The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(121)

It took Tristan a moment to register that the last line had been said in his thoughts.

“Obviously,” he mumbled, and Callum’s eyes slid to his. Tristan didn’t have to look to know that Callum had understood perfectly well what Parisa had asked him, even without words. Even without magic, Callum knew.

He knew they had agreed on him to die, and now none of them would ever be forgiven.

They rounded the gallery corner to the rooms. Nico was forcing open the door to Libby’s bedroom, Reina at his heels.

“Did you—”

“No,” Reina answered Parisa blandly. “I heard nothing.”

“Who could have—”

There was a blast of something inconceivable from Nico’s palm as Tristan thought for the thousandth time, my god—marveling at the power they had, Libby and Nico; individually and apart.

Imagine having something so wild in your bloodstream. Imagine feeling something, anything, and seeing it manifest without the blink of an eye. Even at Tristan’s angriest he was nothing, only of any use to anyone when he was thinking clearly, seeing sense. No bombs exploded at the whims of his frustration, which made him ordinary. It made him normal; something he had tried his whole life not to be.

It was Nico who entered the room first, letting out a sound like a wounded dog in answer to the fading sound of Libby’s scream. The bitterness on Tristan’s tongue at the sound, however mystifying and incongruous it was to feel, was envy, because of course. Of course one pseudo-twin would suffer the other’s pain, the two of them in orbit to something Tristan would never grasp or understand. It was the same reaction as always: brittle unsurprise.

But what startled him properly were the others.

The sound from Parisa’s tongue had to be Farsi, though it was the first time Tristan had ever heard her use it. It morphed rapidly into French, but by the time her color had fully drained, she had fallen silent again. Reina, too, was speechless and pale, though she was often speechless. More alarmingly, it was the first time Tristan had ever observed her forcing her gaze away from something rather than boring holes in it, unrelenting.

Callum stared loudly. His expression was vocal, even if his mouth was not. He was saying things like how could this be happening and also, somehow, I told you. It was as if the hard look in his eyes was saying something to all of them that the rest of him could not: See? I was never your enemy after all.

Nico fell to his knees, shoulders folding in around his torso like he’d lost an organ.

“This can’t be real,” he said, and swore softly under his breath. “No. No.”

The four of them, one by one, had turned to Tristan, expectant. His brow furrowed, lips tight.

“Do we think it was the Forum?” asked Parisa after a moment, her voice like sandpaper. “They got in and out last time, didn’t they?”

“Could have been someone like Wessex Corp,” said Reina darkly.

“Someone should tell Atlas. Or Dalton.”

“Whoever did this, are they still here? In the house?”

“No.” Parisa glanced at Callum, who shook his head. “No. Not anymore.”

“I want answers.” The words, when they left Nico’s mouth, were explosive, juvenile with demand. “I want an explanation.”

“Does it count?”

To that, the others glared at Reina, who sighed loudly.

“Look, we were all thinking it,” she said. “Rhodes is gone. So that means—”

“The elimination is about sacrifice,” Tristan spat. “Death.”

The room fell silent.

“Is this not death enough for you?” Nico’s voice shook with outrage. The ground beneath them rumbled with it, but in answer, there was little Tristan could do but stare.

“How dare you,” Nico suddenly snarled at Tristan from the floor, leaking with toxicity that sparked mid-air. “How dare you—”

“Wait,” Tristan said. “What are you seeing?”

The others froze, stiffening.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

“It’s Rhodes,” Callum supplied, and the others flinched at her name, revulsed. “Her body on the ground.”

“What?” Tristan’s pulse quickened. “No. No, it can’t be—”

He felt the cool traces of Parisa’s presence in his head and shivered.

“He doesn’t see it,” Parisa said, sounding bewildered at first, and then astounded. “He doesn’t see anything.”

“Wait.” Nico scrambled to his feet, taking Tristan brusquely by the shoulder. “What’s there, then?”

“Nothing.” Not entirely true. There was an excess of magic in the room—volumes of it, impossibly swollen—but the air was empty of her. It was vacant of Libby herself, and that was the only thing Tristan could see or feel: her absence.

Libby was gone, clearly. Even her magic was gone from the room.

“She’s not there.”

“But she’s here,” Nico insisted raggedly, while Parisa, the first to manage a response, hastily bent down, brushing her fingers over nothing.

“This is… uncanny.” She stared down in awe. “The blood, it’s—” real.

Blood. No wonder they were all repulsed.

“There’s no blood,” Tristan said.