PETRA
After spending a nearly sleepless night wondering if the you-know-who is the reincarnation of my boyfriend’s ancestor—or, even worse, my past-life boyfriend—I wake up blurry-headed and groggy.
In the days following all the unsettling revelations about Arnoult’s cult and his maniac deathbed promise to be reborn and smite his enemies, I do my best to convince myself that there’s no such thing as reincarnation.
That I’m just overreacting to the stress and uncertainty that have been insistently seeping into my life.
During quiet moments between classes, in the shower, in the tranquil pockets of the school library, I keep repeating the same mantra to myself, hoping it will stick.
“It’s not possible. It can’t happen.”
Yet in the back of my mind, a thread of fear runs unbroken.
Because no matter how we see it, Harry and Edwin were killed, in brutal ways. And their deaths were no random acts of violence; if Arnoult’s demonic rituals are resurfacing, no one in St. Anselm Hall or the whole town is truly safe.
On another Friday, Sin and I meet at the diner again.
The smells of cinnamon and hot chocolate make me feel cozy and relaxed, despite the troubling thoughts and visions that have been plaguing my sleep as of late.
Sin’s arms around my shoulders, draped over me like a heavy woolen coat, keep my heart beating steadily. The you-know-who feels content, too, from the way he’s not shifting around like a fat cat in a backpack.
But all the creaturely comforts in the world can’t keep the anxiety at bay. Sin notices the instant my face clouds over with worry.
“What’s wrong?” he murmurs in a soft voice, lightly tracing my cheek with his fingers.
“Just thinking,” I respond in a faraway tone.
“Thinking, thinking, thinking,” Sin teases me gently. “How do you have space for so many thoughts in that dainty little head of yours?”
“Umm, knock-knock, it’s the 1950s? They want their sense of humor back?” I reply, but the verbal jousting does make me feel better.
Sin must have seen it on my face as well, because he smiles and says, “There, that’s better. Now tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Do—” I break off, wondering how to word my doubts without sounding like I’m accusing Sin in some way. “Do you think the descendants of the founding families could be behind the murders?”
He looks thoughtful and pushes away the menu. “I mean, it’s definitely a possibility. But I think it’s unlikely, Petra.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask, leaning forward. “They’re the most likely to know about all those rituals, right? And all the powerful patriarchs of those families would be in cahoots with Arnoult. I’m telling you, if anyone knows about what’s happening, it would be them.”
Sin shakes his head slowly, as if he’s pondering over my theory and marshalling his arguments together.
“Sure, they’ve got the history, but even now, people remember Arnoult’s antics, I think.
I guess what I’m trying to say is . . .” He breaks off and stares out of the window, where a fine, wintry mist lies over everything.
“If you think about it, the descendants live under the shadow of their families’ past,” he continues, looking at me intently.
“They wouldn’t want to draw attention to themselves or risk being tied to any of this. At least I wouldn’t.”
“I did think of that. But what if they feel pressured to keep the pact going? You know, they could actually think that the demon will come and disembowel them all, women and children included?”
Sin snorts out loud at this, but I keep going.
“No, think about it seriously. Maybe one of them is demented just enough to take it into his or her head that they have to, I don’t know ‘uphold the family legacy’?”
“Trust me, Petra, I have mingled with these folks. Expensive tastes, entitled attitudes, and uncanny instincts for keeping secrets. They’re just too twisted.
If they were involved, it wouldn’t be so straightforward,” Sin replies.
“Take my own family, for instance. You might think my parents are just your regular Jane and Joe, salt-of-the-earth types and all that. But all branches of Arnoults have a public image like that.”
There’s a hard glint in his eyes as he looks out of the window again.
“Families like mine and the other four don’t act impulsively. They’re protective of their image and wealth. Whatever’s happening now, this feels different. Frankly, it feels like the work of some sick fuck who is trying to re-create Arnoult’s glory days. For whatever perverted reason.”
“Then who is it?” I respond urgently. “If it’s not them, then what’s the connection to the crypt and all those paintings we saw? Are you telling me that there was not one Rutherford or Haas among the robed figures circling that bald-headed demon?”
“I don’t know, Petra,” Sin replies with a frustrated shrug. “But we have to keep digging for clues.”
“Then what if . . .” I trail off, shocked at myself for even entertaining this train of thought. But if my dreams might be real, then this could be real, too. “What if it’s not a human who’s committing the murders?”
He turns to look at me with a surprised expression. “Not human?”
“Well, let’s think about this,” I begin. “If there really are demons out there, and other supernatural creatures, then maybe it’s not so far-fetched to say that these murders weren’t caused by a human at all. Maybe they were caused by . . . a creature.”
“A creature?” he repeats with a frown. “What are you talking about, Petra?”
I realize how crazy I must sound, but I push forward.
“The way Edwin and Harry were killed, it was horrific. They were completely disfigured. That’s not just a normal killing.
And look at the articles we dug up. They said the students committed mass suicide for a ritual.
