Easy for him to say, Tristan thought. Whoever Atlas Blakely was, his father wasn’t a bullish tyrant who considered his biggest disappointment in life to be his only son. He wasn’t the one who’d zeroed in on Eden Wessex five years ago at a party when he’d been tending bar and decided that she was the best way; the easiest way; the only way out.
Though, he also wasn’t the one whose best friend in the office thought he was getting away with fucking her, unaware the shoddy contraception charm left on his prick regularly made itself clear from across the room.
“What is it?” Tristan asked. “This…” He let the word curl up on his tongue. “Opportunity.”
“Once in a lifetime,” Atlas said, which wasn’t an answer. “You will know as much when you see it.”
That was nearly always true. There was little Tristan Caine couldn’t see.
“I have places to be,” Tristan said.
A life to live. A future to curate.
Atlas nodded.
“Choose wisely,” he advised, and slipped from the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
CALLUM
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.”