17. Petra
PETRA
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.”
“All the students at the university are part of that society. They praise this new teaching, this so-called ‘enlightened’ worldview—encouraging questions that were never meant to be asked.” His voice lowers. “They even have a map of demonic sigils.”
“No,” my father gasps. “That’s something only the Vatican is supposed to possess.”
“The leader of this . . . society . . . he’s well-connected.
Not just in the Vatican, but beyond. That’s how he seized control of the university.
Before him, the Theology Department was revered as one of the best in the country.
Now look at us. Why would we allow someone like that to desecrate our community? ”
There’s a silence.
“Are you sure this is what they’re planning?” my father asks at last. “A summoning? But why here? Why in our little town?”
The man pauses before replying, “Come now. You must know why.”
“What do you mean?”
“This land . . . it’s fertile. But not for crops.”
“What are you—?”
“Even our church’s founder, the great Father Reuben, said this land was sacred. Mystical. It allowed our church to flourish. Perhaps they see the same potential for their society.”
My father sighs. “And already we’ve seen the damage. The divide. It’s no longer one town—it’s us and them. A fracture has split this place.”
“Yes,” the man agrees. “Everyone has seen it. It’s been nearly twenty years since that madman arrived. For our children, this divide is all they’ve ever known.”
Twenty years? I think, startled. That can’t be. Sin doesn’t look much older than I am. He would’ve been a child back then.
“From the beginning,” the man continues, “when they created that new department and students flocked to it, we’ve watched our own church lose influence. People mock us. They turn away from our teachings.”
“That’s why I keep telling my son to stay away,” my father mutters.
“I’ve even pleaded with the reverend to impose stricter rules, to keep us from mingling with the outsiders.
But he won’t listen. He still lets our children roam the town—visit the shops, attend fairs, go where they’ll cross paths with those outsiders.
Pagans with a skewed understanding of life. ”
He falls quiet.
“But no one listens to me.”
“I do,” the man says gently. “I know the dangers all too well. And I believe this upcoming ritual could affect more than just our church. It could destroy all of Radcliffe.”
“If they summon this demon,” my father says, his voice tight, “it will be the end of us.”
“We must act,” the man says. “We must stop them.”
There’s a long pause.
“We are of the same mind, Jeremiah,” the man finally says. “It might be a sin . . . but is it, really, if we do it to protect ourselves?”
He lets the words hang for a moment before continuing, almost reverently:
“Think about what our church father, St. Augustine, said: Killing has its place in society as long as it serves a just cause. Sometimes, it is necessary.”
I clap a hand over my mouth to keep from gasping.
Killing? Did I hear that right? They’re talking about killing people?
How could they say something so vile so casually? I understand not agreeing with the people at the university. I even understand not wanting to live alongside them. But this? Murder? We can’t—
“We cannot let them get their way,” my father says firmly. “I believe God will forgive us for this transgression.”
“This is a just cause. We are protecting innocent people.”
My father hums in approval. “We can kill the leader and—”
“The leader won’t be enough,” the other man replies with a sharp tsk. “Not just him—his main disciples, too. If he’s gone, they’ll just carry on his legacy. We must wipe out the core of the movement. Otherwise, everyone in this town will be doomed.”
I can’t listen to another word. I retreat upstairs on shaking legs, my breath coming fast. Did they really just plot to kill someone?
Someone who merely disagrees with them?
Yes. They did.
And knowing my father, how deep his fanaticism runs, I can see it happening. I can see him doing it, truly believing he’s committing a righteous act. They’ll call it a necessary evil. They won’t even realize they’ve become worse than the people they claim to condemn.
But it isn’t just the murder they’re planning—it’s who they’re planning to kill.
They didn’t say his name. But it has to be him. He must be one of those “disciples” they mentioned. Why else would people in the square speak of him with such venom? Why else would they call him “cursed,” a “demon”?
He’s part of that school of thought. Of course he is. It makes sense now.
Oh, Lord. This is bad. This is really, truly bad.
If that ritual, or whatever they’re planning, is happening two days from now, then they’re going to act tomorrow.
Panic grips me. No matter how much I’ve tried to push Sin out of my mind, no matter how I’ve tried to forget our strange encounters, the letters, the disturbing gift he left me (God, a piece of flesh), that doesn’t mean I want to see him dead, does it?
No. I don’t want to see him hurt. Not in any way.
I think of the moment he was hit in the face, blood running down his cheek, that look of shock and pain when he saw me listening to the cruel things being said about him.
In that moment, he looked so vulnerable, and something about that struck a chord in me. Maybe I’m more sentimental than I want to admit. But one thing is certain: I cannot live with myself knowing a crime is about to be committed and doing nothing.
But how?
I’m watched, day and night.
Since that final, grotesque letter, Sin hasn’t reached out. It’s been days. I have no way to contact him.
The clock is ticking. The night creeps forward. Soon, the new day will dawn, and my father and that stranger will set their plan in motion.
I have to act. Fast.
I begin to pace, racking my brain for a way to reach Sin—somehow. There’s only one answer I keep circling back to:
I must go to him.
But where? I don’t know where he lives . . . but I know where he spends his time. The university. I could go there. I must go there.
But how do I leave without anyone seeing me? How do I get across town without being caught?
The questions swirl, but one thing is louder than all of them—my conviction. I must do something before it’s too late.
I shed my nightgown, throw on a day dress, and tie a scarf around my head. Instinctively, I reach for my veil—but no. If anyone sees me wearing it, they’ll know I’m from the church. Word will spread fast.
I take off the veil and leave only the scarf. I slip on my shoes and move toward the window.
Sin once left a letter for me there. He climbed up the wall. Could I climb down?
I peer over the ledge. There are a few protruding stones—places to grip, places to step. But I’m no climber. I’ve never done anything so physically demanding in my life. What if I fall? What if they hear me?
Still, I have no choice.
Gripping the window frame, I hoist myself onto the sill. My feet dangle in the cold air as I turn, slowly, and search with my toes for the next ledge.
The first step is easy. But when I glance down, fear rises like bile.
I swallow hard. Good Lord, help me. I know I haven’t been too earnest in my prayers lately, but just this once, please, just this once. I’m trying to prevent a murder. That must count for something.
I stretch my hands out to the next ledge and lower myself again. Dim lights from the outhouse flicker across the courtyard. The guards’ lanterns barely light my path. Shadows stretch around me, twisting with the wind—strangely comforting, like they’re shielding me.
And then, miraculously, my feet touch the ground.