“You’re a collector, right? Why did you sell the three LaVey books to Pagan World?”
“I am a collector but I am also a dealer,” said Dukas. “I have several copies of the LaVey books. The ones I sold were less valuable. A collection has to be a living thing, it has to change and grow otherwise it withers and dies.”
“What do you think of LaVey?”
“I come from a line of Occultists which can be traced back for centuries. LaVey was merely a particularly clever self-publicist and a poor philosopher. But what of it, the man is long dead?”
“I need to find someone in San Francisco who can help me, and I thought, with what I’ve heard about you and your connection with LaVey and his Church, it might be you. A number of Christians have gone missing in San Francisco. I believe they have been murdered. Sacrificed, as part of a greater ritual, one that will end with the ritual slaying of two young children, almost certainly on the thirtieth of this month.”
“It sounds as if you know everything already, Mr. Nightingale?”
Nightingale shook his head. “I don’t know the nature of the ritual, and I need to know how to stop it.”
“The missing? Nuns, priests, monks? Virgins, all?”
Nightingale nodded.
Dukas closed his eyes and shivered. “Surely not. Surely not. Not again,” he whispered.
“I have it on good authority,” said Nightingale.
Dukas opened his eyes. “Tell me about the children.”
“I’m told those two fit different profiles from the adults. Born at a solstice, on the same day. I went to see an astrologer and he suggested that virginity might be an issue for all of these people. He thinks they might be marked for sacrifice. Those that haven’t been sacrificed already.”
“This astrologer. Would that be Gabriel Starr, perchance?”
“Nightingale nodded. “You know him?”
“I know of him.” Dukas sat bolt upright in his high leather chair. Nightingale had often seen fear in the expression of people sitting opposite him, and he saw it now on Dukas’s face. The little man folded his arms across his chest and hugged himself.
“No, no. Surely not,’ Dukas whispered.
“This means something to you, doesn’t it?” said Nightingale. “Tell me, please.”
Dukas was silent. He unfolded his arms, laced his stubby fingers together and looked up at the large brass chandelier which hung from the elegant molding in the middle of the ceiling. He dropped his gaze back to his book, then raised it again and looked Nightingale squarely in the eyes.
“To be frank, Mr. Nightingale, I see no reason to assist you, there may well be persons of power involved in this whom I would not wish to displease. Some of them might manifest their displeasure in strong ways. What you tell me disturbs me greatly.”
“What is it, Mr. Dukas? What’s happening?”
“I sincerely hope not,” said Dukas. “The idea is too terrible. Yet, as I say, our world is not a large one, and one hears things. Rumors, stories.” He frowned. “Surely they cannot be true,” he whispered to himself. “Not again.”
“Can I have it in plain English, Mr. Dukas? You’ve evidently heard something...spit it out.”
“I may be seeing a connection where none exists, I sincerely hope so. Yet one hears rumors.”
“You’re talking in riddles. Just tell me what the hell is going on.”
“I can not.”
Nightingale nodded slowly. “Perhaps I can sweeten the pot for you. What is the book you would most like to buy. The one book you would really want in your collection?’
“Are you serious?”
Nightingale nodded. “I am.”
“Then it would be Les Oeuvres d’ Agrippa. Attributed to Pierre d’Aban, though of course the real author is unknown. The 1744 edition. It is the stuff of dreams, sir.”
Nightingale took out his phone. “Give me a minute,” he said. He tapped out Wainwright’s number. The man answered on the third ring and Nightingale quickly explained what he wanted. “It’s the only way?” asked Wainwright.
“I think so.”
“I went to a lot of trouble to get that book, Jack. I had to call in a lot of favors.”
Nightingale took the phone away from his face. “If I get you the book, you’ll help?”
The man’s eyes sparkled and he nodded enthusiastically.
“It’s the only way, Joshua. He knows something.”
Wainwright sighed. “I’m not happy about this. But fine, he can pay me what I paid for it. Three hundred thousand. But his information had better be worth it.”
