Page 105 of Sinister

He’s still the most striking man I’ve ever seen, but he looks . . . worn.

There are dark circles under his eyes, and tension is etched into the lines of his face.

“Is this how you’ve been living?” I ask, glancing around the room again, my chest tightening as I imagine him closed up in here. No one should live like this. No windows. No light.

“This isn’t where I live,” he says. “But it’s one of the chambers I use when I need to stay at the university.”

“In the tunnels?” I frown. “I thought you were sleeping in your office.”

“Sometimes there. Sometimes here,” he says. “It doesn’t matter now. What matters is getting you out before someone realizes you’re here. Before they realize what you’ve seen.”

“No.” I step in front of him. “You need to explain. What was that back there? Who were those people? What happened with the ritual? Did you go? Did you⁠—”

I choke on the question.

“Did you kill those people?”

He presses his lips together. The silence is astounding.

“Please,” I whisper. “Tell me you didn’t participate, Sin.”

“I wasn’t there,” he promises.

I let out a harsh breath, relief flooding through me.

“You weren’t?” I ask, needing to hear it again.

“No. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t personally involved in the ritual, or whatever it was. I told you I wouldn’t be.”

“You mean . . . you kept your end of the bargain?” I whisper.

“If you’re asking whether I sold my soul, no, I did not.”

“Then what happened, Sin?” I ask, voice trembling.

He takes a deep breath.

“Come, sit down. Are you hurt?” he asks, already guiding me gently to the bed. “You must’ve fallen through the cracks; I saw the debris.”

I nod. “My back’s a little sore, but I’ll be fine. Nothing serious.”

He gives a brief nod, as if willing to drop the subject, but then his gaze sharpens.

“What’s that?” He gestures toward my hand.

I follow his line of sight and realize two things: one, I’m not wearing my gloves; and two, my palms are scraped and bruised, likely from trying to break my fall.

“Come here,” he says, brisk but gentle. “We need to clean those.”

Before I can protest, he pulls me toward the bed and sits me down. From the drawer in his desk, he retrieves the same ointment he gave me on our second meeting in the church.

He lowers himself to his knees in front of me, carefully turning my hands palm-up to assess the damage.

“It’s not too bad,” he mutters. “But I don’t want them getting infected.”

“I’ll be all right,” I say lightly. “It doesn’t really hurt. It’s nothing I’m not used to.”

His jaw tightens.