Page 112

My dad, it seems, is not long for this world.

He’s running now.

All too aware of the futility of such a move, he’s chosen to use what little time he has left to explain how his apparent desertion was never by choice.

He was grabbed off the street, kept under sedation, then flung back in time.

The missing pieces are enchanted. Even the decoys. It’s only the worthy, the Timekeepers, who are able to find them and carry them into the future.

The words crash into me, leaving me hollow, lightheaded, while I watch through bleary eyes as my dad continues to run.

Inside, I’m shouting, cheering him on. He’s just hit his stride when he suddenly staggers, and a sharp burning pain pierces his back—my back—slamming us both between the shoulder blades and robbing us of breath.

I pitch forward, desperately trying to fill up my lungs as my eyes stream with tears. And that’s when I realize that, just like the vision of the boy I saw in Versailles, whatever’s happening to my dad is now happening to me as well.

I am fully immersed in his world.

These last precious seconds are all he has left, and it’s not nearly enough time to tell all that he needs me to know.

I struggle to peer deeper into his mind, to uncover the teachings he was unable to share. But with his life force rapidly slipping away, he’s narrowed his focus, his vision, down to one single point. And I know in my heart that whatever comes next is what he most needs me to see.

A torrent of tears rolls down my cheeks, but my dad remains calm, steadfast in his determination to not waste a single shred of energy waging a war he has no chance of winning.

Instead, he meets the inevitable with the sort of resigned acceptance of one who has spent a lifetime knowing this day would come.

In the very definition of “amor fati,” my father has accepted his fate, and he’s chosen to dedicate these last few moments to me. The daughter he loves more than anything in the world.

The daughter he never intended to leave.

His face now a twisted grimace of pain, he lurches forward, taking me with him, only to have his knees fail, causing his body to tip. And I watch through his eyes as the ground races right up to meet him.

No.

No!

An involuntary gasp sounds from my lips, as my vision, still tangled with his, reveals a pair of tall black boots striding out of the darkness and coming to stand just beside him.

Oh, God.

Oh, no.

My body recoils. I don’t want to see.

But I’ve come this far, and there’s no point now in looking away.

This is the moment when Braxton lays waste to the Timekeeper, otherwise known as my father.

And while I don’t know why he’d choose to kill one of his own, I do know this is the truth I’ve sought all along.

I watch as those shiny black boots come to a stop beside my father’s body as he—we—lie prone and bleeding on the ground. And I can’t help but wince as I watch, as Ifeel, a hand pull the blade from his back as the small golden sphere is ripped from his hands.

My father’s story is soon to be over, but not before he reveals to me the face of the blue-eyed enemy I know all too well.

67

It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.

And though my father’s side of the story ended the moment the ball was snatched from his grip, jolting me out of his perspective and tossing me headfirst into another, it’s not long before a new story begins to unfold.