The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(12)

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.