Page 19 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)
I stand outside the door of Arthur’s office, the cool, hard metal of the Moon pressing into my palm, while a mix of cappuccino, fresh organic berries, and almond croissants churn uneasily in my belly.
Give him this, but don’t offer up anything else , Braxton had said, handing over the Moon I’d left hidden for him. Let Arthur take the lead. He’ll probably try to trap you into revealing something, but don’t let him. Do whatever it takes to stay one step ahead of his game.
I take a steadying breath, trying to stifle the knot of apprehension wedging high in my throat, as I muster the courage to knock. But just as I lift a hand, the electronic click sounds, the door springs open, and Killian steps out just as I step in.
My jaw drops, my eyes widen, and I freeze in my tracks, totally and completely stunned.
Killian.
Killian Fucking de Luce is standing directly before me.
Last time I saw him was in Renaissance Italy, where Braxton and I purposely left him behind with no clicker and no immediate way to return. While I figured he’d eventually find his way back, I certainly wasn’t expecting him to do so this quickly. I thought for sure I had more time before I’d be forced to face him.
Killian remains rooted in place, his towering, nearly six-foot frame easily overshadowing mine. The muscles in his arms visibly flex as he lazily sweeps a hand through his tumble of sunshine blond curls. Those lips—the same full lips that once pressed against mine, devouring me in a kiss—now pinch into a faint, knowing smirk.
On the surface, he’s as resplendent as the first night we met at the Yew Ball in 1745 Versailles. Yet after all that’s unfolded since then, I’ve come to see his natural good looks and charm as nothing more than a flimsy facade, masking a deep-seated bent toward deceit.
This slick, golden boy with his superficial allure murdered my father. And despite my dad warning me against seeking revenge, or even going back in time to reverse that tragic event, I’ve never been more determined to make Killian de Luce pay for his actions.
“Well, hello, Shiv,” he says, his voice low and flirtatious as his eyes lock onto mine, twin blue flames blazing dangerously bright. “You’re looking rather…” He lets his gaze wander leisurely down my body, tracing every contour and curve as if it’s a meandering trail meant for him to explore. “Well, I’m just glad to see you’re on the mend.”
On the mend?
My gaze sharpens, then shifts beyond his shoulder to where Arthur sits behind his large, intricately carved wooden desk. Stretching across the ceiling above him is Michelangelo’s iconic work, The Creation of Adam , a masterpiece depicting the biblical tale of the divine breath of life God bestowed upon man.
Of course, in the Gray Wolf Academy version, God is painted wearing a gold ring that’s identical to the one Arthur wears—a modification that strikes me as a glaringly obvious symbol of his own outsized ego and arrogant sense of omnipotence.
“Let me know when you’re back to one hundred percent,” Killian says. “We’ll meet for a drink, or even a meal if you’re up for it. Seems you and I have a lot of catching up to do.” His cheeks spread into a wide, Cheshire Cat grin. “Maybe the Hideaway Tavern?” He cocks his head to the side, his shallow swimming-pool eyes exploring the depths of mine. “I remember how much you enjoyed the shepherd’s pie when I took you there last time. Besides, I’m curious to hear what you’ve been up to since you ditched me in Renaissance Florence. But for now, best not to keep Arthur waiting.”
He pulls the door wider and ushers me inside. As I pass, he leans in, placing a hand on my arm, his lips lightly brushing the curve of my ear. “And by the way,” he whispers, so only I can hear, “I didn’t breathe a word of it to Arthur. I figure it can be our little secret.” He pulls away, his gaze searing into mine. “Or at least for now. Guess we’ll see what transpires from here.”
Even after he releases me and goes his own way, his words linger, sending involuntary shivers through me.
That’s two threats in one day. Well, at least I know who my enemies are.
With my heart slamming in my chest and my breath coming short and fast, I force my legs forward, my rubber-soled sneakers echoing softly against the mother-of-pearl mosaic floor.
“Natasha—splendid. You’re here.” Arthur looks up from his desk, and I’m struck once again by how his actual appearance never corresponds to the picture I carry in my head.
My earliest impression of him, formed by glossy magazine covers, created a larger-than-life image in my mind that reality quickly corrects. In person, he’s average in height, with the slim, athletic build of a long-distance runner. His hair is dark; his features strike a delicate balance between blunt and refined. His clothes skew toward the understated luxury of high-end cashmere sweaters, dark tailored jeans, and a recent fondness for Gucci loafers.
To the casual observer, he easily blends into the backdrop of affluent anonymity—just another wealthy white male who’s carefully curated himself to personify the look of success.
Yet his eyes quickly disrupt that illusion—they’re deep, fathomless, and as complex as a shard of fractured obsidian.
Pushing a pile of papers aside, he motions for me to take the seat opposite him. “Killian tells me you had quite an eventful Trip.” He pauses, scrutinizing my expression.
Remembering Braxton’s advice, I give only the slightest of nods in response.
“Though I must say,” Arthur goes on, “Killian was right, you don’t quite look like yourself—are you still feeling unwell?”
I hesitate. Did Killian actually cover for me by telling Arthur I’m sick? And does that mean I’m now indebted to him?
“I’m, uh…pretty exhausted,” I say, knowing it’s better to stick with some semblance of the truth than to make up an outright lie. “Nothing serious, though,” I add, hoping he won’t insist on a visit to Medical. “I think I’m just a little run-down.”
Arthur’s penetrating gaze conducts a thorough study of my face. “Well, make sure you get plenty of rest this afternoon,” he says. “I have another Trip planned for you soon.”
