SAFE IN HIS BASEMENT, LaVey opened the silver box delivered by Gregory Evans and found a thick envelope and a wooden case. He smiled when he saw the symbol engraved upon it.
— The hieroglyph... — he murmured to himself.
He slid the lid open with the tips of his fingers — a calm, almost ritualistic movement — and contemplated the golden artifact resting upon a black background that seemed to absorb the light. It was a bee crafted in gold, the work of precise hands: the wings bore delicate grooves, the thorax displayed tiny gears, and at first glance it resembled a watchmaker's toy. When he picked it up, he noticed the movable parts — a subtle click as one wing settled into place — and carefully removed it from the "Aurora," the nickname of the box that had long guarded secrets.
He turned the piece over, examining the reverse side where mysteries lay hidden. There were five exceedingly thin strings, stretched like strands of a spider's web, and around each one were four embossed characters, symbols resembling ancient letters and encoded numerals.
— A small safe... — he concluded in a low voice, almost to himself, as his eyes scanned every inch of the object.
Removing the black fabric lining the interior of the box, he revealed a velvet finish that seemed capable of preserving time itself. He caught the scent of heated metal and aged wax in the air, a combination that made him step back before approaching once more.
A small indentation at the bottom indicated the presence of a secret compartment. With the tip of his letter opener — the familiar blade that had opened so many doors and secrets before — he touched the slit and applied delicate, calculated pressure.
A muted click, nearly imperceptible.
Then he forced it outward.
A small lid shifted slowly, as if awakening from an ancestral slumber, revealing a rolled parchment, yellowed at the edges, sealed with a mark identical to the one engraved upon the bee.
— The ritual... — he deduced, feeling a chill crawl up his spine.
Using a pair of tweezers, he removed the parchment without touching its surface, as though bare skin might contaminate the written words. He carefully placed it upon the mahogany desk, where the flickering lamp cast long shadows.
After storing the artifact inside the lining of the box and closing it with almost paternal tenderness, he turned his gaze toward the black mirror leaning against the wall. The glass reflected a pale face, burning eyes, and a poorly trimmed beard: there stood LaVey, contemplating his own destiny.
The meeting with the Archangel had left him unsettled.
If the American master had promised to accept him as the son of Samyaza and threatened to sever ties with the Englishmen, perhaps he no longer needed to fake his own death after the sacred marriage; perhaps he no longer needed to follow the man who had stolen his life.
— An alliance with the Americans... — he thought — could be the ticket to crushing my enemies, to rewriting the board.
I will spare no one, he muttered through clenched teeth.
He placed the black mirror upon the Sigillum Dei, the symbol whose presence transformed the basement into a chamber of oaths. He remained standing before it when the telephone rang again. He answered instantly, as if he had been waiting for that voice all along.
— Master? Does the eagle know the truth? — he asked, his voice steady, his anxiety carefully concealed.
"... They know the prophecy..." came the brief reply, heavy with echoes.
— Then the plans have changed? — LaVey pressed.
"... If you were untouchable, LaVey, your father would not have betrayed you..." the deep voice replied sharply.
— If the Americans know who I am, will I be hunted by the soldiers of the Ipsissimus? — His question sounded more fragile than he had intended.
"... You have just met your executioner..." the voice revealed, almost a deadly whisper.
— I suspected as much. He is the ideal person for the job — he replied, surprised, with a mixture of anger and recognition.
"... Do not disappoint me. I thought you already knew that..." the voice answered, its irony heavy as lead.
— I handed over the documents in good faith and was deceived... Sons of bitches! — LaVey exploded, his fists clenched.
"... If you hate them so much, why do you praise them? Few have the privilege of being a son of a bitch like you, LaVey..." the deep voice concluded its mockery with a hoarse laugh that seemed to fill the entire basement.
— What should I do? — The final question sounded less like a request and more like a sentence.
"... I have an excellent idea..." — and then he revealed the plan, each word carefully crafted to inflame ambition.
— DOES THAT MEAN I should no longer trust the Order? — he asked, standing at the edge of a decision that would change everything.
"... Do as I told you. Follow the man who stole your life until the Book of Silver Leaves. When you stand beside him, all shall kneel before you..." the promise was offered like a scarlet trophy.
— I will have my revenge on all of them — LaVey confessed, clenching his fists and pounding the desk until the wood groaned.
"... I hope that is a promise. Mercy is one of my cardinal sins..." the voice joked before turning serious once more. — "... Your revenge has already begun tonight. Do not feel orphaned. You need no father other than me..."
And then the line went dead, leaving an electric void in the air.
LaVey remained motionless for a moment, feeling an icy breath brush against his face — or perhaps it was merely the draft escaping from the basement. The loneliness returned, heavier than before, but he needed to prepare for the sacred marriage; there were procedures, timings, and words that could not be improvised.
Before examining the ritual, he opened the envelope he had found inside the silver box.
He emptied its contents onto the desk.
Two keys clinked as they struck the wooden surface; the sound echoed like tiny bells.
The larger one bore a shield at its end, the coat of arms of the British monarch — king, crown, intertwined lions — and LaVey recognized it immediately.
The other, smaller key appeared to belong to a suite. It was slender, elegant, fashioned from polished metal, like the keys that opened rooms in expensive hotels.
— There must be a message... — he thought, his attention sharpening.
He inspected the inside of the envelope and found a folded piece of paper containing precise instructions written in firm handwriting:
After entering L'oscar London through the main entrance, proceed to the alcove: the Royal Suite. And perform the sacred marriage...
The sentence echoed through the room like both a command and a blessing.
LaVey read it once more, savoring every syllable — and for a moment, he felt like a man who, upon rediscovering a path, had also recovered his breath.