Page 6 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)

My heart races as we plunge into the shadowy corridor, the comforting light from the room fading behind us as the sounds of Elodie and Mark calling to us from the apartment recede into silence.

“Where are we?” I ask, my voice shaky as I squint into the dark, rubbing my hands briskly over my arms. The chill in the air is seeping straight into my bones. “What exactly is this place?”

“Think of it as a sort of sanctuary where we won’t be disturbed.”

My dad strikes a match, releasing a sharp tang of sulfur that pierces the stale, musty air. When he goes about lighting a series of candles, I can’t help but notice the way the flickering flames cast eerie, dancing shadows across the room.

From a basket, he retrieves a soft wool throw and tosses it to me. As I wrap it around my shoulders, he says, “This place is safe, known only to me, a handful of other Timekeepers”—his eyes latch onto mine—“and now you.”

My curiosity piqued, my eyes drink in the sight of exposed brick walls and floor to ceiling shelves overflowing with arcane tomes, aged scrolls, and a myriad of mystical artifacts that practically hum with ancient secrets.

My dad turns his attention to an ornate chest. His hands, I notice, tremble slightly as he opens it to retrieve a complex ancient relic.

In an instant, a wave of recognition floods through me. “The Antikythera Mechanism,” I whisper, voice thick with the nostalgia of childhood memories.

“So you recognize it?” He hands it to me, and I’m instantly overcome with a surge of emotion as I cradle the object in my palms.

“I used to play with this as a kid,” I tell him. “But only when Mom was away.” I half grin at the memory, though honestly, I could just as easily cry. As I steal a glance his way, I’m struck by the surreal nature of this entire situation, and I know I need to acknowledge how weird this must make him feel. “What’s it like,” I venture, my voice tentative, “to hear me talk about shared memories that are still in the future for you?”

He smiles wryly, rubbing a nervous hand along his jawline. “Strange,” he says. “Though the very fact that you’re here tells me how badly I must’ve failed.” The grin slips away, instantly eclipsed by a long, dark shadow that crosses his face.

“Failed?” I squint, wondering what it is that he’s getting at.

He shifts uncomfortably. “You mentioned something earlier about me being part of your first eight years. Which leads me to assume I wasn’t around after that.”

I inhale a quick breath. “Oh. Yeah,” I mumble, pretending to inspect the ancient reproduction, turning it around and around in my hands to avoid looking directly at him. This is the part I was dreading the most.

“It’s okay,” my dad says. “Really. Life as a Timekeeper prepares you for this sort of thing.”

I glance up to see him nodding, trying to convince me. Still, I hesitate. What happened to him is far from okay. I don’t think I’ll ever make peace with it, so how could he?

“How much do you want to know?” I ask, deciding it’s better to let him set the limits.

“Whatever you’re comfortable sharing.” His shoulders lift in an obvious effort to appear nonchalant, when I get the impression that, like me, he’s feeling anything but.

“Okay…” I start, hesitant to go on, “here’s the thing—while it’s true that our time together was brief, the thing is, Dad—” I freeze, aware of what I just said. “Um, is it all right if I call you that?”

His lips curve into a grin. “I’m getting used to the idea,” he says, as I fight with all my might to hold back the sudden threat of tears.

“So,” I continue, “if you really want to know what happened, or rather, what will happen, I’ll tell you. But I am on a bit of a time crunch. If I’m not back in two days when Arthur returns, I’m pretty sure there’ll be hell to pay.”

My dad pauses for a handful of beats. Coming to a decision, he says, “Give me the short version.”

Taking the Antikythera from me, he sets it on a nearby table, then directs me to an overstuffed chair while he drops onto a velvet floor cushion. Once we’re settled, I pull the wool throw tighter around me and proceed to catch him up on everything that happened over the last ten years.

Through it all, my dad doesn’t breathe a word. He just listens intently, his expression veering from stricken, to heartbroken, to angry, only to circle right back again.

When I finish, he says, “He who controls time, controls the world. This is what Arthur Blackstone has planned?”

