by Olivie Blake
“It’s an animation,” Dalton said, and then he turned and left.
In his absence, the others stood speechless again.
“We should go,” Callum said in a measured voice, at the same time Reina said, “It’s his specialty.”
Parisa glanced up. “What?”
“Dalton. He’s an animator. I don’t know what that means,” Reina added. “But that’s what he does.”
“What’s the difference between an illusion and an animation?” The question sounded bitter from Nico, though it might not have been. His anger or his loss or whatever it was that was ailing him at Libby’s loss was bleeding, uncontained, into everything he said.
To Tristan’s immense surprise, Parisa turned to Callum for confirmation of something.
“Sentience?” she asked. She was asking him alone.
“Sort of,” Callum said. Nobody but Parisa seemed willing to meet his eye. “Illusions have no sentience, but animations have… some. It’s not strictly sentience,” he corrected himself, “but it’s an approximation of life. A sort of… naturalistic spirit. Not to any level of consciousness, but to the extent of being, arguably, alive.”
“There are myths about that.” Reina’s tone was cerebral. “And writings from antiquity.”
“Yes,” Callum said. “Spectral things, certain creatures. They’re animated but not sentient.”
“It’s not in our heads,” Parisa said. “Tristan can’t see it.”
“No,” Callum confirmed. “It’s still just magic. Manufactured somehow and put here deliberately for us to find.”
“But why would someone want us to think Rhodes was dead?” (Nico.)
“Is the question why Rhodes, or why us?” (Parisa.)
“Either. Both.”
Their collective silence suggested a confounding lack of answer. Tristan’s sore muscles ached, throbbing with pain.
“Let’s get out of here,” Parisa said eventually, turning her face away with another flinch. “I’m done looking at this.”
She turned and left, followed by a hesitant Nico. A less hesitant Reina glanced at Tristan, then at Callum. Then she, too, turned and left.
When only Callum and Tristan remained in the room, the briefly forgotten intensity of the evening returned. It occurred to Tristan that he should be prepared for something, anything, but acknowledging so to himself already seemed like the beginning of an end.
“There was something else in the scream,” Callum remarked without looking up from whatever animation had been left in Libby’s place. “It wasn’t fear. It was closer to rage.”
After another beat of silence, Callum clarified, “Betrayal.”
It took a while for Tristan to find his voice.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning she knew the person who did this to her,” Callum said, perfunctory in his certainty. “It wasn’t a stranger. And—”
He stopped. Tristan waited.
“…and?”
Callum shrugged.
“And,” he said. “That means something.”
Clearly more remained unsaid than not from Callum, but considering that Tristan was expected to have killed him by now, he didn’t particularly feel the need to press the issue. The magic left in the room, whatever it was and whoever it belonged to, was already starting to rot. The whole room was off-color, tainted, like the magic itself was corroding the further its creator went from them. Whatever form of intent had cast it, that was poisoned now.
Along with other things in the room.
“Why didn’t you tell the others?” Tristan asked, and now Callum’s mouth morphed into some misbegotten smile, like a laugh he meant to indulge earlier but remained somewhere deep in his throat, awaiting a more spontaneous delivery.
“I may have to kill one of them,” Callum said. “Tactically speaking, I’d rather they not know everything I know.”
So Tristan had been correct: They would not be forgiven. None of them.
Nor, he realized, would they get a second shot at Callum.
“Why tell me?” Tristan asked, clearing his throat.
The thin line of Callum’s mouth told him he already knew the answer.
“Because you deserve to wonder whether it might be you.”
Tristan forced himself not to flinch when Callum raised a hand, touching his thumb to the center of Tristan’s forehead. A blessing, or the mockery of one.
“Truthfully, I respect you more for this,” Callum remarked, withdrawing his hand. “I always hoped you’d make someone a worthy adversary.”
In his mind, Tristan manifested a new talisman; a new scroll to recount his new truths.
Part one: Your value is not negotiable.
Part two: You will kill him before he kills you.
“Sleep well,” Tristan said.
Callum spared him a nod before turning to the door, passing irreversibly through it.
NICO
No one could find her.
If they had not understood the Society’s scope of power before, they did now. Representatives from countless foreign governments were contacted for information from any and all forms of magical and mortal surveillance. Medeians with advanced tracking abilities were summoned. A team of the Society’s own specialized task force was called upon to search.
