Page 172 of Sinister

What if there’s a fire, and Lisa and Tom rush in to make sure Sin and I are okay?

The thin thread of my thoughts is broken when Sin says, “Found something!”

“What, what is it now?” I rush over to him, my brow darkening with distress as I wonder what fresh news from hell awaits us this time.

Sin is pulling an old letter from a dark corner of the box. The paper looks fragile, tattered, and yellowed with age.

I lean closer as he carefully unfolds it. “What does it say?” I whisper.

“It’s dated just before Arnoult died,” Sin replies, his voice low, almost reverent. He begins reading aloud:

To My Purest Knights,

I write these words to lock my legacy in stone. I will not rise with the angels nor sink with the sprites from Beelzebub’s den. I will not rot under snow nor ripen with fruit in some mortal’s orchard. Anoint me with blood, my vessels, and I will be reborn on the next blood moon. I will walk again on this blasted earth when enough sacrifices have been made; I will smite the heathen throng. I will be reborn. I will be reborn.

My stomach twists with every brutal line, shorn of any abashment and dipped in bloodlust. “Reborn? ‘Anoint me with blood’? What the hell is he talking about?”

Sin glances at me with fear-ridden eyes. “It means he plans to come back. If they complete the sacrifices—I think that’s what ‘anoint me with blood’ means, he will . . . he will come back, somehow.”

“And ho-how many sacrifices do they need to make?” I ask again, even though the question itself is too horrific to be answered.

“Ah, that I don’t know,” Sin replies with a chagrined expression. “I don’t even know where to begin with all this . . .” He waves his arms around, as though trying to encompass the fucked-upness of everything.

“Sin, if he’s going to be reborn on the next blood moon,” I begin, as a dreadful realization dawns on, “and they—whoever is killing these kids—are still operating under that belief, then . . . then we don’t have too long, right?”

“Exactly!” he replies, confirming the date on his phone before I’ve even finished stating my theory out loud.

“So . . .” We both look at each other, and eventually, I turn out to be the one brave enough to ask.

“What do we do now?”

50

PETRA

I love Octobers in New England.

The air is cool and crisp, with bright sunshine melting the morning mists on the polished glass façades of the shops and storefronts. The foliage turns all shades of warm browns and reds, while Halloween hangs on the horizon like a tantalizing treat.

On a slightly chilly Sunday afternoon, Sin and I meet at the local diner near St. Anselm Hall.

Cinnamon and pumpkin spice smells waft around us, and the delicious aroma of croissants and pancakes makes my mouth water.

To my utter delight, Sin has already ordered a bunch of baked goods for our table.

“You can pick what you like,” he says indulgently, kissing my forehead again while his strong fingers gently massage the back of my neck.

I blush and smile before leaning into his shoulder. Though I’m not the type for PDA, the baby has been weighing down on my back and hips like a bag of bricks, so it’s a nice relief when I lean into Sin’s warm, strong body.

Nestled in this cozy cocoon and surrounded by freshly baked tarts and pies, I put together the final drafts of our Art History project.

It is a multi-page essay on the use of perspective in the rare painting Sin had gifted me earlier.

Ms. Matthews had launched into rapturous exclamations when we’d first shown the painting to her.

“Can you see how he uses the impasto effect to highlight the break in the trees here?” and “How deft is that brushwork?”

With how long I’d spent staring at the girl walking down the wild, windswept moors, about to enter a dark, shadowy forest, the paper had more or less written itself.