72. Petra
PETRA
“Sin? Sin, are you all right?” I call out to him, touching his cheeks. He groans in pain, uttering a string of unintelligible words. “I’ll take care of you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t respond. I hop back up and rush to the washroom, grabbing a clean cloth and filling a bowl with water.
Returning to the couch, I rip the shirt off his chest, my heart in my throat as I take in the myriad of wounds and scratches.
“You have to be all right,” I murmur, dipping the cloth into the water and starting to clean him. Some of the cuts are light and superficial, but the deeper ones bleed heavily, and I’m not sure how to help him.
The water quickly turns a muddy red. I change it and begin again, wiping the blood from his chest with a wince.
“Sin,” I whisper, leaning in and cradling his face.
He murmurs something, eyes fluttering open.
“Medicine . . . do you have any medicine?” I ask. “Something I can use for your wounds?”
“The back cabinet,” he mutters, barely audible.
I hurry over and open the cabinet he mentioned, finding iodine, bandages, and a few jars—one of which I assume is a salve tincture. I bring them over and, seeing that the deeper wounds are still bleeding, apply pressure with the cloth.
“I think I might need to suture this for you.”
He makes a low sound in his throat.
“Do you want me to do that?”
“Do it,” he finally says. “There’s thread and needles in the art room.”
Once more, I dash around the house, looking for anything useful. I find a spool of thread—even though I don’t know the first thing about sewing flesh—and a few needles. I choose the thickest, realizing that human skin will be much harder to pierce than fabric. Then I quickly sanitize them.
Back at his side, I dab iodine onto the wounds, cleaning the fresh blood before pinching the two sides of flesh together and trying to thread the needle through. He hisses in pain.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?”
“Alcohol,” he grumbles. “There’s some on the table.”
I turn and spot a decanter with two glasses. Grabbing it, I pour a copious amount of alcohol over his wounds, vaguely recalling its disinfectant properties. Then I lift the decanter to his lips and make him drink.
He gulps greedily, coughing as it burns down his throat. When he’s finished, he slumps back on the couch.
I get to work again, cleaning the blood.
It just keeps coming.
I pull the edges of the flesh together and make my first attempt at a stitch.
As expected, it’s incredibly hard to pierce the skin. I assume surgical needles are not only sharper and thicker but also easier to handle. Still, I can’t give up.
No matter how hard it is, I have to do this, otherwise he’ll keep bleeding.
Biting my lip in concentration, I push the needle through one side of the wound, then the other, and repeat. Thankfully, though deep, the cut isn’t long; it only requires six or seven stitches.
I tie off the thread and pour a bit more alcohol over the wound before rubbing on some of the salve from the tincture jar.
I repeat the process on the other four deeper wounds. Some are larger, some smaller, but eventually I manage to stitch all of them, apply the salve, and wrap a bandage tightly around his torso.
There are still some scrapes and scratches on his face, but I’m out of bandages at this point.
I dab alcohol onto them, followed by more salve, hoping it will be enough for now.
His breathing evens out. He’s asleep.
I let out a long sigh of relief. At least he’s no longer in pain.
Good Lord, what happened tonight?
The weight of everything finally hits me. Everything I saw. Everything I did.
It’s too much. I take a long swig of the alcohol.
Ew, I think with a grimace. This is terrible. But if it helped Sin manage his pain, maybe it’ll help me, too. Maybe it will numb the thoughts, the guilt, the anger . . . because I can’t stop thinking—if I hadn’t gone there, would he still have poisoned her? Or was it always meant to happen?
Was she going to die whether I was there or not?
I take another swig. I’m not used to drinking spirits, and I feel the effects of it quickly—the spinning in my head, the fog settling in my vision.
I rest my head on the sofa next to Sin, taking deep gulps of air.
“It’s fine. Everything is fine. We’ll be fine,” I whisper to myself.
But then, from the corner of my eye, I see something. A shadowy figure, moving too fast to track.
One moment, it’s there—the outline of a man. The next, through hooded eyes, I see a presence standing right in front of us.
My body is too sluggish from the alcohol to react. I just sit there and wait as the hairs raise on my skin.
Is this a hallucination? I wonder. I’ve never been drunk before. I can’t tell what’s real. Is the alcohol feeding my paranoia?
My limbs feel locked, frozen. I can’t move a muscle. I can’t even look up; I can only see the lower half of this figure.
It’s a man. He stops in front of Sin, crouching slightly, inspecting his wounds.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t speak. I want to yell, to scream at him to leave Sin alone, to not touch him—but I’m a prisoner in my own body.
Is this what alcohol does to you? I wonder again as fear grips me.
All I can see is the man’s wrist as he splits it open and then leans toward Sin. I don’t see exactly what he’s doing, but the next time I blink . . . he’s gone.
Did I imagine it?
I must have. My body is too exhausted. My mind, even more so.
Before I know it, I fall into a deep sleep.
It’s through the haze of slumber that I think I hear two voices arguing around me. I hear the words, but I can’t quite grasp them.
“What did you do, Sinclair?”
Is that Sin’s voice? I think it is.
“What did you do with the body?” he presses.
“It’s safe,” the other man answers, who I presume to be Arnoult.
“Safe? She’s dead! She needs to be buried.”
“Not yet.”
“What the hell do you mean, not yet?”
“I won’t allow it. She can’t be dead. She will not die.”
