiously while the other two held on fast to its prey.
Nightingale couldn’t move, all he could do was stare in horror at the carnage. Green blood splattered across the ceiling and Lucifuge Rofocale staggered, his yellow eyes rolling back into his head. The dog – or whatever the creature was – dragged Lucifuge Rofocale to the floor and continued to savage him. The air was split with a crash of thunder and there was a jagged streak of lightning that appeared to spark from Lucifuge Rofocale’s chest and then he was gone. The three-headed creature jumped back as if shocked by the disappearance.
‘He’s gone, baby,’ said Proserpine. ‘You did good.’
‘Do you think you could see your way to untying me?’ asked Nightingale.
Proserpine turned to look at him. She made a cutting gesture with her right hand and the bonds fell away from his wrists. He rolled over and got to his feet, rubbing his hands as the circulation returned.
‘Did you know he was behind this?’ asked Nightingale.
The three-headed monster turned and looked at Proserpine and she blew it a kiss. The three heads growled and then it began to change shape. The three heads became one, the body shrank and the fur returned. It headed towards her and with each step it took it became more dog-like. By the time it sat at her side it was back to being a black and white collie sheepdog with a pink tongue lolling from the side of its mouth. ‘Good boy,’ she said, and patted it on the head.
‘I asked you a question,’ said Nightingale.
Proserpine’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I were you I’d keep a respectful tone in your voice,’ she said. ‘Seeing as how you don’t have any protection at the moment.’
Nightingale looked over at the pentagram. ‘To be fair, I breached the circle so that you could attack Lucifuge Rofocale.’
‘And how did that feel, getting a woman to fight your battles?’
‘I got the impression you’re no fan of his.’
‘Fan or not, he shouldn’t have been here. He’ll be punished for that.’
‘Good to know,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now what happens?’
‘You have to do what has to be done,’ said Proserpine.
‘Specifics would be nice,’ said Nightingale.
‘You have to kill them,’ said Proserpine. ‘Kill the hosts and the invaders will return to Hell where they will be dealt with.’
‘Why can’t you do it?’
‘Because there are rules, Nightingale. Rules that apply to me just as much as your rules apply to you. They are in human form now so they are your responsibility.’
‘But how do I find them? They could be anywhere.’
‘You need to find Lilith. The others will be with her.’
‘I tried,’ said Nightingale. ‘I used the crystal but it’s too vague.’
‘Because the crystal seeks the girl and not the demon,’ said Proserpine. ‘Hold out your hand.’
Nightingale did as he was told. Proserpine traced a shape on the palm of his hand with her nail. He felt nothing but when she took her finger away he saw that she had cut Lilith’s sigil into his flesh. Blood oozed from the cuts.
‘The closer you get to her, the more it will burn,’ she said.
‘Well thanks for that,’ said Nightingale.
‘You must move quickly,’ she said. ‘Once they learn what has happened to Lucifuge Rofocale they will flee.’
‘I’m on it,’ said Nightingale. ‘And thanks.’
‘Proserpine frowned. ‘For what?’
‘For saving me.’
Proserpine frowned. ‘I didn’t save you, Nightingale. I sent Lucifuge Rofocale back to where he belongs. The fact that you are still alive is incidental.’
‘Well thanks anyway.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she said. The dog made a soft woofing sound and then space and time folded in on itself amid an ear-splitting crack and a flash of light and Proserpine and her dog were gone and he was alone with Perez. He hurried over to her and rolled her onto her back. There was blood dripping down her chin but he couldn’t tell whether she had bitten her tongue or if she had internal injuries. He took out his phone. He wasn’t thrilled about calling 911 but he didn’t see that he any choice. He was just about to dial when her eyes opened. ‘Don’t,’ she said.
‘You need an ambulance.’
‘I’m okay. I really don’t want to have to explain what happened. Not to a paramedic and certainly not to the cops.’ She put a hand up to her mouth and winced.
‘You could be bleeding internally.’
‘I’m not,’ she said.
‘You took a hell of a knock.’
She forced a smile. ‘I’ve been hit before,’ she said.
‘Not by a demon from Hell.’ He helped her to sit up. ‘Can you stand?’
‘I think so.’
Nightingale helped her up and then supported her as they walked along to the office he’d been using as a bedroom. He helped her sit down on the sofa bed and then fetched her a glass of water. ‘Jack, I’ll be fine,’ she said.
‘You need to be in a hospital.’
‘Who was she, Jack? The woman in black with the dog thing. What just happened?’
‘She’s my CI.’
‘A devil?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘We go back a long way. I summoned her and by breaking the circle I let her deal with Lucifuge Rofocale.’
‘And who the fuck is Lucifuge Rofocale?’
‘He’s another devil. He almost took my soul a while back and I think he bears a grudge. He was using your love for Eric to get to me. I’m sorry.’
She forced a smile. ‘You really need to stop saying that.’
