The Atlas Paradox, page 29
How incredibly civil, assuming that was true.
“So you want to keep an eye on me then, is that it?” asked Callum.
“I have my hands full keeping eyes on people as it is,” replied Atlas. “Come or don’t come. Enjoy the aperitifs or don’t. It makes no difference to me.”
He turned away in dismissal, reminding Callum of another moment entirely. “You once told me that I had a vacancy,” Callum remarked to Atlas’s back, pausing him as he sifted through paperwork. “A lack of something. Imagination, was it?”
“As I recall, what I said was that I admired your choices,” Atlas said without looking up. “The things you had chosen not to do.”
Ah yes, such lovely rhetoric between admirers. “But then you also—”
“Questioned why you had not done them, yes, I know.” Atlas glanced over his shoulder to meet Callum’s eye once he had finished gathering whatever logistical tedium seemed to be before him. “Are you questioning it now yourself?”
Of course not. Callum had no interest in … What was it Atlas had said? War. Existence. Survival of the species. Pointless magnanimity, in Callum’s opinion. More often he concerned himself with smaller, sharper pains.
Retributive ones.
“I’ve chosen a topic for independent study,” Callum announced, to which Atlas arched a brow, seemingly in amusement.
“Have you? I wondered whether you might recall the conditions of your initiation, Mr. Nova.” Atlas’s expression was tight, more impatient than grim. “You are beholden to the Society—”
“As it is beholden to me, yeah, I know. Quick question,” said Callum. “How bad is it?”
Atlas was very pointedly trying not to tense. “How bad is…?”
“This time of year,” said Callum coolly, knowing that a telepath of Atlas’s proficiency would not require clarification. “The change in temperature, the dreariness. Does that affect you much? Your magic, I mean,” he amended, “not your state of mind. Though for you it’s rather one and the same, isn’t it? Cursed with clarity of thought when yours are so terribly dismal.”
Callum was gratified to see that, as he had hoped would be the case, Atlas had to pause before responding. He had not expected Atlas to respond emotionally, of course. That wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter whether Atlas lost his temper or burst into tears, or if he suddenly decided to take Callum by the throat and toss him into the gardens outside.
What mattered was the split second of tension. The need to consider how to respond. What a beautiful strain of anguish. Like biting your tongue and then, just for an instant, tasting blood.
“What is your chosen subject matter?” Atlas asked. So genteel, so distinguished. So fucking civilized and dull.
“The effects of clinical depression on telepathic specialties,” replied Callum cheerily. Like the burst of a cherry tomato. A sweet little pop.
“Ah.” Atlas gave him a thin smile. “Well-trodden ground, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I thought I might also consider some other factors. Post-traumatic stress. Survivor’s guilt.”
Atlas’s restraint, his silence, was lovely and tense, like a window-glass of pulled taffy.
“I figured, well, I’m an empath, aren’t I?” mused Callum. “Where is the separation between mental illness and the emotional reality? Surely there’s some validity there. Some … untrodden ground, as you say.”
What was Callum even talking about? He wasn’t sure, really. Hadn’t given any actual thought to the matter, though it did make sense. Parisa was reading motherfucking Jung, and how was any of that different, really, from influencing emotion? The more Callum considered it, the more his taunts were beginning to make an absurd sort of sense. Why shouldn’t he study brain chemistry? After all, that was what he was really altering, wasn’t he? What were feelings except for hormones and weakness, the falseness of the mind?
“A very good proposal, Mr. Nova,” said Atlas. Unfortunately he had probably come to the same conclusion Callum had—that, or Callum, who had already had a glass of wine (well, more like a carafe), was not being careful enough to conceal his unintentional foray into the scholastic arts. “Though I would perhaps widen the scope,” Atlas advised dryly, “from the telepathic specialties.”
“Perhaps.” Hm, how unfortunate that Callum was now genuinely intrigued by the topic when he’d meant only to prod at Atlas Blakely’s past, waking his many ghosts. “Still,” he said, not quite ready to give up the game. “I suppose you’d understand why I’d come to you for a test subject.”