“Yes,” I say. “But exactly how he plans to control the world—what that might look like—is a mystery.”

My dad leans back, pondering. “From what you’ve told me, Arthur sees himself as a curator of beauty and art. And he despises the results of the very technology that built his fortune.”

I nod. It’s all true. “He claims that, unlike the Timekeepers, he believes humanity has a right to know the true workings of time. But everything he does contradicts that. He steals great works of art because he thinks people have lost the right to appreciate them. He’s a control freak like you’ve never seen. On the surface, Gray Wolf is an amazing place, but he runs it with an iron fist—constant surveillance, strict rules. Oh, and we’re not allowed to leave unless he sends us out on a Trip.”

My dad’s eyes narrow, the tension in the room thickening. “Sounds like he’s building a prison under the guise of a sanctuary.”

“Exactly,” I say, my voice trembling with the weight of the truth. “And if the way he runs Gray Wolf is any indication, it’s a glimpse into how he plans to reshape the world.”

“The name alone says it all.” My dad stares into the distance.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, like I said, it’s the penultimate stage in making the philosopher’s stone. It makes me think Arthur views this academy as the final step to achieving his ultimate goal.”

I nod. “By restoring the Antikythera Mechanism, yes.”

“But to what end? Aside from controlling time, what else does he want? Is it immortality he’s after, by inserting himself and his influence into a vast selection of timelines?”

I shrug, wishing I had an answer.

“Tell me,” my dad says, “how many more pieces are left to find?”

“So far, I’ve brought him the Sun and the Moon, which means there’s still quite a long way to go.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” my dad says. “At least it gives you time to hone your skills and stop him before it’s too late.”

My fingers instinctively reach for my talisman, swinging the small golden charm back and forth on its chain.

My dad immediately takes notice. Narrowing his eyes, he asks, “What is that?”

I gaze down at the tiny lapis moon, and the diamond-encrusted star nestled inside the small gold cage. “Braxton gave it to me. All of us Trippers carry some kind of talisman,” I say, going on to explain about the dangers of Fade and how wearing this reminder keeps me grounded, centered, never losing sight of my real identity, my true time and place.

My dad’s eyes light up, a flicker of a new idea taking shape. “And if I were to ask you to remove it?”

“No,” I say, slowly shaking my head as my belly clenches with dread. “I can’t do that.”

My dad’s gaze deepens, and though I try to read his expression, his emotions are locked into neutral. “Then let me ask you this,” he says. “You came here to learn, right?”

I squirm, a restless energy coursing through me as I nervously shift in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs, as the repeated warnings about never removing my talisman ricochet in my brain.

“Last time I was without it, things got pretty…dark.” I cringe as an image of the duke’s hateful, leering face blooms large in my head. The idea of deliberately making myself that vulnerable again is totally nonnegotiable.

“I understand,” my dad says, pulling me away from my thoughts. “But let me ask you this: what matters more—who you are now, or who you’ll be when you return to Gray Wolf?”

I’m struck silent. The answer is obvious. Yet I find myself reluctant to cross that particular line.

“If you truly want to claim complete mastery over your skills and your fears, you can’t rely on things like talismans and charms. You need to learn to rely solely on yourself.”

It makes sense, but that doesn’t stop me from shaking my head even more firmly this time.

“You said the last time you were without it, things got dark.” He waits for me to reply, but I just give a slight nod, nervous about where this is going. “And what if that happens again and you’re not—”

“It won’t,” I cut in, unwilling to discuss it. “There’s no way I’ll ever let that happen again.”

His eyes narrow on mine. “Does that mean you let it happen last time?”

I close my eyes, reminding myself that I came here to learn, even if it means being pushed well outside my comfort zone. When I open them again, I set my focus on him. “No,” I admit. “Last time, I lost it, and…” My voice trails off, I give a brisk wave of my hand. The details are hardly important.

“Natasha,” he starts, “I know this makes you uncomfortable. But if you’re truly here to grow and learn, then you’ll need to leave your past behind. Forget everything about who you once were—forgo all your assumptions about who you think you are—and start all over, begin anew.”

