LIBBY
Five Hours Ago
THE DAY LIBBY RHODES met Nicolás Ferrer de Varona was
coincidentally also the day she discovered that incensed, a word she had previously had no use for, was now the only conceivable way to describe the sensation of being near
him. That had been the day Libby accidentally set fire to the lining of several centuries-old drapes in the office of Professor Breckenridge, Dean of Students, clinching both Libby’s admission to New York University of Magical Arts as well as her undying hatred for Nico in a single incident. All
the days since that one had been a futile exercise in restraint.
Incandescence aside, this was to be a very different sort of day, as it was finally going to be the last of them. Barring any accidental encounters, which Libby was certain they’d both furiously ignore—Manhattan was a big place, after all, with plenty of people ravenously avoiding each other—she and Nico were finally going their separate ways. She’d
practically burst into song over it that morning, which her
boyfriend Ezra presumed to be the consequence of the occasion’s more immediate matters: graduating top of her class (tied with Nico, but there was no use focusing on that), or delivering the NYUMA valedictory speech. Neither
accolade was anything to scoff at, obviously, but the more enticing prospect was the newness of the era approaching.
It was the last day Libby Rhodes would ever set eyes on Nico de Varona, and she couldn’t have been more exuberant about the dawn of a simpler, superior, less Nico-infested life.
“Rhodes,” he acknowledged upon taking his seat beside her on the commencement stage. He slid her surname
around like a marble on his tongue before sniffing the air, facetious as always. “Hm. Do you smell smoke, Rhodes?”
Very funny. Hilarious.
“Careful, Varona. You know this auditorium’s on a fault line, don’t you?”
“Of course. Have to, seeing as I’ll be working on it next year, won’t I?” he mused, and then peered into the crowd, half a tick of laughter tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ah, Fowler’s here too, I see.”
Libby bristled at the mention of Ezra. “Why wouldn’t he be here?”
“Oh, no reason. Just thought you might’ve leveled up by now, Rhodes.”
Do not engage, do not engage, do not engage— “Ezra’s just been promoted, actually,” she said coolly. “From mediocrity to competence?”
“No, from—”
Libby broke off, tightening one fist and counting silently to three.
“He’s a project manager now.”
“My goodness,” Nico said drily, “how impressive.” She shot him a glare, and he smiled.
“Your tie’s crooked,” she informed him, giving her voice a lilt of impassivity as his hand reflexively rose to straighten it. “Did Gideon not fix it for you on your way in?”
“He did, but—” Nico broke off, catching himself, while Libby silently congratulated her success. “Very funny,
Rhodes.”
“What’s funny?”
“Gideon’s my nanny, hilarious. Something new and different.”
“What, like mocking Ezra is suddenly revolutionary?” “It’s not my fault the subject of Fowler’s inadequacy is
evergreen,” Nico replied, and were it not for the fact that they were in front of all of their classmates and a great number of their faculty and staff as well, Libby would not
have paused for an additional centering breath and instead entertained whatever her abilities compelled her to do.
Unfortunately, setting fire to Nico de Varona’s undergarments was considered unacceptable behavior.
Last day, Libby reminded herself. Last day of Nico.
He could say whatever he liked, then, and it meant nothing.
“How’s your speech?” Nico asked, and she rolled her eyes.
“Like I’d discuss it with you.”
“Why on earth not? I know you get stage fright.”
“I do not get—” Another breath. Two breaths, for good measure. “I do not get stage fright,” she managed, more
evenly this time, “and even if I did, what exactly would you do to help me?”
“Oh, did you think I was offering to help?” Nico asked. “Apologies, I was not.”
“Still disappointed you weren’t the one elected to deliver it?”
“Please,” Nico scoffed under his breath, “you and I both know nobody wasted any time voting on something as
idiotic as who should give the commencement speech. Half the people here are already drunk,” he pointed out, and
while she knew he was more right than she’d ever admit to him being, she also knew it was a sore subject. He could pretend at nonchalance as much as he liked, but she knew he never enjoyed losing to her, whether he considered it a subject of importance or not.
She knew it because in his position she would have felt exactly the same way.
“Oh?” she prompted, amused. “If nobody cared, then how did I win?”
“Because you’re the only one who voted, Rhodes, it’s like you’re not even listening to me—”
“Rhodes,” cautioned Breckenridge, breezing by their seats on the commencement stage as the processions
around them continued. “Varona. Is it too much to ask you to be civil for the next hour?”
“Professor,” they both replied in acknowledgement, forcing twin smiles as Nico once again fussed impulsively with his tie.
“No trouble at all,” Libby assured the Dean, knowing that even Nico would not be so idiotic as to disagree. “Everything’s fine.”
Breckenridge arched a brow. “Morning going well, then?” “Swimmingly,” said Nico, flashing her one of his
charming smiles. It was the worst thing about him, really, that he could be such a non-headache with everyone who wasn’t Libby. Nico de Varona was every teacher’s favorite; when it came to their peers, everyone wanted to be him or date him, or at the very least befriend him.
In some highly distant, extremely generous sense, Libby could see how that was understandable. Nico was
enormously likable, unfairly so, and no matter how clever or talented Libby was, students and faculty alike preferred Nico to her. Whatever gift it was he had, it was like Midas; the effortless turning of nonsense to gold, more a reflex than a skill, and Libby, a gifted academic, had never been able to learn it. Nico’s brand of easy charm had no metric for study, no identifiable markers of finesse.
He also had a monstrous capacity to fool people into thinking he knew what he was talking about, which he resolutely did not. Sometimes, maybe. But certainly not always.
Worse than anything Nico happened to be as a person was what he had, which was the job Libby had really wanted
—not that she’d ever admit that. Sure, being hired at the best magical venture capitalist firm in Manhattan was no small thing. She’d be providing funding to innovative medeian technology, able to choose from a portfolio of exciting ideas with massive potential for growth and social capital. Now was the time to act; the world was
overpopulated, resources drained and overused, alternative energy sources more imperative than ever. Down the line,
she could change the very structure of medeian
advancements—could choose this start-up or that to alter
the progression of the entire global economy—and she’d be paid well to do it, too. But she’d wanted the research
fellowship at NYUMA, and that, of course, had gone straight to Nico.
As Breckenridge took her seat and Nico decided to
pretend at reasonability, Libby pondered what it would be like in her blissful future where things didn’t always come down to the two of them competing. For four years Nico had been an inescapable feature of her life, like some sort of
bothersome vestigial organ. Physical medeians with their mastery of the elements were rare; so rare, in fact, that
they had been the only two. For four long, torturous years, they’d been shoved into every class together without respite, the extent of their prowess matched only by the force of their mutual antipathy.
For Nico, who was used to getting his way, Libby was purely an annoyance. She’d found him smug and arrogant from the moment they met and hadn’t hesitated to tell him so, and there was nothing Nico de Varona hated more than someone who didn’t adore him on sight. It was probably the
first trauma he’d ever suffered; knowing him, the idea that a woman could exist who didn’t worship at his feet must have kept him up at night. For Libby, however, things were far more complex. For all that their personalities clashed, Nico was something far worse than just an average asshole. He was also an obnoxious, classist reminder of everything Libby failed to possess.
