The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

“Why you?”

They were squared off defensively, which was unwise. A seductress by nature, Parisa understood the fruitlessness of combat compared to subtler methods of resolution. She eased her posture, leaning against the wall behind her to relieve the tension between them.

“You don’t like me,” Parisa guessed aloud, and Atlas’ mouth tightened.

“I neither like nor dislike any of you. I know nothing of who you are,” he said with a rare glimpse of impatience, “only of that which you are capable.”

“Do my capabilities threaten yours?”

“You do not threaten me,” he assured her.

She eyed him for a moment, transitioning to thought.

What is this Society?

His reply was perfunctory and clipped. Defenders of all human knowledge.

Do you really believe that?

It was difficult to lie via telepathy. Thoughts consisted of various materials, and lies were flimsy, easy to see through. The flaws in them were always tactile, either like gauze for the inept or like glass from the proficient: unnaturally still.

“No one who takes the initiation oath does so in vain,” said Atlas.

Answer the question.

He fixed her with a glance, mouth twisting. Not a smile, but wry enough.

I would not have spilled blood except for something I believed unquestionably.

It was not the answer she expected, though she had little time to consider it.

“Go to the library,” Atlas said, unsteadying her for a moment.

“What, now?” she asked, taken aback.

“Yes, now.” Atlas ducked his head in something half-bow, half-tip of a hat.

He turned, retreating to the corridor that served as the house’s primary artery, but paused after a step, turning over his shoulder.

“Whatever you hope to find in Dalton, Miss Kamali, it will only be to your detriment,” he said. “Seek it if you wish, but as with all knowledge, whatever follows will be yours to bear alone.”

Then he departed, leaving her to take to the stairs, still buried in her thoughts.

It wasn’t a long walk. By now it was one she took frequently. She paused to brush the walls, strumming the wards like harp strings. Nothing amiss.

She stepped into the library, unsure what she would find, and discovered upon entry…

Nothing.

Certainly nothing terribly out of the ordinary. Tristan sat at the table, sipping tea. Libby was on the sofa, staring into the flames in the hearth. Nico and Reina were standing near the window, glancing outside. The roses were beginning to bloom.

Parisa paused to reconsider the contents of the room, and then conjured thoughts of its opposite: what the room did not contain. Perhaps it was clear after all, if one merely grasped that Atlas was not the neutral party he pretended to be.

Parisa waved the doors closed behind her, prompting the others to look up.

“Someone has to die,” she said, and added in silence: I nominate Callum.

Reina didn’t even turn. If the others agree, she thought in reply, glancing irritably at a fern across the room.