LAVEY WAS BACK IN THE BASEMENT, the same damp and shadowy place that had so often served as both refuge and sanctuary. The mold-covered walls and the yellowed light bulb cast shadows that seemed almost alive, as though they breathed with the darkness itself.
LaVey descended the stairs slowly, feeling the boards creak beneath his boots, each step sounding like a confession of guilt.
He had left Will unconscious on a remote country road among the hills of Windsor, where the wind cut like a blade and the silence felt almost sacred. Before leaving, he had informed the curator of the British Museum of the exact coordinates where he had abandoned the boy.
"You'd better hurry. He's not exactly in one piece..." he had said in a raspy voice, with a touch of dark humor, ending the call with the same calmness as a man closing a last will and testament.
Now he stared at the empty cell.
The bloodstained floor and Will's little finger resting in the corner like a morbid trophy were the only evidence that the teenager had ever existed.
A chill ran through LaVey, a strange mixture of melancholy and triumph.
The loneliness weighed heavier than the iron chains hanging from the ceiling.
There was no one left to mock his old records, argue about Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd, or share a bottle of aged whiskey while listening to a profane melody.
The echo of silence was deafening—and that was the true burden of living in the shadows: gaining power while losing everything that still made him human.
My father will reward me for this...
He approached the table where the relics stolen from the museum rested.
The pale glow of the Sigillum Dei reflected in his eyes like a cursed jewel.
He touched the artifact with reverence and fascination, feeling the cold metal penetrate his skin.
For nearly an hour he remained there, contemplating it, lost in memories of the lessons taught by Monsieur Constantine, the man who had opened the doors of forbidden knowledge to him.
The words of his mentor returned to his mind, drawn from the encrypted manuscripts of John Dee, Queen Elizabeth I's magician:
"Within the great heptagon were inscribed seven names—names that the angels defined as 'names which are not known to the angels, nor can be spoken or read by men...'"
The Sigillum Dei seemed to pulse beneath the light, as though a dormant power breathed inside it.
Carefully turning it over, LaVey revealed the reverse side of the disc—and there, upon the worn surface, an ancient design emerged.
At its center, a perfect circle radiated a cross with double bars at each extremity, a symbol of balance between heaven and the abyss.
In the four angles of the cross, engraved with almost surgical precision, were the letters A, G, L, A, arranged clockwise beginning from the upper-left quadrant.
He ran his fingers across the inscriptions, murmuring Latin words he had learned during nocturnal rituals.
Each letter seemed to awaken an ancient vibration, a sound reverberating through the air.
He believed that object, sealed by centuries of mystery, was more than a relic.
It was a key.
A divine password that, in the right hands, could open the gates of Hell—or reveal the path to immortality.
LaVey smiled.
The entire basement seemed to bow before the Sigillum Dei.
And he, the faithful servant of darkness, was on the verge of deciphering the secret no man had dared understand since the fall of the angels.
"You are mighty forever, O Lord. In Hebrew, LaVey: Atah Gibor Le-olam Adonai. The Kabbalistic name of God is derived from the first letters of that phrase. That is, AGLA."
That was what Monsieur Constantine had taught him.
The bastard slowly traced his index finger across the symbols, feeling the uneven texture of the ancient surface.
The central circle, cut by a cross engraved with remarkable precision, possessed a slight elevation, as though it concealed a secret beneath its metallic skin.
He lowered the desk lamp, bringing the yellow light closer and allowing shadows to dance over the wax darkened by time.
— It isn't a continuous design... — he murmured, intrigued, like a man discovering a deliberate flaw in a divine code.
A subtle groove, almost invisible, circled the edge of the symbol, suggesting that section had been crafted separately and added later, as though someone centuries earlier had hidden something there that neither human nor angelic eyes were meant to see.
Hooking his index finger, he tapped lightly at the center and then around the disc's edges, listening closely to the metallic echo that resonated unevenly.
The sound carried a hollow timbre, as though the artifact's soul called to him from within.
— What are you trying to reveal to me, Master Dee? — he whispered, caught between fascination and devotion.
An almost childlike smile spread across the face sculpted by madness and demons.
He picked up the letter opener—the very one that had wounded him, still stained with traces of dried blood—and carefully inserted it into the circle's recess.
The blade slid in with resistance, scraping the metal and releasing tiny sparks.
With a grunt of satisfaction and a bit of force, he managed to pry the piece nearly two inches outward.
