The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(49)

“Neither do you!” Nico snapped. “You use him, Eilif, and he hates it. If Gideon wants you out, you’re staying out.”

In answer, Eilif’s eyes dropped to his hips.

And then lower.

And she stared.

And stared.

“Stop cursing my dick,” said Nico impatiently. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

Eilif threw her arms up with a sigh. “You know, I’m getting very tired of you,” she informed him shrilly. “Shouldn’t you die soon? Gideon’s had at least seventy mortal years by now.”

“He’s twenty-two,” Nico said.

“What? Impossible,” Eilif scoffed.

“I threw him a birthday party,” Nico said. “Which, by the way, you missed.”

She waved a hand, uninterested as usual in the traditional customs of motherhood. “Then he’s been a child for centuries, at least!”

“He’s not a child, he’s an adult. He’s at approximately a quarter of a mortal lifespan.”

“That doesn’t sound right—”

“Well, it is!” Nico said indignantly, and Eilif gave a loud, cerulean groan.

“Give me my son,” she barked, unconstrained. “He needs me!”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“How will he eat?”

“He eats fine.”

Her eyes narrowed, unconvinced.

“You know, we were fine before you,” she accused him, bemoaning it with a sullen howl.

“That’s not even close to true,” Nico said. “You left your infant son in the woods of Nova Scotia and then proceeded to show up every few years just to make him chase you through the dream realms. I wouldn’t call that being ‘fine,’ unless we’re only counting you.”

“Who else would we be counting?” Eilif demanded, and then paused. “Ah yes. Gideon.”

“Yes, Gideon.” How eminently exhausting. “Your son, remember?”

“GIVE ME MY SON,” Eilif said hotly, trembling now with fury. “I don’t like it. I don’t like you. Give him to me. Sweet Nicolás,” she murmured, with her melodic hell-purr of sirenic persuasion. “My darling, don’t you dream of riches?”

“Stop,” he said.

“But—”

“No.”

“But I want—”

“You can’t.”

“BUT HE’S MINE,” Eilif wailed, shuddering with temper before resolving to a juvenile sulk. “Fine, have him. I’ll be back,” she promised in her most simpering tone, and then she threw herself into the sink, swallowed up by the drain again.

“Varona, what the hell is going on in there?” came Libby’s voice from the corridor.

“Hell,” Nico confirmed. “But don’t worry, it’s been wrangled.” Or it would be soon.

“Whatever,” Libby muttered, the sound of her footsteps heading back to her room.

A quick text to Gideon—meet me in the usual spot? followed by a hasty everything’s fine!—ensured an early night.

“What did you do?” Gideon said the moment Nico sat up, resuming his place inside the jail cell of the Society’s subconscious wards. “Something interesting, I hope.”

“Bored, Sandman?” Nico asked him, stepping close to the bars.

Gideon shrugged.

“I guess,” he said. “There’s only so many books you can fall asleep reading.”

“Well, don’t watch too much television,” Nico said. “You always end up in the dangerous realms when you’ve been exposed to excessive violence and I’m sorry, but you’re just not very good with firearms.”

Gideon gave a theatrical sigh. “Stop scolding me, Nicky,” he said, “you’re not my mother.”

It was a joke, but Nico winced at the reminder. Gideon, catching it, abruptly froze.

“Oh no,” Gideon said, paling at once, and Nico sighed.

“It’s fine, Gideon, I have it handled, I prom-”

“What did she say?” “Nothing, I told you, it’s f-”

“Nicolás,” Gideon said fiercely. “What did she say?”

So much for it’s fine, Nico thought. Not that he’d ever been very good at lying to Gideon.

“Nothing much, really,” he said. “She seems to… want you for something.”

“Yes, I know she does,” Gideon said, scrubbing tiredly at his cheek with one hand. “She always does eventually. I thought she had actually left me alone this time, but—”

He broke off, and again, Nico winced.

“You,” Gideon realized aloud, glaring at Nico. “You set up a ward against her without telling me, didn’t you?”

“What? That’s crazy,” said Nico.

“Nico, you had no right—”

“That’s ridiculous, of course I did—”

“—you can’t just interfere without telling me—”

“—I was going to tell you; in fact, I’m sure I already did! It’s not my fault if you didn’t read the minutes closely—”

“—for the last time, my mother is my problem, not yours—”