San Francisco Night by Stephen Leather

are four types – earth, fire, water and air. Sounds like yours was a water one. Silver kills them. And gold. Base metals aren’t so effective. Lead kills the air one, I think. Fire kills earth. Trouble is there isn’t much known about their weaknesses because whenever they’re summoned they usually kill the object of their affections.”
    “I wondered if maybe Mitchell was using it as a sort of guard dog but if it wasn’t there when your guy went round then someone else must have set it up. The Apostles, maybe?”
    “To get Mitchell if he went back?”
    “To get Mitchell or anyone else snooping around, such as yours truly. Damn near worked, too.”
    “You really need to be careful. Even if that first Elemental was just a guard dog, if they have that credit card, they could send another, targeted just for you. Now a re you any closer to finding out what the hell’s going on?”
    “A little.”
    “The clock’s ticking, Jack. These people need to be stopped.”
    “I’m on it, Joshua. Mitchell gave me two names.  Lucille Carr and Kent Speckman.”
    Wainwright let out a long whistle. “No shit? They’re Apostles?”
    “That’s what Mitchell said. I’m doing some digging as we speak. Also I have a diary he left behind, it’s in Latin, but I’m planning to get it translated pretty soon.”
    “Be careful, Jack.”
    “Careful is my middle name,” said Nightingale. “Actually that’s a lie. My middle name is scared shitless.”
    “You hide it well.”
    “We’ll see.”
     

CHAPTER 18
     
    On the way back to his hotel, Nightingale spotted a jeweler’s shop, its window filled with old rings and necklaces. He parked the SUV and walked back to the store. A bell pinged as he pushed open the door and a balding man in a black suit looked up from a display of wedding rings. The man straightened up and held his hands together in front of his chest as if he was about to pray.
    “I’m looking for a silver knife,” said Nightingale.
    “What type?” asked the man. “I have carving knives, silverware, fruit knives.”
    “It’s a gift, I was thinking a pen knife or something like that.”
    The man nodded. “For a man or a woman?”
    “My uncle,” lied Nightingale. “He used to have a penknife but he lost it a few years ago and it’s his sixtieth next month, so I thought…”
    “You’d replace it? Wonderful idea. I might have just the thing.” He went along to a glass cabinet, opened it and took out a white penknife, four or five inches long. “Now, strictly speaking this is lady’s fruit knife, but it’s a penknife by any other name.” He handed it to Nightingale. “Sterling silver, hallmarked obviously, made in 1896 in Sheffield, England.”
    Nightingale held the knife in the palm of his hand. The handle was mother-of-pearl that glistened under the overhead lights.
    “It was manufactured by William Needham, a very respected silver-maker. And that is genuine mother-of-pearl.”
    Nightingale pulled open the blade. There was no locking mechanism but the blade looked strong. He pressed his thumb against the blade and could feel its sharpness.
    “It’s larger than the normal pocket fruit knife,” said the salesman. “And as you can see, it’s in pristine condition.”
    “Perfect,” said Nightingale. He looked at the price tag. It wasn’t cheap but he’d be using one of Wainwright’s credit cards and it was a valid expense. “I’d also like a silver cross on a chain, the bigger the better.”
    “Another gift?”
    “For my aunt,” lied Nightingale.
    The salesman rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to say that most people prefer their crosses to be made of gold,” he said.
    “My aunt has always preferred silver,” said Nightingale.
    The salesman went over to another display case and peered into it. “I have several small ones,” he said.  He took out a cross and held it up. Nightingale wrinkled his nose. “I was hoping for something bigger,” he said.
    The man straightened up.