Stealing Infinity, page 16
Her blue gaze narrows on mine. “You don’t have the guts to go through with it,” she says, but her jaw is clenched, as though she’s actually a lot less sure of that.
I give another light jab, not enough to break the skin but certainly enough to make her second-guess everything she thinks she knows about me.
“None of this is real, you know. It’s all just a construct.” She speaks through gritted teeth.
I shoot a quick glance around the space before returning to her. “Yeah, no kidding.”
She rolls her eyes, but I ignore it. For some reason, I’m more interested in the choker that circles her neck.
“What I mean is, I’m a construct,” she says.
I stare at her in disbelief. What sort of game is she playing?
“Don’t believe me?” she taunts. “Go ahead, give me the full Marie Antoinette and see what happens.”
My gaze locks on hers.
“I mean, you hate me, right? For wrecking your life and bringing you here? So now’s your chance to see if you can get rid of me for good.”
Taking the bait, I twist the hilt ever so slightly, causing the tip to screw into her flesh as a tiny drop of blood drips from her chin.
Would a hologram blade cause a hologram person to bleed?
In Arthur’s world, anything is possible.
“Is someone going to stop this?” a voice cries. Keane again? Hawke? I no longer care.
“And yet,” Elodie says, “you have to admit this is way more fun than Mr. Osbourne’s tedious AP History class.”
I swallow. Fight to keep a steady hand.
Would a hologram know about Mr. Osbourne?
Probably.
Most likely.
But still…
“So, what’s it going to be?” Elodie asks, as though she’s just curious and not the least bit afraid of losing her head. And that’s when I realize, this really is Elodie, and unfortunately, I’ve fallen right into her trap.
For someone as emotionally warped as her, the sheer joy she gets from watching me succumb to the darkest part of myself is well worth the risk of any injury I might choose to inflict.
In an instant, I lower the sword’s edge to the hollow of her neck. The audible scrape of the tip sliding over her skin whispers between us as she inhales a sharp breath.
I slip the blade lower, knowing it’s time to move on, to release us both from this ridiculous game, and yet, I can’t shake the feeling that this is all a big ploy to distract me from the truth she doesn’t want me to see.
Doesn’t want me to see… The phrase repeats in my mind.
Vision.
It’s what Arthur prizes above all else—the ability to see what hides in plain sight.
Genius hits a target no one else can see, he recently quoted to me.
Nothing in these constructs is an accident. According to Jago, it’s been specifically altered to fit the requirements of this lesson. Which means everything is connected, but nothing is quite what it appears.
My gaze lingers on Elodie’s neck, and for a fleeting moment, I see what no one else can. Though just to make sure, my mind flashes back to the painting of Heraclitus and Democritus, mentally scrolling for symbols. Both men are posed in a way that obscures their necks. And while Heraclitus’s hands are folded in prayer, Democritus has one hand positioned on a golden piece that looks like a fleur-de-lis, while the other one points directly toward it. And, since the portrait clearly doesn’t belong in a palace that’s dedicated to celebrating Italian artists, I take it as a sign I can’t afford to ignore.
My gaze locks on Elodie’s, and with a single flick of the wrist, her black velvet choker drops onto my palm.
The sword crashes to the floor.
Elodie stumbles back, away from my grasp.
And as I turn to face the audience, I watch Arthur rise from his seat and hold out his hand.
From my pocket, I pull out the ruby rose I nicked from Elodie’s hair and toss it to her.
Turning back to Arthur, I say, “I think this is the one you really wanted.” Then I hand him the black velvet choker.
Arthur regards the small golden fleur-de-lis charm that hangs from the thin strip of cloth. “I asked for a ruby,” he says.
“It’s a locket,” I tell him. “There’s a hinge on the left.”
He looks me over, his gaze brightening, but only briefly, before the latch unlocks to reveal the gleaming red ruby within.
I have a vague awareness of the audience gasping, but in this moment, I have eyes only for Arthur.
“You’ll need to work on your social skills,” he says. “Comportment, etiquette, diction—that sort of thing. And of course, you’ll need riding instruction, along with lessons in swordcraft. Still, you impressed me. Which, I might add, is a rare occurrence.”
A breathless moment passes between us, and I find myself caught between the undeniable thrill of winning his approval and the personal indignity of realizing the lengths I was willing to go to get it.
“For now,” he continues. “Why don’t you get changed, so Keane can take you out to the stables.”
I’m on my way to the dressing room when Elodie calls out my name. “Hey—how’d you know about the ruby?” she asks.
When our eyes meet, I’m surprised to find that, for the moment anyway, she’s dropped the animosity and truly is curious.
“First one was too easy,” I say.
I’m relieved when she simply nods and goes on her way, sparing me from sharing the real truth that, just when I started to question whether I was misreading the clues, I saw right through the golden charm to the gleaming jewel hidden within.
55
At six o’clock, I’m ready to head down for dinner, but before I go, I give myself a quick once-over in my dressing room mirror.
Today’s triumph has left me feeling daring and bold, like I’m not one to be messed with. I matched my outfit to my mood with a black lace, off the shoulder, body skimming dress and a pair of hot pink sling-back heels with square crystal buckles on the straps.
