THE BEDROOM DOOR was slightly ajar. LaVey pushed it open slowly, allowing the dimness to seep into the stuffy room. The air smelled of old wine, expensive perfume, and sin. On the dresser, a candle was slowly burning out, releasing a serpent of bluish smoke that spiraled lazily toward the ceiling.
He entered silently, his footsteps muffled by the Persian carpet, and placed his suitcase on the armchair beside the bed. From inside it, he removed something wrapped in a heavy black cloth, as though it concealed an ancient secret. On the linen bedspread lay a handwritten letter, the paper stained with tears and wine. LaVey, his right hand covered by a leather glove, picked it up carefully. He wanted to make certain the bodyguard had followed his instructions and transcribed every word exactly as commanded:
My name is Bronny Adams, and for several years, I served as Jessyca Volpi's personal bodyguard and head of security. I dedicated my life, my loyalty, and my soul to protecting her. Twice I faced death for her, and both times, I returned from hell believing it was for love. I never demanded anything in return, until a demon began whispering in my ear:
"That woman doesn't love you, Bronny. She laughs at you. She smiles at you, but gives herself to other men."
I tried to drive him away. I resisted as best I could. For weeks, he fell silent, but three days ago, he returned, stronger, more persuasive, until he finally convinced me to do what I did. Perhaps the world will judge me as a madman, but it no longer matters. My beloved and I are united for eternity — in blood, in sin, and in death.
— A beautiful letter, don't you think? — LaVey remarked, his voice resonating with irony and profane devotion, as he found Bronny lying motionless in the bathtub, pale, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
— Yes... — the bodyguard replied, slowly opening his eyes as though awakening from a trance.
— Here is the sacred dagger, the true murder weapon — the dark priest announced, raising the object wrapped in black cloth as though presenting an offering.
Bronny unwrapped the ritual blade, and the metal gleamed for an instant before revealing the dried blood that covered it. When the blade touched the water, crimson droplets spread like flowers blooming across the crystal-clear surface.
— Thy will be done — Bronny murmured solemnly, placing the cold tip of the weapon beneath his sternum, his eyes fixed on the figure of his master.
— On Earth as it is in Hell — LaVey completed, raising his chin in reverence toward the final act.
With one precise, swift movement, the bodyguard plunged the dagger into his own chest. The metallic sound mingled with the cracking of ribs giving way. His eyes, motionless and dry, stared at the murderer as though seeking absolution. Within seconds, the muscles of his face, previously tense and contorted, relaxed. His eyelids trembled, and involuntary tears trickled down, meeting the red water of the bathtub.
LaVey watched without emotion, displaying only the restrained contempt of someone looking upon a tool that had already served its purpose. For an instant, he wanted to spit on the corpse, but instead swallowed the bitter saliva of his revulsion. Then he opened the plastic bag he had brought with him. Inside was a piece of human flesh, still warm — exactly the size of a fist. He returned to the bathtub, knelt before the body, and, with the composure of a surgeon, forced Bronny's mouth wide open.
— May love consume you — he whispered.
And he pushed Jessyca's heart between the dead man's rigid teeth, forcing him to symbolically devour the woman he had loved and destroyed. He washed his gloves in the sink, removing every trace of blood, every particle of guilt.
When he finished, he switched off the light, leaving the room immersed in a silence worthy of a graveyard.
BLOOD DRIPPED from the knuckles of three fingers.
I can't lose control... Greg thought, panting after punching the tree trunk for the fifth time. Rage was consuming him from within like acid.
The wind cut across his face, mingling sweat and dust, and the smell of damp earth reminded him of the trenches where he had learned to kill.
— That son of a bitch should come out any moment now... — he growled, wiping the blood from his hands on the hem of his coat.
A thick mist began creeping through the park, advancing like a silent beast toward L'oscar London. At first, Greg could see through it, making out shadows and outlines, but in less than a minute, the gray curtain thickened until it swallowed everything around him.
— This can't be happening... — he whispered. — That bastard can even manipulate the weather.
A chill ran up his spine. This was no ordinary fog. It was dense, alive, pulsating.
— I need to get closer... he can't escape now.
He removed his earpiece, slipped it into his pocket, and slung his backpack over his shoulders. Then he drew his automatic pistol, the cold metal restoring a sense of control.
He advanced between the trees, every step measured, every breath restrained. At the edge of the park, near the end of the street, he heard hurried footsteps, the sound of leather soles striking wet gravel.
It must be him... he thought, crouching behind a bush, at the very spot he had already marked along his pursuit route.
Greg sprang to his feet, aiming his weapon toward the blurred silhouette. The figure vanished into the mist like a specter.
— Damn it... — he whispered, following the sound of footsteps. Every crunch beneath those unseen shoes guided him deeper into the white labyrinth, but something wasn't right. The footsteps stopped, and everything became unnaturally quiet.
He noticed me... Greg deduced, pressing himself against the trunk of a tree. He's trying to lure me in. Cunning son of a bitch...
A rustling sound above his head alerted him. Greg looked up and saw nothing but shadows. Instinct made him raise his pistol, but it was already too late. A brutal blow struck the back of his neck, and the world spun. His weapon fell, and darkness swallowed him.
— Those traitors are a bunch of amateur idiots... — LaVey mocked, wiping the knuckles of his glove with a linen handkerchief. — How could they possibly believe this fool would be capable of capturing me? — He laughed loudly, and the echo of his laughter faded into the mist as Gregory Evans's unconscious body lay on the ground, enveloped in the icy breath of the approaching hell.