Chapter 23 #2
I stepped forward, suddenly self-conscious. His eyes had no warmth—only a cool, steady intelligence that unnerved me.
It was as if he already knew. Knew I was lying. Knew I wasn’t the victim I pretended to be.
I felt the distrust coil in my chest like smoke.
I didn’t like him.
Not one bit.
“Speak,” he commanded. His English was flawless—each word slicing through the air like a blade. “Explain why you requested this audience.”
I flinched at the power behind his tone. My heart hammered in my chest as his golden-brown eyes locked on mine—predatory, precise, like a falcon preparing to dive with talons bared.
I pointed shakily toward John James, who stood off, speaking with a white-haired woman. My mouth was dry, my defenses crumbling beneath Dancing Fire’s unrelenting stare. I hated how easily he unraveled me—how small and exposed I felt.
He stood tall, unyielding, as though carved from stone, his presence alone enough to smother the air around us.
“I… I came to John James for help,” I managed, my voice thin and trembling. “I was involved with a dangerous man. I’m hiding from him now. John James knows about two daggers—the Sun and Moon Daggers—that can help me stay safe.”
Dancing Fire’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t move. “Don’t trifle with me, woman,” he said coldly. “I’ve recently lost both of my sons—Swift Hawk and Hunting Wolf. I am in mourning. I only allowed this meeting out of respect for John James, who is like a brother to me.”
The mention of his sons struck like thunder.
I looked around at the elders seated in the circle. Their faces were etched with sorrow—lines carved not just by time but by fresh grief. Even Dancing Fire, fierce as he was, carried a hollow look behind his strength—a quiet ache that dulled even his harshest edges.
I shifted uncomfortably, a foreigner amidst their pain. I didn’t belong here. Not among their loss. Not among their silence.
My voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m a time traveler,” I confessed. “John James said it wasn’t safe for me to search for the daggers alone. He told me… you’re one, too.”
For a breathless moment, Dancing Fire didn’t respond.
Then his face hardened, every muscle turning to stone. He shook his head, a subtle, crushing gesture that made my stomach sink.
Dancing Fire had me in his sights, his presence suffocating, his gaze like flint striking against my soul, intent on extinguishing the fragile flame I clung to.
But I summoned strength somewhere deep within the pit of despair. Of courage.
“I’m sorry your sons are gone,” I said, my voice quiet. “But maybe now’s your chance to do something good. To help someone in need.”
“No.”
One word. Final. Cold.
My heart plummeted to my stomach.
His eyes, once bright with fury, dimmed to something darker. Duller. And far more dangerous. I stood frozen before him, facing a man who seemed to see right through me. A man who, perhaps, already knew every sin I’d ever committed.
But I refused to back down.
I forced a smile onto my lips, casting off the chill of fear as I sauntered closer, my hips swaying with deliberate grace. I let my fingers drift across his bare, sun-warmed chest.
“I can comfort you,” I murmured, voice laced with seduction. “In your time of grief. Let me help you forget.”
His hand shot up like a snake, seizing my wrist with crushing force. I cried out, panic seizing my lungs as I struggled to pull away—but his grip was iron, his rage barely contained.
“I don’t trust you,” he growled, voice like gravel over flame. His eyes had turned black, void of mercy. “You wear the face of an angel… but there’s something vicious beneath it. Beautiful mask. Rotten core.”
With a grunt of disgust, he flung my hand away.
I stumbled back, clutching my wrist, fury rising like bile. My hands shook, not just with pain, but with humiliation. Rejection.
“Me?” I snapped. “You think I’m the monster here? I’ve saved people! I’ve risked everything!”
But he didn’t flinch.
His eyes burned into mine—unrelenting, unmoved.
“You’ll never fool me,” he said, his voice glacial. “I can smell a liar from across the veil of time.”
A chill slid down my spine as I realized just how easily Dancing Fire could kill me—if he ever discovered the truth about what I’d done. The darkness inside me. The lies I’d spun. He wasn’t the type to hesitate.
I needed those blasted daggers.
Which meant I had to stay on his good side.
“Balthazar is real,” I said, steadying my voice. “And he’s hunting me. He could destroy us both without lifting a finger.”
I hoped the fear in my words would pierce him. Shake him. But instead, he chuckled.
“You think to scare me?” he said, voice low and mocking. “You’re more foolish than I thought.” His expression shifted into something unreadable—flat and cold. “I know who Balthazar is. I know exactly what he’s capable of. But I won’t help protect you from him.”
