Stealing Infinity, page 25
Or is this actually real? Or maybe even one of Arthur’s holograms?
My mind is so blurry, it’s impossible to tell.
My gaze runs the length of the boy, coming to rest on the jeweled ring he wears on his right hand, then farther down to his polished black boots.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. There must be a right way to answer, but I have no idea what that is.
He leans closer, tilts his head in study. “Your accent,” he says. “I’m unable to place it.”
I gulp. Mentally flounder about for a suitable reply. In the end, I default to smiling coyly. “Anonymous, remember?” I gesture toward my mask.
When he laughs, I’m quick to join in. It’s the right choice to make, but I have no idea why.
When he suggests we go back inside and grab some champagne, I can’t think of a single reason to refuse.
82
After a glass or two of champagne and a few twirls around the dance floor, the two of us retreat to our own darkened corner.
Aside from the fact that his breath is a thousand times better than just about everyone here, and that he’s wisely chosen to forego the usual powdered wig in favor of tying his long golden curls with a strip of black silk, there’s something really intriguing about this boy that ventures far beyond my curiosity about how he might’ve earned those medals he wears.
So, when I find my back against a wall as this masked stranger presses his lips to the spot just under my ear, whispering how he’s never seen teeth so white, or smelled any woman so fresh, I can’t think of a single reason to resist his advances.
I tip onto my toes, allowing his lips to find mine, as I lean deeper into the shelter of his arms, the warmth of his kiss. And though it’s a perfectly nice kiss—I’d even go so far as to say it’s a highly skilled kiss—somehow, it feels like the wrong kiss. Like, somewhere out there is another boy I should be kissing instead.
I push a hand against the front of his jacket, my fingers curling around the collection of honors displayed across his chest. Should I pluck one free and fold it into my palm?
The thought comes with a jolt. Why would I even consider such a thing? I mean, wouldn’t that be wrong?
“You captivate me.” His lips retreat as he leans his forehead to mine, mask to mask, and traces a finger along the ribbon secured at my neck. “And this, what does it mean—is astronomy one of your interests? Is that why I found you moon gazing outside?”
I look down to see a tiny golden cage pinched between his fingers, and in one horrible tsunami of a wave, the memory of who I am and what I’m doing comes rushing back to me.
This is not my home.
This is not my century.
I’m merely a tourist from another time and place.
Is this what Jago meant when he warned me about losing track of my identity?
Trying to contain my horror at finding myself in this dark corner with a boy I don’t even know, I grasp his fingers in mine and return them to his side. “I must go,” I tell him. Slipping free of his embrace, I hurry back toward the way I came.
In my chest, my heart thunders. In my head, a hail of thoughts rage through my brain, beginning with my guilt over Braxton, even though it was only one harmless kiss. And besides, is it really my fault if my memory failed?
Only then do I realize, I haven’t just lost track of myself, but also of time.
Everything you need to know, it’s in the mask, Keane said.
I should’ve been checking. And now, because I got distracted, it’s entirely possible I missed my chance to return.
Frantically, I press my finger to the side of my mask. In an instant, a green arrow appears, directing me back to the portal.
The digital clock flashing above tells me I have less than ten minutes until launch. And that’s when I realize I failed to secure the Get Arthur tasked me with.
I push through the crowd of drunken nobles, about to break into a run, when the masked boy grabs hold of my arm and pulls me back to him. “When can I see you again?” He is breathless, eager, but no more so than I am.
Every freaking day if you don’t let go of me!
To him, I just shake my head and break free.
Nine minutes and twelve seconds.
“Your name!” he calls. “At least—tell me your name!”
I’m running at a full sprint, but the boy is strong, swift, and has no problem keeping up. And for one fleeting moment, I realize I’m caught in the middle of my own messed-up Pretty Woman meets Cinderella story. While my coach won’t turn into a pumpkin, or even a limo, there’s a good chance my portal will vanish without me.
And yet, I know better than to let Prince Charming witness my otherworldly departure. Which means, I need to find a way to discourage him from continuing any further.
With only minutes to spare, and a huge task to complete still ahead, I stop, press a hand to his chest and, remembering what Jago said about rarely visiting the same party twice, I say, “Natasha. My name is Natasha.”
The boy lifts my hand to his lips. “I am Killian de Luce, and I shall not forget you.”