Nico came from a family of prominent medeians, and had trained privately from his opulent palace (she assumed) in
Havana since he was a child. Libby, a Pittsburgh native
whose suburban lineage had no medeians or even witches
to speak of, had planned to go to Columbia until NYUMA, via Breckenridge, intervened. She had known nothing of basic medeian principles, starting off behind in every aspect of magical theory, and had worked twice as hard as everyone else—only for that effort to be dismissed in favor of yes, that’s very good, Libby… and now Nico, how about you try?
Nico de Varona would never know what that felt like,
Libby thought again, as she had countless times. Nico was handsome, clever, charming, rich. Libby was… powerful, yes, equally as powerful and likely to become more so over time given her sense of discipline, but with four years of
Nico de Varona as a yardstick for magical achievement,
Libby found herself unfairly measured. If not for him she might have breezed through her studies, perhaps even
found them dull. She would not have had a rival, nor even a peer. After all, without Nico, who could even hold a candle to what she could do?
No one. She’d never met anyone with anything even
close to hers or Nico’s proficiency with physical magic. The little tremors from the slightest flaring of his temper would take a lesser medeian four hours and herculean effort to create from nothing, the same way a mere spark from Libby had been enough to secure a full scholarship to NYUMA and
lucrative full-time employment after that. That sort of power would have been revered, even exalted, if either of them
had been singularities—which, for the first time, they would be. Without Nico for comparison beside her, Libby would
finally be free to excel without having to push herself half to death to stand out.
It was a strange thought, actually, and strangely lonely.
But still, thrilling all the same.
She felt a little rumble under her feet and glanced over, noting that Nico looked lost in thought.
“Hey,” she said, nudging him. “Stop.”
He gave her a bored glance. “It’s not always me, Rhodes.
I don’t go around blaming you for forest fires.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know the difference between an earthquake and a Varona tantrum.”
“Careful,” he cautioned, gaze flicking to where Ezra sat beside her parents. “Don’t want Fowler to see us having
another row, do we? Might get the wrong impression.”
Honestly, this again. “You do realize your obsession with my boyfriend is childish, don’t you, Varona? It’s beneath
you.”
“I didn’t realize you thought anything was beneath me,” Nico replied lazily.
Across the stage, Breckenridge shot them a warning glance.
“Just get over it,” Libby muttered. Nico and Ezra had
loathed each other during the two years they’d all been at NYUMA together before Ezra graduated, which happened to be a separate matter from Nico’s opposition to her. “You never have to see each other again. We,” she amended belatedly, “never have to see each other again.”
“Don’t make it sound so tragic, Rhodes.”
She shot him a glare, and he turned his head, half- smiling at her.
“Where there’s smoke,” he murmured, and she felt another rush of loathing.
“Varona, can you just—”
“—pleased to introduce your co-valedictorian, Elizabeth Rhodes!” came the voice of the commencement announcer, as Libby glanced up, realizing that their entire audience was now staring expectantly at her, Ezra giving her a little frown from the crowd that suggested he had observed her
bickering with Nico yet again.
She forced a smile, rising to her feet, and gave Nico’s ankle a kick as she went.
“Try not to touch your hair,” was Nico’s parting benediction, muttered under his breath and of course
intended to make her fixate on her bangs, which for the entire two minutes of her prepared speech threatened to fall into her eyes. One of his lesser magics, getting under her skin, and by the time she finished, she wanted very badly to kick him again, falling into her seat and reminding herself how marvelous life was going to be in approximately twenty minutes, when she would be free of him forever.
“Well done, you two,” Breckenridge said wryly, shaking their hands as they departed the stage. “An entire commencement ceremony, impressive.”
“Yes, we are very impressive,” Nico agreed, in a tone that Libby would have slapped him for, only Breckenridge gave a low chuckle of amusement and shook her head
fondly, departing in the opposite direction as Libby and Nico made their way down the stairs.
Libby paused to conjure something terrible; a final,
devastating parting malediction. Something to haunt him while she walked away.
But then instead, she held a hand out to him, deciding to be an adult.
Civil.
Et cetera.
“Have, you know. A good life,” she said, and Nico glanced skeptically at her palm.
“That’s the line you’re going with, Rhodes?” he asked, pursing his lips. “Come on, you can do better. I know you
must have rehearsed it in the shower.”
God, he was infuriating. “Forget it,” she said, retracting her hand and pivoting away. “See you never, Varona.”
“Better,” he called after her, pairing it with careless applause. “Bra-va, Elizabeth—”
She whipped around, curling a fist. “What was your line, then?”
“Well, why bother telling you now?” he asked, with a grin that was more like a self-satisfied smirk. “Maybe I’ll just let you ponder it. You know,” he added, taking a step towards her, “when you need something to occupy your mind over
the course of your monotonous life with Fowler.” “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” she
snapped. “Pigtail-pulling isn’t sexy, Varona. In ten years you’ll still be alone with no one but Gideon to pick out your ties for you, and believe me, I won’t spare you a single
thought.”
“Whereas in ten years you’ll be saddled with three baby Fowlers,” Nico retorted, “wondering what the fuck happened to your career while your patently unremarkable husband asks you where dinner is.”
There it was again:
Incensed.
“If I never see you again, Varona,” Libby fumed quietly, “it’ll still be too soon—”
“Pardon me,” came the voice of a man beside them, and Nico and Libby both rounded on him.
“What?” they demanded in unison, and he, whoever he was, smiled.
He was dark-skinned, his head shaved and slightly gleaming, appearing somewhere in his forties. He was also exceedingly British, from mannerisms to dress (tweed; very much tweed, with an accent of tartan), and quite tall.
Also, enormously unwelcome.
“Nicolás Ferrer de Varona and Elizabeth Rhodes?” the man asked. “I wonder if I might make you an offer.”
“We have jobs,” Libby informed him irritably, not wanting to wait for Nico’s inevitably patrician response, “and more importantly, we’re in the middle of something.”
“Yes, I see that,” the man replied, looking amused. “However, I am on something of a tight schedule, and I’m afraid when it comes to my offer, I really must have the
best.”
“And which of us would that be, exactly?” Nico asked, holding Libby’s glare for a gratuitous moment of conceit before smoothly turning towards the man who stood waiting, an umbrella hooked onto his left arm. “Unless, of course, the best is—”
“It’s both of you,” the man confirmed, as Nico and Libby exchanged a heated glance akin to of course it is, “or, perhaps, one.” He shrugged, and Libby, despite her disinterest, frowned slightly. “Which of you succeeds is up to you, not me.”
“Succeeds?” she asked, before she quite realized she was speaking. “What does that mean?”
“There’s only room for five,” the man said. “Six are chosen. The best in the world,” he added.
“The world?” Libby echoed doubtfully. “Sounds fairly hyperbolic.”
The man inclined his head.
“Well, since you asked, I’m happy to verify our parameters. There are nearly ten billion people in the world at present, correct?” he prompted, and Libby and Nico, both a bit bewildered, nodded warily. “Nine and a half billion, to be more specific, of which only a portion are magical. Five million, give or take, who can be classified as witches. Of those, only six percent are identified as medeian-caliber magicians, eligible for training at the university level at institutions sprinkled across the globe. Only ten percent of
those will qualify for the best universities, like this one,” he said, gesturing around to the NYUMA banners. “Of those,
only a fraction—one percent or less—are considered by our selection committee; the vast majority will be cut without a second glance. That leaves three hundred people. Of those, another ten percent might have the requisite qualifications; specialties, academic performance, personality traits, et
cetera.”
