The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(10)

“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.”