Once Simon was gone, Anna felt the burden of being alone. The whispers seemed less intense now, but they were there, slowly hollowing her out, penetrating the defense wall of her will. She hadn’t imagined it to be like this. She hadn’t imagined the mysteriousness to be so threatening—the paranormal, the supernatural, the dark arts . . . all that seemed so much easier to handle than they were. Shoot monsters. Blow them up. Burn them. This was nothing she could burn; this was something that burned her. It burned her soul from the inside, and the fire was cold.

She hadn’t believed in the human soul until this, but now she couldn’t deny it as she felt hers slip away. She felt it lose itself in a storm—a storm that was only a whisper.

Anna entered a room that she didn’t recall from her map. A kitchen. Another kitchen? Passing the steel cabinets, she let her light wander and thought it looked pretty unused. There was a fridge with bottles of water inside. No food. Nobody ate down here. Whatever it was, it was a waste of space; it also was a good place to wait for Brockmann.

Nasat nasat priomin. Nasat defire. Achpach. Achpach.

She felt the words hit like a hammer to her brain. Shaking her head, she gasped as they gained in strength.

Nasat nasat priomin. Nasat defire. Achpach. Achpach.

Nasat nasat priomin. Nasat defire. Achpach. Achpach.

Nasat nasat priomin. Nasat defire. Achpach. Achpach.

Nasat nasat priomin. Nasat defire. Achpach. Achpach.

Nasat nasat priomin. Nasat defire. Achpach. Achpach.

“Stop it!” she yelled and loaded her gun through. Her hand was trembling as she felt her control slipping away. It was almost impossible to form a thought; her brain was unable to execute them.

Looking at her hand, she concentrated on it and ordered it to move. The hand still followed her command—the whole arm did. Slowly she pushed the gun into her mouth, her finger laying down on the trigger.

The voice went silent right away as if giving her a chance to end it. Or if it wanted to give her hope. It needed her; it was feeding on her. That thought frightened her more than anything—something feeding on her inner self, absorbing her identity, her fears and hopes.

Pull the trigger.

She closed her eyes, counted to three, then opened them wide, ready to end it before she lost the fight.

That was when she saw something, and her brain realized it had not been on her map. A hatch in the ceiling. It was open.

Anna pulled the gun out of her mouth and ducked behind a metal table just as three shots ripped large holes into the fridge. Brockmann. That tricky bastard.

Sliding over the ground and out of cover, she fired her whole magazine into the direction she assumed he was. A burning filled her right shoulder, and she let go of the gun instinctively. It was empty, and she was out of ammo anyway. The ankle holster only allowed for one small pistol. She withdrew from the edge of the table and slid to the next, giving her shoulder a quick look. The bullet had grazed her straight through her jacket; the wound was superficial at best, her muscle unharmed. The darkness had probably saved her.

She ripped the jacket off and listened closely for any indication of where he was. Taking out her flashlight, she grasped it at the end of the hilt; it was her only weapon for now. This was a kitchen, though—there had to be knives. She just didn’t dare open the cupboards because the sound would give away her position.

“You probably feel like it intruded into our world, but truly, we intruded on his,” Brockmann’s raspy voice said; he was to her left. He walked through the lines of tables as he spoke, looking for her.

“It’s much older than us. Much older than humanity,” Brockmann whispered. He turned a corner, and she knew he was in the row next to hers. Slowly sliding away from him, she listened to his voice.

“Are you a woman of faith, Anna? I bet you’re an atheist. Soon that will change because what you feel there in your mind—in your soul—is the presence of a God. Not the one we described in this fairy tale that is the bible. A true God. The Germans felt it when they brought it away. They sank their ship, believing to have defeated it with their heroic sacrifice. ‘A great win at a high cost.’ Oh, how Nazis liked that thought. They weren’t exactly winning anything back then. They felt it, and they couldn’t take him in, couldn’t accept him.

“That is the secret, Anna. That is why Michelle is still alive, why I am. We accepted it. It changes you when you do that. Like all Gods, it is a force of creation. Not of simple flesh, but of souls and minds. It shapes realities.” He turned the next corner, and Anna carefully slid around the end of her row of metal tables to avoid being seen.

“Give in, Anna. It doesn’t want to annihilate you; it wants to adopt you. You can become part of it. A small part of it.” Brockmann hissed the final words. He almost didn’t sound like himself anymore.

She heard metal hit the floor. Bullet shells. Two shots above, four shots down here. He was out!

Anna knew she had only seconds to act. She jumped up, seeing Brockmann in the dark, illuminated only by her flickering flashlight. His eyes gleamed as if something burned behind them. He turned when he saw her movement from the corner of his eyes. She had counted on it and hurled her flashlight at him, hitting his face. He stumbled back. Anna ripped open one of the drawers and grabbed inside. She was lucky and took out a long, sharp kitchen knife, but as she turned around, she realized it was already too late.

Brockmann was fast. He grabbed her hand with the knife, and with his other hand, he hammered her head down onto the metal table. She felt only pain and dizziness as he raised her head to do it again. With her last clear thought, she rammed the elbow of her free arm into the old man’s face. He was incredibly strong for his age. She felt his head tilt back and rammed it again. He finally let go of her hand, and with a turn, she sliced through his jacket into his arm. He let her head go, stepping back.

She didn’t hesitate and leaped forward, closing the distance between them again, attacking with the knife. She was a trained fighter, and she had the weapon. Brockmann blocked her attack and brought down his fist. It hit her shoulder, and she stumbled back. He came right after her, his hand stretched out to grab her throat and strangle her to death. Anna no longer felt pain; her senses were sharpened, and her whole body tense. One quick kick upwards hit his face, and Brockmann was hurled aside. A second kick into his ribs sent him further.

He turned around as if the pain meant nothing to him, coming back for her. She knocked him away with a powerful side kick; he crashed into some pans hanging from above. Anna knew this might be her only chance and brought the knife down in one powerful swing. Brockmann snatched her arm in the air—he wasn’t only strong but fast. The physique of a much younger man and one trained in fighting. He hammered her hands down on a table, and she couldn’t hold on to the knife.

Anna didn’t waste a thought on losing her weapon and kicked him with a knee into his back, and then she attacked with her fists in a series of strikes. Brockmann blocked them like a boxer, with his arms high to protect his head. Anna had trained in hand-to-hand combat since her first day in the army, but Brockmann obviously had the advantage. He had fought for his life before; what he had was practice.

She struck his stomach, but he shook off the hit, and Anna felt his fist slam into her face. The impact was so powerful, it almost sent her to her knees, and her vision blurred. A second strike hit her stomach, and she bent forward, only to be greeted by his knee coming up and crashing into her face again. Her nose was hit, her vision vanishing under the tears shooting into her eyes. She lost balance as she stumbled back, but Brockmann was already there.

He slung his arms around her neck and pressed them together. Her breathing was cut off immediately. Grabbing his arm, she tried to loosen the grip, but she knew she had no chance. Her elbow rammed into him, but she was weakened and too close to him to have any useful force. He tightened his grip, and she felt her knees give in.

So, she was going to die.

Fine by her.

She would have killed herself had he not shown up.

As if he read her thoughts, she felt his breath next to her ear.

No! No! She tried one last time to turn in his grip, to shake him off, but she couldn’t. In her ear, she heard him whisper.

“Nasat nasat priomin. Nasat defire. Achpach. Achpach.”

Something shattered inside of her.

“Nasat nasat priomin. Nasat defire. Achpach. Achpach.”

His voice kept on entering her mind. Her mind. Her . . .