“And,” he said. “That means something.”
Clearly more remained unsaid than not from Callum, but considering that Tristan was expected to have killed him by now, he didn’t particularly feel the need to press the issue. The magic left in the room, whatever it was and whoever it belonged to, was already starting to rot. The whole room was off-color, tainted, like the magic itself was corroding the further its creator went from them. Whatever form of intent had cast it, that was poisoned now.
Along with other things in the room.
“Why didn’t you tell the others?” Tristan asked, and now Callum’s mouth morphed into some misbegotten smile, like a laugh he meant to indulge earlier but remained somewhere deep in his throat, awaiting a more spontaneous delivery.
“I may have to kill one of them,” Callum said. “Tactically speaking, I’d rather they not know everything I know.”
So Tristan had been correct: They would not be forgiven. None of them.
Nor, he realized, would they get a second shot at Callum.
“Why tell me?” Tristan asked, clearing his throat.
The thin line of Callum’s mouth told him he already knew the answer.
“Because you deserve to wonder whether it might be you.”
Tristan forced himself not to flinch when Callum raised a hand, touching his thumb to the center of Tristan’s forehead. A blessing, or the mockery of one.
“Truthfully, I respect you more for this,” Callum remarked, withdrawing his hand. “I always hoped you’d make someone a worthy adversary.”
In his mind, Tristan manifested a new talisman; a new scroll to recount his new truths.
Part one: Your value is not negotiable.
Part two: You will kill him before he kills you.
“Sleep well,” Tristan said.
Callum spared him a nod before turning to the door, passing irreversibly through it.
NICO
No one could find her.
If they had not understood the Society’s scope of power before, they did now. Representatives from countless foreign governments were contacted for information from any and all forms of magical and mortal surveillance. Medeians with advanced tracking abilities were summoned. A team of the Society’s own specialized task force was called upon to search.
Nico, of course, offered to help them. “I know exactly what shape she takes up in the universe,” he pleaded in explanation. “If anyone can recognize her, it’s me.”
Atlas didn’t stop him.
“As I told the six of you once,” Atlas said, “anything taken from the Society must eventually be recovered.”
Still, there was nothing Nico could do that was any better than even the Society’s most generic efforts. There were no traces of Libby Rhodes anywhere. She had been wiped clean the moment she disappeared. No explanations were provided for why measures existed to track magical output—it was, as it turned out, a bit like tracking credit card purchases—or why each of their movements seemed to be mined for someone’s observation like medeian points of data, but Nico didn’t ask. That was a future Nico problem. Right now, it was about doing whatever it took to find her.
“A lot of work for someone you claim to hate,” remarked Gideon.
Nico had been spending a lot of time fitfully asleep for the purposes of these conversations. When Reina asked him one night about his groggy arrival to dinner, he lied. And he lied and he lied and he lied, but then eventually he couldn’t take it anymore and confessed. “I know someone. A friend, my roommate. He can travel through dreams.”
It was the most forthcoming Nico had ever been on the subject of Gideon aside from his conversation with Parisa, but as he might have predicted, Reina said almost nothing in response.
“Oh,” she said, “interesting,” and wandered away.
The frequent overuse of Nico’s magic was starting to show, even in the manifestation of his dreams. The atmosphere of his subconscious felt thinner, and remaining purposefully inside it was more difficult than usual. He had to wrestle between his need to sleep soundly and the importance of clinging to his conscious thoughts, vacillating between his waking self and his dream self. He could feel himself wavering in some in-between place, ready to snap awake, prepared to slumber more deeply, depending how much energy he exhausted containing Gideon within his consciousness.
At least it was easier the longer the days got, the warmer the weather became. Body temperature was easier to regulate, and even groggy half-sleep was sufficient to remain where he was. The only thing that refused to lessen was his guilt.