SEATED IN HIS RED ARMCHAIR before the fireplace, with a pipe between his fingers and smoke forming slow spirals toward the dark wooden ceiling, Saul reflected on that afternoon's meeting with Gregory Evans.
The fire crackled like a restless heart, and the embers cast dancing shadows upon walls lined with books and old portraits. The detective—or whatever he truly was—had been evasive and mysterious even by the standards of an American intelligence agent. His answers seemed measured, as though every word had been calculated by a mind operating beneath the surface of truth itself. He had presented no credentials proving any connection to the CIA, nor had he betrayed himself through a single spontaneous gesture.
Yet Saul had not suspected him... until the toast.
"I don't trust people who hide behind numbers and the Devil's riddles..."
"We'll tear the masks and the horns off those demons, Saul."
The words echoed through his mind like the snap of a blade.
The moment he had heard them, something inside the journalist tightened. The cicada in his ear—the symbol of deception sensing danger—had awakened.
He doesn't want to expose the criminals... he works for them... Saul thought, drawing deeply from his pipe as though inhaling his own fear. He's the American arm of the satanic cult. He's been infiltrated from the very beginning...
The flames reflected in his eyes like an omen.
SAUL PICKED UP the glass of brandy resting on the rosewood side table and took a slow sip, feeling the warmth ignite his throat. He turned on the stereo, and the notes of Bach filled the room like a confession set to music.
In the silence between one symphony and the next, his thoughts drifted to The Tempest by Shakespeare, which he had reread before the editorial meeting. The volume lay open upon the table beside the crystal decanter.
The name Prospero seemed to shout from the pages, reminding him that every hidden power exacts a price.
This American agent has been following us from the very beginning... he knows everything we've discussed... he thought, a chill crawling up his neck. He confined the priest to a hotel under a false identity and assumed control of the mission. If he serves the cult, then he's leading us straight into a trap. He's doing to us what Prospero did to his enemies—drawing them onto his deserted island...
Saul took another sip of brandy and smiled bitterly.
Father, we're literally in a tempest... and perhaps the wind is not blowing in our favor...
His eyelids grew heavy.
Even exhausted, he did not abandon his nightly ritual. He closed his notebook, cleaned his pipe, and carefully aligned the books upon the table.
Less than twenty minutes later, he had fallen into a deep sleep.
He dreamed that he was walking hand in hand with his father beneath the same grove surrounding the old mansion where, as a boy, he had confronted the monsters of his past—shadows that now seemed to be returning beneath new masks.
HE CHECKED HIS WRISTWATCH and saw that seven minutes remained before the meeting. Enough time to park and walk slowly to Meggie's house.
The night wind carried the scent of flowers and the distant murmur of Chelsea traffic.
When he was only a few steps from the entrance, the door opened, and Meggie emerged wrapped in golden light, her smile unfolding like a spell.
— American women can be punctual too — she teased, approaching him.
— That's what the world calls British punctuality — Saul replied, checking his watch. — Exactly five-thirty.
— I'm getting used to this new life as an Englishwoman.
— I hate repeating myself, but in this case it's unavoidable... you look stunning, Meggie.
— If all men repeated themselves the way you do, Saul, the world would be a happier place.
He smiled and, in a gesture blending tenderness and restrained desire, kissed her—a brief, almost forbidden kiss, the kind that carries the weight of everything that cannot be spoken inside a newsroom.
— Ready to watch a dog race? — he asked, offering her his left arm while balancing his cane in the other.
— Dog racing? I used to attend horse races with my family, but that's a new one.
— London is full of surprises — he replied, opening the car door with elegance. — But I need to tell you something before you're caught off guard.
— What?
— Remember the Italian priest I told you about?
— I've heard quite a lot about him.
— Well, we're meeting him at the race tonight.
— I thought I was your only guest... — she lamented, crossing her arms.
— You were, but something unexpected came up — Saul explained as he gently closed the door.
— I can imagine. Clergymen and journalists never mix well.
— Especially when the journalist is an American witch — he teased while walking around the car and climbing in.
— I guarantee I'm less prejudiced than that priest. I've attended Celtic weddings, Wiccan baptisms... He'd never set foot inside a coven.
— If he'd been there last night, he would've tried to exorcise the entire circle.
— Probably — she replied with a laugh.
— Then let's make a deal — Saul proposed. — I'll tell the truth, and you pretend you know nothing.
— I can consider that.
— Excellent. I need an assistant to help me with my research.
— Is that a professional invitation or a personal one?
— Both. An invitation with the promise of adventure.
— I already like it.
The car glided through the damp streets as the city's lights reflected across the windshield.
— Remember my theory about the London Ripper? — Saul asked.
— Of course. The satanic cult infiltrated among politicians and millionaires.
— Father Marin helped me investigate it.
— And he's back?
— He is. On a secret mission. And he believes the group is planning something terrible.
— What exactly? — she asked, turning toward him.
— The Dark Apocalypse.
— Sounds like the title of your next book.
— Let's hope it isn't also humanity's final chapter.
Meggie fell silent for a moment.
— Have you considered involving MI6?
— I can't trust anyone. What would I tell them? "The Devil is coming, close the windows?"
— That strategy worked when the British tried to reconquer the United States.
— And failed just as spectacularly.
— Ouch. That hurt.
— Scotland Yard is part of the conspiracy, and I've already made the mistake of trusting them once.
She placed her hand over his.
— You can count on me, Saul. I'm on your side.
He turned and looked into her eyes.
— Thank you. It's good to know I can still trust someone.
— You always can — Meggie replied sincerely. — I just hope my beliefs won't become an obstacle.
— The only thing you and the satanists have in common — Saul said with a smile — is that you both follow a horned god.
— His name is Cernunnos — she replied, an enigmatic sparkle in her eyes — and one day you'll be properly introduced.
— I can hardly wait — the journalist concluded as he switched on the car stereo.
The opening notes of "Angel of the Morning" filled the interior, dissolving the silence between them as the car vanished into the London fog.