by Olivie Blake
That, Parisa thought, was rather telling.
“I imagine you suspect me of using you, then,” she said.
His response was a wry half-smile with a clear enough translation: I know better than to answer that.
“Well,” she said. “Then I suppose I’ll have to prove you wrong.”
He gave her another curt nod. “Best of luck to you, Miss Kamali,” he said. “I have very high hopes for you.”
He turned, about to head for the corridor, when Parisa reached for his arm, catching him unawares just long enough to draw herself up on her toes, bracing her palms on his chest.
There would be the slightest pulse of contemplation here—the hardest work was managed in the moments before a thing was accomplished. The promise of her breath on his lips; the angle at which he viewed her, her dark eyes overlarge, and the way he would gradually become conscious of her warmth. He would smell her perfume now and catch hints of it again later, wondering if she had rounded a nearby corner or recently been in a room. He would catalogue the sensation of her smallness in the same incongruous moment he registered the pressure of her presence; the immediacy of her, the nearness, would momentarily unsettle him, and in that moment, lacking the presence of mind to recoil, he would permit himself to imagine what might happen next.
The kiss itself was so fragile and brief it hardly mattered. She would learn only the smell of his cologne, the feeling of his mouth. The most important detail of a kiss was usually the cataloguing of a single fact: is the kiss returned? But this kiss, of course, was far too fleeting to be informative. Better he did not return it, in fact, as no man would allow a woman access to the more worthy corners of his mind if he kissed her too readily to start with.
“Sorry,” she said, removing her hands from his chest. Balance was a delicate matter; the sending of her desire forward while also tearing herself physically away. Those who did not believe this to be a dance had not undergone the choreography long or devotedly enough. “I’m afraid it cost more energy than I cared to expend,” she murmured, “preventing myself from doing that.”
Magic was an energy they all knew better than to waste; on some level, she knew he would relate.
“Miss Kamali.” These, the first words after kissing her, would forever taste like her, and she doubted he’d escape an opportunity to say her name again. “Perhaps you misunderstand.”
“Oh, I’m sure I do,” she said, “but I suppose I quite enjoy an opportunity for misunderstanding.”
She smiled up at him, and he slowly detached himself from her.
“Your efforts,” he said, “would be better spent convincing your initiation class of your value. I have no direct impact on the decision as to whether or not you’ll be chosen for initiation.”
“I’m very good at what I do. I’m not concerned with their opinions.”
“Perhaps you should be.”
“I don’t make a habit of doing things I should.”
“So it appears.”
He flicked another glance at her, and this time, to her immense satisfaction, she saw it.
The opening of a door.
“If I believed you capable of sincerity I would recommend you turn and run,” he said. “Unfortunately, I think you have every weapon necessary to win this game.”
“So it is a game, then.” Finally, something she could use.
“It is a game,” he confirmed. “But I’m afraid you miscalculated. I am not a useful piece.”
She did not, as a rule, miscalculate. Better that he wonder, though.
“Perhaps I’ll simply have you for fun, then,” she said, but as she did not make a habit of being the one left behind, she took the first step in retreat. “Are the transportation portals that way?” she asked him, deliberately pointing in the wrong direction. The moment his mind would take to replace the incorrect information with accuracy would be enough to catch the shadow of something, and she was right, observing a flicker of something heavily suppressed.
“That way,” Dalton said, “just around the corner.”
Whatever lurked in his mind was not a complete thought. It was a rush of things, identifiable only by how carnal they were. Desire, for example. She had kissed him, and he was wanting. But there was something else, too, and it wasn’t interwoven with the rest the way it sometimes was.
Lust was a color, but fear was a sensation. Clammy hands or a cold sweat were obvious markers, but more often it was some sort of multisensory incongruity. Like seeing sun and smelling smoke, or feeling silk and tasting bile. Sounds that rose out of unseeing darkness.
Dalton Ellery was definitely afraid of something. Tragically, that something wasn’t her.
