Chapter 41 #2
My heart pounded as I approached, drawn to it by some invisible pull. I stretched out a hand, my fingertips brushing the cold hilt.
It thrummed beneath my hands—ancient, aware, alive.
Power rippled through the metal, vibrating my arm like a whisper from another world.
Lee had kept it hidden in plain sight all along, just like everything else.
A blade masked as a keepsake.
A weapon disguised as love.
A lie wrapped in the illusion of safety.
I pressed my fingers to my lips, mind racing. I needed a plan. Something ruthless. Something final.
There was no choice—I had to destroy the original journal. It had been my shadow, my secret keeper, the one thing that knew everything. But now it was too dangerous to exist. I’d replace it with the false diary. And the right someone would find it. I didn’t know who yet, but I would.
Then, Raul.
My heart twisted at the thought of him. Winning him back wouldn’t be easy. But I needed the poison. Without it, the plan fell apart.
And before any of that, I had to lie to Jack.
Tell him I was leaving to search for the Moon Dagger. Make it sound noble. Purposeful.
I could only pray he wouldn’t see through the performance and uncover the reason behind my sudden departure.
The journal sat heavy in my hands—my confessor, witness, and executioner.
Its pages held the worst of me. Cruel thoughts. Violent choices. A chronicle of the monster I once was.
But that chapter was over.
With quiet reverence, I began tearing the pages out one by one. The sound was sickening, like flesh being pulled from bone. My throat tightened as I dropped the torn sheets into Lee’s fireplace. The flames caught quickly, devouring the past with greedy tongues of orange and gold.
I watched in silence, tears pricking the backs of my eyes—not from grief, but from the strange hollowness of letting go.
The journal was gone.
And with it, the final piece of who I used to be.
A strange calm settled over me in Lee’s cluttered front room. For the first time in years, I felt clean.
Empty, yes—but also ready.
It was time to begin again.
I took a deep breath and returned to Jack’s house.
The moment I stepped through the front door, I felt it—the absence.
No footsteps. No voice. No questions.
Just an eerie stillness, pressing in around me like fog.
I moved quietly from room to room, the silence growing heavier with each step. Then I saw him sitting in a chair by the window, his back to me, still as stone.
He didn’t turn when I entered. His posture was rigid, unmoving, as if he’d been frozen in thought for hours. I cleared my throat softly.
Nothing.
I stepped closer, my heels brushing against the wooden floor. Still no reaction.
That’s when I felt a coldness in the air, not from the weather, but from him.
Jack was ignoring me. Deliberately.
And for reasons I didn’t want to admit, it cut deeper than I expected. I was the one who wanted out—the one who had set all this in motion. I had assumed—naively, maybe—that Jack would cling to the hope of reconciliation. But now, faced with his silence, the rejection slammed into me like a wave.
I swallowed the ache rising in my chest and forced my voice to stay calm.
“Jack… are you okay?”
Still, he didn’t respond.
His silence was more honest than any argument we’d ever had. I couldn’t even meet his gaze, afraid of what I might see there.
“Jack,” I said gently, “I’m sorry, my love. But I’m leaving… just for a little while.”
I hesitated, then added, “I’m going to look for the Moon Dagger. I need time. We need time. This… whatever we are now, it’s not working.”
At last, he moved—just slightly—a slow nod.
When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet I almost missed it.
“I think what broke us… was that we stopped chasing what we believed in.”
He paused, staring out the window, eyes distant. “The daggers. The myth. The story we used to tell ourselves.”
His words hit me with unexpected tenderness.
And for a moment, I smiled. Just a little. A reluctant curve at the corners of my mouth.
I remembered those nights. The two of us curled under blankets, whispering in the dark about the ancient Sun and Moon Daggers, legends of unimaginable power. We clung to fantasies like children—destiny, legacy, purpose. It had once felt real. We had once felt real.
Jack’s hardened expression softened as I spoke of my supposed mission. The lie dripped off my tongue like honey, and he drank it in—eager, desperate for something to hold onto. For a heartbeat, we were the old us again.