He leans in for a final embrace, and I return it long enough to lift one of those medals from his jacket, only to decide I can’t go through with it. He earned them through feats of bravery; they aren’t mine to take.
When I pull away, he presents me with a crisp white kerchief with some sort of royal blue monogram stitched across the front.
I shove the handkerchief into one of my pockets and say, “I have to go, and you cannot follow me.” My tone is stern, and I hope he’s smart enough to listen.
“I hope you shall not forget me,” he calls, as I press away from the palace and race into the night.
83
I find my way to the nearest garden—one of the many palace gardens that meander for miles. But once I’m there, I have no idea what to do or where to go next.
The time on my mask tells me there’s only five minutes and thirty-three seconds until launch. And in a moment of despair, I wonder which is worse—getting stuck at Versailles in the year 1745 or returning to Gray Wolf empty-handed.
Except I’m not entirely empty-handed. I still have the trinkets I lifted from the drunk woman. And though I try to convince myself it’s better than nothing, the odds of Arthur seeing it that way are slim to none.
In a last-ditch effort, I pull the tarot cards from my pocket and give them a quick study.
I’ve got the elements: the Hermit is tied to Earth and the Death card to Water.
I’ve done the numerology that links the Death card to the Emperor.
What I’ve forgotten is the astrological connections.
With only four minutes and nine seconds left on the clock, my mind races to assemble the fragments from my dad’s long ago tarot lesson. A thread of memory begins to weave a tale in my head, something about how the Hermit was linked to the Roman god Saturn, who was linked to the Titan god Chronos—the god of Time who ate his own children to keep them from usurping his power—just like the painting, Saturn Devouring His Son, in the Venetian construct…
And the Death card—the card everyone fears, that’s not what it appears, since endings always lead to new beginnings, and…
I turn a quick circle, taking in the resplendent palace grounds that were once a humble hunting lodge. It’s the epitome of new beginnings—a dream brought to life by Louis XIV, also known as the—
“Ou allez-vous?” An angry voice shouts from somewhere behind me.
My stomach twists. I freeze long enough to make the translation, then turn to find a man striding toward me.
What he lacks in height, he makes up for in bulk. His worn muslin shirt and frayed breeches strain against his stout barrel of a chest, the visible pop and bulge of his biceps. An unruly mop of black hair obscures a heavy, unshaven face, leaving me with the impression of a jaw softened by jowls, a mean strip of mouth, a generous serving of nose, and a set of heavy-lidded dark eyes that glint with the sort of undeniable authority of someone who knows their way around this labyrinth of gardens and is none too pleased to find me loitering within.
The man continues his approach, his legs slightly bowed, his gait steady. “Where are you going?” he demands in rapid-fire French. Only this time, he speaks even louder.
Nervously, I lick my lips, try to force a reply. But my tongue has turned useless, sitting dead behind a pair of locked jaws and chattering teeth, as every bit of French I ever knew bleeds right out of me.
“I’m—uh…I mean, je suis…” I push a smile onto my face, hoping it might serve to disarm him long enough for me to make a quick getaway. But according to the deep furrow of his brow and the searing blister of his gaze, my attempt to charm is a failure.
Next thing I know, he’s standing right before me, snatching the tarot cards right out of my hand.
84
“You shouldn’t be here,” the man says. His expression is menacing, his voice a snarl.
I stand before him, my knees shaking, a scream rising up the back of my throat that I’m quick to swallow right down. I need to stay quiet, keep a clear head. I can’t afford to draw any more attention to myself than I already have.
“You’ve made a terrible mistake.” His fingers clamp down on my arm, squeezing tight as a vise, and before I can do anything to try to stop him, he’s dragging me clear across the gravel pathway.
I dig in my heels and insist he let go. When that doesn’t work, I purposely throw my weight forward and stumble toward the ground, using the momentum to reach for the holster strapped under my gown.
The man mutters under his breath, jerks my arm hard, and forces me back to my feet, only to gape in surprise as I pull my dagger from its sheath.
“Do not make me use this,” I hiss, my breath shallow and stunted, my heart thrashing wildly in my chest. I track the flash of shock that crosses his face and Braxton’s warning repeats in my head: If you’re going to pull your dagger, you must be willing to use it.
And while I really hope it won’t come to that, I brandish my blade like any other knife-wielding maniac from every slasher movie I’ve ever seen. A far cry from the sort of elegant moves Braxton taught me.
