64. Petra
PETRA
I startle awake, screaming at the top of my lungs. A searing pain on my chest makes me wince. I scramble out of bed, ripping at my nightshirt as I search for a mirror.
When I finally stand before the reflective glass, what I see shouldn’t surprise me, yet it does all the same.
The mark. The one from my dreams.
It’s branded on my chest. Intricate lines flowing in a beautiful and complex design, all surrounding one letter.
S
“What . . .” I mutter in shock.
How the hell is this here? How did it suddenly appear?
Panic erupts in my chest. My thoughts turn to my dreams—the only avenue for answers I have. In them, dream-Sin had said he could keep the mark hidden from me. Has he done it this time, too?
If so, what else has he done?
Dream-Sin was involved in those grisly murders over a century ago, and while he might not have killed those people with his own hands, he facilitated all the murders.
Does that mean he is involved in the present-day murders, too?
I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples against the slowly forming headache.
The conclusion that dream-Sin must be present-Sin is self-explanatory. They look the same, they kiss the same, they say the same things. And just like dream-Sin, present-Sin is always there for me, always in the shadows.
Shadows . . . In the past, he’d been able to control them. Can he still do that? Is he some type of superhuman? But if that is the case, then did he reincarnate into his present self, or is he . . . immortal?
Fear accumulates in my breast. In my dreams, he’d talked about people seeking immortality—selling their souls for it. Those students who took their lives did so in hopes they could achieve eternal life.
Is that . . . is that something he did, too?
“You’re going crazy, Petra,” I whisper to myself. How else can I explain my train of thought?
Despite the similarities between dream-Sin and present-Sin, there are also differences. He doesn’t have any of the mannerisms of a Victorian man, nor does he have the vocabulary of one. If anything, he’s awfully normal in that regard: a regular teenage boy.
All right, so if he’s not immortal, perhaps dream-Sin was his past-life self.
Yet that idea brings about other questions: Does he remember the past? Did he approach me on purpose, knowing our history?
In all the time we’ve known each other, he’s never given any indication of that. There have been moments where he’d been rather . . . intense, but I’ve never sensed that he was lying to me.
In fact, I’ve known of him since the start of Junior year, and our first encounter wasn’t until the end of the school year. If he had remembered the past, wouldn’t he have approached me sooner?
But then you would have thought him creepy, and a stalker, my inner voice tells me, and I have to agree with her. We’re from two different worlds, different crowds, different everything.
I release a loud sigh. My thoughts are running amok, and I don’t seem to be getting anywhere conclusive. And if Sin is the one murdering those kids, why Edwin? Why Harry? Why those other unnamed individuals? There is no motive for it.
Yet before I jump to his defense, as I’m always doing as of late, another important piece of information comes to mind.
Images flash before my eyes as I remember Leah’s words in my dream.
She was pregnant with Sinclair Arnoult’s child.
For some reason, I refuse to believe my Sin, past or present, would be with another woman. He is, and has been, far too dedicated to me to do that. And despite the inconsistencies in this entire murder-ritual-supernatural debacle, that is one thing I am not willing to accept.
Great, Petra, my inner voice adds. He can be a murderer, but he can’t be a cheater.
Well . . . yes. Because if he is a cheater, then he’s about to be the next one murdered, by yours truly.
A dry laugh escapes me. I am truly going crazy if this is what I consider morally wrong.
Alas, there is only one way to figure things out. And since I happen to be right here, in dream-Sin’s former home, a little snooping is due.
First order of business: Make sure my Sin isn’t a cheater. Then I can worry about whether he’s a murderous maniac.
Nodding to myself, I quickly put on my clothes from yesterday and start with the obvious place: the massive library.
Books line the shelves, all of them pre-1900s. It’s like an entire museum of ancient tomes, and I don’t even know where to start. I glance at the first titles, noting they’re arranged alphabetically, but as I scan through them, I realize this might be a useless endeavor.
At the same time, the light in the room flickers, and a shiver runs down my back. I have the distinct sensation that someone is watching me.
I turn around, looking left and right—no one. Still, I can’t shake the feeling. The hairs on my body stand on end, and goose bumps spread across my skin. I shake my head. I’m probably still rattled by that dream. It’s nothing.
After checking one of the shelves, I give up.
I’d be here for eternity. Instead, I start searching for other things that might give me a clue about the owner of this home.
Surprisingly, everything looks just as it had in my dreams. Very little has changed, except for a few modern appliances.
The furniture, the layout—it’s all the same.
I move through a dimly lit corridor, checking room after room.
Even the art studio is empty of anything useful.
But as I walk farther, I find a door I’ve never tried before.
Not even in my dreams. I step forward tentatively and place my hand on the doorknob.
It’s locked. I sigh in frustration, muttering a curse under my breath as I look around for a key.
