In the shadowed depths of the Vatican Secret Archives, archaeologist Marcus Russo, Father Michael Dominic, and journalist Hana Sinclair uncover a chilling artifact: a centuries-old music box bound with forgotten alchemical symbols. Linked to a mysterious 18th-century composer, Vincenzo Malvagio, the box contains a melody unlike any other—a composition rumored to summon forces beyond comprehension. When the music plays, reality begins to distort, and a dark power stirs.
Their investigation leads them from abandoned Swiss monasteries to secret alchemical guilds and a buried Vatican conspiracy. They learn the symphony was never just music—it was a ritual, a key designed to unlock something ancient and terrifying. With each note, unexplainable phenomena ripple outward, infecting minds and warping reality across Europe’s cathedrals.
As the melody spreads beyond the Vatican, imprinting itself on all who hear it, the trio races to uncover the last movements of Malvagio’s lost composition. But the symphony has a will of its own—a force both intelligent and malevolent. Now, with the world tilting toward chaos, they must find a way to silence the music before it reaches its apocalyptic crescendo.
Because this is no ordinary song.
This is the Devil’s Symphony.
In the shadowed depths of the Vatican Secret Archives, archaeologist Marcus Russo, Father Michael Dominic, and journalist Hana Sinclair uncover a chilling artifact: a centuries-old music box bound with forgotten alchemical symbols. Linked to a mysterious 18th-century composer, Vincenzo Malvagio, the box contains a melody unlike any other—a composition rumored to summon forces beyond comprehension. When the music plays, reality begins to distort, and a dark power stirs.
Their investigation leads them from abandoned Swiss monasteries to secret alchemical guilds and a buried Vatican conspiracy. They learn the symphony was never just music—it was a ritual, a key designed to unlock something ancient and terrifying. With each note, unexplainable phenomena ripple outward, infecting minds and warping reality across Europe’s cathedrals.
As the melody spreads beyond the Vatican, imprinting itself on all who hear it, the trio races to uncover the last movements of Malvagio’s lost composition. But the symphony has a will of its own—a force both intelligent and malevolent. Now, with the world tilting toward chaos, they must find a way to silence the music before it reaches its apocalyptic crescendo.
Because this is no ordinary song.
This is the Devil’s Symphony.
Appenzell, Switzerland - 1775
A bitter winter storm raged outside the isolated château at the foot of the Alpstein mountains, its howling winds battering the ancient stone walls. Within, the air was heavy with the acrid scent of burning herbs and the pungent tang of molten metals. The room was dimly lit, its only illumination coming from dozens of black candles arranged in a wide circle, their flickering flames casting eerie, shifting shadows on the vaulted ceiling.
In the center of the room stood Vincenzo Malvagio, an elderly man of unearthly composure, his gaunt face framed by long, jet-black hair streaked with silver. A crimson robe hung from his shoulders, embroidered with arcane symbols that seemed to ripple in the candlelight. Around him knelt eleven figures, similarly robed, their heads bowed as they chanted in a guttural, unnatural tongue that resonated with the stones of the château itself.
Before Malvagio, on an intricately carved oak table, sat an object of unparalleled craftsmanship: a music box, unlike anything the world had ever seen. It was roughly the size of a small shoebox, though it seemed to swallow more air than it displaced. Its casing was forged from a curious alloy, the dark metal veined with gold and silver, and adorned with engraved sigils of unknown origin. The lid featured a mosaic of tiny gemstones arranged to depict a serpent devouring its own tail—the Ouroboros, a symbol of eternity and the cycle of creation and destruction.
Malvagio’s thin hands moved deftly over the box as he whispered incantations, his voice barely audible over the chanting. Beside him, an iron brazier smoked, filled with a blend of rare herbs: dried belladonna, mandrake root, and wolfsbane. Their smoke coiled upwards, merging with the fragrance of frankincense and myrrh, creating a cloying fog that seemed to thicken the very air.