The man lifts his calloused hands in surrender and drops the tarot cards to his feet. Though his cunning gaze fixes on mine, daring me to retrieve them.
I glance between the cards and him, weighing my odds. But with only sixteen seconds now left on the clock, I spin on my heel and sprint through the gardens with all that I’ve got.
In the distance, I spot Jago and Elodie standing in the glowing doorway, hands clasped and ready. To any nearby onlooker, they give the appearance of a young couple who’ve broken free of the crowd to enjoy a romantic moment.
To my eyes, they look like they’ve jointly decided to take off without me.
“Wait!” I croak, gasping for air as a flaming spear of pain spirals hot and bright through my side. “Please—don’t go! I-I’m almost there!”
It’s only when Jago turns, eyes wide with alarm, that I become aware of the rasp of ragged breath, and the crunch of gravel underfoot sounding from somewhere nearby.
The man has given chase, and he’s only a few steps away.
Jago extends an arm past the portal and calls for me to hurry.
My lungs about to burst, I push my legs harder, faster. Watching as the green hologram arrow that flickers before me continues to shrink with every step I gain, as the countdown clock just above burns through time as if to say: sure, you’re getting closer, but you’re never going to make it.
00.00.12.
I switch my focus to Elodie, watching her lips draw tight as her fingers reach for the jewel in her ear.
00.00.11.
My left foot kicks up behind me as the right one shoots forward, aiming for solid ground, only to have my heel catch on a jagged bit of rock, knocking my ankle in one direction, while my body bends in another.
I teeter precariously, falling through space with my arms pinwheeling wildly.
A startled cry rings loudly into the night, as my body slams forward, landing hard on my palms. The blow so sudden, it jolts the air clean out of my lungs.
00.00.09.
Wheezing for breath, I stagger forward, desperately clawing my way to the portal. My hand reaches for Jago’s, my fingers grazing his, as the man lunges, grabs a fistful of my poufy blue dress, and wrenches me back so abruptly, my neck snaps hard and my vision turns fuzzy.
00.00.07.
Frantically, I peer through the blizzard of tiny white and gray spots now dancing before me like static on an old-time TV. I scramble to my knees, send an arm swinging wildly. In an instant, my ears fill with the sickening sound of shredding silk, a grotesque cracking of bone under flesh that’s soon met by a muffled curse when the man realizes my elbow’s laid waste to his nose.
“Hurry!” Jago cries, as Elodie stands before me, fingers pinching closer, ready to push the clicker and leave me stranded forever.
00.00.04.
I struggle to my feet and hurl my body forward, clumsily reaching for Jago, only to crash hard into his side, inadvertently dragging the man along with me. The funk of his sharp scent blasts up my nose, as a gush of blood streams off his chin and onto my dress, leaving a grisly crime scene of a mess.
00.00.03.
Jago grasps hold of me, then kicks the man so hard, he doubles over in pain and tumbles right out of the circle of light.
00.00.02.
His face contorted with rage, the man leaps to his feet and charges straight toward us, as Elodie sighs, grabs hold of my hand, and says, “Seriously, Nat? Caught by the groundskeeper?”
And with a derisive shake of her head and a single snap of the clicker, the three of us soar forward in time.
85
Back when I was a kid and still young enough to get excited about going trick-or-treating on Halloween, I used to drag the night’s haul into my room, dump the contents onto my bed, and spend hours sorting through the mountain of sweets.
My return to Gray Wolf isn’t so different.
After a quick debriefing where Keane removes our masks and ensures that, despite the gruesome state of my dress, no one was seriously injured—we go about emptying our pockets so Arthur can examine the goods.
While I have no idea what sort of spoils Arthur is used to seeing, the glimmering pile of jewels looks impressive to me. And yet, I can’t help but wonder why he cares about any of this.
Arthur is a trillionaire—a man who can literally buy anything he could ever desire, including jewels much grander than these. So why bother sending three kids back in time to collect a pile of nobles’ trinkets of no real historical value?
I mean, what does he actually do with these things? Is he purely driven by greed? Or is there something more—something I’m missing?
“Well done,” Arthur says, holding up a thick gold ring for inspection. It came from Elodie’s stash, and I can’t help but notice the way her cheeks flush in response to his praise.
