The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(86)

“Of course it was a man.” She echoed it with a smile. “It always is.”

“You have a loneliness to you, you know,” Callum said, “but it’s a bit… manufactured, isn’t it? You’re not an only child; that would be a different sort of loneliness. Like Rhodes,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder, “she’s lonely and alone, but not you. You’re lonely because you choose to be.”

“Perhaps I simply loathe other people,” said Parisa.

“What’s your sister’s name?” asked Callum, as Parisa blinked. “You were close, of course, until you weren’t. Your brother has some sort of strong name, I suspect; masculine, difficult to fracture. He’s the heir, isn’t he? The oldest, and then your sister, and then you. He favored you, your brother, and your sister turned you away… and she didn’t believe you, did she? When you told her what you saw inside his mind.”

He could see Parisa faltering, forced to relive the shadows from her youth.

“Let’s see,” Callum said, and snapped his fingers, populating the walls with images and tones from Parisa’s past. “Money, that’s easy enough.” It would be false, a painting, unlike something she could do from his head, which would be a photograph. It was an inexact science, being an empath, but the important thing was to identify the proper sensations. For example, the golden light of her childhood and privilege. “Obviously you were well educated. Private tutors?”

Her jaw tightened. “Yes.”

“That stopped after a time. You adored your tutor, of course. You love to learn. But your brother, he didn’t like you paying so much attention to someone who wasn’t him. So sad! Poor little Parisa, princess of her family, locked inside her vault of riches like a sweet, caged bird. And how did you get out?” He considered it, splashing an image of her former self onto the wall. “Ah, of course. A man.”

The hazy illustration of young Parisa was swept away, carried off on the wind.

“Walk with me,” said Callum, and immediately Parisa’s knees buckled, lacking the strength to fight him. The others, he was sure, would follow, equally entranced. “More room this way. What was I saying? Ah, yes, someone saved you—no, you saved yourself,” he amended, “but you made him believe it was his doing. Was it… your brother’s friend? Yes, his closest friend; I can feel the betrayal. He expected something from you for his efforts… eternal devotion? No,” Callum laughed, “of course not. He wanted something much more… accessible.”

He paused, glancing at her, and the image of her following them along the walls as they walked was pulled into a darkened room, the light around it suddenly extinguished.

“How old were you?” he asked.

He watched Parisa swallow, her mouth gone dry.

“Eighteen,” she said.

“Liar,” he replied.

Her lips thinned.

“Fifteen,” she said.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Callum replied. He turned to the stairs, directing her up them. “So, you must have been what, eleven when you knew?”

“Twelve.”

“Right, right, of course. And your brother was seventeen, eighteen…?”

“Nineteen.”

“Naturally. And your sister, fourteen?”

“Yes.”

“So troubling. So very, very troubling.” Callum reached out to brush her cheek and she shrank away, repulsed. He laughed. “So it’s me you hate, then?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You don’t want to hate me,” Callum replied, “because you suspect me of committing terrible crimes with such silly things as hatred.”

He stepped into the ballroom, holding out a hand. “Shall we?”

She glared at him. “You want to dance?”

“I want to see if you can keep up,” Callum assured her.

She rolled her eyes, but took his hand.

“I assume you think you’re winning,” she remarked, beginning an uncannily perfect waltz once he set his hands upon her waist, though he would have expected no less. Somewhere, music was playing. He assumed that had been her work.

“You tell me,” he said. “You’re the one who can supposedly read my thoughts.”

“You spend most of your existence in the singular belief that you’re winning,” she said. “To be honest, Callum, there’s nothing so very interesting to read.”

“Oh?”

“There’s not much going on in there,” Parisa assured him, her neck beautifully elongated as she carried out the waltz’s steps. “No particular ambition. No sense of inadequacy.”

“Should I feel inadequate?”

“Most people do.”

“Perhaps I’m not most people. Isn’t that the point?”

“Isn’t it just,” Parisa murmured, glancing up at him.

“You’re so very guarded with me,” Callum told her disapprovingly. “It’s rather starting to hurt my feelings.”

“I wasn’t aware you had any feelings available to hurt.”

He spun her under his arm, conjuring a little flash of color to marinate the walls.

“Was this it?” he asked, gesturing to the crimson. “I’m not quite sure I have the precise hue.”