LaVey left the Oratory nearly half an hour after Saul and Raphaniè. He walked with measured steps, his long shadow cast by the yellow glow of the streetlights, knowing—with the coldness of someone who had long studied the craft of betrayal—that the solitary man beside him had paid the maître to plant a listening device at the table where the two had spoken. But LaVey did not need such obvious tricks; he preferred methods that were subtler, more definitive.
Through the screen of his tablet, he would monitor every small incursion the priest made on the internet—every search, every click, all of it passing under the relentless gaze of one who planned everything. The chambermaid at Temple Church, bribed with promises and fear, had done her part: she had installed a device on Raphaniè's notebook without the priest having to spend a single cent—and without a trace of ingratitude.
Loyalty had a price, and that price was far crueler than money: any false move, any lapse in devotion, and LaVey, with the coldness of an executioner, would destroy what the other loved most—his daughter.
The thought circled through his mind like a predator stalking its prey.
Stupid priest… he thought, anger rising like dark ferment. Let's see now who is the clever one.
And you, Saul, will soon be discarded, his inner voice said, sharp and dry. I want to kill you with my own hands…
These blood-soaked fantasies swirled in his head as he crossed the small park bordering Kensington. Each tree seemed to bear witness to his plans, each bench a silent confidant.
With short steps he reached the car, a metallic silhouette waiting with the engine idling softly. From the driver's seat, he dialed with quick, precise fingers. The voice on the other end was calm, almost impersonal; it gave orders as if moving pieces on a chessboard.
— I followed them to afternoon tea, — LaVey reported, leaving no room for curiosity. — There are more people interested in this meeting.
"…Do you know anything about him?…" the question came, sharp.
— Nothing concrete, only traces. — LaVey replied, choosing his words carefully so as not to reveal the cards he held.
"…Keep me informed…"
— What is the next order?
"…Just follow the priest's steps for now…" the voice was dry, final.
— And Saul? — LaVey dared.
"…Leave him aside, he does not interest us at the moment…"
LaVey smiled, a joyless gesture, and hung up the phone.
The thought returned like a venomous whisper:
To them I am more than a pawn; to them I am the game…
And that thought warmed his soul with a sickening pride.
LaVey entered the Lamb and Flag, a 17th-century pub whose nickname, the Bucket of Blood, came from the old beer-fueled brawls that had written its past into its stone walls. The air smelled of aged wood and fermented ale; muffled voices spoke of football and unpaid bills.
He settled at a corner table; before him, the tablet glowed like a window into a world he wanted to control. A steaming mug of beer was set before him, the liquid foaming like an excuse for a silent toast.
He opened the tablet and began to follow the Italian priest's steps through the virtual world, typing terms that would make any curious onlooker raise an eyebrow: "John Dee," "Enochian magic," "Enochian language." Each word was a thread; each thread, a tangled path within an ancient labyrinth. He raised the mug in a silent toast to Monsieur Constantine, the man who had shaped him, who had turned him into a specialist in the secret arts of that necrological lore. The beer went down bitter, and by the second mug, the decision fermenting in his chest hardened into steel.
He would prove to everyone… he thought with glacial calm …that he stood above everything and everyone. He would shine in his father's eyes, receive the recognition that had always eluded him; the blood of others, if necessary, would be nothing more than the ink of his victory…
He then recalled a phrase his master had repeated during nights of instruction and stupor:
"Fate shuffles the cards, but we are the ones who play."
LaVey smiled because, at that table soaked in shadow and beer, he already knew the cards. He believed he could handle them with greater skill than any opponent.
Then he looked at the girl tied up in the corner of the room that served as an improvised holding place—a young face, eyes wide with panic, struggling to breathe. The sight awakened in him a sadistic pleasure, a delight in the authority he wielded. He approached her with calculated steps, his voice low like a lit fuse.
— Stay calm, my dear, — he murmured with a serenity that froze the air around them — for now I don't need to do anything to you. Your mother is fulfilling the agreement flawlessly.
The panic in the girl's eyes fed him; it excited him, a mixture of power and control that left him satisfied.
— I love that look, you know? — he whispered even closer, his cold breath brushing her face — perhaps we can play very soon.
And so, at the Lamb and Flag, between sips and keystrokes, LaVey slowly traced the map of a night that promised to change everything—or destroy him completely.