It’s strange to see the change in Elodie’s behavior whenever Arthur is there. Back when Song revealed that she regards him as a father, I’m not sure I really understood. But watching her now, vying for his approval, it’s like a little girl turning cartwheels and begging: Look at me, Daddy, look!
It’s then that I realize Arthur is Elodie’s kryptonite.
But what is Arthur’s?
“I hear you handled yourself quite well out there.”
I’m so preoccupied by thoughts of Elodie, it’s a moment before I recognize Arthur has shifted his focus to me.
“Then again, you had some terrific chrononauts to guide you.”
“Chrononauts?” I squint.
“A fancy word for time travelers,” Arthur says.
I glance between Elodie and Jago, both studiously working at avoiding my gaze. And when I return to Arthur, I notice the slightest bend in his brow, as though he wants to see if I’ll rat them out for ditching me, or if they’ll rat me out for being caught, seized, and chased all the way to the portal, putting us all in grave danger.
I know he knows something happened over there. I don’t know how, but he definitely—
Suddenly, I realize that much like the clothing I wore in the constructs, Arthur was monitoring my Trip. I guess it makes sense, considering how much he’s invested. And yet—just how much did he see?
Was it just the rate of my pulse?
Or does he somehow know about the drinks, the dance, the masked boy who steered me into a dark corner, pushed me against a wall, and trailed his lips down my neck?
And worse, does he already know just how badly I failed at my task?
Or am I being paranoid, seeing conspiracies where they don’t really exist?
If there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that this is a test. One that possibly holds even more significance than the Trip I just took. In a place like Gray Wolf, loyalty, or at least the appearance of loyalty, is essential.
“Couldn’t have asked for better partners,” I say, my lips pulling wide as I flash a grin at Jago and Elodie.
I’ll cut Jago a break, considering how he saved me by pulling me into that glowing doorway just seconds before launch.
But Elodie… It was clear she was more than willing to leave me behind.
To Arthur, I add, “They taught me a lot.” I keep my expression neutral, my gaze even.
Arthur nods and turns his attention to my own pile of loot, which consists of a bracelet, a hairpin, and a brooch. Compared to Elodie and Jago’s haul, it makes for a pretty pathetic display. “Is this all?” He shoots me a meaningful look. I nod, too ashamed to meet his gaze until he says, “And what’s this?”
My mind is so blurry, it’s impossible to tell.
My gaze runs the length of the boy, coming to rest on the jeweled ring he wears on his right hand, then farther down to his polished black boots.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. There must be a right way to answer, but I have no idea what that is.
He leans closer, tilts his head in study. “Your accent,” he says. “I’m unable to place it.”
I gulp. Mentally flounder about for a suitable reply. In the end, I default to smiling coyly. “Anonymous, remember?” I gesture toward my mask.
When he laughs, I’m quick to join in. It’s the right choice to make, but I have no idea why.
When he suggests we go back inside and grab some champagne, I can’t think of a single reason to refuse.
82
After a glass or two of champagne and a few twirls around the dance floor, the two of us retreat to our own darkened corner.
Aside from the fact that his breath is a thousand times better than just about everyone here, and that he’s wisely chosen to forego the usual powdered wig in favor of tying his long golden curls with a strip of black silk, there’s something really intriguing about this boy that ventures far beyond my curiosity about how he might’ve earned those medals he wears.
So, when I find my back against a wall as this masked stranger presses his lips to the spot just under my ear, whispering how he’s never seen teeth so white, or smelled any woman so fresh, I can’t think of a single reason to resist his advances.
I tip onto my toes, allowing his lips to find mine, as I lean deeper into the shelter of his arms, the warmth of his kiss. And though it’s a perfectly nice kiss—I’d even go so far as to say it’s a highly skilled kiss—somehow, it feels like the wrong kiss. Like, somewhere out there is another boy I should be kissing instead.
I push a hand against the front of his jacket, my fingers curling around the collection of honors displayed across his chest. Should I pluck one free and fold it into my palm?
The thought comes with a jolt. Why would I even consider such a thing? I mean, wouldn’t that be wrong?
“You captivate me.” His lips retreat as he leans his forehead to mine, mask to mask, and traces a finger along the ribbon secured at my neck. “And this, what does it mean—is astronomy one of your interests? Is that why I found you moon gazing outside?”
I look down to see a tiny golden cage pinched between his fingers, and in one horrible tsunami of a wave, the memory of who I am and what I’m doing comes rushing back to me.
