At first, Raphaniè found the driver far too bold—bold to the point of recklessness. With every turn, the vehicle seemed to defy the laws of physics and common sense. The man behind the wheel didn't just ignore speed limits; he seemed to mock them. He ran red lights as if racing against fate itself, overtaking cars with maneuvers that would make a guardian angel cover its eyes. Yet what unsettled the priest most was not the speed, but the silence.
A tense, cutting silence—almost liturgical.
The driver had not spoken more than three words since leaving the airport. The sound of the engine was the only noise between them.
Something was wrong... deeply wrong.
— Should I administer last rites for both of us? — Raphaniè joked, trying to mask his nerves.— Don't worry, Father, I rarely fail in my services — the driver replied with a faint, cold smile. — In a few minutes, we'll be there.— I'm in no hurry to meet paradise — he shot back, forcing humor he did not feel.— If you already know where you're going when you die, I see no reason to be afraid — said the man, glancing in the rearview mirror and winking with calculated insolence.
Raphaniè answered only with a firm look.
— The fact that I am certain of my salvation does not mean I wish to hasten it.— You only live once, Father. Enjoy the journey... we're almost there.
The driver took the next turn so fast that the priest was thrown against the door.
— Owww... easy there! — he exclaimed, trying to steady himself.
Then, amid the tension, a gentle memory surfaced—a song he had heard during a stay in Brazil, sung by a blind woman in a small countryside parish:
"Hold on to God's hands and go..."
And that is what he did—metaphorically. He took a deep breath and prayed in silence until the car stopped. Relief came like a blessing when the vehicle pulled up in front of Temple Church, that medieval structure of pale stone and pointed arches that exuded history and mystery.
— Thank you — said the priest, paying and stepping out of the car. He retrieved one of his suitcases from the trunk and looked around. The façade made him feel at home, as if the centuries separating Rome and London had dissolved in that instant.
He knew the Catholic Church had lost influence in Protestant England, but even there—amid Anglican temples and blasphemous modernity—faith endured. He smiled, recalling the image of Religion: that triumphant woman crushing the serpent's head beneath her foot—an eternal symbol of divine victory.
A sign from God... Christianity always overcomes the serpent... he thought.
He didn't notice when the driver removed the other suitcases and left them beside him, departing in silence—the same ominous silence with which he had arrived.
— Father Marin, I'm glad to see you.
The voice came from a tall, blond man with delicate features and clear eyes. He wore a dark habit, and a crucifix hung from his chest.
— I'll take you to your quarters — he said courteously. — Feel free to say your prayers once you've rested.— Thank you very much.— If you prefer, you may use the private chapel. Cardinal Bradberry used to pray there—it's an inspiring place.— Very kind, Father... — Raphaniè replied, recognizing the name: Edwald, one of the clerics responsible for the lodging. — I have much work to do in London, but I intend to attend the services before continuing my mission.
They walked through a narrow corridor lit by stained glass. The light cast red and blue hues across the stone walls. A faint smell of incense lingered in the air, mixed with London's typical chill.
— Here is your room — Edwald announced, opening a dark wooden door. — Just as you requested: modest, but with wireless. Nowadays, even servants of God depend on technology.
Raphaniè smiled, weary.
— If you need anything, I'm at your disposal — the host concluded, stepping away.— Thank you, Father.
The room was simple, almost monastic: a narrow bed, a bedside table, a small wardrobe, a wooden chair, and a desk against the opposite wall. Above the bed, a rustic crucifix hung alone.
God must be glorified in wealth, but man must praise Him in simplicity... he thought, recalling words he often told his hosts.
He knelt before the cross, gave thanks for his safe arrival, and began unpacking his bag. He was about to call Saul when something caught his attention—something that made his blood run cold.
Among the folds of his cassock was a small damp package, wrapped in crumpled paper.
— Someone tampered with this... — he murmured.
The paper crumbled in his fingers.
Then came the horror.
A piece of human tongue, still bloody, fell onto the bed.
The priest recoiled, gasping, his body losing strength.
His stomach churned violently. He rushed to the bathroom and vomited repeatedly, his face pale, sweat cold against his skin.
On his knees, he took a deep breath. Once. Twice. Three times.
When he managed to stand again, he returned to the room and stared at the package on the floor. A metal hook pierced the flesh, holding a plastic tag.
He cleaned it with a tissue.
The inscription appeared before his eyes:
"Tg 3:5–8"
A biblical reference.
The Epistle of James.
A chill ran down his spine. The words of Cardinal Josefo echoed in his mind:
The devil is God's ape... he imitates Him, parodies Him, and cloaks himself in sacred symbolism...
Raphaniè opened the Bible. The verses seemed to burn in his hands:
So also the tongue is a small member, yet it boasts of great things... Consider how great a forest is set ablaze by such a small fire! The tongue is a fire... a world of unrighteousness... full of deadly poison...
The message was clear.
This was not merely a threat—it was a ritualistic sign, a declaration of war.
He reread the passage eight times, trying to decipher its symbolism. At last, he understood: the servants of the Beast were moving. Just as the Church maintained a brotherhood of exorcists to foresee demonic attacks, there were also dark brotherhoods devoted to spreading chaos and profaning the sacred.
Fear gave way to determination. He did not fear demons—he had learned to face them, even to provoke them. His tongue was his weapon, his word, his sword.
But now, someone had returned the symbol of his power—mutilated.
A deep shiver ran through his body as he grasped the magnitude of the threat. That piece of flesh was not symbolic—it was real. Someone had been mutilated, perhaps killed, to send him that warning.
If I am accused... if they find this, my mission in London will be over...
He took a deep breath, whispered a brief prayer for the victim's soul, and decided to act.
He wrapped toilet paper around his hands, picked up the package, and threw it into the toilet.
The sound of the flush echoed like a profane psalm.
Then he wiped the blood from the floor with a damp cloth, scrubbing until the last trace disappeared. He would still have to wash one of his cassocks—the blood had splattered the hem.
He checked his watch and realized he was late.
He left the garment soaking in the sink, locked the room, and walked toward the entrance of Temple Church.
Outside, the cold London night wind struck his face, and Raphaniè understood, with the clarity of a man who had already stared evil in the eyes:
The battle had only just begun.