The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

Dalton rose to his feet, suddenly irritable. He was prickly, agitated by something.

“He’s coming,” he said. “I can feel him getting closer.”

“Who?”

Dalton glared at her. “You’re here for the wrong reasons.”

Parisa sat up on her elbows, watching him pace.

“What are the right reasons?”

“You want answers. I don’t have answers. I have questions, I have research unfinished, I WANT OUT,” Dalton’s spectral self suddenly shouted, pivoting to slam a fist into the castle wall.

Parisa winced, expecting stone, but the appearance of it only warped; revealing cool, finished steel before smoothing over, the castle image rippling back into view.

She blinked, wondering if she’d imagined it, but then Dalton was at her side again, crouching down to take her face in one hand.

“I made the castle for you,” Dalton said, eyes wide and manic, his voice soft.

Then she felt a lurch, something dragging her backwards until she was in the reading room again, the real Dalton’s fingers painfully tight on her waist.

Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, condensation around the surface of his temples. “You were difficult to remove.”

She was panting a little herself, drained by the effort. “Painful?”

“Very. Like a barb.”

“I’m sorry.” She stroked his brow, soothing it, and he leaned gratefully against her shoulder.

Their breaths syncopated, pulses gradually finding common ground. It took a few moments to slow, to loosen the magic coursing through both their veins, finally allowing their separate parts to settle. Easier to exist in reality, corporeal among the usual dimensions. Nothing to fight with her in his arms, her fingers coiled in his hair.

Eventually the effort at being other faded away, settling into stillness.

Dalton’s voice, when he spoke, was coarse with confession. “What did you find?”

Nothing.

No, not nothing. Nothing she could explain, which was worse. Always difficult to admit when something remained out of reach.

“What does the library show you?” asked Parisa instead, easing away to look at him. “There’s something here that only you can access.”

She could see immediately that he wasn’t going to tell her.

“Dalton,” she began, but was promptly interrupted.

“Miss Kamali,” came Atlas’ buttery baritone. “I was hoping to find you.”

Dalton moved to release her, stepping away with an averted glance as Parisa revolved in place, finding Atlas in the doorway of the reading room. He beckoned her with a barely perceptible motion, not bothering to acknowledge Dalton.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”

There was a tug to her thoughts, lassoed like a command. She would clearly be walking whether she wished to or not.

She pursed her lips, displeased.

“Fine,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Dalton, who stood with his arms folded again. Lacking any reaction from him, she plucked her book from the table and followed Atlas, who led her into the corridor.

“Am I being scolded for my misbehavior?”