The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)

by Olivie Blake

“If that’s the case, I will alert the other candidate the slot is theirs. A traveler,” he clarified. “A young man, very intelligent, well-trained. Perhaps better trained than you.” A pause to let that sink in. “It’s a very rare gift he possesses,” Atlas conceded, “but he has, in my view, a considerably less useful ability than yours.”

“We have two of the finest physicists the world has seen for generations, a uniquely gifted illusionist, a telepath the likes of which are incomparable, an empath capable of luring a crowd of thousands—”

Though, Atlas Blakely might well have a point. Presumably there was a world in which Tristan’s best friend in the office did not continue to believe he was getting away with fucking Tristan’s fiancée, unaware that the shoddy contraception charm left on his prick was visible to Tristan from well across the corner office.

“I know what people want to hear. You make them want to hear what you know.”

Really, there was nothing more dangerous than a woman who knew her own worth.

He felt a kinship with one of the five. One of them was a prize; something the man, Atlas, had recently won. He felt a bit smug over it. Two of them were a set, they came together. They didn’t like chasing each other’s tails like stars in orbit but too bad, that’s what they were. One was a vacancy, a question, the edge of a narrow cliff. Another was … the answer, like an echo, though she couldn’t quite see why. She tried to see their faces clearly but couldn’t; they warped in and out of view, beckoning her closer.

A uniquely upsetting curse, really, how little he knew how to exist when she wasn’t there;

It was the kind of look that reminded him she’d set him on fire the first time she’d met him without even batting an eye. He’d like her more if she did it more often.

But what the Society appeared to know—what Atlas Blakely seemed to know that others typically didn’t—was that Callum’s work was more accurately defined as that of a vigorous type of empath.

“Because the problem with knowledge, Miss Rhodes, is its inexhaustible craving. The more of it you have, the less you feel you know,” said Atlas. “Thus, men often go mad in search of it.”

Then Tristan’s attention traveled slowly back to Callum, who stiffened in apprehension. Delightful, Reina thought. The only thing better would be if Tristan informed them that wasn’t Parisa’s real nose. “I won’t tell them if you won’t,” Tristan said to Callum. For a moment, the air in the room was so tense that even the plants grew wary. Then, abruptly, Callum laughed. “Let’s keep it between us, then,” he agreed, reaching out to clap a hand around Tristan’s shoulder. “Better to let them wonder.” So there was an us and them now. That was considerably less delightful.

Atlas often said, most forms of knowledge were better reserved until it was certain that such revelations wouldn’t be abused.

“At least tell me,” Tristan sighed, “that you can recognize the significance of what’s happening here.” “Recognize it? Yes, certainly. An enormous magical event,” Callum confirmed, “which will soon be swallowed up by some other enormous magical event.” That was how all of science worked, anyway.

“I would have thought Dalton would be the first to move on,” Aiya commented, frowning. “I can’t imagine what he’d still be doing here.”

“Dalton’s an animator,”

“It’s not the meaning,” he continued. “Everyone wants a purpose, but there is no purpose. There is only alive and not alive. Do you like this?” he asked, abruptly shifting in tone. “I made it for you.”

She could see the evidence that he, whatever he was—memory or hologram or ghost—had been tampered with, the jerks of his motions so unlike the fastidious Dalton she knew. It was unclear how honest he was being with her. His memories had clearly been altered, either by the trauma of his past experience or by the clever hand of his present self.

“Someone always dies. They have to, or it goes wrong.”

He stole forward, prowling toward her, and in that moment, she guessed what he was. He flickered slightly, moving in bursts. Alive, but barely. Sentient, but not in control. Not a ghost. Not a memory. “Are you an animation?” she asked, forgetting her previous question. Dalton’s mouth twisted wryly. His lips parted. Then Parisa felt a hand on her collar, dragging her backward. “Get out,” said a deep voice. “Now.”

Depending on how you viewed it, Persephone had either been stolen or she had run from Demeter to avoid being used. Either way, she had made herself queen.

“What’s your sister’s name?” asked Callum, as Parisa blinked. “You were close, of course, until you weren’t. Your brother has some sort of strong name, I suspect; masculine, difficult to fracture. He’s the heir, isn’t he? The oldest, and then your sister, and then you. He favored you, your brother, and your sister turned you away … and she didn’t believe you, did she? When you told her what you saw inside his mind.”

“I’m not quite sure I have the precise hue.” “For what?” But he could feel her stiffen in his arms. “Your wedding dress,” he replied, smiling politely, and for a moment, she froze. “How is your husband, by the way? Alive, I assume. I imagine that’s why you changed your name, went to school in Paris? You don’t strike me as the career-oriented type, so I assume you were fleeing something. And what better place to hide than within the walls of a magically warded university?”

“You can see me?” asked the man, incredulous. Tristan supposed he might have been using a cloaking illusion, but was interrupted before he could ask. “Well, never mind, that’s obvious,” the man sighed, mostly to himself. He was not British; he was extremely American, in fact, albeit different from whatever sort of American that Libby happened to be. (Tristan wondered why she had come to mind, but dismissed it. Lately, she was always coming to mind.) “Obviously you can see me or you wouldn’t have said anything,” the man remarked amicably, “only I’ve never actually encountered another traveler before.”

“Yes, well, play responsibly.” The man gave Tristan a lopsided grimace. “I’m Ezra, by the way.” “Tristan,” said Tristan, offering Ezra a hand to shake. “Tristan,” echoed Ezra, brows twitching as he accepted Tristan’s grip. “But you’re not—?” Tristan waited, but Ezra stopped, clearing his throat. “Never mind. Best of luck, Tristan,” he said, and strode forward, gradually disappearing into the thick fog that covered the house’s lawn.

“Who would Parisa be if she had not seen her brother’s thoughts? If Reina had not been leeched upon from birth?”

“You said there was a traveler,” she said. “I wanted to know if it was Nico’s friend.”

“The traveler,” she said. “The one you rejected to choose me instead. Who was it?” She knew without a doubt that this would be the last question she was permitted to ask. “He was not rejected,” said Atlas, before inclining his head in dismissal, rising to his feet and leading her conclusively to the door.

“What we need is to get ourselves in, but then get on top somehow. Power begets power and all that.”