Just as I’m about to turn back, a soft click breaks the stillness. I whirl around to see a flicker of light shining from beneath the door. Without thinking much of it, I try the knob again. This time, it turns.
“What?” I whisper to myself.
I push the door open and find myself in a beautiful Baroque-style study.
Everything is dusty and covered in spider webs—so much so that it seems no one’s stepped inside for over a hundred years.
I run my fingers along one of the hardwood shelves, and a thick layer of dust clings to my skin. This room hasn’t been touched in ages.
I look back at the door, another shiver running down my spine. That same feeling returns, like someone is here with me, something I can’t see. The door had been locked. I’m sure of it.
Still, this may be my chance to find something. I begin searching immediately for any hidden clue.
Toward the back of the room, there’s a massive hardwood desk, the kind you only see in museums. The craftsmanship—hidden compartments, ornate carvings—feels antique, Victorian or earlier.
I allow myself a moment to admire it. It’s like stepping back in time, touching a piece of history. But just as I begin opening compartments, a stream of light cuts into the room from the hallway. It’s like a beacon, and it lands on a stack of papers in the corner.
I blink, a little unnerved.
“Is anyone there?” I call out.
Nothing.
“Sin? Is that you?” I ask again, thinking maybe he’s hiding in the shadows. Still nothing. I’m alone. Alone in this strange, silent room.
I shake off the nerves and kneel on the dusty carpet, pulling the stack of papers toward me.
The first envelope spills open, and several black-and-white photographs slip out, yellowed by time. I pick one up with trembling hands. Two men are in the picture. One of them I recognize immediately. It’s the man who held me in his arms just hours ago. Sin.
A shiver passes through me. This is confirmation. If I had ever believed dream-Sin was just my imagination, a superimposition of the present-day Sin onto a fantasy, I was wrong. The man in the picture is him. Exactly him. The same features, the same eyes. There’s no mistaking it.
But that’s impossible, isn’t it? Even if reincarnation were real, how could someone look exactly the same? Scientifically, that’s not how it works.
I turn my attention to the second man. He’s shorter, with tousled hair and thick-rimmed glasses. I don’t recognize him, but something about his posture feels familiar, like a memory I can’t quite grasp.
Turning the photo over, I read: 1894 - Sin and Sinclair.
“What?” I whisper.
Sin and Sinclair. Two people. That means Sinclair must be Arnoult. Right?
I set the picture aside and pick up another. This one shows a group—eight people. Again, I spot both Sin and the man I now know as Sinclair. On the back, written in elegant script: Theology Department of St. Anselm Hall University, 1895.
Names are listed left to right. And there it is—Sinclair Arnoult the First. But Sin? His name is listed as Kimaris.
I exhale. Relief floods through me. For all my fears, this is the proof I needed. Sin isn’t Arnoult. He’s not the father of Leah’s child. He never betrayed me.
Still, what is his connection to all this?
The next picture makes my hands tremble. It’s a couple. Sin. And me. Or . . . not me. A past version of me. But we look identical. How can that be?
For so long, I’ve convinced myself that my dreams were just symbolic. That I inserted myself as the main character in someone else’s story. But now?
I flip the picture over. Petra and Sin, 1896.
“No,” I breathe.
It’s me. Same face. Same name. And him—same man. Same name.
This is beyond coincidence. There’s no logic to explain this. No scientific answer. How can we look the same? How can we be the same?
Desperate for more answers, I dig through the papers. Most are newspaper clippings. One details the murder of Rutherford. Another, Underwood. There’s mention of Arnoult’s seances and his obsession with the occult.
Then I find a yellowed piece of paper, frayed at the corners. A letter.
Dearest Sin,
We must be on guard. Snowden is preparing something. I do not yet know the details, but I need your help to get my Leah out of that house before the wedding. I can’t let her marry another man. I can’t let her be hurt again.
Meet me at our designated spot.
Your friend and mentor,
Arnoult.
I set the letter down slowly, heart pounding.
So he was Sin’s mentor.
Leah was pregnant with Sinclair Arnoult’s child. But if Sin and Sinclair were not the same person in the past—why is present-Sin called Sinclair Arnoult?
What exactly is the relationship between Sin and Arnoult the First, and how does that relate to the murders?
I remember the newspaper clipping we found in Sin’s parents’ house—the one talking about a father-daughter murder-suicide. Now I can’t help but wonder: Was the person who died Leah . . . or past-life me?
Because both of us had strange relationships with our fathers.
And although Snowden seemed like quite the character—going as far as using some type of creature to kill his competitors—I cannot see him murdering his own daughter, no matter the circumstances.
My past-life father, on the other hand, was cruel. He was exactly the type of person who would do something like that.
So the question is: Who died that night? What happened to past-life me—and past-life Sin?