Page 59 of Sinister

As soon as I’m outside, I frantically wave down a cab. The night air is chilly and stings my cheeks, but I’m in no mood to tarry around.

Right as a cab pulls up to the curb, Sin comes barreling out of the restaurant.

“Petra, stop! Let’s just talk about this.”

And for a fraction of a second, I hesitate, actually thinking of stopping and hearing him out. But the impulse passes when a mixture of confusion, anger, and the need to be anywhere but here takes over me instead. I open the cab door and slide in.

Sin reaches the cab just as it starts to pull away.

His hand slams on the door on my side, and his eyes are desperate and angry. “Petra, please!”

But it’s too late. I can’t—I won’t—deal with this right now. The cab speeds down the street, and I watch Sin’s figure grow smaller in the rearview mirror.

At last, I slump back into the seat and let loose the torrent of tears I had tamped down since my mishap in the washroom. My life keeps on whirring into one fateful collision after another. And I let go of the steering wheel a while back.

As the cab maneuvers the bustling streets, I close my eyes, trying to bring my breathing under control.

One thing is clear: My priorities need to shift. I have to find a way forward with my personal and academic trials without the distractions that incessantly tag Sin.

For now, I just need to get home and breathe.

17

PETRA

26 March 1896

The loud voices coming from inside the house wake me up. I glance at the clock on the mantel—one in the morning. With a yawn, I climb out of bed and make my way to the door to find out who’s speaking so loudly at this hour. The voices carry on. One of them is unmistakably my father’s.

The other voice, though, I don’t recognize. It’s another man. From what I can gather, he sounds like a high-ranking member of the church. I’m about to return to bed when a few words catch my attention—St. Anselm Hall . . . its professors.

Curious, I crack the door open and tiptoe quietly, slipping around the staircase and creeping toward the source of the voices. They’re in the library. The door is shut, but they’re speaking so loudly I can hear them clearly from the hallway.

“We must do something about it,” my father says, voice low and grave. “They’re poisoning society with their eccentric ideas.”

I frown. Is he talking about Sin and his demonology studies? Or something else?

“Indeed,” the other man replies. “There have been rumors of late-night rituals at the university. Who else could be behind them, if not him?”

Him? I wonder. Does he mean Sin? That’s absurd.

“It’s preposterous to allow such things to happen in our town,” my father continues. “Some of the youth in our congregation are already showing interest in these . . . gatherings.”

A pause.

“Even my son has mentioned them in passing. I fear he’ll soon want to join their ranks. And he’s not alone.”

“You’re right,” the other man agrees. “I’ve heard the same from other young men. They’re drawn to this new way of teaching, to the society they’ve built.”

A society? That’s new. I’ve never heard anything about that. My curiosity burns brighter. If Sin won’t reveal himself to me, maybe this is how I’ll learn more. I edge closer.

“Did you not hear what they’re planning in two days?” the man asks. “On the full moon?”

“The full moon?” my father echoes. “That sounds downright pagan.”

“It is. I’ve no doubt,” the man agrees. “I believe they’re trying to summon something. An entity of some kind. I haven’t confirmed it, but the rumors . . . if they’re true, we cannot allow it to happen here.”

“A summoning?” my father says, aghast. “Of an entity? A demon? On our soil? Absolutely not. But what can we do? They already have so much influence. And if we do nothing, they’ll gain even more.”