Nico, of course, offered to help them. “I know exactly what shape she takes up in the universe,” he pleaded in explanation. “If anyone can recognize her, it’s me.”
Atlas didn’t stop him.
“As I told the six of you once,” Atlas said, “anything taken from the Society must eventually be recovered.”
Still, there was nothing Nico could do that was any better than even the Society’s most generic efforts. There were no traces of Libby Rhodes anywhere. She had been wiped clean the moment she disappeared. No explanations were provided for why measures existed to track magical output—it was, as it turned out, a bit like tracking credit card purchases—or why each of their movements seemed to be mined for someone’s observation like medeian points of data, but Nico didn’t ask. That was a future Nico problem. Right now, it was about doing whatever it took to find her.
“A lot of work for someone you claim to hate,” remarked Gideon.
Nico had been spending a lot of time fitfully asleep for the purposes of these conversations. When Reina asked him one night about his groggy arrival to dinner, he lied. And he lied and he lied and he lied, but then eventually he couldn’t take it anymore and confessed. “I know someone. A friend, my roommate. He can travel through dreams.”
It was the most forthcoming Nico had ever been on the subject of Gideon aside from his conversation with Parisa, but as he might have predicted, Reina said almost nothing in response.
“Oh,” she said, “interesting,” and wandered away.
The frequent overuse of Nico’s magic was starting to show, even in the manifestation of his dreams. The atmosphere of his subconscious felt thinner, and remaining purposefully inside it was more difficult than usual. He had to wrestle between his need to sleep soundly and the importance of clinging to his conscious thoughts, vacillating between his waking self and his dream self. He could feel himself wavering in some in-between place, ready to snap awake, prepared to slumber more deeply, depending how much energy he exhausted containing Gideon within his consciousness.
At least it was easier the longer the days got, the warmer the weather became. Body temperature was easier to regulate, and even groggy half-sleep was sufficient to remain where he was. The only thing that refused to lessen was his guilt.
“Was it Eilif?” he asked hoarsely.
“No,” Gideon said.
“But how do you know?”
“Because I know.”
“But it could it have been—”
“It wasn’t.”
“But—”
“Sleep,” Gideon advised, and Nico shook his head, forcing himself not to manifest any dancing lollipops or sheep into the ambiance of his dream spac
e.
“Not until I understand this. Not until it makes sense.”
“What doesn’t make sense? You have enemies,” Gideon pointed out. “Libby could have easily been a target for one of the other agencies like yours. Or for anyone.”
“But she’s not a hostage,” Nico said, frustrated. “I could understand it if she were, but—”
He broke off, blinking, and frowned.
One of the other agencies like yours.
“Wait,” he said, and Gideon turned away. “Wait. Wait—”
“Cálmate,” said Gideon, not looking at him.
“Absolutely not,” snapped Nico, rising sharply to his feet. “How long have you known? And how do you know?”
Gideon glanced through the bars at the spare inches between them and then set his mouth grimly, suggesting that Nico should not ask.
“Fuck.” Nico shook his head, furious. “Que cojones hiciste? Tell me you didn’t,” he answered himself, cognizant enough now to indulge the heat of his frustration. “Not after everything I did to keep her out! After every precaution I took, Gideon, fuck—!”
“I didn’t break any wards to meet her,” Gideon countered blandly. “I stayed in here.”
“Jesus,” Nico exhaled, letting his forehead fall against the bars. “Gideon.”
He could feel the twist of Gideon’s tension, the tightening of his knuckles from the other side.
“Listen to me, Nico.” A low warning. “Libby’s gone. You think I’m going to sit back and wonder if you’re next?”
Nico didn’t look up.
“I agreed to meet with my mother on the condition that she would tell me exactly where you were, what you were doing. Which, by the way, I should have known. You should have told me from the start this was more than a—”
Nico winced.
“A fellowship,” Gideon finished with obvious resentment.
“Gideon—”
“There was a catch, obviously. The usual strings. She wants me for a job, and I knew she would.” He paused. “But it was worth it to finally have an answer.”
Nico shut his eyes, warring with his dream self’s need to float away like a balloon.
