‘You have balls, or maybe just no brains?’
‘Actually I’ve been told I think with my dick.’
‘What can I get cha?’ The barman asked the Mexican with the Russian accent.
The Mexican ignored the barman, grabbed Nightingale’s arm and twisted him sideways until they were face to face. His grip was tight but his hand was cold. ‘You do not know what you have done. God help us all!’
‘Boss.’ One of the heavies said as a warning.
The Mexican let go, glared at Nightingale for a moment and then left the pub followed by his two men.
Nightingale met the barman’s expectant gaze and shrugged. ‘What do you know, a Mexican with a Russian accent?’
* * *
For the next couple of days Nightingale kept himself busy with his other cases. He met with Mr Peters, a Cowboy hat wearing Welshman who set out his suspicions regarding his ‘bastard neighbour’ and his guitars. He followed an alleged cheating husband for another client and found that the man had been legitimately having private French lessons with a gorgeous younger teacher. The wife was happy but less so when she saw a photograph of Mademoiselle. Jenny then arrived back at the office after an absence of five days and to Nightingale’s huge relief accepted his profuse apology.
‘You’re such an idiot sometimes,’ Jenny said as she sipped from her mug of coffee and then pulled a face, ‘and you don’t know how to use the coffee-maker!’
Nightingale grinned. ‘Guilty.’
‘You should be. So how did it go?’
‘Yes the neighbour had his guitar. A Blue Lezzer or something.’
‘Not Mr Peters, the auction.’
‘I texted you.’
‘I know, I got your text it was gibberish.’
‘I won the auction and the painting is being transported to Rottingdean today.’
‘I know. So when are we leaving?’
‘To go to Rottingdean?’
‘You don’t want to miss the fun do you? What if something happens on the way to Gaskin’s place? The company bank account can’t afford to lose his fee.’
‘Take your car?’
‘Too right, I’m not risking your old banger again.’
‘It’s a classic.’
‘It’s kaput.’
* * *
The journey down from London was uneventful, Jenny kept the Audi A4 within the speed limit and where possible stayed several cars behind the van transporting the painting. Two hours later both vehicles crunched up Gaskin’s drive to be met by his butler, who spoke only to tell the men delivering ‘Blood Bath’ where to take it.
‘Mr Nightingale, I simply cannot express enough my gratitude to you.’ Gaskin beamed as he met them in the study.
‘All in a day’s work. This is my assistant Jenny McLean.’
‘It is a pleasure to meet you, my dear.’ Gaskin bowed his head a fraction.
‘And you Mr Gaskin,’ said Jenny.
Gaskin held out a large padded envelope. ‘Here is your full fee as agreed. I take it cash is acceptable?’
‘Thank you.’
Gaskin nodded and was about to speak when the study door opened. The butler stepped in and nodded. Gaskin smiled. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I shan’t be long.’
Puzzled the pair watched Gaskin leave the room. Nightingale shrugged, and counted the cash whilst Jenny walked over to the window. She looked out at the tungsten coloured sea in the distance. ‘There’s going to be a storm. I know the signs, I spend years gazing out of my Roedean window at the sea.’
Nightingale joined her. ‘We’ve delivered the painting and got paid. Time to go.’
‘There’s an ever so slight tint to this glass. Have you noticed?’
‘No, should I have?’
Jenny leaned forward so that her nose almost touched the pane. ‘It has some type of filter layer in it, probably polarised to prevent UV rays.’
‘Now you are a glass expert? I know that wasn’t on your CV.’
‘I saw it on Grand Designs Abroad. A mad English couple built a glass-sided house on a mountain top and needed something to counteract the high UV levels. It’s very expensive, but useful for a window continuously in direct sunlight.’
‘An anti UV layer would stop sunlight?’
‘No just the UV rays, it’s those that damage the skin.’
Nightingale heard a creak and turned to see Gaskin standing in the doorway. ‘Mr Nightingale, I think you and Miss McLean should follow me. I’ve got something to show you.’
‘No it really is time for us to leave if we are going to beat the traffic.’
Gaskin’s face hardened. ‘I insist.’
Nightingale and Jenny followed Gaskin out of the study, back into the hall and then along a short corridor and through an open door. ‘Here we are.’
Jenny gasped. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
Gaskin nodded. ‘That is Blood Bath presented how it should be viewed as a cyclorama.’
