AFTER DRINKING THE GLASS of liquor, LaVey unrolled the second scroll, feeling the whiskey burn down his throat and chest like a ritual flame. The yellow glow of the lamp flickered across the table, lending the scene an aura that was both sacred and profane. The shadows seemed to move around him, as though something unseen were watching with interest.
An angel appeared before me wielding a sword. He said:
"I am the king of this world, and I shall establish the throne of my kingdom forever. My offspring shall arise from the Stem of Jesse, and the blood of Dan shall run through his veins. His mother shall be a prostitute, and he shall open his eyes upon the winter solstice. He shall be educated in the black arts, and at the age of thirty-three he shall emerge from the shadows to fulfill his true mission. He shall draw behind him nearly the entire flock of the churches and shall be worshiped by millions upon millions. All of them shall bear a mark upon their foreheads. All shall be bound to me until the final day. I have many names, but it is Samyaza who shall seduce the beautiful Babalon."
LaVey smiled—a smile of ecstasy and madness—but immediately felt a sharp pain in the wound on the right side of his face, a spasm that shot through his body like a shard of fire. He screamed, yet it was a scream of pleasure and excitement. The pain was an offering, a physical confirmation of his connection to hell.
That document was the ultimate proof that he was someone very special... an anomaly chosen from the womb.
The bastard son of the Ipsissimus, LaVey belonged to the lineage of Dan—and in his mind, that made him a direct heir to a forgotten power. Beyond the royal blood flowing through his veins, he had been born to a French prostitute and celebrated his birthday on September 21st—exactly nine months after the European winter solstice, the very day he had been conceived beneath the sign of darkness.
The calculation sent a shiver through him.
He had also been trained in the black arts and had spent his entire life without an identity, a specter among the living, hidden in the shadows of civilization.
— I am the son of Samyaza! — he exclaimed, raising the letter opener as the angel had raised the sword of prophecy, his eyes blazing with faith and delirium.
Such a revelation deserved more whiskey.
As he filled his glass, his trembling hands spilled small golden droplets across the table, and one detail from the message began to throb in his mind like an alarm.
He was already thirty-five years old.
— I received my first mission two years ago — he concluded aloud, staring at the shelves lined with jars and preserved human hearts. The lights reflected in the glass cases, returning the dead gaze of his victims.
At that moment, for the first time, he understood the true magnitude of those early missions.
Every murder, every sacrifice, had been part of something far greater.
He was not merely an executioner, nor a simple ritual killer.
He was Samyaza's chosen one, anointed to perform the infernal marriages—the union between flesh and corrupted spirit.
He was the "Pope of Hell"...
And now he fully understood it.
— To my parents — LaVey murmured, raising the drink above his head in a blasphemous toast.
He unrolled the genealogical illustration once more and gazed with adoration upon the horned figure holding an imperial scepter in his right hand and a flaming orb in his left. The Latin inscriptions seemed to pulse beneath the lamp's glow, as though hell itself were breathing through them.
— I am ready to fulfill my true mission! — he cried, opening the third and final scroll with sweaty hands.
"After prophesying the birth of his son, Samyaza revealed twelve names. The last shall fulfill his words."
LaVey went straight to the end of the list, and what he read made his entire body tremble.
He let out a savage scream, hurled the glass aside, and seized the bottle, drinking the remainder of the liquor straight from the neck.
The alcohol spilled from the corners of his mouth, staining his collar with whiskey and blood.
He buried his head in his hands, pulling at his hair and rocking back and forth like a prophet in a trance.
— It can't be. It can't be! — he shouted, his cries growing increasingly hysterical.
In a brutal impulse, he slashed open his right wrist with the letter opener, feeling the warmth of his blood erupt across the table in crimson jets.
— I have the sacred blood! I have the sacred blood! — he repeated like a mantra of insanity and devotion.
Two paperweights held the ends of the third scroll firmly against the table.
He stretched his bleeding arm over the manuscript, allowing thick, dark drops to fall upon the calligraphic lines.
In less than a minute, the names began to dissolve, swallowed by a crimson stain spreading like fire.
— I am the son of Samyaza... No one will take that away from me! — he growled hoarsely.
At that moment, his cell phone vibrated on the table, illuminating his bloodstained face with its cold glow.
It was the secret number of the Earl of Essex.
"...LaVey, a piece of news caught my attention this morning, and it reminded me of you..." the Earl said in a controlled, almost amused tone.
— What news? — he asked impatiently, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
"...I'll read the introduction, and you can tell me the rest: 'Last night, six objects mysteriously disappeared from the British Museum. They were part of John Dee's collection...'"
— What are you trying to imply? — he asked, his voice edged with sharp irony.
"...That you know the rest of the story better than I do, and that is serious—very serious..." replied the Earl, pausing as though savoring the other man's discomfort.
LaVey gripped the phone so tightly that his fingers turned white.
I have the sacred blood, you miserable Earl. You should kneel before me. And worship me as a god...
For now, it was not the time to reveal his secret.
Samyaza had not yet given him free rein, but the hour would come—and when it did, the Earl of Essex would pay with his own blood for every word spoken in contempt.
— Do you want me to find out what happened to the artifacts? — he dissembled, changing his tone and concealing his fury beneath a layer of false deference.
"...They are not important to us. If they were, do you think they would be on display in a museum?..." the lord replied.
"...We do not cast pearls before swine, but I admit I am curious to know what the fool who stole them intends to do with them..."
— As you yourself said, the thief must be a fool. Why should we concern ourselves with him? — LaVey taunted, every word dripping with sarcasm.
"...You are right, LaVey. In my life, one fool is enough: you..." replied the Earl of Essex before ending the call with a sharp click.
— Son of a bitch! — he shouted, punching the air with his right arm and splattering blood across the floor while the echo of his rage merged with the distant wail of a London siren.