Page 23 of Sinners Atone
We wiggle. We jump. Now we’re facing the back wall, and the nerves in my chest drop to my stomach and hum in anticipation.
Hands out front. Palms face up. The strobe light sweeps, and there he is, glaring at me again.
From this angle, the light frames his whole face. It’s only a fraction of a second, and I’d have missed it if I’d blinked. But I didn’t, and now it’s stamped onto my retinas as though I’ve been blinded by a too-bright camera flash.
Shock and something colder freezes me in place. I scan the darkness he’s disappeared back into, trying to commit the image to memory and reconcile it withthatnight.
But I can’t. There’s nothing familiar, nothing to grab a hold of for comfort.
Survival instinct stiffens my muscles, but it’s kicked in three years too late. I jump to the right, half a chorus too early, seeking relief.
Hands out. Palms down. No—palms across chest.
Wait. What am I doing again?
My cheeks burn and my pulse throbs as I struggle to claw back my rhythm. When we jump to face the front again, Priti’s smirk bores into my cheek. “I still can’t believe he’s Rafe and Angelo’s brother.”
My eyes slide sideways. “You know him?”
“You don’t?”
There’s no room in my brain for annoyance, so it slithers under my skin instead. How on earth does Priti know of this mysterious, terrifying third Visconti brother and I don’t? I’ve got that feeling again, the one where I can’t quite jump into the loop, and Idon’t like it.
And my expression must show it because she swaps out her smirk for a frown. “Seriously? You don’t know the Boogeyman?”
Boogeyman. There’s that damn word again.
Wiggle.
Jump.
I’m dancing on muscle memory alone now, staring at the back of Priti’s head as she thrashes out the moves half a beat behind the music.
She glances over her shoulder. “Come on, Wren. You’ve never heard the legend about avoiding the Reserve after dark on a full moon? They say it’s when the Boogeyman comes out of his underground lair.” Her eyes widen in mock horror. “And he doesn’t like people being on his turf.”
Dread slows my pulse.
The Devil’s Coast is littered with lore. The Pacific winds spread myths and legends as fast as gossip along these cliffs, and they pique my interest just as much. They even make up the bulk of my small talk with any out-of-towner who stumbles into The Rusty Anchor on a quiet night. Of course, I’m partial to the self-serving tales. With elbows resting on the splintered bartop, I’ll whisper the warning of Grim Reaper Road to those with cars in the parking lot: drive too fast around the bend connecting Devil’s Hollow with Devil’s Cove, and Death himself will step out into the path of your headlights.
If I’m feeling particularly romantic, or if said out-of-towner happens to be good-looking, perhaps I’ll suggest he take a walk on the eastern side of the Devil’s Reserve, turn left at the felled oak tree, and stroll half a mile to the Bleeding Falls. There, if hecloses his eyes and listens, the blood-red cascade will whisper the name of your one true love—and would you know it, whoosh sounds like “Wren” if you concentrate hard enough.
But the Boogeyman roaming the forest during a full moon? Underground lair? The mere mention of it prickles my skin with unease. It was a full moonthatnight.
Death brushes past my shoulder, and I shiver.
My throat itches with the need to ask questions. Though, I have a sinking feeling I don’t want to know the answers.
We jump. The floor pushes back in protest. Palms down, palms up, palms across chest. My body aches with awareness, and this time I’m not brave enough to follow the light’s path.
Jump. Hands jut out with a tremble. Palms glisten with sweat under the disco lighting. Up, no, across—oh, to hell with this.
I’m not a skeptic, but I have common sense. He’s not some mythical monster, he’s a Visconti, not to mention, my best friend’s soon-to-be brother-in-law. I survived that night unscathed, didn’t I? That’s proof enough that it’s all bull.
I break out of the routine, spinning around to face the back wall, and slip into a clumsy two-step and stare into the void, waiting.
When the strobe light frames his cold gaze again, I’m shaky but ready.
I smile and wave.
