PETRA
A sliver of fear goes down my spine. Here we are, in some arcane tunnels, away from civilization, in a makeshift home underground. There is no way out, nowhere to run to.
My heart beats faster in my chest as my breathing becomes constricted. It feels suffocating, claustrophobic.
I gulp down. “I’m just a little confused,” I say with a nervous laugh.
“That is understandable. But you know you have nothing to fear from me, right?”
I hesitate to answer, my silence lingering.
He comes closer, taking my hand in his. “I would never hurt you, Petra.”
“I know. You wouldn’t hurt me.”
But what about other people?
Could it be that he’s the one killing people? His surprise at learning about his family’s odd history had been genuine. And I just don’t see Sin as this sadistic killer.
But . . . all those dreams, all those odd occurrences in real life that mirror the dreams are hard to ignore. He knows far more than he’s letting on, and that makes him suspicious.
I pull my hand out of his and slide down into the nearest chair.
My legs and back are sore from all the running to escape a ravaging Puritan mob, so it feels nice just to sit down.
He could be Arnoult the First and he doesn’t remember. What if he has some split personality disorder like Jekyll and Hyde? Perhaps the soul of his ancestor takes possession of his body when he’s not aware and does all those awful things. At this point, anything is plausible.
Mind control. Undead creatures. Demon pacts. It’s a whole buffet of messed-up weirdness. And yet . . . the more I think about it, the less it makes sense.
Dream-Sin looked like my Sin. The Arnoult I saw in those old photos did not. Unless my mind is playing tricks on me and replacing the unfamiliar with the familiar.
Case in point, my name had been the same in those dreams. Even if by some stretch of imagination (although that is becoming more flexible with each passing day) my dreams are windows into a past life, the chances of both me and past-me being named Petra are slim to none.
And so far, I haven’t gotten any ideas about how to find out more about past Petra, or whatever her name really was.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this place before, Sin?” I ask after a while.
He sighs, running a hand through his thick hair. “I don’t know . . . what was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Petra, I have a secret hideout under the tomb of a family ancestor’?”
I chuckle at that preposterous statement, and the tension between us eases a bit.
“At first, it was just my own little secret,” Sin continues. “Then, there were the murders, and then we got together, but then we had that falling-out at the ball . . . I guess I just didn’t want to overwhelm you with more secrets, if that makes sense.”
I nod. He seems earnest. And for a moment I feel bad for doubting him in the first place.
We both fall silent, the unease between us starting to fade.
But there are some things around this room that don’t make sense, nor do they particularly validate his version of events.
Although there are some newer-ish items lying around, there are also old ones: a broken radio in a corner, a tube TV behind a stack of old records. Sin is not the only one who’s been down here.
He follows my line of sight, and I note the tension in his body. His lips are drawn in a tight line, and I’m sure he’s trying to think of excuses, or . . . more lies?
“Why do you think they did that?” I ask suddenly, needing to change the subject. I don’t know if I can handle more revelations at this particular moment—at least not while we’re under the fucking ground.
He frowns at my words, so I add, “The Puritans? Why would they torch Arnoult the First’s mausoleum?”
“Perhaps they know of his death prophecy as well? That he said he will be reborn on the next blood moon?” Sin replies with a shrug.
“Do you think they blame him for those deaths in their community?”
“It certainly seemed so.”
“Would your family be in danger, you think? They might want to take revenge on Arnoult the First’s descendants.”
“Don’t worry about them. They’re fine.” Sin waves his hand as if a mob of angry people isn’t cause for concern. “My father hired some fancy security firm after the last murder, so I doubt anyone can get close enough to my house.”
“That’s good,” I add pensively. He doesn’t seem remotely worried about them, so perhaps that security firm is that good. But it’s just a little . . . odd, isn’t it? Could a security team save them from a crowd of fanatics?
He comes to sit on the floor in front of me. Taking my left foot, he removes my shoe and sock before he starts massaging it softly. He does the same to my right foot, and a wave of relaxation envelops me.
“You have a magic touch,” I say on an almost-moan.
“Glad you can recognize my skills.” He winks at me. “Don’t tell anyone but . . .” He leans in conspiratorially. “This is why I spent all those hours in the gym.”
“To spoil me with feet massages?” I laugh aloud.