Atlas smiled curtly. “How flattering.”
“Does it bother you, this time of year?” Callum asked again, gesturing outside to the snow that flecked the garden paths.
“I am susceptible to a certain disorderliness,” Atlas replied, “as the seasons change. As many people tend to be.”
“No,” Callum said. “I mean the other thing.”
Atlas paused.
“It’s very interesting,” Callum noted. “Your sense of responsibility.”
Atlas said nothing.
“I wondered,” Callum remarked at a meandering pace, “why anyone would be so devoted to something so remarkably callous.”
Atlas was silent.
“Killing,” Callum amended, leaning back against the table so as to better appraise Atlas with a glance. “Nobody seems to have asked me whether I would have done it. Murdered one of the others. They all simply assume that I would have.”
“For good reason,” murmured Atlas.
“Yes, true. This is why you despise me, my existence,” Callum said. Atlas was likely referring to the outcome of the medeian dispatched by Callum during the attack on their first night of residency. Or possibly he meant to imply the results of Callum’s battle of wits against Parisa the previous year. Or any number of things, really. It wasn’t as if Callum had ever claimed to be innocent—but still, he could taste the supple Chardonnay of a righteous upper hand. “But, as I see it, the blood I have on my hands is nothing.”
“Is that so, Mr. Nova?”
“At least,” Callum added, “nothing compared to yours.”
It seemed that at last Atlas would be willing to have it out with him. To finally offer some cruelty, some derision, which they both knew he felt. For a moment it seemed as if Atlas might actually indulge his baser impulses—his need to punish Callum, to put him in his place.
Callum found he welcomed it. How humiliating, that everything he had once said to Tristan was true about himself. Tristan was the one who ought to be punishing him, who ought to be so repulsed by him that he spent every moment plotting Callum’s death. But Tristan was growing, he was thriving, he was unfurling in bright blooms of forward motion.
When had Tristan last glanced Callum’s way, or last wished immensities of misfortune upon Callum’s head, his bloodline? Weeks, maybe even months, and somehow, this was Atlas’s fault. Or at least, Callum blamed him for it. Callum was sure that Atlas Blakely was owed a dose of suffering.
“To every villain an origin story,” Atlas said, finally responding to Callum’s taunt. “Does mine disappoint you?”
“Not in the slightest.” That was even more unfortunate, as it was true. “Everything you’ve done has been hideously irrational. I can’t think why you’d even still be alive.”
“Nor can I,” said Atlas, who then gathered his things and departed the room.
Perhaps if Callum had been soberer, he might have stopped him. But as he was not, he hadn’t, and now it was time for the Society’s gala, which despite Atlas’s feigned ambivalence was an opportunity to do what Callum did best: be awfully fun at parties.
Just think, Callum considered as he dressed himself in his best suit, regarding his reflection in the mirror. Just imagine the things he could do with Atlas Blakely’s emotions. Callum hadn’t spoken of what he’d discovered from Atlas’s file to anyone, having not found a partner in conspiracy that didn’t make him want to throw himself headfirst into a lake. Parisa was too smug, Reina too flawed, Nico too Nico. But if anyone else knew what he knew? If any of the others could understand the true depths of the Caretaker’s sins?
Callum folded his mother’s silk scarf into the pocket of his jacket, shaking his head.
That kind of guilt would not even need an empath to interpret. There wasn’t a chance that Atlas Blakely did not spend every day of his life in service to trauma, and what remained for Callum was to find out why.
Callum wandered out from his room, observing the closed doors, and wandered to the gallery. It was the mortal holiday season, though the Society house avoided the garishness of festivity for the sake of the gala, choosing instead its usual palette of gloom except with more interesting lighting.
From the balustrades, it was clear that the house was filling up quickly with a variety of the usual suspects. Politicians, philanthropists, prominent medeians of all kinds. It was unclear if they were all Society members—probably not, Callum reasoned—but the ones who did belong to the Society were obvious. They all avoided inspecting the house or lingering long to admire it, as if they suspected the beams of the floors of having an all too clear memory.