“It’s just…” I frown, feeling bad about my resistance, but this is not at all what I expected. “Before, our lessons were always focused on tarot, numerology”—I gesture toward the Antikythera—“and that.”

My dad grants me a patient nod. “And the fact that Arthur relies on you tells me you’ve already mastered those skills. Besides, you weren’t ready back then. No eight-year-old is. But you’re older now, and the stakes have never been higher. Every metamorphosis is always preceded by a mental one as well as a physical one. It’s like Shunryu Suzuki said: If your mind is empty, it is open to everything. ”

My fingers nervously play with my charm, reluctant to let it out of my grasp. “Can’t I just fast-forward to the tattoo?” I motion toward the flower of life inked on the crook of his forearm.

“This is not where you start.” He taps a finger against the tattoo’s center. “This is where you end.”

I take a moment to process. After a moment, I say, “Is it really possible to start over?”

My dad rises and extends a hand. “It’s not only possible,” he says, “it’s imperative. Your trauma has imprinted on your subconscious, causing you to mentally time travel to relive it repeatedly. I’m going to show you how to let go of this self-conception you’ve formed. But first, I need you to trust me.”

I inhale a slow breath, reminding myself that, despite his looking like one of my peers, he really is my dad. And if he says this is what’s required for me to transcend, then who am I to question him?

Hardening my resolve, I reach behind my neck and unfasten the clasp. When it falls onto my open hand, it seems weighted with more than just its physical form. It’s like I’m holding a piece of myself—the only tangible link to who I really am.

This is real. Irrevocably, irretrievably real . But the moment I hand this over, everything I know, all that I’ve been taught, will fade until it’s completely erased from my mind.

I swallow hard. Overcome by a dreaded sense of finality as my gaze meets my dad’s. Get a grip , I silently warn, struggling to compose myself. Still, there’s a rawness to my emotions—a quivering lip, a hectic flush on my cheeks—that I can’t fully mask.

“Dad,” I manage to whisper, my voice betraying me with an embarrassing crack, as I gather my courage to hand over the charm. “You will give it back, though, right?”

He nods, his hand open and steady. “But by then, you won’t need it. After this, there’s no going back to who you once were.”

“And who do you think that is?” I ask, eager for a glimpse of his perception of me.

His face softens and, without hesitation, he says, “A smart, clever, resilient, courageous, beautiful young woman who’s had a bit of a rough go. And, because of that, she’s spent the last ten years living in survival mode.”

He pauses, maybe to let his words sink in, or maybe to allow me a chance to respond. But I remain silent, sensing there’s more to come.

“You’ve been taught that life happens to you, not for you,” he says. “And because of that, you’ve been shadowboxing your way through each day—fighting an invisible opponent seen only by you.”

“Invisible?” I balk. “You do remember what I shared about Arthur, and Killian, and even Elodie?” I shake my head, wondering how he could possibly say such a thing.

“I heard every word,” he says, his voice resolute. “And while your concerns are valid, from what I can see, the only person standing in your way—is you.”

The words float between us, mingling with the tiny dust motes dancing in the candlelight. In my discomfort, my fidgety hands and burning cheeks, I recognize the stark seed of truth.

I have one destiny.

One enormous task to complete.

Everything outside of that is just small dramas I use to distract myself.

“I—I do want to do this,” I say, my voice steady, resolved. “I’m ready to change.”

In my hand, the slick, cool metal of my charm is a reminder of a past I’m about to transcend. With a determined exhale, I uncurl my fingers, allowing the small golden cage and its chain to drop gently into my dad’s waiting palm.

“At this moment,” he says, securing the talisman in his pocket, “you’re like the minotaur at the center of your own labyrinth. But by the time you leave here, you’ll understand the most crucial truth of them all.”

His intense gaze levels on mine. I lean forward, heart pounding with anticipation.

“Your true strength and power, Natasha, comes from within.”