But I couldn’t ignore the bruised bags beneath his eyes, the exhaustion dulling his features. His nights had been as sleepless as mine. And it made the guilt in my chest spread like rot.
Because I wasn’t leaving to find the Moon Dagger.
And he’d never know.
“I’m going to do this, Jack,” I lied, taking his hands in mine. “I’ll bring the daggers home. And when I do, I’ll return to you. I promise.”
I leaned forward and pressed my lips gently against his cheek—soft, warm, familiar. Then I turned away, heart hammering, mind already racing with how to build this new version of myself. One Jack would never recognize. One thing Balthazar would never expect.
Under the heavy glow of a full moon that night, a chill ran down the back of my neck.
It was time.
I pulled my cloak tighter and slipped out into the night, the world silent. With a blade flick, I time-traveled—ripping through the veil of centuries—and emerged in John James’ era.
The sun was blistering.
Sultry heat clung to the land like a sweaty hand, the air so thick it felt like breathing through steam. Each step toward his cabin was a battle. The ground radiated heat in quivering waves, and the leather strap of my satchel dug into my shoulder like iron.
I climbed the hill, drenched in sweat, and every movement met with resistance. At the top, I saw his familiar little cabin, nestled near the trees.
And there he was.
John James stood near the creek, filling an urn with water, unaware of the storm walking toward him.
I approached, careful not to startle him. My footsteps barely whispered over the dry earth.
This was it.
The next breadcrumb. The next lie.
He rose from the creek and squinted into the shimmering haze, his hand shielding his eyes.
“Hello! Who goes there?”
“It’s me, John James,” I called, stepping into view. “It’s Alina.”
His brows lifted, eyes narrowing in recognition. “Alina Tocino?”
“The same.” I smiled. “It’s so good to see you.”
Without hesitation, he crossed the clearing and swept me into a bear hug. It was warm, sincere—even grounding. More real than the tepid, distracted embraces I’d grown used to with Jack. For a fleeting moment, I let myself sink into it.
“What brings you to these parts?” he asked, his face alight with curiosity.
“I wanted to tell you… I found one of the daggers.”
His eyes widened with boyish wonder as he clapped his hands together. “Did you? That’s wonderful news—simply wonderful. Come, sit with me. Share everything.” He gestured to a shaded patch beneath the trees. “It’s far too hot to be indoors.”
I followed him and settled on a weathered tree stump, brushing the dust from my cloak. The humid air clung to my skin like a second layer, thick and suffocating. I hadn’t remembered the Midwest being this oppressive.
“Would you like some water?” he offered, lifting the urn with a single arm, his biceps flexing under the strain.
“Yes, please. That would be lovely,” I replied, my mouth dry, the heat heavy in my throat. I had grown too soft from years of coastal fog and mild breezes—this place felt like a furnace.
When he returned, I took a sip and began spinning my web.
I told him of Peru—of how I’d ventured through forgotten ruins, deciphered ancient symbols, and unearthed the dagger buried beneath centuries of silence. I layered in bravery, peril, and the noble cause Jack and I had supposedly undertaken together… even while I was pregnant.
It was all a beautifully constructed lie, every beat calculated, every word dripping with the conviction of someone who believed it herself.
John James hung on every syllable, his gaze locked on mine, enthralled as if I were some long-lost heroine from a myth retold around campfires.
“Honestly, Alina,” he said, his voice low with reverence, “your fortitude is admirable.”
I basked in the glow of his admiration. It had been almost too easy—this game of deception. But I had been born to tell stories. I had learned to lie long before I ever learned to love.
A sly smirk curved my lips as I leaned in, letting my voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper.
“I’ve brought the Sun Dagger with me,” I said. “Would you like to see it?”
His breath hitched. His chest rose and fell with quick, shallow gulps, and his eyes gleamed—not with awe but hunger.
“Show me,” he rasped.
His voice pulsed with need, and the air around us was filled with it. It was more than curiosity—it was obsession.
