ACROSS THE STREET, his eyes fixed on the imposing L'oscar London, Gregory Evans discreetly adjusted the volume of his earpiece. The illuminated windows reflected in the puddle at his feet, and the cold wind of the London night cut across his face like invisible blades. Inside the priest's suite, the silence was absolute, a silence that screamed, that carried weight, as though the very air bore the forewarning of disaster.
Still no sign of him... nothing. No movement.
Greg took a deep breath, trying to maintain control. He knew, better than most, the sordid details of the ritual LaVey might be about to perform — every word, every symbol, every drop of blood spilled with diabolical precision.
This organization is capable of anything, he thought. Faradday was right from the beginning. I need to finish this damned mission before it's too late.
He turned the receiver's dial and switched channels. A brief burst of static, then... voices, distorted, guttural sounds coming from the model's room. Strange, unpronounceable words, a mixture of chanting and blasphemy.
— The bastard has started... — he muttered through clenched teeth. — Shit...
He checked his watch. Midnight sharp.
The hour of pacts...
Suddenly, a series of grunts. Muffled moans.
She's being... — the mental image made him shudder. He felt his stomach tighten and the bitter taste of fear rise in his throat. He leaned against the trunk of a nearby tree, bending forward, his right shoulder striking the rough bark. The tears came without permission. Over the past few years, he had grown accustomed to the smell of death — corpses in cold chambers, carefully planned executions, political betrayals — but this was different. Whatever was happening inside the hotel's luxurious suite possessed something that transcended the human. It sent chills through him that seemed to tear along his spine.
He closed his eyes for a moment and saw his wife's face — smiling on the veranda of their home in Suffolk — and the memory made him breathe deeply, trying to cling to some remnant of lucidity. The sound of something moving behind him made him turn his head with a start. Light footsteps and a subtle rustling.
An icy wind suddenly swept through, stirring the dry leaves around his feet. He pulled his overcoat tighter around himself and turned his gaze back toward L'oscar. A thick, dark cloud was gathering above the hotel, as though the sky itself were conspiring to conceal what was taking place inside.
Through his earpiece, he heard LaVey uttering more words, in an increasingly frenzied cadence, as though invoking ancient and forgotten forces.
The language of hell... Greg thought, swallowing hard.
Then came a sharp, piercing scream. A scream that tore through his headphones and penetrated his brain like a shard of glass. His entire body trembled.
He punched the tree furiously, again and again, until his knuckles throbbed. Helplessness consumed him, along with the certainty that, no matter how desperately he wanted to, there was nothing he could do at that moment.
Moments later, hurried footsteps, a door slamming shut, and then... silence. An absolute, funereal silence, far too heavy to be natural.
Greg slowly raised his head, his face streaked with tears and his heart pounding.
— I was too late to save her... — he whispered, his voice breaking, as he stared at the golden-lit windows of L'oscar, where, behind the curtains, evil had already triumphed.