The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(2)

They were entranced, as well they should be. Dalton was a very good at breathing life into things, ideas, objects. It was a subtle skill. Optically his skills were less magical and more professional finesse, which made him an exceptional academic. In fact, it made him the perfect face for the new class of Alexandrians.

He knew before he started talking that they would all accept the offer. It was a formality, really. Nobody turned down the Alexandrian Society. Even those pretending at disinterest would be unable to resist. They would fight, he knew, tooth and nail, to survive the next year of their lives, and if they were as steadfast and talented as the Society presumed them to be, most of them would.

Most of them.





THE MORAL OF THE STORY IS THIS:


Beware the man who faces you unarmed.


If in his eyes you are not the target, then you can be sure you are the weapon.





I: WEAPONS





LIBBY



Five Hours Ago

THE DAY LIBBY RHODES met Nicolás Ferrer de Varona was coincidentally also the day she discovered that incensed, a word she had previously had no use for, was now the only conceivable way to describe the sensation of being near him. That had been the day Libby accidentally set fire to the lining of several centuries-old drapes in the office of Professor Breckenridge, Dean of Students, clinching both Libby’s admission to New York University of Magical Arts as well as her undying hatred for Nico in a single incident. All the days since that one had been a futile exercise in restraint.

Incandescence aside, this was to be a very different sort of day, as it was finally going to be the last of them. Barring any accidental encounters, which Libby was certain they’d both furiously ignore—Manhattan was a big place, after all, with plenty of people ravenously avoiding each other—she and Nico were finally going their separate ways. She’d practically burst into song over it that morning, which her boyfriend Ezra presumed to be the consequence of the occasion’s more immediate matters: graduating top of her class (tied with Nico, but there was no use focusing on that), or delivering the NYUMA valedictory speech. Neither accolade was anything to scoff at, obviously, but the more enticing prospect was the newness of the era approaching.

It was the last day Libby Rhodes would ever set eyes on Nico de Varona, and she couldn’t have been more exuberant about the dawn of a simpler, superior, less Nico-infested life.

“Rhodes,” he acknowledged upon taking his seat beside her on the commencement stage. He slid her surname around like a marble on his tongue before sniffing the air, facetious as always. “Hm. Do you smell smoke, Rhodes?”

Very funny. Hilarious.

“Careful, Varona. You know this auditorium’s on a fault line, don’t you?”

“Of course. Have to, seeing as I’ll be working on it next year, won’t I?” he mused, and then peered into the crowd, half a tick of laughter tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ah, Fowler’s here too, I see.”

Libby bristled at the mention of Ezra. “Why wouldn’t he be here?”

“Oh, no reason. Just thought you might’ve leveled up by now, Rhodes.”

Do not engage, do not engage, do not engage—

“Ezra’s just been promoted, actually,” she said coolly.

“From mediocrity to competence?”

“No, from—”

Libby broke off, tightening one fist and counting silently to three.

“He’s a project manager now.”

“My goodness,” Nico said drily, “how impressive.”

She shot him a glare, and he smiled.

“Your tie’s crooked,” she informed him, giving her voice a lilt of impassivity as his hand reflexively rose to straighten it. “Did Gideon not fix it for you on your way in?”

“He did, but—” Nico broke off, catching himself, while Libby silently congratulated her success. “Very funny, Rhodes.”

“What’s funny?”

“Gideon’s my nanny, hilarious. Something new and different.”

“What, like mocking Ezra is suddenly revolutionary?”

“It’s not my fault the subject of Fowler’s inadequacy is evergreen,” Nico replied, and were it not for the fact that they were in front of all of their classmates and a great number of their faculty and staff as well, Libby would not have paused for an additional centering breath and instead entertained whatever her abilities compelled her to do.

Unfortunately, setting fire to Nico de Varona’s undergarments was considered unacceptable behavior.

Last day, Libby reminded herself. Last day of Nico.

He could say whatever he liked, then, and it meant nothing.

“How’s your speech?” Nico asked, and she rolled her eyes.

“Like I’d discuss it with you.”

“Why on earth not? I know you get stage fright.”

“I do not get—” Another breath. Two breaths, for good measure. “I do not get stage fright,” she managed, more evenly this time, “and even if I did, what exactly would you do to help me?”

“Oh, did you think I was offering to help?” Nico asked. “Apologies, I was not.”

“Still disappointed you weren’t the one elected to deliver it?”