The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)

by Olivie Blake

and we have always been a species highly susceptible to the call of the distant unknown.

When Julius Caesar rose to power, it became obvious to the ancient Caretakers of Alexandria that an empire could sit successfully only upon a chair of three legs: subjugation, desperation, and ignorance.

The promise of your talents is nothing compared to whatever you ultimately prove to be.”

She was looking forward to seeing her boyfriend, or so she said, though Reina wasn’t convinced. Libby’s boyfriend (none of them could remember his name, or perhaps Libby had never actually told them what it was) seemed to exclusively call at unwelcome times, leading Libby to make a face of irritation when she glanced at her screen. She denied her annoyance, of course, most vehemently to Nico, but as far as Reina could tell, Libby’s Pavlovian response to any mention of her boyfriend was to quickly stifle a grimace.

Precognition. Terrible. He spared no envy for Cassandra.

“Anyway,” Callum went on, “I noticed that if I did certain things—said things a certain way, or held her eye contact while I did them—I could make her … soften toward me.” The brandy burned in Tristan’s mouth, more fumes than flavor. The opposite of the tang from his last foray into absinthe, with yet distressingly heightened results. “I suppose I was ten when I realized I had made my mother love me. Then I realized I could make her do other things, too. Put the glass down. Put the knife down. Unpack the suitcase. Step away from the balcony.” Callum’s smile was grim. “Now she’s perfectly content. The matriarch of the most successful media conglomerate in the world, happily satisfied by one of the many boyfriends half her age. My father hasn’t bothered her in over a decade. But she still loves me differently; falsely. She loves me because I put it there. Because I made myself her anchor to this life, and therefore she loves me only as much as she can love any sort of chain. She loves me like a prisoner of war.”