The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(83)

“You’d forgotten?”

“Well, I—” Tristan fumbled, his wall of neutrality momentarily slipping. “I told you, it was… a strange night. I haven’t quite finished processing.”

If this version of Tristan was anything, ‘unfinished’ was certainly the right word.

“Care to postulate aloud?” prompted Callum. “After all, you’ve ostensibly become aware that one of us will have to be murdered.” He bristled with irritation at not being the one to reveal that trivial little tidbit of information. “Who told you? No, don’t answer,” he grumbled as an afterthought. “It was Parisa, wasn’t it? You were with Parisa last night.”

Tristan looked moderately relieved. “I… yes, I was, but—”

“How did she know?”

“She didn’t say.”

“You didn’t ask?” Unfathomable. Under any circumstances Tristan would have made demands.

“I—” Tristan stopped, wavering again. “I was distracted.”

Callum stiffened. Of course Parisa had taken the opportunity to secure her alliance with Tristan the one way she knew how. Callum had been Tristan’s primary confidant for months; surely she would have suffered that loss by now and tried something to repair it.

“You know,” Callum remarked, “there is no fate so final as betrayal. Trust, once dead, cannot be resurrected.”

Tristan glanced up sharply. “What?”

“With the Society,” Callum clarified smoothly. “They’re lying to us, or at least misleading us. How shall we respond?”

“I imagine there has to be a reason—”

“You,” Callum echoed, and then scoffed. “You imagine there to be a reason, really?”

“Well, is it any wonder?” Tristan said defensively. “And anyway, maybe it’s another trick. A test.”

“What, making us think we have to kill someone? Clearly you don’t understand the damage of such an exercise,” Callum said gruffly. “There is nothing so destructive as thought, and especially not one that can never be rescinded. The moment a group of people decide they can be rid of someone permanently, what do you suppose happens next?”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t do it?”

“Of course not. But succumbing to the demands of a Society whose precursor for entry is human sacrifice? You can’t tell me you’ve simply accepted it without question.” Callum was sure of that much. “Even Parisa wouldn’t consider it unless there was something significant in it for her. As for the others, Reina wouldn’t care, and perhaps Varona could be persuaded, but certainly Rhodes would—”

Callum stopped, considering it. “Well, by that measure, I don’t see the elimination falling to anyone other than Rhodes.”

“What?” Tristan’s head snapped up.

“Who else would it be?” Callum prompted, impatient. “The only person with fewer friends than Rhodes is Parisa, but she’s useful, at least.”

“You don’t find Rhodes useful?”

“She’s half of a set,” said Callum. “Varona has precisely Rhodes’ talents, only in a less obnoxious package.”

“Varona is not Rhodes,” Tristan said, the edges of his shield flickering a little. “They are not interchangeable.”

“Oh, stop. You only can’t imagine killing Rhodes because it would be like drowning a kitten,” said Callum. “She’d fuss the whole time.”

“I—” Tristan turned away, sickened. “I cannot believe you’re actually discussing this.”

“You’re the one who seemed entirely unfazed by the idea we’d be asked to commit a murder,” Callum pointed out. “I’m simply trying to sort out how you expect it to take place.”

“Varona will never agree to kill Rhodes,” Tristan said. “Nor will Parisa.”

“They’ll have to choose someone, won’t they?”

“Maybe they’ll choose me,” Tristan said, blinking rapidly. “Perhaps they should.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tristan.” A little fuse of Callum’s temper sparked. “Must you be so very small all the time?”

Tristan cut him a glare. “So I should be more like you, then?”

This was obviously going nowhere.

“Have a nap,” Callum said, pivoting away in annoyance. “You’re a terrible bore when you’re unrested.”

He had hoped they’d have some sort of strategy session, determining which of the others they could most stand to lose, but it seemed Tristan was currently handling everything with exceptional ineptitude. Callum stalked through the corridors, returning to his room when he nearly collided with Libby.

“Rhodes,” he said gruffly, and she glanced up, face draining of color, before hurrying past him without a word.

If there was one thing Callum loathed about himself, it was the prison of his deduction. So, Libby and Tristan were suffering the same intolerable human illness of shame and alcoholism. Wonderful. Clearly something had happened between them, and Tristan had not told him.

Again, Tristan had not told him.

Callum reached the corridor of private rooms and pushed open the door to Parisa’s bedroom, shutting it behind him.