Thirty people. Nico gave Libby a smug look like he knew she was doing the math, and she shot back a contemptuous one like she knew he wasn’t.
“Then comes the fun part, of course—the real
selectivity,” the man continued. “Which students have the rarest magic? The most inquisitive minds? The vast majority
of your most talented classmates will go on to serve the magical economy as accountants, investors, magical
lawyers,” he informed them. “Maybe the rare few will create something truly special. But only thirty people in total are
good enough to be considered extraordinary, and of those, only six are rare enough to be invited through the door.”
The man smiled slightly. “By the end of the year, of course, only five will walk back out of it. But that’s a matter for future consideration.”
Libby, who was still a little taken aback by the selection parameters, allowed Nico to speak first.
“You think there are four people better than Rhodes or me?”
“I think there are six people of equally remarkable
talent,” the man corrected with an air of repetition, as if that much had already been established, “of which you may be qualified or may not.”
“So you want us to compete against each other, then,” Libby observed sourly, flicking a glance at Nico, “again.”
“And four others,” the man agreed, holding out a card for them both. “Atlas Blakely,” he informed them, as Libby
glanced down, eyeing the card. Atlas Blakely, Caretaker. “As I said, I would like to make you an offer.”
“Caretaker of what?” Nico asked, and the man, Atlas, gave him a genial smile.
“Better that I enlighten all of you at once,” he said. “Forgive me, but it is quite a lengthy explanation, and the offer does expire in a matter of hours.”
Libby, who was never particularly impulsive, remained warily opposed. “You’re not even going to tell us what your offer is?” she asked him, finding his recruitment tactics
needlessly furtive. “Why on earth would we ever agree to accept it?”
“Well, that part’s really not up to me, is it?” Atlas prompted, shrugging. “Anyway, as I said, I do have quite a pressing schedule,” he informed them, tucking his umbrella onto his arm again. “Time zones are a tricky business.
Which of you may I expect?” he asked, glancing pointedly between them, and Libby frowned.
“I thought you said that was up to us?”
“Oh, it is, of course, eventually,” Atlas said with a nod. “I merely presumed, given how eager you both seemed to be to go your separate ways, that only one of you would accept my invitation.”
Her glance collided with Nico’s, both of them bristling. “Well, Rhodes?” Nico said, in his softly mocking tone. “Do
you want to tell him I’m better, or should I?”
“Libs,” came Ezra’s voice, jogging up to her from behind. “Ready to go? Your mom’s waiting outs-”
“Oh, hello, Fowler,” Nico said, turning to Ezra with a disdainful smile. “Project manager, hm?”
Libby inwardly flinched. Of course he’d said it like an insult. It was a prestigious position for any medeian, but
Nico de Varona wasn’t just any medeian. He would go onto be something big, something… remarkable.
He was one of the six best in the world.
In the world.
And so was she. For what, though?
Libby blinked, startling herself out of her thoughts, when she realized Nico was still talking.
“—in the middle of something, Fowler. Perhaps you could give us a moment?”
Ezra slid a wary gaze to Libby, frowning. “Are you…?” “I’m fine,” she assured him. “Just… wait one second,
okay? Just one second,” she repeated, nudging him away and turning back to Atlas before realizing, belatedly, that Ezra hadn’t given any indication he’d noticed anyone else standing there.
“Well, Nicolás?” Atlas was asking Nico, looking expectant.
“Oh, it’s Nico, please.” Nico slipped Atlas’ card into his pocket, giving Libby a look of pompous satisfaction as he offered his right hand to be shaken. “When should I expect to meet with you, Mr. Blakely?”
Oh no. Oh no.
“You’re welcome to call me Atlas, Nico. You may use the card for transport this afternoon,” Atlas replied, turning to Libby. “And as for you, Miss Rhodes, I must say I’m
disappointed,” he said, as her mind raced in opposition, “but in any case, it’s been a pleas-”
“I’ll be there,” Libby blurted hastily, and to her fury, Nico’s mouth twitched with expectation, obviously both
entertained and unsurprised by her decision. “It’s just an offer, right?” she prompted, approximately half to Nico, half to Atlas, and a sliver of whatever remained to herself. “I can choose to accept or reject it after you explain what it is, can’t I?”
“Certainly,” Atlas confirmed, inclining his head. “I’ll see you both this evening, then.”
“Just one thing,” Libby said, pausing him after a quick glance at Ezra, who was observing them from a distance through narrowed eyes. “My boyfriend can’t see you, can he?” To Atlas’ head shake in confirmation, she asked
hesitantly, “Then what does he think we’re doing right now, exactly?”
“Oh, I believe he’s filling in the blanks with something his mind considers reasonable,” Atlas said, and Libby felt herself pale a little, not overly enthralled about what that might be. “Until this afternoon, then,” Atlas added, before
disappearing from sight, leaving Nico to shake with silent laughter in his wake.
“What are you snickering at?” Libby hissed, glaring at him, and after a moment to compose himself Nico managed a shrug, winking over her shoulder at Ezra.
“Guess you’ll find out. See you later, Rhodes,” he said, and departed with an ostentatious bow, leaving Libby to wonder if she didn’t, in fact, smell smoke.
REINA
Four Hours Ago
THE DAY REINA MORI WAS BORN there had been a fire blazing nearby. For an urban environment, particularly one so
unaccustomed to flame, there was a heightened sense of mortality that day. Fire was so primitive, so archaic a problem; for Tokyo, an epicenter of advancements in both magical and mortal technologies, to suffer something as backwards as the unsophistication of boundless flame was troublingly biblical. Sometimes, when Reina slept, the smell
of it crept into her nose and she woke up coughing, retching a little over the side of her bed until the memory of smoke had cleared from her lungs.
The doctors knew she possessed power of the highest medeian caliber right away, exceeding even the trinkets of normal magic, which were rare enough on their own. There wasn’t a lot of natural life to speak of in the high-rise of the hospital, but what did exist—the occasional decorative plants sitting idly in the corners, handfuls of cut-flowers in vases meant for sympathy—had crept towards her infant
form like nervous little children, anxious and yearning and fearful of dying.
Reina’s grandmother called her birth a miracle, saying that when Reina took her first breath, the rest of the world sighed back in relief, clinging to the bounty of life she gave them. Reina, on the other hand, considered her first breath to be the beginning of a lifetime’s set of chores.
The truth was that being labeled a naturalist shouldn’t have been such a drain on her as it was. There were other medeian naturalists, many who were born in rural areas of the country, who typically opted to enlist with large agricultural companies; there, they could be paid
handsomely for their services in increasing rice production or purifying water. That Reina was considered to be one of them, or that she would be called a naturalist at all, was
something of a misnomer. Other medeians asked things of nature, and if they beckoned sweetly or worthily or
powerfully enough, nature gave. In Reina’s case, nature was like an irritating sibling, or possibly an incurable addict who happened to be a relative, always popping up to make
unreasonable demands.
