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Selene looks up from her phone, her brow furrowed. "I don't know what to think anymore, Niamh. This is way out of my depth." She pauses, considering the weight of her next words. "But if this medallion and these relics share the same script, there has to be a connection. Maybe Sofia stumbled upon it, too."
I glance back at the pillar, the silent stone sentinel that seems to stand as a gateway to deeper mysteries. Sofia had leaned against this very pillar, possibly contemplating the same enigmatic connections that now lay before us. What had she known? What had she uncovered that might have led to her untimely demise?
"Selene, what if this isn't just about political games or the mafia? What if Sofia was onto something... bigger?" The words feel absurd as they escape my lips, but the day’s discoveries have been anything but ordinary.
Selene shakes her head, a gesture not of denial but of dawning realization. "We need to dig deeper into this. Enochian, John Dee, these artifacts... there's a story here, one that no one has pieced together yet." She snaps a few photos of the tablets and the medallion, her mind already racing through the implications.
I nod, my thoughts swirling. Magic doesn't exist in the world as I was taught to understand it, a world of clear rules and tangible truths. Yet, here in the shadows of history, surrounded by relics of a man who believed he could speak with angels, I can't help but feel that some mysteries defy clear explanations.
As Selene dives deeper into her phone, scouring the internet for every scrap of information on Enochian and its mysteries, I stand there, between the echoes of the past and the whispers of something inexplicable. This journey started with Sofia, but now it stretches into realms neither of us could have anticipated. My heart races as I realize that this investigation might change everything I thought I knew about the world.
"Let's take everything we've found here and go over it tonight," I suggest, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "Every detail could be crucial."
Selene nods, snapping out of her digital dive. "Yes, let's do that. We're in this deep, might as well see where it leads."
We leave the museum with more questions than answers, the weight of the unknown pressing heavily upon us. But within me, a flame of curiosity is kindled, fueled by the possibility that in this vast, mysterious universe, there are indeed things that cannot be fully explained. And perhaps, just perhaps, we are on the verge of uncovering one of them.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Diarmuid
THE SHARP BITE of winter dances along my hands as I push open the wrought-iron gate of St. Gertrude’s private courtyard garden. It's a sanctuary, not just for prayer but for decisions darker than the clergy would endorse. The notice that flipped today’s agenda on its head had come by courier just hours after I checked in at the Silent Prince, my usual haunt when matters in Dublin call me back from my less publicized endeavors.
Some brazen mafia family from Limerick, new players on the scene, decided it was their turn to try selling arms in my Dublin. My men, fiercely loyal hounds, were ready to tear through the streets and launch a full-scale assault on these would-be invaders. But those days of immediate bloodshed are relics—or at least, they're supposed to be. We plan, we cover up, we strategize.
The messages we sent back were cold, hostile in their politeness. "Dublin is not open for new business," they read, a warning wrapped in formality. Deals were put on the table, but nothing that would lose us territory. The O’Sullivans hadn’t ceded ground in three generations; this wasn’t going to be the day that changed.
“They are testing the waters,” Allen had murmured earlier, his eyes scanning the lines of text for anything we might have missed. “Without a named, official head of the O’Sullivan family, they think they can encroach on your territory.”
Walking through the sanctuary now, past the empty pews that echo with hollow promises of redemption, I can’t help but scoff. I’ve been here, on my knees, praying to a god who never seemed to listen, not when bullets tore through my flesh, not when my own blood pooled around me, slick and accusing.
If God won’t save you, then you damn well must make yourself a King.
Usually, when I return to my sanctuary, the presence of my two Brides were enough to shrink any problem to a manageable size. When I walked back from the Silent Prince with this in mind, though, that didn’t happen. The courier's sudden appearance, hastily remounting his bicycle, snapped me back into the moment. I flicked my fingers—a simple gesture he recognized immediately. He scrambled over, slightly breathless as he handed me the message.
No words, just a symbol—a hand with a crown in the palm. The message was clear. I had been summoned. That’s what led me to St. Gertrude’s.
Inside, the sanctuary is quiet except for the hum of a vacuum cleaner. A woman, her back to me, works diligently over the carpet. She senses my presence, straightening up to look at me before nodding toward the left side of the sanctuary. That gesture, simple and direct, tells me all I need to know about where I need to go next. I nod in thanks, my mind already racing through the possibilities of what awaits.
To my left, the stained-glass windows cast colorful patterns on the stone floor, light streaming through scenes of biblical triumphs and tragedies, a reminder of the eternal battles between good and evil. I turn right instead, heading for a less conspicuous part of the church.
The hallway is quieter, the sacred murals and the smell of old wood filling the air as I move toward the offices and the rectory beyond. But my destination is nearer; a discreet door to the right, leading to the private courtyard.
As I step through the doorway, I’m met with the sight of two figures, their forms draped in robes, ostensibly busy dusting the decorative sconces that line the walls. To an untrained eye, they appear simply as part of the church’s staff, blending seamlessly into the background of this sacred place. But I know better. The subtle way the fabric of their robes shifts reveals all I need to know—slits at the waist, cleverly concealed, designed for quick access to hidden weapons. They don’t acknowledge my presence, but I sense their awareness like a tangible thing in the air.
In the private courtyard, the ambiance shifts starkly. The lush greens of summer have surrendered to the browns and blacks of the impending November, a stark reminder of the seasons changing, much like the loyalties of men. It's too late in the year for planting or pruning; yet there's activity here, misplaced and telling.
Victor Madigan bends intently over some flowering bushes protected by a tarp, his fingers working soil that hasn’t yet succumbed to winter's chill. Around him, others mimic his actions, but their awkward movements betray them. They aren't gardeners any more than those figures were mere cleaners.
Victor doesn’t rise or even turn at my approach. His back to me, the vulnerability of his exposed neck is almost inviting. My gaze lingers there briefly before drifting to the assortment of gardening tools scattered carelessly by his side—a collection of potential weapons or tools for burial.
The thought flits across my mind with disturbing ease—a fleeting, dark whisper that I could end it all right here. How simple it would be to pick up a spade, the heft of it reassuring in my grip, and step forward—just a few paces, a swift, silent stride, and then a quick, forceful motion. A life could be snuffed out just beneath these sacred arches.
The vivid image unfolds in my head: the sharp, clean plunge into the back of Victor's neck, severing the spinal cord, rendering him helpless as his brain screams commands into a void of unresponsive nerves. The horror in his eyes, wide and uncomprehending, as his body betrays him. Then, with a cold precision, the violent crushing of bone under heel, a gruesome punctuation to a silent exclamation.
I shudder, pushing the thought away as quickly as it comes. If such thoughts were visible, if the people around me could glimpse the shadowed corners of my mind, I'd be dead. Dead and buried right here in this garden. Come spring, flowers would bloom over my grave, a riot of color fed by my decay, as Victor parades his next protégé through this garden of death.
Victor's voice pulls me back from these dark musings. He bends down, picking up a hand trowel and working at something buried in the soil, his back still vulnerably turned to me. "Too many people assume gardens only need tending when they are beautiful," he says, his voice light, almost contemplative.
