PETRA
Present day
I jolt awake to find myself in my bedroom.
What the hell did I see?
Thankfully, Sin is still sleeping next to me, his chest rising and falling softly. I blink rapidly to chase the image away from my mind and draw deep breaths to calm myself further.
What time is it? When I check the bedside clock, it’s a little after three in the morning.
The witching hour, my inner voice points out wryly. But I am still too unsettled from the dream to find any solace in her witty quips.
I sit up slowly as a strange tension coils tightly around my chest.
Again, I remember the debacle from the OB-GYN appointment: the tremors, the flickering lights, and most terrifyingly, the technician’s worried face when he had seen the ultrasound display on the screen.
What did he see? And what if something is wrong with the baby?
Even now, when my heart cracks in pain at the thought of the slightest harm to the you-know-who inside me, it’s hard to accept that he is almost here.
True to the nature of anxious thoughts, one is rapidly followed by a host of others.
I remember how Arnoult the First looks strikingly like Sin’s father.
What if there’s a genetic anomaly on the Arnoults’ side?
Then I remember the crypt and its grisly murals: If Arnoult and his followers were the members of the Ouroboros Society, that means they had drawn those gruesome images on the cold stone walls of St. Anselm Hall’s hidden crypt.
This chilling realization is followed by the most unsettling speculation I have had so far: What if the child I’m carrying is a reincarnation of Arnoult?
At first the thought seems too absurd to even entertain for more than a moment. But gradually, I remember more of the information we had unearthed in the basement of Sin’s house.
“Blood moon,” I mutter to myself. “When’s the next blood moon?” I start searching online, my fingers typing rapidly.
My eyes widen at the answer: four months. That’s when I’m due to have the baby.
“Please, no,” I whisper, as my heart starts racing. “This can’t be happening.”
Desperate panic courses through me as I sit down at the edge of the bed, my hands cradling my stomach instinctively.
“Sin . . .” I start to say, but I catch myself just in time. I don’t want to burden him with this fear. Not yet. Not when he’s been so supportive through everything.
And so, I keep my freshest fears to myself, wondering when my life became so unpredictable that I have to look to the stars and the moon to know where it’s headed.
Yet it’s not just my waking moments that give me stress.
My dreams are becoming weirder and weirder, to the point where I’m actually starting to question my sanity.
What the hell was that monster from my dream? That undead creature that was fucking a living person? Does that count as necrophilia, because what the actual fuck?!
If I’d been binging horror movies day after day, perhaps I could understand why my subconscious would choose to show me such images. But I haven’t.
Is it that deep down I’m still traumatized by Harry’s death? From seeing his head roll on the floor right in front of me?
Maybe . . . In the past, I would have relegated everything to just that and my pregnancy hormones. But after the OB-GYN visit and the additional information we found on Arnoult and the Ouroboros Society, I have to start asking myself if . . .
If perhaps the supernatural is real, that there is something deeply wrong with this town, and that I may have unwittingly found myself in the midst of it all.
I just want my baby to be fine.
Tears of fear and frustration cling to my lashes. I may have been in denial for months now regarding this baby, but the truth is that I do want it.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve never had anyone to love me unconditionally before, and this baby might be the answer; or perhaps it’s the fact that I have so deeply fallen in love with Sin, and this baby is something we made together—something to tie us together. Forever.
I’m not going to let some creepy, long-dead Victorian man steal my baby. No, no! That isn’t going to happen. Not on this blood moon, nor ever.
I’m not going to allow it.
How do you plan on stopping him, though? my inner voice asks.
Careful not to wake Sin, I get out of bed and head to my art room. I turn on the light and rummage for a pen and some paper.
Before I forget, I start tracing the lines of the sigil from my dreams. The image is a little muddy, but I think I get most of it right: at least enough to be able to reverse image search it online.
More images flash in my mind, from the past, from my dreams, now more clear than ever.
Why does my dream-Sin look so much like present-day Sin? Did my mind conjure that because I’m in love with him, or is there something more to it? Then there’s the resemblance between his father and Arnoult the First. These can’t be mere coincidences.
Dream-Petra had been a part of that puritan community, so I doubt I would be able to find any records on her—if that was even her name. But maybe I can find something about the Snowdens?
They were rich and influential at the time. There should be records on them.
I stare back at the drawing I just made. Though not perfect, the symbol is striking. It’s almost hypnotizing in the way those lines flow and coil around each other, all converging in the middle where my initial is.
My body hums with unreleased pressure, and I press my hand to my chest where the dream sigil had been. I rub against that spot, feeling an unusual heat build up inside me.
