Atlas Six (Atlas Series, 1)

Three Hours Ago

“No,” Tristan said when the door opened. “Not again. Not now.”

“Mate,” groaned Rupesh, “you’ve been in here for ages.”

“Yes,” Tristan agreed. “Doing my job. Incredible, isn’t it?”

“Hardly,” Rupesh muttered, falling into the vacant chair across from Tristan’s desk. “You’re the future son and heir, Tris. Hardly makes sense for you to work so hard when you’ll only inherit it by default.”

“First of all, this company isn’t the monarchy,” Tristan muttered, not looking up from the figures he’d been working on. He waved a hand, rearranging them. His valuation was slightly off and he adjusted the discount rate, knowing the risk-averse board of investors would want to see a broader range of percentages. “Even if it were, I’m not the heir, I’m just—”

“Just engaged to the boss’s daughter,” Rupesh supplied for him, raising a brow. “You should set the date, you know. It’s been a couple of months, hasn’t it? I’m sure Eden’s getting impatient.”

She was, and she’d been growing less subtle about it by the day. “I’ve been busy,” Tristan said stiffly. “And anyway, this is precisely what I said I didn’t have time for. Out,” he said, gesturing to the door. “I have at least three more valuations to finish before I can leave.”

It was the annual Wessex family holiday and Tristan would be Eden’s escort, as always. This would be Tristan’s fourth year coming along as the eldest Wessex daughter’s plus one, and needless to say, it was not his favorite activity. Watching his step, holding his tongue, all of it was exhausting—but still, it was worth it. It was worth it to be here, to be considered an heir by someone whose name was not the one belonging to his biological father. 

Tristan wondered if he could talk Eden into letting him take her name; assuming, that is, that he could summon the final step necessary to seal his fate.

“You’re going on holiday with them,” Rupesh pointed out, crooking a single dark brow. “You’re already part of the family.”

“No, I’m not.” Not yet. Tristan rubbed his temple, glancing over the figures again. The capital required to make this deal work was steep, not to mention that the existing magical infrastructure was riddled with problems. Still, the potential to cash in was higher for this portfolio than it was for any of the thirteen other medeian projects he’d valued that day. James would like it, even if the rest of the board didn’t, and the name on the building wasn’t his for nothing.

Tristan filed the project under maybe, adding, “I’m not just going to inherit this company, Rup. If I want it, I have to work for it. You might consider doing the same,” he advised, looking up to adjust his glasses, and Rupesh rolled his eyes.

“Just finish, then,” Rupesh suggested. “Eden’s been posting pictures of her get-ready routine all morning.”

Eden Wessex, daughter of billionaire investor James Wessex, was a pretty heiress and therefore a ready-built product, capable of making capital out of intangibles like beauty and influence alone. It had been Tristan himself who’d advised the Wessex board to consider investing in Lightning, the magical version of a mortal social media app. Eden had been the face of the company ever since. 

“Right, thanks,” Tristan said, clearing his throat. He was probably missing messages from her as they spoke. “I’ll be done soon. Is that all?”

 “You know I can’t leave until you do, mate.” Rupesh winked at him. “Can’t very well leave before the golden boy, can I?”

“Right, well, you’re doing yourself no favors, then,” Tristan said, gesturing to the door. Two more, he thought, glancing at the paperwork. Well, one. One of them was clearly unsuitable. “Run along, Rup. And do something about that coffee stain.”

“What?” Rupesh asked, glancing down, and Tristan looked up from the file.

“Been letting your illusions get stale,” he noted, pointing to the mark at the bottom of Rupesh’s tie. “You can’t spend five hundred quid on a designer belt and then rummage your stain spells out of a bin.” Though, even as he said it, Tristan knew it was a very Rupesh quality to do precisely that. Some people cared only about what others could see, and Rupesh in particular was unaware of the extent to which Tristan saw through him.

“God, you’re a pain, you know that?” Rupesh said, rolling his eyes. “No one else is paying attention to whether my charms have worn through or not.”

“That you know of.” For Tristan, there was little else to pay attention to. 

“Just another reason to loathe you, mate,” Rupesh said, grinning. “Anyway, finish up, Tris. Do us all a favor and go be picturesque by the sea so the rest of us can take it easy for a few days, would you?”

“Trying,” Tristan assured him, and then the door shut, leaving him alone at last.

He tossed one pitch aside, picking up the promising one. The figures looked reliable. Not a lot of capital required upfront, which meant—

The door opened, and Tristan groaned.

“For the last time, Rupesh—”

“Not quite Rupesh,” came a deep voice in reply, and Tristan looked up, eyeing the stranger in the room. He was a tall, dark-skinned man in a nondescript tweed suit, and he was glancing around at the vaulted ceilings of Tristan’s office. 

“Well,” the man observed, letting the door fall shut as he meandered inside. “This is a far cry from where you started, isn’t it?”

Anyone who knew where Tristan had started was trouble, and he braced himself, souring.

“If you’re a—” He bit down on the word friend, grinding it between his teeth. “An associate of my father’s—”

“Not quite that,” the man assured him. “Though we all know about Adrian Caine in some capacity, don’t we?”

We. Tristan fought a grimace.

“I’m not a Caine here,” he said. It was still the name on his desk, but people here would likely never make the connection. The wealthy cared little for the filth underfoot if it was cleaned up from time to time and mostly left out of sight. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”

“I’m not asking for anything,” the man said, pausing for a moment. “Though, I do have to wonder how you came upon this particular path. After all, you were heir to your own empire of sorts, weren’t you?” he asked, and Tristan said nothing. “I’m not sure how the only Caine son came to play for the Wessex fortune.”

“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.”

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.