There was no reason to go to school in Osaka, really, except to get out of Tokyo. Tokyo’s magical university was
plenty good, if not perhaps a bit better, but Reina had never been overly thrilled by the prospect of living in the same
place into perpetuity. She had searched and searched for experiences like hers—something that was less look what a savior you are and more look what a burden it is to care for
so many things—and had found it in mythology, mostly. There, witches, or gods who were perceived to be witches, bore experiences Reina found intensely relatable and, in
some cases, desirable: Exile to islands. Six months in the Underworld. The compulsive turning of one’s enemies to
something which couldn’t speak. Her teachers encouraged her to practice her naturalism, to take botany and herbology and focus her studies on the minutiae of plants, but Reina
wanted the classics. She wanted literature, and more importantly, the freedom it brought to think of something which did not gaze at her with the blank neediness of chlorophyll. When Tokyo pressed a scholarship into her hands, imploring her to study with their leading naturalists, she took up Osaka’s freer curriculum instead.
A small escape, but it was one, still.
She graduated from the Osaka Institute of Magic and got a job as a waitress in a cafe and tearoom near the magical epicenter of the city. The best part about being a waitress where magic did most of the legwork? Plenty of time to read. And write. Reina, who’d had countless agricultural firms ready to pounce the moment she’d graduated (several of them for rival companies from China and the United States as well as Japan), had done everything she could to steer clear of working amid the vastness of planting fields, where both the earth and its inhabitants would drain her for their purposes. The cafe contained no plants, certainly no animals, and while from time to time the wooden furniture would warp under her hands, going so far as to longingly
spelling her name in the exposed rings, it was easy enough to ignore.
Which wasn’t to say people had ceased to come looking for her. Today, it was a tall, dark-skinned man in a Burberry trench coat.
To his credit, he didn’t look like the usual capitalist villain. He looked a bit like Sherlock Holmes, in fact. He came in, sat at a table, and placed three small seedlings on its surface,
waiting until Reina had risen to her feet with a sigh.
There was nobody else in the cafe; she assumed he’d taken care of that.
“Make them grow,” he suggested, apropos of nothing.
He said it in a restrained Tokyo dialect rather than a typical Osaka one, which made two things very clear: One, he knew precisely who she was, or at least where she was from. Two, this was obviously not his first language.
Reina gave the man a dull look. “I don’t make them grow,” she said in English. “They just do it.”
He looked unfazed in a smug sort of way, as if he’d guessed she might say that, answering in an accented
English that was intensely, poshly British. “You think that has nothing to do with you?”
She knew what he expected her to say. Today, like all days, he would not get it.
“You want something from me,” Reina observed, adding tonelessly, “Everyone does.”
“I do,” the man agreed. “I’d like a coffee, please.”
“Great.” She waved a hand over her shoulder. “It’ll be out in two minutes. Anything else?”
“Yes,” he said. “Does it work better when you’re angry?
When you’re sad?”
So, not coffee then. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There are other naturalists.” He fixed her with a long, searching glance. “Why should I choose you?”
“You shouldn’t,” she said. “I’m a waitress, not a naturalist.”
One of the seedlings split open and dug into the wood of the table.
“There are gifts and there are talents,” the man said. “What would you say this is?”
“Neither.” The second seedling cracked. “A curse, maybe.”
“Hm.” The man glanced down at the seeds, then up at Reina. “What are you reading?”
She’d forgotten she still had the book tucked under her arm. “A translation of a manuscript by Circe, the Greek
witch.”
His mouth twitched. “That manuscript is long lost, isn’t it?”
“People read it,” Reina said. “They wrote down what it contained.”
“About as reliable as the New Testament, then,” the man said.
Reina shrugged. “It’s what I have.”
“What if I said you could have the real thing?”
The third seedling shot up, colliding with the ceiling, and when it fell, it dug into the grains of the floor.
For a few seconds, neither of them moved.
“It doesn’t exist,” Reina said, clearing her throat. “You just said so.”
“No, I specifically said it was long-lost,” the man said. “Not everyone gets to see it.”
Reina felt her mouth tighten. It was a strange bribe, but she’d been offered things before. Everything came with a price. “So what would I have to do, then?” she asked, irritated. “Promise you eight years of harvest in exchange?
Make up a percentage of your annual profits? No, thank you.”
She turned and something cracked beneath her feet.
Little green roots sprouted from the floor and crept out like tendrils, like tentacles, reaching for her ankles and tapping at the base of her shoes.
“How about,” the man posed neutrally, “in exchange for three answers?”
Reina turned sharply, and the man didn’t hesitate.
Clearly he’d had some practice leveraging people before. “What makes it happen?” he asked. His first question, and certainly not the one Reina would have gone with if she’d been the one given the choice.
“I don’t know.” He arched a brow, waiting, and she sighed. “Fine, it… uses me. Uses my energy, my thoughts, my emotions. If there’s more energy to give, then it takes
more of it. Most of the time I’m restraining it, but if I let my mind go—”
“What happens to you in those moments? No, wait, let me clarify,” he amended, apparently sticking to his promise of three answers. “Does it drain you?”
She set her jaw. “It gives a little back, sometimes. But normally, yes.”
“I see. Last question,” he said. “What happens if you try to use it?”
“I told you,” she said, “I don’t use it.”
He sat back, gesturing to the two seedlings still
remaining on the table, one half-heartedly growing roots while the other lay split open and bare.
The implication there was clear: Try it and see.
She weighed the outcomes, running the calculations.
“Who are you?” Reina asked, tearing her attention from the seedling.
“Atlas Blakely, Caretaker,” replied the man. “And what is it you care for?”
“I’d be happy to tell you,” he said, “but the truth is it’s a bit exclusive. I can’t technically invite you yet, as you’re still tied for sixth on our list.”
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means only six can be invited,” Atlas said plainly. “Your professors at the Osaka Institute seem to think you will refuse my offer, which means your spot is somewhat…” He trailed off. “Well, I’ll be frank. It’s not unanimous, Miss
Mori. I have exactly twenty minutes to convince the rest of the council that you should be our sixth choice.”
“Who says I want to be chosen?”
He shrugged. “Maybe you don’t,” he permitted. “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.”
She said nothing. The plant, which had curled around her ankle, gave a malcontented sigh, wilting slightly at her apprehension.
“Very well,” Atlas said, rising to his feet, and Reina flinched.
“Wait.” She swallowed. “Show me the manuscript.” Atlas arched a brow.
“You said three answers were all I had to give,” Reina reminded him, and the corners of his mouth quirked up, approving.
“So I did, didn’t I?”
He waved a hand, producing a handwoven book, and levitated it in the air between them. The cover slid open
carefully, revealing contents of tiny, scrawled handwriting that appeared to be a mix of ancient Greek and pseudo- hieroglyphic runes.
“What spell were you reading?” he asked as she reached for it, hand already half-extended. “Apologies,” Atlas said,
waving the book back from her a few inches, “I can’t let you touch it. It already shouldn’t be out of the archives, but again, I’m hoping you will prove my efforts worthwhile.
What spell were you reading?”
“I, um. The cloaking spell.” Reina stared at the pages, only understanding about half of it. Osaka’s program for rune-reading had been somewhat elementary; Tokyo’s
would have been better, but again, it had come with strings. “The one she used to mask the appearance of the island.”
Atlas nodded, the pages turning of their own accord, and there, on the page, was a crude drawing of Aiaia, part of the writing stripped away from age. It was a crude, unfinished illusion spell, which was something Reina had not been able to study at all beyond basic medeian theory. Illusion courses at the Osaka Institute were for illusionists, which she was not.
