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Braxton looms before me, but my breath is coming so quickly, he falls in and out of focus.
“Leonardoisa genius,” he says, voice barely a whisper in this windless tomb of a garden. “All of time is equally existent.”
I press my palm against the rough stone wall, my fingertips seeking the sharp bits, using the quick stab of pain to steady myself.
I am here.
This is happening.
And there’s no escaping it.
Braxton takes a breath. “As Einstein himself stated: The distinction between past, present, and future is only an illusion, even if a stubborn one.”
“And Arthur has found a way to shatter that illusion?” My voice pitches high, like a glass breaking in a silent room. Though it’s soon consumed by a clap of waves far below.
Braxton lifts my fur stole from his shoulders and gently places it around me. I guess I was so stunned by the revelation, I hadn’t noticed how badly I was shivering.
His fingers work the jeweled clasp. His face presses near. Up close, those high, chiseled cheekbones, that slight bend in his nose, and that bottomless gaze are even more appealing than they were from a distance. The shivering has stopped, but with Braxton so close, I can’t be sure it’s solely because of the stole.
“And Arcana? Is that a real place, or—”
“The building is real. You walked right past it after you left the diner. But it’s not a real club, if that’s what you’re asking. Other than the tarot reader and a few other things, it was mostly a hologram, a construct. Your destiny was put into motion long before you arrived. Arcana was the final test, to see how you reacted to your surroundings.”
“So because I laughed at my grave, I ended up here?”
“Arthur loved it.”
“He was watching?”
“You’re a big investment. He wouldn’t just take Elodie’s word for it.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask, sensing the reveal won’t be risk-free.
“Because I owe you that much.” He lifts a hand to my hair, tucks a few windswept strands back behind my ear. His fingers leaving a trail of warm sparks in their wake that leaves my knees wobbly and sets my pulse racing.
“But why me?” I ask. “I mean, plenty of kids are overlooked by their parents and failing at life.”
He flinches at the echo of his words. “I’m sorry for being so blunt,” he starts.
“Blunt I can deal with,” I say. “It’s the secrets that bother me.”
Braxton’s gaze turns inward, like he’s grappling with something known only to him. Coming to some sort of surrender, his eyes find mine and he says, “The selection process begins with a list of a few dozen prospects.”
“And how does that work?”
He rakes a hand through his hair, shifts his weight between his feet. His discomfort is clear, but he seems to push beyond it. “Arthur has developed an algorithm that involves birth certificates, divorce records, zip codes, tax returns, school transcripts, social media accounts—”
“I don’t even have any social media accounts,” I cut in. “I mean, I do, but I never actually post anything.”
“Exactly.” He nods. “Anyone with a sizable following is immediately eliminated from consideration.”
“Because Arthur’s interested only in those whose absence will go unnoticed—who no one will miss,” I whisper, my insides twisting at the bitter taste of the truth in my mouth.
“Once it’s been narrowed to less than a handful,” Braxton continues, “Arthur embeds one of us in the school so we can get a better feel for whether or not the prospect will fit in at the academy. If it’s not a match, we move on to the next on the list. If itisa match…”
He makes a vague gesture toward me—the living, breathing example of what happens next.
