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Taking a deep breath, he gazed up at the moon through the oculus above. Then he began to speak.

All great truths are simple.

Mal’akh had learned that long ago.

The solution that Peter Solomon was now explaining was so graceful and pure that Mal’akh was sure that it

could only be true. Incredibly, the solution to the pyramid’s final code was far simpler than he had ever

imagined.

The Lost Word was right before my eyes.

In an instant, a bright ray of light pierced the murkiness of the history and myth surrounding the Lost Word.

As promised, the Lost Word was indeed written in an ancient language and bore mystical power in every

philosophy, religion, and science ever known to man. Alchemy, astrology, Kabbalah, Christianity, Buddhism,

Rosicrucianism, Freemasonry, astronomy, physics, Noetics . . .

Standing now in this initiation chamber atop the great pyramid of Heredom, Mal’akh gazed upon the treasure

he had sought all these years, and he knew he could not have prepared himself more perfectly.

Soon I am complete.

The Lost Word is found.

In Kalorama Heights, a lone CIA agent stood amid a sea of garbage that he had dumped out of the trash bins

that had been found in the garage.

“Ms. Kaye?” he said, speaking to Sato’s analyst on the phone. “Good thinking to search his garbage. I think I

just found something.”

Inside the house, Katherine Solomon was feeling stronger with every passing moment. The infusion of

lactated Ringer’s solution had successfully raised her blood pressure and quelled her throbbing headache.

She was resting now, seated in the dining room, with explicit instructions to remain still. Her nerves felt

frayed, and she was increasingly anxious for news about her brother.

Where is everybody? The CIA’s forensics team had not yet arrived, and the agent who had stayed behind was

still off searching the premises. Bellamy had been sitting with her in the dining room, still wrapped in a foil

blanket, but he, too, had wandered off to look for any information that might help the CIA save Peter.

Unable to sit idly, Katherine pulled herself to her feet, teetered, and then inched slowly toward the living

room. She found Bellamy in the study. The Architect was standing at an open drawer, his back to her,

apparently too engrossed in its contents to hear her enter.

She walked up behind him. “Warren?”

The old man lurched and turned, quickly shutting the drawer with his hip. His face was lined with shock and

grief, his cheeks streaked with tears.

“What’s wrong?!” She glanced down at the drawer. “What is it?”

Bellamy seemed unable to speak. He had the look of a man who had just seen something he deeply wished

he had not.

“What’s in the drawer?” she demanded.

Bellamy’s tear-filled eyes held hers for a long, sorrowful moment. Finally he spoke. “You and I wondered

why . . . why this man seemed to hate your family.”

Katherine’s brow furrowed. “Yes?”

“Well . . .” Bellamy’s voice caught. “I just found the answer.”

CHAPTER 119

In the chamber at the top of the House of the Temple, the one who called himself Mal’akh stood before the

great altar and gently massaged the virgin skin atop his head. Verbum significatium, he chanted in

preparation. Verbum omnificum. The final ingredient had been found at last.

The most precious treasures are often the simplest.

Above the altar, wisps of fragrant smoke now swirled, billowing up from the censer. The suffumigations

ascended through the shaft of moonlight, clearing a channel skyward through which a liberated soul could

travel freely.

The time had come.

Mal’akh retrieved the vial of Peter’s darkened blood and uncorked it. With his captive looking on, he dipped

the nib of the crow’s feather into the crimson tincture and raised it to the sacred circle of flesh atop his head.

He paused a moment . . . thinking of how long he had waited for this night. His great transformation was

finally at hand. When the Lost Word is written on the mind of man, he is then ready to receive unimaginable

power. Such was the ancient promise of apotheosis. So far, mankind had been unable to realize that promise,

and Mal’akh had done what he could to keep it that way.

With a steady hand, Mal’akh touched the nib of the feather to his skin. He needed no mirror, no assistance,

only his sense of touch, and his mind’s eye. Slowly, meticulously, he began inscribing the Lost Word inside

the circular ouroboros on his scalp.

Peter Solomon looked on with an expression of horror.

When Mal’akh finished, he closed his eyes, set down the feather, and let the air out of his lungs entirely. For

the first time in his life, he felt a sensation he had never known.

I am complete.

I am at one.

