Page 137 of Sinister

It was him.

Sin.

But . . . did he do it for me?

41

PETRA

PRESENT DAY

Another day I wake up from a bone-chilling nightmare, while the soft morning light slanting through the curtains casts a warm, wholesome glow around me.

For a moment, this stark contrast between my dream state and physical state disorients me completely, and I have the feeling of existing in some warped dimension, an in-between place between wintry horror and sunshiny joy.

A long while after waking up, I lie still, trying to unsee the images creeping into my brain: Harry’s detached head, spurting blood from all orifices, Sin’s wild expression as he implored me to . . . to what?

Try as I might to piece together the shocking events of last night, there is a disconnect between all the threads of my recollection.

I remember our tryst at the mausoleum, how the encounter had quickly escalated into a heated, physical entanglement.

My face warms up as I remember how he had cupped my breasts and rubbed against me, how he had left behind a trail of hickeys with his accursed, hot-as-hell mouth . . .

And suddenly, the vision tilts, and my mind’s eye is now watching the looming figure of Sin on the landing before my room, how he blocked my way and demanded something from me; what was it now . . .

“Who is the father?” he had asked me. Or had it been part of my dream?

Perhaps the strain of lying to him about the you-know-who not being his—a decision I don’t completely understand yet—has made me suspect him of harboring sinister motives.

Perhaps I’m projecting.

There’s no use obsessing over these thoughts, so I slowly sit up, while all my bones sing a symphony of pain and discomfort.

My muscles are stiff and tense; they must have been held taut in anticipation or anxiety for what feels like hours.

I look around and realize that I’m alone.

But of course I am. Why would anyone else be here?

Perhaps this is all just the pregnancy hormones. This thought is followed by another fluttering one: I’m starting to show.

Yup, that’s right. What with all the murders, the crypt dates with Sin, and the disastrous fall balls, the small window for getting rid of the you-know-who has closed for me.

At five months, I am well on my way to delivering, whether I am ready for it or not. So I pull back the covers and look down at my body.

My hand instinctively rests on my belly, a small but unmistakable curve. The skin is stretching over it, and the morning light rings it in a neat halo.

Nearly five months along. What does the you-know-who look like now?

If I remember my lessons, it will have started to resemble a human baby, with the head and torso gaining more definition.

Afloat inside me is another person.

The very thought sends a jolt down my limbs. Whether that’s fear or curiosity, I don’t know.

I stretch my arms and think of getting out of bed, but a leaden feeling has stilled my legs as last night’s events keep replaying in my head, though their memories are disjointed and disconnected at some fundamental level.

I need to talk to someone. There’s no way I can find a way out of this mess on my own, so I needed to get some support like, yesterday.