Callum disembarked from the residency wing of the house late, of course, as anyone reasonable would do, and found that Parisa had had the same idea. She was wearing yet another silky number, a figure-hugging dress that dripped from her like tears. Instead of her usual black, she wore a blazing, molten gold. He caught up to her where she had paused on the stairs, carefully timing her entrance. The others, if they intended to come at all, were already downstairs, or bound to be unfashionably late.
As Callum reached Parisa’s side, she looked at him for a brief moment before disregarding whatever thought she’d had. Probably that he looked nice or should die. Or both, which was not unheard of.
“Shall we?” Callum said, offering her his arm.
She squinted at him.
“Fix your face,” she advised.
Maybe not the nice-looking bit, then. “Fix it?”
She replied, nonplussed, “You’re just so terribly noticeable. Have you ever actually tried blending in?”
“I could ask you the same,” he said, gaze purposefully skimming the curve of her hip.
“People don’t remember me unless I allow them to.” She admonished him with a brow, as if he ought to know better.
“Who says I can’t do the same?” But that sounded like too much work, so he let one of the illusions fall. “Better?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What did you do, recede your hairline?” She reached up and he ducked away, the tips of her fingers brushing the base of his inherited widow’s peak.
“Get back to me when your hair starts turning gray,” he said. She smirked, shrugging, and he offered her his arm again.
“You were meant to stay in your room,” she commented, though she rested a hand on his arm this time as they descended the stairs. “You know he hates you, right?”
The derision in reference to Atlas seemed to have faded for her. Interesting. “Of course he hates me.” As he should. “Is anyone else coming?” Callum asked her as they reached the ground floor, gesturing over his shoulder to the remaining bedrooms.
Parisa shrugged, then released him.
“Fair enough.”
They walked in silence to the entry hall, merging with the sea of other attendees. They bypassed the velvet upholstery, the tapestries in shades of mahogany and wine. The expected trappings of finery were even more dazzling than usual, the familiar carved Greco-Roman arches and gleaming pillars now set off by jewels that winked from the subtle motion of the chandeliers. Everyone’s eyes fell on Parisa, and then, just as she’d said, went through her, attention melting away.
“You’re quiet,” Callum remarked.
“Am I?” She didn’t seem bothered or impressed by the observation. “I suppose I need a drink.”
“Shall I fetch you one?”
“No.” She looked at him with something close to bemusement. “You don’t actually intend to follow me around all evening, do you?”
“No.” He had no intentions whatsoever. He had no reason for doing anything anymore, or for not doing things. It was really very freeing. Or depressing, but then again, he was not the one depressed. “I just know he didn’t want me here, so I’m here.”
Parisa followed his line of sight to spot Atlas, who stood by the great hall doors and roared with laughter at something the Canadian prime minister had to say. “You learned something from his file, I take it?”
He didn’t ask her how she knew about that. “Modest origins,” Callum provided. “Humble background.”
“Well, of course,” scoffed Parisa. “People born to wealth are intolerable no matter what they do.” She smirked pointedly at him.
“My mother was poor,” Callum said.
“Good for her,” replied Parisa, dark eyes catching opportunistically on a passing tray of champagne flutes. “She failed to pass along any industriousness to you, I take it,” she murmured.
Callum shrugged. “It didn’t take, I suppose.”
“Evidently not.” Parisa angled herself away from him, catching the eye of someone else as she reached for the champagne. “Put a pin in this weird moment you’re having, would you?” she said, addressing him disinterestedly over her shoulder. “And don’t drink any more, you’re bound to get all morbid. And don’t kill anyone,” she added as an afterthought. “Or do. It’s really none of my business.”
“Have you ever been in love?” Callum asked her.
Parisa looked revolted. “Jesus Christ, never mind. Here,” she said, shoving her glass of champagne into his hands. “You’re embarrassing all of us.”
“Right.” He drained it, but by the time he was done, she was already gone.