“Oh,” she said. Atlas smiled.
“Fifteen minutes,” he reminded her, and then he vanished the book.
So this, too, came with strings. That was obvious. Reina had never liked this sort of persuasion, but there was a logical piece of her that understood people would never
stop asking. She was a well of power, a vault with a heavy door, and people would either find ways to break in or she would have to simply open them on occasion. Only for a worthy purchaser.
She closed her eyes.
Can we? asked the seeds in their little seed language, which felt mostly like tiny pricks against her skin. Like children’s voices, pleasepleaseplease Mother may we?
She sighed.
Grow, she told them in their language. She had never known what it felt like to them, but it seemed they
understood her well enough. Have what you need from me,
she added grumpily, just do it.
The relief was a slither from inside her bones:
Yessssssssssssssssss.
When she opened her eyes, the seedling on the ground had blossomed into a thin series of branches, stretching from her feet up to the ceiling and then sprawling over it, spreading across it like a rash. The one embedded in the
table had cracked the wood in half, sprouting upwards from it like moss over a barren tree trunk. The last, the broken one, quivered and burst in a ripe stretch of color, taking the form of vines which then proceeded to bear fruit, each one ripening at an astronomical rate while they watched.
When the apples were round and heavy and temptingly ready to be plucked, Reina exhaled, releasing the ache in her shoulders, and glanced expectantly at her visitor.
“Ah,” Atlas said, shifting in his seat. The plants had left little room for him to sit comfortably, and he no longer had space for his legs. “So it’s both a gift and a talent, then.”
Reina knew her own worth well enough not to comment. “What other books do you have?”
“I haven’t extended an offer yet, Miss Mori,” Atlas replied.
“You’ll want me,” she said, lifting her chin. “Nobody can do what I can do.”
“True, but you don’t know the other candidates on the list,” he pointed out. “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—”
“It doesn’t matter who else you have.” Reina set her jaw. “You’ll still want me.”
Atlas considered her a moment.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s quite true, isn’t it?”
Ha ha ha, laughed the plants. Ha ha, Mother wins, we win.
“Stop it,” Reina whispered to the branches that had swept down to brush the top of her head with approval, and Atlas rose to his feet with a chuckle, extending a hand which contained a single slip of cardstock.
“Take this,” he said, “and in about four hours, you’ll be transported for orientation.”
“For what?” Reina asked, and he shrugged.
“Better I not have to repeat myself,” he replied. “Best of luck to you, Reina Mori. This will not be your final test.”
Then he was gone, and Reina scowled.
The last thing she needed was a cafe full of plants, and now his coffee sat forgotten on the counter, already going cold.
TRISTAN
Three Hours Ago
“NO,” TRISTAN SAID when the door opened. “Not again. Not now.”
“Mate,” groaned Rupesh, “you’ve been in here for ages.” “Yes,” Tristan agreed. “Doing my job. Incredible, isn’t it?” “Hardly,” Rupesh muttered, falling into the vacant chair
across from Tristan’s desk. “You’re the future son and heir, Tris. Hardly makes sense for you to work so hard when you’ll only inherit it by default.”
“First of all, this company isn’t the monarchy,” Tristan muttered, not looking up from the figures he’d been working on. He waved a hand, rearranging them. His valuation was
slightly off and he adjusted the discount rate, knowing the risk-averse board of investors would want to see a broader range of percentages. “Even if it were, I’m not the heir, I’m just—”
“Just engaged to the boss’s daughter,” Rupesh supplied for him, raising a brow. “You should set the date, you know.
It’s been a couple of months, hasn’t it? I’m sure Eden’s getting impatient.”
She was, and she’d been growing less subtle about it by the day. “I’ve been busy,” Tristan said stiffly. “And anyway, this is precisely what I said I didn’t have time for. Out,” he said, gesturing to the door. “I have at least three more valuations to finish before I can leave.”
It was the annual Wessex family holiday and Tristan
would be Eden’s escort, as always. This would be Tristan’s fourth year coming along as the eldest Wessex daughter’s plus one, and needless to say, it was not his favorite activity. Watching his step, holding his tongue, all of it was exhausting—but still, it was worth it. It was worth it to be here, to be considered an heir by someone whose name was not the one belonging to his biological father.
Tristan wondered if he could talk Eden into letting him take her name; assuming, that is, that he could summon the final step necessary to seal his fate.
“You’re going on holiday with them,” Rupesh pointed out, crooking a single dark brow. “You’re already part of the
family.”
“No, I’m not.” Not yet. Tristan rubbed his temple,
glancing over the figures again. The capital required to make this deal work was steep, not to mention that the existing magical infrastructure was riddled with problems. Still, the potential to cash in was higher for this portfolio than it was for any of the thirteen other medeian projects
he’d valued that day. James would like it, even if the rest of
the board didn’t, and the name on the building wasn’t his for nothing.
Tristan filed the project under maybe, adding, “I’m not just going to inherit this company, Rup. If I want it, I have to work for it. You might consider doing the same,” he advised, looking up to adjust his glasses, and Rupesh rolled his eyes.
“Just finish, then,” Rupesh suggested. “Eden’s been posting pictures of her get-ready routine all morning.”
Eden Wessex, daughter of billionaire investor James Wessex, was a pretty heiress and therefore a ready-built product, capable of making capital out of intangibles like beauty and influence alone. It had been Tristan himself who’d advised the Wessex board to consider investing in
Lightning, the magical version of a mortal social media app. Eden had been the face of the company ever since.
“Right, thanks,” Tristan said, clearing his throat. He was probably missing messages from her as they spoke. “I’ll be done soon. Is that all?”
“You know I can’t leave until you do, mate.” Rupesh winked at him. “Can’t very well leave before the golden boy, can I?”
“Right, well, you’re doing yourself no favors, then,” Tristan said, gesturing to the door. Two more, he thought, glancing at the paperwork. Well, one. One of them was
clearly unsuitable. “Run along, Rup. And do something about that coffee stain.”
“What?” Rupesh asked, glancing down, and Tristan looked up from the file.
“Been letting your illusions get stale,” he noted, pointing to the mark at the bottom of Rupesh’s tie. “You can’t spend five hundred quid on a designer belt and then rummage your stain spells out of a bin.” Though, even as he said it, Tristan knew it was a very Rupesh quality to do precisely that. Some people cared only about what others could see, and Rupesh in particular was unaware of the extent to which Tristan saw through him.
“God, you’re a pain, you know that?” Rupesh said, rolling his eyes. “No one else is paying attention to whether my charms have worn through or not.”
“That you know of.” For Tristan, there was little else to pay attention to.
“Just another reason to loathe you, mate,” Rupesh said, grinning. “Anyway, finish up, Tris. Do us all a favor and go be picturesque by the sea so the rest of us can take it easy for a few days, would you?”
“Trying,” Tristan assured him, and then the door shut, leaving him alone at last.
He tossed one pitch aside, picking up the promising one.
The figures looked reliable. Not a lot of capital required upfront, which meant—
The door opened, and Tristan groaned. “For the last time, Rupesh—”
“Not quite Rupesh,” came a deep voice in reply, and Tristan looked up, eyeing the stranger in the room. He was a tall, dark-skinned man in a nondescript tweed suit, and he
was glancing around at the vaulted ceilings of Tristan’s office.
