40. Petra
PETRA
Panic tightens in my chest. Is an engagement why my father told me not to wear my veil? What is happening here?
Is he serving me to this creepy old man on a platter?
Dread fills me to the brim, and immediately, ideas form in my mind.
I need to find a way out of this. I cannot let this happen.
Of course, I’d known that sooner or later I would be married, but not now and certainly not to this man who’s three times my age!
“And of course, I’m very excited about the wedding,” my brother adds smoothly. “Leah and I make the perfect couple.”
I turn to look at them, my brother and Leah.
First, I feel a deep sense of relief. Then the questions abound.
Leah? But she’s so young. Far too young.
The shock doesn’t wear off, not even as the conversation continues around me. Everyone begins discussing the engagement—who will be invited, which members of the Radcliffe elite are expected to attend.
My brother preens. My father wears a smug, satisfied smile.
So this is what he’s been working toward all along: his attempt to climb the social ladder, to secure a place among the powerful. All of it—his pious persona, his strict adherence to the rules—has been a performance, a mask he wears to suit his ambitions.
The more I watch the carefully curated cheerfulness between the families, the more disgusted I become. This entire evening is a transaction dressed as celebration.
And now it makes sense: his willingness to fall in line with Mr. Snowden’s plans, his quiet compliance, his eagerness to please.
He’s not just a friend. He’s a would-be in-law.
A union with Leah ensures access to her inheritance, her dowry—wealth that would pass to my brother, and by extension, to him.
Looking at small, quiet, painfully meek Leah, I feel a cold fury build in my chest. I can already see how they’ll mold her into the same shape they forced upon my mother: voiceless, compliant, used.
The dinner ends, and the men retire to the study for cigars, leaving the women to take tea in the drawing room. Mr. Snowden urges Leah and me to spend time together, to “get to know each other better,” since we’ll be “family soon.”
In the drawing room, my mother sits alone in the far corner, distant and uninterested in the conversation. That leaves Leah and me, side by side in silence.
After a few minutes, I finally ask, softly, “How old are you?”
She startles at the question, flicks her eyes toward me, then quickly looks down again. “I’ll be eighteen in two weeks,” she murmurs.
Ah. So that’s the plan.
They’re waiting for her to reach marriageable age—barely. Even in our community, marriages don’t happen until nineteen or twenty. Barely eighteen is unheard of. Unthinkable.
I bite my lip, holding back the words I’m not allowed to say—the fury threatening to spill out. Fury not only at my father and brother for going through with this, but at Mr. Snowden, too.
Because it’s not just that he’s marrying off his too-young daughter; it’s that he’s raised her for this. She’s been trained to sit still, to speak softly, to avoid eye contact, to submit. She is a doll. A lifeless, decorative thing.
And suddenly, I wonder if I’ve been too hard on my own community. Perhaps it’s not just our congregation that silences its women. The outside world does it, too—packages them into quiet, compliant forms and calls it virtue.
They are used, displayed, married off . . . but never heard.
The realization makes my blood boil.
“Do you want to marry him?” I ask quietly.
She takes a deep breath but doesn’t answer. Instead, I catch the subtle shake of her head.
I don’t know if it’s meant as a message, a quiet defiance she can’t voice, or just an involuntary tremble of her body. But either way, I see it.
I ask Leah what she enjoys doing in her spare time and a few other questions to try to get to know her better, but after several failed attempts to get her to speak, I give up.
She only stares at her feet, fidgeting with her hands.
Even a simple nod now seems too much. With a quiet sigh, I rise from the sofa and murmur something about finding the ladies’ room.
I make my way back toward the sprawling hallway, drawn again to the paintings—especially the one I remember being titled Sinful something. But just as I turn the corner, a servant appears in front of me, startling me.
“What is it you’re looking for, Miss?” he asks in a somber voice.
“Oh, I was just looking for the ladies’ room,” I reply awkwardly, my gaze lingering longingly toward the hallway with the paintings. But I know I won’t be able to return to it.
“Yes, of course. If you’ll follow me,” he says, and I trail after him. He leads me through a different section of the house and shows me to the guest bathroom.
“Thank you,” I say, stepping inside.
After I finish and wash my hands, I exit—but soon realize I have no idea how to get back to the drawing room. The house is a maze, filled with endless corridors and tucked-away rooms.
I try to retrace the path we took when we first arrived, but instead, I find myself somewhere near the cigar room: the one reserved for the men.
My first instinct is to scurry away before I’m seen. I already know my father is going to reprimand me later for speaking out at dinner, and the last thing I need is to be caught here. But just as I turn to go, the sound of voices inside stops me. Mr. Snowden is speaking.
“There are some things of grave importance we must discuss, and I didn’t want to bring it up at the table so as not to disturb the ladies’ sensibilities,” he says gravely.
