Page 27 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)

I desperately need to speak to Braxton, to share everything that’s unfolded in the short span since I last saw him. But with my meeting with Killian imminent, I don’t have time to stop by his room. So, I jot off a quick message instead.

Me: The Moon Garden in an hour?

I stare at my slab, waiting for a response that doesn’t arrive.

Shit.

Anxiety bubbles within me, my leg restless and bouncing, fingers twitching. I sift through Freya’s words, dissecting everything that was said and everything that was deliberately left unsaid.

Who the hell does Arthur Blackstone love so much that he’s resorted to this?

Is it some sort of Gatsby-esque attempt to dazzle and impress? But no, nothing about that feels right. There’s a deeper motive at play, something more that I’m unable to grasp.

I glance at my slab once again—still no reply. Then, remembering the note from my dad is still waiting to be read, I retrieve it from the backpack. With a slight quiver in my hands, I gently unfold the paper, eager to read the message he penned.

Dearest Natasha,

I pause on my name, lightly tracing my index finger over the letters. Just the sight of his familiar scrawl has me completely choked up.

In case you’re wondering, I’m writing this while you’re experiencing an Unraveling. I hope that will explain why my words may come off as rushed. Though my hope is, that even when my words somehow fail me, you will still find in this letter all the love and support I intended.

To say your visit caught me by surprise isn’t entirely accurate. The truth is, some deeper part of me recognized you from the moment I saw you. Like I said, something about your presence felt eerily familiar and right. Almost as though we’d met like that before. And who knows, maybe we have?

While I’m sorry that our time together always seems to be cut tragically short, I want you to know that I’m thankful for every last second I got to spend with you. Because you, Natasha Antoinette Clarke, are the sole source of my pride, my greatest accomplishment, the thing I’m most proud of in this life I’ve been given.

To put it more succinctly, I am exceedingly proud to call you my daughter.

Although there is still so much more I want to tell you, share with you, I will leave you with this quote from the poem “ Eternity” by William Blake:

He who binds himself to a joy

Does the winged life destroy

But he who kisses the joy as it flies

Lives in eternity’s sun rise

I will cherish this time that we’ve shared, knowing that whatever challenges you may face along the way, you will find the strength and wisdom within you to rise up and vanquish them all.

With all my love,

Dad

Tears stream down my face as I reach the end, silent sobs wracking my shoulders and burning my throat. In this moment, a seed has been planted—a fierce determination begins to take root.

Why should I worry about altering the course of personal events, when Arthur aims to remake the world?

Why shouldn’t I at least try to do whatever is in my power to spare my dad from such a cruel fate?

With newfound resolve, I quickly dry my tears and tuck my dad’s letter away with the one from my mom. Then, casting a final, steadying glance at my reflection, I pull my Gray Wolf tote bag onto my shoulder and head out the door, on my way to meet Killian at the Hideaway Tavern.

I breeze down the grand stairway, no longer paying any notice to the collection of priceless artworks lining Gray Wolf’s walls. This place, for all its beauty and opulence, doesn’t hold quite the same appeal it once did.

At the landing, I find Mason about to make his way up. Wearing a blue Gray Wolf Academy sweatshirt that matches my own, I take it as a significant, albeit silent, acknowledgment of this path we both share. Now I can only hope he’s willing to walk this next path as well.

“Congratulations on making Blue.” I gesture toward his sweatshirt, adorned with the Gray Wolf logo.

Mason briefly looks down, then meets my gaze again with a mixture of pride and gratification.

“When did this happen?” I ask, figuring it must’ve been recently, since, unlike me, he’s not wearing the gold AAD signet ring that usually accompanies the achievement.

“I got the news yesterday,” he says. “Just before dinner. I’d just returned from Versailles where I was actually in the same room as King Louis the Fourteenth.” His excitement is palpable, his dark eyes shining with the thrill of his close brush with French royalty. “I managed to bring back a pile of jewels, which, I guess, impressed Arthur enough to grant me this.” He tugs at the front of his sweatshirt, an accomplished smile playing at his lips.

