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.”
Atlas’ mouth twisted slightly.
“Nico de Varona,” he said.
“Never heard of him,” Callum said. “What’s he do?”
“He’s a physicist,” Atlas said. “He can compel forces of physicality to adjust to his demands, just as you do with intent.”
“Boring.” Callum leaned back. “But I suppose I’ll give him a try. Who else?”
“Libby Rhodes is also a physicist,” Atlas continued. “Her influence over her surroundings is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Reina Mori, likewise, is a naturalist for whom the earth personally offers fruit.”
“Naturalists are easy to come by,” Callum said, though admittedly, he was curious now. “Who else?”
“Tristan Caine. He can see through illusions.”
Rare. Very rare. Not particularly useful, though. “And?”
“Parisa Kamali.” That name was said with hesitation. “Her specialty is better left unsaid, I suspect.”
“Oh?” Callum asked, arching a brow. “And did you tell them about mine?”
“They didn’t ask about you,” Atlas said.
Callum cleared his throat.
“Do you make a habit of psychologically profiling everyone you meet?” he asked neutrally, and Atlas didn’t answer. “Though,” Callum mused, “I suppose people less inclined to notice when they’re being influenced are unlikely to call you on it, aren’t they?”
“I suppose in some ways we are opposites, Mr. Nova,” Atlas said. “I know what people want to hear. You make them want to hear what you know.”
“Suppose I’m just naturally interesting?” Callum suggested blithely, and Atlas made a low, laughing sound of concession.
“You know, for someone who knows his own value so distinctly, perhaps you forget that beneath your natural talent lies someone very, very uninspired,” Atlas said, and Callum blinked, caught off guard. “Which is not to say there’s a vacancy, but—”
“A vacancy?” Callum echoed, bristling. “What is this, negging?”
“Not a vacancy,” Atlas repeated, “but certainly something unfinished.” He rose to his feet. “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Nova,” he said, “as I imagine you could have done a great number of things during the period we spoke. How long would it have taken you to start a war, do you think? Or to end one?” He paused, and Callum said nothing. “Five minutes? Perhaps ten? How long would it have taken you to kill someone? To save a life? I admire what you have not done,” Atlas acknowledged, tilting his head with something of a beckoning glance, “but I do have to question why you haven’t done it.”
“Because I’d drive myself mad interfering with the world,” said Callum impatiently. “It requires a certain level of restraint to be what I am.”
“Restraint,” Atlas said, “or perhaps a lack of imagination.”
Callum was far too secure to gape, so he didn’t.
Instead, Callum said: “This had better be worth my time.”
He did not say: Four minutes, thirty-nine seconds. That’s how long it would take.
He had the feeling Atlas Blakely, Caretaker, was baiting him, and he also had the distinct feeling he shouldn’t bother trying not to be caught.
“I could say the same for you,” Atlas said, and tipped his hat politely in farewell.
