Page 12 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)

“I—I have to go,” I stammer, my voice quivering with dread and determination, my eyes wide with fear and regret. “Now that Arthur’s back, there’s no time to finish my training. If he discovers we’re gone…” I leave the thought unfinished, but the potential consequences swirl through my mind like a gathering storm.

My dad frowns, clearly torn. “There might be another way,” he suggests, his tone resolute but his eyes uncertain. “It’s not ideal. Hands-on experience is always best, but it might work.”

“What is it?” I ask, scrutinizing his face. “I’ll do anything. As long as it’s quick.”

“When my father trained me, what I didn’t learn through him, I learned from the Mystery School elders.”

I stare at him blankly, not comprehending.

“You won’t actually go there. Rather, it’s a form of mental time travel, like the Unraveling you just experienced with Arthur. Your physical body stays here, but your consciousness travels back in time to connect with and learn from the elders.”

“Okay…” I say, seeing his hesitation. “What’s the catch?”

He rakes a hand through his hair, his green eyes locking onto mine. “It took me years to master. I think it might help if we do it together, but are you sure you can’t stay a bit longer?”

The thought of leaving my dad, knowing I’ll never see him again, presses heavily on my heart. If circumstances were different, I’d stay without a second thought. Hell, I’d even risk crossing my own timeline to maximize whatever time we have left. But, as he said, a normal life is off the menu for people like us.

With great sadness, I say, “I can’t. Braxton will cover for us, but Arthur’s no fool. He’ll realize we’re missing soon enough.” My voice carries the weight of regret.

“Then let us begin,” my dad says, his tone firm, despite the sorrow in his eyes.

Extending his hands toward mine, our fingers touch, and our palms press together. “Close your eyes,” he says. “Focus on your breathing and clear your thoughts. Let your mind be a blank canvas, receptive to whatever impressions may come.”

A tingling emanates from his hands into mine, growing into a wave of energy that envelops my entire being like a comforting, tranquil embrace. The sensation is so peaceful, I yearn to linger here forever.

In this altered state, the world transforms, and I find myself in a room with stone walls bathed in the golden light of flickering candles. A man with long white hair and a matching beard sits at a desk, writing on parchment. Though I can’t make out the words, I immediately recognize him. He’s the same man I saw just after retrieving the Moon from its centuries-old hiding spot, during the Unraveling in the Baptistery of San Giovanni.

“What do you see?” my dad whispers.

I describe the scene unfolding before me.

“Good,” he says, removing his hands from mine. “Now wait until you’re called.”

I do as he says, remembering how last time, the man peered at me through centuries of time, only for the vision to shatter when Braxton arrived.

This time, I watch as the quill drops to the table, the man lifts his head and raises a hand, calling me forward.

“Go to him,” my dad instructs.

“But how?” I ask, unsure how to proceed.

“In your mind, see yourself walking to him. But whatever you do, don’t lose the connection.”

I envision myself moving toward the man. As I approach, he rises from his desk, his presence towering and commanding. Placing his hands on either side of my head, a rush of energy surges through me, elevating my frequency to a much higher vibration. It’s as if a symphony of stars and the heartbeat of the earth are resonating within me, unlocking the wisdom in the deepest recesses of my soul.

Images, insights, and knowledge cascade into my mind, revealing centuries of arcane secrets in mere moments. I see ancient rituals, forgotten histories, and the delicate threads of time weaving the fabric of reality. When the flow subsides, the man steps back, his eyes holding a depth of understanding. Without a word, he returns to his desk and the vision snaps away, leaving me standing in my father’s secret room, the echoes of that cosmic symphony still vibrating in my bones.

I open my eyes, feeling awakened, transformed, brimming with newfound insight. When I meet my father’s gaze, suddenly, everything I’ve learned, all the knowledge I gained, slips away—except for one thing that continues to resonate in my mind like a whisper piercing through the haze.

“I know why I’m here,” I say, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I know why I’m the first female Timekeeper.”

My dad nods, encouraging me to go on.

“My birth coincided with Arthur taking possession of the Antikythera Mechanism. His actions were mostly harmless until he discovered its power. It’s his ambition to control time and remake the world in his image that triggered my emergence. It’s as if the universe recognized the potential for tyranny and imbalance. And after centuries of male-centric brute force used to keep the pieces hidden, my feminine energy and intuition are the counterbalance—the force sent to prevent Arthur from attaining his darkest ambitions.”

My dad studies me for a long, silent beat. “It makes sense,” he says. “Is there anything else?”

“Nothing that stuck,” I say, my voice betraying my panic.

“The knowledge lives inside you now,” my dad assures me. “It would be too overwhelming to move through the world with that sort of energy stirred up all the time. Trust. Have faith. I promise it’ll be there when you most need it.”

I want to believe him, but I still have my doubts. He must see the hesitation on my face because he quickly adds, “You need proof. Luckily, we can do that.” He retrieves a blindfold and the archery bow. “Told you we’d revisit this.” He grins.

Once the blindfold is securely fastened over my eyes, casting me into darkness, my dad positions me before the target and places the bow and arrow into my hands.

“Trust your skills,” he says, “and the newly awakened wisdom within you.”

As the world beyond the blindfold slips away, leaving only the steady rhythm of my heartbeat, the tension building in my shoulders and arms, and the target I envision in my mind, I draw in a deep breath, pull back on the bowstring, and with a measured exhale, I channel my intention and release the arrow toward a destination unseen.

As the arrow slices through the air, a mere whisper in the silence, time seems to stretch and pause, resuming once more with the telltale thunk of the arrow finding its mark.

A surge of anticipation rushes through me, a blend of hope and anxiety tingling in my veins, as I wait for the blindfold to be lifted from my face.

