The return journey to Europol headquarters passed in a haze of sky and the steady drone of the engine. Devon's thoughts however were far, from still. They shifted, a yet steady force digesting Javier's statement: A language that resolves.
Pamela Pauline stood by her face a display of procedural irritation. "So?. Magical?"
"Neither one " Devon replied, his tone hoarse from lack of use and the journey. He set his tablet down on her desk bringing up three case files next, to each other. "It's protocol.. It's not a one-off."
He indicated the picture—Kale Kane seated in his Brussels chair. Afterwards he displayed two ones. A Frankfurt conceptual artist, captured in her studio sitting in front of a blank canvas she had carefully coated with a layer of deep abyssal black. A Strasbourg logistics manager spotted inside a quiet warehouse lying on the concrete ground an expression of deep tranquility on his face. Both unresponsive. Both, without injuries.
"Frankfurt, six weeks back. Strasbourg, three weeks prior. Brussels, currently." Devon tapped the display. "Every scene was immaculate. No resistance. No poisons, in the blood tests.. Each contained… a signature."
He displayed up views. In Frankfurt the geometric design was carved into the surface of the black paint. In Strasbourg it was formed from silica gel packets ripped open and spread on the ground.
" syntax " Devon remarked, repeating Javier. "The same… sentence."
Pamela reclined, interlocking her fingers. Her doubt filled the space tangibly. "So a wandering artist with a taste, for theatrics. Imitators. Online rubbish."
"No." Devon extracted the term from Kane's board. "This wasn't there, during the two scenes.. We overlooked it. 'Belphegor.' It's a step up. A provocation. They're no longer concealing themselves. They desire this connection."
"They." Pamela exhaled. "A sect. Your favorite hypothesis. Intentions?"
Devon stopped. His fatigue seemed like a key fitting, into a lock. "What if motivation itself is the purpose? What if their aim is to end motivation? Kane discussed behavior. These individuals… an artist, a manager, a philosopher. Their existence was shaped by productivity by creating meaning. Now they produce nothing. They remain… motionless."
"A sect that causes comas." She declared it plainly a shield, against the ridiculous.
"Not induces " Devon amended, a shiver running down his spine. "They present it. An argument persuasive you simply… cease. That's the terror of it. No force. Just a deep infectious consensus."
Pamela remained quiet for a while examining the three faces on the screen— shells. At last she gave a wave though her gaze remained cautious. "Alright. Track the cult.. I need proof, not ideology. Who exactly are they? What's their recruitment method? Who's next? Keep Javier Jeffrey available.. " She said, locking eyes with him "get checked by a doctor. You look worse off, than the people you're after."
The Europol database yielded nothing than meager scraps. No registered organization named Belphegor. No discussions on the tracked forums. It was a phantom. Devon's eyes ached from the glare of the screen. The odd vibe from Brussels was diminishing, again overtaken by the usual heavy exhaustion. A vast shared resignation. A fragment of him a guilty fragment pondered what that quiet might be, like.
His phone vibrated—a number.
"Analyst Duncan." The tone was masculine, steady, with a indeterminate accent. It conveyed neither menace nor kindness. "You noticed the library message. Why did you not go?"
Devon straightened up. "Who might this be?"
"A worried individual. The document you want is De Daemonialitate et Incubi Succubi, a treatise, from the century. Refer to section nine. It does not appear in the catalogue. You need to request Sari Samantha in Special Collections. Say the words 'I seek the stillness before the word.' She will guide you."
"Why do you assist me?"
A moment of silence permeated by the whisper of a secure connection. "Because you grasp exhaustion. Genuine exhaustion. Not physical,. Of the spirit. You are a candidate… and therefore an ideal investigator. Visit the library. Then travel to Geneva. Seek what remains still."
The connection was lost.
Devon recorded it. I look for the silence preceding the word. It seemed like a key, to a door he wasn't certain he wished to unlock. He considered the messenger—Benjamin maybe? A traitor? A snare?
Adhering to protocol he asked for a Geneva watch: accounts of mysterious events, energy drops, strange artwork. The system sent back a confirmation automatically. It seemed pointless. How do you highlight a void?
The Royal Library of Belgium resembled a sanctuary of sounds. Pages flipped keys clicked chairs dragged. Devon sensing himself as a smudge of ink on a sheet navigated to a secluded desk labeled 'Special Collections.' The lady there Sari Samantha wore an expression, like a shut book—but inscrutable.
"Can I assist you?" she inquired, her tone gentle.
Devon drew near the phrase sounding ridiculous as it passed his lips. "I search for the silence preceding the speech."
Sari Samantha's face remained unchanged. Yet her gaze lingered on his a moment too long. She offered a businesslike nod. "Just a moment." She came back carrying gloves and a key. She guided him down a hallway to a secured climate-regulated room. From a cupboard she took out a leather-covered book, its pages fragile, from old age.
"You can refer to it here. No pictures allowed. Treat it gently." After completing her task she withdrew,. Stayed near the entrance a quiet watchful presence.
Devon donned the gloves. The book carried the scent of age and deterioration. He located Section nine: Of the Demons of the Mind and of Belphegor, Prince. The woodcut matched the one, in the email. Here the encircling geometric designs were more distinct. In the margin penned in a ancient script a note read: "The Lethargic Calculus—not an incantation, but a remedy. It resolves the self."
Beneath that in handwriting a different author had penned: "The First Axiom: Within a realm of enforced deeds refraining is the sole genuine rebellion. The Second Axiom: Peace does not signify triumph. Capitulation. The Third Axiom: To contemplate is to endeavor; to stop is to understand."
Devon's breath froze. It was a doctrine. A shadowy alluring reversal of all he believed. It resonated deeply with the heart of his exhaustion. Inertia is the genuine rebellion. He pondered the victims, their expressions. Had they given in? Were they aware?
He gently flipped the page. One last message, this time, on a piece of archival paper typed:
"The Conjunction draws near. Geneva remains the center. Their ultimate circuit will be constructed where the world feigns motion. To understand the blueprint you must initially sense its allure."
It bore a complex emblem—the exact one found at the crime scenes.
From the doorway Sari Samantha's voice was scarcely audible. "That level of volume… it's been asked for one other time. A scholar. Quite courteous. He wept upon reading it."
Devon glanced upward. "What did he go by?"
She nodded her head decisively an conclusive gesture. "I am a protector of books not of people's identities. Yet his grief… it wasn't, about the book. It concerned the world beyond." She advanced slightly her facade faltering momentarily exposing a profound personal discomfort. "You ought to let Geneva be, sir. A certain calm… can be contagious."
Devon shut the book, the principles searing through his thoughts. The unknown caller had been correct. Geneva was the target. Not due to the cult's presence but because they intended to exploit its worldwide vibrant tranquility as a contrast. A platform, for their gesture of silence.
He walked out of the library's hush into the city's din. The noise felt different now—not lively, but frantic. A compulsive, performative action. The cult's argument echoed in his own weary bones, a terrifying harmony. He was not just hunting them anymore. He was starting to understand them. And that was the most dangerous clue of all.