“I’ve learned more about that cult that’s taken hold of Radcliffe.
” He pauses, then adds, “A student from the university, someone who was part of the group, came forward—for the right price. He said they call themselves the Ouroboros Society.”
“The Ouroboros Society?” my father repeats. “As in the serpent from mythology?”
“Yes. Apparently, we were right about the sigils; Arnoult was the one who acquired them. But they didn’t know how to use them. They wanted to test each to see which demon could be summoned. That’s as far as the informant would go. He didn’t want to get further involved once the stakes got higher.”
“Sounds like a man of good sense,” my father murmurs.
“Perhaps,” Snowden agrees. “But now we’re back to square one. We know little more than before, and I’m afraid there’s been a new development.”
“What kind of development?” my father asks.
“There have been more murders.”
“What? I haven’t heard anything about this,” my father says, shocked.
“The police are keeping it under wraps. They’re afraid that if word gets out, the townspeople will panic. Radcliffe has already begun to isolate itself. No one dares go out anymore.”
“But who were the victims?” my father presses. “Locals?”
“No. Outsiders. Strangers to Radcliffe. That’s how they’ve managed to keep it quiet. The bodies were discovered in a mausoleum—fifteen adult males.”
“Fifteen?” my father repeats, stunned. “And no one knows?”
“Only because the mausoleum kept them hidden. A gravekeeper noticed the smell and alerted authorities.”
“And how did they die?” my father asks.
“The same way as the others. A puncture wound to the neck.”
My father sighs heavily. “This is outrageous. One man couldn’t do all this: first twenty-five, now fifteen. And these were men, not children.”
“That’s where it becomes more complicated,” Snowden says grimly. “The medical examiner believes the wounds were self-inflicted.”
“What?” my father exclaims. “How?”
“I don’t understand it either. Why would so many kill themselves? Why publicly? And how could anyone convince them?”
“You said they were outsiders. Do we know anything about them?” my father asks.
“Some have been identified. All from reputable families. Men from upstanding homes, the kind you wouldn’t expect to dabble in arcane rituals. I’ve even done business with a few of their families.”
“Good Lord,” my father breathes. “How many more will die before this ends?”
“I don’t know,” Snowden says. “But I fear this will continue until they achieve whatever satanic goal they’ve set. And if these were suicides . . . we must ask what, or who, made them do it.”
“Mind control?” my father hedges.
“I’ve thought of that, too. Everyone who knew Arnoult said he was charismatic. If he had powers, demonic or otherwise, he could’ve used them to sway minds.”
“But for what? A ritual?” my father asks incredulously. “I’ve never heard of one like this.”
“Just because we haven’t heard of it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” Snowden amends. “This could be the foundation of something much larger. Something darker.”
“Did your informant give you any more names?”
“No,” Snowden replies. “But he did say Arnoult wasn’t alone. There were four others at the meeting he attended. They wore robes with hoods and introduced themselves only by initials. He couldn’t see their faces.”
Robes. Like the ones I saw in the tunnels.
A loud, shriek-like sound travels down the hallway. I swivel, my eyes wide and fearful.
Nothing. There’s nothing there.
I take a deep breath and turn around.
Another shriek, this time higher-pitched, the ghost of an incomprehensible word echoing in the hall.
A shiver goes down my back as I tell myself there’s nothing there, that it’s just my imagination playing tricks on me.
“What are you doing here?” a voice hisses behind me.
My heart jumps out of my chest.
I whirl around and come face-to-face with my brother.
“I—I got lost,” I stammer. “I was just trying to find my way back.”
“You were eavesdropping, weren’t you?”
“No! I swear—I was just—”
The crack of a slap cuts through the air. Pain explodes across my cheek. I stare at him in shock.
“Go back. Now. And don’t say another word until we leave.”
I don’t argue. I hurry away, trying to find the drawing room, but my mind is spinning.
The Ouroboros Society. Five hooded figures.
One of them has to be Sin. It has to be. I’ve seen his unnatural strength. His eerie silences. The way he moved without sound.
Perhaps he didn’t sell his soul for a kiss, but he sold it for something. Power. Control.
The visit to the Snowden estate ends less than ten minutes later. At home, I retreat to my room, expecting a punishment that doesn’t come. My father and brother are too consumed by what they’ve learned to pay me any mind.
It’s only the next morning, as I head to breakfast, that I notice the stir in the house.
Two physicians rush toward my brother’s room. Curious, I follow quietly.
He’s lying on the bed, a strip of cloth stuffed in his mouth to muffle the screams.
His right hand, the one that struck me, is severely disfigured. There is a harsh red mark on the back of his hand, as if someone had taken a hot brand and pressed it into his skin.
A demon sigil.
And I know, without a shadow of a doubt . . .
It was him.
Sin.
But . . . did he do it for me?