“Some things aren’t about money,” Tristan muttered. “And if you don’t mind—”
“What’s it about, then?” the man asked, and Tristan sighed loudly.
“Look, I don’t know who let you in, but—”
“You can do more than this.” The man fixed him with a solemn stare. “You and I both know this won’t satisfy you for long.”
“You don’t actually know me,” Tristan pointed out. “Knowing my name is only a very small piece, and not a particularly persuasive one.”
“I know you’re rarer than you think you are,” the man countered. “Your father may think your gifts a waste, but I know better. Anyone could be an illusionist. Anyone can be a thug. Anyone can be Adrian Caine.” His lips thinned. “What you have, no one can do.”
“What exactly do I have?” Tristan asked drily. “And don’t say potential.”
“Potential? Hardly. Certainly not here.” The man waved a hand around the palatial office. “It’s a very nice cage, but a cage nonetheless.”
“Who are you?” Tristan asked him, which was probably delayed, though in his defense, he’d been working for several hours. He wasn’t at his sharpest. “If you’re not a friend of my father’s and you’re not a friend of James Wessex—and I’m assuming you’re not here to pitch me your latest medeian software service,” he muttered, throwing down the inadequate proposal as the man’s mouth twitched with confirmation, “I can’t imagine there’s a reason for you to be here at all.”
“Is it so difficult to believe I might be here for you, Tristan?” the man asked, looking vaguely entertained. “I was once in your position, you know.”
Tristan leaned back, gesturing to his corner office. “I doubt that.”
“True, I was never poised to marry into the most powerful medeian family in London, I’ll give you that,” the stranger replied with a chuckle. “But I was once very set on a particular path. One I thought was my only option for success, until one day, someone made me an offer.”
He leaned forward, setting a slim card on Tristan’s desk. It read only Atlas Blakely, Caretaker, and shimmered slightly from an illusion.
Tristan frowned at it. A transportation charm.
“Where does it go?” he asked neutrally, and the man, Atlas Blakely, smiled.
“You can see the charm, then?”
“Given the circumstances, safer to assume it has one.” Tristan rubbed his forehead, wary. From his desk drawer, his phone buzzed loudly; Eden would be looking for him. “I’m not stupid enough to touch something like this. I have places to be, and whatever this is—”
“You can see through illusions,” Atlas said, prompting him to tense with apprehension. Not just anyone was allowed to know that about him. Not that Tristan cared for any details about him to be known, but his talent was most effective when others were left unaware. “You can see value, and better yet, you can see falseness. You can see truth. That is what makes you special, Tristan. You can work every day of your life to expand James Wessex’s business, or you can be what you are. Who you are.” Atlas fixed him with a firm glance. “How long do you think you can do this before James figures out the truth about where you come from? The accent is a nice touch, but I can hear the East End underneath. The echo of a working-class witch,” Atlas hinted softly, “that lives in your working-class tongue.”
Tristan curled a hand under his desk, bristling.
“Is this blackmail?”
“No,” said Atlas. “It’s an offer. An opportunity.”
“I have plenty of opportunities.”
“You deserve better ones,” Atlas said. “Better than James Wessex. Certainly better than Eden Wessex, and miles better than Adrian Caine.”
Tristan’s phone buzzed again. Likely Eden was sending him pictures of her tits. Four years of dating and she never tired of showing off the augmentation charm she didn’t know he could see through.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tristan said.
“Don’t I?” Atlas countered, gesturing to the card. “You have a couple of hours to decide.”
“Decide what?” Tristan asked brusquely, defensive with nerves, but Atlas had already risen to his feet, shrugging.
“I’m happy to answer your questions,” Atlas said, “but not here. Not now. If you’re going to continue living this life, Tristan, then there’s no point having any conversation at all, is there? But there’s much more available to you than you think, if you care to take it.” He glanced sideways at Tristan. “More than where you came from, and certainly more than where you are.”