PETRA
“What the actual fuck?” I exclaim, taking a step back. “You’re telling me they—”
“Kill more people, yes,” Sin says. “At least, that’s how the story goes.”
And now, my perspective on the painting before us is completely changed: Now it’s the robed figures that invoke fear.
I wonder how they look behind those hoods.
Are they twisted in agony, like the sinners burning in Dante’s eight circles of hell?
Are they triumphant and filled with unslaked bloodlust?
“So you’re telling me that Edwin was one of those sacrifices,” I murmur. “Meaning there might be more to come.”
“If we are connecting his death to the paintings here, then yes,” Sin says in a tight voice.
“And they do this every few decades?” I know I’m repeating myself, but no matter how hard I try, it’s impossible to wrap my mind around the bloodcurdling revelations. He nods, so I quickly continue, “When was the last odd murder? Did anyone else die strangely in town?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure some people died.” He pauses, looking pensive.
“Although not as bloody as Edwin, as far as I know. I don’t think they were flagged as anything overly suspicious, though there are a lot of townsfolk who claimed the deaths were sacrifices, that it was the third cycle.
The police didn’t think so, though, and dismissed the claims as myths. ”
“But they’re not myths, Sin!” I cry out. “They’re fucking real, aren’t they? What happened to Edwin was real. And oh God . . . we’re living in the fourth cycle.”
Some other fact has been tugging at my attention this whole time, and when we lapse into a frightful silence again and peer at the gruesome scene on the wall, I get an epiphany. My own family had moved to this town when I was fourteen. We’re relative newcomers. Does this put us—me—more at risk?
“Sin,” I begin in a tone laced with pure, cold terror, “my parents and I . . . we moved here when I was fourteen. We’re technically new people in this town. We’re not connected to any of the old families.”
His eyes flicker with guilt as he says, “That’s good to know, isn’t it, Petra? Looks like your family are not human sacrificers and satanists!”
“Who are the main families, then? The ones people suspect of being the devil worshippers?”
“Ah, I was really hoping you wouldn’t ask that question,” Sin replies with a nervous smile that turns solemn when he continues. “If you must know, the five families are Arnoult, Underwood, Snowden, Rutherford, and Haas. I know those names sound familiar . . .”
“Wait, Arnoult?” I exclaim again. “Your family?”
Sin nods sheepishly and tries to avoid my eyes as he adjusts his phone camera to take a picture of the painting.
“Yeah. My family’s apparently related to one of the professors at the University in the 1890s. If it makes you feel any better, I have never heard my mom and dad planning or discussing the semicentennial family jamborees where we worship demons and sacrifice people.”
The last sentence is a desperate attempt at jest, and he looks uncomfortable enough that I don’t press him further on the topic.
Instead, I say, “And the other families? They’re all still around?”
“Yup. And they still wield substantial power over the town,” Sin replies.
“The Underwood family owns most of the businesses downtown, all those strip malls, bodegas, burger joints, etc. The Snowdens are major stakeholders in the local government—every generation sees at least five Snowdens in the town council. Then the Rutherfords are well-respected and widely feared attorneys, and the Haas family has significant real estate.”
“But you’re not . . . involved, are you?” I ask hesitantly, the question feeling necessary and ridiculous and dangerous. “With the rituals, I mean.”
“No, Petra, of course not!” Sin insists with such an earnest and anguished expression that I turn my attention back to the paintings.
We proceed farther into the crypt, the air growing colder with each step. Yet the complete silence and calm atmosphere make me feel physically fine, a rare event these days.
“These paintings,” I whisper. “Do you get the feeling that they’re not just ritual depictions or snapshots of the past? Like, they’re instructions instead.”
Sin pauses to examine the mural more closely as I take a few more photographs. “You know what? I think you’re right. These images are showing them how to perform the sacrifices.”
I turn back to the mural before us, trying to process how intricately the horrors of our present are linked to a long line of evil deeds that have darkened Radcliffe’s history.
It’s true that I can’t help but admire the pure artistry of these paintings: The blending of colors is so skillful, the gradience between blacks, greys, and reds creates such a unique atmosphere of dread. Even the grisly context of the artwork cannot retract from its savage beauty.
Another mural, another macabre depiction of ritual sacrifice, catches my eye. My gaze zeroes in on a specific section, and my stomach twists in recognition.
“Sin,” I say quietly. “Look at this.”
He steps closer, his eyes following my pointing finger. It’s a grim image: a person lying on the ground, obviously dead, with blood pouring from their eyes, nose, mouth, ears—every orifice. The scene makes my skin crawl, but the brushwork makes me hold my breath.
“Jesus!” Sin mutters. “That’s just sadistic.”
“Now compare it to this one,” I say, having moved beyond bowel-churning repulsion and arrived at intrigue. “This is like Edwin’s death, right?”
“Yes, and?” Sin looks skeptical and wary, as if bracing for something really bad.
“And this one.” I point back to the bleeding figure. “It looks like the second in a sequence. Edwin’s was the first death.”
“Petra, are you sure? You’re saying that the next . . . death will look like that?” Sin points a shaking finger at the painting before us.
My heart pounds as I nod in agreement. We don’t know what else to say, so we keep walking. The mastery evident in the drawings keeps me engaged as we pass from one damp wall to the next.
