Page 171 of Sinister

“Do you think they know more about Arnoult and his . . . weird vow? Maybe they know about the rituals.”

“I somehow don’t think they would take it too well if we just barged into their community and asked questions about devils and demons,” Sin adds in a cynical voice.

I bite my lip, deep in thought.

“What if we could find a way to get close to them?” I suggest in a mechanical tone devoid of all conviction. “Maybe if we attended one of their church meetings we can ask them about the identity of the girl Arnoult was in love with and⁠—”

Sin scoffs lightly. “Good luck with that! They’re notoriously closed off.”

“I get it, but there has to be a way we can gather more information,” I reply without thinking why it had to be us doing all the digging. “We can’t let it go; too many people are at risk.”

Sin nods and starts shuffling through more boxes. I try to suppress a yawn as my body begins slackening under the weight of exhaustion and stress and the you-know-who.

At one point, I sit back and stretch my spine to alleviate some of the pressure from my feet.

“Look at this,” Sin says, pointing to a document with a beautiful header in curly loopy lettering. “Sources say that Arnoult’s legacy was kept alive by some of his members, his most trusted ones in the inner circle.”

Sin chuckles and continues, “Apparently, Arnoult had some otherworldly powers.”

“Oooh, sexy,” I retort in an impassive voice, and this makes Sin snort out loud.

“No really, this article says that he could talk to supernatural beings. And get this—he apparently had some arcane sigils that he used to summon demons.”

“Really, Sin? This all sounds so . . . folklorish. It’s like we’re in a Dan Brown novel and we’re racing against time to save the world.” I roll my eyes. Yet the word ‘sigil’ continues to resound in my mind.

Sigils . . . like those in my dreams? That Arnoult had gotten from the Vatican?

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Sin mutters doubtfully.

“Here, give me that!” I say suddenly, reaching out for the paper in his hands at the same time as he jerks it away from me.

“Argh!” I yell when the edge of the paper slices through the skin of my thumb, and a few drops of red pearl over the pale nailbed.

“Ah, shit!” Sin exclaims before drawing air through his teeth in a somewhat endearing way. “Let me see.”

“It’s nothing, really,” I start, but he’s already gently taking my hand and looking at the cut with intense concentration.

“It’s not nothing,” he insists, and before I can protest further, he brings my finger to his mouth and sucks the tip gently.

The hairs on the nape of my neck stand up, and I can feel my knees trembling a bit.

“Sin,” I murmur, my thoughts scattered at the contrast between this tender moment and the dark history of our surroundings.

“Just . . . let me take care of you,” he says quietly, nuzzling my fingers in his palm and kissing them softly.

The sight of his lips moving over my skin makes me flush and lose the thread of my thoughts.

So I gently draw my hand away and clear my throat.

Sin sits back and picks up a slim pamphlet from the box he had been reaching for before I gave myself a stupid paper cut.

“So this looks like some kind of local newspaper from that time,” he says in a casual tone, as if he hadn’t just been sucking my thumb. “It had quite a few articles on Arnoult, speculating whether he was behind all the murders.”

I’m floored by this discovery, but a part of me seems to straighten up in tension. As if there is a foreboding voice that is telling me something in words I cannot hear. But Sin looks unmoved by the latest piece of insight into his family’s history.

While we rummage through even more boxes, I wonder if any of Sin’s family upstairs can hear us.

What if Marie gets up for a midnight snack and passes by Sin’s room on the way to the kitchen?