“Well,” the man observed, letting the door fall shut as he meandered inside. “This is a far cry from where you started, isn’t it?”
Anyone who knew where Tristan had started was trouble, and he braced himself, souring.
“If you’re a—” He bit down on the word friend, grinding it between his teeth. “An associate of my father’s—”
“Not quite that,” the man assured him. “Though we all know about Adrian Caine in some capacity, don’t we?”
We. Tristan fought a grimace.
“I’m not a Caine here,” he said. It was still the name on his desk, but people here would likely never make the connection. The wealthy cared little for the filth underfoot if it was cleaned up from time to time and mostly left out of sight. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”
“I’m not asking for anything,” the man said, pausing for a moment. “Though, I do have to wonder how you came upon this particular path. After all, you were heir to your own empire of sorts, weren’t you?” he asked, and Tristan
said nothing. “I’m not sure how the only Caine son came to play for the Wessex fortune.”
“Some things aren’t about money,” Tristan muttered. “And if you don’t mind—”
“What’s it about, then?” the man asked, and Tristan sighed loudly.
“Look, I don’t know who let you in, but—”
“You can do more than this.” The man fixed him with a solemn stare. “You and I both know this won’t satisfy you for long.”
“You don’t actually know me,” Tristan pointed out. “Knowing my name is only a very small piece, and not a particularly persuasive one.”
“I know you’re rarer than you think you are,” the man countered. “Your father may think your gifts a waste, but I know better. Anyone could be an illusionist. Anyone can be a thug. Anyone can be Adrian Caine.” His lips thinned. “What you have, no one can do.”
“What exactly do I have?” Tristan asked drily. “And don’t say potential.”
“Potential? Hardly. Certainly not here.” The man waved a hand around the palatial office. “It’s a very nice cage, but a cage nonetheless.”
“Who are you?” Tristan asked him, which was probably delayed, though in his defense, he’d been working for several hours. He wasn’t at his sharpest. “If you’re not a
friend of my father’s and you’re not a friend of James
Wessex—and I’m assuming you’re not here to pitch me your latest medeian software service,” he muttered, throwing down the inadequate proposal as the man’s mouth twitched with confirmation, “I can’t imagine there’s a reason for you to be here at all.”
“Is it so difficult to believe I might be here for you,
Tristan?” the man asked, looking vaguely entertained. “I was once in your position, you know.”
Tristan leaned back, gesturing to his corner office. “I doubt that.”
“True, I was never poised to marry into the most powerful medeian family in London, I’ll give you that,” the stranger replied with a chuckle. “But I was once very set on a particular path. One I thought was my only option for success, until one day, someone made me an offer.”
He leaned forward, setting a slim card on Tristan’s desk. It read only Atlas Blakely, Caretaker, and shimmered slightly from an illusion.
Tristan frowned at it. A transportation charm.
“Where does it go?” he asked neutrally, and the man, Atlas Blakely, smiled.
“You can see the charm, then?”
“Given the circumstances, safer to assume it has one.” Tristan rubbed his forehead, wary. From his desk drawer, his phone buzzed loudly; Eden would be looking for him. “I’m not stupid enough to touch something like this. I have places to be, and whatever this is—”
“You can see through illusions,” Atlas said, prompting him to tense with apprehension. Not just anyone was
allowed to know that about him. Not that Tristan cared for any details about him to be known, but his talent was most effective when others were left unaware. “You can see value, and better yet, you can see falseness. You can see truth. That is what makes you special, Tristan. You can work every day of your life to expand James Wessex’s business, or you can be what you are. Who you are.” Atlas fixed him
with a firm glance. “How long do you think you can do this before James figures out the truth about where you come from? The accent is a nice touch, but I can hear the East
End underneath. The echo of a working-class witch,” Atlas hinted softly, “that lives in your working-class tongue.”
Tristan curled a hand under his desk, bristling. “Is this blackmail?”
“No,” said Atlas. “It’s an offer. An opportunity.” “I have plenty of opportunities.”
“You deserve better ones,” Atlas said. “Better than James Wessex. Certainly better than Eden Wessex, and miles better than Adrian Caine.”
Tristan’s phone buzzed again. Likely Eden was sending him pictures of her tits. Four years of dating and she never tired of showing off the augmentation charm she didn’t know he could see through.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tristan said. “Don’t I?” Atlas countered, gesturing to the card. “You
have a couple of hours to decide.”
“Decide what?” Tristan asked brusquely, defensive with nerves, but Atlas had already risen to his feet, shrugging.
“I’m happy to answer your questions,” Atlas said, “but not here. Not now. If you’re going to continue living this life, Tristan, then there’s no point having any conversation at all, is there? But there’s much more available to you than you think, if you care to take it.” He glanced sideways at Tristan. “More than where you came from, and certainly more than where you are.”
Easy for him to say, Tristan thought. Whoever Atlas Blakely was, his father wasn’t a bullish tyrant who considered his biggest disappointment in life to be his only
son. He wasn’t the one who’d zeroed in on Eden Wessex five years ago at a party when he’d been tending bar and
decided that she was the best way; the easiest way; the
only way out.
Though, he also wasn’t the one whose best friend in the office thought he was getting away with fucking her, unaware the shoddy contraception charm left on his prick regularly made itself clear from across the room.
“What is it?” Tristan asked. “This…” He let the word curl up on his tongue. “Opportunity.”
“Once in a lifetime,” Atlas said, which wasn’t an answer. “You will know as much when you see it.”
That was nearly always true. There was little Tristan Caine couldn’t see.
“I have places to be,” Tristan said. A life to live. A future to curate.
Atlas nodded.
“Choose wisely,” he advised, and slipped from the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
CALLUM
Two Hours Ago
CALLUM NOVA WAS VERY ACCUSTOMED to getting what he wanted. He had a magical specialty so effective that if he kept it to himself, which he generally did, he would get top marks in every class without effort. It was a hypnosis of sorts. Some of his exes called it a hallucinogenic effect in retrospect, like coming down from a drug. If they weren’t on their guard at all times, he could talk them into anything. It made things
easy for him. Too easy? Sometimes, yes.
That didn’t mean Callum didn’t like a challenge.
Since Callum had graduated university and returned from Athens six years ago he’d been up to very little indeed, which wasn’t his favorite fact about himself. He worked for his family business, of course, as plenty of postgraduate medeians did. A magical media conglomerate, the Nova family’s primary business was beauty. It was grandeur. It was also all an illusion, every single bit of it, and Callum was the falsest illusion of all. He handled the commodity of vanity, and he was good at it. Better than good.
It was boring, though, convincing people of things they already believed. Callum had a distinctly rare specialty as a so-called manipulist, and rarer still was his talent; far
exceeding the common capacity of any witch who could cast at a basic level. He was smart to begin with, which meant
convincing people to do precisely as he wanted for purposes of magical exercise had to be considerably challenging to
really break a sweat. He was also eternally in search of entertainment, and therefore the man at the door had to say very little for Callum to be convinced.
“Caretaker,” Callum read aloud, scrutinizing the card with his feet propped up on his desk. He’d come in four hours late to work and neither the managing partner (his
sister) nor the owner (his father) had anything to say about the meeting he’d missed. He would make up for it that afternoon, when he would sit down for two minutes (could be done in ninety seconds, but he’d stay long enough to finish the espresso) with the client the Novas needed in order to secure a full portfolio of high-ranking illusionists for
London Fashion Week. “I hope it’s something interesting you care for, Atlas Blakely.”
