THE ARCHANGEL STOOD STILL a few meters from the London Eye, watching the movement around him as if every gesture of the city were a fragment of a puzzle waiting to be assembled. The cold wind from the Thames toyed with the edges of his overcoat, while the giant wheel's lights carved golden silhouettes against the overcast sky—a gigantic clock turning without haste.
No sign of the Bastard. Nothing but hurried pedestrians, couples laughing beneath the glow of cellphone flashlights, and a group of tourists photographing the translucent capsules. Every face reflected in the glass seemed like an altered version of reality.
The Archangel checked the digital display on his watch: six thirty-five in the evening. He mentally calculated possible routes, imagining the way LaVey might appear—limping, deceptive, theatrical, as always. He concluded that LaVey was probably doing the same thing: evaluating options, measuring distances, preparing to transform the wait into a spectacle.
Holding a small silver box—a rigid object that weighed more on the mind than in the hands, as though it carried more secrets than metal—he took the initiative and walked toward the Ferris wheel. The floor vibrated beneath his steps; the sounds of the city blended into a subtle soundtrack.
LaVey arrived seconds later, limping slightly. The limp was not merely physical but a calculated performance detail, designed to attract attention and feed rumors. He approached with a crooked smile on his face, the cut at the corner of his mouth accentuating his theatrical predator's appearance.
The Archangel extended his hand.
— I can't say it's a pleasure.
LaVey gripped the agent's hand firmly and stared at him with an ironic smile that never reached his eyes. There was cruel amusement in the way he spoke, as though he enjoyed provoking a wound simply to watch the reaction.
— Pleasure is the one thing you won't find in my company — the Archangel replied in a restrained voice, every syllable measured as though it were a bullet.
The contrast between the two men was unmistakable: the discipline of the agent against the calculated indulgence of the Bastard.
LaVey snorted, ignoring the remark, clearly irritated by the presence of meddling law enforcement officers. There was a mixture of contempt and mischief in the gesture.
— You almost arrested me last time... — he muttered, recalling past events as though reciting a trophy.
— I see you've been involved in a fight — the Archangel remarked, discreetly pointing toward the fresh cut on his face, a red line that translated both violence and pride.
— I crossed paths with an idiot — LaVey replied dismissively, shrugging as though wounds were merely accessories of the night.
— Judging by that cut, I'd say the other person thought the same thing... — observed the Archangel.
The remark lingered in the air like a veiled warning.
He remembered the warning he had received not to make him angry. The unspoken recommendation echoed through his mind, which was why he did not say aloud what he was truly thinking.
— You have a peculiar point of view, LaVey, but let's discuss business — said the Archangel, recovering his professional composure as he discreetly signaled one of the London Eye operators.
The gesture was brief and precise. His urgency fit within a single movement.
The following minute, as though someone had pressed an invisible button, twenty-three people exited one of the capsules and only the two men were allowed to board. The separation from the ordinary world created an intimate and claustrophobic bubble, the silence of the capsule amplifying every subtle sound: the distant ticking of the mechanism, their restrained breathing, and the metallic sheen of the box reflecting the interior lights.
UNTIL THEY REACHED THE HIGHEST POINT, LaVey and the Archangel remained in complete silence—two measured presences occupying the claustrophobic space while the city slowly revolved beneath their feet. With every meter they climbed, London revealed itself in layers: rooftops, avenues that resembled veins of concrete, streams of headlights tracing luminous lines, and the river gleaming like the edge of a blade.
The breathtaking view of the city caused the agent's breath to catch for a moment. The beauty of the panorama served as a mask for the tension steadily growing between them.
When the capsule reached its highest point and the sensation of suspension became almost tangible, the Archangel resumed the conversation in a low, controlled voice, as though he feared awakening something that should remain asleep.
— He knows everything.
The statement was direct and unadorned. Simple words, yet carrying the weight of an alarm.
— The All-Seeing Eye — replied LaVey.
It was the correct countersign, delivered with the peculiar mixture of sarcasm and fanatical devotion that defined him. A recognition between equals, like two conspirators confirming a pact.
— The artifact is inside here — the Archangel revealed, extending the silver box toward him.
The box reflected a discreet metallic glow, suggestive, as though it contained more than a physical object: memory, power, history.
— Do you have a one-dollar bill? — the Archangel suddenly asked.
The change of subject felt strangely out of place amid the luxury of the moment, yet the question concealed a ritualistic curiosity.
