Kneeling in a side chapel of Temple Church, Gregory recalled the long afternoons of catechism in upstate New York. The smell of incense, the creaking wooden pews, the monotonous voice of the teacher speaking about sins and virtues—everything came back as if time had stopped.
He vividly remembered the classmate he had fallen in love with, a girl with golden braids and a mischievous smile, who made him forget the commandments and believe that paradise could exist in a single glance. Three weeks before their First Communion, the two were caught naked in the sacristy. The scandal was immediate.
— Your grandson is a pervert! — the teacher shouted at his grandparents, gesturing like an enraged prophetess.
His grandmother was livid, shocked, devastated by the outrage committed "under God's roof," while his grandfather, with a slight tremor in his lips, hid a knowing smile. To him, that kind of mischief was a sign of cleverness, not corruption.
Gregory Evans never forgot the old man's complicit look—and he was the only one who noticed that spark of pride.
Forbidden from completing the course, he never saw his first love again. Even so, he kept the feeling of that moment in his memory like a sacred secret.
Even God must have found that amusing... he thought, allowing a melancholic smile.
But the smile quickly faded, and a knot tightened in his chest. The memory of his younger brother—now a renowned cardinal and Catholic theologian—that, yes, was a betrayal Greg had never forgiven.
Greg took a deep breath and, with the back of his hand, wiped away that moment of weakness. He rose slowly, adjusting his dark suit and turning his gaze toward the central nave. Ahead, two men were speaking in low voices. He recognized them immediately.
The prostitute did an excellent job... he thought. She managed to convince an exorcist she was possessed...
The plan had worked better than expected. The young men he had recruited had also played their roles well, and everything was proceeding according to script.
Saul and Raphaniè were so absorbed in conversation that they didn't notice the approach of a man wearing a black coat and dark glasses. He moved with the quiet precision of a predator in the church's dim light.
He sat three pews behind them.
Gregory Evans watched from a distance—alert, methodical, ready. There was no doubt: it was the same man mentioned by Far, the man from the Orangery, a face that carried something inhuman in the coldness of his gaze. With a subtle movement, he crossed to the other side of the nave and positioned himself behind a column—the perfect vantage point.
From there, he could see everything: the journalist, the priest, and the stranger. His hand remained hidden beneath his coat, ready to draw his pistol. He was not a violent man, but he knew hesitation cost lives. He had learned that in the Vietnam War, in covert missions—and he would do it again if necessary.
LaVey sensed his presence. He slowly turned his body and fixed him with an icy smile. The next gesture was provocative: he raised his right hand, extended his middle finger, and mouthed an insult.
Gregory Evans, unflinching, replied in a low voice, almost through clenched teeth:
— Son of a bitch... — and held his gaze without blinking.
Unaware of what was unfolding just a few meters away, Saul and Raphaniè continued their conversation, immersed in the shadows of the temple.
— As soon as I get home, I'll send you the list — Saul said.
— And where can I consult the genealogies and the coats of arms? — the priest asked.
— You'll have it in your hands as soon as possible — the journalist replied, glancing at his watch for the first time.
— I don't want to keep you — said Raphaniè kindly.
— I have an appointment in a few minutes, but first I need to clear up something.
— I'll be glad to help — the priest replied, slightly inclining his head.
— You mentioned that God reveals Himself through dreams. If I admit the existence of the devil... would he be capable of doing the same?
— What have we been discussing so far, Saul? — the priest replied, fixing his gaze on him.
— The demon's attempt to imitate the biblical Apocalypse.
— He always tries to imitate God — Raphaniè murmured.
— Last night, I dreamed of a man from centuries ago. He handed me a silver book and said something I couldn't understand. When I woke up, my notebook was open, filled with handwritten notes.
— And what makes you think it was a demonic message? — the priest asked.
— Before coming here, I searched for images of John Dee — Saul replied, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. — And the face was exactly the same. What he said is written here.
— May I see it? — Raphaniè took the note carefully.
The symbols looked like a jumble of disconnected letters, but something in that sequence made his eyes widen.
— It looks like the language of the devil... written in Latin characters.
— What do they want with me, Father? — the journalist asked, uneasy.
— We are allies in this mission, and the enemy knows it. The siege has already begun. Be prepared, Saul — the priest warned, his voice heavy with gravity.
— I need to go — Saul said. — We'll continue tomorrow.
They stood up together, and the sound of footsteps echoed through the nave. Three pews behind them, the man in dark glasses also rose, and Saul felt a chill run down his spine.
Raphaniè recognized him immediately—it was the driver who had picked him up at the airport, the same man he had crossed paths with earlier.
— Saul — the priest said loudly, pointing at LaVey — never forget these words: "Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul!"
His voice echoed through the church vaults.
— You are a wretch, and I am not afraid of you! — he concluded, facing the enemy.
— Father, you'd better return to your room. If anything happens, let me know — Saul whispered.
— Don't worry about me — Raphaniè replied firmly.
They shook hands and went their separate ways.
Saul passed another man leaning against one of the side columns. The man pretended to read a leaflet, but his eyes were fixed on the same point as Gregory Evans: LaVey.
It wasn't a coincidence. There were more people involved—perhaps British intelligence agents... or something far worse.
These bastards are everywhere... he thought. I don't believe in the devil, but I believe in men willing to kill for him...
The journalist hurried out of the church, his mind racing with questions. He had little time to dwell on them. Something more urgent awaited him that night—he needed to get ready and meet Meggie.