Blood Bath (Seven Jack Nightingale Short Stories) Read online

  ‘Your friend was already admitted, and welcomed, she won’t be leaving with you.’

  ‘Like hell,’ Nightingale snapped. He stamped down on the instep of the man on his left, and aimed an elbow at the face of the other. He felt his captors react, their grips slackening, and thought fleetingly that his Chuck Norris moves were to be proud of. But then Findus stepped forward and delivered a blindingly fast uppercut to his gut. The wind went out of Nightingale in a gust of five cigarettes’ worth of pent up smoke. The nicotine addiction that had just spared him being eaten alive was now his undoing. He couldn’t pull in another breath. While he struggled, an arm wrapped around his throat and cut off his air completely. Then a tattoo of punches landed about his face and neck, and Nightingale went into that place where he was blissfully unaware of the beating that followed.

  He awoke groggily.

  He was sitting against a wall, and his arms were bound behind him. Rough ropes chafed his skin raw. He was aware of a number of sore spots on his skull and face, but after a moment the pain simply blended so that his entire head and upper body became one big aching bruise. He snapped up his head, expecting to find he’d been dumped like trash behind the meeting hall, but he was inside. He was in some kind of stall, with a door about three and a half feet tall blocking his view of the main hall. Candles had been lit, and they cast their lambent glow on the flat ceiling overhead. Shadows writhed among the candle glow and there was some sort of weird chanting he could make no sense of.

  Jenny?

  Where was Jenny?

  He attempted to stand, but the blood rushed to his head and he almost swooned again. He fought the dizzying sensation down, gritting his teeth and forced himself up, using the wall behind him for support. He tried to brace his feet and staggered. Looking down he found the same rope that secured his hands behind him had hobbled his feet. He attempted to wrench free, but the man in the rain slicker was as apparently as good with tying knots as any fisherman he resembled.

  The chanting rose in pitch.

  Nightingale pushed off the wall, hopping forward, taking the pressure in his bent knees, and then buckled over the door as he craned to see what was happening.

  It was unlike any church service he’d seen before. The congregation was all standing, dressed in a mixture of waterproof clothing, some in slickers like Findus wore, others had on CSI-style forensic suits. Others wore their own clothing but had plastic aprons and rubber gloves, and plastic hair caps. They encircled a stage, on which stood the bath recently delivered by the truck, and above the bath hung chains and manacles. A slim young woman hung from the manacles, and Nightingale balked, thinking it was Jenny, but couldn’t tell because she was dressed head to foot in a white robe that also covered her head. He was about to shout in warning but realized it would be both their undoing. Instead, he pulled again trying to free his wrists. All the while he watched in some sense of distraction as the man in colourful leathers stepped from the shadows at the side of the stage and stood alongside the unresisting offering. He still wore the helmet with the visor down. At his feet were some small objects, and it took Nightingale a second or two to recognize them as children’s plastic toys. Animals. Namely a dog, a snake and a scorpion. Symbolic representations of the real creatures often depicted accompanying Mithras and the bull he slew. He took it the maniac in the leathers was the supposed avatar of the demi-god, Mithras, himself.

  The man stepped closer to the sacrificial woman, easing off his crash helmet. From Nightingale’s angle he saw a handsome face in profile, freshly shaved and salved by the look of the abnormal glow of the skin. Highlights from the candle glow twinkled in the eye that appraised the woman. He said something in what had to be an archaic form of Latin and a murmur of anticipation went through the congregation, who all took a pace forward. With one movement, the Mithras-man stripped away the coverings from the woman and she hung in all her naked glory over the bathtub. Again a murmur of longing went through the crowd, and a bunch of them at the front took another pace forward. They were the lucky initiates, Nightingale thought. Bloody murderers more like.

  But he was wrong.

  Apparently signing a delivery note was beneath Mithras, but not getting his hands dirty. He stripped off his gauntlets, displaying long, thick fingers tipped by black claws. He stood behind the dangling woman, reaching around her as if about to caress her middle, then laid his fingers either side of her navel. The black claws sank without resistance into her flesh, and without a moan of pain from the sacrificial woman.

  ‘Oh no,’ Nightingale moaned to himself.

