Page 200 of Sinister

“What the hell?”

The damp earth of the tunnel gives way to a stone floor, and we pass through an old doorway into a larger space bathed in dim, ambient light. I squint against the sudden brightness and gasp at the stage that unfolds before us.

The chamber is like a time capsule from the 1800s, complete with old, ornate furniture and wooden beams. The ceiling is higher than the tunnels, almost triple in size.

Victorian tables with intricately carved wooden legs, brass knobs gleaming on chests of drawers made from polished walnut wood, even a lovely teak dining table in neoclassical style. The room looks like a mid-nineteenth-century parlor, as if any moment now, the door will open, and a small group will gather for an evening drink.

There’s also a grand-looking fireplace with a charred log.

“Sin . . . what in the fresh hell is this place?” I ask in a flat voice.

“Another of Arnoult the First’s hiding places, if you can believe it,” says Sin in a wry tone that’s perhaps supposed to foil the severity of my own. “Think of it as a hidden home,” he replies, glancing around.

“Yes, but how do you know about this place?” Even as I ask the question, my eye is drawn to a particularly stately pair of Biedermeier chairs, and I can’t help but trace their indulgent frames; the woodwork and graining are so delicate that for a moment, I’m distracted from the nightmare that is our reality.

“I knew you’d like it here,” Sin says from behind me, his breath warming my neck.

My shoulders shiver at his touch, and as he draws me into his arms, my back nestled against his sturdy chest, I let out the littlest sob.

“Sweet Petra, you must be so tired,” Sin whispers into my neck as his hands encircle my waist and gently caress my bump. “You’re safe now,” he continues as my shoulders keep shaking long after the tears have stopped rolling down my cheeks.

“Thanks,” I manage to say at last. “I feel much better now.”

Sin steps back and says, “Come, I’ll show you the rest of it.”

We look at the leatherbound titles on the shelves and all the pretty knick-knacks from the nineteenth century, including antique tables and armoires, more chairs with detailed backrests and fine upholstery, and the Regency-era mantelpiece with animal and bird motifs carved into the wood.

I run my fingers over a slightly dusty table, marveling at how well-curated the collection is, how suited it is to my sensibilities.

Yet something keeps me alert and on the lookout, some faint instinct that cautions me against dropping all my defenses at once. And as Sin and I move deeper into the underground home, I finally start discerning a pattern to the unease knotting my guts.

Despite the overall ancient feel of the place, I can see some unmistakably modern touches scattered around—an old but functional mini-fridge, a microwave, and even a worn-out laptop tucked into a corner.

There’s only one person who could have gotten them here.

“Sin,” I begin, unsure of how to word the accusation floating up in my mind. “What are all these appliances doing here? Someone’s been here before us, right?”

Sin stays quiet, so I turn to look him directly in the face.

“You have been here before, right?”

He hesitates for a moment, glancing around the room before finally meeting my eyes.

“I wasn’t hiding it on purpose. I found this place a long time ago,” he adds as he scratches the back of his head. “I’ve just been using it as a hiding spot when I needed to be alone.”

“So you’ve been hanging around this place for . . . how long exactly, Sin?” I ask with rising trepidation. “You know how this looks, right?” I press when he just makes a frustrated noise and turns away from me. “You knew about the crypt at the school, and then the secret tunnel under Arnoult the First’s tomb, and now this? Doesn’t it look rather suspicious?”

“And you’re suspecting me of what, Petra?” Sin asks with a low chuckle, but his eyes look serious, as if he’s daring me to throw around more accusations.

But I don’t have any concrete allegation to level at him.

“Not suspecting, Sin, just wondering. It’d be nice if you weren’t so tight-lipped about everything and would just . . . just tell me what’s going on.” I try to keep the frustration out of my voice, but it’s almost impossible at this critical moment.

Sin looks at me with an unreadable expression on his face.

Then a moment later, a blend of concern and earnestness wash over his features.

“No, it’s my fault, I should have explained all this.” He gestures at the eclectic space around us. “Before bringing you here. But trust me—it’s not what it seems. I stumbled upon it ages ago, before I joined the football team, before I made any friends. This place became my own secret sanctuary, just like the gardener’s shed is for you.”