SAUL NOLLAND ARRIVED AT THE newsroom of The Sunny at exactly ten-thirty. The constant sound of keyboards, the distant clinking of coffee machines, and the hum of printers formed the chaotic symphony of every morning. Among ill-tempered journalists, eccentric columnists, and disoriented interns, Saul stood out as a figure displaced from that scene of creative chaos.
While his colleagues wore wrinkled clothes, loose ties, and worn-out shoes, he looked as though he had stepped straight out of the pages of a luxury London magazine.
Since childhood, Saul Nolland had frequented the legendary Savile Row — the temple of English tailoring — where his grandfather had introduced him to Master Charles, a tailor from Gieves & Hawkes, at number one on the street.
Charles knew every curve and millimeter of his body.
— You know my body better than I do — Saul would say, amused, watching the man jot down measurements with almost scientific precision.
— And you know better than anyone that I would love to know that body in another way — Charles replied, with a mischievous smile that lit up the wrinkles on his face.
Saul laughed out loud.
— You know I'm not up to the task.
— That's not what the girls say, Saul.
— Women like to talk nonsense, Charles, don't believe anything they say.
— Nonsense or well-disguised truths — the tailor countered, fastening the final button of the perfectly fitted jacket.
When the work was finished, the result was a work of art. The tailoring helped disguise the slight difference between his legs — a permanent reminder of the accident that had taken the life of Justine, the woman he had loved and lost before he could say goodbye. Every morning, as he put on the suit, Saul also put on armor — a way of hiding the man broken inside behind impeccable elegance.
— HOW'S THE ARTICLE, Saul? — asked Mick Gallagher, the editor-in-chief, without looking up from his phone.
— It's ready — Saul replied, resting the black cane with the silver sphere on the desk, his inseparable symbol of strength and disguise.
He opened the brown leather briefcase, pulled out three impeccably typed sheets, and handed them to his boss.
— Do we have a headline for the front page? — Mick asked, frowning.
— In my opinion, yes — Saul replied.
Gallagher read the title and raised his eyebrows.
— Sex, drugs... what? Black magic? — he exclaimed, looking up — this is sensational, Saul!
His excitement sounded almost childish.
— I want you on this story, you're going to cover her stay in London, coordinate the paparazzi, and, with luck, land an exclusive interview.
— I know we're on the eve of London Fashion Week, Mick, but this story feels more like Diana's beat than mine.
— A mere formality, good journalists cover good stories, and this one is pure gold.
— There's another issue — Saul insisted, crossing his arms.
— What is it this time?
— The model denied the request for an exclusive interview, she'll only hold a press conference at L'Oscar London.
— Then do the impossible to be there, you sound like a complaining intern.
Saul huffed, picked up his cane, and started to walk away.
— Is that all? — he said ironically.
— No, there's more — Mick said, with a smile Saul had already learned to fear. — Tomorrow an American journalist arrives. Meggie. You'll be her tutor.
Saul's expression hardened immediately.
— You know I hate working in pairs, especially now, with Jessyca Volpi back in the spotlight, I don't have time to babysit anyone.
— She's not just any journalist — Mick said, opening the newspaper and pointing to a photo. — This is the woman who published the exclusive interview with Gregory Evans.
Saul went pale.
— Evans... the American hero you almost destroyed with that "diplomatic piece"?
— A minor detail resolved in a civilized manner.
— Civilized? He swore that one day he'd come back to settle this with you personally.
Mick pretended not to hear.
— And guess what? Evans is coming back to London, he's going to give a lecture at New Scotland Yard, at the Queen's request.
— And?
— This mission is right up your alley — Mick said, in a tone that allowed no argument.
Saul took a deep breath.
— I suppose this won't come for free.
— Of course not, besides, any editor would love to have a twenty-three-year-old assistant with a body made for sin.
— My life doesn't revolve around that, you know?
— That's not what they say... — Gallagher teased, smiling as if throwing gasoline on the fire.
Saul leaned in and murmured:
— Everyone now seems more interested in my sex life than in my articles.
— That's the price of fame — Mick replied. — Now go, I need to edit your text, send me a copy by email and get ready, tomorrow The Sunny is going to explode.
— I hope this helps with the promotion you promised me — Saul said, already heading to his desk.
— That depends on you — the editor replied, with that same enigmatic smile of someone who always knew more than he said.
BACK AT HIS DESK, Saul settled in front of the computer. The clock read eleven forty. He opened the notepad and wrote a single sentence:
The one who has many names...
It was time to find out what it meant and, like any modern man on the brink of a revelation, he turned to the most powerful oracle of the 21st century: Google.
The strange name appeared on hundreds of pages. Saul clicked on the first and plunged into an ancient web of texts and legends. The page spoke of a lost manuscript, written around the 3rd century BC — The Book of Enoch.
For centuries, it had been considered apocryphal, almost heretical, and had vanished in time. Until, in the 18th century, a Scottish explorer named Garvin Bruce found an almost intact copy in the mountains of Ethiopia. The first modern edition appeared in 1821 — a cursed book, some said.
— Let's get to what matters — Saul murmured, downloading the file and opening the text.
The lines glowed on the screen. In the seventh chapter, beautiful and elegant women walked upon the Earth, seducing the angels who watched them from the heavens.
"Let us choose wives among the children of men" — said the passage.
Saul raised his eyebrows.
— What lustful angels... — he murmured, smiling.
Below, the text continued:
"The leader of the rebellion dragged two hundred angels to Mount Armon. There, they swore loyalty. His name: Samyaza. And, united with the women, they generated giants — beings so ravenous they devoured everything that existed. When men were no longer enough, they cried out to the heavens for help."
Saul leaned back in his chair, intrigued.
— This story is far more interesting than the serpent in Eden, but what the hell does this have to do with my dream? — he murmured.
The clock struck midnight, he opened his email and thought:
If I have time, I'll call my friend in Rome... he should know what this means.
As he typed, the screen reflected the cold gleam of his eyes — the eyes of a man who, without knowing it, had just opened the door to something far older and more dangerous than he could imagine.