Page 282 of Sinister

“I went straight to you. Caught you in my arms. Cut the ropes. But no matter how much I tried to get you to react, you were . . . gone.”

His breath catches, and I note the moisture clinging to his lashes.

“The flames spread to my body, too.”

My eyes widen.

“W-what?”

“I held onto you, even as they tore through my clothes, even as they reached my flesh. I couldn’t let go of you. I couldn’t . . .” He chokes up. “You were gone, and I was not there to save you. I was not there for you when you needed me the most. You have no idea how sorry I am about that, Petra.”

“Wait a moment. You’re saying you . . . that you burned with me?”

He gives me a tight nod. “How could I abandon you?”

“B-but . . . I don’t understand. You’re clearly alive, and well, immortal.”

“By the time I arrived, your soul had already left the mortal plane. I couldn’t get to you in physical form, nor in spiritual.” He pauses. “As I held on to you, my consciousness slipped from me. One moment I was screaming at the top of my lungs, in pain at having lost you, in pain from the assault from the fire, the next, the pain disappeared.

“I opened my eyes and saw my body—our bodies wrapped together—from the perspective of an outsider. I was confused at first, but quickly realized I had died.

“A being appeared to escort me toward the afterlife, as no doubt you had been just moments before. But I couldn’t go. If I did, it would mean all of our memories would be gone. I would forget you. I would forget the only home I’ve ever had.”

“What did you do?”

“I was angry. So angry, I could manifest that emotion into the power to refuse to move on. And as that entity, that messenger, left, I saw a familiar face in the crowd.”

“A familiar face?” I echo.

“The entity who’d healed me. He was there. Watching. He could see me in my spiritual form. And as he turned his back to leave, I followed.

“It was in a dark alleyway that he stopped, waiting for me. His first words were that I should not have done this, that I should have followed the messenger to the afterlife. But he acknowledged that he would have done the same in my position. He told me that as a wandering spirit, I was vulnerable—even more so because of the innate spiritual energy that gave me my shadow abilities. Demons would prey on me, seeking to consume my essence. Or . . .”

“Or?”

“I could become a demon myself and consume other essences to survive—to gain more power, to regain a corporeal form.”

I stare at him in shock.

“So you are a demon?” I whisper.

“I am what they call a made-demon: a soul who becomes corrupted in search of power, immortality.”

“What have you done, Sin?” I croak.

“What I had to. I did what I thought was right in that moment, and to be honest with you, I do not regret it. Not for a moment.”

“But if you’re a demon . . . what does it mean, that you consume other essences? Do you make deals with people for their souls, or . . . ?”

“No. I do not engage in that sort of thing, although I have consumed souls. The entity told me that there are levels to being a made-demon. The first and lowest is when a made-demon is amorphous. But with each soul consumed, it can become more powerful and regain physical shape.

“The last and most powerful level is level twelve—after which a made-demon attains powers similar to low-level natural-born demons.”

“What level are you?”

“Twelve. I ascended to my twelfth level nineteen years ago.”

“Nineteen years ago? Those murders . . .”