The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

Libby hummed in thought again, half-sighing.

“I suppose they are a bunch of snobs,” she muttered, and added, “And I do sort of already hate Callum.”

“Try not to,” Nico advised. “Empaths can do a lot with strong emotions.”

“Don’t mansplain empaths to me.” A predictable response, but he could see her starting to concede. “It just seems so ridiculous that we can’t all work together,” Libby muttered, half to herself. “I mean, what is the point of having so much talent in the room if nobody’s willing to see where that takes us?”

Nico shrugged. “Maybe they’ll get over it.”

“Ah yes, because that so frequently happens,” Libby grumbled, toying in agitation with her bangs.

She was definitely on the edge of agreement. Nico waited, prompting her to get on with her internal calculations, and she rolled her eyes.

“Fine,” she conceded grumpily—which Nico reminded himself was not annoying, because it was what he’d wanted and, furthermore, it proved him right. “We’re allies until we’re not, then. Which I assume will be any moment.”

“Love the enthusiasm, Rhodes,” said Nico, and she grunted something derogatory in response, the two of them finally arriving in the dining room.

Alliances aside, Nico was feeling quite confident, though he could see Libby was having the opposite reaction. Yes, she had been targeted outright by Callum (a predictable breed of asshole if Nico had ever seen one) and she was much too fragile to contend with Reina’s lofty disinterest in her, but that was only because it was in Libby’s personal moral code to fret pointlessly about things she couldn?

??t control.

Once she had the opportunity to prove herself, she wouldn’t be nearly so mouseish; that much Nico knew from experience. Elizabeth Rhodes was a lot of things, most of them unhelpful, but restrained when it came to her abilities was not even remotely one of them. For once, the chip on Libby’s shoulder would probably serve him well.

The sooner she had a chance to be tested, the better, Nico thought grimly, observing over dinner that Callum, Tristan, and Parisa were obviously deluding themselves into thinking that being secretive and more experienced made them into some sort of exclusive club. He almost regretted finding Parisa so attractive, though it was hardly the first time he’d taken a liking to a girl whose primary quality was her inability to be impressed.

Thankfully, dinner was brief. Tomorrow, Dalton informed them at the end of their meal, would be their first full day. Tonight, they would merely be taken to their rooms to get some rest.

Dalton led them back to the long corridor past the gallery, where each of their names were carved into small placards beside the doors.

“It’s like boarding school all over again,” murmured Callum to Parisa, though of course none of the others could relate. Nico could, given that he’d been sent to New England from Havana the moment his medeian status had been cemented, but he, at least, was conscious enough of his wealth not to point to it. NYUMA had been populated with plenty of students like Libby or Gideon who had gone through mortal schooling most of their lives; coming from magical money, as both Nico and Max had done, wasn’t something to boast about unless one wanted to be immediately mistrusted and disliked. For someone who could apparently feel the emotions of others, Callum seemed dreadfully out of touch.

“Speak for yourself,” muttered Parisa back to Callum, proving Nico correct, though Callum merely smirked at her.

“You’re all adults,” Dalton said, catching wind of their muted conversation, “so there are no rules. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“No rules?” Tristan echoed, glancing at Libby as if he expected her to faint at the news, which was certainly an accurate assessment of her character. She had always had a bit of a look to her as if she might immediately report any wrongdoing; that she was currently dressed like a page from the spring catalogue for school prefects (square-neck cardigan, pleated skirt, ballet flats) certainly didn’t help.

“You can’t bring anyone else into the house,” said Dalton, as an apparent amendment. “But as it would be near impossible to accomplish anyway, I don’t bother including it as a caveat.”

“Do you live here as well?” asked Parisa.

“On the grounds,” Dalton confirmed evasively.

“If there’s any sort of problem—” Libby chirped.

“This is not a school,” Dalton clarified again, “and as such, there is no headmaster to alert in the event that any of you find yourselves dissatisfied. If there is indeed a problem, it belongs to the six of you collectively. Anything else?”

Nothing.

“Very well, goodnight,” said Dalton, as the six of them wandered off to find their rooms.

Much like the house itself, the bedrooms were incredibly English, each room occupied by identical four-poster beds, reasonably sized desks and wardrobes, and a single vacant bookshelf. Nico’s room, which was the first door on the left, was beside Callum’s and across from Reina’s. Libby looked uneasy as she made her way to the end of the hall with Tristan, which Nico supposed was unsurprising. She had a great fear of being disliked, and he doubted Tristan had ever truly liked anyone. Thus far, Nico’s decision to ally himself with Libby wasn’t a promising sign for his popularity in the house, but if the situation ever called for changing teams, he was confident he could manage it. Besides, better to be the most tolerable option of the three physical specialties than to be the hanger-on to the other three.

Nico wasted little time getting to bed. For one thing, Gideon had promised to visit, and for another, his power was reliant almost entirely on his physical state. In general, magic was a physical exertion; there was a certain degree of sweat involved, and recovery between bouts of use was a necessity. Nico likened it to the mortal Olympics: someone with natural aptitude could manage the fundamentals of their own specialty quite easily, perhaps without even breaking a sweat, but to win a gold medal required extensive training. As for other specialties outside one’s own, more of the same. You could certainly attempt to succeed in every Olympic sport, but you could just as easily kill yourself trying. Only someone very foolish or very talented would attempt as much as Nico de Varona had attempted.

Luckily, he was both troublingly talented and exceedingly unwise.

“This was extremely difficult,” remarked Gideon, manifesting in Nico’s head somewhere in the midst of whatever he’d been dreaming before, which he could not now remember. He seemed to be inside some sort of interminable jail cell now, reclining on a narrow cot with Gideon on the other side of the bars.