This is not my home.
This is not my century.
I’m merely a tourist from another time and place.
Is this what Jago meant when he warned me about losing track of my identity?
Trying to contain my horror at finding myself in this dark corner with a boy I don’t even know, I grasp his fingers in mine and return them to his side. “I must go,” I tell him. Slipping free of his embrace, I hurry back toward the way I came.
In my chest, my heart thunders. In my head, a hail of thoughts rage through my brain, beginning with my guilt over Braxton, even though it was only one harmless kiss. And besides, is it really my fault if my memory failed?
Only then do I realize, I haven’t just lost track of myself, but also of time.
Everything you need to know, it’s in the mask, Keane said.
I should’ve been checking. And now, because I got distracted, it’s entirely possible I missed my chance to return.
Frantically, I press my finger to the side of my mask. In an instant, a green arrow appears, directing me back to the portal.
The digital clock flashing above tells me I have less than ten minutes until launch. And that’s when I realize I failed to secure the Get Arthur tasked me with.
I push through the crowd of drunken nobles, about to break into a run, when the masked boy grabs hold of my arm and pulls me back to him. “When can I see you again?” He is breathless, eager, but no more so than I am.
Every freaking day if you don’t let go of me!
To him, I just shake my head and break free.
Nine minutes and twelve seconds.
“Your name!” he calls. “At least—tell me your name!”
I’m running at a full sprint, but the boy is strong, swift, and has no problem keeping up. And for one fleeting moment, I realize I’m caught in the middle of my own messed-up Pretty Woman meets Cinderella story. While my coach won’t turn into a pumpkin, or even a limo, there’s a good chance my portal will vanish without me.
And yet, I know better than to let Prince Charming witness my otherworldly departure. Which means, I need to find a way to discourage him from continuing any further.
With only minutes to spare, and a huge task to complete still ahead, I stop, press a hand to his chest and, remembering what Jago said about rarely visiting the same party twice, I say, “Natasha. My name is Natasha.”
The boy lifts my hand to his lips. “I am Killian de Luce, and I shall not forget you.”
He leans in for a final embrace, and I return it long enough to lift one of those medals from his jacket, only to decide I can’t go through with it. He earned them through feats of bravery; they aren’t mine to take.
When I pull away, he presents me with a crisp white kerchief with some sort of royal blue monogram stitched across the front.
I shove the handkerchief into one of my pockets and say, “I have to go, and you cannot follow me.” My tone is stern, and I hope he’s smart enough to listen.
“I hope you shall not forget me,” he calls, as I press away from the palace and race into the night.
83
I find my way to the nearest garden—one of the many palace gardens that meander for miles. But once I’m there, I have no idea what to do or where to go next.
The time on my mask tells me there’s only five minutes and thirty-three seconds until launch. And in a moment of despair, I wonder which is worse—getting stuck at Versailles in the year 1745 or returning to Gray Wolf empty-handed.
Except I’m not entirely empty-handed. I still have the trinkets I lifted from the drunk woman. And though I try to convince myself it’s better than nothing, the odds of Arthur seeing it that way are slim to none.
In a last-ditch effort, I pull the tarot cards from my pocket and give them a quick study.
I’ve got the elements: the Hermit is tied to Earth and the Death card to Water.
I’ve done the numerology that links the Death card to the Emperor.
What I’ve forgotten is the astrological connections.
With only four minutes and nine seconds left on the clock, my mind races to assemble the fragments from my dad’s long ago tarot lesson. A thread of memory begins to weave a tale in my head, something about how the Hermit was linked to the Roman god Saturn, who was linked to the Titan god Chronos—the god of Time who ate his own children to keep them from usurping his power—just like the painting, Saturn Devouring His Son, in the Venetian construct…
And the Death card—the card everyone fears, that’s not what it appears, since endings always lead to new beginnings, and…
I turn a quick circle, taking in the resplendent palace grounds that were once a humble hunting lodge. It’s the epitome of new beginnings—a dream brought to life by Louis XIV, also known as the—
“Ou allez-vous?” An angry voice shouts from somewhere behind me.
My stomach twists. I freeze long enough to make the translation, then turn to find a man striding toward me.
