PETRA
“What are you doing here?” I whisper.
He’s dressed in a white shirt with a black vest over it and black trousers. A few buttons at his neck are undone, revealing a glimpse of skin. He’s far too casually dressed for the party, which means he’s not here for it.
He’s here for me.
“I told you not to go looking for the creature,” he continues. “Did you?”
“You know I did. But . . . you didn’t ever tell me anything. I haven’t spoken to you in months.”
He snorts. “Do you really believe that?”
I shrug. “I already suspected those dreams weren’t really dreams, but this confirms it. Besides, I think the creature saved me in this instance.”
“Really?” he drawls.
“Oh, come on.” I roll my eyes at him. “It’s not like you don’t know.
You’ve probably been watching me from the shadows, like always.
You know what my father meant to do—what he and Mr. Snowden had planned.
They didn’t go through with it because Mr. Snowden looked terrified.
And why would he be scared . . . if not because he saw something? ”
“So smart, my darling Petra.”
“Don’t patronize me,” I snap.
“I’m not. It’s a fair compliment. Although I’m still not in agreement with what you did. It was dangerous. Reckless. Why would you do something like that?”
“Because I had to know. I had to know if the dreams were real, or if I was just losing my mind.” I take a deep breath.
“That’s how I’ve been feeling all this time, Sin.
And it’s your fault. You’re the reason I’ve stopped caring about my life.
I keep waiting for night to fall so I can sleep—so I can see you again. ”
“Ah, Petra . . .” he whispers, stepping closer.
“Stop toying with me,” I mumble, my voice breaking.
“Have I ever?”
“Yes, you have. How could you think you haven’t? And the things that happened in those dreams that weren’t even dreams . . .” I’m hysterical at this point as I remember the ways in which he’d touched me, the ways in which I’d touched him. “Was it real? Or did you . . . do something to my mind?”
“No. I did not do anything to your mind.”
“Then how?”
He presses his lips together, and I can see the answer won’t come easily.
“I’m done with you,” I say. “I’m done with everyone trying to control me. Just when I thought I found some small sliver of peace in my sleep . . . it wasn’t even real. You weren’t even real.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong, Petra. I was real. I am real. What we shared in those moments—that was the real me. Is the real me.”
“Then why lie to me? Again and again. When you know how much I hate it?” I croak.
“Because I had no other way to be close to you. No other way for you to truly know me. And I wanted you to know that I’m not like your father.
Or Mr. Snowden. Or anyone else from your congregation.
I don’t want you as a trophy. I don’t want you as a decoration.
I want you. I want to know your thoughts.
I want to hear your voice. I don’t want to silence you. ”
“But can you not understand my side, too?” I whisper. “It’s like I’m suffocating. I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t even know myself. One part of me just wants to run into your arms and never let go. The other wants to flee.”
I take a deep breath, moisture clinging to my lashes.
“And then there’s my home. Everything has become unbearable. My father has . . . sold me to the highest bidder. For money. He’s abandoned his beliefs, his pride, everything. In the past, even though he was a tyrant, at least he had principles. But now? Now he’s just a tyrant.”
“I hope you don’t put me in the same category as your father.”
“Are you not?” I raise a brow.
“I’m not.” He grits his teeth. He takes a step closer and extends his arms outward, waiting.
He’s waiting for me to go to him.
I bite my lip and stare at him. And before I can think better of it, my feet carry me to him.
His arms wrap around my body, and I collapse into his embrace.
“Oh, my darling Petra . . .”
Tears spill down my cheeks. Sobs wrack my chest, and I can’t stop them. I can’t stop myself from crying, then wailing. I hold on to him as everything I’ve been bottling up breaks the surface.
“My darling girl, it hurts my heart to see you like this. But you have to trust me. I would never do anything to hurt you. On the contrary—I have everything planned. I will never let anyone lay a finger on you. I will never let anyone hurt you. Or touch you. You will not marry him. You will not marry anyone but me.”
“But how can you do that? How can you stop them?” I plead.
“Don’t worry about that for now. Just know I will never let anything happen to you. You believe me, don’t you?”
“I . . .” I manage through my sobs. “I think I do.”
Do I? Just moments ago, I was telling him I don’t trust him, yet that was a lie, wasn’t it? Time and time again, my actions have not matched my words, even as I spoke them to myself.
“I know you do,” he replies smoothly. “You’re far too smart, Petra. You must have known for a long time that those dreams weren’t really dreams. And yet you kept coming back to me. You kept calling out for me.”
“What are you talking about?” I whisper.
He smiles and lowers his hand to my chest, right above my heart. A pulsing warmth radiates through me.
“Here. This ties us together in ways you can’t yet fathom. What you feel—I feel. When you hurt, I hurt. And when you cry . . . my goddamn heart bleeds for you.”
“The sigils . . . they’re real?”
“They are.”
I immediately unbutton my bolero and peer down at my neckline. Sure enough, the mark is there, dark, intense, and visible.
“But how come I couldn’t see it during the day?”
“I hid it. I didn’t want to scare you. Not until I could explain everything. Until I told you the truth.”
“Then explain. What is happening, Sin? I want to know everything. No more lies. No more half-truths. Tell me about the creature. About Mr. Snowden. About these rituals and this occult and your involvement. I need to know.”
“I’ll show you,” he says. “If you think you can handle it, I’ll show you.”
