Stealing Infinity, page 6
The flight attendant returns with a hot towel and a tray of champagne. I take the towel, run it over my face and hands, but decline the drink, asking for water instead. Braxton tips his flute toward me and takes a swill.
“Why would the wind make a difference?” I feel a little embarrassed to ask, but I really am curious.
He twists toward me. “When it comes to travel, the winds are everything. They’re either driving against you and slowing you down or pushing from behind and speeding you along.”
I nod, feeling even more ridiculous than before. If I’d taken the time to think it through, I could’ve figured that out on my own. For the millionth time, I wonder why, out of all the kids in my school—or hell, in the country—Arthur Blackstone chose me.
Braxton drains his champagne, looks at me, and says, “Wake me when we get there.” Then, moving down the hall, he disappears behind a closed door.
“There’s another bedroom if you’d like to rest,” the flight attendant tells me. But even though I’m admittedly tired, there’s no way I can sleep. I don’t want to risk missing a thing.
I spend most of the flight checking out the plane (the bathroom is way nicer than mine at home); watching movies (there are hundreds to choose from); looking out the window (clouds, clouds, and more clouds); eating pretty much everything the flight attendant offers (cookies, warm nuts, a cheeseburger, and an ice-cream sundae—why not?); and staring at my phone as I research anything I can find on Arthur Blackstone (pretty much everything I already know and nothing I don’t) and Gray Wolf Academy (not a single result—or at least nothing that fits, which makes no sense. What boarding school doesn’t even have a website?).
Just after we land and are taxiing down the runway, Braxton appears, eyes squinted from sleep.
“Why’s the academy a secret?” I ask.
He rubs a slow hand over his face, as though wiping away the remains of a dream.
“It’s totally off the grid,” I add. “There isn’t even one mention of it on the internet.”
He moves into the lounge (according to the flight attendant, that’s what they call the section of the plane with the large screen TV, couches, and bucket seats), retrieves a sweater from his bag, and pulls it over his head.
“It’s cold out there.” He looks me over, settling on my legs for a moment before flushing slightly and averting his gaze. “Don’t you have anything warmer?”
“It’s not like I was allowed to pack,” I remind him.
“Right. Sorry.” He reaches back into his bag and pitches me a pair of sweatpants and the knit cap he wore earlier. When I start to pitch them right back, he says, “Trust me, you’re going to need those.”
“Trust you?” I shoot him an incredulous look. “You can’t be serious.” I toss the pants aside and crumple the hat into a ball I shove in the pocket of my hoodie. “Also, you still haven’t answered my question.”
He shrugs. “Clearly it’s not a secret, Natasha. We’re headed there now.”
I start to tell him I prefer to go by Nat. But before I can put a voice to the words, the plane comes to a stop, the door springs open, and a flurry of biting-cold wind blows through the cabin.
Ugh, okay. Fine.
I tug on the sweatpants, pull the hat onto my head, sling my bag over my shoulder, and follow Braxton down the stairs and into a chauffeur-driven car idling on the tarmac.
17
“How’s the wind out there on the water?” Braxton asks, peering out the back seat window. “Safe enough to cross?”
The driver’s stony gaze finds the rearview mirror. Switching from Braxton to me and back again, he says, “It’ll ’ave to be now, won‘ it?” His voice carries an accent I can’t easily place. Irish? Scottish? Cockney? I’ve never traveled anywhere that would help me know the difference.
As he pulls onto a deserted two-lane road, the wind continues to gust, buffeting hard against the car, causing the wheels to vibrate, the windows to shake. When he finally parks before a small dock, I look at Braxton, dismayed. I guess I failed to make the connection between our destination and his earlier conversation about crossing the water.
“Please tell me you’re joking,” I say.
In a solemn voice and an expression to match, Braxton replies, “Wish I was.”
Outside the car, the wind violently thrashes as I squint into the night, contemplating the choppy sea and the glint of rock in the distance.
“Gray Wolf Island.” Braxton nods toward the faint glimmer of lights. “Arthur owns it, along with this dock, and pretty much everything else you see. One of the benefits of being at the forefront of the tech revolution.” He slides the wool scarf from his neck and drapes it around mine, carefully looping it under my chin.
The act is so unexpected and kind, I feel the onset of tears, but I refuse to release them.
“Not to worry,” he tells me. “The skipper knows these waters like he knows the winds.”
I must look uncertain, because Braxton touches a finger to my chin and angles it toward him. “I’m sorry,” he says, his gaze resting on mine. “About everything, all of it. I—”
The skipper clears his throat loudly from where he waits at the end of the dock.
I gaze past the beam of the lighthouse to the shadowy fortress sprawled across the top of the hill. It’s the kind of place where a girl like me could easily disappear.
“You can’t always control the circumstances you find yourself in,” Braxton says. “But you can control how you choose to respond.”
“Who are you quoting?” I ask, assuming he must’ve stolen it from a meme.
“Every wise person who’s ever lived.” His gaze meets mine. His lips pull into a close-mouthed grin. “It’s going to be okay,” he assures me, but it fails to land. My feet are glued to this small patch of earth, and my legs refuse to bend.
