PETRA
Ahead of me, the narrow tunnel stretches into a deep, almost profound darkness.
Sin has switched on the light of his phone and is holding it out before him; I do the same.
Upon looking around, I see that the walls are hewn from the same roughly cut stone as the floor of the mausoleum and are slick with centuries of moisture.
The ceiling is low, forcing Sin to stoop slightly as we walk deeper.
A petrichor smell sweetens the air, along with the faint, musty aroma of long-forgotten and rarely used spaces.
The sound of our footsteps eerily bounces off the walls; they are multiplied so cunningly that I keep thinking we are being followed, that some fanatic Puritan foaming at the mouth at the prospect of drawing Arnoult blood has slipped into the tunnels with us.
Imagine if it’s Edwin’s father, my inner voice adds, and I almost chuckle at the insane idea.
“Stay close,” Sin whispers in a steady voice, but some buried instinct in me to doubt him has resurfaced.
Hadn’t he told me that the tomb contained the body of Arnoult the First, his lover, and their unborn child? But the tomb had been empty, a facade for the secret exit out of the mausoleum.
So why had he lied to me?
Most importantly, why is he withholding information that could help our investigation?
Yet he had pulled me out of the fire and used his body to shield me. At every turn, he prioritized my safety over his.
For the moment, my doubts are dispelled, and gratitude bubbles up in my heart for this kindhearted, fiercely protective guy who’s been snatching me away from the jaws of death—by water and by fire—since the day we met.
I grip his hand tightly, the rough texture of his skin grounding me in the suffocating darkness.
“How much farther do you think it is?” I ask softly.
“Hard to say, Petra,” he replies, his tone calm but focused. “You just keep holding on to me, okay? Do you want me to pick you up and carry you?”
“No!” I reply, more forcefully than I had intended, and he almost takes a step back. “I mean, I can walk. You look so tired as well.”
He smiles and ruffles my hair affectionately before taking my hand in his again.
As we walk, my fingers trail along the damp walls, feeling the uneven surface of the stones.
The tunnel occasionally narrows further, forcing us to squeeze through tight passages.
“We’ll get out of this. We’ll get out of this,” I keep murmuring to myself, not knowing or caring whether Sin can hear me.
I suppose I’m also talking to the you-know-who inside me, as my hand strokes my stomach and I try to slow down my heartbeat.
“We will,” Sin says while squeezing my hand. “We don’t have a choice.” These last words sound odd, and he has a wistful smile when he says them, but I don’t dwell on it too long.
“Watch your step,” Sin cautions, glancing back at me. “The last thing we need is a twisted ankle.”
“To be honest, I’m more worried about what’s ahead,” I reply in a tone that, to my delight, sounds aloof and wry.
But I am stunned when a faint glimmer of light reaches us through the end of the tunnel.
“What’s that?” I cry out. Sin clears his throat and looks uncomfortable, so I shake his arm and say, “You can see that too, right?”
The light grows stronger as we approach.
He nods, and his pace quickens slightly. “Yeah. I do. It’s a sign we’re getting somewhere. Just a bit farther.”
A few steps later, we walk through a circular opening and into a larger chamber.
My eyes widen.
“What the hell?”
The damp earth of the tunnel gives way to a stone floor, and we pass through an old doorway into a larger space bathed in dim, ambient light. I squint against the sudden brightness and gasp at the stage that unfolds before us.
The chamber is like a time capsule from the 1800s, complete with old, ornate furniture and wooden beams. The ceiling is higher than the tunnels, almost triple in size.
Victorian tables with intricately carved wooden legs, brass knobs gleaming on chests of drawers made from polished walnut wood, even a lovely teak dining table in neoclassical style.
The room looks like a mid-nineteenth-century parlor, as if any moment now, the door will open, and a small group will gather for an evening drink.
There’s also a grand-looking fireplace with a charred log.
“Sin . . . what in the fresh hell is this place?” I ask in a flat voice.
“Another of Arnoult the First’s hiding places, if you can believe it,” says Sin in a wry tone that’s perhaps supposed to foil the severity of my own. “Think of it as a hidden home,” he replies, glancing around.
“Yes, but how do you know about this place?” Even as I ask the question, my eye is drawn to a particularly stately pair of Biedermeier chairs, and I can’t help but trace their indulgent frames; the woodwork and graining are so delicate that for a moment, I’m distracted from the nightmare that is our reality.
“I knew you’d like it here,” Sin says from behind me, his breath warming my neck.
My shoulders shiver at his touch, and as he draws me into his arms, my back nestled against his sturdy chest, I let out the littlest sob.
“Sweet Petra, you must be so tired,” Sin whispers into my neck as his hands encircle my waist and gently caress my bump. “You’re safe now,” he continues as my shoulders keep shaking long after the tears have stopped rolling down my cheeks.
“Thanks,” I manage to say at last. “I feel much better now.”
Sin steps back and says, “Come, I’ll show you the rest of it.”
We look at the leatherbound titles on the shelves and all the pretty knick-knacks from the nineteenth century, including antique tables and armoires, more chairs with detailed backrests and fine upholstery, and the Regency-era mantelpiece with animal and bird motifs carved into the wood.
I run my fingers over a slightly dusty table, marveling at how well-curated the collection is, how suited it is to my sensibilities.
