Page 1 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)

Braxton

Gray Wolf Academy

Present Day

I wake with a start.

Skin slick with sweat, legs caught in a tangle of sheets, the strangled cry of her name yanks me out of my dream and into the bleakness of my current reality.

Tasha—Tasha, no!

My body jolts upright, chest heaving, gasping for breath. It was just a dream. I try to convince myself . Only a dream. But the words are a lie. Because the truth is, I watched as gravity failed. Watched as Elodie leaped onto the launchpad, grabbed Tasha’s hand, and a rush of wind swept them away.

And I have no idea when—or even if—they’ll return.

Outside, bright bursts of lightning blister the sky, as a hard-driving rain batters my windows so violently they quake in their frames.

Tasha is gone. And none of this—nothing—has gone as planned.

I sweep a hand across the barren stretch of sheets at my side, so desperate for a piece of her, I grab the pillow she used just a few hours before and shamelessly press it to my face, trying to capture whatever whisper of scent and warmth might remain.

Fuck. Tasha—why?

Oh, but you know why , my mind taunts. Tasha did the one thing you should’ve done long ago. Only you grew too comfortable. Too weak. You traded your destiny for a life of soft luxury, leaving her no choice but to act in your place.

I silence the thought, toss the pillow aside, and close my eyes tight, allowing an image of Tasha to bloom in my mind. The way she looked on that launchpad—so beautiful, heartbreakingly so. But it was the steely determination glinting in her green eyes that shook me to my core.

And me? I was so caught up in my own indignation, my own shock and hurt, I failed to tell her how immensely proud I am to call her my girl.

Failed to tell her that she’s the most courageous person I’ve ever known.

On my nightstand I find the letter she left me, and my gaze darts straight to the bottom of the page where she wrote those four life-changing words: I love you, Braxton .

Even after all that I’ve done, even after confessing I was there when Killian murdered her father, Natasha Antoinette Clarke. Loves. Me. Whatever fate has in store from this point on, at least I have that.

I trace a finger over the xoxo that precedes her name, conjuring a memory of her kiss so vivid, damn if my body doesn’t immediately respond.

Tasha .

In my mind, I see her beautiful face angling toward me.

My darling Tasha .

I watch as her eyelids fall heavily, her lips softly part.

Instinctively, my hand reaches down, recalling the contour of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the heat of her legs wrapped tightly around me.

Fuck. Tasha . Where the hell did you go?

My hand begins to move. Just the mere thought of her has me so far gone, it won’t take long.

But no .

My hand stills.

No . There’s no time for an indulgence like this .

I grip the edge of the mattress, push away from the bed, and restlessly set about pacing my room.

According to Elodie, Arthur is away, but he’ll be back in two days.

As for Killian… All I know for sure is he won’t remain stuck in Renaissance Florence for long. Sooner or later he’ll find his way back, and then what?

Will he rush to tell Arthur how we purposely left him behind?

Or, like Tasha believes, will he make up some kind of excuse so as not to look weak?

With Killian, it’s anyone’s guess.

I collapse onto my worn leather couch, grab the old boot I unearthed from my closet last night, and retrieve the small silver ball Tasha left for me to find.

The Moon .

The storm outside continues to rage, a tempest echoing the chaos inside me as I roll the ball between my forefinger and thumb. This moon, so cold and unyielding in my hand, is a stark reminder of the choices I’ve made, the paths I’ve yet to tread.

To the untrained eye, it doesn’t appear to be anything special. In fact, it’s exactly the sort of thing you’d expect to find at the bottom of a junk drawer.

But for Arthur, this tiny treasure represents yet another triumph in his biggest quest yet—to restore the Antikythera Mechanism, take command over time, and ultimately achieve his one true dream of remaking the world.

I huff a frustrated sigh and return the Moon to the boot. What I need is an ally. Someone I can count on.

As an opponent, Arthur is a formidable force. Not only has he created a culture where we’re made to compete for his favor, but he’s fostered an environment of such deep paranoia it’s impossible to know whom to trust.

