The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(105)

That was slightly more troubling, given the mind-reading. “Then she must have misinterpreted or something. Or maybe she’s lying.”

Nico was surprisingly hesitant. “I don’t think so, Rhodes.”

“Well, it’s outrageous,” said Libby caustically. “There’s no way we’re part of… of some kind of…” She fumbled, flustered. “Some sort of murder competition—”

“Maybe we’re not,” Nico agreed. “Maybe it’s a trick or something. Or maybe it’s the whole intent thing Dalton was going on about,” he said, waving a hand in reference to the lesson he had probably only half-listened to. “Maybe we just have to be willing to do it in order for it to work, but—”

“What do you mean ‘work’?”

“Well, Parisa says—”

“Parisa doesn’t know shit,” said Libby staunchly.

“Okay, great, maybe not, but that’s the information I have, so that’s what I’m giving you. Christ,” Nico suddenly swore loudly, “you’re fucking impossible.”

“Me?” She glared at him. “Who else knows, then?”

He winced. “Everyone, I think.”

“Everyone ‘you think’?”

“I—” He faltered. “Fine, I know.”

“Seriously. Everyone?”

“Yes, Rhodes, everyone.”

“That’s impossible.”

She was aware she was repeating herself, but it seemed unlikely she could bring herself to respond another way.

“Has anyone bothered to ask Atlas?” she demanded, suddenly infuriated. “Is any of this even remotely confirmed?”

“I don’t know, but—”

“You don’t know?”

“Elizabeth, would you listen to me?”

“Of course not, this is absurd.”

“Fine,” said Nico, throwing his hands up. “For what it’s worth, I hate it too, but—”

“But what?” Libby demanded. “What could possibly be the but, Varona? What about this would you kill for?”

“Jesus, Rhodes, which part of this wouldn’t you kill for?”

He had shouted it at her, his mouth snapping shut with alarm. She blinked, taken aback.

“I only meant,” Nico began hastily, and then shook his head, grimacing. “No, never mind. Talk to me when you’re ready, when you’ve processed. I can’t explain this right now.”

“Varona,” Libby growled, but he was already walking away, shaking her off like a chill.

So Libby had checked the surveillance wards to discover that Atlas Blakely, who had offered them a position beyond their wildest imaginations without ever mentioning the cost, was alone in the reading room.

“You must have known there would be something,” Atlas said, jarring her from her momentary stumble.

She didn’t bother asking how he knew what she was thinking about. “So it’s true?”

“It’s not as gruesome as it sounds,” said Atlas placidly. “But yes, one of you will have to die.”

Part of her was convinced she was imagining this. Was it a dream? Surely not, and yet not a thread of her had ever believed, even for a moment, that Atlas would ever confirm Nico’s suspicions as truth.

“But—”

“Sometimes it is a conspiracy,” Atlas admitted, mercifully keeping her from spluttering any further. “On occasion it bears some resemblance to the Ides of March. But often it is a sacrifice, and therefore beholden to great sorrow.”

“But,” Libby attempted again, and hesitated, finding herself unable to begin. “But how—”

“How can we ask it of you? Not easily,” said Atlas. “It is, I’m afraid, an ancient practice. As old as the Library itself. With each generation of initiates we learn more, we expand the breadth and use of our knowledge, but the primary principle of magic remains unfailingly true: It always comes at a cost.”

“But we were not informed,” Libby said flatly, and Atlas nodded.

“No one ever is, Miss Rhodes.”

“Would you have told us?”

“Yes, of course, eventually. Secrets are difficult to keep, and the Forum often interferes.”

Libby gritted her teeth. “How do they know about it?”

“The Society is ancient, Miss Rhodes, and therefore so are its enemies. Humans are fallible creatures. Better the Forum’s interference than the Wessex Corporation, at least. Capitalism has a terrible tendency to abandon its principles altogether.”

“And somehow your principles remain?”

“If there were another way,” Atlas said simply, “we would use it.”

Libby fidgeted a moment, both wanting and not wanting to ask.

“You want to know how,” Atlas guessed, and she glanced up, resentful of his sympathy. “It’s a reasonable question, Miss Rhodes. You may ask it.”

“Is it—?” She broke off. “Is it… some sort of full moon sacrifice, some customary ritual? Each year on the solstice or the equinox or something?”

“No, nothing like that. It is a sacrifice, the sliver of a whole.”

“That’s it?”