The line went dead and Nightingale put his phone away. “Mr. Wainwright will sell you his copy for three hundred thousand dollars,” he said.
Dukas beamed.
“Now spill the beans,” said Nightingale. “Tell me what you know.”
“Forgive me if I don’t tell you everything until the volume is in my hands,” said Dukas. “But I shall tell you a little. There is an old ritual, one I have never studied though it had a connection with my family over a century ago. It is horribly dangerous. A while ago I heard rumors that a group intended to enact it, but I dismissed it as idle talk. Lately I have felt vibrations, as if a very strong Magik were imminent. One senses these things from time to time, but I never dreamed of...this.”
Yet again Dukas failed to get to the point. Nightingale sighed but tried to remain patient.
“Of what? Please, I need to know.”
“So you keep saying, sir,” said Dukas. “What is your interest in this? You are walking a dangerous path, which is likely to end in your death, or worse. What brings you into this?”
Nightingale ignored the question. “At least tell me about the group you mentioned.”
“Again, I hesitate to do so. These are powerful people who would not wish to be spoken about.”
“There are two children’s lives at stake here.”
“Hah! What of it?” said Dukas. “The world has no shortage of children. Most of them of no value whatsoever. Do you know how many of them are slaughtered in the womb every day in America?”
Nightingale had no idea, and it wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss. Changing the subject when faced with a difficult question was a favorite tactic of his, but he didn’t appreciate it in others.
“The group? Please?”
“Very well. A year or so ago, some tentative overtures were made to me, a vague offer to join a group of like-minded Adepts working to a common purpose. It was not a purpose that appealed to me, it appeared fraught with danger, involved almost unspeakable evil, and I wished to hear no more of it. My interests in the Occult tend towards the Right-hand Path, and I am too old and wise to change direction. I rebuffed the offer, as diplomatically as I could, since these are not people one rejects with impunity. Fortunately for me, the whole business was vague enough not to involve any rancor on their part. As witnessed by my continued survival.”
“I need to know who this group is,” said Nightingale.
Dukas shifted in his chair and closed his eyes. He remained completely motionless for three minutes. Nightingale said nothing. Finally Dukas opened his eyes, and appeared to come to a decision.
“They call themselves The Apostles. Twelve of them who take the names of Christ’s Disciples in a blasphemous parody of his followers. Their leader is a very powerful Adept, at least a Magister Templum, more likely an Ipsissimus. A Satanist of immense power.”
Nightingale’s heart raced. “I need a name,” he said.
“I have no name to give you, I have never heard the real name spoken. I suspect I would be dead now if I knew it. I do know the name he uses, the one by which his followers call him.”
Nightingale said nothing.
“Abaddon, Mr. Nightingale, Abaddon. The ancient name of the Angel Of Death.”
So far Nightingale had stuck to the most basic of the interrogator’s skills, asking only questions to which he knew the answers, encouraging Dukas to talk. Now
it was time for him to give out a little information, perhaps gain the man’s confidence.
“I know a little about the Apostles. I spoke to a young man a few days ago who had been a member. He told me about two sacrifices he’d been at. He wanted to help, but was very frightened.”
“I assume he is dead now?” said Dukas. “These are not people who would tolerate treachery.”
“He’s dead,” said Nightingale. “I was talking to an Abbott, and when I mentioned the word 'Apostles’ he started talking about the early Christian martyrs. Apparently Thomas was killed with a spear, and Peter was crucified upside down. Young Mitchell described similar murders, by group members who used those names.”
“Mitchell? Lee Mitchell?”
“You knew him?” asked Nightingale.
“Slightly. He had bought books from me, and occasionally asked advice, but he made no mention of this. So...so...each initiate sacrifices the victim in the way the original Apostle bearing that name was killed? That’s what he told you.”
“He only saw two killings, but it seems too much of a coincidence to ignore.”