Yet something keeps me alert and on the lookout, some faint instinct that cautions me against dropping all my defenses at once. And as Sin and I move deeper into the underground home, I finally start discerning a pattern to the unease knotting my guts.
Despite the overall ancient feel of the place, I can see some unmistakably modern touches scattered around—an old but functional mini-fridge, a microwave, and even a worn-out laptop tucked into a corner.
There’s only one person who could have gotten them here.
“Sin,” I begin, unsure of how to word the accusation floating up in my mind. “What are all these appliances doing here? Someone’s been here before us, right?”
Sin stays quiet, so I turn to look him directly in the face.
“You have been here before, right?”
He hesitates for a moment, glancing around the room before finally meeting my eyes.
“I wasn’t hiding it on purpose. I found this place a long time ago,” he adds as he scratches the back of his head. “I’ve just been using it as a hiding spot when I needed to be alone.”
“So you’ve been hanging around this place for .
. . how long exactly, Sin?” I ask with rising trepidation.
“You know how this looks, right?” I press when he just makes a frustrated noise and turns away from me.
“You knew about the crypt at the school, and then the secret tunnel under Arnoult the First’s tomb, and now this? Doesn’t it look rather suspicious?”
“And you’re suspecting me of what, Petra?” Sin asks with a low chuckle, but his eyes look serious, as if he’s daring me to throw around more accusations.
But I don’t have any concrete allegation to level at him.
“Not suspecting, Sin, just wondering. It’d be nice if you weren’t so tight-lipped about everything and would just . . . just tell me what’s going on.” I try to keep the frustration out of my voice, but it’s almost impossible at this critical moment.
Sin looks at me with an unreadable expression on his face.
Then a moment later, a blend of concern and earnestness wash over his features.
“No, it’s my fault, I should have explained all this.
” He gestures at the eclectic space around us.
“Before bringing you here. But trust me—it’s not what it seems. I stumbled upon it ages ago, before I joined the football team, before I made any friends.
This place became my own secret sanctuary, just like the gardener’s shed is for you. ”
The words hang heavily between us, and I am torn between several emotions—suspicion, understanding, even compassion.
But the former prevails as I scan my surroundings. It’s so similar to my dreams, from the big ceiling to the ornate furniture and homely environment. But if I dreamed about this . . . then there’s something else I must check.
I take off with single-minded focus, circling the room and examining the bookcase carefully, recalling the hidden rooms from my dreams.
I run my fingers along the edges, pushing and prodding until—sure enough—I find something.
There, concealed within the bookcase, is an entrance.
As I pull it open, I’m met with a smaller, shadowed room.
I stare at it, stunned.
The details from my dreams may have been fuzzy, but the evidence before me is not.
Painting supplies.
All kinds of canvases scattered around—each and every one of them empty.
Yet as I step closer, inspecting the supplies more carefully, I notice how old they are. Some of the paint colors have been discontinued for decades. Others are infamous in art history for containing poisonous compounds.
And yet they’re all still here.
It’s not that someone bothered to bid on these at auctions or snatch them from estate sales. No—these supplies have been here all along.
“Sin, what is this?” I whisper.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me.” I turn to him sharply. “What is this?”
He exhales slowly. “It seems to be an art room of sorts.”
“Yes, but why is it here?” I press.
“Petra, I don’t know, I swear.” And, for once, I believe him.
The air is thick and stale. Dust coats every surface, even the hinges of the door. No one has opened this place in a very, very long time.
“How did you know it was here?” he asks, moving to stand beside me.
I hesitate before answering, the words tasting strange on my tongue.
“ I dreamed about it.”
“You dreamed about it?” He blinks in surprise. “Was this another one of those dreams from the past? Was someone else there?” He asks a barrage of questions that makes my head spin.
“Yes, it was a dream from the past,” I answer slowly. “I . . .”
“So you were here before? With whom?”
“I don’t know, Sin. It’s all a confusing mess in my mind. But somehow, I knew this room would be there.”
He opens his mouth as if to ask more before closing it. I don’t understand why he’s so insistent about me being here with someone else. At the same time, I also don’t understand why I don’t straight up answer his question and tell him the truth—about dream-Sin and our Victorian love affair.
Yet the more I stare into his eyes, so familiar, so achingly beautiful, I have to confront one of my deepest fears. I don’t trust him. Not fully, anyway. If I did, I would have gladly told him everything.
But as it stands, I don’t know what to believe anymore.
Sure, the Sin before me has never done anything to hurt me. In fact, he’s been protective and loving and, at times, nicer and sweeter to me than I deserve.
Yet those dreams continue to haunt me. Dream-Sin continues to haunt me, as does the question: Who is he?
Was that Arnoult the First from my dreams?
Am I his lover (or rather, my past self)?
And if that’s the case, then my theory about Arnoult the First trying to reincarnate himself as my baby is moot, because how can that be when he’s standing right in front of me?
When this man knows things only dream-Sin would?
Another theory appears, and one that I’m almost afraid to consider.
Sin . . . Sin might be the reincarnation of Arnoult the First. But if that’s the case . . . Then he might also be the architect of all these murders.
“I apologize for my tone. I’m just curious. No one beside me knew about this place. Until you . . .”
Yes, and that is exactly what dream-Sin said, too.