SAUL HAD NO FOND MEMORIES of the family estate at The Holme. Within that vast Victorian mansion, surrounded by shadowy woodlands and mist-covered lakes, time itself seemed frozen. Every tree held the echoes of a frightened child's screams, every shadow shifted as though guided by an ancient spirit.
It was there, at the age of nine, that he encountered terror for the first time. A wild creature—something suspended between reality and myth—had leapt from the darkness and nearly torn him apart. His father killed it with a single shot, but the monster never truly left him. Night after night, it returned to stand guard outside his bedroom door, its crimson eyes fixed upon him, its snout drenched in blood—a living memory rooted in his mind like a curse.
Fear transforms gentle creatures into bloodthirsty beasts...
He recalled the old Earl's words as the car sped along the damp road leading him back to the nightmares of his childhood. He wore his classic navy pinstripe suit—the uniform of London's elegance—but his heart pounded like that of a boy lost in the dark.
What excuse will my father have this time?
Could he...
His grip tightened around the steering wheel.
— Damn it... why didn't I die with you? — he burst out, his hoarse cry echoing inside the car.
Fifteen years had passed since the accident.
The day his silver Aston Martin had become a cage of steel and fire, rolling over seven times on the opposite side of that very same bend.
— WHY DOES YOUR FATHER hate me, Saul? — Justine had asked, still innocent in her engagement, as they drove back to London after spending the weekend at The Holme.
— He doesn't like almost anyone, Justine. — He answered with his familiar weary smile. — Don't worry. Nothing in this world will ever change what I feel for you.
— You promise?
— I promise.
— Not even God? — she insisted, half teasing, half afraid of the answer.
— Least of all Him. — Saul murmured, keeping his eyes on the road. — My father is immune to sentimentality, whether it comes from men... or even more so, from gods.
She nodded, her voice barely above a whisper.
— I'm so happy, darling... During our next vacation, we should travel somewhere, just the two of us. What do you think?
— I think that's a wonderful idea.
She rested her head against his shoulder, as though settling into eternity itself.
— Where would you like to go?
— Bora Bora? — she replied dreamily.
— That's certainly exotic... What would we do there?
— What do you think about a Tahitian wedding? — she asked with a broad smile.
— My parents want me to get married at Saint Francis.
— They don't want you to marry me, Saul. — She looked at him sadly. — Haven't you realized you're standing at a crossroads and that you have to make a choice?
— My choice is Bora Bora. — he answered firmly.
She smiled...
And that smile became the last ray of light he would ever see before darkness swallowed everything.
— I love you, Saul.
— I love you too...
Time froze.
A figure suddenly appeared ahead of them—a man standing motionless in the middle of the road, less than fifty yards away.
Instinctively, Saul yanked the steering wheel.
The car skidded off the pavement and rolled seven times, shattering glass, twisting steel, and destroying every promise they had ever made.
Justine's scream was the last thing he heard.
Three days later, he awoke in a hospital room, surrounded by the smell of ether... and guilt.
— Where is she? — he asked his mother.
She simply wept.
— I'm so sorry, my son.
— What happened, Mom?
— She...
— Where is she, Mom?
— She's gone, my dear...
IT WAS THE WORST NEWS of his life.
No scandal, no war, no betrayal could ever hurt as much as failing to finish one simple sentence:
I love you too... Justine.
He pulled the car onto the shoulder, leaving the hazard lights blinking like the heartbeat of a dying man. Lowering his head onto the steering wheel, he broke down in tears.
Outside, the wind stirred the leaves, while the distant cries of crows echoed his grief.
— I'll never find you again, my love. — he whispered between sobs as the memory of her laughter tore him apart from within.
THIRTY MINUTES REMAINED before he reached The Holme.
The fog thickened over the road, and the memory of that mysterious man standing in the roadway fifteen years earlier returned with startling clarity.
Saul had seen him again the day before the accident, watching him with a cruel smile, as though he already knew the fate awaiting Justine.
Trying to drive the memory away, Saul switched on the radio.
The announcer's deep voice shattered the silence.
"The Countess of Essex is reportedly in a state of shock. According to Scotland Yard, the politician took his own life in his private study. Before shooting himself in the mouth, he burned several documents, as confirmed by the ashes recovered at the scene. Authorities are investigating possible involvement in tax fraud and the illegal transfer of funds overseas."
— The Earl of Essex! — Saul exclaimed. — He was on my list... and on the priest's as well, along with Baruch Hawkings.
A chill ran down his spine.
— He may have been murdered by the American Satanists. — He picked up his cell phone. — I need to talk to Mikhail.
He dialed the number.
It rang four times before going unanswered.
Five minutes later, the phone rang back.
"...How can I help you this time?..." the voice asked, heavy with irony.
— Take a guess, Mikhail.
"...The second man on your list committed suicide just hours after the first one. Is that it?..."
— Looks like someone is covering their tracks, don't you think?
"...He really did kill himself, Saul..."
— Or was he helped into suicide? — the journalist countered coldly.
"...He took his own life after receiving a phone call from the Earl of Norfolk—another name on the list you gave me..."
— Were you able to find out what they talked about?
"...Not yet. We still don't have a court order authorizing us to intercept a conversation between two politicians..."
— Is there anything else I should know?
"...Only if you promise this won't leak. If it reaches the press, I'm finished..."
— Off the record. — Saul assured him, opening the notepad stored in the glove compartment.
"...Some of the papers weren't completely destroyed..."
— Accounting reports?
"...Do you want to write this down?..."
— Of course. Go ahead.
Fragment One: The Bastard (X) carried out the final act (Part Five).
Fragment Two: G.E. is on our trail.
Recommended action: eliminate the threat.
Fragment Three: X welcomed p.R. / surprise gift.
Fragment Four: X reports...(the remainder is burned away).
"...Does any of that mean anything to you, Saul?..." Mikhail asked, his voice noticeably more tense.
— I'm on the road. I'll need to study it carefully. Any theories?
"...Perhaps Fragment One confirms your serial murder theory. The Bastard X could be the psychopath responsible. 'Final act' seems to indicate the last victim. The Earl of Essex's note may be the missing piece—the proof that a satanic sect is operating behind these murders..."
— And he was part of it... — Saul finished.
"...Fragment Two certainly supports that theory, wouldn't you say?..."
— Yes. And I suppose you've already figured out that S.N. stands for Sir Nolland, correct?
Mikhail fell silent.
Long enough for Saul's blood to run cold.
Then the line went dead.