Page 259 of Sinister

“I cannot believe there was a time I called you a friend. You . . .”

Arnoult launches himself at Snowden, pulling a hidden knife from his boot and brandishing it toward Leah’s killer. Snowden doesn’t seem surprised; in fact, he looks like he was expecting it. Before Arnoult can reach him, Snowden withdraws a pistol from his vest and takes aim.

“No!” I yell, just as Sin uses his shadows to teleport in front of Arnoult, opening a shadow-like void for the bullet to pass through—redirecting it so it doesn’t strike his mentor. Snowden stares in disbelief.

“You never said he was capable of that,” he mutters with skepticism. He’s clearly shocked, but still exudes that same smug self-assurance, convinced he’s going to win. “My love, finish that man for me, will you?” he murmurs sweetly to the corpse beside him.

The creature wobbles from side to side, barely balanced on rotting legs. Her flesh is tinged yellow and green with decay. One eye is completely gone, and the other is half-eaten. Her cheeks are sunken—partially consumed by maggots now crawling into the bone.

She walks toward Sin with mechanical movements, ready to attack.

Sin teleports behind her, grabs her neck, and snaps it. She drops like dead weight. But no sooner does she fall than she rises again.

I remember what Sin told me: No matter what you do, she will rise again. The only way to end her is to destroy her maker.

Yet there’s something else. Each time Sin kills her, she comes back stronger. Faster. The first time, she could barely stand.

Now, her spine is straight, and her steps are certain as she charges toward him.

“Be careful!” I call out, fear rising in my throat.

“Don’t worry about me, Petra,” he shouts back. “I can handle this. Trust me.”

“Yes, but⁠—”

“Trust me,” he repeats, punching through the creature’s gut, his fist emerging through her back. I turn away, revolted by the grotesque sight. It’s not just disturbing—it’s inhuman.

Meanwhile, Snowden is closing in on Arnoult, a smirk on his face. He thinks he’s already won. He’s killed his own daughter; who knows what else he’s capable of?

He raises the gun again, aiming at Arnoult. But his arrogance won’t let him act without delivering a final line.

“You cost me everything. And now you’ll pay.”

I spot a second knife concealed behind Arnoult’s back. He wields it deftly, keeping it hidden.

Just as Snowden squeezes the trigger, Arnoult throws the blade—it hits Snowden in the upper arm.

The gun falls to the ground. Snowden groans in pain.

“You coward!” Arnoult growls. “How could you poison your own daughter? You’ll pay for this!”

He charges, grabbing the knife still lodged in Snowden’s arm.

First, he pushes it deeper to cause more pain, then tries to yank it free. Snowden counters, slamming his other arm down on Arnoult’s grip and shoving him away.

I watch from behind, caught between two battles.

On one side, Arnoult and Snowden are locked in hand-to-hand combat. They fall to the ground, rolling, grappling, each trying to seize the knife. It’s a blur of limbs and fury. I can’t even tell who’s winning—until someone is stabbed. But who?

On the other side, Sin continues his fight with the undead creature. There are holes punched through her body—one in her chest, one in her lower stomach, another through her cheek.

I can tell he’s trying to destroy her brain, trying to find a weakness. But she’s not like other beings. She has no heart. The gaping cavity in her chest proves it. No brain that functions.

She’s just a weapon. A body that moves. Obeys. Kills.

My heart hammers in my chest. Sin is covered in scratches and bite marks. His shirt is shredded, blood soaking through the fabric.

“Sin,” I whisper. “Please be okay.”