Stealing Infinity, page 38
126
The scene unfolds the same way it did back when I was the fresh recruit, only this time it feels entirely different, because the recruit is not me, but rather my best friend, Mason.
Also, much like I blamed Elodie, going by the scathing look Mason directs my way, he blames me.
“What have you done?” I say to Braxton as I rush toward my friend.
But Mason is quick to hold up a hand. “Don’t,” he says, his voice is stiff, his eyes so cold I immediately stop in my tracks. “Don’t act like you’re blameless. Don’t pretend we’re still friends.”
I stand frozen in place, aware of Jago, Killian, Elodie, Finn, and Oliver practically falling out of their seats to get a better view of the spectacle. But I don’t care what they think. All I want to know is how the one person I’ve really come to care about could do such a horrible thing to the only other person I care about, outside of my mom.
Braxton rakes a hand through his hair, skirts past my gaze, and settles on Killian.
Mason stands before me. His green and gold brocade overcoat drenched with rain, he wears a pair of tall rubber boots, like those the skipper gave me to wear on the boat ride to Gray Wolf, while a pair of blue high-heeled shoes dangle from his fingers. When I notice the state of his raw and bloodied knuckles, I can’t help but feel a surge of pride knowing that at least he didn’t go down without a fight.
“Mason, please,” I say. “I didn’t know, I—” But it’s no use, my words blow right past him.
As Mason glares at me through mascara-streaked eyes, Arthur appears.
After everyone introduces themselves, Arthur orders Jago to show Mason to his room, then tells everyone to disperse except me.
“Are you going to be okay?” Arthur’s obsidian gaze bores right through me.
On the surface, the question is benign. But I know what he’s really asking is if I’m going to be a problem.
If I’m going to continue to do things like jumping out of chairs and shouting in outrage.
If I’m going to insist on fighting an event that has already happened—that is completely beyond my ability to change.
And because I don’t know the answer, because I haven’t had a chance to sort through my feelings and the short list of responses Arthur might approve of, I lift my gaze to his and say, “I was caught off guard. It wasn’t what I expected.”
With a sharp nod, Arthur turns and motions for me to follow. Other than the click of our shoes on the bowling-alley-style hallway, we walk in silence.
When we reach the end, Arthur stops. “You’ve done well for yourself here.” He turns to face me. “What makes you think Mason won’t gain the same benefit as you?”
I start to say because unlike me, Mason has a shot at a future, he has something to lose. Instead, I say, “But what about his grandmother? She loves him and—”
“She signed the papers.” Arthur speaks with his usual quiet authority. “And she was happy to do so. Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe it’s not quite the act of abandonment you assume?”
I can feel him peering at me, but my face is so flushed with bitterness and rage, I can’t afford to meet his gaze until I get ahold of myself.
“You caught a glimpse of your mother expressing her excitement over the prospect of a new car and rain gutters, and you’ve made that the crux of your story. But what you didn’t see was the amount of hand-wringing that led up to that point. The assurances she insisted I give her that you’d be well looked after, well cared for—that I’d provide you the sort of opportunities she could never afford on her own. And so far, I think I’ve delivered, no?”
I don’t know how to respond. Not only because I have no way of knowing if he’s speaking the truth, but I also haven’t truly determined what it means to be here.
In some ways, many ways, Arthur is right. Coming here is the best thing that ever happened to me, and my life has obviously taken a turn for the better.
And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that Gray Wolf has yet to reveal its full self.
That there’s more to this place—something far darker, more sinister—than Arthur lets on. And, seeing as how he’s counting on me to gather all the missing pieces to the Antikythera Mechanism to get that job done, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake by returning from Versailles with the sun.
Back when Arthur told me he wanted to use the completed Antikythera to remake the world, I didn’t take him literally.
But now I’m sunk by the terrible feeling that maybe I should have.
127
“Your friend is incredibly bright,” Arthur says, leading away from my worst fears and suspicions and back to the present. “He’s handsome, loaded with potential, and though he doesn’t realize it now, this is a wonderful opportunity for a promising kid with limited resources to forge a better life for himself. You, better than anyone, can help him find his way here.”
“I’m not sure Mason wants my help.” I wince, unable to shake the pinch of Mason’s perfectly drawn red lips, the furious slant of his brow. “It’s clear he blames me.”
“And who do you blame?”
I sigh. When I arrived, the list was long, but I’ve since whittled it down to just one—me.
Elodie set me up, my mom signed me away, but I’m the one who chose to fail my way out of school and go along for the ride.
“You’ve had a long day,” Arthur says. “Why don’t you take some time to relax, and then tomorrow, you can bring a breakfast tray to Mason’s room, have a long chat, and see if you can’t begin to heal some of those wounds.”
I nod. I mean, what else can I do?
Though just as I’m about to leave, I notice the blank spot on the wall directly behind Arthur.
It’s the spot where Vanitas hung.
Nothing Arthur does is by accident. Even a simple walk down a hall comes with a motive attached.