At the last minute, I riffle through a pile of jewelry, looking for something similar to that pink princess crown ring Mason gave me, the one I wore until it literally fell off my finger. And even then, I took the two broken halves and tucked them away in a drawer, refusing to part with the memory.
I wonder where Mason is now—what he’s doing, what he thinks of my absence.
Is he defending me from all the inevitable rumors?
Or is he fanning the flames, figuring it’s what I deserve for leaving him to eat lunch alone?
Either way, I’m sure he’s not happy with me for flaking on work, leaving him to deal with the mob of snooty spin-class moms lining up for their post-ride, gluten-free Buddha bowls until they can hire my replacement.
Between school, work, and Sundays spent poring through fashion magazines, touring art museums, or watching old movies, our lives used to be so intertwined, it’s impossible to think I might never see him again—might never get a chance to explain that by choosing to hang out with Elodie, I didn’t realize I was choosing a life without him.
My fingers reach for the counter, gripping hard at the edge as I chase away the thought. Braxton is right. This is my home now, and I need to stop clinging to a life that’s no longer mine.
I gaze into the mirror, fluff my hair around my shoulders, and force a smile onto my face. If Mason could see me now…
He’d tell me to add a statement piece.
I lift a single earring from the pile of treasures. A jeweled dagger that, once inserted, looks like it’s plunging straight through my earlobe. It’s a bit edgy for this outfit, but I like it. It hints at the sort of rebellion I hope I can hang on to.
I pull my hair back, so the earring makes more of an impact, and I’m on my way out the door when Braxton messages me on my slab.
Braxton: See you at dinner. I have a few stops to make first, so please start without me.
Me:
Every reply I begin to type, I end up deleting. In the end, I don’t send anything.
Truth is, I was hoping to spend time with the other students. I know I can’t eat with the Blues, but what about Jago? Who do Yellows dine with? Are there other Yellows? According to Braxton, Gray Wolf is home to nearly one hundred people, but apparently none, besides him, are willing to eat at my table.
By the time I arrive, Jago’s already there, wearing an over-the-top blue velvet suit that only someone as confident and good-looking as him could pull off. And from the looks of the champagne flowing freely among the Blues, they’re celebrating.
Looks like someone jumped ahead on the color wheel.
When he spots me from his side of the room, he waves happily, and I immediately feel like a jerk for begrudging his success.
I had a good day. Experienced my first real win in this place. And while that’s worth feeling proud of, the fact is, if it wasn’t for Jago’s direction, I might not have done half as well as I did.
I force a grin to match his, return the wave, and head to the vacant table for two.
Tonight’s wintry theme is all about ice. There are baby polar bear holograms scampering about, and the entire room is made to resemble pictures I once saw of the original ice hotel somewhere in Sweden. A faux fur blanket is draped across the back of my chair but, since the room isn’t nearly as cold as it appears, I leave it lying there.
I’m finishing up my entrée of braised duck with a red wine reduction when Braxton arrives. “My apologies,” he says, sliding onto his seat. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”
“Where else would I be?” I lift my glass and use the moment to look him over. He’s wearing a burgundy velvet dinner jacket with matching silk lapels, and he’s paired it with an ivory ruffled silk shirt. Like Jago, it’s the kind of thing that’s hard to pull off, but he totally nails the look.
Then again, he’d probably look just as hot wrapped in a trash bag. Or nothing at all… A vision of what that might look like begins to bloom in my head, but I’m quick to shake it away before it can really take hold.
“You do know dinner isn’t mandatory,” he says. “You can order food up to your room. If you do it too often, you’ll probably have to meet with a counselor, but every now and then is okay.”
I set my glass on the table. Now there’s something I didn’t know. And if tomorrow night looks anything like this, I’m ordering in. Because eating alone in a room full of people who’re so clearly enjoying themselves has left me feeling unbearably lonely.
“Did you get my message?” He butters a dinner roll, then gracefully pops a piece into his mouth.
For a moment, I consider pretending I didn’t, but there’s really no point. “Yes,” I admit. “I did.”
He looks away, trains his focus on his jeweled cuff links.
“And the only reason I didn’t reply is…well, I thought it would be good for me to make other friends. You know, other than you. But there’s no way to break through, and—” My voice falters, a wave of embarrassment rolls up my cheeks.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks. When his gaze meets mine, it’s like a crack of warm sun reaching through a stretch of bruised sky.
Without even thinking, I’m up and out of my seat.
Next thing I know, my arm is in his as he leads me away.
56
“You did well today. Really,” Braxton says as I walk alongside him.
After spending most of dinner conducting a mental review of the long list of things I need to improve (my equestrian skills at the top of the list), it’s nice to hear. Still, I can’t help venting some of my frustration when I say, “But there’s so much to learn. So much to—”
Braxton steers me into an elevator I didn’t even notice until the doors slide open before me.
“Where are we going?” I ask, watching the floor numbers race by at a pace way faster than it feels from inside.
