“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.
“What’s going on with you?” she muttered to him after they were released, referring with spectacular lack of subtlety to what she probably considered an irresponsible disruption.
It was always such a marvelous thing how habitually she remarked on his tremors of agitation; no one else would have identified such an insubstantial change to their environment, of course, but then there was darling Elizabeth, who never failed to bring it to Nico’s attention. It was like having an ugly scar, something he couldn’t hide, even if she was the only one who saw it. He remained uncertain whether her delight in reminding him was a result of her insufferable personality, her alarmingly too-similar powers, or their longstanding history of forced coexistence, but he assumed it was some magical combination of all three, making it at least 33% her fault.
“It’s a big decision, that’s all,” Nico said, though it wasn’t. He’d already made it.
They’d each been given a twenty-four hour waiting period to decide whether they would accept the offer to compete for initiation to the Alexandrian Society, but rather than being transported directly via charm as they had been for their arrival, they were deposited through their respective portals of public transit. Unfortunately, living in Manhattan a mere matter of blocks from Libby Rhodes meant that she and Nico had the same transit point, and were now moments away from arriving at Grand Central’s magical port of entry （near the oyster bar）。
He glanced at her, conceding to ask in a mostly inoffensive tone, “What are you thinking?”
She slid him a sidelong glance in exchange, then flicked her grey-green eyes to the pulse of his thumb against his thigh. “I’m thinking I really should have gotten that fellowship,” she muttered, and because buoyancy came naturally to him, Nico smiled, letting the shape of it stretch broadly across his lips.
“I knew it,” he said triumphantly. “I knew you wanted it. You’re so full of shit, Rhodes.”
“Jesus.” She rolled her eyes, fussing again with her bangs. “I don’t know why I bother.”
“Just answer the question.”
“No.” She turned to him with a scowl. “I thought we agreed never to speak to each other again after graduation?”
“Well, clearly that’s not happening.”
He beat his thumb against his thigh a few more times at the precise moment she remarked to nobody, “I love this song,” which was another customary difference between them. He had felt the presence of the rhythm first; she had heard the melody sooner and identified it more quickly.