An hour later, she sat in a room with Atlas Blakely and the five people she’d seen hazily represented in his mind without either of them speaking a word to each other, friendly or otherwise. She watched the handsome Latin boy—definitely a boy; he was obsessed with the girl sitting next to Parisa, who was tinted with inexperience—decide she was beautiful and she smiled to herself, knowing perfectly well she could eat that boy alive and he’d let her. He’d be fun for a day or so, maybe, but this seemed bigger than that. This seemed much more important.
The blond South African was interesting. He was eyeing the Englishman, Tristan, with extreme curiosity, possibly even something ravenous. Good, Parisa thought, pleased. She didn’t like men like him. He’d want her to shout his name, to scream about his dick, to say things like ‘oh baby yes how do you do it how do you make me feel like this?’ and that was a chore; it rarely ended in anything worthwhile. Rich people like him typically held tight to their wallets, and experience had taught her that did her no good.
Besides, the six of them were equals here. He had nothing to offer her, except perhaps loyalty, but he wasn’t the type to give it easily. He was used to getting his way, which she could see from observing the functions of his thoughts was something he did with at least some level of intention. Parisa Kamali had never wanted to be under anyone’s thumb, and she certainly wouldn’t start now.
The boy, too, was probably useless, which was disappointing. He was obviously wealthy and certainly not unattractive (Nicola´s, she thought with satisfaction, rolling his name around in her head like she might have done with him, whispering it to the inch of skin just below the lobe of his ear) but he obviously tired quickly of things that were too easily won. Not Parisa’s style. The girl he was fixated on was equally easy to discard, though Parisa had been with girls before and rarely ruled them out. She’d spent the better portion of last month, in fact, with a wealthy mortal heiress who’d bought Parisa this outfit, these boots, this purse. People were all the same, really, when you got to the core of them, and Parisa always did. It was Parisa’s business, seeing things she wasn’t supposed to see. In this case, though, this particular girl was unequivocally hopeless. She had a boyfriend she seemed to actually like. She had good intentions, too, which were the most unfortunate. Always indicative of someone not easily put to use. The girl, Libby, was so good she was no good at all. Parisa moved on from her quickly.
Reina, the naturalist with the nose ring, was easily the most threatening presence in the room. She radiated raw power, which in Parisa’s experience was the mark of someone who shouldn’t be messed with. Parisa put her in a mental box marked ‘Do Not Disturb’ and resolved to stay out of her way.
Then there was Tristan, the Englishman, whom Parisa liked within moments of slipping unobtrusively into his thoughts. There was a festering anger in his head, beating dully like a tribal drum. It was obvious he didn’t know why he was here, but now that he was he wanted to punish everyone in the room, himself included. Parisa liked that. She found it interesting, or at least relatable. She watched Tristan notice everything that was off in the room—all the illusions everyone else had used to hide various parts of themselves, which varied from Libby’s little spot of concealer on a stress blemish hidden by her fringe to the false golden-flecked tips of Callum’s hair—and marveled a little at his instant dismissal.
He was unimpressed.
He’d change his mind, Parisa thought, if she decided she wanted him to.
Which wasn’t to say she did, necessarily. Again, there was nothing in it for her to pursue someone who provided no leverage. Perhaps the most beneficial connection was in fact the Caretaker, Atlas. Parisa was already calculating how much work it would take to win Atlas Blakely’s interests when the door opened behind them, and she and the others turned.
“Ah, Dalton,” said Atlas. A narrow-hipped, elegantly lean man—perhaps a few years older than Parisa and dressed in a clean, starched Oxford with lines as precise as the sleek part of his raven-black hair—nodded in reply.
“Atlas,” he said with a low voice, his gaze falling on Parisa.
Yes, Parisa thought. Yes, you.
He thought she was beautiful. Easy, everyone did. He tried not to look at her breasts. It wasn’t really working. She smiled at him and his thoughts raced, then went blank. He was momentarily silent, and then Atlas cleared his throat.
“Everyone, Dalton Ellery,” Atlas said, and Dalton nodded curtly, looking over Parisa’s head to glance with a somewhat forced smile at the others in the room.
“Welcome,” he said. “Congratulations on being tapped for entry to the Alexandrian Society.” His voice was smooth and buttery despite his posture being slightly stiff, his broad shoulders—the result of considerable craftsmanship, for which Parisa was certain his shirts were specially tailored—appearing to lock uncomfortably in place. He was clean-shaven, meticulous. He looked fanatical about cleanliness and she wanted to press her tongue to the nape of his artfully tapered neck. “I’m sure you all understand by now what an honor it is to be here.”
“Dalton is a member of our most recently initiated class,” Atlas said. “He’ll be guiding you through the process, helping you transition into your new positions.”
Parisa could think of a few positions she’d need no assistance with whatsoever. She slid into Dalton’s subconscious, probing around. Would he want a chase? Or would he prefer her to be the aggressor? He was blocking something from her, from everyone, and Parisa frowned, surprised. It wasn’t unheard of to practice some method of defense against telepathy, but it was an effort, even for a medeian with a considerable amount of talent. Was there someone else in the room Dalton was expecting could read his mind?
She caught a flicker of a smile from Atlas, who arched a brow at her, and blinked.
Oh, she thought, and his smile broadened.
Perhaps now you know what it’s like for other people, Atlas said, and then added carefully, and I would advise you to stay away from Dalton. I will be advising him to do the same.
Does he usually follow your instructions? Parisa asked.
His smile was unerring. Yes. As should you.
And the others?
I can’t prevent you from doing whatever it is you’ll do over the course of the year. But even so, there are boundaries, Miss Kamali.
She smiled in concession, wiping her mind clean. Defense, offense, she was equally skilled, and in response, Atlas nodded once.
“Well,” he said. “Shall we discuss the details of your initiation, then?”
II: TRUTH
NICO
Nico was fidgeting. He was very often fidgeting; he was the sort of person who required motion, unable to sit still. People usually didn’t mind it because he was perfectly likely to smile, to laugh, to fill up a room with the buoyancy of his personality, but it cost him quite a bit of energy, resulting in a somewhat pointless burn. Traces of magic were known to spill, too, if he wasn’t paying attention, and his presence already had a tendency to reshape the landscape around him, sometimes forcing things out of the way.
Libby shot him a warning look as the ground beneath them rumbled, slate eyes reproachful beneath what he could see of her furrowed brow beneath her fussy bangs.