48. Petra
PETRA
For a while, it’s hard to form any coherent thoughts as I just lie back and relax in Sin’s arms.
Only images swirl in my mind: Sin kneeling between my legs and hitching up my skirt, kissing and licking the throbbing nub of my clit, one hand kneading my breast while the other clamped my mouth shut with surprising force . . .
My cheeks warm at this erotic recollection, and I feel myself getting wet again.
But if Sin can sense the second wave of desire breaking over me, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he plants a chaste kiss on my forehead.
His heart beats steadily under my ear, and his breath is warm against my face. His fingers trail lazily across my shoulders and hips.
It all feels like a dream.
Suddenly, a voice just outside the door announces, “Sin, we’re turning in for the night!”
We both almost jump up while Sin hastily shouts, “Goodnight, Mom!” so that Lisa doesn’t just come barging in on our intimate scene.
Of course, she doesn’t seem like the type of woman who’d do that, and my assumption is proven correct when she says, “All right, you two, don’t stay up too late!” and walks away to her bedroom.
In a few more minutes, the other sounds of the house die down, too, and a cozy silence spreads over the rooms.
“I think they’re all asleep,” Sin says to me while I adjust my hair in the mirror opposite his bed.
Something makes me ask, “Are you sure about Marie?”
“Oh yeah,” Sin replies easily. “That baby sleeps like a log.” He scrunches up his nose to further underline his disgust at his sister’s uncouth ways, but I’m not fooled.
“Okay, I’m ready. Lead the way!” I reply in a bright yet brittle voice. I have never snuck around after dark in someone else’s house, so I’m understandably nervous.
But Sin slips ahead of me with purposeful strides, while I struggle to tiptoe quietly enough.
Knowing my luck, there’s always the risk of walking into some antique chest of drawers or knocking over a Ming dynasty vase that turns out to be worth millions.
Thankfully, we reach the basement stairs without any such accidents.
“Watch your step,” Sin calls out behind him as we start descending the slightly dusty wooden planks. The dimly lit basement of the Arnoult home feels even more daunting than the crypt.
The walls are lit up by burnished lighting that makes the whole space look somewhat . . . ancient.
“Just how old is your house, Sin?”
“It was built sometime in the 1860s but was renovated and expanded in the 1950s. Multiple generations of Arnoults have lived here,” he adds with a chuckle.
“That’s quite the history,” I murmur.
As we step inside, Sin swings his phone’s light across the cramped space, illuminating shelves lined neatly with file boxes, leatherbound journals, and faded documents.
“Not only that, but people have been quite dedicated to keeping the history,” Sin says casually, pulling out a file box at random and going through its contents. “There are several records here dating back to the nineteenth century.”
We start digging through the boxes, sorting papers, and flipping through dusty volumes.
The sheer number of leatherbound titles stowed away in this area makes me think of libraries. Something catches my eye, and I pull out a large, worn journal, its cover embossed with intricate designs.
When I flip through the pages, I realize that this is a book of engravings, a collection of what look to be really rare pictures.
“Oooh, that looks interesting!” Sin chimes in from behind me. He’s been peering at the pages over my shoulder.
I pause at an engraving depicting men in dark robes surrounding a tall figure.
Their hands are outstretched toward a swirling wispy mass suspended over this person (is it even a person?) in the center.
Goose bumps spring up all over my arm.
“Who-who are they? Do you know?”
“Here, is there a caption for this image?” Sin asks, squinting at the text written in an elegant Victorian font beside the illustration.
“This says it’s from the late 1800s—Sinclair Arnoult the First. He was one of the founding members of the Ouroboros Society.”
“Sinclair Arnoult the First?” I echo in shock. “The same name as yours?” I raise a brow.
“Unfortunately,” Sin replies in a grim voice. “That’s one of my ancestors.”
“So what number are you supposed to be?” I ask with a laugh.
“Fourth.” He smiles sheepishly. “There have been quite a few Sinclairs since.”
“Fourth? Your father isn’t named that,” I mention with a frown. Four would imply four generations, and it’s been less than one hundred fifty years since the late 1800s.
“Yes, well, all the others died young,” he replies absent-mindedly, as if reading the silent question on my face.
“Oh,” is all I can say as we both lean forward to examine the pictures more clearly.
“The family resemblance is uncanny,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady to show that I’m not nearly as spooked as I look. “He looks very certain of himself,” I add when the silence between us becomes uncomfortable. “Very confident.”