“Thank you,” Parisa said, rather meaning it, and proceeded down the corridor to find there was an additional person waiting in the vestibule.
He, she thought, was interesting. There was something very coiled up about him, something rearing to strike, but the best part about snakes was how little they could be bothered to do so unless someone was blocking their sun.
Besides, call it merciless Westernization, but she liked British accents.
“Tristan, isn’t it?” she asked, watching him look up from a rather murky swamp of thoughts. “Are you headed to London?”
“Yes.” He was half-listening, half-thinking, though his thoughts were mostly unidentifiable. On the one hand they took very linear paths, like a map of Manhattan, but they also seemed to reach destinations that would require more effort than Parisa had energy to follow at the moment. “And you?”
“London as well,” she said, and he blinked with surprise, refocusing on her.
He was recalling her academic origin of École Magique de Paris and her personal origin of Tehran, basic introductory details distributed by Atlas.
Good, so he’d been paying attention.
“But I thought—”
“Can you see through all illusions?” she asked him. “Or is it just the bad ones?”
Tristan hesitated for a moment, and then his mouth twisted. He had an angry mouth, or at least a mouth accustomed to camouflaging anger.
“You’re one of those,” he said.
“If you’re not busy, we should have a drink,” she replied.
He was instantly suspicious. “Why?”
“Well, there’s no point in me going back to Paris. And besides, I need to entertain myself for what remains of the evening.”
“You think I’ll entertain you?”
She allowed a deliberate flick of her eyes, following the shape of him.
“I certainly think I’d like to see you try,” she said. “And anyway, if we’re going to do this, we ought to start making friends.”
“Friends?” He practically licked his lips with the word.
“I like to know my friends intimately,” she assured him.
“I’m engaged.” True, but immaterial.
“How wonderful for you. I’m sure she’s a lovely girl.”
“She isn’t, actually.”
“Even better,” Parisa said. “Neither am I.”
Tristan cut her a sidelong glance. “What kept you so long after the meeting?”
She considered what to tell him, weighing her options. This wasn’t the same calculation that Dalton Ellery had been, of course. This was purely recreational. Dalton was more of a professional concern, though it was tinged with a bit of genuine craving.
Dalton was chess; Tristan was sport. Importantly, though, both were games.
“I’ll tell you over breakfast,” Parisa suggested.
Tristan sighed aloud, addressing his resignation to empty air, and then turned back to her.
“I have to do a few things first,” he said. “Break things off with Eden. Quit my job. Punch my best friend in the jaw.”
“That all sounds like responsible behavior that can wait until morning,” advised Parisa, stepping through the portal’s open doors and beckoning him after her. “Be sure to schedule in the part where I tell you my theor
ies about what we’re not being told, presumably between the broken engagement and the probably well-deserved assault.”
He, obligingly, stepped into the portal after her. “You have theories?”
She pushed the button for London. “Don’t you?”
They exchanged a glance, both smiling, as the portal confirmed: King’s Cross Station, London, England, United Kingdom.
“Why me?” said Tristan.
“Why not?” said Parisa.
It seemed they were like-minded. She was inexperienced with collaboration, but felt that was an important qualification for teamwork.
“I could certainly use a pint,” Tristan said, and the doors closed, delivering them to the remainder of their evening.
LIBBY
It had not been a very good day for Ezra, poor thing. This was a rather inevitable outcome, of course, considering he’d had to spend most of it with Libby’s parents at her graduation ceremony before she, admittedly, had skipped off mysteriously without warning and then returned to delay any explanation for her absence by tugging him firmly into bed with her. At least he’d gotten sex that day, which she presumed would be a lovely turn of events, but also, his partner in the act had clung to a secretive and knowingly manipulative agenda that had left her distracted and unable to climax, so that was… potentially less lovely for him.
Subsequent pro: she had graciously made him dinner.
Subsequent con: she had also informed him over said dinner that she would be accepting the offer made to her by Atlas Blakely, Caretaker, despite being unable to properly explain why.