What he lacks in height, he makes up for in bulk. His worn muslin shirt and frayed breeches strain against his stout barrel of a chest, the visible pop and bulge of his biceps. An unruly mop of black hair obscures a heavy, unshaven face, leaving me with the impression of a jaw softened by jowls, a mean strip of mouth, a generous serving of nose, and a set of heavy-lidded dark eyes that glint with the sort of undeniable authority of someone who knows their way around this labyrinth of gardens and is none too pleased to find me loitering within.
The man continues his approach, his legs slightly bowed, his gait steady. “Where are you going?” he demands in rapid-fire French. Only this time, he speaks even louder.
Nervously, I lick my lips, try to force a reply. But my tongue has turned useless, sitting dead behind a pair of locked jaws and chattering teeth, as every bit of French I ever knew bleeds right out of me.
“I’m—uh…I mean, je suis…” I push a smile onto my face, hoping it might serve to disarm him long enough for me to make a quick getaway. But according to the deep furrow of his brow and the searing blister of his gaze, my attempt to charm is a failure.
Next thing I know, he’s standing right before me, snatching the tarot cards right out of my hand.
84
“You shouldn’t be here,” the man says. His expression is menacing, his voice a snarl.
I stand before him, my knees shaking, a scream rising up the back of my throat that I’m quick to swallow right down. I need to stay quiet, keep a clear head. I can’t afford to draw any more attention to myself than I already have.
“You’ve made a terrible mistake.” His fingers clamp down on my arm, squeezing tight as a vise, and before I can do anything to try to stop him, he’s dragging me clear across the gravel pathway.
I dig in my heels and insist he let go. When that doesn’t work, I purposely throw my weight forward and stumble toward the ground, using the momentum to reach for the holster strapped under my gown.
The man mutters under his breath, jerks my arm hard, and forces me back to my feet, only to gape in surprise as I pull my dagger from its sheath.
“Do not make me use this,” I hiss, my breath shallow and stunted, my heart thrashing wildly in my chest. I track the flash of shock that crosses his face and Braxton’s warning repeats in my head: If you’re going to pull your dagger, you must be willing to use it.
And while I really hope it won’t come to that, I brandish my blade like any other knife-wielding maniac from every slasher movie I’ve ever seen. A far cry from the sort of elegant moves Braxton taught me.
The man lifts his calloused hands in surrender and drops the tarot cards to his feet. Though his cunning gaze fixes on mine, daring me to retrieve them.
I glance between the cards and him, weighing my odds. But with only sixteen seconds now left on the clock, I spin on my heel and sprint through the gardens with all that I’ve got.
In the distance, I spot Jago and Elodie standing in the glowing doorway, hands clasped and ready. To any nearby onlooker, they give the appearance of a young couple who’ve broken free of the crowd to enjoy a romantic moment.
To my eyes, they look like they’ve jointly decided to take off without me.
“Wait!” I croak, gasping for air as a flaming spear of pain spirals hot and bright through my side. “Please—don’t go! I-I’m almost there!”
It’s only when Jago turns, eyes wide with alarm, that I become aware of the rasp of ragged breath, and the crunch of gravel underfoot sounding from somewhere nearby.
The man has given chase, and he’s only a few steps away.
Jago extends an arm past the portal and calls for me to hurry.
My lungs about to burst, I push my legs harder, faster. Watching as the green hologram arrow that flickers before me continues to shrink with every step I gain, as the countdown clock just above burns through time as if to say: sure, you’re getting closer, but you’re never going to make it.
00.00.12.
I switch my focus to Elodie, watching her lips draw tight as her fingers reach for the jewel in her ear.
00.00.11.
My left foot kicks up behind me as the right one shoots forward, aiming for solid ground, only to have my heel catch on a jagged bit of rock, knocking my ankle in one direction, while my body bends in another.
I teeter precariously, falling through space with my arms pinwheeling wildly.
A startled cry rings loudly into the night, as my body slams forward, landing hard on my palms. The blow so sudden, it jolts the air clean out of my lungs.
00.00.09.
Wheezing for breath, I stagger forward, desperately clawing my way to the portal. My hand reaches for Jago’s, my fingers grazing his, as the man lunges, grabs a fistful of my poufy blue dress, and wrenches me back so abruptly, my neck snaps hard and my vision turns fuzzy.
00.00.07.
Frantically, I peer through the blizzard of tiny white and gray spots now dancing before me like static on an old-time TV. I scramble to my knees, send an arm swinging wildly. In an instant, my ears fill with the sickening sound of shredding silk, a grotesque cracking of bone under flesh that’s soon met by a muffled curse when the man realizes my elbow’s laid waste to his nose.
