Nightfall

74

Nightingale could feel his pulse racing and kept his breathing slow and even. Behind him, the lights in the drawing room went out. The spotlights around the terrace were still on and he was bathed in a clinical white light. There were lights around the perimeter wall, too, casting long shadows from the trees that dotted the garden.

He didn’t have to look at his watch to know that there were still ten minutes to go. There was nothing he could do to speed up the process. Proserpine would come exactly at midnight because that was when his soul would be forfeit. There was no point in trying to summon her. All he could do was wait until she showed up of her own accord.

An owl flew overhead, its wings beating silently in the still air. Then it swooped down to a patch of grass under an oak tree, grabbed something small and furry in its claws and flew up towards the roof.

Nightingale closed his eyes. He could hear a far-off rumble of traffic but other than that the night was silent. There was no sound from the house behind him but he was sure that Mitchell was watching. He tried to visualise him sitting in his chair, the oxygen mask pressed to his mouth, staring out of the window. Sylvia would be there, too, close to Mitchell’s protective pentagram, watching and wondering.

The seconds ticked by. Then the minutes. A breeze blew from the north, ruffling Nightingale’s hair. He opened his eyes. The trees were swaying in the wind, their shadows writhing on the grass like living things.

His knees cracked as he got to his feet. He held the book to his chest and licked his lips. He wanted a cigarette desperately but that was impossible.

A mist had gathered around the lawn, patchy at first but soon thickening, and the security lights around the walls became glowing balls that grew dimmer with each second that passed. A dog barked in the distance but the sound was cut short as if its leash had been pulled harshly.

Nightingale stared ahead. He could no longer see the wall surrounding the garden, or the trees. He could see the terrace but only a few dozen yards of lawn before it was swallowed in the mist. Then the air in front of him cleaved apart, folded in on itself, shimmered – and she was there, standing about twelve feet from the pentagram, a sly smile on her face. Her eyes were dark pits, her lips black and glossy. She was wearing the same black skirt and boots as before but a different T-shirt, black with a gold ankh cross on it. Her collie circled her, his eyes continually watching Nightingale, tail twitching from side to side. Proserpine grinned. ‘Time to pay the piper, Nightingale,’ she said.

He ignored her. He had already marked the page he was to read. He opened the book and read the Latin words slowly and precisely, his eyes fixed on the page. The wind was getting stronger now and he held on to the book tightly, fearful it would be whipped out of his grasp.

‘You’re wasting your breath,’ said Proserpine. She took a step towards the pentagram. ‘It’s midnight. Time for me to take what is mine.’