by Olivie Blake
He leaned forward, setting a slim card on Tristan’s desk. It read only Atlas Blakely, Caretaker, and shimmered slightly from an illusion.
Tristan frowned at it. A transportation charm.
“Where does it go?” he asked neutrally, and the man, Atlas Blakely, smiled.
“You can see the charm, then?”
“Given the circumstances, safer to assume it has one.” Tristan rubbed his forehead, wary. From his desk drawer, his phone buzzed loudly; Eden would be looking for him. “I’m not stupid enough to touch something like this. I have places to be, and whatever this is—”
“You can see through illusions,” Atlas said, prompting him to tense with apprehension. Not just anyone was allowed to know that about him. Not that Tristan cared for any details about him to be known, but his talent was most effective when others were left unaware. “You can see value, and better yet, you can see falseness. You can see truth. That is what makes you special, Tristan. You can work every day of your life to expand James Wessex’s business, or you can be what you are. Who you are.” Atlas fixed him with a firm glance. “How long do you think you can do this before James figures out the truth about where you come from? The accent is a nice touch, but I can hear the East End underneath. The echo of a working-class witch,” Atlas hinted softly, “that lives in your working-class tongue.”
Tristan curled a hand under his desk, bristling.
“Is this blackmail?”
“No,” said Atlas. “It’s an offer. An opportunity.”
“I have plenty of opportunities.”
“You deserve better ones,” Atlas said. “Better than James Wessex. Certainly better than Eden Wessex, and miles better than Adrian Caine.”
Tristan’s phone buzzed again. Likely Eden was sending him pictures of her tits. Four years of dating and she never tired of showing off the augmentation charm she didn’t know he could see through.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tristan said.
“Don’t I?” Atlas countered, gesturing to the card. “You have a couple of hours to decide.”
“Decide what?” Tristan asked brusquely, defensive with nerves, but Atlas had already risen to his feet, shrugging.
“I’m happy to answer your questions,” Atlas said, “but not here. Not now. If you’re going to continue living this life, Tristan, then there’s no point having any conversation at all, is there? But there’s much more available to you than you think, if you care to take it.” He glanced sideways at Tristan. “More than where you came from, and certainly more than where you are.”
Easy for him to say, Tristan thought. Whoever Atlas Blakely was, his father wasn’t a bullish tyrant who considered his biggest disappointment in life to be his only son. He wasn't the one who’d zeroed in on Eden Wessex five years ago at a party when he’d been tending bar and decided that she was the best way; the easiest way; the only way out.
Though, he also wasn’t the one whose best friend in the office thought he was getting away with fucking her, unaware the shoddy contraception charm left on his prick regularly made itself clear from across the room.
“What is it?” Tristan asked. “This…” He let the word curl up on his tongue. “Opportunity.”
“Once in a lifetime,” Atlas said, which wasn’t an answer. “You will know as much when you see it.”
That was nearly always true. There was little Tristan Caine couldn’t see.
“I have places to be,” Tristan said.
A life to live. A future to curate.
Atlas nodded.
“Choose wisely,” he advised, and slipped from the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
CALLUM
Two Hours Ago
Callum Nova was very accustomed to getting what he wanted. He had a magical specialty so effective that if he kept it to himself, which he generally did, he would get top marks in every class without effort. It was a hypnosis of sorts. Some of his exes called it a hallucinogenic effect in retrospect, like coming down from a drug. If they weren’t on their guard at all times, he could talk them into anything. It made things easy for him. Too easy? Sometimes, yes.
That didn’t mean Callum didn’t like a challenge.
Since Callum had graduated university and returned from Athens six years ago he’d been up to very little indeed, which wasn’t his favorite fact about himself. He worked for his family business, of course, as plenty of postgraduate medeians did. A magical media conglomerate, the Nova family’s primary business was beauty. It was grandeur. It was also all an illusion, every single bit of it, and Callum was the falsest illusion of all. He handled the commodity of vanity, and he was good at it. Better than good.