Mal’akh had worked for years on the artifact that was his body, and now, as he neared his moment of final

transformation, he could feel every line that had ever been inscribed on his flesh. I am a true masterpiece.

Perfect and complete.

“I gave you what you asked for.” Peter’s voice intruded. “Send help to Katherine. And stop that file.”

Mal’akh opened his eyes and smiled. “You and I are not quite finished.” He turned to the altar and picked up

the sacrificial knife, running his finger across the sleek iron blade. “This ancient knife was commissioned by

God,” he said, “for use in a human sacrifice. You recognized it earlier, no?”

Solomon’s gray eyes were like stone. “It is unique, and I’ve heard the legend.”

“Legend? The account appears in Holy Scripture. You don’t believe it’s true?”

Peter just stared.

Mal’akh had spent a fortune locating and obtaining this artifact. Known as the Akedah knife, it had been

crafted over three thousand years ago from an iron meteorite that had fallen to earth. Iron from heaven, as the

early mystics called it. It was believed to be the exact knife used by Abraham at the Akedah—the near

sacrifice of his son Isaac on Mount Moriah—as depicted in Genesis. The knife’s astounding history included

possession by popes, Nazi mystics, European alchemists, and private collectors.

They protected and admired it, Mal’akh thought, but none dared unleash its true power by using it for its

real purpose. Tonight, the Akedah knife would fulfill its destiny.

The Akedah had always been sacred in Masonic ritual. In the very first degree, Masons celebrated “the most

august gift ever offered to God . . . the submission of Abraham to the volitions of the supreme being by

proffering Isaac, his firstborn . . .”

The weight of the blade felt exhilarating in Mal’akh’s hand as he crouched down and used the freshly

sharpened knife to sever the ropes binding Peter to his wheelchair. The bonds fell to the floor.

Peter Solomon winced in pain as he attempted to shift his cramped limbs. “Why are you doing this to me?

What do you think this will accomplish?”

“You of all people should understand,” Mal’akh replied. “You study the ancient ways. You know that the

power of the mysteries relies on sacrifice . . . on releasing a human soul from its body. It has been this way

since the beginning.”

“You know nothing of sacrifice,” Peter said, his voice seething with pain and loathing.

Excellent, Mal’akh thought. Feed your hatred. It will only make this easier.

Mal’akh’s empty stomach growled as he paced before his captive. “There is enormous power in the shedding

of human blood. Everyone understood that, from the early Egyptians, to the Celtic Druids, to the Chinese, to

the Aztecs. There is magic in human sacrifice, but modern man has become weak, too fearful to make true

offerings, too frail to give the life that is required for spiritual transformation. The ancient texts are clear,

though. Only by offering what is most sacred can man access the ultimate power.”

“You consider me a sacred offering?”

Mal’akh now laughed out loud. “You really don’t understand yet, do you?”

Peter gave him an odd look.

“Do you know why I have a deprivation tank in my home?” Mal’akh placed his hands on his hips and flexed

his elaborately decorated body, which was still covered only by a loincloth. “I have been practicing . . .

preparing . . . anticipating the moment when I am only mind . . . when I am released from this mortal shell . .

. when I have offered up this beautiful body to the gods in sacrifice. I am the precious one! I am the pure

white lamb!”

Peter’s mouth fell open but no words came out.

“Yes, Peter, a man must offer to the gods that which he holds most dear. His purest white dove . . . his most

precious and worthy offering. You are not precious to me. You are not a worthy offering.” Mal’akh glared at

him. “Don’t you see? You are not the sacrifice, Peter . . . I am. Mine is the flesh that is the offering. I am the

gift. Look at me. I have prepared, made myself worthy for my final journey. I am the gift!”

Peter remained speechless.

“The secret is how to die,” Mal’akh now said. “Masons understand that.” He pointed to the altar. “You revere

the ancient truths, and yet you are cowards. You understand the power of sacrifice and yet you keep a safe

distance from death, performing your mock murders and bloodless death rituals. Tonight, your symbolic altar

will bear witness to its true power . . . and its actual purpose.”

Mal’akh reached down and grasped Peter Solomon’s left hand, pressing the handle of the Akedah knife into

his palm. The left hand serves the darkness. This, too, had been planned. Peter would have no choice in the

matter. Mal’akh could fathom no sacrifice more potent and symbolic than one performed on this altar, by this

man, with this knife, plunged into the heart of an offering whose mortal flesh was wrapped like a gift in a

shroud of mystical symbols.

