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It’s of a beautiful, sleeping woman with wavy blond hair dressed in a filmy white nightgown. Her body is draped across a bed as though she’s lost in a dream so deep, she’s unaware of the demon crouched on her chest while another horse-faced demon looks on.

“It’s by Henry Fuseli, an eighteenth-century Swiss artist,” Arthur says. “It’s called—”

“The Nightmare,” I whisper, unable to tear my gaze away.

“It was quite controversial in its day. And though I do admire it, it’s much too macabre for my personal tastes. It’s only here temporarily. Soon, it’ll be installed in Braxton’s room.”

I turn to Arthur in shock, and when I catch the way his gaze narrows on mine, I wish I’d kept my reaction in check.

“Braxton did me a great favor yesterday,” Arthur says. “And this is the reward that he chose.”

I nod, swallow past the lump in my throat, and force another look at the ominous painting before me.

“Are you really so surprised?” Arthur says. “Are you not aware of the darkness Braxton carries inside?”

31

Of course I’m aware of Braxton’s tendency toward darkness.

And yet, after our conversation last night, this painting feels like a nod to something deeper than just having a taste for melancholy art.

By choosing to hang this in his room, he’s ensuring he’ll never get past his own nightmare. Which makes me wonder if he doesn’t actually want to—if he prefers to torture himself for something that wasn’t his fault.

Unless, of course, itwashis fault.

Like keeping those old, stained boots in his closet. Boots he must’ve been wearing on the Trip that went sideways. It’s the only way to explain why he insists on keeping them.

Between the boots and this nightmare of a painting, one thing is sure: Braxton is determined to keep the story alive by surrounding himself with so many reminders, he’ll never have a chance to forget.

And yet, none of that explains why, when I touched those boots, I saw a vision of my dad, all alone, inside some ancient necropolis.

What is the connection between my dad and those boots?

Awhirl of possible explanations spins through my head, but none of them make any sense.I’m so lost in my thoughts, it’s not until Arthur clears his throat that I realize he’s been observing me this whole time.

I turn away from the easel and make for my chair. “What is it you wanted to see me about?” I ask, sure I’m about to be dragged on my failure to bring back the Star.

Instead, I watch as he returns to his desk, reaches for a carved jade box, and retrieves three rectangular cards he then slides toward me.

“You’re familiar with these?” He leans back in his seat.

I cast a quick glance over the three vintage tarot cards that look a lot like the ones my dad used to have. Though, of course, my dad’s cards were replicas. These are the real ancient deal.

To Arthur, I say, “The High Priestess, the Moon, and the Hermit card.”

He nods. “Though, of course, these are from the Visconti-Sforza tarocchi deck. The images differ from the more common Rider-Waite cards. But I’m pleased you recognize them.”

Um, yeah, I was raised on these cards.But I keep that bit to myself.

I start to reach for the Moon, wanting to study it closer, when Arthur hands me a pair of white cotton gloves. “The cards are very old and rather fragile,” he explains, watching as I tug the gloves past my fingers. “I bought them at auction, long before I built Gray Wolf. Of course, plenty of decks have been brought back by Trippers since then, but I have a fondness for these. They mark the start of my journey.”

Which journey?The journey to finding the missing pieces of the Antikythera Mechanism, or—

As though reading my mind, Arthur says, “The journey into occultism.” My startled gaze meets his, but he’s quick to dismiss it. “The word has gotten a negative connotation over the years. All it really refers to is secret knowledge. It’s derived from the Latin word ‘occultus,’ which translates to clandestine, hidden secret, knowledge of the hidden—that sort of thing. You are aware of my interest in alchemy, yes?” He studies me closely. “After all, it is the very foundation that Gray Wolf was built upon.”

I look to the cards again, noting that the Magician is missing. Only, that’s not exactly true; he’s sitting right here before me.

“I guess transcending the boundaries of time is the ultimate alchemy,” I say.