Page 202 of Sinister

Sure, the Sin before me has never done anything to hurt me. In fact, he’s been protective and loving and, at times, nicer and sweeter to me than I deserve.

Yet those dreams continue to haunt me. Dream-Sin continues to haunt me, as does the question: Who is he?

Was that Arnoult the First from my dreams? Am I his lover (or rather, my past self)? And if that’s the case, then my theory about Arnoult the First trying to reincarnate himself as my baby is moot, because how can that be when he’s standing right in front of me? When this man knows things only dream-Sin would?

Another theory appears, and one that I’m almost afraid to consider.

Sin . . . Sin might be the reincarnation of Arnoult the First. But if that’s the case . . . Then he might also be the architect of all these murders.

“I apologize for my tone. I’m just curious. No one beside me knew about this place. Until you . . .”

Yes, and that is exactly what dream-Sin said, too.

59

PETRA

A sliver of fear goes down my spine. Here we are, in some arcane tunnels, away from civilization, in a makeshift home underground. There is no way out, nowhere to run to.

My heart beats faster in my chest as my breathing becomes constricted. It feels suffocating, claustrophobic.

“Petra, are you all right?” Sin comes closer to me, and I take a step back.

I gulp down. “I’m just a little confused,” I say with a nervous laugh.

“That is understandable. But you know you have nothing to fear from me, right?”

I hesitate to answer, my silence lingering.

He comes closer, taking my hand in his. “I would never hurt you, Petra.”

“I know. You wouldn’t hurt me.”

But what about other people?

Could it be that he’s the one killing people? His surprise at learning about his family’s odd history had been genuine. And I just don’t see Sin as this sadistic killer.

But . . . all those dreams, all those odd occurrences in real life that mirror the dreams are hard to ignore. He knows far more than he’s letting on, and that makes him suspicious.

I pull my hand out of his and slide down into the nearest chair.

My legs and back are sore from all the running to escape a ravaging Puritan mob, so it feels nice just to sit down.

He could be Arnoult the First and he doesn’t remember. What if he has some split personality disorder like Jekyll and Hyde? Perhaps the soul of his ancestor takes possession of his body when he’s not aware and does all those awful things. At this point, anything is plausible.

Mind control. Undead creatures. Demon pacts. It’s a whole buffet of messed-up weirdness. And yet . . . the more I think about it, the less it makes sense.

Dream-Sin looked like my Sin. The Arnoult I saw in those old photos did not. Unless my mind is playing tricks on me and replacing the unfamiliar with the familiar.

Case in point, my name had been the same in those dreams. Even if by some stretch of imagination (although that is becoming more flexible with each passing day) my dreams are windows into a past life, the chances of both me and past-me being named Petra are slim to none.

And so far, I haven’t gotten any ideas about how to find out more about past Petra, or whatever her name really was.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this place before, Sin?” I ask after a while.

He sighs, running a hand through his thick hair. “I don’t know . . . what was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Petra, I have a secret hideout under the tomb of a family ancestor’?”

I chuckle at that preposterous statement, and the tension between us eases a bit.