“So you’re just… leaving?” Ezra asked, warily bemused. He had been mid-sip when Libby began talking and had since forgotten about the wine glass that remained clutched in his hand. “But Lib—”
“It’s only two years,” Libby reminded him. “Well, one for sure,” she amended, “and then hopefully a second year if I’m selected.”
Ezra set down his glass, frowning at it.
“And… what is it, exactly?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“But—”
“You’ll just have to trust me,” she said, not for the first time. “It’s essentially a fellowship,” she added in an attempt to explain, but this, unfortunately, had been exactly the wrong auditory cue.
“Speaking of fellowships, I’ve been meaning to bring it up,” Ezra said, brightening, “but I just heard from Porter in the bursar’s office that Varona turned down that NYUMA fellowship. I know you weren’t excited about the VC job, so if you’re still interested in that position, I’m sure I could put in a good word.”
Surely he must have known this was the exact wrong thing to say. Shouldn’t he? She wouldn’t want Nico’s cast-offs, and certainly not now.
Though it did leave her with one other thing to explain.
“Well, the thing about Varona is—” Libby coughed. “Well, Varona is… also invited.”
Ezra faltered. “Oh?”
“Oh, come on. You can’t be surprised.” She fidgeted with her utensils, pushing the pasta around on her plate. “You saw us this morning, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I thought—”
“Look, it’s the same as it always is,” she said listlessly. “For whatever reason, Nico and I can do the same things, and—”
“So then why do they need both of you?” Ezra prompted. Again, the wrong thing to say. “You hate working with him. Not to mention everyone knows you’re better—”
“Actually, Ezra, they don’t. Clearly they don’t,” Libby added with a scoff, “since he got the fellowship I wanted. See how that works?”
“But—”
“I can’t let him win this time, babe. Seriously, I can’t.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin, setting it back on the table with frustration. “I’ve got to set myself apart from him. Don’t you get that?”
“Can’t you do that by, I don’t know,” Ezra posed with tacit disapproval, “doing something different?”
He made that sound so simple.
“Look,” Libby said, “chances are, only one of us is going to make the cut when the… fellowship,” she remembered, narrowly avoiding giving more details away, “determines the final members for its—” A pause. “Faculty.” Another pause, and then, “We have the same specialty, which means we’ll draw the most obvious comparison. So either he’ll be picked and I won’t, in which case I’ll be back in a year or less, or I’ll be picked and he won’t, in which case—”
“In which case you win,” Ezra exhaled with a hand around his mouth, “and we can finally stop worrying about whatever Varona is doing?”
“Yes.” That much, at least, was fairly obvious. “Not that you have to worry about Varona now.”
Ezra stiffened. “Lib, I wasn’t—”
“You were, actually,” Libby said, picking up her glass. “And I keep telling you, there’s nothing there. He’s just an asshole.”
“Believe me, I’m aware—”
“We’ll talk every night,” she assured him. “I’ll come home every weekend.” She could do that, probably. Maybe. “You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”
Ezra sighed. “Libby—”
“You just have to let me prove myself,” she told him. “You keep saying that Varona’s not better than me—”
“—because he isn’t—”
“—but it doesn’t matter what you think, Ezra, not really.” His mouth tightened, probably resentful that she was so dismissive of his admittedly very thoughtful attempts to reassure her, but on this, she couldn’t make allowances. “You hate him too much to see how good he really is, babe. I just want the opportunity to learn more, to prove myself. And proving myself by going up against the best in the world means going up against Nico de Varona, whether you believe that or not.”
“So I don’t get a say, then.” Ezra’s expression was slightly grim, but mostly unreadable.
“Of course you get a say,” Libby corrected him. “You can say, ‘Libby, I love you and I support you,’ or you can say something else.” She swallowed before adding, “But believe me, Ezra, there are only two answers here. If you don’t say one, you’re saying the other.”
