37. Petra
PETRA
There’s a new letter on my windowsill.
For eleven days now, he’s left one there—every single night without fail.
I opened the first. Then the second.
After that, I stopped reading them. I burned them instead, one after the other, without even breaking the seal.
I know what he wants.
He’s asking me to meet him again. Always the same secret place, somewhere on the university property. Always the same promise: Slip away in the dead of night and be with him once more.
He wrote it in the first two letters, and I’m certain he’s written the same thing in all eleven.
But I haven’t replied. I haven’t even glanced at the others.
How could I?
I’ve been wracked with guilt since that night in the catacombs beneath St. Anselm Hall. I replay our time together and barely recognize myself.
Who was that girl? That wanton creature who allowed him such liberties?
My cheeks flush at the memory, and something sharp twists in my stomach.
I should never have let that happen. Not with him, not with anyone.
Yes, I may not be perfectly faithful to my religion, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve risked my safety for a moment of euphoria.
He must wonder why I haven’t come, why I haven’t written back.
He’s probably been waiting for me, night after night.
But how can I go when I now know the most important thing?
He lied to me.
I may be na?ve and untried in the ways of the world, but that doesn’t mean he can deceive me in such a blatant way.
He told me he had nothing to do with those rituals, that he’d never invoked anything, never bartered his soul. And yet . . . that thing I saw outside his door?
That thing wasn’t human. It was something else. Something dark, powerful . . . frightening. He was one with the shadows, not a corporeal identity. And the way it had easily lifted Sin off the floor? With inhuman strength?
Now, in hindsight, there’s something unmistakably sinister about Sin. About everything that has happened since I’ve met him in that bookstore.
Yes, I’m drawn to him. Physically.
But beyond that, what do I really know? His name, his profession, what he claimed about his childhood? He could have very well lied about that, and I would be none the wiser.
Twenty-five people are dead. For all I know, he had a hand in it.
And I can’t forget what I saw in the catacombs: those men with that woman, their disturbed actions. Sin swore he’d never been part of anything like that, but I don’t know if I can believe him anymore.
If he lied to me once, what else has he kept hidden?
I remember the argument he had with that . . . entity. He was speaking of doing something, promising something, shouting when the thing spoke ill of someone.
Maybe that someone was me.
Because I did do wrong.
I snuck out. I disobeyed. I was reckless.
I see that now. So let him leave his letters. Let him wait beneath the moonlight. I will not read his words. I will not meet him. Not when I can no longer trust him. Not when I fear he may be involved in something vile and immoral.
But then . . . I shake my head.
I still have the one thing even the devil cannot steal: my will. And I will not be his plaything. I will not be his prey.
Maybe it’s too late for some things, but not everything.
At least I never went to bed with him.
For that, I’m grateful.
I pick up the latest letter. Still sealed. Still untouched.
I walk to the hearth and toss it into the fire.
The paper curls, blackens, and burns.
And for just one second, I wonder—did he write something different this time? Did he finally confess and ask for forgiveness? Did he give a new explanation?
Curiosity burns inside me.
Just one second.
I nearly reach into the flames, but I stop myself.
I stay still.
I watch it burn and pray that the fire will carry away the last of my longing. Because yes, to my shame, I do feel something for him. And I know if I see him again, he’ll use that against me.
“Goodbye, Sin,” I whisper to the fire. “I hope we never meet again.”
When the last ember dies, I crack open the window to let the smoke escape.
At peace with my decision, I head to the bathroom to take a hot bath before bed. While waiting for the water to fill the porcelain tub, I shed my clothes and arrange them neatly to the side.
The light flickers a few times, the bathroom illuminated by only one bulb.
A shiver runs down my back, but I quickly shove aside any ominous thoughts and lower myself in the tub. The hot water engulfs my skin, and I let out a sigh of contentment.
Yet even that cannot banish the thoughts of Sin out of my head. I glance down at my naked body, my lips pursed in contemplation.
