>
“Okay, great, maybe not, but that’s the information I have, so that’s what I’m giving you. Christ,” Nico suddenly swore loudly, “you’re fucking impossible.”
“Me?” She glared at him. “Who else knows, then?”
He winced. “Everyone, I think.”
“Everyone ‘you think’?”
“I—” He faltered. “Fine, I know.”
“Seriously. Everyone?”
“Yes, Rhodes, everyone.”
“That’s impossible.”
She was aware she was repeating herself, but it seemed unlikely she could bring herself to respond another way.
“Has anyone bothered to ask Atlas?” she demanded, suddenly infuriated. “Is any of this even remotely confirmed?”
“I don’t know, but—”
“You don’t know?”
“Elizabeth, would you listen to me?”
“Of course not, this is absurd.”
“Fine,” said Nico, throwing his hands up. “For what it’s worth, I hate it too, but—”
“But what?” Libby demanded. “What could possibly be the but, Varona? What about this would you kill for?”
“Jesus, Rhodes, which part of this wouldn’t you kill for?”
He had shouted it at her, his mouth snapping shut with alarm. She blinked, taken aback.
“I only meant,” Nico began hastily, and then shook his head, grimacing. “No, never mind. Talk to me when you’re ready, when you’ve processed. I can’t explain this right now.”
“Varona,” Libby growled, but he was already walking away, shaking her off like a chill.
So Libby had checked the surveillance wards to discover that Atlas Blakely, who had offered them a position beyond their wildest imaginations without ever mentioning the cost, was alone in the reading room.
“You must have known there would be something,” Atlas said, jarring her from her momentary stumble.
She didn’t bother asking how he knew what she was thinking about. “So it’s true?”
“It’s not as gruesome as it sounds,” said Atlas placidly. “But yes, one of you will have to die.”
Part of her was convinced she was imagining this. Was it a dream? Surely not, and yet not a thread of her had ever believed, even for a moment, that Atlas would ever confirm Nico’s suspicions as truth.
“But—”
“Sometimes it is a conspiracy,” Atlas admitted, mercifully keeping her from spluttering any further. “On occasion it bears some resemblance to the Ides of March. But often it is a sacrifice, and therefore beholden to great sorrow.”
“But,” Libby attempted again, and hesitated, finding herself unable to begin. “But how—”
“How can we ask it of you? Not easily,” said Atlas. “It is, I’m afraid, an ancient practice. As old as the Library itself. With each generation of initiates we learn more, we expand the breadth and use of our knowledge, but the primary principle of magic remains unfailingly true: It always comes at a cost.”