I blinked, my chest tightening.
His voice was calm, but his words stung like acid.
“I’ll help you,” he continued, “but not for your sake.”
A tremor of fear stirred deep inside me. I suddenly regretted coming here and hearing the names Zara and Dancing Fire. I had stepped into a land of shadows and grief where my tricks didn’t work, where power shifted like sand underfoot.
Before I could respond, John James lumbered over with a broad, oblivious smile.
“I see you two are getting along nicely,” he said cheerfully.
Dancing Fire and I exchanged a glance—one of silent warning and mutual suspicion. The air between us thickened. Even as John James prattled on, I could feel Dancing Fire’s gaze cutting into me, dissecting me, trying to peel back my layers.
I barely heard a word—until John James said, “According to my contacts, you’ll need to look in England. The 1400s.”
I snapped my attention away from Dancing Fire. “The 1400s?” I echoed, stunned. A strange relief pulsed through me, the intensity of his stare momentarily broken.
“Yes, yes,” John James said with a nod. “A very specific time. A powerful lead.”
But before I could ask more, Dancing Fire’s eyes found mine again—and this time, something passed between us.
Not warmth. Not trust.
But certainty.
A surge of electric tension jolted through me, unmistakable and final.
We would go to England.
When the next full moon rose, we would begin the journey. And whether we liked it or not… our fates were now entwined.
As we trudged through the grime-laced streets of 15th-century England, failure clung to us like soot.
Three long years had passed since our journey began—three years of fruitless searching, chasing rumors through cobblestone alleys and across candlelit parchment, interrogating everyone from scholars to beggars. Still, the daggers eluded us.
Dancing Fire’s frustration rolled off him in waves, thick and suffocating.
His presence in this foreign land only deepened our struggles.
The locals viewed him with suspicion—his dark skin and foreign mannerisms set him apart, turned him into a ghost drifting through a world that refused to see him.
They didn’t trust him, and because he was beside me, they didn’t trust me.
I wondered if he was the reason we hadn’t found them. If he were the obstacle.
His gaze, ever-piercing, held me captive day and night. He never looked away for long, never let me breathe. He was always watching, always waiting. The way his brow furrowed when I spoke and his eyes narrowed when I moved—it was like living under constant interrogation.
It didn’t matter that I’d done nothing wrong. To him, I was already guilty of secrets, lies, and betrayals that had not yet been committed. He never said it aloud, but his silence screamed louder than any accusation.
And slowly, my resentment curdled into something darker.
Who was he to dictate my every move? Who was he to judge me? He poisoned my thoughts, a slow-burning hatred that coiled tighter with each passing day. My head pounded with it—his scrutiny, disdain, arrogant self-righteousness.
There were moments I could think of nothing else but wrapping my hands around his throat and ripping his head clean from his neck.
And that wasn’t the worst of it.
I began seeing Balthazar.
His shadow stalked me in every alley, and his silhouette danced in the corners of my vision.
At first, I mistook strangers for him—until the hallucinations became their own reality.
His face haunted my dreams, jerking me awake in cold sweats, only for him to follow me into the waking world.
I could feel him, even when I knew he wasn’t there.
He was in my bones. In my blood. In my nightmares.
Still, I tried to win Dancing Fire’s sympathy. I spun lies as easily as breathing.
“Balthazar slaughtered my adopted family before my eyes,” I whispered one night, feigning grief. “It was terrible.”
But no matter how heartfelt I made it sound or how convincingly I painted myself the victim, he never believed me.
His eyes stayed flat. Cold. Immovable.
And that was the most maddening thing of all.
“Don’t you see my scars?” I hissed, yanking up the edge of my shirt to reveal the jagged lines that marred my skin. “I was tortured. Beaten. I found out I was pregnant, and someone cut open my stomach.”
Dancing Fire didn’t flinch.
“Why are you telling me these ridiculous stories?” he said flatly. “I honestly don’t care about you. Or your wretched little life.”
Those words cracked something inside me.
After three long, fruitless, godforsaken years, I was done pretending.
We sat across from each other in a smoky tavern, the stench of sweat and ale thick in the air. My hands curled around the mug, the wood sticky under my fingers. I stared into the amber depths of my drink, barely holding myself together.
“I think we need to go back,” I said coldly, not looking up. “We need more information from John James.”