I nod politely, though the truth is, I’m not exactly thrilled by the news. Every Trip he sends me on brings him closer to achieving his dream of restoring the Antikythera Mechanism and controlling time so he can remake the world.
And while I could purposely fail to bring him the Get, I’m not sure how long he’d allow me to get away with that. I desperately need to come up with a plan to stop him, but right now, I’m fresh out of ideas. Luckily, time is on my side. There’s still plenty more pieces left for me to collect before he can come close to meeting his goal.
“But before we get into all that,” he continues, “I hear you have something for me?”
He shifts forward in his seat, elbows gliding across the polished surface of his desk. As I place the small silver sphere before him, he draws in a quick breath, eyes sparking with intensity.
“The Moon,” he says, almost to himself. Fingers deftly rotating the shimmering orb, he seems captivated, lost in its allure. I use the moment to survey the room, which Arthur once referred to as the inner sanctum .
Like the rest of Gray Wolf, there’s an undeniable opulence to this space. From the roaring fire crackling in the massive marble fireplace to the cabinet displaying a timeworn manuscript of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations , Arthur’s favorite collection of essays. My attention then drifts to the majestic tapestry adorning the far wall—a piece I’m pretty sure once belonged to King Henry the Eighth.
“And where exactly did you find it?” Arthur asks, his gaze returning to me.
“Well…” I begin, then briefly relay how I deciphered the hidden clues in Leonardo da Vinci’s Salvator Mundi , which ultimately guided me to the Baptistery, where I found it tucked inside an ancient reliquary of Saint John the Baptist’s index finger.
“Extraordinary,” Arthur says, his unreadable gaze taking me in.
I offer a humble shrug, though inwardly, I’m swelling with pride. Locating that piece was no easy feat. Especially since one of the clues he’d given me was completely misleading, forcing me to come up with an entirely new approach on the fly.
Yet despite the satisfaction of my achievement, I can’t help but wish it served a more useful purpose, rather than steering us toward the end of time as we know it.
“I think this calls for another visit to the Vault. What do you say?”
There’s a measure of expectation in his tone, likely stemming from the thrill that usually corresponds to selecting a piece from Arthur’s seemingly endless collection of treasures. But torn between utter exhaustion and my concerns over Killian’s sudden return, I can muster only a modest enthusiasm.
“Later then,” Arthur says, his voice so brusque I worry my lukewarm response might’ve offended him. “When you’re feeling up to it.”
I nod, about to rise from my seat, thankful to have gotten off so easily, when Arthur adds, “Oh, and by the way, have you seen Braxton?”
My body goes rigid, fingers clenching the armrests with a tension that speaks volumes. “Yes, I have,” I admit, my voice betraying me by sounding like a small, nervous child.
Arthur contemplates me with a long, considering look. “Such a strange series of misfortunes,” he muses, his voice cool and detached. He scans my face with an almost surgical precision. “First Braxton suffers a serious mishap that requires stitches. Then Killian sends you back earlier, accidentally leaving himself without a clicker. And now you’ve fallen under the weather.”
His gaze pins me in place, and it’s everything I can do not to visibly recoil.
“Not ill,” I’m quick to amend, the laugh that follows sounding forced, if not feeble. “Just a bit sleep-deprived.”
He regards me with an inscrutable look, making it impossible to guess what he might be thinking beneath that impenetrable facade. “Well then,” he finally says, “I trust you and Braxton will recover soon. I’ve grown rather accustomed to relying on you both.”
My lips press into a thin, grim line. Determined not to fidget, I respond with a simple nod.
“However, before I let you go,” he continues, “I would appreciate your insights on a matter.”
I watch as Arthur stands and gracefully circles his desk, motioning for me to follow him to an easel shrouded by a plain white cloth.
“It’s an enigmatic piece,” he says. “One that scholars have debated for centuries.”
“And you think I have something to contribute?” A hint of incredulity creeps into my voice.
“I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t confident,” he replies. “I believe there’s value to be had in an open and eager mind, one free of all preconceptions or expectations. It’s akin to what Shunryu Suzuki said, In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few .”
Shunryu Suzuki? My jaw practically drops to the floor. Isn’t that the same Zen master my dad quoted to me?
“If your mind is empty,” I say, repeating what my dad recently said, “it is open to everything.”
I stare at Arthur, a strange sense of déjà vu, or even déjà vécu, swirling within, leaving me feeling lightheaded, woozy, unsteady on my feet.
“Yes,” Arthur says, studying me with an inscrutable gaze. “It seems you’re familiar with the concept and its author.”
I give an uneasy shrug. At this moment, it’s all I can manage. Then, with a fluid gesture, Arthur unveils the artwork, leaving me gaping at the sight.
“ Melencolia 1 ,” I whisper, not realizing I’ve spoken aloud until Arthur’s attention sharpens on me.
“So, you know it?” His gaze penetrates so deeply into my flesh, it feels like an anchor dragging me into depths I’ll never escape.
“Yeah, um…I mean, yes,” I manage to say. “I’m…familiar with it.”
What I don’t say is how I came to be familiar with it—because my dad showed it to me on my illicit visit to 1998.
Everything is connected , my dad explained. There’s no such thing as mere coincidence. Everything that’s happened on your path has led you right here.
A swarm of chills blankets my skin, and as I dare to meet Arthur’s gaze, I’m struck by the unsettling realization that he not only knows where I’ve been, but also what I intend to do next.