CHAPTER 49
Nightingale helped Perez downstairs and took her home in an Uber cab. He stayed with her for an hour to make sure that she was okay, then went back to his office. He slept fitfully and the next day took a taxi to the St Mary Of The Angels church in Brooklyn. He shuddered and lit a cigarette as the cab drove away. He blew smoke and looked up at the church. It was a solid grey stone structure with a tall steeple, stained glass windows protected with chicken wire and grey gargoyles at the corners. He went up to the main door but it was locked. There was a wooden noticeboard to the left of the door containing a list of services, a number of contact phone numbers and a note that the priest could be contacted at the house to the left of the church.
Nightingale finished his cigarette before walking to the house and pressing the brass doorbell. The door was opened by a grey-haired man in his fifties with wire-framed spectacles. He had a green cardigan over a shirt with a dog collar.
‘Father MacDowell?’
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Jack Nightingale. Mrs Steadman sent me.’
The priest smiled and opened the door. ‘Come in, I’ve been expecting you.’ The hallway was lined with framed photographs of Father MacDowell standing in front of different churches, often with other priests. There were several photographs that had clearly been taken in the Vatican including one of the priest standing in front of Pope John Paul 11. ‘My wall of shame,’ said the priest, with a smile. ‘Go on through to the sitting room, I was just having coffee.’
The sitting room was a comfortable bolthole with overstuffed leather armchairs that were stained and worn, rugs that had gone threadbare over the years, and bookshelves full of well-thumbed volumes. There was a coffee pot on a small
table, along with a cup and saucer and a milk jug.
‘Would you care for a coffee?’ asked the priest.
‘I’m fine,’ said Nightingale.
Father MacDowell picked up his cup and finished his coffee. ‘Mrs Steadman said you needed my help,’ he said as he put his cup back on its saucer.
Nightingale nodded. ‘I need you to bless something for me. I’m afraid it’s a little… unorthodox.’
‘It usually is if Mrs Steadman is involved,’ he said.
Nightingale reached into his pocket and brought out a dozen cartridges.
‘Ah,’ said the priest, raising an eyebrow.
‘Is it a problem?’
‘Not if you can assure me that your intentions are good.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘They are.’
‘Then it’s not a problem. Come on through to the church.’ The priest led Nightingale down a corridor to a heavy oak door. He pulled it open and waved for Nightingale to go first. He stepped into a room built of large grey stone blocks. Against one wall there was a heavy oak wardrobe next to a full-length mirror on an adjustable stand and on another wall there was a row of wooden coat hooks above a line of lockers made from matching wood.
‘Give me a minute,’ said the priest. He opened a locker and took out an alb, a long white vestment with tapered sleeves. He pulled it on over the clothes he was wearing, checked himself in the mirror and nodded his approval. He twisted a brass handle on another oak door which opened out to the area behind the church’s main altar.
The priest held out his hand and Nightingale gave him the cartridges. He placed them on the altar, then walked down the centre of the church to a marble stoup by the entrance, an ornate font with a carved marble angel above it. Father MacDowell took a small glass flask from his pocket, filled it with water from the stoup and brought it back to the altar. ‘You know what to say, Mr Nightingale?”
Nightingale nodded. ‘I’ve done this before.’
The priest smiled. ‘I’m sure you have. Very well. Are you ready?’
Nightingale nodded.
The priest took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He closed his eyes. ‘Our help is in the name of the Lord.’
‘Who made heaven and earth,’ said Nightingale.
The priest opened his eyes. ‘The Lord be with you.’
‘May He also be with you,’ said Nightingale.
‘Holy Lord, almighty Father, everlasting God, be pleased to bless these objects, that it may be a saving help to mankind, through Christ our Lord.’
He paused and nodded at Nightingale. ‘Amen,’ said Nightingale.
‘Lord Jesus Christ, bless these items that they may be used in your service.’ He sprinkled Holy Water over the bullets. ‘May they be hallowed in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, through Christ our Lord.’
‘Amen,’ said Nightingale.
The priest smiled. ‘It is done.’ He put the cartridges back in the plastic bag and gave them to Nightingale. Nightingale put the cartridges into his pocket. Father MacDowell reached under his alb and pulled out a rosary with a small crucifix attached. ‘I don’t know what it is you are planning to do, Mr Nightingale, but I would feel happier if you carried that with you.’
Nightingale took the rosary and rubbed the smooth amber beads between his thumb and fingers. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘You believe in the power of the rosary, I hope.’
‘I believe in anything that helps, Father. I don’t play favourites.’
CHAPTER 50
Nightingale went back to his office and spent half an hour sharpening the sticks he’d bought and dipping them into Holy Water. Then he cleaned the gun and loaded it with the bullets that Father MacDowell had blessed. He showered and changed into clean clothes, then retrieved the pink crystal from the glass bowl where he’d left it covered in consecrated salt. He put the map of Manhattan and Dee-anne’s retainer on the desk, said a short prayer and then held the crystal over the map. There was even less of a reaction than the first time he’d tried, but there was enough to suggest that Dee-anne was somewhere on the Upper East Side. He put on his raincoat and put the stakes in his inside pocket and tucked the Smith and Wesson into a nylon holster clipped to the back of his belt.
