Page 94 of Sinister

As we reach the narrow staircase leading up to the first of the five flights that will take us to the surface, the noises grow louder. Now we hear scratches, squeaks, the flapping of wings.

What in the ever-loving hell? my inner voice cries out, but I’m too frightened to pay heed.

“Hurry, Petra!” Sin shouts, looking behind and pulling me forward by the arm.

Finally, we burst through the wooden door and into the dusty, abandoned hallway in the east wing. Slamming the door shut behind us, we just stand there, panting urgently and clutching our hearts.

“Wh-what was that?” I say between gasps for air.

Sin leans toward the door, carefully listening to the eerie quiet lurking behind it. Then the blasted guy actually grins!

“You know, I think it might’ve just been some bats.”

“Bats? Bats?” I repeat in hysterical incredulity. “You mean we ran out of there because of—because of bats?”

“Yup,” Sin replies with a dry chuckle. “Probably just some scared, harmless bats.”

Now the adrenaline turns into nervous laughter that leaves my arms and legs shaking. “Well,” I manage to say between uncontrollable giggles, “I guess that’ll be a story to tell.”

Sin’s eyes are twinkling with warmth and a certain je ne sais quoi. “Just the first of many stories to tell, I hope.”

And when I see the expression on his face, I lose any and all clever comebacks in my arsenal.

27

PETRA

This charming, idyllic scene is not unfolding at a park or a classroom or even a classy restaurant a la L’Avion. Surrounding us are the rough stone walls of the crypt where an occult secret society allegedly met—and is perhaps still meeting—to summon demons and sacrifice humans.

“Okay, your turn,” Sin says with a mischievous smirk. When I raise my eyebrows quizzically, he hands me a card from our impromptu trivia game.

I only have to glance at the note before a smile starts dancing on my lips. “Okay, this one’s so easy! Who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?”

“I don’t know, Bernini?” Sin replies with a goofy grin, and I punch him playfully on the arm.

“Come on! Be serious,” I say in the tone of a long-suffering teacher. “And Bernini wasn’t even a painter, was he?”

“Okay, okay, the answer’s . . .” Sin puts on a serious face and places his hands on his temple, in a hyperbolic imitation of a psychic, before exclaiming, “Michelangelo! The answer is Michelangelo.”

I am guffawing by now, so he gives me puppy eyes and says, “Did I get it right?”

“Yes, you did,” I reply in a wry tone, “Anyone would, Sin.”

Mary Shelley would actually find this all very romantic, I think, while Sin shuffles the remaining cards of our little game.

It’s been a few weeks since we first explored the crypt together. In a surprising turn of events, we have entered a tacit understanding: The partnership in Ms. Matthews’s class can be further explored, safely, in the dreadful confines of this ancient (and alleged) slaughterhouse.

Here we can enjoy each other’s . . . company away from prying, petty eyes and snide remarks. Over the last few weeks, we’ve been meeting regularly for what we’ve started calling “study dates.”

Corny, I know. But my life has been stranger than fiction for a while now. Some commonplace corniness is just what I need.

Tonight, Sin has outdone himself, having procured some choice Camembert, juicy red grapes, and butter crackers.

When I praise his charcuterie skills, he says, “Oh, this is nothing! You should see the spreads my dad arranges for our famous literary soirées.”

“Ooh, they sound fun.” I dip another cracker into the melting cheese and bite into it with apparent relish.

“Yeah, they’re all right,” Sin says with a self-effacing gesture. “They’ll really like you, Petra.”