The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

“Why, you don’t like him?”

“It’s not that.” Truthfully, she’d been prepared to dislike Tristan much more than she did. “He’s smart, I’ll give him that,” she conceded, thinking of the way he’d helped with their calculations much more than either Callum or Parisa. Tristan’s background as an investor in magical technology made him intensely knowledgeable, even if his practical inexperience with physicalities precluded him from contributing much magically. “He’s just also very, um—”

“Grumpy,” said Nico.

“Well, I wouldn’t—”

“He’s grumpy,” Nico repeated.

“Varona, I’m trying t-”

“He’s grumpy,” Nico said loudly.

“Maybe he’s shy,” countered Libby, unconvincingly.

And then, because that had fooled no one, she sighed, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him, I just… Well, for one thing, he almost certainly doesn’t like me,” she said, and then stopped, dismayed with herself for sounding so much like a child.

“I don’t like you either, Rhodes, so I hardly think that’s relevant,” said Nico, proving himself reliable, if nothing else. “And besides, it seems fairly obvious that Tristan doesn’t like anyone, so you can’t take it personally.”

“I don’t.” Not really. “I’m just saying I’m not ready to be in an alliance with him. Or with Reina, for that matter,” she added quickly. “She might be useful and all that, but it’s only been a few weeks.”

“I didn’t say we should devote ourselves to her body and soul,” Nico said. “I just think she’s, you know.” He smiled broadly, vengeful in his delight. “Moderately epic.”

High praise from someone who considered Libby to be only somewhere in the bottom twenty worst people he’d ever met (or so he told her once during a heated argument third year at NYUMA). Not that Libby was jealous of Reina; it was clear, at least, that Nico intended to see his alliance through with Libby, and that was really all she needed from him at the end of the day.

Would it have been nice to have an ally who was also a friend? Yes, sure, maybe. She had thought for half a second that maybe Tristan would have warmed to her after their brush with danger, but he had been deliberately keeping his distance from her since then. She supposed that might have been in her head; she was the youngest, after all, and Tristan was somewhere around the same age as Callum, so maybe that was why they seemed to be incr

easingly together. Maybe the fact that Callum clearly didn’t like her (or her emotions, anyway, which in her defense, she didn’t care for, either) was making Tristan less inclined to like her, too.

In that case, Tristan was not only an idiot, but also hardly someone whose instincts she could trust. It hadn’t required much to convince Libby that Callum was bad news, and even Parisa seemed to agree. If Tristan couldn’t see it, then…

“He’s not worth your energy, Lib.”

“I know,” Libby said, before remembering that Ezra was talking about Nico, not Tristan, and that oh, yeah, she was still on the phone talking to Ezra. “I mean—sorry,” she amended with a blink, “Varona’s fine, I was just—”

“Is there someone else?”

“Hm?” Drat, more things she couldn’t talk about, like who was in the program with her. “No, I was just—”

There was a quiet knock at the door.

“Hang on, Ezra—Yes?” Libby called, covering the receiver with one hand.

“It’s Tristan,” came the voice from the other side. Perfunctorily, and with a sense of wishing the interaction was already over with, as one might expect from all of Tristan’s interactions.

“Oh, um—” That was a surprise. “One second. Ezra?” she said, returning to her phone call. “Can I call you back?”

There was a pause.

“I’m about to head out, Lib, it’s getting late here. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” she promised, mildly relieved. “I love you.”

“Love you.” Ezra hung up and she rose to her feet, padding to the door and pulling it open.

For someone who didn’t care much for illusions, Tristan Caine certainly was one. It was a Saturday, meaning they all had the day off from their usual work—assuming nobody breached their recently updated security measures, that is—but Tristan was fully dressed (smartly, with a tucked-in shirt and a J. Crew sleeve-roll and everything, like he was heading to a brief but critical lunch meeting), holding a newspaper tucked under his arm. Libby was willing to bet that Tristan had gone down for both breakfast and lunch already that day, which they had the option of taking in their rooms on the weekends. It was as if the appearance of normalcy was a crucial piece of Tristan Caine’s identity.

“Yes?” she asked, a little breathless from her jaunt to the door.