I lifted the satchel from my shoulder and unzipped it, the sound slicing through the thick air.
From within, I withdrew the dagger, long and slender, its bone handle etched with intricate symbols that pulsed with ancient meaning.
Even as I passed it into John James’ hands, I still felt its weight in mine, like the echo of a burden that refused to leave me.
His eyes widened as he studied it, his breath catching in reverence. The blade gleamed under the patchy sunlight, casting fragmented reflections across his face.
“This,” I said quietly, “and my journal… they’re what Balthazar will use to track me. They tie me to him. That’s why I have to give them up, for now. I need you to keep them safe.”
I met his gaze, silently pleading. My lips didn’t move, but the desperation in my eyes said everything I couldn’t bear to speak aloud.
John James’ pupils dilated. He shook his head, slowly at first, then with mounting panic.
“I can’t,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I can’t risk it. If those items fall into my possession, Balthazar will never stop hunting me. He’ll rip me apart.”
A shiver ran through him, as if the very mention of Balthazar chilled his bones. He staggered to his feet, stumbling backward, nearly tripping over a tree root. Wringing his hands, he looked like a man already haunted by consequences.
“Here’s my advice,” he said, eyes blazing. “Separate them. Keep them far apart. Don’t tempt fate.”
He slammed a fist into his palm with finality.
“You need to entrust them to someone strong—someone capable of defending themselves if Balthazar comes for them.”
His urgency sent a jolt through me. I flinched.
“Do you have someone in mind?” I asked, my voice thin, laced with dread.
“Yes.” His voice snapped like a whip through the trees.
He looked pale now, drawn and hollow, but his eyes burned with fierce certainty. Reaching out, he grabbed my wrist with trembling fingers.
“Take the Sun Dagger to Giovanni Zampa,” he said. “He’ll protect it. He’s the only one who can.”
“Signor Zampa?” I echoed, breath catching. “Yes… I know him.”
The words came out in a rush. Of course. It made sense. Giovanni had power. Reach. Ruthlessness.
John James scanned the tree line, eyes darting from shadow to shadow, as if something—or someone—was listening.
Then he turned back to me, his grip on my arm tightening.
“You must travel back in time and deliver your journal to Eyan Malik,” John James said with urgency in his voice. “He’s in 1582.”
I froze, my breath catching.
“Malik is dead,” I snapped. My throat constricted around the words, memory, and disbelief crashing together.
John James held my gaze, unwavering. “No. Eyan Malik is very much alive.”
I staggered back as that revelation settled in. The last time I saw Malik, he rotted in Balthazar’s dungeon. I had tried to poison him—and failed. Now he was alive? Somewhere in time? How?
“Go!” he barked. “Find him. And get these cursed items as far from here as possible—before Balthazar arrives and leaves nothing but corpses.”
Fear wrapped around me like a noose, tightening with every second. But there was no time to hesitate. I had to go. I had to believe I could find Malik before Balthazar found me.
And yet… doubt filled my thoughts.
“How do you even know Malik is alive?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
John James hesitated. “My sources say he’s in another timeline. Italy. The late 1500s.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course. You and your damn secrets.”
Frustration welled up, hot and bitter. “Fine. I’ll go to the 1500s. But maybe—just once—you could tell me your mysterious ‘sources’?”
His face went ghost-pale. His hands trembled at his sides.
“I can’t,” he whispered. “If I speak their names… I’ll die.”
I took a step closer, anger flaring. “Curse you—and your brother. You’re both fools. Playing with forces you barely understand.”
John James winced like I’d struck him, pain and panic flickering in his eyes. But then something shifted. He straightened, his voice hardening with resolve.
“Balthazar is hunting us all,” he said. “And you’re wasting time.”
He grabbed my arm again, his grip iron-clad.
“Take the blade to Zampa. Then find Malik. Give him the journal. He’s the only one who can stop what’s coming. He is our last hope. For the love of God, Alina—do this quickly. Or everything we know will be lost.”