Page 226 of Sinister

Panic erupts in my chest. My thoughts turn to my dreams—the only avenue for answers I have. In them, dream-Sin had said he could keep the mark hidden from me. Has he done it this time, too?

If so, what else has he done?

Dream-Sin was involved in those grisly murders over a century ago, and while he might not have killed those people with his own hands, he facilitated all the murders.

Does that mean he is involved in the present-day murders, too?

I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples against the slowly forming headache.

The conclusion that dream-Sin must be present-Sin is self-explanatory. They look the same, they kiss the same, they say the same things. And just like dream-Sin, present-Sin is always there for me, always in the shadows.

Shadows . . . In the past, he’d been able to control them. Can he still do that? Is he some type of superhuman? But if that is the case, then did he reincarnate into his present self, or is he . . . immortal?

Fear accumulates in my breast. In my dreams, he’d talked about people seeking immortality—selling their souls for it. Those students who took their lives did so in hopes they could achieve eternal life.

Is that . . . is that something he did, too?

“You’re going crazy, Petra,” I whisper to myself. How else can I explain my train of thought?

Despite the similarities between dream-Sin and present-Sin, there are also differences. He doesn’t have any of the mannerisms of a Victorian man, nor does he have the vocabulary of one. If anything, he’s awfully normal in that regard: a regular teenage boy.

All right, so if he’s not immortal, perhaps dream-Sin was his past-life self.

Yet that idea brings about other questions: Does he remember the past? Did he approach me on purpose, knowing our history?

In all the time we’ve known each other, he’s never given any indication of that. There have been moments where he’d been rather . . . intense, but I’ve never sensed that he was lying to me.

In fact, I’ve known of him since the start of Junior year, and our first encounter wasn’t until the end of the school year. If he had remembered the past, wouldn’t he have approached me sooner?

But then you would have thought him creepy, and a stalker, my inner voice tells me, and I have to agree with her. We’re from two different worlds, different crowds, different everything.

I release a loud sigh. My thoughts are running amok, and I don’t seem to be getting anywhere conclusive. And if Sin is the one murdering those kids, why Edwin? Why Harry? Why those other unnamed individuals? There is no motive for it.

Yet before I jump to his defense, as I’m always doing as of late, another important piece of information comes to mind.

Images flash before my eyes as I remember Leah’s words in my dream.

She was pregnant with Sinclair Arnoult’s child.

For some reason, I refuse to believe my Sin, past or present, would be with another woman. He is, and has been, far too dedicated to me to do that. And despite the inconsistencies in this entire murder-ritual-supernatural debacle, that is one thing I am not willing to accept.

Great, Petra, my inner voice adds. He can be a murderer, but he can’t be a cheater.

Well . . . yes. Because if he is a cheater, then he’s about to be the next one murdered, by yours truly.

A dry laugh escapes me. I am truly going crazy if this is what I consider morally wrong.

Alas, there is only one way to figure things out. And since I happen to be right here, in dream-Sin’s former home, a little snooping is due.

First order of business: Make sure my Sin isn’t a cheater. Then I can worry about whether he’s a murderous maniac.

Nodding to myself, I quickly put on my clothes from yesterday and start with the obvious place: the massive library.

Books line the shelves, all of them pre-1900s. It’s like an entire museum of ancient tomes, and I don’t even know where to start. I glance at the first titles, noting they’re arranged alphabetically, but as I scan through them, I realize this might be a useless endeavor.

At the same time, the light in the room flickers, and a shiver runs down my back. I have the distinct sensation that someone is watching me.

I turn around, looking left and right—no one. Still, I can’t shake the feeling. The hairs on my body stand on end, and goose bumps spread across my skin. I shake my head. I’m probably still rattled by that dream. It’s nothing.