“Show me what?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer with words.
He turns me around in his arms and pulls me close. And somehow we’re moving. Not walking. Not even floating. But traveling through shadows that curl and ripple around us like smoke.
The lights from the house and garden flicker, then blur, until we are surrounded by shifting dark.
“Don’t speak too loud,” he whispers into my hair. “You must be quiet now, Petra. We don’t want them to hear us.”
“Them?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he carries me farther into the depths of the estate until we’re close to the woods.
Hidden deep in the foliage of the well-groomed shrubs, we watch as if from above. In the middle of a square-like formation, there are two people. It takes me a moment to acclimate to the darkness of my surroundings.
Then I realize that one of them is Mr. Snowden. He is on his back on the grass, his clothes torn to shreds, pieces of fabric littered all around.
On top of him is . . . something. Or someone.
“What?” I whisper to Sin.
“That,” he replies. “That is what you freed from that basement, Petra.”
“What is it?”
At that moment, she—no, it—moves. A creature with the body of a woman, her skin dark and greenish, mottled like a rotting corpse. She undulates her body atop Mr. Snowden, her hands pressed to his chest, her nails elongated into talons as she digs them into his flesh.
From her back, tendrils slither outward, gliding toward Mr. Snowden’s head. Two tendrils, one on each side. They find his ears and insert themselves into his ear canals.
“What is that, Sin?” I whisper in shock.
“She’s feeding.”
“What?”
“See what they’re doing?” he says quietly. “They’re fornicating.”
“They’re—” I murmur, horrified. “But she’s a creature. A dead corpse. How is that—how is that possible?”
He finishes the thought for me. “There are many things that might seem impossible, Petra, but are entirely too possible in the vastness of the universe. That creature is one of them.”
“But how can something alive . . . fornicate with something dead?”
“That is the crux of the issue, isn’t it? It goes against nature. And yet, it’s happening before our very eyes. Those tendrils you see—she’s using them to feed on him, on his essence. That’s the only way she can be controlled.”
“But doesn’t that harm him?”
“It does. But that’s his cross to bear.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If he doesn’t feed her, she will run berserk. And we don’t know how many people she might kill.”
“Kill?” I gasp.
“It’s a non-sentient creature made from negative energy. It only knows how to destroy, but under Snowden’s rule, it’s a controlled destruction.”
“What—what do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean? Do you remember how Rutherford died?”
“I saw in the newspapers that his body had been badly torn apart.”
Sin smiles slowly. “Yes. Torn apart by something not human.”
“Wait. You mean . . . your society wasn’t the one who killed him?”
“No. And I told you, I’m not personally involved in any of this.”
“But then I don’t understand. So his death wasn’t part of a ritual?”
“No. It was not.”
“What about that other fellow? Underwood? The newspaper said he was killed quite brutally, too.”
“Same as Rutherford.”
“But why? Why would Snowden command that creature to kill them? And make it look like it’s some kind of ritual?”
“Because it’s part of a vengeance plan,” he continues. “I told you before—Rutherford, Snowden, Arnoult, Haas, and Underwood were the ones who laid the foundation of the Ouroboros Society. They started all of this.”
“They?” I raise a brow.
He shrugs. “I merely found myself in their proximity. That doesn’t make me guilty by default, does it?”
“No, I suppose not,” I whisper.
“See, the thing here is while there were indeed some rituals performed, and while there are people who chose to give their lives for some higher purpose, I cannot tell you why each individual person did what they did.
“But there are also other deaths—deaths that were not committed in the name of any ritual. Deaths committed with far more insidious motives.”
“Snowden.”
“Indeed.”
“But why?”
“Why do you think, Petra? Because he’s trying to erase all traces of his involvement. He wants to be remembered as the one who vanquished this so-called satanic cult.
“After all, he has everything he needs now, doesn’t he? He doesn’t need his dead mistress anymore. Not when he’s planning to marry you.”
“Don’t remind me,” I grumble.
“Don’t worry about that.” He places a kiss on my temple. “I will never allow that.”
“You said you have a plan. What is it?”
“All in good time, Petra. I will tell you. You have my word. But you must be patient. Every piece of the puzzle must fit in its place.”
I turn back to the scene before me, unable to look away. Mr. Snowden, now completely naked, is rolling in the grass with the creature. Her tendrils are still connected to his brain—feeding on him, or whatever that means.
And at the same time . . . they’re mating.
She’s beneath him now.
And he’s pumping into her as if she were a real woman, his hands digging into her flesh. Groans and moans erupt in the air.
“I’ve seen enough. Please take me away.”
“Your wish is my command.”
The shadows coil around us once more. I blink, and we’re suddenly in a room—a library? Tall bookshelves line the walls. A study is by the window with a chair placed neatly under it. There is nothing out of place, almost as if no one lives here.
“Where are we?”
“My home,” he answers casually.
“Your home? The one in the tunnels?”
He nods.
“I assume we will need some privacy for our discussion.”
“And you just kidnapped me from the party?”
He shrugs.
“You’re infuriating! At least tell me how you brought us here. Those . . .” I point toward the shadows around him. “They’re alive?”
“No. They are not. They are just shadows. But I can move within them at will.”
“You . . .”
“And before you ask,” he adds with a laugh, “I did not sell my soul for this ability. Unfortunately, I was born with it.”
I stare at him in shock. He . . . what?