I can’t do this.
If something were to go wrong, I’m not a skilled enough swimmer to survive those currents. If hypothermia doesn’t finish me, drowning will.
And if by some miracle we were to cross safely, what then?
Am I stuck on that island forever?
Do I get to go home for holidays or the occasional long weekend?
Will I ever see my mom again?
“Natasha.” Braxton draws me away from my thoughts and offers his hand.
I remember the side-eyed burn of the office staff when I was perp walked out of there.
The disparaging glint in my principal’s eyes when he decided I was no longer fit for his school.
Mason’s look of dismay when he saw how far I’d let myself fall.
The greedy gleam of my mother’s gaze as she tallied the worth of Arthur’s donations.
Braxton’s features soften, his lips softly parting.
When you can’t go back, the only choice left is to move forward.
Ducking against the wind, I take hold of his hand and follow him down the dock to a waiting skiff, where the skipper hands me a rain slicker and a pair of tall rubber boots. Then I settle onto the bench and hope for the best.
The journey that follows is even worse than I imagined.
Time moves in one direction,
memory in another.
—William Gibson
18
Up close, the island is so much bigger than it first appeared.
In the boat, with the water violently churning around us, I set my focus on the lighthouse like a dancer uses a spotting point to keep from tipping over. All I wanted was to survive the currents and reach the safety of that creamy, luminous glow that beckoned to us like a ghost.
Now that we’ve arrived, that same structure appears stark and severe, like a finger raised in warning, cautioning us to turn away, go back to where we came from before it’s too late.
Only there’s nothing to go back to. Not for me.
“What do you think?” Braxton asks once we’re tucked inside a warm car, heading up a winding road, destined for the top.
I peer out my window at a barren landscape made entirely of dirt, rock, and not much else. I guess the winds are to blame for the absence of trees.
“‘Isolated’ is the first word that comes to mind.” I turn to see the glare from a streetlamp slice through the window and split his face down the middle. One half illuminated, the other darkened in shadow.
Instinctively, I know it’s the truest depiction I’ll ever have of him.
A second later, it’s over, the car’s dim, and Braxton’s tapping on an ultra-slim phone that looks to be a few generations newer than mine.
“It really is a fortress,” I say, my breath quickening, my stomach clenching with nerves. As we round the final bend and the building pops into view, I can’t help but gasp.
Crafted entirely of stone, the academy appears massive, unwelcoming, foreboding. When the front gate swings open, I rise off my seat, expecting to find it surrounded by a moat bursting with crocodiles or something.
“Does…Dracula live here?”
A ghost of a smile shades Braxton’s lips. “First impressions are often deceiving,” he says, slipping his phone into his pocket as the driver stops the car before a large iron door. “I think you’ll be surprised by what’s waiting inside. C’mon.” We exit the car together and walk toward the entrance.
He presses his thumb against an electronic keypad and the door automatically opens. “This way.”
Braxton gestures toward a dimly lit tunnel, but I remain rooted in place, trying to figure out why the phrase on the plaque overhead is so familiar.
“Panta Rhei.” Braxton glances between the sign and me.
“What does it mean?” I ask, hoping for something that’ll jog my memory.
“Everything flows.” He shrugs, as though that explains it. As though this boy has ever explained anything to me.
Before I can push him for more, he hurries me through the tunnel to a beautiful moonlit garden that’s so unexpectedly lush, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.
Within the calm shelter of thick stone walls, we cross a mosaic-tiled path bordered by towering palms and lavish beds of evening primrose, their delicate yellow faces slanting toward a sky littered with stars.
“It reminds me of the Tarot Garden.” I motion toward a glistening fountain bursting with water lilies and surrounded by whimsical sculptures of colorful six-headed snakes and other fantastical creatures.
“You’ve been to Italy?” Braxton turns in astonishment, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve shared something from my life that truly surprised him. And I gotta be honest, it feels pretty good to have the upper hand. Even if it’s trivial, it still counts as a win.
I wander toward a sculpture of a giant birdlike creature with a bright crescent moon standing in for a heart. “I did a paper on Niki de Saint Phalle for freshman year art class. She’s one of my favorites.”
Braxton relaxes, clearly relieved to confirm nothing slipped his due diligence. “This is one of many sculpture gardens,” he says. “Arthur is a collector.”
“Of art?” I run a tentative hand over the montage of shiny tile and grout.
“Of beauty.” He walks ahead. “Come on,” he says. “Time to meet the others.”
19
Braxton leads me out of the courtyard and into a spacious entry with a plush velvet chaise that hangs from the ceiling and a crystal chandelier resting in the center of the white marble floor.
“An upside-down room?” I say, intrigued by the concept, but Braxton just shrugs and waves me down a long wood-planked hallway that reminds me of a lane at a posh bowling alley.
A chorus of voices drifts toward us. The closer we get, the louder they become. Growing in intensity, the shouts resonate, and though I can’t quite make out the words, clearly someone is having a serious argument.
The instant Braxton strides through the doorway, the room falls silent. I stand awkwardly beside him, feeling totally out of my league. So far, Braxton was right—this place is nothing at all like I thought it would be.
