Stephen Leather - Nightshade

He’d worked up a sweat, and he knew that he had to be spotlessly clean because any impurities would weaken the protective circle. He secured the lock-up and walked back to his flat. He showered twice, using a new bar of coal tar soap, taking care to use a plastic nail brush to clean under his fingernails and toenails. He shampooed his hair twice, then rinsed himself off and used a brand new towel to dry himself.

He had already laid out clean clothes on his bed and he put them on. The shoes were a new pair of brown suede Hush Puppies that he’d bought a month earlier but hadn’t broken in yet. He pulled on his raincoat and walked back to the lock-up, his hair still damp.

He took off his raincoat and hung it on a nail by the light switch, then pulled down the shutter. He stood for a while in the middle of the garage, steadying his breath, then got to work. He took a large cardboard box from one of the bags and opened it. Inside was a box of chalk. The lock-up was about fifteen feet long and ten feet wide. The protective circle had to be just that, a circle, so he carefully drew one six feet in diameter. In the second bag he had a birch branch that he’d ripped from a tree on Hampstead Heath, and he slowly ran it around the perimeter of the chalk circle. When he’d finished he put the branch back in the bag and with the chalk drew a pentagram inside the circle. He’d already worked out that the front of the garage faced north, so he drew two of the five points of the pentagram facing that direction.

He carefully drew a triangle around the circle, with the apex pointing north, and then wrote the letters MI, CH and AEL at the three points of the triangle. Michael. The archangel.

Nightingale placed the two rubbish bags close to the shutter and put the cardboard box in the centre of the circle. He put the chalk back in the cardboard box, took out a small bottle of consecrated salt water, removed the glass stopper and carefully sprinkled water around the circle. He took five large white church candles and placed them at the five points of the pentagram, then used his lighter to light them one at a time in a clockwise direction.

He stood in the centre of the circle and checked that everything was as it should be, then he bent down over the cardboard box and retrieved a plastic bag full of herbs. He opened the bag, took out a handful of herbs and sprinkled them over the candles one by one, moving clockwise around the circle. The herbs sizzled as they burned, filling the air with cloying fumes, and for the first time Nightingale wondered if it had been such a smart move to be playing with fire in a garage with the door down.

He bent down, fished a lead crucible from the cardboard box and poured the rest of the herbs into it. He used his fingers to form a neat pile and then set fire to it with his lighter. He straightened up, his eyes watering from the pungent fumes, and pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. On it were the words that he needed to say, written in Latin.

He took a deep breath but immediately began coughing. His eyes were watering and he wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. He managed to stop coughing and began to read the Latin words, slowly and precisely. When he reached the final three words he said them loudly, almost shouting. ‘Bagahi laca bacabe!’

The fumes from the burning herbs began to swirl in a slow, lazy circle and then behind him was a flash of lightning and the smell of a burning electrical circuit. The concrete floor began to vibrate and the cloying fog grew thicker. He forced himself to breathe shallowly through his nose, trying to minimise the damage to his lungs.

The fog swirled around him, faster and faster. It was now so thick that he could barely see the brick walls of the garage and the fluorescent light was just a dull bright patch above his head. There was another flash of lightning, then another, the cracks so loud that they hurt his ears.

He stared ahead, tears streaming from his eyes. Then space folded in on itself and there were a series of bright flashes and she was there, dressed in black as usual, her black and white collie dog at her side. Proserpine. A devil from Hell. One of many, but one of the few that Nightingale knew by name. Her face was corpse-pale, her hair jet-black and cut short, her eyelashes loaded with mascara and her lipstick as black as coal, emphasising the whiteness of her small, even teeth. She was wearing a long black leather coat that almost brushed the floor over a black T-shirt cropped so short that it showed the small silver crucifix that pierced her navel. Her tight black jeans were ripped at the knees and she wore short black boots with stiletto heels.

She stared at him with her cold black eyes, her upper lip curled back in a sneer. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ she said. The dog growled as its hackles rose. She had it on a steel chain and she pulled on it to get its attention. ‘Hush, we won’t be here long,’ she said. The dog sat down and stared at Nightingale with eyes as cold and black as those of its mistress. ‘I told you last time, I’m not to be summoned on a whim.’

‘This isn’t a whim,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need your help.’

‘We’re not friends, Nightingale. We never were and we never will be.’ She looked around the garage and smiled. ‘Salubrious,’ she said. ‘Looks like you’ve fallen on hard times.’

‘It’s private, that’s all that matters,’ said Nightingale. ‘It doesn’t matter where the pentagram is, all that matters is that you have to stay between the triangle and the circle until I say you can go.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Proserpine. ‘The other way is that so long as I’m here you’re trapped inside that puny little circle with nowhere to go. I could easily just stand here until you die of old age and your bones crumble to dust.’

‘So it’s a Mexican stand-off. Let’s keep it as short as we can, shall we?’

‘What do you want, Nightingale?’

‘I need some questions answering. About Shades.’

‘Try Wikipedia.’

‘I don’t believe anything I read in Wikipedia.’

‘But you believe me?’

‘Sounds crazy I know, but yes. So will you help me?’

‘No,’ she said flatly.

‘No?’

Proserpine shrugged carelessly. ‘Why should I?’

‘What if I did a deal?’

‘You’re offering me your soul?’

Nightingale laughed, but it sounded like a harsh bark and the dog pricked up its ears. ‘I only need information,’ he said. ‘My soul’s worth more than that. But I can offer you something else.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Help.’

Proserpine tilted her head to the side. ‘Help?’

‘I’m starting to understand how things work,’ said Nightingale. ‘You and your kind move in and out of this world but there are things you can’t do yourselves.’

‘That’s your great insight, is it?’

‘I know, we’re ants compared to you, but we’re still here and you’re still dealing for souls and not just taking them. That’s always had me thinking. You’re all-powerful devils from Hell, why don’t you just take our souls, harvest them like a farmer culling cattle?’

Proserpine said nothing.

‘I’ll tell you why. Because there are some things that you just can’t do. Either because there are rules that you have to follow, or because there are physical constraints on what you can do. Either way, sometimes you need help. You need us to do things that you can’t. So here’s the deal. Answer my questions about Shades and I’ll owe you one. If you need something doing, something you can’t do yourself, you can ask me.’

‘That’s very open-ended.’

‘I’ll risk that,’ said Nightingale. ‘You’ve always played fair with me.’

‘Plus I’m assuming you’re reserving the right to refuse?’