The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(106)

“It?” he echoed, and she blinked. “There is no small matter of it, Miss Rhodes. You are all bound to each other by your experience here, whether you like it or not,” Atlas informed her, suddenly more adamant than she had ever heard him. “There is nothing forgettable or small about the way you have all embedded yourselves in each other. Without exception, you become more deeply inextricable from each other with every passing day. The purpose of the elimination is not to rid yourself of something you can lose, but rather to remove something which makes you what you are.”

“So we just have to kill someone,” Libby summarized bitterly. “That’s it? No particular method, no ceremony, no specific day?”

Atlas shook his head.

“And every few years you simply stand there and watch someone die?”

“Yes,” said Atlas.

“But—”

“Consider, Miss Rhodes, the scope of power,” Atlas cut in gently. “Which specialties benefit the world, and which do not. This is not always a matter of personal allegiances.”

“Why would an unbeneficial specialty be chosen to begin with?” Libby demanded. “Didn’t you say yourself that each initiate is the best the world has to offer?”

“Of course. However, each initiation cycle, there is one member who will not return, and the Society is cognizant of this,” Atlas said. “This must always be a factor in discussion among the board’s members when nominating which candidates to submit for consideration.”

“Are you saying someone is… intentionally chosen for death?”

The idea itself was astounding. Libby could hear her blood rushing in opposition, a deafening tide of disbelief.

“Of course not.” Atlas smiled. “Just something to think about.”

They sat there in a long, unwavering silence until Libby rose clumsily to her feet. She stopped, halfway to the door, and pivoted around.

“The archives,” she said, belatedly remembering her sister once again. “Who controls what we can see?”

Atlas glanced up, fixing her with a long moment of scrutiny. “The library itself.”

“Why should I believe that?” she asked, and then, frustration igniting, she pushed him more vehemently. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

His expression didn’t change. “I do not control the archives, Miss Rhodes, if that is your question. There are numerous subjects denied to me as well.” “But this is your Society!”

“No,” Atlas corrected. “I am one of this Society’s Caretakers. I do not own it, I do not control it.”

“Then who does?” she demanded.

He gave her a small, impassive shrug.

“Does the arrow aim itself?” he asked.

Libby, rather than answer, turned frustratedly on her heel, launching herself toward the stairs and making her way back to her room.

On the landing of the gallery she collided with someone who’d been turning the corner simultaneously, the two of them barreling into one another. Had she been more able to focus on anything outside her thoughts, she might have heard him coming. As it was, though— Tristan steadied her, hands around her shoulders.

“Have you seen Parisa?” he asked her, and because Libby was distraught—because she was fucking human—she glared up at him.

“Fuck you,” she said venomously.

Tristan blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“You knew.” Ah, so that was why. In a fit of delayed recognition, Libby suddenly understood the force of her resentment. “You knew this whole time, didn’t you? And you didn’t tell me.”

“Knew—” He stopped, contemplating her face. “You mean—?”

“Yes. The death. The fucking murder.”

He flinched, and for a moment, she hated him. She loathed him.

“I can’t—” She broke off, agonized or anguished, unable to tell the difference and unwilling to locate the divide. “I can’t, I won’t—”

“Rhodes.” Tristan’s hands were still tight around her shoulders. “I should have told you, I know. I know you’re angry—”

“Angry?” She wasn’t not, though that hardly seemed the proper word for it. She was feeling something that festered, true, and it could easily have been rage. She had learned long ago to control her magical impulses, restraining them, but at the moment she could feel it spark, smelling smoke.

“Believe me, Tristan, angry,” she seethed, “doesn’t even begin to describe it—”

“None of us actually knows how much this Society controls,” Tristan reminded her, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial hush. “Do you really think anyone can walk away from this? Believe me, I know recruitment, I know the difference between institutions and cults, and there is no innocence to this one. You do not get to walk away.”

He may have quieted, but she refused. “Then why? Why do it?”

“You know why.” His mouth tightened.

“No.” The thought sickened her. “Tell me why anyone would do this, tell me why—”

“Rhodes—”

“No. No.” She wasn’t entirely sure what had inflamed her so maniacally, but she beat a fist against his chest, letting her delirium take over. “No, you’re one of them, aren’t you?” Her lips felt cold, impassive, the words tumbling out like debris, retching from her unfeeling mouth. “It means nothing to you, because of course it doesn’t. Sex is nothing to you, this is all a game—Everything is just a game!—so what’s murder? What is a life, compared to all of this? This Society is just a poison,” she spat, her fury so rapidly spent her head fell heavily against Tristan’s chest, fearful and exhausted.