Page 5 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)
“Dad.”
I actually called him Dad.
I mean, of course that’s who he is. But still, considering how I won’t be born for another seven years, it must have been pretty shocking to hear.
And yet, it’s out there now, and there’s no reeling it back. So all that’s left is to wait. Wait for my dad to respond. To say something. Do something. Anything that might give me some clue as to what he might be thinking about me and the startling truth I revealed.
But he just stands there, his jaw locked tight, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his eyes—confusion, fear, maybe a reluctant spark of recognition? All I know for sure is he’s taking me in, scrutinizing every inch, and with each passing second, the wall of silence between us continues to build.
I never should’ve pushed the reveal. I should’ve waited until I could get him alone before I dropped that bombshell.
The quiet is unbearable. Just when I’m sure I can’t take another second, my dad shakes his head as though awakening from a trance. Sliding an arm around my shoulders, he announces to his friends, “Natasha injured her hand. We’re going to swing by my apartment to get her cleaned up.”
His friends turn in surprise, shooting me an appraising look that makes me feel so gross, I have to fight every impulse to explain how this is not at all what they think.
“You’ll be okay?” I ask Elodie, feeling weird, and a little guilty, about leaving her alone with the two guys we just met.
“Please.” She rolls her eyes with her usual bravado. “When am I not okay?” And just like that, she returns to her admiring audience again.
The journey to my dad’s apartment is a blur of bumper-to-bumper traffic and bustling city streets—a world that’s seamlessly, obliviously, transitioning from day to night, as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. As though two girls haven’t just landed here from nearly thirty years in the future.
When we finally arrive, and are tucked away safely inside, my dad nervously rubs his hands together and says, “Okay, first things first. Let’s have a look at that wound.”
I follow him into a small, tidy bathroom, where he cleanses and bandages my hand the same way he did back when I was a kid, minus the storytelling and song, of course. Once he’s finished, he reaches for the cabinet to return the roll of gauze and antiseptic spray, but the bottle slips from his grasp and clatters to the floor, and we instinctively stoop to retrieve it.
“I got it!” we both say, our heads colliding with the sort of cartoonish thud that makes me burst out laughing. When my gaze meets his, I catch a glimmer of surprise in his eyes before he joins in.
It’s been ages since the two of us laughed. And though I know he has no memory of any of the fun times we once shared, I can’t help but wonder if he can sense how layered this is—a burst of amusement floating on the surface, while just beneath lies a tremor of sadness born of a thousand what-ifs.
This is exactly the sort of clumsy, awkward, ordinary moment I’ve missed.
As my laughter fades into a sigh, the absurdity of it all settles on my shoulders like a bittersweet cloak. Still, as hard as this is for me, I imagine it’s even more heightened for him.
“I promise to explain everything,” I say. “Or at least, I’ll try. But first, can I borrow a T-shirt? I don’t normally dress like this, and…” My voice fades when I realize how ridiculous this must seem. He’s an undergrad student with zero paternal instincts. It’s not like he’s going to give me a time-out for wearing a midriff top and low-rise jeans.
Still, he nods, roots around in a drawer, then tosses me a gray Columbia University T-shirt that’s far too big for my frame, but I instantly love it anyway.
After I’m changed, he pours us each a tall glass of water and we settle onto an old slip-covered couch, where, without further delay, he says, “Look, for the record, I believe you. Which is probably the biggest hurdle of all.”
Well, that’s a relief . I take a grateful sip of my water and sink deeper into the cushions.
“And yet—” He scrunches his nose, props his foot on one knee, and fidgets with the frayed hem of his jeans. “Well, I guess the part I’m struggling with is how ? How did this happen? How is this possible? What year did you say you traveled from?”
I place my glass on the coffee table before me. “The year twenty twenty-four,” I say.
My dad balks at the news.
“And, just so you know, there are no flying cars.” My face curves into a grin, trying to insert a little levity into this strange situation we find ourselves in. “Though that’s not to say there aren’t people who are actively working on it.”
“And time travel?” he says. “Is this part of the future?”
I shake my head. “Only those of us at Gray Wolf Academy know that it’s possible.”
“Gray Wolf,” my dad repeats. “As in antimony, or Lupus Mettallorum—the wolf of metals that purifies gold?”
I shrug. “So I’m told.”