“Ready?” my dad says. A second later, the blindfold is gone, leaving me blinking, once, twice, just to make sure. “Looks like my work is done.” He beams with pride, motioning toward the arrow now perfectly lodged into that tiny gold center. “In just a matter of hours you’ve achieved what took me over a decade to learn.”

A mix of triumph and sorrow beats inside me. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, yet knowing I’ll never see him again is making it impossible to leave.

“I don’t want to do this,” I say, voice breaking as I fight back tears. “I don’t want to go.”

“But you will,” my dad says. “It’s what you’re meant to do. I believe in you, Natasha.”

Tears stream down my cheeks, but I let them flow, making no attempt to wipe them away. Then, a new thought occurs to me. I look at my dad and say, “I can undo this, you know?”

My dad shoots me a wary look, as though he’s already guessed what I’m about to propose.

“I threatened Killian with it, and while I was mostly just trying to scare him, I realize now that I can actually make it happen. I don’t need Arthur or Elodie to Trip. I can just wait for the right moon cycle, then travel back to 1741 and stop Killian before he can—”

I don’t even get to finish before my dad says, “I’m sure Arthur has warned you about the dangers of tampering with history, even personal history?”

I give a dismissive shrug. “But isn’t that what he plans to do? So, what’s the difference if I—”

“Natasha—” My dad reaches for my hand, his grasp gentle but firm. “Your only job is to stop Arthur. It’s the single most important thing you can do. Everything else is secondary.”

“But why can’t I do both?” I counter, refusing to give in. “It’s not like the two are mutually exclusive. I’m sure I can handle—” My voice falters as I take in his somber gaze, the way his head slowly shakes.

“You don’t understand the gift you’ve already given me.” His gaze brims with emotion, cheeks misted with tears. “By coming here, you’ve granted me something invaluable—a chance to make better choices, to live differently, and more fully. Knowing what’s going to happen has given me a whole new perspective. And because of that—because of you and the courage it took to find me—I won’t waste a single second of what’s left of my existence.”

Emotion wells up inside me, spilling over as silent tears trace a wet path to the neckline of my borrowed tee.

“Thanks to you, my life won’t be one of unexamined passivity,” he says. “Nor will I waste a single moment of the time I have left.”

My throat burns, my shoulders shake, and I’m pretty sure my mascara is a soggy, black mess. “I still wish you’d reconsider,” I manage to say.

“I know.” He pulls me close, rubbing a soothing hand over my back. Then, in a voice so low I can just barely hear, he adds, “Just remember, time is like a river—everything flows, and nothing stands still.”

A flicker of recognition sparks in my mind, and I pull back slightly and look into his eyes. I’ve heard that before, but where? Then I remember—it’s a quote he taught me early on, one I’d pretty much forgotten until I entered Arthur Blackstone’s world.

“Panta Rhei,” I say, explaining how those ancient words are etched onto the plaque over the Gray Wolf Academy gate.

I guess I’m expecting more of a reaction, some sign of surprise. But my dad simply nods, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Everything is connected,” he says, with a gentle finality. “The flower of life”—he taps a finger to his tattoo—“serves as a reminder of that. It’s a powerful and ancient symbol that embodies the profound interconnectedness of the universe, the cycle of creation, of all living things.”

Then, changing the subject, he adds, “Listen, there’s something I want you to have.” He motions for me to follow. “Come this way.”

I expect him to exit through the same door we entered, but instead, he veers down a short, narrow hall and heads toward a painting that hangs on the opposite wall. Its surreal landscape and melting clocks serve as a stark reminder of the world I left behind.

“ The Persistence of Memory ,” I gasp, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“You know it?” My dad glances between the painting and me.

“I own it,” I tell him. Realizing how implausible that must sound—me claiming to own an original Salvador Dalí—I quickly add, “Well, it’s on loan. It’s the painting I chose on my first visit to Arthur’s vault, and it’s been hanging in my room ever since.”

“Astonishing.” My dad’s eyes widen in wonder.

“I don’t know about that.” I shrug, feeling suddenly and strangely self-conscious. “Mostly, I chose it to remind myself that no matter how opulent and enchanting life at Gray Wolf is, it’s not where I belong. It’s not home. I know it probably sounds weird, but once you’re entrenched in Arthur’s world, it’s easy to forget there’s a whole other one that continues to exist outside those walls.”

My dad’s gaze remains fixed on me, clearly unconvinced by my attempt to brush it off. “And yet, any number of paintings could’ve done the same thing,” he insists. “Take The Birth of Venus —it symbolizes the endless cycles of time: birth, life, renewal. The point is, there’s no such thing as mere coincidence. Remember Natasha, everything truly is connected. It’s not just a fluke. Everything that’s happened on your path has led you right here.”

I take a moment to consider his words. Honestly, it all sounds a bit farfetched, and yet I’m definitely intrigued by the concept.

“So, you think the vision I had—where I saw myself here—might’ve actually happened?” My voice rises in pitch. “Like I’m caught in some kind of loop? And that, maybe subconsciously, I was drawn to Dalí’s painting because it’s what I always do?”

“It’s possible.” My dad shrugs, rubbing at his chin.

“But if it is true, then how do I break free?”

My dad sighs, heavy and deep. “By using your free will,” he says. “And never losing sight of your destiny. Those are two things Arthur can never take from you.” His words float between us. Then, abruptly shifting gears, he gestures toward the painting and says, “Why don’t you take the lead?”

He guides my hand to the frame’s bottom left corner, gently nudging it upward. My eyes widen in astonishment as a soft, almost inaudible click sounds, and the wall swings open, revealing yet another one of his secrets.