“You’ll see.” He shoots me a cryptic, squinty-eyed gaze, and while I hate to admit it, that’s all it takes to set my pulse racing.
When we arrive, we pass through a long and narrow hallway that leads to a single steel door at the end. Then I watch as he pushes his thumb to a keypad, and the door opens to a room so wondrous, it’s like being suspended in moonlight.
“It’s not a hologram,” he says before I can ask. “It’s all real.”
The room is large, rectangular in shape, and made entirely of glass. And I mean everything—the floor, the ceiling, the walls, all of it—and through some miraculous feat of engineering, it soars straight out of the rock, with absolutely no sign of support. It literally hangs in midair, allowing for an uninterrupted view of the world beyond. And as I move across the crystal clear floor, it feels like I’m walking through space.
“How is this even possible?” I gaze past my shoes to the foam-tipped black waves of the turbulent sea crashing below, marveling at how only a whisper of glass keeps me from hurtling straight into a watery grave.
Cautiously, I make my way to the far wall, press my palms to the pane, and stare in wonder at a sky full of stars and a waxing moon that’s slightly fuller than it was the night before.
No sign of the lighthouse, though. I must be looking at the dark side of the rock.
“This is amazing,” I whisper. “I mean, I can’t even fully wrap my head around how—”
Just then, a swell of classical music cuts into the space, filling the room.
And when I turn, I find Braxton standing before me, his jacket abandoned, his sleeves rolled up, and a shiny silver dagger gripped in his hand.
57
My heart freezes mid-beat as I stare at the weapon now in Braxton’s possession.
A weapon he definitely wasn’t holding just a moment before.
Though I tend to lean much more toward flight than fight, that doesn’t stop my hands from instinctively curling into fists, or my fingernails from biting into my palms, as my mind frantically calculates the number of steps between the door and me.
“Um…what are you doing?” I ask, my voice ratcheting up a handful of octaves, as Braxton takes a step forward, his gaze burning on mine.
Is this a sexy gaze or something else?
What’s the opposite of sexy? Threatening, menacing—
Before I can reach a conclusion, Braxton swings the dagger toward me and says, “Let the first lesson begin.”
When he hands me the weapon, I let out an audible breath.
“For a first timer, you did okay with the sword,” he says, shoulders casually lifting, as though he was left only marginally impressed by my earlier triumph over Elodie.
“Just okay?” I balk in a playful, exaggerated way, sure he’s trying to bait me. But Braxton’s expression remains sober and unsmiling, way too serious for a room and a night as beautiful as this.
“Do you want to learn, or do you want to be flattered?” He cocks his head to the side in study.
“Are the two mutually exclusive?” I counter, still determined to lighten the mood, but Braxton is so earnest, the joke crashes on impact.
“Make no mistake,” he says, his voice carrying an edge as sharp as my blade. “Had Elodie been armed, things would’ve ended differently today.”
Okay, now I’m really annoyed, and I don’t even try to hide it. It’s been a long time since I let myself try hard enough to excel at anything, and I’m not about to let Braxton dim the glow of my victory.
“It’s only hubris if I fail,” I snap. It’s a quote from Julius Caesar, but I’m betting he won’t know that. “Besides, not only did I succeed, but I’d even go so far as to say, I exceeded Arthur’s expectations.”
Braxton appraises me for a long, cool beat. “You’re right,” he finally says. “And while you should celebrate your wins, you also need to understand that when it comes to a sword fight, anger will get you only so far, and it’s certainly no match for skill. Which is why you need to learn how to properly handle your weapon, in addition to keeping your ego in check.”
The words land like a punch. And when his gaze locks on mine, I’m so riled up, I’m about to really let loose, when I realize that’s exactly the sort of problematic, knee-jerk reaction he’s referring to.
“Elodie triggers you,” Braxton says in a voice that’s steady, even, with no trace of judgment. He’s merely stated a fact, and I can’t even deny it. I’ve been nurturing my grudge against Elodie like most people watch over a baby, a puppy, or even a brand-new piercing—obsessively tending to it in a way that’ll ensure its survival. “Arthur is all too aware of the dynamic between you. It’s exactly why he chose her over Song, Finn, or anyone else he could’ve pitted you against.”
“Are you saying I actually…failed the test?” I’m not sure if I’m more horrified or embarrassed by the thought. What I do know is that the heat of shame instantly finds its way to my face.
“You didn’t fail,” Braxton says, quick to dismiss any doubt. “Arthur got what he wanted, and, in the end, that’s what matters. But when you’re on a Trip, you need to leave your grievances behind and concentrate on the task at hand. And, for the record,” he says, “hubris didn’t work out so well for your Roman emperor, did it? Wasn’t it a brutal stabbing by a friend that ended Caesar’s reign?”
Touché. I breathe a deep sigh and study the dagger, if for no other reason than it feels safer than looking at Braxton.
“In the construct, my blade was much bigger.” I tighten my grip on the hilt, raise my weapon in front of me, and shred the air to invisible ribbons.
“True, but in the places and times you’ll travel to, women don’t carry large weapons. Which means you’ll need to train with a smaller blade—the sort you can easily conceal under a gown.”