“Hurry!” Jago cries, as Elodie stands before me, fingers pinching closer, ready to push the clicker and leave me stranded forever.
00.00.04.
I struggle to my feet and hurl my body forward, clumsily reaching for Jago, only to crash hard into his side, inadvertently dragging the man along with me. The funk of his sharp scent blasts up my nose, as a gush of blood streams off his chin and onto my dress, leaving a grisly crime scene of a mess.
00.00.03.
Jago grasps hold of me, then kicks the man so hard, he doubles over in pain and tumbles right out of the circle of light.
00.00.02.
His face contorted with rage, the man leaps to his feet and charges straight toward us, as Elodie sighs, grabs hold of my hand, and says, “Seriously, Nat? Caught by the groundskeeper?”
And with a derisive shake of her head and a single snap of the clicker, the three of us soar forward in time.
85
Back when I was a kid and still young enough to get excited about going trick-or-treating on Halloween, I used to drag the night’s haul into my room, dump the contents onto my bed, and spend hours sorting through the mountain of sweets.
My return to Gray Wolf isn’t so different.
After a quick debriefing where Keane removes our masks and ensures that, despite the gruesome state of my dress, no one was seriously injured—we go about emptying our pockets so Arthur can examine the goods.
While I have no idea what sort of spoils Arthur is used to seeing, the glimmering pile of jewels looks impressive to me. And yet, I can’t help but wonder why he cares about any of this.
Arthur is a trillionaire—a man who can literally buy anything he could ever desire, including jewels much grander than these. So why bother sending three kids back in time to collect a pile of nobles’ trinkets of no real historical value?
I mean, what does he actually do with these things? Is he purely driven by greed? Or is there something more—something I’m missing?
“Well done,” Arthur says, holding up a thick gold ring for inspection. It came from Elodie’s stash, and I can’t help but notice the way her cheeks flush in response to his praise.
It’s strange to see the change in Elodie’s behavior whenever Arthur is there. Back when Song revealed that she regards him as a father, I’m not sure I really understood. But watching her now, vying for his approval, it’s like a little girl turning cartwheels and begging: Look at me, Daddy, look!
It’s then that I realize Arthur is Elodie’s kryptonite.
But what is Arthur’s?
“I hear you handled yourself quite well out there.”
I’m so preoccupied by thoughts of Elodie, it’s a moment before I recognize Arthur has shifted his focus to me.
“Then again, you had some terrific chrononauts to guide you.”
“Chrononauts?” I squint.
“A fancy word for time travelers,” Arthur says.
I glance between Elodie and Jago, both studiously working at avoiding my gaze. And when I return to Arthur, I notice the slightest bend in his brow, as though he wants to see if I’ll rat them out for ditching me, or if they’ll rat me out for being caught, seized, and chased all the way to the portal, putting us all in grave danger.
I know he knows something happened over there. I don’t know how, but he definitely—
Suddenly, I realize that much like the clothing I wore in the constructs, Arthur was monitoring my Trip. I guess it makes sense, considering how much he’s invested. And yet—just how much did he see?
Was it just the rate of my pulse?
Or does he somehow know about the drinks, the dance, the masked boy who steered me into a dark corner, pushed me against a wall, and trailed his lips down my neck?
And worse, does he already know just how badly I failed at my task?
Or am I being paranoid, seeing conspiracies where they don’t really exist?
If there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that this is a test. One that possibly holds even more significance than the Trip I just took. In a place like Gray Wolf, loyalty, or at least the appearance of loyalty, is essential.
“Couldn’t have asked for better partners,” I say, my lips pulling wide as I flash a grin at Jago and Elodie.
I’ll cut Jago a break, considering how he saved me by pulling me into that glowing doorway just seconds before launch.
But Elodie… It was clear she was more than willing to leave me behind.
To Arthur, I add, “They taught me a lot.” I keep my expression neutral, my gaze even.
Arthur nods and turns his attention to my own pile of loot, which consists of a bracelet, a hairpin, and a brooch. Compared to Elodie and Jago’s haul, it makes for a pretty pathetic display. “Is this all?” He shoots me a meaningful look. I nod, too ashamed to meet his gaze until he says, “And what’s this?”
