Page 136 of Sinister

“I’ve thought of that, too. Everyone who knew Arnoult said he was charismatic. If he had powers, demonic or otherwise, he could’ve used them to sway minds.”

“But for what? A ritual?” my father asks incredulously. “I’ve never heard of one like this.”

“Just because we haven’t heard of it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” Snowden amends. “This could be the foundation of something much larger. Something darker.”

“Did your informant give you any more names?”

“No,” Snowden replies. “But he did say Arnoult wasn’t alone. There were four others at the meeting he attended. They wore robes with hoods and introduced themselves only by initials. He couldn’t see their faces.”

Robes. Like the ones I saw in the tunnels.

A loud, shriek-like sound travels down the hallway. I swivel, my eyes wide and fearful.

Nothing. There’s nothing there.

I take a deep breath and turn around.

Another shriek, this time higher-pitched, the ghost of an incomprehensible word echoing in the hall.

A shiver goes down my back as I tell myself there’s nothing there, that it’s just my imagination playing tricks on me.

“What are you doing here?” a voice hisses behind me.

My heart jumps out of my chest.

I whirl around and come face-to-face with my brother.

“I—I got lost,” I stammer. “I was just trying to find my way back.”

“You were eavesdropping, weren’t you?”

“No! I swear—I was just⁠—”

The crack of a slap cuts through the air. Pain explodes across my cheek. I stare at him in shock.

“Go back. Now. And don’t say another word until we leave.”

I don’t argue. I hurry away, trying to find the drawing room, but my mind is spinning.

The Ouroboros Society. Five hooded figures.

One of them has to be Sin. It has to be. I’ve seen his unnatural strength. His eerie silences. The way he moved without sound.

Perhaps he didn’t sell his soul for a kiss, but he sold it for something. Power. Control.

The visit to the Snowden estate ends less than ten minutes later. At home, I retreat to my room, expecting a punishment that doesn’t come. My father and brother are too consumed by what they’ve learned to pay me any mind.

It’s only the next morning, as I head to breakfast, that I notice the stir in the house.

Two physicians rush toward my brother’s room. Curious, I follow quietly.

He’s lying on the bed, a strip of cloth stuffed in his mouth to muffle the screams.

His right hand, the one that struck me, is severely disfigured. There is a harsh red mark on the back of his hand, as if someone had taken a hot brand and pressed it into his skin.

A demon sigil.

And I know, without a shadow of a doubt . . .