I take in the odd assortment of wingback chairs swinging from thick silver chains and the strangers who occupy them. As I run my gaze over the collection of faces, they use the moment to scrutinize me as Braxton starts making introductions.
Oliver, Song, Jago, Finn—I try my best to keep them all straight.
Oliver is brown eyed with white skin and a quick, sure smile that instantly masks a residue of anger.
Song has lovely dark brown eyes and long black hair that drapes around her shoulders like a shawl.
Jago is tall and lean, with warm brown skin and a deep topaz gaze. He greets me with a brisk nod as he swings back and forth in his purple velvet throne, watching me warily.
Finn is slim with a shock of straw-colored hair, a smattering of freckles sprawling over his nose, and a gleam in his sleepy green eyes that makes for a roguish elfin effect.
And as I stand here before them with Braxton’s knit hat yanked past my ears, and the hem of my little black dress bunched around the sagging waist of his sweatpants, it’s obvious there’s been a mistake. Everything about this place is so beautiful, so curated, including the people—surely I’m not the only one who can see I don’t fit.
I need to find a way out.
I don’t care if my mom traded me in for a new SUV; there must be some kind of loophole—or even a way to escape—
Next thing I know, Braxton is nudging my shoulder, shaking me away from my thoughts, as he says, “And of course, you know Elodie.”
20
I turn to see Elodie slink into the room, her gait languid and assured. She wears an orange strapless mini dress, sparkly blue ankle boots, and a tiara perched on her head as casually as she once wore a New York Yankees cap.
“Natasha,” she says, her face pulling into a grin.
With a clenched jaw and a furious gaze, I watch as she comes to stand beside Braxton. The way she presses her shoulder to his reminds me of a dog pissing on a fire hydrant, marking its territory.
My teeth grind, my fingers curl into fists, as a flurry of accusations storms through my brain, but the hail of How could you—how dare you—why me—melts on my tongue the moment she steps forward to hug me.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says, her lips pressing somewhere north of my ear.
I remain fixed in place, stone-faced and silent. My only real consolation is that I don’t hug her back.
Pretending not to notice, she says, “I knew from the start you wouldn’t be easy.”
I have no idea what that means. No idea what any of this means.
Why do the chairs hang like swings? Why is Elodie dressed like royalty? Why is everyone so unsettled by me? Why was I chosen to be here with them? But most of all, where the hell am I?
But while I may not have answers to any of those questions, I still have my suspicions.
“You framed me. Both of you, you set me up.” My gaze jumps between Elodie and Braxton. But now that I’ve found my voice, it’s left me feeling exhausted, silly, and small.
Braxton turns his focus to a large, bright canvas dominating the far wall.
Elodie dips her mouth open, about to explain, when another voice breaks in.
“I’m sure you have many questions.”
I glance up to find the legend has joined us.
My first impression is that he’s a big brick of a man, but a second glance tells me that’s not at all true. It’s more an expectation shaped by newspaper articles, magazine profiles, and pictures taken with a camera tilted skyward.
In person he’s actually pretty average, with the sort of rangy body and coiled energy of a long-distance runner. His features are appealing with just enough character to keep from being bland. The chin is assertive, the jaw sharp, the nose slightly hawkish, while the lips, not too thin or too wide, are framed by a set of deep smile lines sunk like parentheses on each side.
In his faded jeans, designer loafers, and blue sweater, Arthur Blackstone gives off a casual, easy vibe I’d be tempted to believe—if it weren’t for his eyes.
Dark and glinting, his gaze reminds me of something I learned about obsidian that one time Elodie dragged me into a shop that sold crystals.
“It’s not a stone for amateurs,” the salesperson told me as I reached for the shiny black rock. “It’s powerful, merciless, allows nothing to remain hidden. It explodes the truth right into the open and can prove overwhelming to a beginner.”
I immediately swapped it for a small, polished citrine instead. “A stone of abundance,” Elodie claimed, which mostly drove the decision to buy the smallest, cheapest piece I could find and stash it inside my bra.
Sadly, the stone’s magick didn’t take.
Or maybe it did. Maybe it’s how my mom got a fancy new ride and home renovation, and I ended up here.
But now, contemplating Arthur’s gaze, I realize that, like obsidian, it’s where his truth lies.
I also understand that where he’s concerned, there will be no way to hide mine.
“Natasha, welcome.” His voice is commanding, his handshake firm. “I apologize for the journey. But I’m afraid you can expect similar winds any time you venture past the academy walls.”
“Is that all you apologize for? The weather?”
I force my gaze to meet his. Let the truth telling begin.
Braxton shifts uneasily. Elodie inhales a breath so sharp, it sucks the air right out of the room. Jago, Oliver, Finn, and Song lean forward in their seats, everyone waiting to see if I can get away with talking to Mr. Blackstone so disrespectfully.
I watch as his lips pinch at the corners, feel the sting of his gaze as it slices right through my display of bravado to the uncertain girl quaking beneath. After a few measured beats, Arthur says, “Tomorrow, your questions will be answered and your concerns addressed. For now, Elodie will show you to your room. I’m sure you’re in need of some rest.”