She braced herself, waiting. She didn’t expect him to make any unreasonable demands, exactly, but she definitely knew he wasn’t going to be thrilled. Closeness was important to Ezra; it had been his idea to move in together, and he expected a certain amount of what a therapist might call ‘quality time.’ He certainly wasn’t going to savor the fact that Nico would be there in his absence.
To Libby’s immense relief, though, Ezra merely sighed, reaching across the table for her hand.
“You dream big, hotshot,” he said.
“That,” she murmured, “isn’t really an answer.”
“Fine. Libby, I love you and I support you.” She was briefly permitted a pause for relief; and then he added, “But be careful, okay?”
“Be careful with what,” Libby scoffed, “Varona?”
Nico was laughably harmless. Good, certainly, even great if he put his mind to it, but he was hardly capable of schemes. He could get under her skin, maybe—but even then, there was no danger of anything aside from losing her temper.
“Just be careful.” Ezra leaned across the table, brushing his lips against her forehead. “I would never forgive myself if I let something happen to you,” he murmured, and she groaned. Just the usual white knight shit, then.
“I can take care of myself, Ezra.”
“I know.” He touched her cheek, smiling faintly. “But hey, what else am I here for?”
“Your body,” she assured him. “Plus you make a mean bolognese.”
He had her out of her chair in a flash, pulling her into him as she laughed in unconvincing protest.
“I’m going to miss you, Libby Rhodes,” he said, “and that’s the truth.”
So it was final, then. She was really doing this.
Libby wrapped her arms around Ezra’s neck, clinging to h
im for a moment. Maybe she wasn’t a damsel in distress, but it still felt nice to anchor herself to something before casting herself into the unknown.
III: BATTLE
CALLUM
It had not been a particularly complex matter deciding to join the Society at Atlas Blakely’s invitation. If he didn’t care for the experience, Callum reasoned, he would leave. It was how he generally lived his life: he came and went as he wished. People these decisions affected, if they were angry about his mutability, did not typically stay mad. Preternaturally or otherwise, Callum had a way of ensuring that people came around to see his position on the matter, one way or another. Once he’d made his point, they could always be compelled to act reasonably from there.
Callum had always been aware that word used for his specialty by the Hellenistic University of Magical Arts was not the right word. The manipulist subcategory of illusionist was more often applied to cases of physical specialties: people who could warp things, make them into something else. Water could be convinced to be wine, in the right hands, or at least made to look and taste like it. One of the particularities about the study and reality of magic was that it only mattered, in the end, how things looked or tasted; what they were meant to be, or what were at the start, could be easily dismissed in favor of achieving the necessary result.
But what the Society appeared to know—what Atlas Blakely seemed to know, which others typically didn’t—was that Callum’s work was more accurately defined as a vigorous type of empath. It was unsurprising, really, that he was magically misdiagnosed; empathy was a far more common magical manifestation in women, and thus, when it appeared, it was usually cultivated in a highly delicate, maternal sort of way. There were a number of female medeians who were able to tap into the emotions of others; more often than not, they became marvelous humanitarians, lauded for the contributions to therapy and healing. It was a very feminine thing, to be both magical and saintly. Philanthropy could be worn like jewelry or cosmetics, glittering from the effervescence of their pores.
When the same skill set could be found in men, it was usually too diluted to be classified as magical; more often it was considered an isolated personality trait. In the case of persuasion, a trait with the potential to achieve medeian-level ability—labeled, perhaps, ‘charisma’ by the non-magical—it would often be put aside in favor of the usual method of going about things: attendance at some famous mortal university, like Oxford or Harvard for example, and then a prosperous mortal career from there. Occasionally these men went on to become CEOs, lawyers, or politicians. Sometimes they became tyrants, megalomaniacs, or dictators—in which case it was probably best their talents went unrealized. Magic, like most other forms of physical exertion, required proper training to wield properly or for any extended period of time; had any of those men ever realized their natural qualities were something they could refine, the world would have been far worse off than it was already.