— Why? — LaVey raised an eyebrow.
Intrigued.
— Do you have one? — the Archangel insisted.
His voice carried the practical anxiety of a man performing a routine verification.
— Let me see.
LaVey reached into the pocket of his trousers and withdrew a worn wallet. His fingers moved with practiced familiarity, separating bills as though sorting through memories.
The Vice President had warned him to be careful. The Archangel could not help but wonder whether this might be another of the Bastard's tricks—one more trap wrapped in charm.
Among the pounds, he found a single dollar bill.
An odd and deliberate detail, as though someone had intentionally mixed two different worlds.
LaVey handed it over and placed the silver box on the seat beside him. Then he displayed the reverse side of the note with the smile of a man who loved riddles.
— This eye inside the triangle is the All-Seeing Eye... — he murmured, pointing to the tiny symbol with his fingernail.
The reference was ancient and almost ritualistic.
— The Eye of Horus — corrected the Archangel with the air of a scholar.
Strategy mingled with theology, and the words seemed unusually heavy within the confined space.
— Yes... — LaVey confirmed, as though sharing a family secret.
— Why are you telling me this? — the Archangel asked, furrowing his brow.
He wanted to understand the purpose behind the symbolic connection, especially at a moment when every gesture could be either a clue or a trap.
— Have you ever heard of the Third Eye? — LaVey asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
— What does that have to do with the mission? — the Archangel replied.
His voice remained short and direct. For him, everything needed to converge toward a practical objective.
— Right here is the doorway to the other world — said LaVey.
He stepped closer with a conspiratorial smile and placed his index finger between Gregory Evans's eyebrows. The gesture seemed equally instructional and invasive.
— Whoever has this eye open sees through the Eye of Horus.
The statement sounded like both prophecy and warning.
There was a conviction in his voice that bordered on religious fervor, and the way he touched the Archangel's forehead was anything but affectionate.
It was possessive.
Almost ritualistic.
— I'm not interested in any of that — the Archangel replied, pulling his head back with a sharp movement.
His response restored the formality of the mission. He had no desire to become lost in myths.
— Relax... we're on the same side now — LaVey murmured, as though attempting to soothe a suspicious ally.
— Don't touch me.
The Archangel's voice was brief and cutting.
That physical familiarity unsettled him. It reminded him how fragile control could be.
— Shut up and listen to me — LaVey replied without retreating.
His voice became urgent, almost hissing.
— The priest you're watching has a scar on his forehead, and when the right moment comes, he'll see more clearly than either of us. He'll be able to deliver checkmate using our own pieces. And if that happens, you idiot, there won't be a single place in the world where you'll be able to hide from me.
The threat was delivered with deliberate malice.
It was both a prophecy and a warning.
His tone was cold, as though he spoke with absolute certainty that the game had already been decided behind the scenes.
— This is hardly the best time to threaten me, LaVey, especially now that you've been betrayed by your former protector.
The Archangel deliberately pressed against an emotional wound.
The accusation hung in the air like gunpowder.
— What do you know about that?
The Bastard exploded.
His eyes widened. His hands curled into claws. Every tense muscle in his body radiated danger.
— The American Master didn't approve of what happened — said the Archangel.
The title carried considerable weight.
— He's convinced that you're the fulfillment of the prophecy.
The statement sounded like a sentence of judgment.
Different allies.
Different intentions.
Power games stretching across oceans.
— I truly am — said LaVey with a triumphant smile.
His vanity stood completely exposed.
It was the kind of smile that could both seduce and command.
— He wants to break with the British faction and appoint you as Ipsissimus.
The Archangel spoke each word like a strategic briefing.
Raw ambition distilled into language.
— He's clever. He wants to stand with the winning side — LaVey murmured.
His pragmatism was chilling.
Alliances were merely currency, exchanged whenever convenient.
— Exactly.
The Archangel agreed without enthusiasm, already calculating risks.
— What does he need? — LaVey pressed, already projecting his next moves.
— First, the marriage must take place — said the Archangel in a low voice, as though merely naming the ritual could bring it into existence.
The marriage was more than a union; it was a political mechanism cloaked in symbolism.
— That will happen soon enough when she arrives. What else does he want? — LaVey asked impatiently.
The man's anxiety always seemed ready to explode.
— Do you have anything that confirms the prophecy? — the Archangel asked, staring directly into the Bastard's face, searching for signs of fraud or truth.
