THE PRIEST MENTALLY LISTED the Seven Deadly Sins, one by one, as though revisiting old companions from countless battles. If he had to choose only one to define the English lord, he would not hesitate to point to pride. Since the earliest centuries of Christianity, it had been considered the most devastating of all sins, the starting point from which all the others emerged.
Pride corrupts, contaminates, destroys... — thought Raphaniè, recalling the Greek monk Evagrius Ponticus, author of the first catalog of human vices and passions, who described pride as the gateway to Hell.
The memory made him shudder. He picked up his champagne flute, swirled the golden liquid, and turned once more toward Baruch Hawkings's table. The aristocrat held a glass of whiskey with the elegance of a man born into luxury, yet there was something deeply unsettling about his gaze. It was as if those cold, motionless blue eyes could pierce the priest's soul and read his most intimate sins.
During exorcisms, Raphaniè faced the true power of darkness — he had seen faces distort, bodies twist into impossible angles, profane tongues rise against the name of God. Demons used words to wound him, gestures to humiliate him, voices to drive him mad, yet none of those manifestations terrified him as much as silence.
Silence was the cruelest of enemies.
When the possessed fell silent and the devil himself seemed to be watching him from the depths of Hell, smiling with scorn, Raphaniè felt ice crawl up his spine. It was as though an invisible presence drew near and whispered into his left ear:
"Your crimes have already been judged, Father. I am the executioner..."
SEATED AT A TABLE inside Wimbledon Greyhound Stadium, beside Saul and Meggie, Raphaniè felt as though those same words were echoing once again inside his mind. A wave of dizziness struck him, the champagne flute slipped from his hand and shattered upon the table, splashing champagne across Saul's jacket.
— Are you all right, Father? — Meggie asked, alarmed.
— I'm sorry. Did I spill it on you? — he stammered, struggling to regain his composure.
— Don't worry about it — Saul replied, seemingly indifferent to the incident, though he continued to watch him closely.
Raphaniè took a deep breath, trying to anchor himself in reality.
— You said he was suspended from the House of Lords? — he asked, attempting to pick up the thread of the conversation.
— Yes — Saul confirmed, adjusting his napkin. — During yesterday's session, he detonated a small explosive device and praised one of England's historical traitors.
Raphaniè narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
— The devil would choose a proud man like Baruch Hawkings to be his right hand. Pride is the oldest of sins, the one that came before all the others. It was because of pride that Lucifer rebelled — he murmured. — And from what you've just told us, this lord also seems to have a particular admiration for traitors.
— I don't entirely agree with you, Father — Meggie remarked with a faint smile.
Saul looked at her disapprovingly.
This is hardly the time for controversy... Meggie, he thought.
— At what point do you disagree? — the priest asked curiously.
— The devil is intelligent, isn't he?
— Far more intelligent than human beings — he replied with conviction.
— Then why would he choose someone like Hawkings? — she pressed. — If he's as clever as they say, wouldn't it make more sense to choose a reliable, loyal, predictable follower? Hawkings is vain, impulsive, and egocentric. He seems like a fragile candidate to me.
— Virtuous people stand on the opposite side, Meggie — the priest countered calmly.
— Not always... — she murmured without looking away.
— So the devil must content himself with the scum of humanity? — he insisted.
— Quite the contrary, Father. Sometimes he prefers the brilliant, the charming, the ambitious... — Meggie replied.
— That argument makes no sense — Saul interrupted, already growing impatient.
— Oh, it does — she smiled. — Now I understand Saul's interest in you, Father.
The two of you place far too much faith in metaphors...
Raphaniè raised his chin, trying to suppress a smile.
Saul seized the opening to return to the matter at hand.
— How did you conclude that Hawkings is the Ipsissimus?
The priest leaned back in his chair and folded his hands.
— After John Dee's death, the antiquarian Robert Bruce Hawkings, an ancestor of the lord, acquired his coveted library and several ritual objects in a transaction directly approved by Saint Charles I.
— A sainted king? — Meggie interrupted incredulously.
— Yes. He was deposed and executed, but the Anglican Church canonized him in 1660.
— Please, continue — Saul urged anxiously.
— This transaction was not a simple purchase. It was a royal donation made to a newly founded brotherhood. Among the missing objects were the Table of Practice and the Book of Silver Leaves. Other artifacts — for reasons unknown to me — somehow ended up in the collection of the British Museum.
Saul leaned over the table.
— The theft...
— What? — Meggie asked, confused.
— Last night — the journalist explained — John Dee's artifacts disappeared from the museum.
— Then they were stolen by this brotherhood — Meggie concluded.
Raphaniè looked at both of them gravely.
— Very well, then what is the connection between the first Grand Master of this shadowy order and the arrogant lord we just saw? — he asked in the professorial tone he often used during his lectures.
— The surname speaks for itself — Saul declared. — Baruch Hawkings is a direct descendant of Robert Bruce Hawkings.
— In other words, the rightful heir to the legacy — the priest completed.
— You checked the genealogical records at the College of Arms? — Saul confirmed.
— Yes. And do you remember the riddle? "The truth lies beneath the seal. The crowned lion claims his throne. He comes from the Root of Jesse."
— Yes... — Saul nodded, already anticipating the answer.
— Hawkings's coat of arms bears a crowned lion, Saul. I have no doubt about it — Raphaniè stated, his voice deep and deliberate. — He is the Beast's chosen one. The man destined to initiate the Dark Apocalypse.
For a moment, no one spoke. The distant sound of dogs racing around the track broke the silence.
— Now that you know the answer — Saul said slowly — what do you intend to do to stop it?
Raphaniè did not answer. The restaurant lights flickered and went out completely. Instinctively, he looked toward Baruch Hawkings's table and had the distinct impression of seeing a shadow move behind the lord — the figure of a motionless man watching him from the darkness.