Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

don’t think he’s real, that he’s some superstitious relic. Call it evil, bad karma, whatever. The name doesn't matter. What matters is that we don't let darkness eat us alive, from the inside out."
    She looked past him, lost in the warmth of his body. Here she was, playing analyst when her own head was cluttered. It was a miracle she hadn't gone over the edge months ago. She pictured Dr. Forrest's strangely earnest face, the woman unbuttoning her shirt to show the pentagram etched in her belly.
    "You're not alone, Julia," Dr. Forrest had said.
    She shuddered with the memory. How many women were out there thinking they were the brides of Satan? Were most of them willing, like Dr. Forrest, or were they like Julia, lost and scared and screaming as the panic and doubt ate them away from the inside out? Were Satanic sacrifices born or were they made?
    "You're not alone, Judas," Walter said.
    Julia jerked away from him, stood and fled to the door. " What did you say ?"
    Walter blinked, confused. "I didn't say anything."
    "Yes, you did. You said 'You're not alone, Judas.'"
    "What the hell?" His confusion turned to anger.
    She backed away another step, hand reaching for the door latch. "It was you. You took the ring, didn't you? You're the one who planted the pentagram drawing with 'Hello Jooolia' on it. And you messed with the clock. You had a key . An inside job."
    Walter stood and held out his hands. "I don't know what you're talking about. Don't flip out on me now, Julia. Please ."
    His wounded expression almost convinced her. Almost.
    Julia flung open the door and ran into the cold morning, through the trees and away from the cabin. She ran blindly, branches clawing at her face. She glanced back and saw Walter erupt from the cabin door, chasing her.
    "Jooolia," he called, but she didn't slow. Her heart hammered in her ears. Thoughts spilled out in jagged counterpoint to the rhythm of her legs.
    Walter. HE was the Creep. One of THEM, Satan’s sick little servants. He probably killed his wife himself and ripped out his unborn son as a token to his master.
    And stupid, gullible Julia Stone had fallen right in with him, had opened herself up and trusted him on the flimsiest of reasoning. She was nothing but the perfect victim, always had been and always would be. She might as well just drop to the ground and wait for Satan to come and do whatever he did with his brides, serve whatever his dark needs were.
    Her lungs burned with the coldness of the air. She headed down a slope between trees, slipped on some leaves and fell. She scrambled to her feet. She reached an outcropping of rocks and slithered between two slabs of granite. While resting, she strained her ears to listen for Walter, but all she could hear was her own frantic, ragged breath.
    Giant oaks and maples surrounded her, their gnarled branches reaching across the sky. The mountains were obscured, all signs of civilization lost in leaves and bark and laurel. This was the world of nature, the one that Satan ruled. He ruled the world of human nature, as well. He owned Julia. He owned them all.
    Surrender. Lie down. Let him have you.
    "He owns you, Julia," came Dr. Forrest's voice.
    Then, Snead: "Time for you to become the whore Judas Stone."
    Walter: "You're not alone, Judas."
    She clamped her hands over her ears but couldn't squeeze the voices from her brain. She staggered from the rocks, the sun crazy through the treetops, the mist of her breath making sinister shapes before her face. Satan owned it all .
    She closed her eyes, took a few more shambling steps, and fell again. The panic rose like fingers from black graves, twisting, clawing, impatient. When the fingers– his fingers–touched her, she couldn't even summon the strength to slap at them. They clutched her, tugged possessively.
    "Julia," it said.
    Something stirred in the dark corners of her mad house. That voice. Not Walter, not Snead, not Dr. Forrest. Not Satan.
    Mitchell?
    "Are you okay?"
    Her eyes snapped open, and it was Mitchell. His tie was askew, hair mussed, but he was Mitchell Austin, Attorney-at-Law, former fiancé and would-be rapist. The devil made the flesh.
    "Mitchell," was all she could gasp.
    "I saw him chasing you," he said. "Come on, get up. He'll see us."
    He pulled her to her feet. Julia wobbled and leaned against a tree. "How . . . how did you find me?"
    "Deed records." Mitchell came to her, and she couldn't will her legs into motion. He took her arm and led her toward a