GREGORY EVANS HEARD violent knocks on the door that made him jump out of bed as if he had been ripped from a nightmare. The sound echoed throughout the house, repeating itself like the pounding of an enraged heart. For a moment, he believed that his own chest was the source of that rumble.
His heart pounded so fast that each pulse seemed to want to escape through his ribs. His breathing was short and panting, and a cold sweat began to form on the back of his neck, slowly sliding down to the collar of his pajamas.
Still half-dazed, he picked up the revolver that rested on the nightstand—an old habit from the times when living was synonymous with distrust.
Dressed only in his pajamas, he crossed the narrow hallway, feeling his way along the walls for balance. The wind outside blew strongly, making the windows creak and the old ceiling beams crack. Each noise seemed like a harbinger of something dark. Upon reaching the entrance, he hesitated.
— Have we been discovered? — he murmured to himself, slowly turning the key, while the metallic sound of the mechanism echoed like a gunshot in the silence of the early morning.
The knocking began again, now more frantic, desperate. Greg took a deep breath and, in a quick, decisive gesture, turned the doorknob, flung open the door and raising the gun. The light from the street lamp barely illuminated the figure before him—a human silhouette, motionless, with its face partially hidden under the brim of a rain-soaked hat.
— What the hell do you want at this hour of the night? — he roared, keeping the gun barrel fixed towards the visitor's throat.
OUTSIDE, a man with a thick beard, disheveled mustache, and long, wet hair mingled with the dark fabric of his cloak. The cold metal tip touched his trembling skin, making him swallow hard.
Upon recognizing him, Greg slowly lowered his weapon, his gaze hardened, his shoulders still tense.
— Not bad for a man your age — the stranger commented, with a cynical half-smile, removing his hat and letting the water run down the marble floor.
That man had a reputation as a charlatan among scholars, a fraud among theologians. But, to Gregory Evans, he was an enlightened one.
He converses with angels—he thought.
Greg's defense of him was not driven by pity, but by faith—a blind and unwavering faith. He believed that, through that impetuous young man and his visions, God entrusted him with undecipherable secrets. Thanks to them, he had become one of the most influential and feared men of his generation. Kings and queens crossed continents to hear his words, and some were capable of committing atrocities just to possess a fraction of his knowledge.
Greg would protect that man to the end of time, if necessary, but that night he had almost destroyed his greatest treasure.
— What are you doing here at this hour? — he asked, stepping aside to let him in. — I thought it was them.
— They're close — replied the visitor, wiping his face with his hands.
— How can you know that?
— The messenger revealed it to me — said the young man, frowning.
— What did he say?
— That men were hunting us like desert beasts, determined to extinguish the flame before the temple was built.
— And what do they want?" inquired Greg, nervously.
— They want to prevent the mission entrusted to us — murmured the man, removing his hat and placing it on the table.
Greg sighed deeply, intrigued.
— To this day the messenger hasn't revealed our true mission.
— That's why I'm here. We need to go to the laboratory... before it's too late.
Greg put on his heavy fox fur coat and lit the lamp. The flame danced, reflecting in both their eyes, as if announcing a silent pact.
In silence, they crossed the imposing library. The shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed with rare volumes and manuscripts that exuded the scent of centuries. They stopped before one of them, on the opposite side from the entrance.
— The hour of magic — murmured Edward, with a mysterious glint in his eye.
Greg placed the lamp on a small side table and took out a bound manuscript — the King Garvin Bible. He reached behind the volumes and groped until he found a small hidden lever. When he pulled it, a click echoed, and the shelf slid smoothly on an invisible track, revealing a secret passage.
The air inside was cold, damp, and smelled of wax and metal.
They descended the steps in silence, the lamp casting trembling shadows on the walls. The underground room was circular, lined with rough stone. Three polished metal mirrors reflected the light with almost supernatural precision. An oval window let in a sliver of moonlight, captured and amplified by an ingenious mirror mechanism. In the center, a table lay on a red silk carpet. On it, a white tablecloth concealed a circular artifact, supported by two candlesticks. The central crystal seemed to pulse like a living heart.
— We need the other sacred objects — said Greg, walking toward a door the side.
— We won't need the Sigillum Dei... nor the black mirror — Edward retorted.
— What should we do, then?
— Pray — the disciple replied. — Pray that God sends his messenger.
In the smaller room, shelves displayed relics and manuscripts with angelic messages dictated by Edward and copied by hand by him. A golden altar supported a statue covered in dark fabric.
Greg knelt on a velvet cushion and began to pray:
— Lord of heaven and earth, show us the way. Confound our enemies, and may Your will prevail over men.
Suddenly, a crash shook the floor. The lamp swayed, and a chill ran down his spine. The fabric covering the statue fell, revealing the countenance of an angel. The candlelight seemed to intensify, as if the flame itself recognized the divine presence.
It's a sign. He's here...
Greg ran to the lab. Edward was lying on the floor, motionless.
— Edward! — he called, trying to wake him.
Suddenly, an intense light flooded the room through the window.
— Impossible... it's four in the morning — he murmured, looking at the wall clock.
He knelt before the crystal, his eyes dazzled. The wind began to blow inside the room, lifting papers and lit candles. Time seemed to dissolve around him.
The date on the document...
The shape of the letters...
The place...
Everything was wrong.
Greg felt the presence—a gust of wind that was not of this world, wings gently beating above his head. He remained motionless for an entire hour, until the light ceased.
When he opened his eyes, the room was once again plunged into twilight. On the table lay a gleaming silver book, bearing the symbol he had known since his childhood dreams.
— This is the treasure... — murmured Edward, recovering.
— Can we open it?
— No — replied the disciple. — It wasn't written for us. Our mission is to protect it for the next centuries.
— For whom?
— For God.
Greg fell silent, but Edward continued:
— Everything we believe is a form of God. Good and evil are merely reflections of our faith. Tell me, Gregory... what do you believe in?
— I... don't know.
— This book is the key to a new era — declared Edward. — And you, John... you are the chosen one.
Greg's eyes widened.
— What did you call me?
Edward stared at him gravely and pointed to the document on the table.
London, 1589, and Greg felt the ground slip from under his feet.
— This is impossible... it's 2023...
— No, John — whispered Edward. — You are John Dee.
Greg tried to speak, but the words died in his throat. And it was at that moment that the dream shattered, and he awoke drenched in sweat, his heart still pounding as if it wanted to escape from his chest.