“The gray wolf is the penultimate stage in the making of the philosopher’s stone.” He speaks with a sort of hushed wonder. “So, is this an academy for alchemists?” His eyes narrow.
“In a way,” I say, aware that I’m being ridiculously vague. Then again, this is not what I came for. I need answers. I need help. And yet, I also know that at the very least, I owe him some of the basics for how this all came to be.
“I’m a student there,” I press on, swallowing the knot of frustration building deep in my throat. “Though, to be clear, it’s not the usual curriculum. And while I have every intention of answering all your questions, or at least I’ll try, first, I want you to know this is weird for me, too. I guess the difference is I already know you. I spent the first eight years of my life with you. I was your favorite girl, and you were my hero dad, and yet, even though we’re together now, I realize I’m a total stranger in your eyes.”
“But that’s just it.” He swipes a hand through his hair and casts a nervous glance around the small space.
I follow his gaze from the Formica-topped table and its four random chairs, the short hallway with a door on either side that I assume leads to bedrooms, the worn, braided rug stretched across the scuffed wood floor, and the towering piles of books that, along with the massive CD collection, cover nearly every flat surface.
“That’s what makes this so strange.” He returns his focus to me. “There’s an undeniable familiarity. Maybe it’s because I can see Natasha in you.” His expression softens as he releases a long, wistful sigh.
“My great-grandmother.” I nod. “You told me you were her favorite,” I add, feeling the need to prove that I really am legit, that I remember most, if not all, of his stories.
“I always thought that if I did have a daughter, I’d give her that name.” His mouth tugs up at the corners, though there’s an undeniable sadness that shadows his gaze. “And apparently, I did.”
“And yet, you didn’t actually want kids,” I say, then proceed to tell him about a particularly painful Unraveling where I stood on the sidelines, playing witness to my dad’s look of distress after my mom showed him her positive pregnancy test.
I’m not entirely sure why I tell him that. I mean, out of all the things I could’ve shared, it seems like the absolute worst choice I could possibly make.
Then again, it was only yesterday when I saw the energetic message he left for me in the Sun. And now that he’s sitting right here beside me, I really need his assurance that it wasn’t at all like I thought.
Briefly, he shutters his eyes. When he opens them, he says, “Since that moment is still several years away, I can’t exactly defend myself. But whatever you saw, I’m sure it had nothing to do with you not being wanted, and everything to do with my anguish over the burden I’d unwittingly pass on to you.”
“And by burden, you mean the whole Timekeeper thing?”
He frowns, pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s this damned lineage and all that comes with it.” He shakes his head. “Look, I admit, I’ve probably had it easier than most. Still, between the Unravelings, the training, the responsibility, and the secrets—it’s a lot.” His shoulders slump with the weight of all that’s been required of him—all that’s now required of me. “People like us don’t get to move through the world with the same blissful ignorance as everyone else.” His gaze lands on mine. “A normal life is off the menu for us. Still, I guess I thought…” He pauses, takes a quick breath, then goes on. “Well, I thought that by refusing to have kids I could spare future generations from living like I do.”
“And exactly how do you live?” I gesture around the small, neat space. “It looks pretty normal to me.”
He smiles at that. But it’s not the sort of carefree grin you might expect. Instead, it’s a smile weighted by melancholy, causing the corners of his mouth to turn up in a reluctant arc, his eyes flickering with a silent acknowledgment of the complex situation we find ourselves in.
“A lot of work goes into making it seem that way,” he says. “But tell me, Natasha, while we’re on the subject—are you happy?”
The question takes me aback, and I’m not entirely sure how to reply.
Am I happy?
One year ago, I would’ve answered with an unequivocal no . But so much has changed since then. My circumstances for one, obviously. But, more importantly, I’ve grown in ways I never could’ve imagined.
My dad is watching, waiting for me to respond.
“Am I happy?” I say, buying another moment to think. I’m about to say something vague like: Sometimes, or at least, most the time, yes .
Or: Is anyone really happy?
Or even: Well, I’m happy right now, sitting here with you.
But then I remember something Arthur once said, something important I still can’t shake. So, I offer that up instead.
“Someone recently told me that we’re always writing our own stories—all day, every day. That it’s the ones we play on repeat that determine our destiny.” I sneak a peek at my dad, seeing his gaze narrow with interest. “He also said that we alone are the alchemist of the reality we create. So, I guess that means whatever state of happiness, or unhappiness, I might claim, it all depends on whatever story I’ve decided to tell myself, about myself.”