Before, I’ve never taken notice of my body; never analyzed it. But I would be lying if I said the things he did to me, the things he showed to me about my body, didn’t make me . . . curious.
It takes me a couple of minutes to gather the courage to slide my hand lower down my stomach until I reach that place between my legs.
But then I stop.
I shouldn’t be doing this, right? It’s immoral, or so I’ve been taught.
Yet how can something that feels so good be so bad?
In my mind, the bad is relegated to the church’s teachings and my experience with Sin—though the latter is not because I did not enjoy it, but because I was misled into it; because he abused my trust and lied to me.
And yet . . . why would I allow another man to dictate how I should feel?
I reach lower, searching for that hidden spot. The first touch startles me. It makes something coil low in my stomach.
I blink, both scared and excited.
Focusing on that spot, I emulate the same movements as Sin had done, hoping I can re-create the same feeling as before.
The anticipation is there. That spark appears the more I rub at it. But ultimately, it fizzes out before I can reach that elusive pinnacle.
I let out a tired sigh and remove my hand from between my legs. That was . . . disappointing.
Submerging deeper under water, my gaze moves to the flickering light on the ceiling. But something there gets my attention. There’s a shadow moving over the opposite wall, and another on the same one. Shadows don’t work like that . . . no?
Fear brims inside of me, and I cut my bath short, quickly getting out and putting my night robe on.
When I get back to my room, I head to the vanity to braid my hair for the night.
But as I lower myself before the vanity, I catch a shadow moving in the mirror. A chill climbs my spine.
I spin around and gasp.
He’s here.
Sin.
He’s in my room.
How did he get in?
I just came back from the bathroom. I only turned my back for a moment.
But somehow, he’s here.
Quietly. Stealthily. Like a shadow creeping from the darkness.
He’s as handsome as I remember. But there’s something different now. A coldness in his eyes. Something darker, something . . . sinister.
“What are you doing here?” I breathe, my voice sharp with panic.
That we might be caught together by my family is the last thing on my mind. More urgent is the fact that I now know he is not what he seems. I fear for my own well-being, for my safety. Yet I’m not sure if it’s bodily harm that I’m afraid of.
I’m scared of the damage he’d wreak on my soul.
“Why haven’t you come to meet me, Petra?” His voice is slow. Tense. “Why haven’t you answered my letters?”
I stagger backward, my voice rising with fear. “You should’ve taken the silence for what it was. I don’t want to see you again. Please leave.” Yet my voice lacks conviction. Even to my ears, the pronouncement sounds weak.
He takes a step forward, his brows furrowed.
“You are scared,” he mentions quietly. “Why? I have not done anything to you. I would never do anything to you.”
Every step he takes brings him closer to me, closer to the light from the candle on my vanity that illuminates his features, his expression.
His features are ravaged by pain.
“Stop. Don’t come any closer,” I warn.
He pauses, confused. His eyes narrow. “I don’t understand you, Petra. What happened?”
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
He doesn’t understand. He lies and manipulates and calls it love. And maybe he believes it. Maybe that’s what frightens me most.
That he thinks this is normal.
That he is.
“Please forget about me,” I say. “Forget everything and stop looking for me.”
“Why?” he asks. “Did something happen? Does your family suspect anything?”
I shake my head. “It was all a mistake,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have come to you . . . I shouldn’t have left my house in the middle of the night. I shouldn’t have let you touch me.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Petra,” he states slowly, his eyes glinting in the dark as he steps closer.
I swallow hard. There’s something dangerous about him—something simmering beneath the surface.
My heart pounds in my chest. I can’t tell if what I feel is fear or excitement. Maybe both. But I know one thing: I can’t let him see the truth.
I know what he is.
I know he has something to do with that . . . entity. And that makes him dangerous—far too dangerous.
Now it’s not just my body that is in danger with him, but my immortal soul, too.
So I lie. “I think after what happened between us,” I say quickly, “I realized I’m not in love with you.”
