He drank six mugs of beer, and the hangover the next morning was inevitable. It was past nine when LaVey got up, his eyes hollow, his head throbbing as if someone were hammering nails into it. He did not open any windows—there were no windows in that damp, suffocating basement where he lived—and so he kept the darkness like a familiar blanket. He liked that gloom; it calmed him. There, without daylight, everything seemed easier to control. He spent most of his time in that underground room, among boxes, yellowed papers, and instruments whose origin he did not need to explain to anyone. It was his cursed sanctuary.
He grabbed a sandwich wrapped in greasy paper and a small glass of lukewarm milk from the minibar; he chewed slowly, more out of habit than hunger. He turned on the computer, his hand trembling as it found the touchpad. The screen lit up his cadaverous face; the bluish glow cut through the basement shadows like a blade. He thought aloud, in a mixture of irony and desire:
Let's see what the priest has been up to tonight…
Within minutes, he had before him everything Raphaniè had accessed on the internet: visited pages, fragments of text, images the priest believed he had deleted and which now, naively, lay within LaVey's reach. Downloaded files, oblique research on symbolism, notes with dates and names. He went through it with the hunger of someone who had opened an ancient chest and found coins. Each click decoded a move by the enemy. He smiled inwardly, for he could read manuscripts, rummage through drafts, understand intentions—but only he would be capable of recovering the true treasure.
Only I will recover John Dee's treasure… he thought, letting the idea echo down his spine. It would be a perfect gift for his father, a trophy that would replace a shameful past with prestige.
The objects that had belonged to the magician had changed hands many times after his death; stories of inheritance and theft blended with legend. Most, it was said, were now under the custody of the Invisible Sovereigns, a veiled brotherhood of which the Ipsissimus proudly claimed to be Grand Master. To historians, some pieces had simply vanished from Earth, as if swallowed by chronological abysses. There were also those scholars considered mere myths: the Book of Silver Leaves, supposedly prepared by John Dee and written by angels—a piece so extraordinary that many members of the order, including skeptics like LaVey, doubted its existence. Other artifacts, less ethereal, had fallen into the wrong hands and now adorned display cases in respectable museums, complete with explanatory plaques and indifferent tourists.
Unfortunately—and with a poorly concealed trace of frustration—it was not at New Scotland Yard; the hope of finding it in police chambers was faint, almost ridiculous. Still, LaVey smiled with the cunning of someone who had glimpsed a door left ajar: at least he had managed to attract the attention of Gregory Evans, the American detective who had a habit of ruining perfect plans just when everything seemed finished.
Having contacts within the headquarters had allowed entry, the manipulation of recordings, the subtlety of erasing some presences and planting others. The skill of placing the girl's body exactly there, in that corridor, had been the work of well-positioned hands.
Having contacts among the Invisible Sovereigns has its advantages… — and LaVey spared no effort in cultivating them. He knew favors were bought with loyalty, silence, and, when necessary, promises of greater favors.
— I'll deal with the priest later, — he murmured to himself, turning off the monitor for a moment to scratch his unshaven beard. There was something in that inner voice, a tone of disdain: the priest was merely an intermediary, a disposable piece in this race for relics and power.
He then made a cold and precise inventory of the objects he intended to recover: names, descriptions, possible locations. Most of the desired collection belonged to the British Museum.
On the museum's website, LaVey meticulously tracked the items considered sacred; he discovered that several were on display in the Enlightenment Gallery, in the Religion and Ritual section—online catalog, high-resolution images, virtual access paths. The room was located on the ground floor, to the right of the entrance when arriving from Great Russell Street. He could enter through the Great Court, blending in with tourists, or choose a more reliable path—the path of fear.
Find the person in charge of security and kidnap his son or his wife. The suggestion emerged mercilessly. It was an old strategy—eliminate resistance by threatening what one loves most. He would give even the Rosetta Stone to keep his family safe, he mused, fully aware of the absurdity of the thought and yet serious as someone doing calculations.
He recalled, with a coldness bordering on pleasure, how the Temple Church cleaner had installed a device on Father Raphaniè Marin's notebook. Small gestures—a hammer, a brush, a thread of opportunity—were enough to open doors that seemed locked.
He looked at the small two-meter cell in the basement where he lived; the cramped space was a kind of planning capsule. A sadistic smile spread across his face; its shadow stretched along the stone walls.
All he had to do was call a contact at Scotland Yard, and he would have a full profile within seconds: schedules, routes, family names, trivial habits that would allow infiltration. His imagination completed the scene: the American—presumably Gregory Evans—later finding a boy without his tongue. Just recalling what had happened hours earlier sent a surge of emotion through LaVey; anticipation transformed the nausea of the hangover into something almost narcotic. He would give anything to see the American's face upon discovering the atrocity. The image lingered in his mind, vivid and grotesque.
LaVey was searching for a phone number in his contacts when he was interrupted by a call on his cell phone—the ringtone echoed through the basement, slicing the silence like a razor. He answered quickly. On the other end, the voice was calm and sharp, with the cadence of someone who commands, not asks:
"…What is the priest's main appointment today?…"
The question came directly, without introductions. LaVey took a slow, measured breath and answered with surgical clarity:
— He has a meeting with Saul Nolland at Temple Church.
"…Is that information reliable?…" the voice pressed, seeking confirmation. Institutional paranoia demanded verification.
— The phone calls are being constantly monitored, — said LaVey. — The priest believes they will be safe there, — he added, knowing that a sense of security was often the first chapter of ruin.
"…Do we have reason to be concerned about this meeting?…"
Now the tone carried real concern; the interlocutor did not like surprises. LaVey explained with precision:
— The priest has been researching people connected to one of our former masters; nothing beyond public information, but if he crosses those names with the current House of Lords, he will inevitably reach members of our order. The words rolled like stones dragged by a flood—real dangers were approaching.
"…This is extremely serious. What does he want with the journalist?…"
The tone rose; there was urgency and fear. LaVey recalled, irritated:
— Remember that the journalist published a list of names?
"…The cursed list…" the other murmured.
— The Count appears both in the priest's research and on that blacklist, — LaVey revealed, his syllables sounding like a verdict. The coincidence was unbearable.
"…They are getting too close…"
The short sentence carried panic.
— If I could, I would eliminate them both immediately! — LaVey snapped, his fist tightening in the air as if striking from a distance. Violence pulsed within him, but discipline followed; the interlocutor did not want enthusiasm, only results.
"…Do only what I order! The threat you made to the priest was worthless!…" the voice commanded sharply.
LaVey punched the air, imagining striking the arrogant lord's face; in his rawest fantasies, he would drown that man in a toilet filled with excrement. He swallowed the anger, turning it into strategic fuel.
— What do you want me to do? — he asked, already assembling possibilities.
"…Make the priest feel threatened, even if you have to beat him…"
The order was direct, without nuance.
— When? — LaVey asked, measuring time and opportunity.
"…After his meeting with the journalist…"
The plan was drawn in simple, cold lines: allow the priest to leave the meeting, to touch the surface of the conspiracy—and then crush him with fear. LaVey nodded to himself, already outlining the next steps in his mind, each detail like a chess piece moved with precision. The news sounded like a promise: there was work to be done, blood to be stilled in silence—and he relished every minute of that dark calculation.