He walked downstairs and took out his cellphone to call an Uber cab but just as he was opening the app a car pulled up in front of him and the passenger side window wound down. ‘Need a lift?’ It was Cheryl Perez.
‘Shouldn’t you be in hospital?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘Either way, you need to stay away,’ said Nightingale. ‘You know what needs to be done and it’s best you’re not part of it.’
‘I’m seeing this through to the end, Jack. I owe you that much.’
‘You don’t owe me anything.’
She shook her head. ‘You nearly died because of me,’ she said. ‘Now get in the car or I’ll get out and drag you in.’
Nightingale laughed and climbed in next to her. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ he said.
‘We’ve established that,’ she said. ‘Now, where are we going?’
‘Upper East Side.’
‘Specifically?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘That’s not much of a plan, Jack.’
‘It’s all I’ve got.’
Perez put the car in gear and headed east.
CHAPTER 51
‘How about Chinese?’ said Dee-anne. She held the phone out to Matt. ‘Jimmy Kwok, lives on his own in the East Village.’
‘Why is it always guys?’ said Steve, looking at the menu. They were sitting in an Argentinian steakhouse in a booth overlooking the street. ‘Why don’t we get a girl. We can do more with a girl.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Dee-anne.
‘He’s right though,’ said Steve. ‘Why is it always guys?’
‘Because I’m the one on Tinder. And it’s easier to meet men.’
‘We could put our pictures up,’ said Matt.
‘You could. But then you’d be attracting young girls and the chances are they’d be living with their parents.’
Matt grinned. ‘So we could have fun with the parents, too. Make it a family thing.’
A waiter dressed all in black with a neatly-trimmed goatee came over and asked if they were ready to order.
‘What’s your biggest steak?’ asked Steve.
‘That would be our tomahawk special,’ said the waiter. ‘It’s forty-two ounces for two to share, dry-aged for a minimum of forty days, seasoned with rosemary salt and broiled at 1,400 degrees then finished in a cast-iron skillet and basted with the chef’s special mixture of rosemary, garlic, beef fat and brown butter.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Steve. ‘I’ll have one.’
‘It’s to share.’
‘I’m hungry,’ said Steve.
‘One tomahawk special it is,’ said the waiter.
‘And I’ll have it rare.’
‘Rare?’
‘Rare. And without the salt. As bloody as it comes. In fact you can send the cow in and I’ll kill it myself.’
The waiter smiled and looked at Dee-anne. ‘Fillet,’ she said. ‘Rare.’
Matt nodded. ‘Fillet for me.’
‘Rare?’ said the waiter. Matt flashed him a thumbs-up. ‘So one tomahawk and two fillets, all rare. Vegetables?’
‘Bring them all,’ said Steve.
‘There’s a large selection,’ said the waiter. ‘Mashed potatoes, roasted new potatoes, potato wedges, minted peas, wilted spinach, buttered carrots, white asparagus.’
‘Perfect,’ said Steve.
The waiter raised his eyebrows and walked away shaking his head.
‘I like the family idea,’ said Matt.
‘We have to be careful,’ said Dee-anne. ‘ The Master wants us to stay low profile until he joins us. Killing a family would attract too much attention.’
‘Then let’s at least play wit
h a girl,’ said Steve.
Dee-anne put her phone away. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Do you have anyone in mind?’
‘I do,’ said Steve.
The other two looked at him expectantly.
‘They already know I killed Sara Moseby. So if we kill my parents and sister, no one will be surprised. Especially after what Matt did to his parents.’
‘How old’s your sister?’ asked Matt.
‘Ten.’
‘Nice.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Dee-anne.
CHAPTER 52
Nightingale felt his palm tingle. ‘We’re heading in the right direction,’ he said. They were heading into the East Village in slow-moving traffic.
‘How do you know?’ asked Perez.
He showed her the cuts on his hand. ‘Proserpine gave me this,’ he said.
‘You and her have a history?’
‘She owned my soul for a while,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s a long story. But she’s as keen as I am to stop the three devils on the loose so she gave me this.’ He held out his hand again. ‘The closer I get to them, the more it hurts. And it’s hurting now.’
‘And when you find them, what then?’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ said Nightingale. He frowned. The ache in his palm had subsided a little. ‘I think we’re moving away from them. Can you head back a block and then head south?’
‘No problem,’ said Perez.
She took the next right and a few minutes later Nightingale’s palm felt as if it was on fire. He stared at the cuts which had started bleeding again. ‘You can drop me here,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I can’t see the pain getting any worse,’ he said.
‘I’m coming with you,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘I’m flying solo on this.’
‘There’s three of them and one of you, Jack.’
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