  Quickly he searched again for Jenny among the nine robed volunteers standing behind Mithras on the stage.

  He couldn’t define her from the other eight.

  Then his attention was torn away as Mithras pulled apart his arms, and with it opened up the woman’s torso. Blood fountained out of the horrific wound and splashed in the bath. Below the carnage, a prospective male initiate disrobed and walked up the stairs, ready to slide into the bath. Mithras held out his hand and the initiate dipped his head and accepted the glistening morsel of flesh into his mouth. He chewed blissfully, blood dripping on his chin. Mithras indicated the bathtub and the man stepped in, then lay down as blood showered him. The congregation oohed and aahed in awe. Then Mithras gripped the sacrifice’s arms and yanked them from their sockets, the body dropped over the man in the bath, then slowly slipped off and flopped lifelessly to the floor. Those in the congregation already in the inner circle fell on the feast like a pack of hungry hyenas. Nightingale had seen enough.

  ‘Noooo!’

  His holler brought round every face in the hall, including that of Mithras. Only the robed volunteers seemed unconcerned by the horror in his voice, enthralled somehow to obedient subservience through Mithras’ presence. They stood silent and unmoving. All nine of them.

  Nine?

  Why did that number trouble Nightingale, even if only in some distant corner of his brain?

  He was positive that there’d only been eight volunteers waiting in line with them. Even counting Jenny up there on the stage, one volunteer had already been eviscerated. There should only be eight robed figures left, shouldn’t there? Nightingale had obviously missed the newcomer’s late arrival while he was unconscious. It didn’t matter. Now wasn’t time for mathematics, not while the baleful stare of Mithras was upon him.

  The man’s claws, and his unearthly strength, had already marked him as unnatural. But now Nightingale could see the entirety of his face and he understood. This was no mere representation; this indeed was the avatar of an ancient demi-god. One side of Mithras’ face was beautiful, beatific almost, whilst the other side was the absolute opposite. There were features reminiscent of a bull, but the ugliest bull ever conceived. The skin was brown, wrinkled, puckered by warts and growths, and a short horn curled from the temple down towards the jaw. A red bulging eye protruded from the socket, the nostril flared, dripping mucus, and when Mithras opened his mouth, thick, yellowed tusks that never belonged to any herbivore caught the candle glow, unlike the pearly whites on the other side.

  Nightingale’s shout had curtailed to a faint moan.

  ‘You would dare to disturb our sacred ceremony?’ Mithras demanded in a booming voice that rattled the walls. He swept a blood-clotted claw at Nightingale. ‘Fetch the defiler to me.’

  Still bound, and hurting, there was little that Nightingale could do to fight off those who pounced on him and lifted him aloft. They carried him forward and dumped him on the floor, among the gore and viscera of the slaughtered sacrifice. Nightingale lay stunned, and could do little as Mithras bounded down from the stage to straddle him. The demi-god leaned over, his claws pulsing in and out in anticipation.

  ‘You are unclean,’ Mithras growled, and a glob of snot dripped from the ugly nostril and splattered on Nightingale’s cheek.

  ‘You should talk,’ Nightingale said. ‘Never heard of Kleenex?’

  ‘I will not permit you to fou
l my claws,’ said Mithras.

  Nightingale’s relief was short-lived.

  To the congregation, Mithras commanded, ‘Tear him apart.’

  A sea of bodies moved in.

  ‘Proserpine!’ Nightingale roared. ‘I know you are there.’

  On the stage, unnoticed by those reaching for Nightingale, the ninth volunteer moved forward shedding her robes in one swift motion. Nightingale had never been so happy to see her black eyes staring gleefully down at him. Around him it was as if time had halted, feral faces so close to his, mouths open to rip and tear at him with their teeth, fingers hooked in rending claws. Even Mithras was held in stasis.

  ‘Forgive me for gatecrashing, but you didn’t really expect me to miss the party?’ said the demon girl. ‘It’s not every day I get to see you torn limb from limb, except for in my dreams.’

  ‘There’s no show without Punch,’ Nightingale said. They conversed directly mind-to-mind, while his mortal shell was as paralysed as world around them. ‘But that’s not why you’re here, Proserpine. You don’t want to see me die.’