With this offering of self, Mal’akh would establish his rank in the hierarchy of demons. Darkness and blood

were where the true power lay. The ancients knew this, the Adepts choosing sides consistent with their

individual natures. Mal’akh had chosen sides wisely. Chaos was the natural law of the universe. Indifference

was the engine of entropy. Man’s apathy was the fertile ground in which the dark spirits tended their seeds.

I have served them, and they will receive me as a god.

Peter did not move. He simply stared down at the ancient knife gripped in his hand.

“I will you,” Mal’akh taunted. “I am a willing sacrifice. Your final role has been written. You will transform

me. You will liberate me from my body. You will do this, or you will lose your sister and your brotherhood.

You will truly be all alone.” He paused, smiling down at his captive. “Consider this your final punishment.”

Peter’s eyes rose slowly to meet Mal’akh’s. “Killing you? A punishment? Do you think I will hesitate? You

murdered my son. My mother. My entire family.”

“No!” Mal’akh exploded with a force that startled even himself. “You are wrong! I did not murder your

family! You did! It was you who made the choice to leave Zachary in prison! And from there, the wheels

were in motion! You killed your family, Peter, not me!”

Peter’s knuckles turned white, his fingers clenching the knife in rage. “You know nothing of why I left

Zachary in prison.”

“I know everything!” Mal’akh fired back. “I was there. You claimed you were trying to help him. Were you

trying to help him when you offered him the choice between wealth or wisdom? Were you trying to help him

when you gave him the ultimatum to join the Masons? What kind of father gives a child the choice between

‘wealth or wisdom’ and expects him to know how to handle it! What kind of father leaves his own son in a

prison instead of flying him home to safety!” Mal’akh now moved in front of Peter and crouched down,

placing his tattooed face only inches from his face. “But most important . . . what kind of father can look his

own son in the eyes . . . even after all these years . . . and not even recognize him!”

Mal’akh’s words echoed for several seconds in the stone chamber.

Then silence.

In the abrupt stillness, Peter Solomon seemed to have been jolted from his trance. His face clouded now with

a visage of total incredulity.

Yes, Father. It’s me. Mal’akh had waited years for this moment . . . to take revenge on the man who had

abandoned him . . . to stare into those gray eyes and speak the truth that had been buried all these years. Now

the moment was here, and he spoke slowly, longing to watch the full weight of his words gradually crush

Peter Solomon’s soul. “You should be happy, Father. Your prodigal son has returned.”

Peter’s face was now as pale as death.

Mal’akh savored every moment. “My own father made the decision to leave me in prison . . . and in that

instant, I vowed that he had rejected me for the last time. I was no longer his son. Zachary Solomon ceased to

exist.”

Two glistening teardrops welled suddenly in his father’s eyes, and Mal’akh thought they were the most

beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Peter choked back tears, staring up at Mal’akh’s face as if seeing him for the very first time.

“All the warden wanted was money,” Mal’akh said, “but you refused. It never occurred to you, though, that

my money was just as green as yours. The warden did not care who paid him, only that he was paid. When I

offered to pay him handsomely, he selected a sickly inmate about my size, dressed him in my clothes, and

beat him beyond all recognition. The photos you saw . . . and the sealed casket you buried . . . they were not

mine. They belonged to a stranger.”

Peter’s tear-streaked face contorted now with anguish and disbelief. “Oh my God . . . Zachary.”

“Not anymore. When Zachary walked out of prison, he was transformed.”

His adolescent physique and childlike face had drastically mutated when he flooded his young body with

experimental growth hormones and steroids. Even his vocal cords had been ravaged, transforming his boyish

voice into a permanent whisper.

Zachary became Andros.

Andros became Mal’akh.

And tonight . . . Mal’akh will become his greatest incarnation of all.

At that moment in Kalorama Heights, Katherine Solomon stood over the open desk drawer and gazed down

at what could be described only as a fetishist’s collection of old newspaper articles and photographs.

“I don’t understand,” she said, turning to Bellamy. “This lunatic was obviously obsessed with my family,

but—”

“Keep going . . .” urged Bellamy, taking a seat and still looking deeply shaken.