AFTER ONLY FOUR HOURS OF SLEEP, Raphaniè had the distinct impression of hearing a voice echoing within his own dream—a hoarse, deep voice, as though it came from inside an ancient cavern, wrapped in the icy winds of the north.— Bölverkr!
The sound of the word made the priest jolt awake. His body reacted before his mind: his heart pounded out of rhythm, cold sweat ran down his neck, and for a few moments he struggled to breathe. Gasping, he sat up in bed and tried to understand whether he was still dreaming. That name remained seared into his mind like red-hot iron.
He rose in a rush, switched on the lamp, and crossed the hallway to his private library, where the shadows cast by the shelves seemed to watch him.The scent of old paper, mixed with the incense from the previous night, still lingered in the air.
— I think I've got you... — he murmured with a glint of triumph, opening a heavy dictionary of gods and demons, filled with markings and scribbled notes in the margins.
His fingers ran over the yellowed pages until the name appeared before his eyes, in stark black letters.
— Bölverkr, "the one who brings evil." One of Odin's names... — he read aloud, increasingly fascinated. — Another name, Grímnir, "the disguised one"... one of his disguises is that of a wanderer, with a blue cloak and a wide-brimmed hat...
He closed the book slowly, as if sealing a silent pact.
— A pagan god... a perfect disguise against the true God. — The conclusion came with a shiver. — Now all that remains is to find out where you intend to strike, you damned thing.
Raphaniè went to the desk and turned on the computer. The glow of the screen tore through the dimness of the room, revealing the piles of books stacked around him—treatises on angelology, demonology, Nordic linguistics, and a Latin Bible open to Psalm 91.
With a steaming mug of coffee beside him, he opened a notepad and typed the name of the Norse god. The browser returned dozens of results, but one detail caught his attention: Wednesday, the fourth day of the week, was derived from Woden's Day, the day of Odin.
— England... United States... Scandinavia... — he murmured, trying to decipher the enigma. — Could "fortification in the lake" be a country code? Or a city?
He typed the words into the search bar and waited, the sound of the processor humming like mechanical breathing. When the result appeared, Raphaniè's eyes lit up.
London. The Celtic origin of the name could come from the combination of llyn (lake) and din (fortification).
— I've found the fortification in the lake! — he exclaimed, rising to his feet. — My God, I thank You for enlightening my discernment. Let us see who will emerge victorious, disguised demon.
Still trembling with excitement, he prepared another coffee, stronger this time. As the dark liquid filled the cup, his memories carried him back to a case from years earlier: the London journalist who had sought him out, asking for help to decipher satanic symbols found on the bodies of five brutally murdered women.
He remembered the photographs—the victims' eyes, wide open, reflecting an almost supernatural terror; the marks carved into their pale skin, resembling Norse runes, symbols of sacrifice. It was one of the most macabre crimes he had ever witnessed, and he had always suspected there was something beyond human nature in those deaths.
Now, everything made sense... The name, the disguise, the code...
Bölverkr was not merely an echo of the past—it was a living, intelligent presence, acting once again.
As soon as the first ray of sunlight pierced through the curtains of Rome, Raphaniè knew what he would do: he would call Cardinal Josefo DellaMonica, his confessor and mentor, the only man within the Holy See he still fully trusted. After that, he would seek out the journalist in London.
— Perhaps now it's your turn to return the favor, my friend... — he murmured, his gaze fixed on the crucifix on the table, the reflection of its silver metal trembling in the bluish light of the monitor.
That dawn, between the distant tolling of bells and the hiss of the coffee maker, Raphaniè Marin became certain that the spiritual battle he had always preached in his lectures was about to begin again—and this time, the enemy wore the face of an ancient god.