It hurts, even as I speak the words. But it’s the only way to protect myself. To end this.
“What happened between us . . .” I continue. “It was new. I was curious, but—”
“But?” he presses.
“But I see now that it was just physical.”
He repeats my words, slowly. “Something new,” he echoes. “So it was just curiosity that made you let me touch you like that?”
“Please, Sin . . . don’t make this harder than it has to be,” I plead. “You shouldn’t be here. If they catch you—”
“No, Petra. You’re going to tell me exactly what you mean.”
“I told you. It wasn’t love.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to see through the lie.
“Not love, huh?” he says, skeptical. “So . . . you’d let just anyone touch you the way I did?”
“I—well, you’re the most handsome man I’ve ever met,” I stammer. “And I haven’t met that many, so I-I don’t know . . .”
“So you’d let another man lift your skirt and fuck you with his fingers?”
I gasp, stunned.
I inch toward the door, preparing to run if I have to.
“That’s disgusting,” I add, my voice shaking. “How can you say that? Please, go.”
“No.” He steps closer. “Not until you tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth. What more do you want?”
“Liar,” he hisses, tilting his head. “But you’re such a pretty liar, Petra.” He tuts at me, lips curling in something between anger and desire. “I would be furious,” he says, “if I didn’t want you so badly.”
He’s a storm of contradictions. I don’t know what he wants, and I don’t care anymore. I just want him gone.
“Please,” I repeat. “Let’s not make this worse. Maybe I led you on, and I’m sorry about that, all right? But I’ve had time to think, and I’ve come to realize I don’t want this. I don’t want you.”
“You don’t want . . . me?” he repeats, almost in disbelief.
“No,” I say, more firmly. “I don’t want to see you again. I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t want to be anywhere near you.”
His face tightens. The warmth drains from it. He steps closer, so close that I can feel his breath on my skin.
“I wonder . . .” he murmurs, voice low and venomous, “what your father would think. About you letting someone lift your skirt and finger you . . . taste your breasts . . .”
I don’t let him finish. My hand flies.
Slap.
He staggers, tongue darting out to lick the blood from his lip. For a long moment, he says nothing.
Moments pass as we are at a standstill. He stares at me. I stare back at him, chest heaving.
“You’re right,” he finally mutters. “I apologize. That was uncalled for.”
I press my lips together.
“Fine. Apology accepted. Now go. Leave.” I point to the window.
But he doesn’t move.
So I do the only thing I can. I grab the poker from the fireplace and aim it at him.
“Come any closer, and I’ll hurt you.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.
Instead, he smiles.
“My brave, brave Petra,” he says, almost laughing. “What will you do, hit me over the head with the poker?”
I push the poker forward until it skirts past his waistcoat.
His eyes flash with something dark, something that makes my stomach twist. He . . .
I gulp down. This doesn’t scare him. It only excites him more.
“You’re lying,” he says. “I know you want me. You want my fingers deep inside you, petting your little pearl. You want me because you know you’ll never feel the same without me.
” He pauses and smirks, almost as if he knew about my secret time in the bathroom.
“I’ll leave. For now. But don’t think for one moment that you aren’t mine. You’ll admit it one day. You will.”
He moves toward the window, his presence pulling the air with him. Before I can speak, he leaps.
Out the window.
I rush to the ledge, my heart thundering in my chest.
What . . .
It’s impossible.
I’m on the second story. No one could jump from this height and just . . . vanish. And yet, he’s gone.
Gone.
I scan the street, the shadows, the rooftops.
Nothing.
Not a sound. Not a trace.
I think of all the letters he left on my windowsill. How I never heard him approach, never heard him leave, never heard even one rustle. Not even once.
And now I wonder—
Maybe the way he comes and goes . . .
Maybe it isn’t natural at all. Maybe it never was.
What if he told the truth when he said he did not take part in the summoning? Because what if . . .
What if he is a demon?