When he notices me looking, he hooks a thumb over his shoulder and says, “I had it transferred to your room. If you don’t like the placement, say the word and it can be moved.”
I stare at that blank square on the wall, noticing how the paint is one shade darker than the surrounding area. Then I glance at Arthur, and I feel sick to my stomach.
Though I initially asked for the piece as a reward for all I went through to secure Arthur’s Gets, now I can’t help but wonder if his agreeing to hand it over has more to do with Mason.
Is Arthur using the painting to distract me from the horror of what he did to my friend?
I swallow past the lump in my throat, lower my gaze to my fancy designer-shod feet, and say, “Thank you.” It’s all I can say.
He regards me with a hooded gaze. “No reason to thank me. You earned it.”
What remains unclear is exactly how I might’ve earned it.
By bringing him one step closer to restoring the Antikythera Mechanism?
By returning Killian to Gray Wolf?
Or by agreeing to help Mason accept this unexpected detour in his life’s path?
“Besides,” Arthur continues, his brow gathered in a way that renders his gaze into two glimmering shards of obsidian, “as you know, there are still more missing pieces to gather, and you’re the only one who can find them. In fact, you might even get to stay a while in this next location. It’ll require specialized training, of course, so we’ll have to see how that goes. But what do you think about Tripping back to Renaissance Italy for a couple of weeks?”
On the outside, I blink, but otherwise remain motionless before him.
On the inside, my mind is a whirl of possibilities of what I might do there, all the people I’d meet. I mean, Renaissance Italy! The time of Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Botticelli, Titian, Caravaggio, Raphael, Donatello…there are too many to mention.
“Are you familiar with the painting Salvator Mundi?” Arthur asks.
“Th—the Savior of the World?” I stammer, my skin pricking with chills when I see Arthur nod.
“And what exactly do you know about it?” he says.
I squint toward the blank square on the wall as I struggle to remember. “I learned about it in art class—it’s thought to be a long-lost painting by Leonardo da Vinci that was purchased for less than two thousand dollars, then ultimately sold at auction for over four hundred million.”
I blink at Arthur, wondering if he wants me to go back in time and fetch it, so he can be the one to claim the windfall. But, judging by the way Arthur waves a hand in dismissal when I mention the dollar amount, that’s not what he cares about.
“And you’ve seen pictures of this painting? You know what it looks like?”
I shrug. “It’s been a while, but I think it’s a portrait of Jesus.”
“And do you remember what Jesus is holding?”
“I…” I rub my lips together, struggling to summon the image. “One of his hands is…raised?”
“And the other?” Arthur nods for me to hurry and get to the good stuff.
I close my eyes. High school art class feels like a lifetime ago. “A crystal—like, a crystal orb, maybe?”
“And what does that orb remind you of?” he asks. “What does it resemble?”
A flash of memory streaks through my head, and I watch as my dad stands before me, cupping a small crystal ball in his hand. Tell me about the eighteenth card, he said.
“The moon.” The answer slips past my lips, and when I open my eyes, I find Arthur standing before me, much like my dad in the vision. Except Arthur is grinning, where my dad veered much closer to sad.
“Something to think about,” Arthur says, dangling the prospect like catnip. “But please, no mention of this to anyone. For now, get some rest. You’ve earned that as well.”
128
As I head back to my room, I’m so lost in the maze of my tormented thoughts—my horror at seeing Mason at Gray Wolf versus the undeniable thrill of possibly meeting Leonardo da Vinci in person—it’s not until I’ve nearly crashed right into him that I notice Braxton at the end of the hall.
Inside, I feel gutted, like my heart’s split in two. Still, I manage to say, “What have you done?” in a voice so accusing, I watch him cringe in response.
“Please,” he whispers. “Not here. Come to my room. We can talk privately there.” He grasps for my hand, but when he sees me flinch, he’s quick to retreat.
“What did you do?” I cry, not caring who overhears. “Why did you bring Mason here?”
“Tasha.” He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he peers at me through a shipwrecked gaze. “I’m begging you, please.”
I glance down the hall toward my room where, at my request, Vanitas now hangs. A painting meant to remind one of the fleetingness of life and the utter worthlessness of directing one’s efforts toward amassing worldly pleasures and goods.
A painting that, just by owning it, serves to mock its own message.
A painting I used as a power play that’s now destined to haunt me for the rest of my days.
“Fine,” I say, reluctantly following. “But don’t even think about holding my hand.”
When we reach his room, Braxton ushers me inside, sets his duffel on the floor, and heads for the antique bar cart by the window.
“Do you want a drink?” He turns to me. His sweater is rumpled, his hair tangled and wet, and there are twin moons casting deep violet shadows beneath both his eyes. I’ve never seen him looking so exhausted, so defeated.
I shake my head, preferring to be alert for the interrogation I’ve planned.
“Do you mind if I have one?” he asks.
I start to shrug when I notice the fresh scrape across the left side of his jaw and immediately remember the sight of Mason’s raw and bloodied knuckles.