Nightingale took in the view. They were standing in what could only be described as a banqueting hall. Directly in front of them was a dais supporting a huge cylinder on the inside of which the painting had been mounted.
‘Please step inside and enjoy the piece.’
Jenny pulled a reluctant Nightingale forward until they were both in the centre of the dais. The cyclorama effect was spectacular. As Nightingale’s eyes moved from left to right figures of men and horses seemed to dance. ‘This is quite a painting.’
‘Quite.’ Agreed Gaskin.
‘The detail is astounding, it must have taken Philippoteaux an age to complete.’ Jenny added.
‘It did.’ Gaskin smiled at Jenny.
‘How did you lose the painting?’ She asked.
‘I awoke to find intruders in my house. They assaulted me and managed to make off with Blood Bath.’
‘It’s a very heavy painting Mr Gaskin.’
‘There was a team of robbers Mr Nightingale.’
Nightingale wasn’t sure what to think. ‘So why was someone so eager to prevent you from reacquiring the painting?’
‘Blood Bath is and always was the property of my family. It is tied to me as I am to it. I cannot explain nor understand but without it I am incomplete.’
The butler entered the banqueting hall carrying a silver tray.
‘Let us drink to the conclusion of a successful business transaction.’ Gaskin smiled warmly as the butler held the tray in front of Jenny and then Nightingale. They both hesitantly took a crystal champagne flute. Gaskin then raised his glass. They drank in unison. ‘I do have several other exquisite works.’ Gaskin said proudly. ‘If you’ll excuse me for one moment.’ He followed the butler briskly to the other end of the hall where they exited through another door.
Nightingale took his assistant’s hand. ‘Jenny, we need to go and we need to go now.’
‘I don’t understand?’
‘Think about it, why else would he have that special glass? And how has he managed to live for so long?’
‘You believe he is the same James Gaskin as on the birth certificate I found?’ Jenny asked incredulously.
‘Yes.’
‘Jack, that was just a whim, me being silly and exploring the ‘what if’.’ Jenny started to laugh, partly from nerves. ‘Well however old he is he’s paid you a very good fee.’
‘Kid, this isn’t a joke.’
‘Jack, I still don’t know what you’re flapping about?’
Gaskin reappeared with the butler who was carrying a large canvas covered with a black cloth. Gaskin pulled away the cloth to reveal a portrait. ‘Is she not a magnificent?’
Nightingale felt himself nod before his brain had a chance to register the subject of the new painting. He knew instantly who it was, and so did Jenny. It was Erzsébet Báthory.
‘Is that…’
‘Yes. This is the original 1585 portrait of Erzsébet Báthory.’
‘It’s…it’s…’ Jenny dropped her glass and start
ed to fall after it to the floor.
‘Jen…’ Nightingale tried to move but found that he too was falling, he tried to speak, tried to remain conscious but then the world around him became black.
Gaskin’s face lost its warmth. ‘Prepare them.’
The butler nodded and bent down over Jenny. He took a thin knife from his pocket and made an incision on her wrist before holding her arm above a fresh champagne flute. He let Jenny’s blood trickle for several seconds into the bottom of the vessel before he placed the flute carefully to one side and tied a piece of cloth around Jenny’s wrist. The butler then repeated the same process with Nightingale.
* * *
Nightingale had no idea how long he had been out for but when he opened his eyes he couldn’t remember where he was and there was a strange taste in his mouth. What seemed like thousands of candles had been lit and placed on the floor. He tried to move and then discovered that he was bound tightly to a wooden chair. He looked right and saw that Jenny had received the same treatment. Her eyes opened and she saw him. His eyes darted around the room until they fell upon the cyclorama. In the centre the dais the portrait of Erzsébet Báthory had been placed on an easel and Gaskin stood next to it naked.
Gaskin sensed they were conscious. ‘You are both awake, that is good. It is almost time.’ Gaskin turned and looked directly at Nightingale. His eyes glowed red in the darkened room. ‘I had expected you to come alone it is unfortunate for Miss McLean that she was with you. For me however it is a bonus. My mistress will be pleased.’ He took a step towards them, the candle light danced upon the surface of his skin yet beneath Nightingale could plainly see his inner organs, blood and tendons. As he moved nearer he became almost transparent before solidifying again. Gaskin’s skin was tight, translucent and his musculature was anatomically perfect, trumping the muscle-men on the covers of the romance novels he’d caught Jenny trying to hide.
