That must be Luc Vennard.
"The time is at hand," he intoned in French. "As the sun reaches its zenith, the destruction wrought here will start. The screams of the dying, the rising souls of the dead, will carry you all upward to the next exultant stage of existence. You will become my dark angels as I claim my solar throne. I promise you: this is not the end, but only the beginning for us all. I must leave you now, but my chosen spiritual right hand will take my place and lead you out of the darkness and into the dawn of a new era." The man stepped aside, clearly planning to abandon his flock. From the way Vennard cast a glance toward the two armed guards, it seemed he wasn’t sticking around for the festivities and had arranged for escorts to guide him out of the catacombs-just in case any of the flock objected to his departure. She suspected the bank accounts of those gathered had been emptied into Vennard’s vaults, ready to finance his next venture, to spread more widely the Order of the Solar Temple-or perhaps to buy that new yacht he’s had his eye on.
Was he a cultist, a con artist, or merely a glorified serial killer?
From the vacuous sockets of the dead staring out at her from the nearby niche, she suspected the answer was all of the above.
Vennard waved the second man forward. In his midthirties, he wore street clothes, his face shining with a sheen of sweat, his eyes glassy from what appeared to be both drugs and adoration. Even without the photo that Claude had left in the hotel room, Seichan would have recognized the historian’s son-both from his patrician features and the aristocratic air he shared with his father. Seichan pictured Claude plying his son with tales of past noble titles and lost heritages, instilling in the boy the same sense of bitter entitlement that motivated himself. But while the father had sought solace in the embrace of history, it seemed his son had looked to the future, seeking his own path to that former glory.
And he’d found it here.
"Gabriel-like the angel that is your namesake- you will be transformed by blood and sacrifice into my warrior angel, the most exultant of my new heavenly legion. And your weapon will be a sword of fire." Vennard parted his cloak to reveal a steel short sword. It looked like an antique, a museum piece.
"Like you, this steel will soon burn with the energies of the sun’s furnace. But first that weapon must be forged, made ready for its transformation. It must be bloodied like all of you. This last death by your hand, this singular sacrifice, will herald the others to come.