Page 41 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)

The swell of music greets us long before we reach Halcyon’s vivid orange doors. Max Richter’s upbeat remix of Vivaldi’s “Spring” swirls through the air, striking a stark contrast to the winter storm raging outside.

Though for Arthur, tonight marks the beginning of his own personal spring—a time for the awakening of hope, the blossoming of long-held dreams.

As Braxton and I move through the crowd, the atmosphere feels electric, alive with conversation and loud bursts of laughter. In the true spirit of Saturnalia, all the usual social boundaries are blurred.

Tonight, the elite and the support staff mingle freely, leaving me to wonder how many truly understand what this night of untamed revelry is really about.

Within this opulent setting, this enchanting, glittering, fever dream of a room—with its inky floors and undulating walls lavishly decorated with an array of artifacts collected from myriad cultures and times—is like a treasure trove, a collector’s fantasy brought to life. These objects, souvenirs from journeys undertaken by Trippers, create a vivid mosaic of human history and creativity, making the room more than just a physical space; it’s a crossroads where the pathways of time intersect.

My gaze moves from an amethyst chandelier overhead to the green marble-topped bar, where Elodie once served me a strange, iridescent red drink she jokingly referred to as “Strange. Sweet.” Then I take in the eerie elegance of the skeletal saint snatched from the Roman catacombs—a macabre relic that, according to Elodie, was Braxton’s contribution to the décor.

Yet it’s Arthur’s genius that’s transformed what was once an exclusive nightclub reserved for Gray Wolf’s elite into an otherworldly realm transcending the bounds of time. Leveraging cutting-edge holographic technology, Halcyon is now reenvisioned as the epitome of an ancient Roman domus, embodying the lavishness and scale that once defined the homes of the empire’s most distinguished figures.

Columns mirror the grandeur of Rome, and the space is filled with holographic renditions of generals and gladiators who wander about. So vivid and precise is their detail, distinguishing these ghostly apparitions from real, living guests is a formidable challenge. If I thought Arthur had outdone himself with the Van Gogh immersive dinner, what he’s created here is beyond anything I ever imagined.

My gaze sweeps across the guests, each of them wearing costumes that span from historically accurate tunics, togas, and silk stolas to more fantastical ensembles featuring crowns of woven blossoms and antlers, reminding me of the torch singer back at Arcana.

The fusion of past and present, reality and illusion, creates an atmosphere of surreal enchantment, as if we’ve all stepped into a dream where time has lost all meaning.

As we venture deeper into the throng, Braxton leans closer, his voice carrying a hint of the old formality of when we first met. “And now,” he says, “would you grant me the honor of sharing a dance?”

My gaze drifts to the dance floor, haunted by the ghost of our last encounter there, when he edged so close to declaring his love, but my fear interfered, and I purposely cut him off before he could get to the words. But now, drawing upon all the lessons in etiquette and comportment I’ve learned in this place, I bow my head, dip into a deep curtsy, and extend my hand for him to take.

As Braxton and I make for the dance floor, the room seems to erupt in a vibrant spectacle of color and sound. Leaving the usual decorum behind, we immerse ourselves in a wave of pure, unbridled joy alongside the crowd.

Elodie and Jago edge up beside us, their combined beauty almost too much to take in all at once. Elodie, draped in a gown of ethereal white silk that clings to her body as if woven from moonlight itself, beams at me in a smile so pure and unguarded, it occurs to me that I’ve never actually seen her this happy, not even with Nash back in Regency England.

Is Elodie clued in to what this night truly means?

“Shall we mix it up a bit?” Jago asks, his eyes glinting with mischief. He smoothly passes Elodie into Braxton’s arms, then reaches for mine. As I watch Braxton and Elodie move across the dance floor, Jago gives me a reassuring look. “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he says, gesturing subtly toward Braxton and Elodie. “He’s completely taken with you—told me so himself.”

“I know,” I say, confident that all those old insecurities are now well behind me.

Jago, dressed in a white toga the same shade of moonlight as Elodie’s gown, leans closer, his deep topaz gaze latching onto mine. “Though I do find myself wondering,” he says, “what makes you think you can’t trust me?”

His question takes me by surprise, leaving me momentarily speechless. Yet, recognizing the honesty he’s always shown me, I know I owe him nothing less than the truth in return.

“It’s not you, per se…” I pause, searching for just the right words. “It’s more to do with your…connection with Elodie.”

A trace of amusement flickers across his ridiculously beautiful face. “My connection ?” he teases, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

A rush of heat creeps into my cheeks, an embarrassing blush spreading under the weight of his gaze.

“Just because we share a bed on occasion doesn’t mean we engage in pillow talk,” he says.

I nod in reply, then, because I know I owe it to him, I add, “I’m sorry. Truly. You were one of the first ones here—hell, one of the only ones—who was willing to help me, tell me what’s worth fighting for and what’s not.”

“And look at you now!” His smile broadens as he runs an admiring glace over me.

Luckily, I know all too well that Jago’s flirtations are merely part of his charm and never to be taken to heart. “You must be the most charismatic individual I’ve ever met,” I say, a playful note in my voice, “and likely ever will.”

He laughs, pulling me closer, and we take another spin around the dance floor. When we’re back to where we started, I ask, “So, what’s next? Where will you go from here?”

Stopping abruptly, Jago grasps my hands in his and levels a look so piercing, I’m left struggling to read between the lines of the unspoken message in his eyes.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he finally says. “Though I have no plans to join you on your quest, I won’t be an obstacle, either.”

“But Jago,” I start, the weight of unspoken thoughts dying on my tongue when he silences me with a cautionary gaze.

“This is not the place for that conversation,” he warns, his voice carrying a seriousness I’ve seldom heard from him. “But rest assured, I’m not leaving. Gray Wolf is my home, and whether you like it or not, it’s yours now, too.”

“So you don’t think I’ll succeed?” A flash of anger mixed with panic surges inside me.

Does Jago know something I don’t?

I search his face, looking for clues, but before I can ask, insist he elaborate, Killian appears by my side, saying, “May I?”

I’m on the verge of telling him no, that he absolutely may not, because this dance with Jago is far from finished.

But when I glance back to where Jago once stood, I find he’s already gone, vanished into the crowd.