Page 212 of Sinister

He nods again. “Bravo, Petra. You’re very astute.”

“But let’s say you did invite them, and they came. How could you be sure they’d get involved in rituals or secret societies, or anything like that?”

“That’s the easiest part,” he says. “Greedy, corrupt people always want more. They’re the weakest, because they never know when to stop. When they already have money, power, and impunity, they start seeking the next thrill. And for them, the society was the next thrill.”

“I still don’t understand how or why they would kill themselves.”

“Don’t you?” He raises a brow. “What is the one thing a mortal would wish for? What is the one thing humans do not have but always desire?”

I blink. “Immortality?”

“Very good, Petra. Very good indeed. Yes. They didn’t think they were killing themselves. They believed they were simply taking the next step toward achieving immortality. Although . . . let’s just say it didn’t go according to plan.”

“You promised them immortality?”

He shrugs. “Did I? I may have implied it. But I didn’t kill them. They did it with their own hands.”

“But you still engineered it,” I argue.

He shrugs again. “As far as I see it, I rid the world of some of the most awful people. And because of that, there are so many others living better lives right now—lives without fear of being attacked, killed, or abused. Trust me when I tell you, very few people are going to miss them.”

I stare at him. His words ring true. But still . . . why? Why would he go this far? What would prompt him to take matters into his own hands?

So I ask, “Was it your mentor? Was he the one who put you up to it?”

“No,” he answers casually. “It was all of my own making.”

“But how? How would you devise this plan? What prompted you to do it?”

He smiles at me, then leans down to kiss my brow.

“I was sincere when I said I would never sell my own soul, Petra,” he whispers. “Because that is reserved only for you.”

My breath catches.

“But that doesn’t mean I haven’t sold others.”

61

PETRA

“Sold? As in you made a deal with the devil?”

He raises an amused brow. “The devil? No. Let’s not go quite so Biblical. I didn’t make a deal with the devil. I just made a deal.”

“But for what?”

“For the one thing I never had but always wished for. A home.”

The moment he utters that word, I continue to stare at him. My chest aches. I, too, have longed for the same thing.

I might’ve had a roof over my head growing up, but it was never a home. Just a house. I was never truly welcomed, never accepted—only used for what I could provide to my family, for what I could bring to my community. But that was never a home.

And given his far worse experiences—always being abandoned by the people who were supposed to love and protect him—I suppose it makes sense. If I were him, I’d do the same. Without hesitation.

“I’m not a good man, Petra,” he says quietly, a sigh in his voice. “But trust that I would never hurt you.”

“I know you’d never hurt me.”