Page 263 of Sinister

I’m not entirely sure if I should be angry about killing Snowden—he deserved it more than anyone. But Leah’s death? She was pregnant!

Sadness fills me to the brim as I remember the short moments she had with Arnoult, how even I had been convinced by their romance, despite my reservations.

And now? She’s gone. Just like that.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

Hopefully, wherever she is, she knows she was avenged, and that Arnoult will likely carry her memory with him for the rest of his life.

A flash of color enters my sight.

“Oh, you scared me,” I burst out when I see Sin has returned.

“The butler needed a little more convincing. He’s out of the house now, though. The only thing left is . . .” He looks around. “We should probably move the bodies to a location that makes more sense.”

“They’ll find charred bodies, Sin.”

He shrugs. “It needs to be believable.”

“Well, I’m not touching either of them, so go do your thing.”

He gives me a charming smile. “I would have never asked you to.” He winks.

He carries Snowden first, then the lady servant. I don’t ask him where he decided to put them; I don’t think I care that much.

When he’s back for me, he merely teleports me outside the house before going in one last time. “The fire has to come from within, from Snowden’s own lighter.”

So I wait for him while he lays the first spark of the fire. When he’s finally back, he just nods at me and pulls me into his arms.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers before teleporting us to his underground home. “We should probably take a bath,” he says. I would have readily agreed if it weren’t for his almost slurred speech and pale countenance.

“Sin?” I ask tentatively.

He’s still bleeding from the deeper wounds. At this point, I don’t even know how many of those are there. It feels as though the creature ripped through his flesh from head to toe.

He sways a little on his feet, at which point I quickly react, shouldering his weight and helping him to the couch.

“I’ll be fine.”

Except he’s not. He’s out cold.

72

PETRA

“Sin? Sin, are you all right?” I call out to him, touching his cheeks. He groans in pain, uttering a string of unintelligible words. “I’ll take care of you,” I whisper.

He doesn’t respond. I hop back up and rush to the washroom, grabbing a clean cloth and filling a bowl with water.

Returning to the couch, I rip the shirt off his chest, my heart in my throat as I take in the myriad of wounds and scratches.

“You have to be all right,” I murmur, dipping the cloth into the water and starting to clean him. Some of the cuts are light and superficial, but the deeper ones bleed heavily, and I’m not sure how to help him.

The water quickly turns a muddy red. I change it and begin again, wiping the blood from his chest with a wince.

“Sin,” I whisper, leaning in and cradling his face.

He murmurs something, eyes fluttering open.