But what if . . . what if we’re looking at it all wrong? ”
He studies me, then says, “Fine. Let’s say you’re right. What kind of creature are you talking about?”
I hesitate. “I had a dream,” I admit.
He raises an eyebrow. “Another dream?”
“Yes, but this time it was different. It was about this creature. I think the best way to describe it would be like a zombie. Or some kind of raised dead. She—” I pause, struggling to find the words.
“She was being controlled by someone. Someone who made a deal with the devil to resurrect her. But it wasn’t really her anymore. ”
Oh God, I’m doing such a bad job at explaining this.
“Forget about it. Forget I said anything,” I say quickly, embarrassed.
“No, no, do tell,” he insists. “You’re saying it might be something supernatural?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “In my dreams, the really grizzly murders—they were committed by this creature. And they weren’t part of the ritual.”
“Not part of the ritual?” he echoes. “But what about the paintings?”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking back. “Now that I really think about it, it doesn’t match, does it? The paintings in the tunnels showed deaths that were brutal, just like what happened to Edwin and Harry.” I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “I don’t know anymore. Maybe I’m crazy. But . . .”
“I think it’s worth considering. At this point, I don’t think any idea is too far-fetched.” Sin smiles at me, small but genuine.
“Thank you for not thinking I’m crazy,” I whisper.
He chuckles softly. “Petra, if you’re crazy, then we all are.”
“It’s just . . . if these dreams I’ve been having are a window into the past, then maybe I can use them to gather more information. Don’t you think?” I suggest.
“You’re right,” he agrees. “We should try to examine them more thoroughly. Tell me more.”
“Well,” I begin hesitantly, “remember those newspaper clippings we found in your family’s basement? The ones about the wealthy people being murdered?”
“Yes.” He nods.
“In my dreams, someone told me that those people weren’t murdered as part of the ritual. They were killed to keep things quiet.”
“To keep things quiet? What do you mean?”
“So, we know now that there were five families involved—five individuals. We have Snowden, Rutherford, Underwood, Haas, and Arnoult.”
“Okay, yes. Go on.”
“Well, in the past—or at least in the version of the past that I saw—Snowden wasn’t one of them, not really. He wasn’t on their side. He was one of the people leading the crusade against Arnoult’s group. And he was the one controlling that creature.”
My heart races as I try to explain.
“The murders happened because, at some point, Snowden had been in cahoots with them. He was interested in the occult, too. But after . . . some disagreement—or maybe after realizing what they truly planned to do with the ritual—he pulled away. He didn’t want to be part of it anymore.”
“So,” he says slowly, “he turned against them.”
“Exactly. He started an offensive, gathering people against Arnoult and his followers, spreading rumors, telling them all sorts of things. And then, one by one, the main players started dying.”
I take a shaky breath.
“First was Rutherford. And apparently, his death was very disturbing.”
Sin leans in. “And after him?”
“Then it was Underwood,” I continue. “Which only left Haas and Arnoult, at least in my dreams. Maybe if we can find out how they died, we’ll uncover more of the truth.”
A light rain has started in the meantime. Pedestrians scurry across the road, and drivers make a beeline for their cars.
I gaze at the water streaming down the window, my mind racing with all sorts of theories.
But despite Sin’s words, an unease festers within me, and I can’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—terrible is still lurking just out of sight, waiting for the chance to strike.
“You know what we can do?” Sin says suddenly, as if the idea has just occurred to him. When I give him a wary look, he hurries to say, “No, no, nothing too outlandish. You remember the mausoleum in the cemetery? The one where we . . . on the day of Harry’s funeral . . .”
He looks abashed, as if trying to remind me of a delicate matter.
And sure enough, I know which place he’s referring to, as a row of images flash across my mind: granite obelisks, mossy tombs, acid-corroded marble angels, the damp-smelling insides of a domed mausoleum, and inside it . . .
Sin and I, my legs locked around his hips, his lips biting and sucking at the curving mounds of my breasts . . .
The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and my legs feel weak. But I don’t want Sin to see just how undone I feel even at the memory of our escapade there, so I clear my throat.
“Yeah, I remember, of course. Why?”
“Well, don’t freak out, okay?” Sin begins cautiously, and of course, those words freak me out. “But that was the tomb of Arnoult the First. He’s buried there.”
When my eyes widen in shock, and I open my mouth to protest, he trips over himself to say, “I didn’t know before, Petra, I swear!”
“Wow, that’s . . . um, I’m gonna need a minute here,” I stammer.
“So what I’m suggesting is we go back to the mausoleum and take a look around, perhaps find some clues? Objectively, without getting carried away and tearing off each other’s clothes.”
He’s laughing by the end of his sentence, and I punch him on the arm.
“Ow! Easy there, Valentine! Damn girl, the pregnancy’s turning you into Superwoman.” He grins.
We fall back giggling and laughing for a bit—a miracle, given the awful topic we’re discussing and the macabre plans we’re cooking up.
“Fine, I guess we can do that,” I say in the end.