  ‘Oh but I do.’

  ‘Not like this. You want my soul for yourself.’

  ‘And are you ready to give it to me?’

  ‘Save Jenny and it’s yours.’

  ‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’

  ‘I would if I could but I can’t.’

  ‘Your word is your seal.’

  ‘Done,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Word,’ corrected Proserpine, and her voice was that of the mini-gangsta who’d tricked him out of a tenner earlier.

  Time switched back on.

  Hands reached for Nightingale and he squirmed to avoid them. Then something sleek, scaled and bristling with spines streaked from the doorway towards them. Snapping teeth and rending claws tore a swathe through the initiated, casting chunks of steaming flesh and buckets of blood around. The congregation fell back screaming in terror. Mithras reared back with a roar, and the thing that was no longer a Border Collie dog swept upwards, launching itself onto the demi-god’s chest like a leopard going in for the kill, and bore him over backwards against the stage. Behind him, Proserpine crouched down, her knees either side of his head, and she cupped her palms around his forehead almost intimately as her demonic companion tore his throat to ribbons between its clashing jaws.

  ‘Stop or I’ll kill her!’

  On the stage, Findus held a knife to the throat of one of the sacrifices. To add validity to his warning he pulled down the hood, and even craning from the floor, Nightingale saw that the man held Jenny.

  ‘Proserpine!’ Nightingale yelled. ‘You have to save her.’

  ‘I’m busy.’ A look of ecstasy was on the demon’s face as she stole the life essence of the dying god.

  ‘You bitch!’

  ‘All in good time, Jack Nightingale.’

  A sharp crack sounded over the top of the racket caused by those clamoring to reach the exits. A black spot appeared on Findus’ forehead, while behind him red misted the air, and bits of his skull, brain and tufts of hair rained down on the stage. Jenny slumped to her knees as the man fell dead alongside her.

  ‘Jenny!’ Nightingale struggled to his knees.

  On the stage Jenny shook her head, as if waking from a deep sleep and looked at him groggily. Then her eyes brightened in recognition and she lurched to the edge of the stage to help him.

  Proserpine was gone. So were her monstrous companion, and its meal.

  But CO19 officers in full tactical kit were flooding into the meeting hall, shouting and commanding at gunpoint as they forced the surviving initiates face down on the blood-slicked floor.

  ‘Superintendent Chalmers to the rescue,’ Nightingale quipped, then made a trumpeting noise with his puckered lips.

  Jenny slid off the stage and knelt beside him. ‘I don’t know what I missed, but it’s a good job I hit the call button on the phone the second you were set upon.’

  ‘Yes, good work, Kiddo. You saved us, no doubt about it.’

  ‘What happened here?’

  Nightingale wasn’t sure what to say. One thing he was certain of though, his soul wasn’t pledged to Proserpine again. She hadn’t saved Jenny as promised, the timely intervention of a firearm officer’s bullet had, so their agreement was nulled. Proserpine wouldn’t be too upset, she seemed content with the bonus prize she’d stolen from Mithras.

  But she’d be back, of that there was no doubt.

  Now that the prisoners were all contained and held under guard by carbine-wielding CO19 officers, it was safe for Superintendent Chalmers to enter.

  He tiptoed through the gore, probably wishing he had some of those forensic booties to save his nice, shiny brogues. As he approached, Jenny finished untying Nightingale’s wrists and he sat up to greet the superintendent.

  ‘Well, I must say,’ Nightingale said, ‘for a change I’m pleased to see you, Chalmers.’

  ‘I can’t say the feeling is mutual.’

  ‘Ah, you love me really.’

  ‘I should have you thrown in a cell.’

  ‘No, you should say, “Thank you, Jack. Your hard work on my behalf is very much appreciated”.’ Nightingale finished untying the rope from his ankles and stood up.

  ‘Your hard work? From what I see you’ve been lying around, slacking as per usual, while somebody else does your dirty work.’ His tone was loaded, but that’s as far as he was going to mention his suspicions regarding how Marcus Fairchild died, particularly when the dead man’s goddaughter was standing right there. He glanced at Jenny and offered a conciliatory smile. ‘Are you OK, Miss McLean?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  He nodded.