Callum tossed the glass over his shoulder, where it dissolved somehow before it could shatter. Pity. He supposed there was all sorts of magic put in place, which Tristan would know how to see, but naturally Callum couldn’t. Tristan could see lots of things that other people never would. Like how Callum was actually very, very nearsighted in a way that had given him a permanent squint. He had fixed it, obviously. Because he fixed things. He was a problem-solver, generally. At one point he had been in the business of fixing people but ugh, the whole thing was such a drain. And nobody ever stayed fixed. That was the fuckery of it, really. That people were so easily changeable, so readily changed. They loved you one day, didn’t the next. Callum had watched himself fade in significance from too many people’s lives, and yes, okay, that was not an excuse for … what was it that Tristan had disliked about him, ultimately? Hard to say, really. He had so many wonderful flaws to choose from. Luckily nobody ever stuck around long enough for him to care.
Callum glanced around and spotted something. An absence. Atlas was gone, hm, interesting. Also, there was a woman winding through the crowd. Atlas, you dog! Callum reached for another champagne flute and missed, summoning it clumsily into his palm. He drained that one and then followed the woman to Atlas’s office, quietly lingering in her path.
The door was conveniently left ajar. “Professor J. Araña,” Atlas’s voice was saying. “Your reputation precedes you. Tell me, the J is for…? Ah yes, Jiménez,” he observed, sitting down at his desk. “Are you married now, or just pseudonymous?”
“It’s my grandmother’s maiden name.” The voice in response was measured, mature. She sounded older even than Atlas. Her emotions, as far as Callum could sense, were mostly a mix of repulsion and rage. She wanted very badly to divest Atlas of his limbs but was unfortunately holding herself back for some reason.
“I see. And what can I do for you, Professor?”
“Die,” she said. “Slowly. Painfully.”
“Understandable,” said Atlas.
“In fact, I only came here to kill you,” she said, at which point Callum was about to interrupt, to say something along the lines of oh noooo no no that’s what he waaaaaants, don’t do it, señora—but then she kept talking. “But the truth is, it’s not about you. If you die, someone else will just replace you. Like the hydra’s heads.”
“True,” said Atlas.
“The poison is institutional. It’s bigger than you.”
“It always is,” Atlas replied, sounding sympathetic. “I regret not being able to offer you more, Belen.”
“Right.” The woman, the professor, suddenly seemed drained. As if the veil of a life’s purpose was falling away. Uh-oh, thought Callum. That’s not good, that’s never good. Watch out for that. “Well, so much for the party, then.”
“I’ll take a sock to the jaw if it helps,” said Atlas, which Callum thought was not very sporting of him. The woman was depressed enough. She didn’t need condescension.
“Very patronizing, thanks,” she replied, and whirled around, exiting the office and stepping directly onto Callum’s toes. “Excuse m—”
“Keep going,” Callum whispered to her. He found a little dial and turned it up for a moment, like sunning himself. Warming himself on the hearth. Not that she seemed the type to give up, exactly, but still, it pleased him more to think that the fire was still lit, the lights still on. “Don’t stop.”
She looked up at him. She was small but sturdy somehow, a bit stocky. “Do I know you?”
He released her, leaning against the wall as he toppled for a moment. The bubbles of champagne that he’d drunk suddenly threatened to vacate his premises via belch. Or worse. He steadied himself with a deep inhale, seeing stars.
“Mr. Nova,” came Atlas’s voice. The woman was gone, then, presumably. “Perhaps you might try an appetizer. Or a reconciliation.”
The latter, Callum felt sure, had been said in his head, which was a step too far. How unspeakably rude! How dastardly and invasive! What a great and terrible idea for which Atlas Blakely should pay, and swiftly.
“You killed them,” Callum whispered to Atlas.
He would not remember Atlas’s response, the rest of the night lost to fizzy haze, an indistinguishable blur. He thought he recalled seeing something from the corner of his eye. A halo of Nova-brand illusion spells, like a lawless nest of his family’s fingerprints. And Tristan.