It was boring, though, convincing people of things they already believed. Callum had a distinctly rare specialty as a so-called manipulist, and rarer still was his talent; far exceeding the common capacity of any witch who could cast at a basic level. He was smart to begin with, which meant convincing people to do precisely as he wanted for purposes of magical exercise had to be considerably challenging to really break a sweat. He was also eternally in search of entertainment, and therefore the man at the door had to say very little for Callum to be convinced.
“Caretaker,” Callum read aloud, scrutinizing the card with his feet propped up on his desk. He’d come in four hours late to work and neither the managing partner (his sister) nor the owner (his father) had anything to say about the meeting he’d missed. He would make up for it that afternoon, when he would sit down for two minutes (could be done in ninety seconds, but he’d stay long enough to finish the espresso) with the client the Novas needed in order to secure a full portfolio of high-ranking illusionists for London Fashion Week. “I hope it’s something interesting you care for, Atlas Blakely.”
“It is,” said Atlas, rising to his feet. “Shall I presume to see you, then?”
“Presumptions are dangerous,” Callum said, feeling out the edges of Atlas’ interests. They were blurred and rough, not easily infected. He guessed that Atlas Blakely, whoever he was, had been warned about Callum’s particular skills, which meant he must have dug deep to even discover its true nature. Anyone willing to do the dirty work was worth a few minutes of time, in Callum’s view. “Who else is involved?”
“Five others.”
A good number, Callum thought. Exclusive enough, but statistically speaking he could bring himself to like one in five people.
“Who’s the most interesting?”
“Interesting is subjective,” Atlas said.
“So, me, then,” Callum guessed.
Atlas gave a humorless smile. “You’re not uninteresting, Mr. Nova, though I suspect this will be the first time you encounter a room full of people as rare as yourself.”
“Intriguing,” Callum said, removing his feet from the desk to lean forward. “Still, I’d like to know more about them.”
Atlas arched a brow. “You have no interest in knowing about the opportunity itself, Mr. Nova?”
“If I want it, it’s mine,” Callum said, shrugging. “I can always wait and make that decision later. More interesting than the game is always the players, you know. Well, I suppose more accurately,” he amended, “the game is different depending on the players.”
Atlas’ mouth twisted slightly.
“Nico de Varona,” he said.
“Never heard of him,” Callum said. “What’s he do?”
“He’s a physicist,” Atlas said. “He can compel forces of physicality to adjust to his demands, just as you do with intent.”
“Boring.” Callum leaned back. “But I suppose I’ll give him a try. Who else?”
“Libby Rhodes is also a physicist,” Atlas continued. “Her influence over her surroundings is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Reina Mori, likewise, is a naturalist for whom the earth personally offers fruit.”
“Naturalists are easy to come by,” Callum said, though admittedly, he was curious now. “Who else?”
“Tristan
Caine. He can see through illusions.”
Rare. Very rare. Not particularly useful, though. “And?”
“Parisa Kamali.” That name was said with hesitation. “Her specialty is better left unsaid, I suspect.”
“Oh?” Callum asked, arching a brow. “And did you tell them about mine?”
“They didn’t ask about you,” Atlas said.
Callum cleared his throat.
“Do you make a habit of psychologically profiling everyone you meet?” he asked neutrally, and Atlas didn’t answer. “Though,” Callum mused, “I suppose people less inclined to notice when they’re being influenced are unlikely to call you on it, aren’t they?”
“I suppose in some ways we are opposites, Mr. Nova,” Atlas said. “I know what people want to hear. You make them want to hear what you know.”
“Suppose I’m just naturally interesting?” Callum suggested blithely, and Atlas made a low, laughing sound of concession.
“You know, for someone who knows his own value so distinctly, perhaps you forget that beneath your natural talent lies someone very, very uninspired,” Atlas said, and Callum blinked, caught off guard. “Which is not to say there’s a vacancy, but—”
“A vacancy?” Callum echoed, bristling. “What is this, negging?”
