CHAPTER 97
— THEY'RE TRYING TO THROW HIM OFF THE TRAIL... They know the priest's phone is tapped, but the journalist has no idea that every step he takes, every call he makes, every breath he draws in the middle of the night is being monitored by us... — the Archangel boasted, slowly swirling a glass of red wine between his fingers. The light shimmered through the crystal as though hell itself flickered inside the chalice. — Their mistake is underestimating just how far ahead we are.
Raphaniè took a deep breath before returning to the Business Center. London's night air felt heavier than usual, charged with electricity and ominous foreboding. As soon as he stepped inside, the glow of the computer screens blinded him for a moment.
He sat down at one of the terminals and dialed Saul Nolland's number.
— You didn't call because of the hat, did you? — he asked with a hint of irony, trying to conceal the anxiety gnawing away at him.
"...An English member of the sect took his own life. He was on my list... and yours as well..." Saul replied, his voice deep and drawn out, carrying the unmistakable tone of someone who knew far more than he was willing to reveal.
— My God! — the priest exclaimed, clutching the crucifix hanging around his neck.
"...He burned several documents, but my source at Scotland Yard managed to recover four readable fragments. They seem to contain references to both of us... and to the man who attacked him. I think we're getting very close, Father—perhaps closer than we'd like—to putting the puzzle together and exposing this entire organization..."
— I only have two days left in London, Saul.
"...What do you mean?..." the journalist asked, his voice suddenly tense.
— Someone passed compromising information about me to the Apostolic Nuncio. I've been suspended from my ecclesiastical duties. The only concession I managed to obtain was these two days. — He paused, staring at his own weary, aged reflection in the window. — You were almost right when you said the Church was interested in the cursed book...
"...Almost right?..."
— It's not the Church, Saul... — he murmured, lowering his voice as though an invisible confessional were listening. — There's a traitor hiding behind a cassock.
"...Do you suspect anyone?..."
— I can't bear false witness, but something tells me it's one of the members of my brotherhood of exorcists. He knows the rituals, the passwords, the codes... and perhaps he's made a pact that not even hell itself would dare break.
"...We'll talk more about that later, Father..."
Silence lingered between them, heavy and oppressive, as though the air itself carried secrets neither of them dared to speak aloud.
"...What's the religious significance of the letter X?..." Saul asked, his voice distant, as though he were thinking out loud.
— X and P are the Greek initials of Christ.
"...The monogram of God..."
— In another tradition, yes.
"...And what if the letter X stands alone?..." the journalist pressed.
— Saint Andrew was crucified on an X-shaped cross. In our tradition, the symbol honors his martyrdom. Why do you ask, Saul?
"...To understand one of the fragments..." he replied. — "...I have to keep traveling. I'll call you when I'm back. Goodbye..."
The call ended, but the question echoed through the priest's mind like a cursed prophecy.
— Saint Andrew... — Saul repeated to himself, watching London's lights reflected in the train window. — In English... Drew... Maybe that's the bastard's name. That name rings a bell... And...
A chill ran down his spine.
His heart pounded as though a memory buried decades earlier had risen from a forgotten grave.
— It can't be... — he whispered, his voice faltering.
He disappeared when I was seven years old.
The memory sliced through his mind like a blade of ice.
The Holme, the mansion where he had grown up, had never been merely a place haunted by family legends or imaginary beasts.
It held far darker secrets, inherited silences, ancient pacts, and a shadow that wandered through its halls, carrying the echo of a tragedy he had spent his entire life pretending to forget.
THE ARCHANGEL PICKED UP THE PHONE and dialed a number only he knew by heart.
— They already know there's a traitor within the Brotherhood of the Four. — His voice was cold, devoid of emotion, as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel.
"...That no longer matters. Your time over there is running out..." the man on the other end replied, his northern Italian accent unmistakable. — "...I've already pulled a few strings to get you out of the game..."
The Archangel smiled—a smile that never reached his eyes.
— We'll see who gets eliminated first... — he murmured before hanging up, his gaze fixed on the silver crucifix resting on the table, now stained with dried blood.