The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

Libby glanced over her shoulder, still compelled to leave for the reading room.

“I was just going to—”

“Whatever it is, it’ll still be there in the morning, Rhodes. Sit.” Tristan beckoned her with his chin, gesturing to the spot next to him.

Libby hesitated, unsure whether this was her precise choice of company, but the idea of not being alone was… tempting. And Tristan was right, whether he knew it or not. Driving herself mad all over again could be easily ventured anew tomorrow.

She stepped forward and Parisa smiled approvingly, reaching up to hand her the bottle. Libby collapsed on Tristan’s other side, taking a sip.

“Oof,” she said, wincing as it burned. “What is this?”

“Brandy,” said Parisa. “With a few more fermented spices.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning absinthe,” said Tristan. “It’s absinthe.”

“Oh.” Libby swallowed, already a little bowled over by the effect of her single sip.

“Let me guess,” Parisa sighed, reaching over Tristan to take the bottle from Libby. “You don’t drink much?”

“Not particularly,” Libby said.

Parisa drew the bottle back to her lips, which were stained a dark red. The dress was a navy blue, almost black, and Libby instantly wished she had the requisite sophistication to pull it off.

“You can pull it off whenever you’d like,” remarked Parisa, chuckling into the bottle.

Libby felt her cheeks flush. “I just meant I could never wear anything so…” She coughed. “I just don’t do trends very well.”

Parisa leaned forward, handing the bottle back to Libby. The strap of her dress slipped blithely from her shoulder, draping against her arm and floating over what Libby now realized necessitated the absence of a bra.

“I meant it literally,” Parisa said as Libby brought the bottle to her lips, and while Libby choked on her swallow, Tristan laughed.

“You must have gotten a visit from the Forum as well,” he said to Libby, who had only just recovered from an eruption of absinthe-tainted coughs. “What deeply personal revelation did they make about you, then?”

“You tell me,” Libby said, taking another swig. The last thing she wanted to be for this conversation was sober; she already felt juvenile and inept as it was.

“Well, it’s all very dull for us, unfortunately. My father’s a crime boss, same old, same old,” said Tristan, adding to Libby’s look of confusion, “Nasty piece of work. Adequate witch, though.”

“Is he?”

“You’ve never heard of Adrian Caine?” asked Tristan. Libby shook her head, and Tristan’s smirk cracked slightly. “I’m joking. I didn’t expect you to run in London’s seedy underbelly.”

“Is he like the Godfather?” asked Libby.

“A bit,” said Tristan. “Only less paternal.” He took the bottle from her hand, not bothering to wait for her to release it before he took a long swig. “He’d love you,” he added after swallowing, shaking himself like a dog from the burn.

Libby glanced sideways at him, waiting to see if that was supposed to be an insult. Tristan met her glance, arching a brow in expectancy.

It didn’t seem to be.

“And I, of course, am a whore,” remarked Parisa, as Libby choked on her swallow once again. “I’m sure there’s a better word for it, but at present I can’t be bothered to think of any.”

“An escort, perhaps?” asked Tristan.

“No, nothing so professional. More like an exceptionally talented philanderess,” Parisa said. “It started shortly after I finished school in Paris. No,” she amended, recounting it in her head, “I believe technically it began while I was in school, though it was only a hobby then. You know, like how the Olympics only celebrates the achievements of amateurs.”

Libby left the follow-up questions to Tristan. “It started with a professor, I presume?”