While it’s nice to see him so happy, something about his enthusiasm fills me with alarm. It seems the glamorous life at Gray Wolf has clearly gotten to him. Then I remember the rush of exhilaration I felt after my first successful solo Trip, and I realize it was inevitable.

“So, I guess you’ve adapted,” I say, hoping he didn’t notice the slight catch in my voice, the ring of disappointment over how quickly he caved. “Seems like you’re really starting to enjoy your time here,” I add, trying to gauge the depth of his contentment within the academy’s walls.

He lifts his broad shoulders in a casual shrug, his lips pinching into a smirk. “Let’s just say the curriculum here beats any history class back at our old school.”

A shared laugh bridges the gap between us, a brief reminder of the simpler times we couldn’t wait to escape. And look where it got us.

“And the compensation,” he continues, his voice tinged with amusement, “is a significant upgrade from those measly tips we got at the vegan café.” Running a hand over his shaved head, he bends his neck in a way that catches the light, showcasing a dazzling pair of sparkling diamond earrings that contrast beautifully against his dark skin.

“A definite upgrade from those silver studs you used to wear. Arthur’s reward, I take it?” I ask, recalling how he always lets us choose a piece from the loot we brought back.

Mason nods.

“Guess that also means you’ll be visiting the Vault soon,” I say, quickly adding, “I mean, if you haven’t already.”

“Hopefully soon.” Mason grins in a way that lights up his whole face. “I can’t wait to get in there and choose a piece for my room. Those empty walls are really starting to drag me down.”

“Which piece do you think you’ll choose?” I ask, startled to find myself acting like Arthur, trying to glean some small insight into his current state, based on the artwork that most calls his name.

Mason shrugs. “Guess that all depends what’s on offer.”

“Everything is on offer.” I sigh. “The world’s most vaunted pieces, the greatest treasures, exist right here at Gray Wolf,” I tell him. “All those museum pieces around the globe—they’re all fakes.”

Mason gives a casual nod as though he’s already made peace with all that, perfectly okay with the fact that Arthur has deprived the world of genuine artifacts.

And for me, I guess that’s what lies at the crux of all this—it’s what stands in the way of my ability to gather a team of allies to stand alongside me. Everyone here has found a way to work around all the moral grayness in order to continue living the sort of elevated life they’d never have access to otherwise.

Hell, it wasn’t so long ago when I felt the same way. I remember how I scoffed when Braxton tried to warn me of the damaging effects that Gray Wolf can have on your moral center and psyche. How once you Trip, you can never go back to the person you once were.

It was the same thing Killian said about killing when he stopped me from slaying the duke back in Versailles.

Seeing Mason now, more vibrant, radiant, and alive than I ever remember, his excitement about his new status practically crackling in the air around him, leaves me completely deflated. No longer so sure I can count on his help.

How can I ever compete with all the glamorous things that Arthur provides?

Then, almost as an afterthought, he says, “Oh, and speaking of things worth looking forward to, I trust I’ll see you in the Autumn Room after dinner tonight?”

A sharp bite of discomfort lodges high in my throat, delaying my response. “Um, sure,” I manage to squeeze out, my voice more strained than I intend. I’d hoped for a moment alone so we could talk privately, but it’s clear he’s fully immersed himself in the social life here. He’s found his place, his friends, he’s content. And while I’m happy for him, the timing couldn’t be worse. “At least I’ll try,” I add, trying to mask my disappointment.

“Great.” Mason leans in, pressing a quick air-kiss to either side of my cheek—an action that takes me by surprise. It’s precisely the sort of performative gesture we used to mock in our old life back home. “Gotta run,” he says, stepping back.

“Yeah, I…me too,” I stammer, but Mason’s already gone.