“Did Mason do that?” I motion toward the spot where Braxton’s face took a blow, watching as he absently rubs at the cut like he’d forgotten about it till now.
“Clocked me pretty hard.” He winces at the memory. Then, uncorking a crystal decanter, he measures a couple fingers of Scotch into a tumbler, downs it with one elegant toss of his head, then pours himself another, which he chooses to savor.
“Mason’s tougher than he looks,” I say. “If you’re going to dress like that, as a Black kid, at our ignorant school, learning how to fight is a matter of survival. By the end of ninth grade, no one dared mess with him. Until you.”
Braxton leans against the wall, regarding me with a gaze so heavy and raw, it’s easy to see the toll this Trip has exacted. Which is the only way to explain why he sees fit to open with, “What the hell is Killian doing here and why did he have his hand on your knee?”
I glance longingly toward the door and give serious consideration to leaving. Instead, I say, “You cannot be serious.”
He grips the glass so hard, his knuckles turn the color of bone, and I can’t help but cringe as I imagine it shattering into a mess of bloody shards.
“How did he get here?” He jabs a thumb toward the door as though Killian is waiting on the other side.
“Maybe,” I say, my voice even but tight, “the more important question is—how did he get left behind in the first place?”
Braxton works his jaw, tosses back the drink, then sets the glass aside and collapses onto a worn brown leather couch that looks like it was lifted from some posh young royal’s country estate.
“How long has he been back?” He pushes the words through gritted teeth.
I move to stand before him. “You answer mine. I’ll answer yours.”
The look he gives me is wary.
“What is Mason doing here?” I say.
129
I stand before Braxton, watching as his features soften. The rigid line of his shoulders relaxing, loosening, as he looks past my anger, past his own anger, and allows his eyes to graze over me as though seeing me for the first time since he walked into Gray Wolf and found me sitting with Killian.
“Sit.” He pats the cushion beside him. “Please.”
Hoping he won’t mistake my compliance for surrender, I skirt around a table and join him.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he says, his voice low and husky, though he makes no move to touch me, correctly sensing that it wouldn’t be welcome. “You have no idea how much I missed you.”
His hands lay empty and open on his lap. The sight of him looking so defenseless makes me remember how close I came to never seeing him again, and my heart peels apart in my chest.
And now that he’s here, sitting before me, hair dampened from the rain and left to curl in soft waves around his face, his eyes gazing upon me with such palpable longing, I realize how easy it would be to reach out and pull him so close, all our troubles would instantly melt away.
The lure between us is undeniable, but right now, we have more important things to discuss.
I guess he must sense my impatience because he’s quick to say, “How did you manage to get the diamond hair clip to Mason?”
“Wait—what?” Now it’s my turn to be confused. “Are you saying you didn’t send it?”
Braxton shakes his head, presses his lips together so tightly, they fade into the rest of his face. “No.” He sighs. “I didn’t send it. For exactly the reasons I told you. Which is why I can’t figure out how it ended up in his possession.”
The way he says in his possession makes my stomach lurch. It’s the sort of phrase used when someone’s been charged with a crime. A moment later, my worst fear is confirmed.
“They found the clip, and he was busted for theft. I was already in place on the East Coast when I received word there was a change of plans.”
“Oh God, oh no…” My breath comes too shallow. My pulse thrums too fast. In an instant, the room recedes all around me as I wrap my arms at my waist, guarding against what I know will come next.
“I was sent to California, where I was instructed—”
“To go to my school.” I stare at Braxton with wide, frightened eyes. “Oh my God—it really is all my fault!”
“How did you manage to send it?”
I drop my head in despair, my mind straining to find a logical explanation for how this could’ve happened.
After a few frantic beats, I lift my gaze to meet Braxton’s. “I didn’t take you seriously. I thought you were being…” I bite down on my lip. I feel like such a fool, but I force myself to keep going. “I don’t know, I thought you were just in a hurry and didn’t want to be burdened with an extra task. I thought you might change your mind once you finished packing and got yourself sorted. So I left the diamond swan on the small table by your door, along with a note from me to Mason and another piece of paper listing his home address. I figured you’d see it on your way out and…”
“I never saw it.”
His words are like an ax chipping away at my heart.
“I rushed out of here not long after you. I was in a hurry to get off island so I could make it to the airport.”
“But if you didn’t send it, then who?”
Braxton’s features grow taut, sharpening at the edges as his eyes narrow to slits. “Who’s the first person who springs to mind? Our instincts are usually right.”
I close my eyes and sigh. Same person who always springs to mind when it comes to sabotage, trickery, fraud, and deceit. When I look at him, I say, “This is pure Elodie. Mason always disliked her. He never trusted her. And he warned me on multiple occasions that no good would come from my friendship with her. But how’d she get into your room—did you give her access?”
Braxton holds up a hand. “Not even when we were together.” He rests his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers straining toward me but not quite reaching. “Then again, she’s been here longer than any of us. I’m sure she’s found a way to access all sorts of things.”
