The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

“My father is either dead or hiding,” Gideon had explained to Nico once, “not that it matters which, as I don’t expect to ever hear from him. I’m quite sure I have siblings all over the world, belonging to any variety of species. Doubtless he acknowledges none.”

Gideon had said it in a factual manner at the time, wholly unemotional about the prospect, and Nico hadn’t bothered to question him any further. Gideon already had plenty of psychological trauma without adding a father fixation to the mix, so if anything, the absence of Gideon’s father was probably a blessing.

Nico’s single concern was, as always, keeping Gideon’s mother out. Once the Society’s perimeter was secured, he could return his attention to the study of Gideon’s remaining fractures without fearing he’d become responsible for a massive security breach.

Despite trusting Reina to accurately translate runes for him as he’d requested, Nico had hoped not to have to explain the reasons for his little foray into rare extracurricular study. True to form, Reina required little explanation.

“As far as I can tell, magic is magic,” she said, hardly looking up from where she scanned the page in the reading room. She sat with her legs curled under herself on the chair, her entire frame defensively enveloping the book as if she feared someone might suddenly snatch it from her hand. “Most creatures’ genetics are no different from a human’s than an ape’s. Just a matter of evolutionary distinctions, that’s all.”

“Mutations?”

She glanced up, eyes slightly narrowed. “Genetic, you mean?”

Nico bristled at the implication that he might have meant aberrations. “Of course,” he said, perhaps more passionately than necessary.

“No need to be brutish,” she remarked, expressionless. Then she returned her attention to the page. “The difference in magical ability appears to lie in the customary form of usage,” she said, eyes roving over the page with only the slightest break in motion; a sidelong glance to what Nico guessed was a back-talking plant somewhere in the corridor. “That’s true,” she conceded grumpily, presumably to the plant, though she slid her attention upward to fix Nico with a studious look of contemplation.

“It’s smaller,” she said.

He frowned. “What is?”

“The—” She paused, cursing quietly under her breath, or so he assumed. “Output,” she eventually produced from somewhere in her multilingual lexicon. “Usage, power, whatever the word is. Creatures produce less, or rather, waste less.”

“Waste?”

“Ask Tristan,” she said.

“Ask Tristan what?”

Nico spun at the sound of Libby’s voice to find her lingering in the doorway, hesitantly half-in, half-out.

“Nothing,” said Nico, at the same moment Reina said, “How much magic humans produce.”

“Humans,” Libby echoed, flitting inside with a flare of interest. “As opposed to what?”

“Nothing,” Nico repeated, more emphatically this time as Reina returned her attention to the book, muttering an unblinking, “Creatures.”

Libby turned to look at Nico, expectant. “Creatures, Varona, really?”

Her brow was arched beneath her mass of fringe, which he positively loathed. It was one thing for her to be nosy, and another thing entirely for her to regard him with so much palpable doubt.

Just what did she expect him of bollocking up this time?

“I wanted to be certain of something,” he supplied evasively, with the tone of blistering impatience he knew she would find repellant. There was always a chance she’d leave if he pestered her enough.

“Okay, and what does Tristan have to do with it?”

Evidently her curiosity had been all too successfully piqued.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Nico retorted, though much to his dismay, that was enough to make Reina finally remember to explain herself.

“Tristan can see magic being used,” she said from behind her curtain of black hair.

“How do you know that?” asked Libby, which to Nico’s ear sounded unnecessarily accusing, as if she resentfully suspected Reina and Tristan of having some sort of weekly brunch wherein they discussed their private lives and secret wishes.

“Observation,” Reina replied, which Nico could have told Libby was the obvious answer. Reina spoke little and saw much, though what Nico liked most about her was that she considered most of what she viewed to be substantially unimportant, and therefore not worth discussion.

Unlike Libby, who felt precisely the opposite.