Page 80 of Sinister

The day has taken a heavy toll on my mind and body, and I just want to get away for now. But the conversation lingers with me, right alongside the haunting images of Edwin’s mangled body.

As I head toward my next class, my classmates’ whispers and looks are added to the pile, but I push through. I have one more class until the end of the day, and I am capable enough to survive without having a public meltdown.

I haven’t fallen that far.

22

PETRA

27 March 1896

The day before the supposed ritual, I’m consumed by anger, fear, and paralyzing anxiety. My father is nowhere to be found, and I can’t stop wondering—where is he? What is he doing?

And while it’s still daylight outside, I’m locked inside the house, shut off from the world, clueless about what might be unfolding.

Is my father putting his plan into motion? Is Sin in danger?

And then I catch myself, and I scold myself for even thinking such things.

Why should I care anymore? He treated the entire situation like a game, laughed at my warnings, and demanded something I should’ve never given. All for what? A promise that he wouldn’t take part in that obscene ritual? A vow as flimsy as his morals?

He spoke of free will, didn’t he? If he truly wanted to listen, he could have. He didn’t need to barter for a kiss. And worse than him, worse, is me. I should never have agreed.

And yet . . .

When I got back last night, slipping inside just as easily as I’d slipped out, I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. My thoughts kept spiraling back to that kiss.

He was right: It awakened something inside me. Something I don’t have a name for. Something new and frightening and far too consuming.

I can still feel it—his lips, his hands, the heat of it. That kiss. My first kiss.

No, my inner voice corrects me, it was only a quarter of a kiss.

If that was a quarter . . . then what is a full kiss?

He was going to devour me, wasn’t he? That deranged man was ready to claim me, body and soul, in the name of a kiss. And perhaps I’m the more unhinged one because I can’t stop thinking about it. One taste of something forbidden, and now it’s all I can think of.

I pace my room, restless, unable to sit still. I wait, achingly alert, for any sound from below. Any sign that my father has come home. I need to know what happened.

But it doesn’t come. And so, I spend another night plagued by devilish dreams of a man named Sin and his sinful lips.

The next day, my father fails to return again. As the sun descends in the sky and the cloak of darkness covers everything in sight, my anxiety becomes unbearable.

All pretense of not caring disappears as I keep thinking about Sin, about whether he is all right, about whether he was there, summoning that creature. About whether . . . he sold his soul. And whether my father and his cronies fulfilled their macabre plan.

Another dilemma appears in my mind: Do I want my father to find them? Prevent them from summoning that entity? Or do I want them to get away and be successful?

I don’t know anymore. I only know that I do not want to see that infuriating man hurt. No matter how angry I still am at him, I just want him to be safe.

It’s not until late that night, long after we’ve retired, that I hear the front door creak open.

My father heads straight to his study, and a few others follow. I strain to hear and recognize the voices of some congregation members. And then . . . him. The strange man from before. The one who was plotting something alongside my father.

I wait. When the house is quiet enough, I slip out of my room again, my steps careful and silent. I tiptoe down the hallway, getting as close to the study door as I dare. I press myself to the wall and listen.

“They should have been there,” my father says, frustration sharp in his voice. “I had it on good authority they would be. One of the students in that seminar told me everything. They should have been there.”

I hear the sound of his fist slamming against the desk.