“Sinclair, this is going too far. She is already dead. You cannot do anything else for her. Please, for God’s sake, don’t. Give me the body, and I’ll give her a proper burial. Somewhere safe, where you can visit her tomb whenever you want.”
“No,” the man argues. “I won’t do it. She’s mine.”
“She’s dead,” Sin repeats.
“In our world, that doesn’t mean anything, does it? Nothing truly dies,” Arnoult challenges.
Sin sighs.
“What you’re trying to tell me now is . . . what? You want to use her body and turn her into a grotesque creature like the one Snowden created? Is that what you’re saying? Do you hear it yourself? That was not a person. Her soul is long gone.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. That was a soulless person. A creature. Do you want to defile her body in that manner? Turn her into an undead creature just to satisfy some insidious desire?”
“She would have wanted to be with me,” Sinclair answers.
“Not like this.”
Somewhere in the back of my head, I think I know what they’re talking about. Is Arnoult trying to raise Leah from the dead? But how could that be possible? We’ve seen what the creature was.
It wasn’t a person—it was just a body. No memories. No conscience. Nothing.
“You’re going too far, Sinclair. This is not the way. You can still find her again in another life. But this? Don’t do this. Don’t put a blemish on your soul. That, more than anything, is going to stop you from finding her again.”
“And how would you know that?”
“I know. No, I know far too well, because you would not be the first to think to do something like that.”
“What?”
“There was someone else who tried to raise their beloved from the dead. Someone other than Snowden. A long time ago. They almost did it. But the only reason they stopped is because of what I’m telling you now.
“If you go through with it, if you do it, you will damn yourself forever. And that’s not just your soul that’s in danger. By doing something so forbidden, something that even the gods frown upon, you would be effectively cutting your own thread of fate that connects you with her.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I know what I’m talking about. And the fact that I am here today is proof.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Don’t do it, my friend. Don’t.”
There’s movement. Loud noises. Raised voices. I struggle to open my eyes, and when I do, there’s only Sin in the room with me. He’s on the couch next to me, his head in his hands.
“What happened?” I croak, my mouth parched and dry.
He takes a deep breath. I’m so confused about everything that’s going on that I barely register the fact that there are no more injuries on his body. Not on his face. Not on his neck.
And though he’s wearing a clean shirt, I don’t think I’d find any underneath it either.
The memory from earlier comes to mind. What had he said?
The entity came to him when he was fourteen years old and on the verge of death, and with a few drops of blood, that entity—demon, whatever he was—had healed him.
Did this happen now, too? Was it all real, and not just a figment of my imagination?
I move closer to him, pressing my hand to his chest. He doesn’t wince. He doesn’t startle. No sign that he’s in pain.
“What happened?” I ask again, this time my question aimed at his lack of injuries.
He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he lets out a deep sigh and pulls me closer into his arms.
“He stole it,” he finally says, not making much sense.
“What?”
“The book with the sigils. Arnoult stole it. And he’s going to use it.” He takes another deep breath. “He’s going to try to raise Leah from the dead.”
“W-what?”
“I must stop him before he does it. Because if he goes through with this . . .” He swallows hard. “He’s going to be damned. Forever.”
“What do you mean?” I frown.
“The ritual Snowden did to bring his mistress back from the dead is a forbidden one. Not only for mortals, but for divine beings as well because it screws with the natural order.”
“If it’s so forbidden, how did he manage to do it?”
“The sigils. There are some demonic entities that thrive on messing with the natural order. He might not know exactly which one to summon to do so, but he will try each and every one of those sigils until he finds an entity to help him.”
“When you say he’s going to be damned, what exactly does that mean?”
“He will get her back—not as herself, but as that creature. But the act itself will have to be paid. He will have to sell his soul for it. Just like Snowden. And upon his death, the demon will consume the soul. It will be like he never existed in the first place. No chance for reincarnation. Nothing.”
“But if it’s his choice . . .”
“No!” he bursts out. “I cannot let him make this mistake. He can still be with her; maybe not in this lifetime, but in the next. If he goes through with this, he will be just . . . gone.”
“If he knows the price he has to pay, and he’s still willing to do it, who are you to stop him?” I say gently.
“He’s my friend! My mentor. I cannot let him.” He breaks down in a sob. “He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a family. I cannot let him throw away his soul.”
“All right.” I take a deep breath. “What can we do?”
His brows go up in surprise at my words. “I won’t ask anything of you. Not when it can be this dangerous.”
“But—”
“I will feel better if you’re safe, Petra. I will take you home for the time being, and I will go in search of him. There are a few places where he might perform the ritual.”
“If you’re sure . . .” I murmur.
He leans in and places a kiss on my forehead. “It will put my mind more at ease knowing you are safe.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind him who killed Snowden, and that I’m not quite the damsel in distress he makes me out to be. But seeing him so anguished about his friend, I don’t want to stress him further.
He ends up taking me back to my room, and for some reason, I find it hard to part ways with him. I’m not sure why, but all I want is to keep him by my side, in my arms—though I can see how selfish that is.
Instead, I say, “Go save your friend.”
“I’ll be back,” he promises. Then he’s gone.
Still staring at the open window, it takes me a few moments to gather my bearings and get ready for bed. It’s almost four in the morning, and I won’t have too long to get some rest before the entire house awakens.
I’m about to unbutton my bolero when the door to my room bursts open, startling me.