“Sounds a lot like Amor Fati,” my dad says, his gaze locked on mine.
“That’s exactly what I said to him.” I grin.
“And who is it who told you this?” my dad asks, brow creased with interest.
My fingers nervously pick at a small tear near the hem of the borrowed T-shirt. “Arthur Blackstone,” I say, then I wait. Wait and watch. Looking for some sort of sign, a glimmer of recognition in my dad’s eyes.
But it seems the name means nothing to him. My dad merely says, “Well, this Arthur Blackstone sounds like a very wise man.”
“He is,” I agree, an unmistakable gravity creeping into my voice. “And he’s much more than that. He’s also extremely rich, incredibly powerful, a curator of sorts—”
“Is he a mentor of yours?”
I give a thoughtful nod. “He’s taught me a lot. Saved me from my worst instincts. And…yeah, he’s helped me in innumerable ways. But, as it turns out, he’s also my worst enemy.”
I lean deeper into the cushions, noting the array of complex emotions that play across my dad’s face.
“So, I take it he’s not a Timekeeper?” My dad’s eyes stay fixed on mine.
I let out a heavy sigh, my head slowly shaking as I grapple with the urgency of the words still to come. “He’s pretty much the antithesis of everything we stand for. And that’s why I’m here,” I say, voice tinged with determination. “I need you to teach me all that you can, arm me with all the necessary skills, whatever it takes to stop Arthur from seizing control of time and remaking the world.”
Once again, we find ourselves enveloped in a weighted silence, my words lingering heavily between us. My dad, lost in contemplation, turns the glass in his hand, its contents catching the light in a dance of reflections.
Beside him, I sit, silently urging him to understand the gravity of everything I just said, my hope hanging in the balance as I await his response.
Finally, with a notable shake in his voice, he says, “So, the fact that you’ve traveled all this way must mean that I…” His voice trails off, but his gaze remains fixed on mine, as though asking me to confirm the very worst.
But how can I?
How am I supposed to tell him about the day he left home and never returned?
How am I supposed to tell him how, because of it, my once vibrant mother, strained by her new role as a single mom trying to make ends meet on a meager income, slowly faded away like a photograph left out in the sun?
How am I supposed to explain that I spent the following years filled with such anger and resentment toward him, I devoted myself to scrubbing my mind of his memory, only to have it all come flooding right back the moment I entered Arcana?
What are the right words to explain to someone—on their twenty-first birthday, no less—that in fewer than two decades from now they’ll be murdered in an ancient necropolis in 171 France?
Though I should’ve expected a conversation like this, chalk it up to yet one more thing I failed to rehearse.
My dad must read the distress on my face because he’s quick to lift a hand and wave it away. “It’s okay. Really,” he says, his expression grave, but his voice is resigned to a fate that was never his to control. And I’m stunned by his effort to comfort me when it’s me who should be comforting him. “Now,” he goes on, scrubbing a hand over his face and leaning closer to me. “Why don’t you tell me more about this Arthur Black—”
At the sound of muffled voices coming from the other side of the door, and the soft, mechanical whisper of a key sliding into a lock, my dad’s voice fades as his gaze darts past me and zeroes in on the entry.
“It’s my roommate, Mark,” he says, his expression morphing into one of concern. “We can’t talk here. I need you to come with me—quickly!”
The definitive clunk of the dead bolt retreating seems to echo through the small space, and before I can ask, my dad’s already leaping from the couch, grabbing hold of my hand, and pulling me out of the small living space and down the short hall.
“In here,” he whispers, ushering me inside the room just as the front door bangs open and Mark calls out, “Honey, we’re home!” followed by the unmistakable sound of Elodie’s laugh.
I look at my dad, eyes wide with alarm. But he just moves toward the overflowing bookshelf that sits against the far wall.
Then, with a deliberate tweak of one of the books, the entire unit swings open, revealing a dim, narrow passageway that beckons from beyond.
“What is this place?” I whisper, watching as a complex tapestry of emotions flits across my dad’s face.
“Come,” he says quietly, urging me to follow.
With my pulse quickening and my heart pounding with anticipation, I shadow him into the dark.