Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘No, I’m serious,’ said Wainwright. ‘Let’s say you’re as good at astral projection as I am. We could arrange to meet somewhere, and at the appointed time we both go into a trance and meet on the astral plane, face to face.’

‘You’ve done that?’

‘I’ve done that with your father, Jack. Many times. He was a master at it.’

‘So how does it work?’

‘Now you’re asking,’ said the American.

‘I’m interested.’

‘I can see that.’ He swung his feet onto the footstool and picked up his cigar. ‘You’ve got a cellphone, right?’ He peered at his cigar and frowned when he realised it had gone out.

‘Sure.’

‘And you know how to use it, right?’ He picked up a box of matches and relit his cigar.

Nightingale wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

‘So, can you tell me how fifty people in a room can have fifty separate cellphone conversations with fifty other people all around the world, and how those fifty people could get into fifty different cars and drive off in fifty different directions, all the time continuing their conversations without a single overlap or lost word?’ He sucked at his cigar and blew smoke without inhaling.

‘I guess not,’ said Nightingale. ‘But you’re not saying that cellphones are magic?’

‘No, I’m saying it’s technology, and we don’t have to understand technology to use it. The occult operates on the same principle.’

‘And anyone can use it?’

‘There are different levels,’ said the American. He patted the copy of The Formicarius. ‘This is a tool, and in the right hands, like mine or your father’s, it can accomplish great things. But give it to a child and it’s just a book. You have to know how to use the tools, and that knowledge separates the greats from the wannabes.’

‘But how do you separate the wheat from the chaff, knowledge-wise?’

‘You have to know your source,’ said Wainwright. He pointed at Nightingale’s briefcase. ‘A book like that you can rely on. First editions are best because often there’s information in the illustrations that gets left out if they go on to mass production. Handwritten books, illustrated manuscripts from the Middle Ages, that’s the real gold.’

‘And what about talking to other…’ He hesitated, not knowing what word to use. ‘How do I describe guys like you?’ he said.

‘Young, gifted and black.’ He chuckled. ‘That works for me. And with a black man in the White House, it can only get better.’

‘I meant what you guys do,’ said Nightingale. ‘Satanist sounds a bit…’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But I guess it’s better than devil-worshipper.’

‘There are all sorts of descriptions,’ said Wainwright. ‘There are straight-up Satanists – theistic Satanists, we call them – there are Luciferians, LaVeyans, Setians, Diabolotors, Demonolators… There’s even the Slaytanists.’

‘The Slaytanists?’ echoed Nightingale.

‘Slaytanists,’ said Wainwright. ‘That’s what we call the dabblers, the weekend Satanists who are more interested in the devil-worship than the process.’

‘What process?’

‘The magik. And that’s magik with a K not the sort of magic you see on TV.’

‘So what do you call yourself?’

‘I tend to avoid labels,’ said Wainwright. ‘They’re so limiting.’

‘But do you guys talk to each other, share secrets and stuff?’

‘Chefs don’t give their recipes to other chefs, stage magicians don’t go showing their tricks to their rivals. We guard our secrets jealously. Why do you ask, Jack?’

‘I need information about my father. What he did, what he was capable of, that sort of thing.’

‘You could try the Order of the Nine Angles,’ said Wainwright. ‘You know he was a member?’

‘I know almost nothing about him,’ said Nightingale. ‘Who are they?’

‘They’re a Satanic sect here in England. They’re best known for saying that human sacrifice isn’t necessarily a bad thing, which always guarantees them a bad press. And they’re one of the groups that believe Satan exists.’

‘You said angles, not angels?’

‘A lot of people make that mistake,’ said the American. ‘They figure it’s a group involved with rogue angels, but it’s not. The name comes from their emblem, which has nine lines connecting the seven planets with the seven lower sefirot on the cabbalistic tree of life.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s a complicated subject,’ said Wainwright. ‘Becoming adept can take a lifetime, which is why men like your father are always looking for shortcuts.’

‘And all these groups worship Satan?’

Wainwright shook his head. ‘Far from it,’ he said. ‘They don’t all even acknowledge that Satan exists. You can believe in Satanic power without believing in Satan. It’s the cellphone analogy again. It’s not why it works that matters, it’s what the effects are.’ He sucked at his cigar. ‘There are some practitioners who call themselves Atheistic Satanists. They believe that a dark force uses entropy to destroy all things, and that force can be used by us here on earth. But they don’t believe that Satan exists as an entity.’

‘And you, what do you believe?’

Wainwright grinned. ‘Me? In the words of the Monkees, I’m a believer.’

‘In the devil?’

‘In God, the devil, the whole nine yards.’

Nightingale blew smoke. ‘I’m told that calling up a devil is fairly easy.’

‘It’s Occult 101,’ Wainwright said. ‘Use any search engine and type in “calling up the devil”. You’ll get thousand of hits.’

‘And selling your soul is easy, too?’

Wainwright winced. ‘You’ve got to know what you’re doing, Jack. You’ve got to make sure you’re protected and you have to know how to handle them. They’re not lapdogs, they’re the masters of hell. You make one wrong move and they’ll rip your soul out.’

‘You’ve heard of Proserpine?’

‘Of course. One of the greats. Definitely not amateur material. You wouldn’t want to go calling her up unless you really knew what you were doing.’

‘And what about selling her the soul of an unborn child? Is that doable?’

Wainwright’s eyes were suddenly as hard as flint. ‘What’s going on, Jack?’ he said. ‘What is it you really want to know? You’re dancing around it whatever it is.’

Nightingale smiled tightly. ‘Even saying it sounds crazy,’ he said.

Wainwright’s cigar froze inches from his lips and he narrowed his eyes. ‘Gosling did it, didn’t he?’

Nightingale said nothing. Wainwright’s eyes bored into his and Nightingale had to look away.

‘Ainsley Gosling sold your soul to Proserpine before you were born?’

‘That’s what he told me, yeah,’ said Nightingale. ‘He left me a DVD saying just that.’

‘You’ve got the mark? The pentagram?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Wainwright leaned forward. ‘If there’s no pentagram, there’s no contract,’ he said. ‘That’s an absolute fact.’

‘I’ve looked everywhere,’ said Nightingale.

‘Then you’re okay,’ said Wainwright. ‘What happened to your father?

‘He killed himself.’

‘How?’

‘Shotgun.’

‘But he was inside a protective circle, right? A pentagram.’

Nightingale nodded. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because that’s the way I’d do it. Something quick and sure.’

‘And the pentagram?’

‘So they can’t get at you before you die. So that you can choose your own time.’

‘But you still go to hell, right?’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether you’ve been naughty or nice. Bit like whether or not you get a gift from Santa.’ He laughed at his own joke.