“To spoil you. Period.” His expression is suddenly serious. “To protect you, keep you safe and comfortable. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, Petra.”
A shiver goes down my back as I gaze into his earnest expression. And there it is—the reason why, no matter how many doubts I may have, or crazy theories, I will always be partial to him.
Because no one’s ever looked at me like that.
No one’s ever put me first before.
No one.
“I think you’re doing a good job, Sin.”
“Am I?” He swallows hard. “Do you think . . .” He suddenly seems unsure of himself. “Do you think I would make a good father?”
His question surprises me. But what surprises me more is my immediate answer.
“Of course. You will make the best father.” And I mean it. He’s so gentle with me, so loving, that I know he’s going to offer the same to our child.
A shy smile pulls at his lips.
“I want that. I want him to know I’m going to be there for him. That I will not let anyone hurt him or bully him. That . . .” He trails off as he takes a deep breath. “I never want our baby to feel lonely, Petra.”
Somehow, those words hit me right in the heart.
I lean forward and press my hand to his cheek.
“I never want that either, Sin. I won’t be like my parents. I want to be present, to live in the moment.”
“Will you . . . will you accept the baby even if there might be something wrong with it?” he whispers.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“You know, what happened at the doctor’s office. What if he is not . . . normal?”
“Nothing is normal anymore, Sin,” I say with a dry laugh. But the intense look in his features, shadowed by some elusive sadness, tells me he’s serious about this—he needs to know.
“This baby is mine, Sin. Ours. I don’t care about anything else. No matter what happens, it won’t change how I feel about him.”
A strange emotion flickers over his features. Getting up, he pulls me in his arms, sitting down on the chair with me in his embrace. He cradles me to his chest, holding me tightly.
“Thank you,” he whispers in my ear.
“For?”
“For being you. For being the light in my life, always and forever. For keeping me sane even in my darkest moments.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He shakes his head.
“I’m happy,” he says. “Holding you like this . . . This is happiness for me, Petra.”
“What should we do now?” I ask as I yawn softly after a pleasant nap in his lap. His previous words, ‘I’m happy,’ somehow imprinted on me because I don’t remember ever sleeping so at peace.
In a way, this cozy little underground bunker filled with a mishmash of nineteenth-century furniture and twentieth-century technology has started to feel homely, like we have always lived here.
“How about I give you a small tour of my humble abode?” Sin’s excited voice breaks through my dreams of domestic bliss.
“Yeah, I would love that!”
As Sin leads me through the rest of the space, I’m struck by the sheer size and complexity of this hidden world.
Each room we enter is filled with relics and reliquaries, fascinating and eerie at the same time.
Ornate furniture, dusty bookshelves, and old pieces of bric-a-brac; any antique appraiser would kill to get their hands on some, or all, of the items.
“These paintings are incredible,” I whisper at one point, even though I don’t need to lower my voice.
Somehow the presence of such impressive objects lends the whole space the hushed sanctity of a museum or an art exhibit.
My eyes widen as I take in the rarer paintings adorning the walls: austere still-life artworks and equestrian portraits by Jacques-Louis David, historical paintings by Benjamin West, some of the earlier works by Francisco Goya.
Just then, my eyes fall on a particular painting that is immediately recognizable as the product of the same hand that had drawn Sinful Desires, Goya’s old master.
The same moody lighting over a vast wooded expanse, and the same subject—the brown-haired girl wearing a velvet green gown—looking down the cliff face of an ancient mountain.
The frame before me looks like it could have been part of the same series of artworks as my copy of the girl on the moor.
“So this is where you got the painting you gifted me,” I say, trying my best to keep any accusatory note out of my question.
He glances at the painting, a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, you got me. This is where I found it. It’s not like Goya’s master left behind a lot of work as it is. And the painting felt too special to leave buried here. I knew you would give it the appreciation it deserves.”
A complex mix of emotions assails me at his words: surprise, apprehension, happiness.
“It’s stunning,” I say eventually. “And now I kinda like it even more.”
We walk down a winded hallway, and I’m surprised that I don’t recognize any of the paintings in here, nor do I see any familiarity in the technique. There are three on one side and four on the other, all seemingly painted by the same hand.
“What about these? Who are these by?” I ask as I stop in front of one of them.