The music box had taken Malvagio over forty years to create, each component meticulously crafted under conditions dictated by forbidden texts. The tiny gears and springs were alloyed with metals harvested during lunar eclipses, and the box’s mechanisms were lubricated with oil infused with the essence of nightshade. The heart of the box uniquely employed crystals and jewels of specific sizes and characters to emanate sounds with clarity and precision. Below them, a spindle with a scrolled musical score awaited activation. A single piece of black onyx, its surface carved with a sigil said to bind infernal forces, served as the winding key to begin the movement of the spindle.
Tonight, the final step in its creation would take place.
Malvagio raised his hands, and the chanting ceased. The room plunged into a pregnant silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the brazier’s embers. His voice rang out, clear and commanding, as he addressed the assembled cultists.
“Tonight, we summon the eternal power. Tonight, we defy the heavens and bring forth a melody that will resonate with the forces of creation and destruction.”
He gestured to the music box. “Behold, the Vessel. Through it, we shall transcend the mortal plane and harness the song of the eternal. Prepare yourselves, for the symphony begins.”
The cultists resumed their chant, louder and more fervent, their voices intertwining in a discordant harmony that seemed to make the air itself vibrate. Malvagio retrieved a vial of thick, crimson liquid—blood from a freshly slaughtered black goat—and dipped his thumb in it. He smeared the viscous red liquid across his lower lips, symbolic of the sacrifices to come.
He wound the onyx key with deliberate precision, each turn accompanied by an almost imperceptible hum, as if the box were awakening. When the key reached its limit, he stepped back and reached for an ornate baton, then raised his arms high.
“Now, witness the birth of The Purification Symphony!”
With a sharp click, the music box began to play.
At first, the sound was faint, almost gentle: a single, haunting note that lingered in the air like a ghostly sigh. Then, a second note joined it, and another, until a full melody emerged. The tune was unlike anything human ears had ever heard. It was achingly beautiful yet profoundly unsettling, a harmony of sweetness and malice, as if an angel and a demon were locked in a duet.
The effect on the room was immediate. The cultists, still chanting, faltered as their voices wavered. Some clutched their heads, as though the sound was burrowing into their minds. Others began to tremble, their chants dissolving into gasps and cries.
The candles’ flames flickered wildly, casting the room into moments of near-darkness. Then, one by one, the flames extinguished, leaving only the glow emanating from the music box itself. The box pulsed with an unnatural light, shifting between hues of deep crimson and pallid green. The air grew heavier, charged with a dark energy that pressed down on everyone in the room.
A low, resonant hum filled the space, growing louder and deeper until it became a physical force. The walls of the château groaned as though under immense pressure, and cracks began to spiderweb across the stone floor.
One of the cultists, a young woman with fear etched into her features, let out a scream and fled toward the door. She barely made it three steps before an unseen force flung her backward, slamming her into the far wall. Her body crumpled to the ground, motionless.
Another cultist collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his face as he muttered prayers in a desperate attempt to ward off the growing darkness. The others fared no better. Some clawed at their robes, as if trying to escape an invisible grasp; others fell unconscious, overcome by the oppressive energy.
Malvagio alone remained unaffected. He stood motionless, arms outstretched, baton held high, his eyes fixed on the music box, a twisted smile playing on his lips.
“Do you feel it?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of the melody. “The power of creation. The breath of destruction. It is ours.”
As the melody neared a crescendo, the music box began to vibrate violently. The glow intensified, becoming blinding. The air was filled with an ear-splitting sound, a dissonant chord that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality itself.
One of the cultists, an older man with trembling hands, crawled toward Malvagio. His voice, weak and broken, carried a note of desperate pleading.
“You must destroy it,” he croaked. “This… this is not purification. It is damnation.”
Malvagio looked down at him, his expression devoid of sympathy. “You fear what you do not understand, Lucius. But I? I have seen the future. And it sings.”
Then, with a deafening crack, the light from the box exploded outward, engulfing the room. For a brief moment, everything was silent and still. When the light faded, the room was left in utter darkness, save for the faint, residual glow of the box.
The surviving cultists lay scattered across the floor, unconscious or too terrified to move. The temperature had plummeted; frost coated the walls and the breaths of the remaining few hung in the frigid air.
