Page 198 of Sinister

“What’s—what’s happening, Sin?” I cough.

“Just hold on, Petra,” Sin replies, planting his feet firmly on the ground and shoving against the ornately carved hunk of stone covering the tomb.

“Sin?” I stand around gasping and panting like an idiot for a moment before throwing my shoulder against the stone as well.

Red and orange tongues of fire have engulfed the entire right side of the mausoleum by now, and the fiery sight before me quickens my arms as I push with all my might.

A few more agonizing moments lapse before the stone grinds open slowly. “Sin, what—” I begin, but he holds up a hand and points down to show a dark, yawning tunnel underneath the slab.

“Down here!” he urges, disappearing into the darkness under the tombstone.

“I thought Arnoult the First and his lover were buried here?” The words slip out of my mouth even as I clamber down behind him. “What . . . what is this? Where does it go?” I repeat when the stairs end at the head of a narrow tunnel.

“It’s a tunnel,” Sin replies, and I roll my eyes at him, as if to say, “Yeah, I can see that.”

He shakes his head with a dry chuckle.

“I meant that it’ll lead us somewhere safe,” he adds.

I hesitate and look around and then up at the swirling flames burning Kimaris’s alleged grave.

“Look, Petra, I promise,” Sin insists as he dusts off his clothes and pats down a few errant flames on his jacket. “And anyway, what choice do we have?” This last question is uttered in a weird monotone that sparks a feeling of doubt in my mind.

As we duck into the tunnel beneath Arnoult the First’s tomb, the temperature drops significantly, and I rub my limbs, trying to orient my body to the cold, damp air, an abrupt contrast to the inferno swirling mere feet above us.

Ha, six feet over us, says my inner voice, but I’m unsettled enough to know that she isn’t jesting.

I doubt anyone can joke around in these circumstances.

Or perhaps you need to confront such situations—escaping a bloodthirsty mob wielding torches and an actual, literal fire by climbing down some secret stairs under the fake tomb of your boyfriend’s great-great-great-great grandfather—with humor.

And yet, that fleeting humor vanishes quickly, replaced by a rush of visions from my dreams: visions of the tunnels I’d seen sprawling beneath St. Anselm Hall, beneath the entire town.

Is this it? I wonder. Are those tunnels real? And if they are . . . what do they house?

A fresh wave of fear grips me. In the past, those tunnels served a grim purpose—hosting the rituals performed by the students of the Theology Department.

Even now, they could be the lair of the killer.

Or worse, what if some madman has imprisoned that creature inside these tunnels, keeping it hidden in plain sight, lying dormant beneath the town, just waiting to strike?

My mind spins in a tangle of confusion and dread, but another, colder realization cuts through:

Even if the creature is behind the murders, it isn’t acting alone.

Not then.

Not now.

Back then, someone controlled it.

And today . . . someone still might.

58

PETRA

Ahead of me, the narrow tunnel stretches into a deep, almost profound darkness.