“It fits.” said Dukas. “Many Satanic rituals involve a perversion of traditional Christian ritual, the inverted crucifixes, black candles, feasting before a ritual instead of fasting, sexual release afterward, defiling communion wafers and now this. A mockery of the original Apostles’ deaths.”
“And I think it’s all leading up to those kids being slaughtered on the thirtieth. A white cock and a black hen.”
“Walpurgisnacht. The most important night of the year for Occultists. And it’s a Wednesday and a Blue Moon. All those things are important by themselves, but taken together with the kidnappings and the virgin sacrifices, it all points to something huge. And awful. And I fear it is something that has happened before, with tragic consequences.”
“Before?” asked Nightingale.
“I believe so. Over a hundred years ago in fact, April 18 1906.”
“That’s very precise,” said Nightingale.
“The date means nothing to you?”
“Should it?”
“Every resident of this city would recognize it,” said Dukas. “The day of the great San Francisco earthquake. A natural disaster. Followed by a fire. It caused three thousand deaths. Or five thousand if you include Chinamen. The city authorities didn’t at the time.”
“Caused by a ritual? That’s not possible.”
“Who are we to say what is possible and what is not? It was a rumor, nothing more. If I am to provide you with the information you wish, I must break a promise I made to my father. On his deathbed he told me of a book in the library which described this ritual, and made me promise never to open or read it unless extreme danger threatened, and never to let anyone else read it under any circumstances. He had made the same promise to his father, and kept it until his death. The book remained unopened for three generations. It seems I must now open it, and read what lies within.”
“What is this book?” asked Nightingale.
“It is called The Grimoire of Hippolyta, written by a Greek witch in the fifteenth century. I am told I own the only copy in existence.”
“Hippolyta,” echoed Nightingale. “I’m sure I’ve heard that name.”
“Possibly, said Dukas. “The original bearer of that name was a Queen of the Amazons, and a famed sorceress, though that aspect of her is not generally known. The Greek witch would have taken her name when she was rebaptised into the Old Faith.”
“Could I read this book?” asked Nightingale.
“Hardly,” said Dukas. “I assume you don’t read Greek and it is not the type of book to be read by the uninitiated.”
“What is a Grimoire? I’ve not heard that word before. Is it a how-to guide?”
“Mr. Nightingale, you’re coming at this from the wrong direction. Grimoires aren’t recipe books. They’re not the result of experimentation, they’re revelations.”
“From who? How?”
“From the entities that Black Magicians aspire to communicate with.”
“So the demons tell people how to summon them?” asked Nightingale.
“Of course,” he said. “Demons, abhumans, elementals, servants of Lucifer, call them what you want, it all comes from them. Did you ever hear of Dr John Dee?”
“Yes,” said Nightingale. “He came up in some research I did. A sixteenth century English Satanist?”
“Welsh actually, and 'Satanist’ might be a little harsh. 'Occultist’ sounds better. He used an Irish medium called Edward Kelley to look into a scrying glass and to write down what he saw there. It’s said that Dee and Kelley wrote books in a language called Enochian, which gave instructions in how to raise Choronzon, the Guardian of the Abyss. Aleister Crowley is said to have tried that ritual, and sent two of his followers insane when it failed. There are lots of different ways to contact the servants of Satan, and they’re always happy to help people bring about their own damnation. I’m sure that Hippolyta never once attempted the Ritual that’s described in her Grimoire, it was revealed to her and she wrote it down.”
Dukas placed his tiny hands on the desk in front of him. “I have said enough, Mr. Nightingale. I will tell you more once I have the book.”
“I’ll get it to you, hopefully by tomorrow.”
“Then return tomorrow,” said Dukas. “You can give me the book, I will give you the three hundred thousand dollars, and I will finish my story.” As Nightingale stood up and headed for the door, Dukas chuckled. “Look at the second shelf from the top on your left-hand side. The small bird next to the badger. You might find it of interest.”
Nightingale examined the bird, but couldn’t see much to interest him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A type of mockingbird,” said Dukas.