Malvagio lowered his hands and stepped toward the music box, which now emitted a soft, steady hum. He picked it up carefully, cradling it as one might a newborn child. A faint smile played on his lips as he surveyed the devastation.
“It is done,” he murmured. “The melody lives.”
One of the cultists, an older man with trembling hands, crawled toward Malvagio. His voice, weak and broken, carried a note of desperate pleading.
“You must destroy it,” he croaked. “This… this is not power. It is damnation.”
Malvagio looked down at him, his expression devoid of sympathy. “You fear what you do not understand, Lucius. But I? I have seen the future. And it sings.”
Then, with a deafening crack, the light from the box exploded outward, engulfing the room. For a brief moment, the music paused, and everything was still. When the light faded, the room was left in utter darkness, save for the faint, residual glow of the box. Shadowed forms swirled in the gloom, ready, anxious, to burst forth into the world, as the music swelled once again and reached for its final climactic chords.
Malvagio’s eyes widened, and he reached a trembling hand toward the miracle music box of his own creation, picked it up carefully, cradling it as one might a newborn child. He looked at his convulsing and crippled followers, at the demon shadows awaiting to enter at the final score's chords, his hand clutching the box, his mind grasping at a realization.
Moments later, outside, the storm continued to rage, its howling winds carrying the faintest echo of the melody—a sound that would linger in the world, waiting for the next time it would be played.
CHAPTER 1
Present Day
The heavy oak door groaned on its ancient hinges as Marcus Russo stepped into the dimly lit chamber deep within the Vatican’s Secret Archives. The subterranean room, sealed since the 18th century, carried an almost sacred stillness, its air thick with the scent of centuries-old parchment, decayed leather, and stone dust. The faint glow of Marcus’s lantern cast long, flickering shadows on the walls, illuminating rows of untouched shelves laden with forgotten relics.
“Dr. Russo, are you sure about this?” Gideon Dandolo, a young archivist, asked nervously as he trailed behind Marcus. His voice wavered, and he clutched a clipboard to his chest like a shield.
Marcus didn’t respond immediately. His attention was focused on the intricacies of the room. The architecture was unlike other parts of the Archives, with carved pillars featuring symbols and sigils he recognized as protective wards. The air felt heavier here, as if the room itself were holding its breath.
“This room hasn’t been opened for over two hundred years,” Marcus finally said, his voice low but steady. He pointed to the door’s rusted iron mechanism. “Sealed by papal decree. It’s rare to find something this well-preserved.”
Gideon nodded, though his wide eyes darted nervously to the dark corners of the room. “The records suggest this chamber was closed during the papacy of Pius VI. They described it as… dangerous.”
Marcus’s brow furrowed as he ran a gloved hand over the closest shelf. The layer of dust was thick, but the objects beneath it were intact. Marcus had been hired as the Chief Archeologist for the Vatican, which had taken him to deserts and mountains and valleys throughout the world in search of Church artifacts. But he’d recently realized that unearthing the myriad objects already secured, but unrecorded, in the Vatican Archives to be just as intensive and enlightening as exploring caches in caves or digging for ruins in sand. Among the artifacts before him now were aged tomes with cracked spines, strange metal instruments, and ornate chests. The sigils on the walls confirmed his suspicions: this was a repository for items deemed heretical or too volatile for the outside world.
“Artifacts linked to heretical movements,” Marcus murmured, mostly to himself. He brushed the dust from the cover of a leather-bound ledger. Its surface bore an embossed fleur-de-lis intertwined with an inverted cross. “The question is, why weren’t these items destroyed instead of hidden?”
Gideon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe they feared destroying them would unleash… something worse?”
Marcus didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The thought had already crossed his mind.
Marcus continued his exploration, his tall, broad-shouldered frame casting an imposing silhouette against the ancient walls. At fifty-three, his once jet-black hair had surrendered to distinguished silver at the temples, framing a face weathered by decades of fieldwork across five continents. Deep-set brown eyes, sharp and observant beneath thick brows, missed nothing as they scanned the chamber. His Roman ancestry was evident in his aquiline nose and strong jawline, though years of academic intensity had etched permanent lines around his eyes and mouth. Unlike many of his colleagues who preferred the comfort of university lecture halls, Marcus's sun-darkened skin and calloused hands spoke of an archaeologist who believed knowledge was found in dirt and stone, not just in books.