“It is,” said Atlas, rising to his feet. “Shall I presume to see you, then?”
“Presumptions are dangerous,” Callum said, feeling out the edges of Atlas’ interests. They were blurred and rough, not easily infected. He guessed that Atlas Blakely, whoever he was, had been warned about Callum’s particular skills, which meant he must have dug deep to even discover its
true nature. Anyone willing to do the dirty work was worth a few minutes of time, in Callum’s view. “Who else is
involved?”
“Five others.”
A good number, Callum thought. Exclusive enough, but statistically speaking he could bring himself to like one in five people.
“Who’s the most interesting?” “Interesting is subjective,” Atlas said. “So, me, then,” Callum guessed.
Atlas gave a humorless smile. “You’re not uninteresting, Mr. Nova, though I suspect this will be the first time you encounter a room full of people as rare as yourself.”
“Intriguing,” Callum said, removing his feet from the desk to lean forward. “Still, I’d like to know more about them.”
Atlas arched a brow. “You have no interest in knowing about the opportunity itself, Mr. Nova?”
“If I want it, it’s mine,” Callum said, shrugging. “I can always wait and make that decision later. More interesting than the game is always the players, you know. Well, I
suppose more accurately,” he amended, “the game is different depending on the players.”
Atlas’ mouth twisted slightly. “Nico de Varona,” he said.
“Never heard of him,” Callum said. “What’s he do?” “He’s a physicist,” Atlas said. “He can compel forces of
physicality to adjust to his demands, just as you do with
intent.”
“Boring.” Callum leaned back. “But I suppose I’ll give him a try. Who else?”
“Libby Rhodes is also a physicist,” Atlas continued. “Her influence over her surroundings is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Reina Mori, likewise, is a naturalist for whom the earth personally offers fruit.”
“Naturalists are easy to come by,” Callum said, though admittedly, he was curious now. “Who else?”
“Tristan Caine. He can see through illusions.”
Rare. Very rare. Not particularly useful, though. “And?” “Parisa Kamali.” That name was said with hesitation.
“Her specialty is better left unsaid, I suspect.”
“Oh?” Callum asked, arching a brow. “And did you tell them about mine?”
“They didn’t ask about you,” Atlas said. Callum cleared his throat.
“Do you make a habit of psychologically profiling
everyone you meet?” he asked neutrally, and Atlas didn’t answer. “Though,” Callum mused, “I suppose people less
inclined to notice when they’re being influenced are unlikely to call you on it, aren’t they?”
“I suppose in some ways we are opposites, Mr. Nova,” Atlas said. “I know what people want to hear. You make them want to hear what you know.”
“Suppose I’m just naturally interesting?” Callum
suggested blithely, and Atlas made a low, laughing sound of concession.
“You know, for someone who knows his own value so distinctly, perhaps you forget that beneath your natural talent lies someone very, very uninspired,” Atlas said, and Callum blinked, caught off guard. “Which is not to say there’s a vacancy, but—”
“A vacancy?” Callum echoed, bristling. “What is this, negging?”
“Not a vacancy,” Atlas repeated, “but certainly
something unfinished.” He rose to his feet. “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Nova,” he said, “as I imagine you
could have done a great number of things during the period we spoke. How long would it have taken you to start a war, do you think? Or to end one?” He paused, and Callum said nothing. “Five minutes? Perhaps ten? How long would it
have taken you to kill someone? To save a life? I admire what you have not done,” Atlas acknowledged, tilting his
head with something of a beckoning glance, “but I do have to question why you haven’t done it.”
“Because I’d drive myself mad interfering with the
world,” said Callum impatiently. “It requires a certain level of restraint to be what I am.”
“Restraint,” Atlas said, “or perhaps a lack of imagination.”
Callum was far too secure to gape, so he didn’t.
Instead, Callum said: “This had better be worth my time.”
He did not say: Four minutes, thirty-nine seconds. That’s how long it would take.
He had the feeling Atlas Blakely, Caretaker, was baiting him, and he also had the distinct feeling he shouldn’t bother trying not to be caught.
“I could say the same for you,” Atlas said, and tipped his hat politely in farewell.
PARISA
One Hour Ago
SHE’D BEEN SITTING IN THE BAR in her favorite black dress,
sipping a martini. She always came to do this alone. For a time she’d been in the habit of having girlfriends around, but ultimately determined they were too noisy. Disruptive. Often jealous, too, which Parisa couldn’t abide. She’d had one or two female friends at school in Paris and had once been close to her siblings in Tehran, but since then she’d determined she was better as a singular object. That made sense to her, ultimately. People who lined up to see the
Mona Lisa typically couldn’t name the paintings hanging nearby, and there was nothing wrong with that.
There were quite a lot of words for what Parisa was, which was something she supposed most people would not approve. Perhaps it went without saying that Parisa didn’t put a lot of stock in approval. She was talented and smart, but above that—at least according to everyone who’d ever looked at her—she was beautiful, and being gifted approval for something that had been handed to her by some
fortuitous arrangement of DNA instead of earned by her own two hands wasn’t something she felt necessary to either
idolize or condemn. She didn’t rail against her looks; didn’t give thanks for them, either. She simply used them like any other tool, like a hammer or a shovel or whatever else was necessary to complete the requisite task. Besides, disapproval was nothing worth thinking about. The same women who might have disapproved were quick to fawn over her diamonds, her shoes, her breasts—all of which were natural, never synthetic, not even illusioned. Whatever they wanted to call Parisa, at least she was authentic. She was real, even if she made a living on false promises.
Really, there was nothing more dangerous than a woman who knew her own worth.
Parisa watched the older men in the corner, the ones in the expensive suits, who were having a business meeting. She’d listened for a few minutes to the subject of conversation—after all, not everything was sex; sometimes insider trading was the easier option, and she was smart enough to serve multiple threats—but ultimately lost interest, as the business concept was fundamentally unsound. The men themselves, however, remained intriguing. One of them was toying with his wedding ring
and fussing internally about his wife. Boring. One of the others was clearly harboring some sort of unresolved sexual angst about the boring fussy one, which was more interesting, albeit unhelpful for her purposes. The last one was handsome, probably rich, a tan where his wedding ring
should have been. Parisa shifted in her chair, crossing one leg delicately over the other.
The man looked up, catching a glimpse of her thigh. Well. He was certainly willing. That much was clear.
She looked elsewhere, not sure the man would be ending his business meeting anytime soon. In the meantime, she’d occupy her thoughts with someone else’s. Maybe the
wealthy woman in the back corner who looked likely to cry any minute. No, too depressing. There was always the bartender, who certainly knew how to use his hands. He’d pictured them on her already, traveling over a fairly
accurate mental illustration of her hips, only she wouldn’t get anything out of that. An orgasm, surely, but what good was that? An orgasm she could have on her own without
becoming the girl who fucks bartenders. If anyone was
going to be involved in Parisa’s life, they were going to bring money, power, or magic. Nothing else would do.
She angled herself towards the dark-skinned man at the end of the bar, contemplating the silence that came from his head. She hadn’t seen him come in, which was unusual. A medeian, then, or at least a witch. That was interesting.