‘You drugged us!’ Jenny hissed.
‘I did.’
‘Who are you?’
‘You know who I am Miss McLean. You discovered my birth certificate on the internet.’
‘How?’ Jenny’s face showed that she still could not believe it.
‘I was cursed.’ Gaskin seemed to relax as though a great weight had been removed from his shoulders. ‘I was a Corporal with The Light Calvary Brigade, the 11th Hussars to be precise. One of the camp followers singled me out, he spoke perfect English but was a Crimean Tatar. He said he could see that I needed his help and claimed to be able to provide me with protection against death at the hands of the Russians. You have no idea what it is like to be in battle, I was no coward but I was half out of my mind with fear. I accepted his protection, what harm could it do? I have no inkling what he did beside touch my forehead and recite a few words in Tatar, but what I can say is that when we charged I felt invincible. My fellow men dropped around me but I carried on, unstoppable. Later I met with Felix Philippoteaux. He agreed that I could purchase Blood Bath from him as after all it depicted the charge and my miraculous escape. That was October 1854 and I am still standing.’
Nightingale tried to move but the bonds that held him were expertly tied. ‘I got you your painting back for you, we’ve done you no wrong. Come on James, let us go.’
Gaskin cocked his head slightly. ‘No, Jack. Not before you meet someone.’
‘Who?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough, it is almost midnight.’
‘What is it you’re after? Our blood?’
‘Not I Jack. What do you take me for?’
‘A vampire.’
Gaskin smiled widely to expose his teeth. They were normal. ‘There is more than one way to become immortal.’
‘Let us go, please.’ Jenny begged.
‘Miss McLean, I wish I could but as they say that is not my decision. Now it is time to start.’
Gaskin turned away and again positioned himself on the dais. Somewhere in the house the sound of numerous clocks set to within a millisecond of each other began to strike midnight. Gaskin collected the blood filled champagne flute from the floor and held it aloft. He started to speak, initially in a whisper and then louder and louder until on the stroke of midnight he was yelling. Lowering his arms he poured the blood onto the top edge of the frame holding the portrait of Erzsébet Báthory. The ground beneath the hall started to shake as the blood trickled down the frame and onto the oil painting. Gaskin’s tone of voice now changed and he started to chant in a language that neither Nightingale nor Jenny could not make out. The cyclorama shook and ripples formed on the surface of Blood Bath. There was an ungodly scream, the Báthory portrait rose free of its easel and then more voices joined in, yelling and howling. Nightingale heard horses, cannon fire and then Blood Bath was ripped free of the cyclorama tube. It spun in the air, rolling itself into an inverted funnel. The space around the portrait of Báthory seemed to fold back on itself leaving the painting hovering in void of utter blackness. Blood Bath shot forward and was sucked into the portrait via an invisible vacuum. There was one more scream and all the candles went out.
‘Jack.’ Jenny screamed.
‘Hang in there kid.’ Replied Nightingale with more conviction than he realised he had.
One by one the candles reignited as though an invisible hand were holding a match. Gaskin knelt, his head bowed. On the floor in front of him was a body, long haired and deathly white but striped with blood. A woman. Erzsébet Báthory.
‘My mistress.’ Gaskin said.
Báthory slowly rose to her feet and spoke. Her voice was raspy and oddly accented. ‘What year is it?’
‘2014, mistress.’
‘What are you?’
‘Your servant, mistress, I pledge my immortal soul to you.’
Báthory’s head snapped to the right and she sniffed. ‘I am in need of blood.’
Jenny whimpered. Nightingale pulled frantically at his bonds.
‘I have prepared an offering, mistress.’
Báthory walked slowly towards Nightingale. She stopped a foot away from his face and peered at him as though she was looking through frosted glass. Nightingale felt his chest tighten as they locked eyes. She was the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
‘Jack Nightingale.’
‘Y…you know me?’
‘Where I have been your name is spoken with contempt. I shall enjoy sending you to hell.’
‘Leave him alone you bitch!’ Jenny shouted.
Despite himself Nightingale smirked.
Báthory moved to Jenny. ‘And I shall enjoy feeding from you, Jenny McLean.’