“Very arrogant, more like it,” Sin says, his eyes glued to the text surrounding the engravings. “It says here that he was the leader of an occult movement said to communicate with beings beyond the veil.”
“What, like ghosts?”
“Yeah, but Arnoult’s group was on a whole different level,” Sin replies with growing unease in his voice. “Says here that they wanted to call upon demons to fulfill their deepest desires.”
An actual shiver runs down my spine at these ominous words. “Summon demons? That sounds like a B-grade horror movie.”
“It gets worse,” Sin adds in a clipped tone, as if trying to distance himself from the gory details of his ancestry. “Apparently, this society, most definitely the Ouroboros Society, believed they could commit human sacrifices to call upon a demon to fulfill their deepest desires.”
“What? Human Sacrifices?!” I exclaim, trying to read the pages he’s turning with stiff fingers. “But seriously, Sin, how is it that we never learned about any of this before? They teach the Salem Witch Trials in school, but not this?”
“The Ouroboros Society were all men, Petra. Powerful men,” Sin replies, pointing to a footnote in another of the rare books from a stack on the table. “That’s why they didn’t face the mobs and pitchforks like the women accused of witchcraft. At least, not initially.”
“This is insane,” I blurt out, not knowing what else to say.
“Look.” He draws my attention to a number of newspaper clippings.
One of them details the murder of twenty-five university students in the town square; a couple others mention the grisly deaths of some wealthy men.
But one in particular catches my eye—the one that mentions Arnoult and his seances to call upon otherworldly beings.
The newspapers seem familiar. As if I’ve seen them before. And perhaps I did, because the information is the same as the one in my dreams. The twenty-five students who killed themselves in that so-called sacrifice. Rutherford and Underwood’s macabre deaths.
These are all like my dreams.
And suddenly, a current of terror grips me.
What does that mean? Are my dreams real? Are they a true window to the past?
But how? Why?
How the hell am I dreaming about things that actually happened over a hundred years ago?
But the lingering question is: If those events truly happened, then does that mean dream-Petra and dream-Sin were real people, too?
Were they . . . I glance at Sin from the corner of my eye. He looks the same now as he did in my dreams. Everything is the same.
I squeeze my eyes shut and hug my arms to my chest, more confused than ever.
“Hey, are you all right?” Sin asks when he notices my discomfort.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just a little spooked out, you know.” I offer a forced smile.
“Oh, Petra. Come here, sweetie,” he murmurs as he draws me in his arms.
“Do you think it’s real? That people could sell their souls to the devil or something like that?”
“Sell their souls?” he asks with a frown. “Nothing mentioned that.”
“Uhm,” I stammer. “But it’s implied, right? Summoning demons to fulfill wishes?”
“I suppose so,” he replies. “As to whether it’s real or not, some people definitely believed it to be real.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Believe that.”
He shrugs. “I think there are a lot of things out there beyond our comprehension,” he answers vaguely.
“What would you ask for? If you were to sell your soul to the devil. What is your deepest desire?” I press on.
I’m not sure why I ask that question, except the scenes I witnessed in my dreams keep replaying in my mind, and I’m trying to make sense of how everything fits in: me, Sin, that creepy Society.
He snorts. “I would never sell my soul, Petra. How could I when it’s meant to belong to one person only?”
I blink and draw back to study his features.
His words ring in my mind, a strange familiarity to them.
“Would you? Sell your soul?” he asks in a languid voice, his face devoid of any of the previous jocularity.
“I . . . I don’t think so.”
“Enough about that demonic stuff,” he suddenly says, his lighthearted expression back on his face.
“Yeah, we should keep looking,” I agree, though I can’t help but question everything around me, including Sin—and how he is so deft at switching masks.
“We have a lot more to get through,” Sin adds, pointing at the other volumes heaped around us.
Again, we sift through the boxes. Perhaps this time, there’s more urgency in my movements. More than ever, I need to know.
It’s almost as if there’s a door in my mind waiting to be opened, for all the information to flow in and for the dots to be connected. But I’m missing the key to it.
“Here’s another,” I say, my finger tracing the faded ink in the yellowed pages of what looks like an old logbook of sorts.
“Someone’s jotted down timings for the meetings. And look here: a meeting near St. Anselm Hall. It’s from 1894. Says they were gathering to discuss the continuation of the pact.”
“See?” Sin murmurs, excitement bubbling in his voice. “You always dig up the best bits.”