And while I won’t claim to know the full extent of it—I’m not sure anyone does—I do know that between the slabs Arthur insists we carry around, and the surveillance equipment he’s rigged everywhere, there’s not much that gets past him.

Not much…and yet, some things still do.

Like the Gray Wolf witches who use the book of magick to travel back and forth between timelines.

Not to mention how, according to rumor, both Song and Anjou used the book, too.

But did they really fly under Arthur’s radar?

Or did he simply not care enough to stop them?

I rake a restless hand through my hair, rise from the couch, and take another lap around my luxurious room. When I arrive at Caravaggio’s portrait of Narcissus, my mind reels in reverse, remembering the day I chose it from Arthur’s Vault, hoping it would serve as a reminder to stay awake, to not allow myself to be hypnotized by Arthur’s world.

For a while it worked. On the outside, I appeared to play by his rules. But inside, I stayed diligent, on high alert. And yet, somewhere along the way, I let my guard down and lost sight of myself. It was only when I met Tasha that I realized I’d let the pursuit of trophies like this take precedence over everything I once cared about.

Turns out Fade doesn’t just happen while Tripping. It happens here too.

Still the question remains: Where and how to begin?

I turn my focus to the items Tasha left alongside her note—a red chalk portrait sketched by the great Leonardo da Vinci himself, and the small gold pocket watch that once belonged to my father.

The same pocket watch I’d spent countless hours playing with as a kid.

I trace a finger over the crystal, then gently flip it over to study the engraving on the back. The Flower of Life—an ancient symbol that’s said to contain the secrets of the universe, the workings of time and space—and a record of all living things.

The same symbol I have inked on the crook of my arm. Though much like my training, the tattoo is unfinished.

I close my fingers over the circles and bury the watch in my fist. The fact that I’m even holding this, after it’s been lost for two centuries, feels like a miracle of sorts.

The watch begins to vibrate, but I’m quick to dismiss it as my mind playing tricks. The pain pills I took before bed have worn off, leaving me lightheaded and woozy.

I make for the sink, thinking I could do with a glass of water and something to eat, when the timepiece begins to shake with such force, it threatens to rocket right off my palm.

Well, bloody hell, would you look at that?

I stand in my kitchen, staring in wonder as the watch continues to judder and jolt.

Is it possible Tasha unknowingly brought me the ally I seek?

Considering how I’ve spent the last several years suppressing my gifts, it’s no surprise that when I first shutter my eyes and squeeze the watch tight, trying to immerse myself into whatever energetic imprint my father might’ve left behind, not a single message arrives.

But recalling what my father used to say: Patience, my son. Remember, the enemy of your power is haste , I keep at it until, finally, there’s a discernible rocking under the soles of my feet as the ground beneath me begins to give way.

That’s it , I hear him say, as though the voice is coming from somewhere nearby and not the nineteenth century. Remain steady, focused, calm…

The ground continues to disintegrate, forcing me back on my heels as my stomach clenches and rolls. Still, I stay with it, dutifully following my father’s instructions: Don’t look—not until you’ve been called.

My eyes remain shut, steadfastly ignoring the roar of crumbling walls, the splinter of shattering windows. Even after the roof is blown off and an explosive wind swirls through my room, making my hair stand on end, I continue to wait for the sound of my name.

When it does finally come, the elation of being reunited with my father has me so choked up, I need a moment to compose myself.

It’s only when the voice sounds again—calling me by my true name, the one I went by before both my parents were reduced to a memory—that I finally blink my eyes open to take in the large, cloaked figure standing before me.

My eyes search for a mane of dark wavy hair, a hard angled jaw, an intense blue gaze the same shade of navy as mine. But this man—this dark faceless thing —bears none of those attributes.

“Hello, James.” The shadowy figure speaks in a voice that echoes resonate and deep.

Though my first instinct is to flee, I soon find my feet refuse to cooperate.

I am frozen.

Held captive in place.

Left only to stare in dismay as this shadowy being makes its way toward me.

Last thing I remember is the press of crushing dread squeezing the air from my lungs as a horrifying question blares through my head: My God—what the hell have I summoned?