“I thought it was a sin to kill a mockingbird?” he said.
“Possibly it is,” said Dukas. “Though, I suspect, not a mortal one. This specimen is called the Northern Mockingbird, Mimicus Polyglottis. It has the most beautiful song, so much so that it is often referred to as 'The American Nightingale’. It is the nearest we have, since European Nightingales never normally visit the United States. Possibly it would be better if you had followed their example, sir. Better for you and for me.”
CHAPTER 55
Gabriel Starr was in the back room of Written In The Stars, packing some of his more precious charts and apparatus into a wooden chest when he heard the bells over his shop door chime. He frowned. Sundays were usually very quiet. The shop was open but customers tended to be thin on the ground and he generally used the day to catch up on his bookkeeping and stocktaking. He walked out into the main store.
His new customer was a short woman. She was probably in her mid-fifties, a little chubby, dressed in a green tweed suit and sensible brown shoes. Her brown hair was flecked with gray and cut in a style that hadn’t been fashionable since the days of Ladybird Johnson. The large bag she was carrying might have suited a younger, more fashionable woman better, but maybe it held her knitting as well as the normal female necessities. She looked like a history teacher in a private school. “Good afternoon, Mr. Starr. What a lovely day it is for sure. I wondered if you might have time for a private consultation.”
Starr smiled at her and walked round the counter into the main area of the store.
“Certainly,” he said. “Just pop into the back room for a while, and I’ll see that we’re not disturbed.”
Starr showed her into the back room, then walked to the door, turned the sign to CLOSED, flicked the snib on the door and shot the bolt.
CHAPTER 56
Nightingale walked over to Chen’s Mustang and climbed in. “How did it go?” asked Chen.
“It was all a bit strange,” said Nightingale. “It looks as if he was approached to join the Apostles when they first started off.”
“By who?”
“He wasn’t specific. He’s a dwarf.”
“A dwarf?”
<
br /> “Yeah, as in Snow White and the seven.”
“I don’t think you can call them dwarfs these days,” said Chen. “They’re referred to as little people.”
“Yeah? Well he’s definitely a little person. How much do you know about the 1906 earthquake?”
“Only what I learned at school,” said Chen.
“Dukas said there was a connection between what happened then and what’s happening now.”
“What?”
“I know, I know. It sounds crazy. But we can use your computer when we get back.”
“Mi casa es su casa,” said Chen. “But you’re right, it sounds crazy.” She started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
She drove confidently and without a SatNav and twenty minutes later they arrived in
Pacific Heights, one of the city’s most upmarket areas. Lucille Carr’s mansion was at the top of Pacific Avenue, one of the many sloping streets that gave the city its distinctive feel and breath-taking views. There were the usual high walls, security gates and CCTV systems that kept the common folk away from the mega-rich, but after a few words into the intercom and a flash of Chen’s SFPD badge, the gates swung open. Kent Speckman’s mansion had been impressive, but Carr’s home was in a different level, a true movie star mansion, with fairytale turrets, wraparound terraces, buttercream walls and huge windows to take advantage of the spectacular views of the bay. The house was surrounded by large bushes that had been carefully sculpted into the shape of animals. There was an elephant, a leaping tiger, an ostrich, and several dogs. To the right of the house was a helicopter pad and beyond it was a tennis court. “I’m frightened to ask how much a place like this would cost,” said Nightingale.
“They don’t come up for sale that often,” said Chen. “But I read that she paid more than twenty-five million for it.”
“How the other half lives,” said Nightingale.
Chen shook her head. “Could you live here?” she asked. “You’d lie awake at night, wondering who else was in the house. You’d need cleaners, maids, gardeners, a cook, you’d need an army of people just to keep the place clean. And you’d spend all your time moving from room to room. I’m happy with a place where I can get from the kitchen to the bedroom in under five seconds.” She pulled up in front of a garage. “Mind you, that is one hell of a view,” she said, looking out over the bay.
San Francisco Night Page 19