“Catalog everything carefully,” he instructed. “Photographs, descriptions, the works. Nothing leaves this room until we’ve assessed it properly. Understood?”
Gideon nodded, setting down his clipboard and snapping on a pair of gloves. But as they worked in silence, Marcus couldn’t shake the unease growing in the pit of his stomach. This was no ordinary chamber. It felt alive, as if it were watching them.
Hours passed as Marcus and Gideon meticulously examined the artifacts. Most were what Marcus had expected: esoteric texts, forbidden relics, and alchemical tools. But as Gideon opened a small, unassuming chest tucked in the far corner of the room, he let out a sharp gasp.
“Dr. Russo,” Gideon called, his voice tinged with awe and unease.
Marcus turned, his lantern casting light over the object Gideon held aloft. It was an ancient music box unlike any Marcus had ever seen. The dark metal casing gleamed faintly, etched with intricate Latin inscriptions that seemed to writhe in the flickering light. Interspersed with the inscriptions were occult symbols Marcus instantly recognized: sigils of binding and protection, alongside others whose meaning eluded him.
“Handle that gently,” Marcus instructed, swiftly crossing the room. His tone startled Gideon, who froze mid-motion.
“It’s beautiful,” Gideon murmured, his fingers tracing the delicate carvings. “And these markings… they look like some kind of alchemical formula.”
Marcus’s unease deepened as he leaned closer. “Those markings aren’t just alchemical. They’re ceremonial. And this isn’t just a music box—it’s a vessel.” Just then a call came to Marcus through his earpiece, which he pressed to his ear. The reception in the archives for phone signals was poor at best.
In the meantime, Gideon’s curiosity outpaced his caution. Before Marcus turned back and could stop him, the archivist twisted the onyx key embedded in the side of the box. An acute click echoed through the chamber, followed by the first notes of a melody.
It was unlike anything Marcus had ever heard. The music was hauntingly beautiful, each note achingly precise, yet there was an unsettling undercurrent to it, a discordant whisper that seemed to crawl just beneath his skin. The melody filled the room, vibrating in the very air around them. By then the call on his earpiece had already cut out, and he turned to the archivist.
“Gideon, stop that… Now!” Marcus ordered, his voice rising. But Gideon didn’t respond. He fixed his wide eyes on the box, his expression one of rapture and terror.
The melody grew louder, its resonance almost palpable. Marcus felt the hair on his arms stand on end, and an inexplicable chill swept through the chamber.
“Gideon!” Marcus shouted, shaking the young man’s shoulder. The archivist let out a strangled gasp and crumpled to the ground, and the music box slipped from his grasp and landed on the cold stone floor. As it struck the hard surface, the melody ceased abruptly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Surprisingly, it appeared unscathed, which Marcus couldn’t say for his young helper.
Marcus knelt beside Gideon, who was pale and trembling. His lips moved, mumbling incoherent phrases. Marcus leaned closer, catching fragments: “Shadows… watching… the melody… devours…”
A flicker of movement caught Marcus’s eye. He looked up abruptly. The chamber, which had been still and silent moments before, now pulsed with an unnatural energy. The lantern’s light flickered, casting shadows that danced and twisted across the walls. For an instant, Marcus could have sworn the shadows were reaching toward him.
The temperature in the room plummeted. A sudden gust of wind blew through the chamber, though there were no windows or openings. The sigils carved into the walls seemed to glow faintly, their protective power strained against the growing darkness.
His instincts screamed at him to leave—to get this cursed artifact as far from the Archives as possible. Grabbing the music box, Marcus wrapped it hastily in a cloth and shoved it into his satchel. He hauled Gideon to his feet, half-carrying the dazed archivist toward the chamber’s exit.
As they stumbled into the main hall of the Archives, the oppressive energy seemed to lift slightly, though Marcus’s unease only deepened. He fumbled for his cell phone, not trusting his earpiece this time, dialing Secretary of State Cardinal Severino with trembling fingers, hoping he could get through quickly.
