Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘Like I said, I think you’ll respect the deal.’

‘And not ask you to kill a child?’

Nightingale stiffened, wondering if Proserpine was toying with him. Did she know about Bella Harper already? Did she know what Mrs Steadman had asked him to do?

Proserpine laughed and the garage walls shook. ‘If I do a deal with you, how do I know you’ll stick to it?’

‘Because I always keep my word.’

She laughed again and this time dust showered down from the ceiling and a jagged crack appeared in the concrete floor. ‘I’ll need more than that,’ she said. ‘I tell you what, if you refuse to do whatever I ask in return, then I get your soul.’ She watched him with unblinking black eyes.

Nightingale took a long breath and exhaled slowly as he considered his options. He needed Proserpine’s help but he didn’t want to put his soul at risk, not after he’d gone to so much trouble to make it his own. ‘What will you ask me to do?’ he said.

Proserpine smiled coyly. ‘Now if I told you that, it would spoil all the fun, wouldn’t it?’

‘I’m not prepared to kill for you.’

‘Fine.’

‘Or to do something that would result in someone dying.’

‘Fine.’

‘And it’s a one-off deal. You ask me to do something for you and I do it. Then we’re good.’

‘And if you refuse to do what I ask, you forfeit your soul.’

Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘Agreed.’

‘Okay, it’s a deal,’ she said. She held out her hand. ‘Let’s shake on it, shall we?’ Nightingale instinctively reached out to shake her hand, but pulled it back when he realised what he was doing. She laughed. ‘Almost got you.’

Nightingale stared at her hand, just outside the protective circle. The pentagram only kept Proserpine from him so long as he didn’t breach it.

‘So, ask away,’ she said.

‘You know about Shades?’

‘Of course I know about Shades. Nasty pieces of work, but nasty for nasty’s sake.’

‘As opposed to your lot, you mean?’

‘My lot, as you call it, serve the Lord Lucifer. Shades serve no one.’

‘So they’re not devils? Or demons?’

‘You are forever using terms that you don’t understand, Nightingale. But no, Shades are not demons or devils, or angels or spirits. They never have been nor will they ever be. Shades are Shades.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You have come across one?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Nightingale, you seem to think I take a personal interest in your comings and goings. That is so typical of your kind, thinking that the universe revolves around you. You are nothing to me. You are less than a speck of nothingness on nothing. I have not given you a single thought since the last time we met and immediately I have left this place you will be gone from my mind.’

‘So I should take you off my Christmas card list, then?’

She laughed and the sound seemed to come from the bowels of Hell itself, a deep throbbing roar that he felt in the pit of his stomach. The ceiling shook and plumes of dust scattered down through the fog.

‘You’re a very funny man, Nightingale. But if you are planning to interact with a Shade, be very careful.’

‘They’re dangerous?’

‘Lethal. Do not get too close.’

‘They bite, is that it?’

Proserpine shook her head. ‘They are more insidious than that. They get inside your head. They plant thoughts, thoughts that you wouldn’t normally have. They bend you to their will.’

‘By talking?’

‘That’s what they do. That is their power. They don’t stab or shoot or bludgeon, they suggest. They manipulate. They charm.’

‘And they are always evil? There are no good Shades?’

She threw back her head and laughed again, louder this time. The shutter pulsed back and forth with the sound of tearing metal and Nightingale felt a hot blast of wind across his face that made him gasp.

‘No, Nightingale, there are no good Shades.’

‘Then answer me this. What do they want? What is their purpose?’

‘Their purpose? They want to cause chaos. They want to cause pain. But it’s instinct, nothing else. There’s no plan, no rhyme, no reason.’

‘So they won’t stop? Once they’ve started?’

‘There is nothing to stop them. They’re not working to a plan or a timetable. They just keep on doing what they do.’

‘And what stops them? Say they move into a body and take it over. How long can they stay?’

‘That depends,’ said Proserpine.

‘On what?’

‘On the strength of the Shade. On the condition of the host. The host will decay. Slowly, but it will decay. And eventually it will die and the Shade will die with it.’

‘And how do you kill a Shade?’

‘That’s what you want to do, Nightingale?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘You try that and I’ll never be able to hold you to your end of the deal. How can you kill something that can change your every thought? Point a gun at a Shade and you’ll shoot yourself in the head. Try to stab a Shade and you’ll put the blade through your own heart.’

‘Assuming that’s true, assuming that you could get close to one, how do you kill it?’

‘I have heard that there are knives, blessed knives, and you have to drive them through the eyes and the heart of the host. But seriously, Nightingale, the best thing to do is to run and to keep on running.’

Nightingale nodded. At least Proserpine had confirmed what Mrs Steadman had told him.

‘Who told you about the Shades?’ asked Proserpine.

‘Why do you think anyone told me?’

‘Shades pass unnoticed in your world,’ said Proserpine. ‘They inhabit the recently dead and are rarely discovered. Was it Mrs Steadman?’

‘I’m going to pass on that,’ said Nightingale. ‘No comment.’

Proserpine laughed and Nightingale felt the vibrations through his feet. ‘You need to be careful of that one,’ she said.

‘She’s on the side of the angels,’ said Nightingale.

‘Are you asking me, or telling me?’

‘She’s never steered me wrong yet,’ said Nightingale. ‘I trust her.’

‘Well, good luck with that,’ said Proserpine. ‘Don’t come crying to me when it goes bad. And it will.’

‘What do you mean?’

Proserpine smiled. ‘For the answer to that question, I’d need your soul,’ she said. ‘Give me your soul and I’ll answer any questions you want.’

‘My soul’s not for sale.’

‘So you say,’ said Proserpine. ‘But you can call me when you change your mind. In the meantime we’re done here. Let me go.’ The dog growled menacingly at Nightingale. Proserpine flicked its chain. ‘It’s all right, we’re going now.’ She looked up at Nightingale. ‘Time to say the words, Nightingale. I’ve got people to see, places to go.’

Nightingale nodded, looked at the piece of paper he was holding, and said the words to release her. Space folded in on itself, there was a flash of light and she and the dog were gone.

Nightingale’s phone rang and he took it out of his pocket. It was Robbie Hoyle. ‘Where are you?’ asked Robbie.

‘The lock-up,’ said Nightingale.

‘That bloody car of yours is a money pit,’ laughed Robbie.

‘It’s a classic.’

‘It’s an old banger. I need to see you, mate.’

‘The Swan?’

‘You read my mind. I’ll be about an hour. Mine’s a pint.’

Nightingale saw Robbie walk into the pub and ordered his lager before turning to shake his hand. ‘This is turning into a right can of worms, you know?’ asked Robbie.

‘I’m fine thanks, all good,’ said Nightingale. ‘Whatever happened to the social niceties?’

‘You want small talk or do you want to talk about what’s going on?’