The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(15)

Libby shot him a warning look as the ground beneath them rumbled, slate eyes reproachful beneath what he could see of her furrowed brow beneath her fussy bangs.

“What’s going on with you?” she muttered to him after they were released, referring with spectacular lack of subtlety to what she probably considered an irresponsible disruption.

It was always such a marvelous thing how habitually she remarked on his tremors of agitation; no one else would have identified such an insubstantial change to their environment, of course, but then there was darling Elizabeth, who never failed to bring it to Nico’s attention. It was like having an ugly scar, something he couldn’t hide, even if she was the only one who saw it. He remained uncertain whether her delight in reminding him was a result of her insufferable personality, her alarmingly too-similar powers, or their longstanding history of forced coexistence, but he assumed it was some magical combination of all three, making it at least 33% her fault.

“It’s a big decision, that’s all,” Nico said, though it wasn’t. He’d already made it.

They’d each been given a twenty-four hour waiting period to decide whether they would accept the offer to compete for initiation to the Alexandrian Society, but rather than being transported directly via charm as they had been for their arrival, they were deposited through their respective portals of public transit. Unfortunately, living in Manhattan a mere matter of blocks from Libby Rhodes meant that she and Nico had the same transit point, and were now moments away from arriving at Grand Central’s magical port of entry (near the oyster bar).

He glanced at her, conceding to ask in a mostly inoffensive tone, “What are you thinking?”

She slid him a sidelong glance in exchange, then flicked her grey-green eyes to the pulse of his thumb against his thigh. “I’m thinking I really should have gotten that fellowship,” she muttered, and because buoyancy came naturally to him, Nico smiled, letting the shape of it stretch broadly across his lips.

“I knew it,” he said triumphantly. “I knew you wanted it. You’re so full of shit, Rhodes.”

“Jesus.” She rolled her eyes, fussing again with her bangs. “I don’t know why I bother.”

“Just answer the question.”

“No.” She turned to him with a scowl. “I thought we agreed never to speak to each other again after graduation?”

“Well, clearly that’s not happening.”

He beat his thumb against his thigh a few more times at the precise moment she remarked to nobody, “I love this song,” which was another customary difference between them. He had felt the presence of the rhythm first; she had heard the melody sooner and identified it more quickly.

Again, there was no telling whether they had always been this way, or if they had learned it over the course of their unwilling inseparability. If not for her, Nico might not have noticed most of the things he did, and probably vice versa. A uniquely upsetting curse, really, how little he knew how to exist when she wasn’t there; his only mode of pleasure was in knowing she probably felt the same whenever she could bring herself to stomach the admission.

“Gideon probably says hi,” Nico said, which was an offering of sorts.

“I know. He said hi when I saw him this morning.”

A pause, and then, “He and Max both love me, you know, even if you don’t.”

“Yes, I know. And rightfully, I hate it.”

Their shoes tapped along the floor and they emerged on the sidewalk, where they were free to transport themselves magically if they wanted; conversation over.

Or, possibly, not. “The other candidates are older than we are,” Libby noted aloud. “They’ve all been working already, you know? They’re so… sophisticated-looking.”

“Looks aren’t everything,” Nico said. “Though that Parisa girl is extremely hot.”

“God, don’t be a pig.” She half-smiled, mostly-smirked. “You have absolutely no chance with her.”

“Whatever, Rhodes.”

Nico slid a hand through his hair, gesturing down the block. “This way?”

“Yeah.”

Necessity required that they entertain certain détentes in their unending war for supremacy. They paused for the usual half-second to be sure no taxicabs were flying through the intersection before crossing the street, engaging the brisk walk-run that New York City taught its residents by virtue of experience.

“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” Libby asked him. All her usual flare-ups of anxiety were on full display; she twirled her hair with one hand, chewing her lip absently.

“Yeah, probably.” Definitely. “Aren’t you?”

“Well—” She hesitated. “I mean yes, of course, I’m not stupid. I can’t pass this up, it’s even better than the NYUMA fellowship. But…” She trailed off. “I suppose it’s a bit intimidating.”

Liar. She already knew she was good; she was filling the social role of modesty she knew he wouldn’t deign to play. “You’ve really got to work on your self-esteem, Rhodes. Self-deprecation went out as a fashionable personality trait at least five years ago.”

“You’re such a dick, Varona.” She was chewing her thumbnail now. Stupid habit, though he detested the hair-twirling far more. “I hate you,” she added. A gratuitous conversational tic established between them, akin to an ‘um’ or a thoughtful pause.