Page 189 of Sinister

But all the creaturely comforts in the world can’t keep the anxiety at bay. Sin notices the instant my face clouds over with worry.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs in a soft voice, lightly tracing my cheek with his fingers.

“Just thinking,” I respond in a faraway tone.

“Thinking, thinking, thinking,” Sin teases me gently. “How do you have space for so many thoughts in that dainty little head of yours?”

“Umm, knock-knock, it’s the 1950s? They want their sense of humor back?” I reply, but the verbal jousting does make me feel better.

Sin must have seen it on my face as well, because he smiles and says, “There, that’s better. Now tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Do—” I break off, wondering how to word my doubts without sounding like I’m accusing Sin in some way. “Do you think the descendants of the founding families could be behind the murders?”

He looks thoughtful and pushes away the menu. “I mean, it’s definitely a possibility. But I think it’s unlikely, Petra.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask, leaning forward. “They’re the most likely to know about all those rituals, right? And all the powerful patriarchs of those families would be in cahoots with Arnoult. I’m telling you, if anyone knows about what’s happening, it would be them.”

Sin shakes his head slowly, as if he’s pondering over my theory and marshalling his arguments together.

“Sure, they’ve got the history, but even now, people remember Arnoult’s antics, I think. I guess what I’m trying to say is . . .” He breaks off and stares out of the window, where a fine, wintry mist lies over everything. “If you think about it, the descendants live under the shadow of their families’ past,” he continues, looking at me intently. “They wouldn’t want to draw attention to themselves or risk being tied to any of this. At least I wouldn’t.”

“I did think of that. But what if they feel pressured to keep the pact going? You know, they could actually think that the demon will come and disembowel them all, women and children included?”

Sin snorts out loud at this, but I keep going.

“No, think about it seriously. Maybe one of them is demented just enough to take it into his or her head that they have to, I don’t know ‘uphold the family legacy’?”

“Trust me, Petra, I have mingled with these folks. Expensive tastes, entitled attitudes, and uncanny instincts for keeping secrets. They’re just too twisted. If they were involved, it wouldn’t be so straightforward,” Sin replies. “Take my own family, for instance. You might think my parents are just your regular Jane and Joe, salt-of-the-earth types and all that. But all branches of Arnoults have a public image like that.”

There’s a hard glint in his eyes as he looks out of the window again.

“Families like mine and the other four don’t act impulsively. They’re protective of their image and wealth. Whatever’s happening now, this feels different. Frankly, it feels like the work of some sick fuck who is trying to re-create Arnoult’s glory days. For whatever perverted reason.”

“Then who is it?” I respond urgently. “If it’s not them, then what’s the connection to the crypt and all those paintings we saw? Are you telling me that there was not one Rutherford or Haas among the robed figures circling that bald-headed demon?”

“I don’t know, Petra,” Sin replies with a frustrated shrug. “But we have to keep digging for clues.”

“Then what if . . .” I trail off, shocked at myself for even entertaining this train of thought. But if my dreams might be real, then this could be real, too. “What if it’s not a human who’s committing the murders?”

He turns to look at me with a surprised expression. “Not human?”

“Well, let’s think about this,” I begin. “If there really are demons out there, and other supernatural creatures, then maybe it’s not so far-fetched to say that these murders weren’t caused by a human at all. Maybe they were caused by . . . a creature.”

“A creature?” he repeats with a frown. “What are you talking about, Petra?”

I realize how crazy I must sound, but I push forward. “The way Edwin and Harry were killed, it was horrific. They were completely disfigured. That’s not just a normal killing. And look at the articles we dug up. They said the students committed mass suicide for a ritual. But what if . . . what if we’re looking at it all wrong?”

He studies me, then says, “Fine. Let’s say you’re right. What kind of creature are you talking about?”

I hesitate. “I had a dream,” I admit.

He raises an eyebrow. “Another dream?”

“Yes, but this time it was different. It was about this creature. I think the best way to describe it would be like a zombie. Or some kind of raised dead. She—” I pause, struggling to find the words. “She was being controlled by someone. Someone who made a deal with the devil to resurrect her. But it wasn’t really her anymore.”

Oh God, I’m doing such a bad job at explaining this.

“Forget about it. Forget I said anything,” I say quickly, embarrassed.