Nightingale pulled at his bonds and then shouted. ‘Proserpine! Take my soul but save Jenny!’
Báthory hissed. ‘You fool. No one can save you, not even a devil.’
There was an explosion and a blinding white light. Two large men dressed in black entered the room. They grabbed Báthory, taking an arm each and pinned her to the floor. A moment later the Mexican entered the room. He walked slowly and held a crucifix in front of him.
Gaskin ran at him. ‘You!’
The Mexican thrust the crucifix at Gaskin who shot backwards as though he had been struck by a giant. The Mexican strode towards Báthory and stood over her. He started to chant and then lay the crucifix on her chest. Báthory screamed and bucked but the two men held her fast. The Mexican then removed a wooden stake from his jacket and thrust it into her chest. There was an ear-splitting scream, all the candles went out and once more both Nightingale and Jenny lost consciousness.
* * *
Early doors and the pub was empty save for an elderly couple and the heavy barmaid. Nightingale sipped from his Corona, Jenny nursed a white wine spritzer but both of them stared at the Mexican who was drinking cognac. They had awoken mid-morning on a double bed together fully clothed in Gaskin’s mansion and now an hour later after a quick wash were in the saloon bar of The White Horse.
‘My name is Alim Akhatov. I am responsible for this mess th
at you have been drawn into and for that I must apologise.’
‘Where are you from?’ Nightingale asked.
‘I am a Crimean Tartar.’
Nightingale nodded, hence the Russian accent and droopy moustache. ‘How are you responsible?’
‘It was I who made James Gaskin what he is, and it was I who on realising my mistake cursed him, confining him to his house.’
‘So who are you?’
‘Mr Nightingale, there are many things in this world that mortal man cannot comprehend. I am one such thing.’
‘Explain James Gaskin.’
‘I chose him to join me. I made a mistake. I did not know that Gaskin was a Satanist and a member of a sect whose sole purpose was to bring about the reincarnation of Erzsébet Báthory. He had a fascination in the occult and her story in particular. On the same day that I bestowed immortality upon him he summoned a devil and promised him the souls of his comrades. History does not recognise this but it is Gaskin who was responsible for the orders being misunderstood. He is responsible for the ill-fated charge of the light-brigade and he gave their souls to Satan.’
Jenny said nothing and Nightingale took a swig of his Corona and then asked. ‘How are the paintings related to this?’
‘After her death Erzsébet Báthory’s body was taken for burial but not before her blood was drained. Her blood was later fused into the oils of her portrait. I do not know the true extend of Felix Philippoteaux’s involvement but Gaskin needed both of these paintings, and the blood of two witnesses to bring about her reincarnation.’ Akhatov finished his cognac. ‘You find all this hard to believe?’
‘No.’ Nightingale said.
‘Who broke into my flat?’ Jenny asked angrily.
‘My men. I am sorry, it was my idea. It was meant to scare you.’
‘It worked.’ Jenny replied.
‘But Mr Nightingale is not so easily fooled so we changed tactics and decided to let you deliver the painting.’
‘So what now?’
‘Nothing now, Mr Nightingale. Gaskin remains confined to his mansion as before, unable to venture into daylight and Erzsébet Báthory has been banished forever. You may never see me again, but if you do it will be as a friend.’ Akhatov stood and nodded at Jenny and then Nightingale. ‘Goodbye, and please give my kindest regards to Mrs Steadman.’
Alex Shaw spent the second half of the 1990s in Kyiv, Ukraine, teaching Drama and running his own business consultancy before being head-hunted for a division of Siemens. The next few years saw him doing business for the company across the former USSR, the Middle East, and Africa. He is the author of the ‘Aidan Snow SAS thrillers’ HETMAN and COLD BLACK and the new DELTA FORCE VAMPIRE series of books. His short stories have also been published in the ACTION PULSE POUNDING TALES and DEATH TOLL thriller anthologies. DANGEROUS, DEADLY, ELITE - the third Aidan Snow Thriller will be available in September 2014. Alex, his wife and their two sons divide their time between homes in Kyiv, Ukraine and Worthing, England. You can follow Alex on twitter: @alexshawhetman or facebook: https://www.facebook.com/alex.shaw.982292 or contact him via his website: www.alexwshaw.com.