  Then to Nightingale he said, ‘Come on, Nightingale. Stop cluttering up my crime scene. Off you go from where you’re not wanted.’

  As Nightingale and Jenny turned to go, Chalmers halted them gruffly. ‘I’ll expect you to both come in and make a statement about what happened here.’

  ‘We’ll be there,’ Nightingale promised, but only after they’d got their story straightened between them. ‘But there’s stuff we need to do first.’

  Jenny collected her clothing from where it had been placed in one of the wooden crates, alongside the clothes of the other volunteers. ‘I’ll dress later,’ she said. ‘This sheet is kind of cool in this warm weather.’

  ‘Are you naked under there?’ Nightingale wiggled an eyebrow. Jenny slapped him on his arm, but it was playful.

  ‘Jack Nightingale, you’ll go to hell for thoughts like those.’

  As they stepped out of the hall, passing more uniformed police officers arriving at the scene, Nightingale lit up a Marlboro. ‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘Fancy grabbing a takeaway curry on the way back to the office?’

  ‘Anything,’ Jenny said, ‘except a raw steak. I’m not sure I could face one for a long time after this.’

  Matt Hilton quit his career as a police officer to pursue his love of writing tight, cinematic American-style thrillers. He is the author of the high-octane Joe Hunter thriller series, including his most recent novel ‘The Lawless Kind’ – Joe Hunter 9 - published in January 2014 by Hodder and Stoughton. His first book, ‘Dead Men’s Dust’, was shortlisted for the International Thriller Writers’ Debut Book of 2009 Award, and was a Sunday Times bestseller, also being named as a ‘thriller of the year 2009’ by The Daily Telegraph. Dead Men’s Dust was also a top ten Kindle bestseller in 2013. The Joe Hunter series is widely published by Hodder and Stoughton in UK territories, and by William Morrow and Company in the USA, and have been translated into German, Italian, Romanian and Bulgarian. As well as the Joe Hunter series, Matt has been published in a number of anthologies and collections, and has published three novels in the supernatural/horror genre, namely ‘Preternatural’, ‘Dominion’, and ‘Darkest Hour’. He is currently working on the next Joe Hunter novel, as well as a stand-alone supernatural novel. www.matthiltonbooks.com

  Blood Bath

  By Rober
t Waterman

  Jack Nightingale felt tired. It had been a long, exhausting day. He had been following a 28-year-old married woman, whose husband suspected her of cheating on him. It took a lot of concentration maintaining the balance between being close enough to see everything yet not too close to be seen and to not lose the target. There was also the stress of his up and coming tax returns and the well-intentioned mother henning of Jenny Maclean reminding him to get and keep all his receipts. So it was with great relief that he opened the door and went into his modest flat. He was home.

  He switched the light on and went to the fridge and got a cold Corona. He headed towards the living room. He pushed the switch and the energy-saving bulb flickered to life. It dimly illuminated a lithe woman sinuously draped over the sofa. Heart pounding, he took a half step back in surprise and shock. After the initial shock he realised there was a familiarity to this beautiful woman in his living room. She was everything he had ever visualised in his perfect woman. Slightly wavy, shoulder length, brunette coloured hair, blue eyes, a beautiful body not too fat, not too thin, and beautiful long legs. He relaxed somewhat but was still perplexed.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, Jack, mouth agape, come and sit down,’ she said and patted the sofa next to herself.

  ‘Who are you?’ Nightingale said

  ‘Oh Jack! Don’t you recognise me. I am really hurt.’

  Nightingale began to move forward into the living room and a low growl erupted from the far end of the sofa. Nightingale stopped immediately and saw the head of a black and white collie with odd eyes, one an electric blue, the other a deep amber. They pierced through him bringing a chill to his spine. The penny dropped, it was Proserpine on the sofa.

  ‘Hush’ she said to the dog, which immediately dropped its head and relaxed.

  ‘What are you doing here Proserpine?’

  ‘I am here to collect on a favour you promised for information on the shades. Take a seat, Jack, we have a lot to talk about.’