She watched him toy with a slim card, tapping it against the bar, and frowned at the words. Atlas Blakely, Caretaker.
Caretaker of what?
The problem with being a smart girl was being naturally curious. Parisa turned away from the business meeting,
aiming herself instead towards Atlas Blakely and fiddling
with their respective positions in the room, turning the volume up.
She focused in on his mind and saw… six people. No, five. Five people, without faces. Extraordinary magic. Ah, yes, he was definitely a medeian, and so were they, it seemed. 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 being shoved in like twins in a too- small womb 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.
Parisa peered around, pacing a little inside his thoughts. They seemed curated, a bit like a museum, as if they’d been intended for her to view in a particular order. A long process of selection, then a mirror. Five frames with hazy portraits,
and then a mirror. Parisa looked at her own face and felt a jolt, startled.
At the end of the bar, the man rose to his feet, placing the card in front of her, and without him detailing anything aloud, she already knew why he’d given it to her. She’d spent long enough in his mind to understand it, and she
realized now that he’d willingly let her in. In one hour, his thoughts said, the card would take her somewhere.
Somewhere important. It was obviously the most important place in the world to this man, whoever he was. That bit
Parisa suspected was her interpretation, as it was slightly fuzzier. She knew instinctively that whatever it was, it would be more worthwhile than the man having the business meeting. That man had recently repaired stitching in his suit. It had been refitted; it wasn’t new. A man wore a new suit to a business meeting like this if he could afford it, and that man couldn’t.
Parisa sighed in resignation, picking up the card from the bar.
An hour later, she sat in a room with Atlas Blakely and the five people she’d seen hazily represented in his mind without either of them speaking a word to each other,
friendly or otherwise. She watched the handsome Latin boy
—definitely a boy; he was obsessed with the girl sitting next to Parisa, who was tinted with inexperience—decide she was beautiful and she smiled to herself, knowing perfectly well
she could eat that boy alive and he’d let her. He’d be fun for a day or so, maybe, but this seemed bigger than that. This seemed much more important.
The blond South African was interesting. He was eyeing the Englishman, Tristan, with extreme curiosity, possibly even something ravenous. Good, Parisa thought, pleased. She didn’t like men like him. He’d want her to shout his name, to scream about his dick, to say things like ‘oh baby yes how do you do it how do you make me feel like this?’ and that was a chore; it rarely ended in anything
worthwhile. Rich people like him typically held tight to their
wallets, and experience had taught her that did her no good.
Besides, the six of them were equals here. He had
nothing to offer her, except perhaps loyalty, but he wasn’t the type to give it easily. He was used to getting his way, which she could see from observing the functions of his thoughts was something he did with at least some level of intention. Parisa Kamali had never wanted to be under anyone’s thumb, and she certainly wouldn’t start now.
The boy, too, was probably useless, which was disappointing. He was obviously wealthy and certainly not unattractive (Nicolás, she thought with satisfaction, rolling his name around in her head like she might have done with him, whispering it to the inch of skin just below the lobe of his ear) but he obviously tired quickly of things that were
too easily won. Not Parisa’s style. The girl he was fixated on was equally easy to discard, though Parisa had been with girls before and rarely ruled them out. She’d spent the better portion of last month, in fact, with a wealthy mortal heiress who’d bought Parisa this outfit, these boots, this purse. People were all the same, really, when you got to the core of them, and Parisa always did. It was Parisa’s business, seeing things she wasn’t supposed to see. In this case, though, this particular girl was unequivocally hopeless. She had a boyfriend she seemed to actually like. She had good intentions, too, which were the most unfortunate. Always indicative of someone not easily put to
use. The girl, Libby, was so good she was no good at all. Parisa moved on from her quickly.
Reina, the naturalist with the nose ring, was easily the most threatening presence in the room. She radiated raw power, which in Parisa’s experience was the mark of
someone who shouldn’t be messed with. Parisa put her in a mental box marked ‘Do Not Disturb’ and resolved to stay out of her way.
Then there was Tristan, the Englishman, whom Parisa liked within moments of slipping unobtrusively into his thoughts. There was a festering anger in his head, beating dully like a tribal drum. It was obvious he didn’t know why he was here, but now that he was he wanted to punish
everyone in the room, himself included. Parisa liked that. She found it interesting, or at least relatable. She watched Tristan notice everything that was off in the room—all the illusions everyone else had used to hide various parts of themselves, which varied from Libby’s little spot of concealer on a stress blemish hidden by her fringe to the false golden-flecked tips of Callum’s hair—and marveled a little at his instant dismissal.
He was unimpressed.
He’d change his mind, Parisa thought, if she decided she wanted him to.
Which wasn’t to say she did, necessarily. Again, there was nothing in it for her to pursue someone who provided no leverage. Perhaps the most beneficial connection was in
fact the Caretaker, Atlas. Parisa was already calculating how
much work it would take to win Atlas Blakely’s interests when the door opened behind them, and she and the others turned.
“Ah, Dalton,” said Atlas. A narrow-hipped, elegantly lean man—perhaps a few years older than Parisa and dressed in a clean, starched Oxford with lines as precise as the sleek part of his raven-black hair—nodded in reply.
“Atlas,” he said with a low voice, his gaze falling on Parisa.
Yes, Parisa thought. Yes, you.
He thought she was beautiful. Easy, everyone did. He
tried not to look at her breasts. It wasn’t really working. She smiled at him and his thoughts raced, then went blank. He was momentarily silent, and then Atlas cleared his throat.
“Everyone, Dalton Ellery,” Atlas said, and Dalton nodded curtly, looking over Parisa’s head to glance with a somewhat forced smile at the others in the room.
“Welcome,” he said. “Congratulations on being tapped for entry to the Alexandrian Society.” His voice was smooth and buttery despite his posture being slightly stiff, his broad shoulders—the result of considerable craftsmanship, for which Parisa was certain his shirts were specially tailored— appearing to lock uncomfortably in place. He was clean- shaven, meticulous. He looked fanatical about cleanliness
and she wanted to press her tongue to the nape of his
artfully tapered neck. “I’m sure you all understand by now what an honor it is to be here.”
“Dalton is a member of our most recently initiated class,” Atlas said. “He’ll be guiding you through the process,
helping you transition into your new positions.”
Parisa could think of a few positions she’d need no assistance with whatsoever. She slid into Dalton’s
subconscious, probing around. Would he want a chase? Or would he prefer her to be the aggressor? He was blocking something from her, from everyone, and Parisa frowned, surprised. It wasn’t unheard of to practice some method of defense against telepathy, but it was an effort, even for a medeian with a considerable amount of talent. Was there
someone else in the room Dalton was expecting could read his mind?
She caught a flicker of a smile from Atlas, who arched a brow at her, and blinked.
Oh, she thought, and his smile broadened.
Perhaps now you know what it’s like for other people, Atlas said, and then added carefully, and I would advise you to stay away from Dalton. I will be advising him to do the same.
Does he usually follow your instructions? Parisa asked. His smile was unerring. Yes. As should you.
And the others?
I can’t prevent you from doing whatever it is you’ll do over the course of the year. But even so, there are boundaries, Miss Kamali.
She smiled in concession, wiping her mind clean.
Defense, offense, she was equally skilled, and in response,
Atlas nodded once.
“Well,” he said. “Shall we discuss the details of your initiation, then?”
