Two Hours Ago
Callum Nova was very accustomed to getting what he wanted. He had a magical specialty so effective that if he kept it to himself, which he generally did, he would get top marks in every class without effort. It was a hypnosis of sorts. Some of his exes called it a hallucinogenic effect in retrospect, like coming down from a drug. If they weren’t on their guard at all times, he could talk them into anything. It made things easy for him. Too easy? Sometimes, yes.
That didn’t mean Callum didn’t like a challenge.
Since Callum had graduated university and returned from Athens six years ago he’d been up to very little indeed, which wasn’t his favorite fact about himself. He worked for his family business, of course, as plenty of postgraduate medeians did. A magical media conglomerate, the Nova family’s primary business was beauty. It was grandeur. It was also all an illusion, every single bit of it, and Callum was the falsest illusion of all. He handled the commodity of vanity, and he was good at it. Better than good.
It was boring, though, convincing people of things they already believed. Callum had a distinctly rare specialty as a so-called manipulist, and rarer still was his talent; far exceeding the common capacity of any witch who could cast at a basic level. He was smart to begin with, which meant convincing people to do precisely as he wanted for purposes of magical exercise had to be considerably challenging to really break a sweat. He was also eternally in search of entertainment, and therefore the man at the door had to say very little for Callum to be convinced.
“Caretaker,” Callum read aloud, scrutinizing the card with his feet propped up on his desk. He’d come in four hours late to work and neither the managing partner (his sister) nor the owner (his father) had anything to say about the meeting he’d missed. He would make up for it that afternoon, when he would sit down for two minutes (could be done in ninety seconds, but he’d stay long enough to finish the espresso) with the client the Novas needed in order to secure a full portfolio of high-ranking illusionists for London Fashion Week. “I hope it’s something interesting you care for, Atlas Blakely.”
“It is,” said Atlas, rising to his feet. “Shall I presume to see you, then?”
“Presumptions are dangerous,” Callum said, feeling out the edges of Atlas’ interests. They were blurred and rough, not easily infected. He guessed that Atlas Blakely, whoever he was, had been warned about Callum’s particular skills, which meant he must have dug deep to even discover its true nature. Anyone willing to do the dirty work was worth a few minutes of time, in Callum’s view. “Who else is involved?”
“Five others.”
A good number, Callum thought. Exclusive enough, but statistically speaking he could bring himself to like one in five people.
“Who’s the most interesting?”
“Interesting is subjective,” Atlas said.
“So, me, then,” Callum guessed.
Atlas gave a humorless smile. “You’re not uninteresting, Mr. Nova, though I suspect this will be the first time you encounter a room full of people as rare as yourself.”
“Intriguing,” Callum said, removing his feet from the desk to lean forward. “Still, I’d like to know more about them.”
Atlas arched a brow. “You have no interest in knowing about the opportunity itself, Mr. Nova?”
“If I want it, it’s mine,” Callum said, shrugging. “I can always wait and make that decision later. More interesting than the game is always the players, you know. Well, I suppose more accurately,” he amended, “the game is different depending on the players.”
Atlas’ mouth twisted slightly.
“Nico de Varona,” he said.
“Never heard of him,” Callum said. “What’s he do?”
“He’s a physicist,” Atlas said. “He can compel forces of physicality to adjust to his demands, just as you do with intent.”
“Boring.” Callum leaned back. “But I suppose I’ll give him a try. Who else?”
“Libby Rhodes is also a physicist,” Atlas continued. “Her influence over her surroundings is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Reina Mori, likewise, is a naturalist for whom the earth personally offers fruit.”
“Naturalists are easy to come by,” Callum said, though admittedly, he was curious now. “Who else?”
“Tristan
Caine. He can see through illusions.”
Rare. Very rare. Not particularly useful, though. “And?”
“Parisa Kamali.” That name was said with hesitation. “Her specialty is better left unsaid, I suspect.”
“Oh?” Callum asked, arching a brow. “And did you tell them about mine?”
“They didn’t ask about you,” Atlas said.