“Your Eminence, I’m calling on a matter of some urgency,” Marcus said as soon as the call connected. “We’ve found something in the sealed chamber of the Archives. Something that may be dangerous.”
The cardinal’s voice was calm but firm. “What kind of something, Dr. Russo?”
Marcus glanced at the satchel slung over his shoulder, the faint weight of the music box pressing against him like a physical warning.
“A relic, possibly tied to occult practices,” he replied. “It’s already had… an effect on one of my team. I need your authorization to secure it immediately.”
After Marcus ended the call, he turned to Gideon, who was still pale but more alert. The young man’s eyes darted nervously around the room, and he whispered a single, chilling phrase: “The shadows are awake.”
Marcus’s grip on the satchel tightened. Whatever they had unearthed, it was far more than a relic. And he knew, deep in his gut, that this was only the beginning.
First and foremost, a large thank you to Reedsy Discovery and Gary McAvoy for providing me with a copy of this publication, which allows me to provide you with an unbiased review.
Always a fan of Gary McAvoy and his work, I jumped at the chance to read the second novel in the Vatican Archaeology Thriller series. McAvoy uses his talents to highlight some great ideas and lesser-known finds, spinning them into a great story with much action and historical references. When a music box from centuries ago is found within the Vatican Secret Archives, its provenance and details are known to few. However, there is one man who is itching to get his hands on it, less for his melodious tunes and more to create havoc for many. It is up to a few dedicated individuals to keep the peace and prevent the winds of the supernatural from causing mayhem. McAvoy's ideas pull the reader in once again with this piece.
While the Vatican Secret Archives are home to a number of interesting items, archaeologist Marcus Russo, and archivist Father Michael Dominic are aware of a chamber that has been sealed for over two centuries. It is said to contain some highly troubling and sinister items, though it is baffling why they were not destroyed and simply left to gather dust. Alongside investigative reporter, Hana Sinclair, the others become aware of an old music box covered in ancient symbols tied to the art of alchemy. This box is said to trace its roots back to composer Vincenzo Malvagio and the tune it plays is a composition that is not only chilling, but is said to summon forces of a darker and more sinister nature. No wonder it was locked away and kept from view.
Hana and Marcus lead an investigation into the music box, as it is seen to cause much illness and trouble around the grounds of the Vatican. The search leads them to old Swiss monasteries, where the symphonic piece Malvagio had playing from the music box i more than simply a tune to captivate the ear, but part of a dark and troubling ritual that can summon supernatural beings. The tune can unlock terrifying ghosts and help fuel dark magic in ways that few in modern times could fathom. Minds are transfixed and people begin to act in ways that are highly troubling, even in front of Hana and Marcus.
The Vatican is soon not the only area infected with supernatural presences, but all across Europe, the phenomena continues. Malvagio's composition has a missing part and there is a man dedicated to locating it for his own benefit. How will Hana and Marcus handle Adrian Baumann, who will stop at nothing to secure all aspects of Malvagio's music? As the world tilts towards chaos, Hana and Marcus fight not only against time, but the swelling musical power the supernatural has, now that it is released from its confines. This is no piece of music to share with the world, but the Devil's Symphony, meant to summon demonic clouds to cover the world!
McAvoy uses new and intriguing techniques to lure the reader in once more!
While I have been enjoying the work of Gary McAvoy for a number of years, he never becomes too repetitive. The ideas are always building off one another, while never getting stale or too simplistic. The narrative pushes the reader to feel a part of the entire process, enveloping them as they journey deeper into what is going on. Chapters speed by and leave the reader needing to know more, as they uncover truths and fictions one could not have predicted. Characters flavour the story well and keep the reader on edge as they seek to comprehend how everyone fits together. The plot, while subtle to start, soon gains momentum and the reader finds themselves surrounded by great surprises and a thoroughly entertaining set of events. McAvoy has a knack for delivering a well-paced novel that never sheds too much light on fact and fiction until the final pages.
Kudos, Mr. McAvoy, for another gem in your collection of addictive novels!