At the same time, I can’t help but be impressed by Sin’s knowledge about art. He points out small details that I would have missed, even explaining the underlying connotation of various symbols and patterns.
“Look at this symbol here.” Sin points to a concentric, looped sigil drawn, or almost branded, onto a ritual scene. “Did you notice that it’s repeated in multiple places? Maybe it refers to a seal, as in a sealing of the pact with the demon?”
“Oh, wow, that sounds really cool, Sin,” I reply with utmost sincerity. “You really know a lot about this stuff.”
“Comes with the territory of being an Arnoult, I guess.” After a few more minutes, Sin steps back and stretches his arms. “I don’t know about you, but I could really use a break from squinting at all these wonderfully brutal depictions.”
“I agree.” In fact, my feet have been killing me for a while now.
“Excellent!” Sin says, rifling through his backpack. To my surprise, he pulls out a blanket and some snacks. “Here,” he says, spreading the blanket on the cold stone floor. “Time to rest those legs, darling.”
I smile gratefully and sit down on the soft fabric.
Sin hands me a small bag of chips and a bottle of water. “Figured we might need some nourishment.”
“Thank you, Sin. This was really thoughtful of you.”
“Please, it was the least I could do,” he says graciously, sitting down beside me—much closer than I expected. But I am not going to complain. The perfumed warmth of his body is a welcome respite from the crypt’s relentless chill.
To my continued surprise, Sin takes my hand in his, a casual movement that implies an intimacy between the two of us, alone as we are in this underground chamber of horrors.
I struggle to keep my breath steady at the unexpected contact, but I don’t pull away.
There’s something undeniably magnetic about him, something that draws me in despite everything.
“Petra,” he begins softly, his thumb drawing gentle circles on the tender skin at my wrist, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that night.”
“Then why didn’t you text me afterward?” I blurt out the one question that has been burning at the tip of my tongue for months now.
He winces, as if I had again asked a question he was hoping I wouldn’t voice.
“Because I felt guilty. We were both drunk when we . . . and afterward, I thought you needed some space. But in all honesty, Petra, you’ve been on my mind. All. The. Time.”
How vulnerable he looks, how forlorn! His honesty stirs something within me, thawing out some of the ice that’s settled around my heart over the past months.
“I’m . . . I don’t know what to say,” I admit in a hoarse whisper.
“You don’t have to say anything, Petra,” Sin replies, his fingers now stroking my palm. “I just wanted you to know how I feel. I really care about you.”
Silence stretches between us, and I take deep breaths, the woodsy notes of Sin’s perfume helping release the stress held up in my body for Lord knows how long.
Despite all the wrenching discoveries we made today, I find myself leaning into him. As my head reaches his shoulder, his arm automatically drapes over my upper back and draws me closer to him.
We sit like this for some time, and I sink deeper into the sense of security that settles over me like a silken shawl. It’s Sin who breaks the silence.
“There’s something I wanted to ask you. The fall ball is coming up . . . and I’d like to take you. Would you go with me?”
His fingers twirl the curly ends of my hair, and it’s an endlessly cozy feeling. But his words put me on alert, and I hesitate at the thought of attending the fall ball. For one thing, it will be riotously crowded and unbearably noisy.
“I don’t know, Sin. Honestly, I’m not really into those kinds of events. Especially not now . . . with everything that’s been happening.”
“I get it,” Sin replies in an even softer voice as he squeezes my hand. “But maybe the dance could be a chance to feel normal for a night? Maybe it will help you forget about all this, just for a few hours?”
For a while, I’m quite torn.
“I’ll think about it,” I reply eventually. “But right now, I need to focus on the project and just keeping my wits about me, you know?”
“Of course I do, Petra. Know that the offer stands.”
His hand has been gently massaging my arm and shoulders this whole time. And as the silence between us ripens and deepens, I feel a fluttering in my belly—one wholly unconnected to the you-know-who floating inside its amniotic dream.
The way Sin sighs into my hair, the way his fingers glide over my limbs like butterflies . . . all of it leaves me bewitched, hazy with desire.
“I’m really glad we’re doing this together,” Sin whispers into my ear, softly tucking a silken strand of hair behind my ear. “I like the feel of you in my arms, Petra. It feels so right.”
His fingers have moved to caress the smooth planes of my cheek. I close my eyes and let the feel of his skin over mine lull me further into his embrace.
“It does feel good,” I reply just as gently.
Now his finger is lightly tracing the outline of my lips, and his mouth plants small kisses on my forehead. I sigh as he turns me toward him, so gently that it might be a trick of the wind. Now he’s cupping my chin and tilting my head up. His lips inch closer to mine.
Suddenly, a loud clatter echoes through the crypt, a sharp, metallic sound that bounces off the stone walls. My eyes snap open, and Sin’s head whips around.
“The fuck was that?” I gasp in fear.
Sin grips my hand tighter. “I don’t know. Stay close.” His voice is calm but edged with caution.
In a few seconds, we have sprung to our feet, forgetting the blanket and snacks in our rush toward the exit. The cozy intimacy of the previous moments vanishes, and the crypt feels like a trap closing in on us.
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.