RAPHANIÈ FLIPPED THROUGH A FEW PAGES and found a table titled "Enochian Alphabet."
Raphaniè's small room had been arranged with meticulous precision. Every detail revealed the silent presence of hands accustomed to serving the clergy. The cassock he had left crumpled and stained with dark patches of blood in the bathroom sink was now neatly folded and perfectly pressed on the bed, exhaling the faint lavender scent of the convent. The mirror had been cleaned, the desk gleamed under the yellowish lamp, and even the priest's shoes had been carefully aligned against the wall.
— They are more efficient than I would like —he murmured, casting a suspicious glance around, as if he might find some trace of whoever had dared to touch his belongings.
He checked his leather folder, running his fingers over each document to ensure nothing was missing—passport, rosary, field journal, and the Holy See's coded papers.
The day's newspaper rested on the table. Raphaniè opened it, the rustle of paper echoing in the silence. His eyes immediately fixed on the article written by Saul—the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued journalist who had crossed his path just hours earlier.
The text described the murder of a Brazilian model's father—a man portrayed as a practitioner of black magic. The body had been found in a thicket, covered with dry leaves, bearing dozens of stab wounds that looked more like a ritual than a crime.
The priest felt a chill run down his spine. With every word, his mind was invaded by images he preferred to keep buried.
Jessyca Volpi.
The name alone was enough to awaken memories he wished to entomb.
He's very clever… —he thought, narrowing his eyes.
He must have suspected something…
Why did I say I had read the article?
I'm an idiot. I need to learn to keep quiet…
If I lose control, everything I've done so far could collapse like a house of cards…
He took a deep breath, trying to regain composure. Sitting at the desk, he opened his laptop and, before turning it on, looked at the crucifix hanging above the bed. He knelt.
— Thank you, Lord, for guiding my steps this far. Enlighten me so I may fulfill this mission —he prayed softly, the shadow of the crucifix cast over his tired face.
HE SEARCHED FOR "JOHN DEE" on the internet, and thousands of results appeared on the screen like a swarm of furious bees. He began with a biography published in a digital encyclopedia. The man seemed to have stepped out of myth.
Mathematician, astronomer, alchemist, advisor to Queen Elizabeth I—a genius and a mystic, a man who walked dangerously along the boundary between science and the supernatural.
Dee had studied at Oxford, taught in Paris, and built the largest private library in England, with more than three thousand rare volumes that attracted scholars from all over the world.
A true Renaissance man, Raphaniè observed, scanning an old engraving of the magician. But behind the academic veneer, something darker lurked. John Dee had plunged into the occult arts, seeking contact with celestial entities.
Or infernal ones, the priest corrected in thought.
The text mentioned Edward Kelley, his collaborator, medium, and alchemist, and described how both claimed to have received revelations from the same angels who communicated with Enoch, the biblical patriarch. From those visions emerged what came to be known as "Enochian magic," a system that promised power over angels and demons.
— Angels teaching magic? —Raphaniè murmured, sarcastically. — Dear John, you should know that the devil is Heaven's greatest forger. He disguises himself as light to spread darkness.
RAPHANIÈ LEFT THE BIOGRAPHY aside and dove into another link: a page from an old English society founded in 1897—the Aurum Solis, whose golden symbol evoked arcane mysteries.
According to the site, the group's purpose was "to preserve the teachings of the true 007," a playful allusion to Elizabeth I's scholarly spy.
The priest downloaded a PDF explaining the foundations of Enochian magic. The first lines were a labyrinth of symbols and hermetic terms. Even with his years of study in the occult sciences—used to recognize the "marks of the Beast" and dismantle satanic sects—Raphaniè found himself lost.
Not even the authors seemed to understand what they were writing.
Perhaps Dee had created a ciphered code, a language reserved for his own secrets, he thought. A system so complex that even his modern followers stumbled into its traps.
Scrolling through the pages, he found a table: the Enochian Alphabet. The letters, drawn with angular strokes, seemed to pulse as if alive. It was written from right to left and divided into groups of seven, seven, and eight—twenty-two letters in total.
Three groups… Divine Trinity… —he reflected.
— God's monkey! —he exclaimed, slamming his hand on the desk. The devil imitated even the sacred structure.
The text went on to describe the Liber Loagaeth, the "Book of the Speech of God." Ninety-five squares, each with 2,401 spaces filled with seemingly random letters and numbers—but Raphaniè knew: nothing is random in the realm of darkness.
Beneath that tangle of symbols, perhaps lay the weapon chosen by the devil for the final battle.
He remembered the riddle:
"Ave… The omnipresent eyes of the queen reveal the key to Armon."
He searched the word Ave and discovered it was the name of an entity that communicated with Dee and Kelley. According to the manuscripts, this entity preached blasphemous doctrines—that Jesus was not God, that the Holy Spirit was a fable, that sin did not exist.
The priest tightened the crucifix between his fingers.
— Heresy… pure heresy… —he murmured.
But a faint noise startled him—someone had knocked on the door.
— Come in.
It was Edwald, the young English priest with a serene expression.
— Father, I would like to invite you to dine with us —he said kindly.
Raphaniè forced a smile, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.
— Of course, my son. I'll be there in a minute.
AFTER THE FRUGAL DINNER, Raphaniè returned to his room, driven by a force that blended curiosity and anguish. The clock read eleven at night. He sat at the computer and once again immersed himself in Dee's ancient writings, convinced he would find a clue to the recent events.
He downloaded digitized manuscripts: De Heptarchia Mystica, Claves Angelicae, Liber Scientiae Auxilii et Victoriae Terrestris, and Monas Hieroglyphica.
He read until his eyes burned, jotting down symbols, comparing passages in Latin and English, translating verses that sounded like demonic chants. Each word seemed to whisper in his ear, offering knowledge in exchange for something priceless: the soul.
The hours dragged on. The clock struck three in the morning. The room was submerged in dim light, the crucifix casting a long shadow over the keyboard.
Raphaniè recited a silent prayer, but his mind kept circling one question:
How would the Enemy use this knowledge to rewrite the Apocalypse?
Sleep overcame him in the middle of his final prayer, and he fell into a nightmare—the same night of blood, the same muffled scream, the same gaze that had haunted him for years.
Raphaniè jolted upright in bed, heart racing. Sweat ran down his forehead, his eyes moist. He knelt on the cold floor before the wooden crucifix.
— My God… it has been so long… will You never forgive me for that crime? —he whispered between sobs.
The memory still burned like fire. Bloodstained hands, the lifeless body, the irreversible sin.
He lifted his gaze to the cross and saw the coat of arms etched in his memory—the same one he had seen on the executioner's chest in his dream.
Could it be a sign?
A warning from Heaven?
"The truth lies beneath the seal…" —he recalled the prophecy.
The coat of arms was the key.
The devil was moving on English soil, and he needed to follow.
He could not waste time with the enemy's traps.
RAPHANIÈ WROTE DOWN THE FRAGMENTS of the dream and sketched the coat of arms in his notebook. His lines trembled, but the symbol was clear. He knew what he had to do.
He would need Saul…
The journalist was perceptive—but also reckless. And he would be useful.
With burning eyes, he turned the laptop back on. He typed "nobles related to John Dee" and plunged into genealogical archives, cross-referencing coats of arms, families, and inheritances.
Names multiplied across the screen: Cecil, Dudley, Walsingham… And beneath each one, stories of power, intrigue, and blood.
At six-thirty in the morning, exhausted, he collapsed onto the bed. Dawn filtered through the window, bathing the crucifix in gold.
It was still too early to call Saul—but in his heart, Raphaniè knew:
The game had just begun…