The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(18)

It all basically came down to one thing: the opportunity to study a subspecies like Gideon was not something NYUMA had been prepared to pass up, but now that he was no longer enrolled as a student, he was back to being nothing.

Just a man who could walk through dreams, and Nico’s best friend.

“I’m sorry,” Nico said, and Gideon glanced up. “I was going to tell you, I just…”

Felt guilty.

“I keep telling you,” Gideon said. “You don’t need to.”

If Libby Rhodes mocked that Nico and Gideon were attached at the hip, it was only so that Nico could personally assure Gideon’s survival. Libby would not understand that, of course; she was one of the spare few who knew that Gideon was not what he seemed, but she didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t know how often Gideon ended up in harm’s way, unable to secure himself corporeally in a single realm, or how often he got swallowed up inside his own head, lost to the intangible spaces of thought and subconsciousness, and couldn’t find his way back. She didn’t know that Gideon had enemies, or that those who knew what he was and intended to use him for it were most dangerous, above all.

Libby didn’t know, either, that while Nico didn’t underestimate her, she relentlessly underestimated him. He had perfected skills in multiple specialties outside his own, all of which had cost him greatly. He could change his shape to follow the other two into the environment of dreams (animals had fewer restrictions on their boundaries than humans), but only after learning to manipulate each element of his own molecular structure; something he only did once a month, because it meant a full day’s recovery afterwards. He could brew something to bind Gideon’s physical form more permanently to the reality he currently stood in, but only after backbreaking effort that left Nico throbbing and sore for a week.

There had been no way Nico was turning down the Society’s offer. Power? He needed it. An obscure cure? He needed that, too. Money, prestige, connections? He needed all of it, and Gideon would be better for his access. Two years away was hardly too much to ask.

“I never expected you to put your life on hold for me, Nico,” Gideon said.

No, he didn’t, and that was the only reason Nico had done it to begin with; or thought he had no choice but to do it, anyway, until today.

“Look, the moment you became my friend, you became my problem,” Nico told him, and then, realizing what he’d said, he amended, “Or, you know, mine. Or whatever.”

Gideon rose to his feet with a sigh. “Nico—”

“Can you guys stop whispering?” Max yelled from the sofa. “It’s hard to hear you from here.”

Nico and Gideon exchanged a glance.

“You heard him,” Nico said, figuring it wasn’t worth continuing the argument.

Gideon, who had obviously decided the same, plucked some carrots from the produce drawer for a side dish, nudging Nico aside with a motion of his hip.

“Shall I grate?”

“You’re grating already,” Nico grumbled, but he caught the evidence of a smile on Gideon’s face, deciding the rest of the conversation could stand to wait.





TRISTAN



THE PROBLEM WITH SEEING THROUGH THINGS SO READILY was the development of a certain degree of natural cynicism. Some people could be promised knowledge and power without a compulsion to uncover the caveats implied, but Tristan was not one of them.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, remaining behind the other five candidates and approaching the Caretaker who’d so evasively insisted on recruiting him.

Atlas looked up from muted conversation with whoever the man was who’d come in to drone on at length about the Society; Dalton something-or-other, who’d been effusing quite a lot of magic while he spoke. That was partially why Tristan had not made an effort to listen. If he were going to be convinced to abandon the life he’d already set up so meticulously for himself, he wasn’t going to be illusioned or manipulated into it. It would be his choice, based on uncompromisable facts, and Atlas would give them to him or Tristan would leave. Simple as that.

Atlas seemed to have gathered as much from a glance and nodded, dismissing Dalton.

“Ask,” Atlas beckoned, neither patiently nor impatiently, and Tristan’s mouth tightened.

“You know as well as I do that my abilities are rare, but not useful. You can’t possibly expect me to believe I have one of the six most valuable magical specialties in the world.”

Atlas leaned against the table, considering Tristan for a moment in silence.

“So why would I have chosen you, then, if I didn’t believe it?”

“That’s precisely what I want to know,” Tristan said staunchly. “If this has anything to do with my father—”

“It doesn’t,” Atlas said, dismissing Tristan’s concerns with a wave of a hand. “Your father is a witch, Mr Caine. Skilled enough, but commonplace.”

Of course Atlas would want him to believe that. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to magnify Tristan’s abilities in order to reach or infiltrate his father’s gang. “My father is the head of a magical crime syndicate,” Tristan said, bristling, “and even if he were not, I am—”

“You,” Atlas cut in, “don’t even understand what you are, I’d wager. What was your specialty? And I do not mean your abilities,” he clarified. “I mean to ask which credential you received from the London School of Magic as a medeian.”