“Not a vacancy,” Atlas repeated, “but certainly something unfinished.” He rose to his feet. “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Nova,” he said, “as I imagine you could have done a great number of things during the period we spoke. How long would it have taken you to start a war, do you think? Or to end one?” He paused, and Callum said nothing. “Five minutes? Perhaps ten? How long would it have taken you to kill someone? To save a life? I admire what you have not done,” Atlas acknowledged, tilting his head with something of a beckoning glance, “but I do have to question why you haven’t done it.”
“Because I’d drive myself mad interfering with the world,” said Callum impatiently. “It requires a certain level of restraint to be what I am.”
“Restraint,” Atlas said, “or perhaps a lack of imagination.”
Callum was far too secure to gape, so he didn’t.
Instead, Callum said: “This had better be worth my time.”
He did not say: Four minutes, thirty-nine seconds. That’s how long it would take.
He had the feeling Atlas Blakely, Caretaker, was baiting him, and he also had the distinct feeling he shouldn’t bother trying not to be caught.
“I could say the same for you,” Atlas said, and tipped his hat politely in farewell.
PARISA
One Hour Ago
She’d been sitting in the bar in her favorite black dress, sipping a martini. She always came to do this alone. For a time she’d been in the habit of having girlfriends around, but ultimately determined they were too noisy. Disruptive. Often jealous, too, which Parisa couldn’t abide. She’d had one or two female friends at school in Paris and had once been close to her siblings in Tehran, but since then she’d determined she was better as a singular object. That made sense to her, ultimately. People who lined up to see the Mona Lisa typically couldn’t name the paintings hanging nearby, and there was nothing wrong with that.
There were quite a lot of words for what Parisa was, which was something she supposed most people would not approve. Perhaps it went without saying that Parisa didn’t put a lot of stock in approval. She was talented and smart, but above that—at least according to everyone who’d ever looked at her—she was beautiful, and being gifted approval for something that had been handed to her by some fortuitous arrangement of DNA instead of earned by her own two hands wasn’t something she felt necessary to either idolize or condemn. She didn’t rail against her looks; didn’t give thanks for them, either. She simply used them like any other tool, like a hammer or a shovel or whatever else was necessary to complete the requisite task. Besides, disapproval was nothing worth thinking about. The same women who might have disapproved were quick to fawn over her diamonds, her shoes, her breasts—all of which were natural, never synthetic, not even illusioned. Whatever they wanted to call Parisa, at least she was authentic. She was real, even if she made a living on false promises.
Really, there was nothing more dangerous than a woman who knew her own worth.
Parisa watched the older men in the corner, the ones in the expensive suits, who were having a business meeting. She’d listened for a few minutes to the subject of conversation—after all, not everything was sex; sometimes insider trading was the easier option, and she was smart enough to serve multiple threats—but ultimately lost interest, as the business concept was fundamentally unsound. The men themselves, however, remained intriguing. One of them was toying with his wedding ring and fussing internally about his wife. Boring. One of the others was clearly harboring some sort of unresolved sexual angst about the boring fussy one, which was more interesting, albeit unhelpful for her purposes. The last one was handsome, probably rich, a tan where his wedding ring should have been. Parisa shifted in her chair, crossing one leg delicately over the other.
The man looked up, catching a glimpse of her thigh.
Well. He was certainly willing. That much was clear.
She looked elsewhere, not sure the man would be ending his business meeting anytime soon. In the meantime, she’d occupy her thoughts with someone else’s. Maybe the wealthy woman in the back corner who looked likely to cry any minute. No, too depressing. There was always the bartender, who certainly knew how to use his hands. He’d pictured them on her already, traveling over a fairly accurate mental illustration of her hips, only she wouldn’t get anything out of that. An orgasm, surely, but what good was that? An orgasm she could have on her own without becoming the girl who fucks bartenders. If anyone was going to be involved in Parisa’s life, they were going to bring money, power, or magic. Nothing else would do.
She angled herself towards the dark-skinned man at the end of the bar, contemplating the silence that came from his head. She hadn’t seen him come in, which was unusual. A medeian, then, or at least a witch. That was interesting. She watched him toy with a slim card, tapping it against the bar, and frowned at the words. Atlas Blakely, Caretaker. Caretaker of what?