The question was straightforward. He wanted tangible proof, not vague promises.
The Bastard stared at him for several seconds without speaking.
The Archangel knew that this man possessed an uncanny ability to read what was passing through another person's mind. Between them, a silent chess match was underway.
LaVey smiled.
Then he withdrew two small rolled sheets of paper from the pocket of his coat. The fragile documents looked as though they carried destinies within their folds.
He handled them with equal parts reverence and contempt.
As though they were both priceless and utterly disposable.
— Be careful with these. They're only on loan, and if you don't return them...
His voice carried an almost intimate tone of blackmail.
— ...there won't be a single place in the world where you'll be able to hide from me.
The sentence floated somewhere between threat and promise.
The Ferris wheel returned to its starting position, and the operator opened the door.
Reality announced its return through the metallic sound of the hinges.
— One important thing about the Third Eye — said LaVey.
— What?
— The one prostitutes have is in their backside.
The vulgar remark shattered the ritualistic atmosphere with deliberate crudeness.
It was a calculated provocation, relieving the tension in the only way LaVey knew how.
Both men laughed.
A brief, mordant laugh that sounded like the conclusion of a ritual.
Then they walked away in opposite directions, each anchored to his own secrets.
ON THE WAY HOME, the Archangel called Faradday's cellphone.
He needed to report the outcome of his meeting with the Bastard before surrendering himself to rest and temptation. Certain formalities had to be observed.
As soon as the Vice President answered, he switched the call to speakerphone, as though opening a podium for invisible witnesses.
— ...I'm glad you survived... — Faradday's voice came through dry and emotionless, as though carefully weighing the value of every syllable.
— Mission accomplished. The artifact is no longer in my possession — reported the Archangel efficiently.
— ...Did he take the bait?... — The question came sharp as a blade.
— Yes. And he gave me the papers.
The answer was direct, though charged with anticipation.
— ...You already know what to do with them... — suggested the Vice President.
The statement carried the weight of an order.
— Operation Lux is already in the Bastard's hands. When should I proceed to the next phase of the plan? — asked the Archangel.
He was eager for instructions, though fully aware that every stage required perfect timing.
— ...As soon as he completes the operation and leaves the hotel, I suggest you intercept him in Hyde Park...
The recommendation was cold and tactical.
A public location.
A setting designed for both efficiency and spectacle.
— Any special recommendations? — the Archangel asked.
— ...He is the Grand Master's bastard son. The requirement is that he be granted an honorable death...
Faradday spoke almost philosophically.
No ignoble ambushes.
Everything had to bear the appearance of solemnity.
— Understood.
— ...A duel with him would be suicide. You know that. In England, nobles are meant to be beheaded...
The explanation added another layer of ritualistic cruelty to the instructions.
— He's just a fool — the Archangel let slip, instinctively underestimating the true danger of his adversary.
— ...The real foolishness is failing to obey orders...
Faradday's voice hardened like steel.
A reminder of who held power.
— Very well. How is it supposed to be done? — the Archangel asked.
Ready to follow the chain of command.
— ...Do not interfere with the sacrifices that will take place...
The instruction arrived like a riddle.
Political necessity seemed to outweigh any trace of compassion.
— Whatever I find there... — the Archangel murmured.
Already imagining the scene ahead.
Morality was slowly being eroded by the logic of the mission.
— ...You do not have authorization to shoot him...
Faradday was categorical.
There were rules.
Rituals.
Symbols that had to be preserved even amid violence.
— This is madness. You told me yourself that he's dangerous and unpredictable, and the chances of something going wrong...
The Archangel protested.
Reason collided with superior orders and with his own instinct for survival.
— ...It will work. You're the best person for this mission. You know him better than anyone. The only reason you never arrested him was political interference...
Faradday cut him off with the solemn certainty of a man moving pieces across a chessboard.
It was a subtle form of manipulation.
Praise mixed with accusation.
— I'm one of the best when I'm allowed to use my own methods... — the Archangel replied.
Briefly defending his choices.
— ...You won't become any less intelligent simply because you change a few methods...
Faradday's voice almost resembled paternal advice.
Poisoned paternal advice.
— OK!
The Archangel finally surrendered to the script being written for him.
He understood that he would have to act if he truly intended to rid the world of that cursed threat.
And he knew, with grim clarity, that the coming hours would be filled with decisions from which there would be no return.
Every step would bring him closer to a line that, once crossed, would change everything.