Why does this symbol seem so familiar and heart-aching at the same time?
With my phone, I quickly snap a picture and upload it online. I wait a couple of seconds for the search to be performed, all the while holding my breath anxiously.
No results found.
I blink. Damn it!
Not one to give up, I try another way. I write up a quick description of the symbol, including the circumstances of its appearance as I remember them from my dream, and I hit search.
There are a few hits from Reddit and other forums, so I start perusing each one of them.
They don’t answer any of my questions, though. They’re all from tattoo communities. But the symbol on my flesh was not tattooed, it just . . . appeared.
“Ugh!” I let out a frustrated sigh and throw the paper aside.
“Petra?” Sin’s voice echoes behind me. “What’s wrong? Are you not feeling well?”
I turn, and there he is, leaning against the door frame. As I blink, the image shifts, and instead of seeing him in his present state—dark sweatpants and a shirt—I see him dressed in Victorian garb, with a pair of black trousers, white shirt under a dark vest, and a silk bow tie at his neck.
I rub my eyes.
“Petra?” he calls out again and comes toward me.
Once more, I see him as before instead of now, and it only freaks me out more as I scurry away from him.
“What’s wrong, sweet girl?” He takes in my wild eyes and disheveled appearance before his eyes move to the side, to where my drawing is. He narrows his eyes and picks up the piece of paper. “What is this?” he asks in a low, dark voice that sends shivers down my spine.
I bite my lip, not knowing how to explain it. He might think I’m crazy. I think I’m crazy!
“Petra, what is this?” His voice is a stark contrast to the dulcet tones he’s used on me in the past; it’s commanding, domineering . . . “Where did you find it?”
“I . . . I drew it,” I whisper.
“You drew it? Why? How?”
He’s still staring at the drawing, a myriad of emotions crossing over his face before he schools them in a bored indifference.
“Do you know it?” I whisper.
His lips tremble as he shakes his head. “It’s very pretty, though.”
I study his face, a little taken aback by his reaction. “I dreamed about it,” I blurt out.
“You what?” He blinks in surprise.
I nod. “I’ve been having these odd dreams for a while.”
Since getting pregnant, more specifically, though I don’t mention that. I’m already too scared to entertain the thought that my unborn baby might end up being that psychotic Arnoult guy.
Sin takes a seat next to me, taking my hand in his and lightly massaging it. “And what did you dream?” he asks.
“I’m still not entirely sure. Sometimes the dreams are very clear, sometimes not as much. But it’s . . .” I gulp down. “It’s almost as if seeing a version of me from the past.”
“From the past?” he echoes. He looks at me intently, waiting for me to continue.
“It’s silly, right? It’s probably nothing.”
“It’s not silly, Petra. Tell me more. What did you dream about?”
“I can’t remember very well,” I lie. “Just bits and pieces, sensations mostly.”
I’m not sure why I don’t just go ahead and tell him everything. But I’m still in the process of figuring it out. And dream-Sin . . . I still don’t know who or what he was. And if I’m completely honest, a part of me wonders if the man I keep dreaming about isn’t Arnoult.
Dream-Sin was associated with that Society. He was involved in all those rituals, one way or another. And the way Snowden and my dream-father were talking about Arnoult . . . What if he is Arnoult?
But why would he want to possess your unborn child then?
“I was wondering if I could find this symbol online. But it’s not anywhere. I’ve probably imagined the whole thing,” I add with a nervous laugh. “Hormones and all that.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Those are some very exact details.”
“What else could it be, though?”
“A past life?” he wonders.
“A past . . . life?”
“You wouldn’t be the only one to remember bits and pieces from your past life. Here,” he says as he grabs his phone and searches up reincarnation. Story after story comes up, of people who remember their past lives with startling details.
It’s one thing for my dreams to be mere hallucinations brought on by the many traumatic experiences I’ve had recently. It’s quite another to think of them as real.
“Did you see anyone else in your dreams?” he asks.
“Anyone else? Like who?”
He shrugs. “Anyone else that seemed familiar.”
“I’m not sure,” I answer slowly, averting my eyes.
“Are you sure? Perhaps—”
“I think we should go back to bed,” I declare, thoroughly spooked by yet another complication in my already far too complicated life. “Let’s go to sleep.”
I get up and head back to the bedroom. But he doesn’t follow. Looking back, I see him still staring at my little drawing, his expression a combination of sadness and wistfulness that tugs at my heart.
“Sin?” I call out.
“It’s really pretty, Petra,” he whispers, but he’s still not looking at me.