The problem with being a smart girl was being naturally curious. Parisa turned away from the business meeting, aiming herself instead towards Atlas Blakely and fiddling with their respective positions in the room, turning the volume up.
She focused in on his mind and saw… six people. No, five. Five people, without faces. Extraordinary magic. Ah, yes, he was definitely a medeian, and so were they, it seemed. He felt a kinship with one of the five. One of them was a prize; something the man, Atlas, had recently won. He felt a bit smug over it. Two of them were a set, they came together. They didn’t like being shoved in like twins in a too-small womb but too bad, that’s what they were. One was a vacancy, a question, the edge of a narrow cliff. Another was… the answer, like an echo, though she couldn’t quite see why. She tried to see their faces clearly but couldn’t; they warped in and out of view, beckoning her closer.
Parisa peered around, pacing a little inside his thoughts. They seemed curated, a bit like a museum, as if they’d been intended for her to view in a particular order. A long process of selection, then a mirror. Five frames with hazy portraits, and then a mirror. Parisa looked at her own face and felt a jolt, startled.
At the end of the bar, the man rose to his feet, placing the card in front of her, and without him detailing anything aloud, she already knew why he’d given it to her. She’d spent long enough in his mind to understand it, and she realized now that he’d willingly let her in. In one hour, his thoughts said, the card would take her somewhere. Somewhere important. It was obviously the most important place in the world to this man, whoever he was. That bit Parisa suspected was her interpretation, as it was slightly fuzzier. She knew instinctively that whatever it was, it would be more worthwhile than the man having the business meeting. That man had recently repaired st
itching in his suit. It had been refitted; it wasn’t new. A man wore a new suit to a business meeting like this if he could afford it, and that man couldn’t.
Parisa sighed in resignation, picking up the card from the bar.
An hour later, she sat in a room with Atlas Blakely and the five people she’d seen hazily represented in his mind without either of them speaking a word to each other, friendly or otherwise. She watched the handsome Latin boy—definitely a boy; he was obsessed with the girl sitting next to Parisa, who was tinted with inexperience—decide she was beautiful and she smiled to herself, knowing perfectly well she could eat that boy alive and he’d let her. He’d be fun for a day or so, maybe, but this seemed bigger than that. This seemed much more important.
The blond South African was interesting. He was eyeing the Englishman, Tristan, with extreme curiosity, possibly even something ravenous. Good, Parisa thought, pleased. She didn’t like men like him. He’d want her to shout his name, to scream about his dick, to say things like ‘oh baby yes how do you do it how do you make me feel like this?’ and that was a chore; it rarely ended in anything worthwhile. Rich people like him typically held tight to their wallets, and experience had taught her that did her no good.
Besides, the six of them were equals here. He had nothing to offer her, except perhaps loyalty, but he wasn’t the type to give it easily. He was used to getting his way, which she could see from observing the functions of his thoughts was something he did with at least some level of intention. Parisa Kamali had never wanted to be under anyone’s thumb, and she certainly wouldn’t start now.
The boy, too, was probably useless, which was disappointing. He was obviously wealthy and certainly not unattractive (Nicolás, she thought with satisfaction, rolling his name around in her head like she might have done with him, whispering it to the inch of skin just below the lobe of his ear) but he obviously tired quickly of things that were too easily won. Not Parisa’s style. The girl he was fixated on was equally easy to discard, though Parisa had been with girls before and rarely ruled them out. She’d spent the better portion of last month, in fact, with a wealthy mortal heiress who’d bought Parisa this outfit, these boots, this purse. People were all the same, really, when you got to the core of them, and Parisa always did. It was Parisa’s business, seeing things she wasn’t supposed to see. In this case, though, this particular girl was unequivocally hopeless. She had a boyfriend she seemed to actually like. She had good intentions, too, which were the most unfortunate. Always indicative of someone not easily put to use. The girl, Libby, was so good she was no good at all. Parisa moved on from her quickly.