Since he had "died" at the age of seven, LaVey had developed a dark, almost erotic intimacy with death. There was something about it that fascinated him—a kind of inverted mirror in which he saw his true essence reflected. Hidden in secret folders and encrypted files, he kept hundreds of portraits of victims of brutal crimes—some even signed by himself with an almost artistic touch, as if blood were paint and suffering a form of divine expression.
His connection to the secret order had transformed him into a silent judge of others' existence, an exterminating angel licensed to decide who deserved to breathe and who should drown in their own despair. That feeling brought him closer to his god, the same one that dwelled in the shadows of the underworld, nourished by sacrifices and secrets.
He always carried a digital camera with him, a faithful companion and accomplice. Each click was a ritualistic blow, each flash a thunderbolt of light tearing through the abyss. Later, he enjoyed contemplating the victims' eyes, frozen in terror—windows opened to the final instant, where fear and eternity blurred together. In those moments, LaVey felt an ecstasy that no carnal pleasure could ever replicate: a metaphysical orgasm, cold and absolute.
He felt the left pocket of his trousers beneath the black cloak, and the device was there—silent and patient, waiting for the right moment to capture another soul.
The priest… — he thought — lacked the diabolical charm of Satan's concubines, but he would be the first man of the Church slaughtered by his hands. That alone made him special. A milestone…
And it would not be just one less clergyman—it was an emissary of the Vatican itself, a messenger of light now to be swallowed by darkness. The message was clear, almost an infernal epistle addressed to the throne of Saint Peter:
"You do not challenge the king of this world."
He uttered a few words in Latin, imbued with blasphemy and power—words Raphaniè would probably prefer never to hear translated. Then he tilted his head and added with a cruel smile:
— May this wretch's soul warm the furnaces of hell.
But just as he delivered his diabolical version of last rites, he was struck by a sudden, brutal blow from the side that made him stagger.
LAVEY WAS BRACED on the ground with only his left leg, his body bent, his face consumed by fury. He tried to stand, but the impact had completely unbalanced him. When he raised his eyes, he immediately recognized the broad silhouette storming into the room like lightning—a determined man, steady gaze, weapon pointed directly at his head.
It was the American.
— Make any move and you already know! — Gregory growled, his voice firm as steel.
— You're smarter than I imagined — LaVey replied through clenched teeth, spitting out the pain with contempt.
— And you're more of an idiot than I thought — Gregory shot back, crouching carefully to check the priest's neck. He touched the carotid artery and felt a faint but present pulse.
Still alive…
— Do you think you're a lucky man? — LaVey sneered from the floor, his eyes blazing with hatred.
— Go to hell, kid. What the hell are you doing here? — Greg snapped, tense, his finger steady on the trigger.
Suddenly, LaVey moved his wrist discreetly. A nearly imperceptible touch on his watch activated an invisible mechanism. A dry click was followed by the hiss of aerosol released into the air.
Gregory Evans smelled the bittersweet scent before noticing the tingling rising up his right arm. He tried to keep the gun raised, but his muscles began to fail. The aim trembled, his vision blurred. Adrenaline drove him forward, but his body no longer obeyed.
Startled, he barely noticed as his enemy rose with feline agility, stepping onto the bed and leaping into the shadows. In an instant, the light was cut off—and darkness swallowed the room.
Greg fired blindly. The gunshots echoed through the narrow walls like muffled thunder. A blow to his back threw him against the priest's inert body. Unable to see, he extended his arm and emptied the remaining rounds, the metallic sound of bullets ricocheting in the chaos. He tried to move, but a violent kick struck his hand, sending the pistol flying.
— Who sent you here, American? — LaVey shouted, his voice distorted with hatred.
Greg struggled to breathe.
Would he believe it if he said it was the Vice President of the United States who had sent him?
His heart pounded like a drum, but the trained body of a Vietnam veteran still obeyed his mind. Beneath the torn overcoat, his hand reached the pocketknife in his trousers.
— I'm here on behalf of… — he began, in a defiant tone.
In a sudden motion, he drove a third of the blade into the enemy's left calf. LaVey screamed, bending forward, his face twisted in pain. He muttered something in Latin and staggered.
— …the Justice League, you idiot — Gregory Evans finished, gasping, trying to regain his balance.
He raised his fist to strike again, but his perception felt distorted. His movements were slow, heavy, as if time itself dragged. The drug in the air was working, dulling his reflexes.
LaVey easily dodged, sat on the edge of the bed, pulled the knife from his leg, and threw it aside. Panting and limping, he walked toward the door.
— This isn't over, Evans.
— Go to hell, you son of a bitch… — Greg replied, spitting blood.
Before leaving, LaVey made an obscene gesture and slammed the door shut, disappearing into the corridor.
Damn… what else is this guy capable of? — the American thought, trying to get up.
WITH HIS BODY HEAVY and his head throbbing, Gregory Evans realized the substance's effect was beginning to fade. The tingling subsided, and his vision gradually adjusted to the dim light. The aerosol wouldn't kill him—it had only been a distraction, a chemical trick to confuse his opponent.
He holstered the pistol in his coat and took a deep breath, still panting. The room reeked of gunpowder and sulfur. The priest groaned softly on the bed, half-conscious. Greg approached, but before he could check on him, the door burst open.
Four priests stormed into the room, pale and terrified. At their head came Edwald Kelley, his face tense, eyes wide.
— What have you done to Father Marin?! — Edwald shouted, stepping forward, his hands trembling.
Greg turned slowly, raising his hands in surrender.
— I just saved him from the devil — he replied, still laughing with bitter irony. — And I almost needed a miracle to save myself.
He looked around—the ruined room, the bullet marks, the smell of sulfur.
— I think I'm getting too old to fight demons as well… — he murmured, with a tired half-smile.