Shadow Ritual Read Free

struggled to keep himself upright.
    “We were wrong. The devil does exist. Evil is here, among us, lurking deep in our consciousness, waiting to be released. It’s like a coiled snake or a malevolent brother bent on forcing out the password to a room filled with everything he’s been lusting for.”
    The youngest of the three, twenty-year-old Marek, turned to the third, Fernand, a retired administrative worker deported from Montluçon, France. “He won’t survive the night.”
    “I know. What can we do?”
    Henri slumped to the floor. Panting, he continued. “They woke up the ancient snake, the source of all evil. It gave them the seeds of hell. The fruit of the tree of knowledge has dropped to the ground. The seeds have sprouted everywhere.”
    Fernand pulled a bowl from under a cot. He dipped his fingers in the gray water to wet Henri’s lips.
    “Other demons will rise tomorrow. We will worship them. Evil wears many masks. It takes over because we are full of pride.”
    “What are you saying, brother? I don’t understand,” Marek said.
    Henri sniggered. “They went everywhere to find him, even the outer reaches of the deserts. But he was here the whole time. He was just waiting for us.”
    “His mind is going.”
    They heard boots stomping, and the barracks door swung open. Four men in green uniforms rushed toward them. All but one were wearing helmets. The one without the helmet brought down his heel and crushed Henri’s hand. The dying man cried out.
    “Take him away,” the torturer shouted.
    The soldiers grabbed Henri and lugged him out. The door slammed shut. The two remaining prisoners hurried to the grimy window.
    Henri was forced to kneel in front of the SS officer. Brandishing a metal-tipped cane, the officer turned toward the barracks and smirked at the two Frenchmen. He twirled the cane and slammed it down on the kneeling man’s shoulder.
    Marek and Fernand heard something crack. Henri howled. The officer ordered his subordinates to lift the prisoner and turned toward the barracks again. Wearing the same look, he used the cane to slam the back of the prisoner’s neck.
    Henri fell to the ground, facedown.
    The blood drained from Fernand’s face. He turned to Marek.
    “Do you understand?”
    “Yes. He knows who we are. He’s perverting the ritual. But why? We aren’t a threat to him anymore. We’re nothing!”
    “Marek, if either of us survives, we must remember this murder and hold these people accountable, just as the three men who murdered the master were brought to justice.”
    The SS officer stretched and then leaned over Henri, whispering in his ear. The Frenchman shook his head.
    The officer scowled and straightened. He raised the cane over his head and brought it down on the victim’s head.
    That was the last of the three blows—one to the shoulder, one to the back of the neck, and a final one to the head.
    The torturer was well versed in Freemason ways.
    The German nodded to the two prisoners and started walking toward the barracks.
    Fernand and Marek watched in silence, holding onto each other as their final moment arrived.
    The door flew open. Sunlight flowed into the room, illuminating every inch, as if to better accompany the return of darkness.
    S OUTHWEST OF B ERLIN
    He had to get out of the truck. François Le Guermand shouted an order to lob grenades on the crates.
    Outside, the enemy was gunning down the occupants of the five trucks, which were stopped on the road.
    His command went unheeded. The soldier was already dead. Half his face had been blown away. It was too late to leave the truck now. Le Guermand pushed the body out of the vehicle and swerved off the road. Swearing, he headed toward a line of trees.
    Everything had started so well. He had left Berlin without a hitch and taken command of the small convoy as planned. They were just six miles from the hiding spot when they drove around a bend and straight into a Russian roadblock.
    What were the Ivans doing there?