The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

“The Society has done things a very particular way for a reason,” said Atlas. “This may not seem clear right now, but I cannot permit expediency to outweigh the importance of our methodology. Logistical efficiency is only one among many concerns, I’m afraid.”

It was clear that Libby wasn’t going to receive any further answers; even more obvious was her discontent with the prospect of continued ignorance.

“Oh.” She folded her arms over her chest, turning back to Dalton. “Sorry.”

Dalton went on, returning half-heartedly to his lecture, and for the rest of the afternoon, nothing was noticeably out of place.

As far as Reina was concerned, however, something monumental had been achieved that afternoon. She was certain now that only Libby remained in the dark, which meant that if the rest of them were aware of the terms for initiation and they still hadn’t left, then they must have all secretly come to the same conclusion Reina had.

They were each willing to kill whoever they had to in order to stay. Five out of six arrows were not only sharp, they were lethal, and now they were readily aimed.

Briefly, Reina felt

the tug of a smile across her face: Intention.

MotherMotherMother is aliveeeeee!

TRISTAN

“Maybe we should kill Rhodes,” remarked Callum over breakfast.

At which point Tristan stopped chewing, swallowing thickly around his toast.

Callum slid a glance to him, half-shrugging. “It just seems practical,” he said. “She and Varona are a pair, aren’t they? Why keep both?”

Tristan’s response was slow. “Then why not suggest killing Nico?”

“We could, I suppose.” Callum reached for his coffee, taking a sip. “I could be convinced.”

He replaced the cup on the table, glancing at Tristan’s waylaid toast. “Everything alright?”

Tristan grimaced. “We’re discussing which among us to murder, Callum. I don’t think I’m expected to go on eating.”

“Aren’t you? You’re still here,” Callum observed. “I imagine that means you’re expected to go on doing everything precisely as you normally would.”

“Still.” Tristan’s stomach hurt, or his chest. He felt nauseated and broken. Was this what Dalton meant about a person being fractured? Perhaps they were being disintegrated on purpose, morality removed so as to be stitched back up with less human parts. Maybe in the end his former beliefs would be vestigial, like a foregone tail. Some little nub at the base of his philosophical spine.

It was astounding how easily he had come around to the idea. Shouldn’t he have balked, recoiled, run away? Instead, it seemed to have settled in like something he’d always suspected, becoming more undeniably obvious each day; of course someone had to die. Immense magic required a power source, and a sacrifice of this nature would be precisely that: immense.

For him, anyway.

“Maybe it won’t work if you feel nothing,” Tristan murmured, and Callum looked up sharply.

“What?”

“I just meant—”

What had he meant? This was Callum, after all. “Never mind.”

“You had faith in me once.” Callum’s fingers tightened around his cup. “Not anymore, I take it?”

“Well, it’s just—”

“This is what I do to survive,” Callum said, his voice harsh now with something; betrayal, maybe. Tristan flinched, remembering what Callum had said: Trust, once dead, cannot be resurrected. “I thought you understood that about me by now.”

“I did. I do,” Tristan corrected himself. “But you just sound so…”

“What, callous? Cold, indifferent, ambivalent?” A pause. “Or do you mean cruel?”