“A battle of wits?” Callum replied.
“Of course not,” she said. “Why do battle when we could simply… play a game?”
He slept well that night, untroubled. In the morning, they persuaded their referee.
“We do have a specified lesson for the day,” said Dalton in his stuffy academic’s voice. “And I hardly think this is necessary.”
“The present research subject is thought,” said Parisa. “Is there no value in observing a practicum on the subject?”
Dalton glanced uneasily between them. “I don’t know if it’s appropriate.”
“Oh, go on,” said Nico, who was intensely bored by the subject matter as usual. “We’ve got to eliminate someone eventually, don’t we? Seems worth knowing what the other magics can do.”
“Yes, Dalton, we will be eliminating someone quite soon,” Callum agreed smoothly. “Why not allow us to determine who has the greater capability now?”
Dalton, out of anyone, would know the difference between Callum and Parisa’s talents. After all, he was busy keeping her out of his head and holding Callum at bay as well, preventing either from being able to manipulate his moods—which meant Dalton was frequently overworked when they were in the same room, allowing things to slip between the cracks.
That Dalton had been sleeping with Parisa for months was, if still a secret among the others, not a very well kept one, and certainly not to Callum. More than once Callum had witnessed Dalton experiencing Parisa within every parapet of his being without touching her, with only the silhouette of former senses; muscle memory for lovers. At arbitrary times throughout the day, Callum could taste and feel and smell her anew, like the ghosts of someone else’s aching.
He wondered if that was something to use against Parisa. Would she care for one amorist to find out what she’d done with two of the others…？ Likely not, Callum thought with disappointment. She seemed the sort of person one only loved at one’s own risk, and he doubted she had ever made （or kept） a promise.
“Well,” Dalton said uncomfortably, “I suppose it needn’t take long.”
“One hour,” said Parisa. “But no interference.”
That, Callum thought, was quite an interesting request.
Perhaps even a stupid one.
“What’s the purpose of a referee if there can be no interference?” prompted Tristan gruffly. He, Callum thought, would be a challenge for later. Already he had glanced furtively at Libby twice; he would need to be reminded how to choose his allies well.
“Just someone to stop us when the hour is up,” Parisa said, glancing pointedly at Dalton. “No more, no less.”
“No astral planes, either,” said Callum. “Dull for the audience.”
“Fine,” said Parisa. “Corporeality only.”
They shook on it, taking their places on opposite sides of the room.
“Rhodes,” Callum said. “Turn your anxiety down.”
Across the room, Parisa’s mouth quirked.
“Don’t worry about him, Rhodes,” she said. “He’ll be fine.”
Warily, the vibration of Libby’s unceasing agitation faded somewhat.
They waited in silence until the clock met the hour.
“Start,” said Dalton.
“Why are you here?” asked Parisa promptly, and Callum chuckled.
“You want to do this as a debate? Or an interrogation?”
“Varona,” called Parisa to Nico, not taking her eyes from Callum’s. “What do you not do at the beginning of a fight?”
“Most things,” replied Nico ambivalently.
“And why not?”
“Don’t know the traps,” he supplied, shrugging. “Have to learn the other person’s rhythm first before you deal the heavy blows.”
“There,” said Parisa. “See? Even Varona knows.”
Callum scoffed. “Is that what we’re doing? Sparring? I thought the purpose was to differentiate ourselves from the physical specialties, not conform to them.”
Parisa’s smile twisted upward.
“Answer the question,” she said.
“Very well. I joined because I had no other pressing plans,” said Callum, “and now, I believe, it’s my turn to ask you a question. Correct?”
“If you’d like,” said Parisa obligingly.
“Marvelous. When did it occur to you that you were beautiful?”
There was a twitch between her brows, suspicious.