The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(11)

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.