It's a lid, he realized, increasing the pressure as his heart raced.
A metallic crack echoed through the basement like a pistol shot.
The detached piece sprang free, tumbling several inches to the right.
LaVey instinctively stepped back, reacting like a man accustomed to cursed artifacts.
Something prevented the lid from flying away completely.
A thin braided cord, nearly invisible, connected the wax piece to a carefully rolled bundle hidden inside the secret chamber.
With extreme caution, as though handling either a sacred relic or an explosive device, LaVey removed the scroll, making sure the brittle pages did not crumble beneath his touch.
The scent of ancient parchment and burned wax filled the room, mingling with the metallic smell of blood and dampness that saturated the basement.
He placed the Sigillum Dei upon the sofa and covered it with a cloth.
He needed space to examine the documents without damaging them.
A smile slowly spread across his face, filled with arrogance and triumph.
Whatever those pages contained did not matter.
The mere fact that he possessed them already made him more powerful than any living member of the Order—except one man.
My father will finally recognize my worth...
The thought tasted like fine wine.
Then he lifted his head and, with a voice dripping with pride and sarcasm, addressed the cold basement walls:
— That idiot Earl of Essex is going to kiss the ground I walk on. The Earl of Norfolk and Sir Billsmore have no idea what's coming. From now on, I'm the one dealing the cards in this damned game.
With a gesture bordering on reverence, he unrolled the first of the three pages.
The crackling sound of dry parchment was like a whisper from the past.
The sheet depicted a genealogical tree—but not an ordinary one.
Its trunk emerged from the back of a crowned angel seated upon a throne, bearing a flaming symbol upon its forehead.
Two wings stretched outward in opposite directions, each marked by three intricate symbols—perhaps letters from a forgotten language, perhaps keys to a mystery that even Hell dared not unravel.
The lamp flickered.
For a brief moment, LaVey had the impression that the symbols were breathing.
The seven unpronounceable names...
That was his conclusion upon seeing the Tetragrammaton.
He ignored the angels, men, and women hanging from the branches like corrupted fruit upon a forbidden tree.
Each carried a name engraved in golden letters across their chest—names he recognized immediately.
Martyrs.
Traitors.
Saints who had perished trying to comprehend the Unnamable.
The air in the basement felt dense, nearly solid, saturated with the metallic scent of wax and ancient blood.
LaVey slowly circled the table like a priest before an altar.
His eyes were irresistibly drawn to the figure dominating the right side of the illustration.
No name identified him.
No inscription glorified him.
Yet LaVey recognized him instantly, like a man rediscovering a face forever engraved within his memory.
The emblem upon the figure's chest—a black circle crossed by an inverted cross—was identical to that of the Ipsissimus, the highest rank within the Order.
The sight pierced him like a blade.
— This one is my father! — he murmured proudly, his voice intoxicated with reverence and triumph. — The first to touch the fire and survive...
He turned toward the opposite side of the tree.
At the same height stood a woman clothed in a scarlet robe that shimmered beneath the candlelight.
Her black hair fell like veils of smoke.
Across her abdomen was painted a serpent that seemed almost alive beneath the artwork.
Above her forehead rested a golden bee—the ancient symbol of the Tribe of Dan, the forgotten lineage condemned since the beginning.
— The mother of the Antichrist... — LaVey whispered.
A shiver of ecstasy coursed through his body as though he were gazing upon the very origin of sin.
At the exact center of the illustration, higher than all the others, towered the colossal figure of the Horned Man, a presence that appeared alive, breathing through the shadows.
In his right hand he held an imperial scepter.
In his left, a translucent orb—the globe of the world, symbol of absolute power.
The flames reflected in LaVey's pupils gave him a demonic appearance.
"Kneel before me, and I shall give you the world..."
The ancient temptation echoed through his mind like a whisper from another dimension.
The Devil had used those words to seduce Christ in the wilderness.
Now, however, they belonged to him.
LaVey felt that the promise, centuries later, had finally found a new heir willing to accept it.
A wicked smile spread across his face.
With trembling hands, he filled another glass of whiskey to the brim, watching the golden liquid shimmer beneath the light.
He raised it to his lips with solemnity, as though sealing a silent covenant with darkness itself.
The first drink burned his throat.
The second went down smoothly, carrying him into the intimate celebration of discovery—the moment when man and myth became one.