“What’s the job?”
“I told you, the usual.”
“Meaning what? Theft?”
Gideon shook his head. “Break someone out. For a fee.”
“Break them out of what? Their subconscious?”
“Their conscious mind, actually.”
Nico glanced up with confusion, finding Gideon’s eyes on him. “How is that possible?”
“You really should have taken more electives,” Gideon sighed, but at a pursed look of impatience from Nico, he shrugged. “The mind has mechanisms, Nicky, levers. It is possible to trap certain functions inside it, or to prevent the pieces of a person’s mind from working as intended.”
“So then how would you break in?”
“I wouldn’t,” Gideon said firmly, which Nico did not find particularly reassuring. “I’ll tell my mother it’s impossible. Or I’ll find her the money some other way, she won’t care about the details. Whatever it takes. But I knew she’d tell me where you were.”
“Eilif is a real piece of work,” Nico reminded him gruffly. “She’s basically just a mermaid with a gambling problem.”
“It’s not a gambling problem—”
“It’s close enough,” Nico snapped, though immediately, his head hurt. Worse, Gideon gave him a look that said don’t snap, which he loathed. Mostly because it was effective.
“This Society of yours is not a secret,” Gideon told him. “Not enough of one, anyway. And I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s corporately funded.”
“So?”
“So money is important, Nico. Don’t you care to know whose pocket you’re in?”
Nico tipped his head back with a groan. “Gideon. Basta.”
“Libby is gone.”
Nico shut his eyes again.
“She’s gone, Nico. But you will not disappear.”
“I won’t, I told you—”
“No, you won’t,” Gideon said flatly. “And you know why? Because I won’t let you. Because I’ll do whatever my mother asks of me, for you. Because I’ll hunt you down if you even try.”
“Gideon—”
“You’re not safe there. Not as safe as you think you are.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve seen the wards.” He had repaired them himself. He and Libby.
“Yes, I know, but you’re not prepared.”
“For what?” He was. He had checked everything. Libby had checked everything.
Impenetrable. They should have been impenetrable.
Libby is gone.
Impossible.
“Dimensions, Nicolás, dimensions. Don’t just think big, think shapeless. Think infinite.”
“Gideon basta, infinity is false, it’s a false conception.” Even Nico could hear himself mumbling. “Grains of sand and atoms could all be counted if we really tried—”
“Listen to me Nicky, your wards have a hole. A big one.”
“That’s—”
“Don’t say impossible.”
Blearily, he watched Gideon’s feet step closer to the bars.
“Watch this,” said Gideon, and before Nico could look up, it was already happening.
It was a touch against his cheek, spectral and bodiless.
It was Gideon’s touch; gentle, soothing. Impossible.
Nico closed his eyes and felt relief again. Impossible.
Libby was gone. Libby was gone. Libby was gone.
Impossible.
“It’s a memory,” Gideon explained, and the little spurts of dreamscape shook Nico a bit, rocking him somewhere less stable. He could feel the earth beneath him shaking, the smell of fire, the sound of the scream.
She had left his room moments before she disappeared. She had been gone what, five minutes? Ten at the most? He had been drifting off, not quite awake, and it had been the warp in the atmosphere that called him. Waves were Libby’s method of interference. Nico was reliant on her ability to sense them—too reliant—but for that moment, she had been the wave. He only understood the danger after he’d already smelled smoke.
The loss of his usual grasp of reality—the box of limitations he used in order to function, in order to exist—came over him with a flood of sudden nausea.
Dimensions, Nicolás, dimensions.
Nico lifted a hand to his face, trying to understand it through the low doldrum of restless slumber.
“What is it,” he asked, “a memory?”
“Time,” said Gideon, shrugging. “I told you. Another dimension.”
Time. Fuck. Fuckballs. Fucking balls. Nico felt the sharp pins of opposition bursting in through the numbing wave of sleep.
“The amount of energy it would require to break a time ward is… impossible, unfathomable,” Nico mumbled, trying to sift through his thoughts. “And easily combated by other wards. Too much magic.” His wards, Libby’s wards. They would have been enough to keep it out.
“Okay, but what if it wasn’t?”
“What if it wasn’t? Gideon, it is. Rules of conservation apply. No one could possibly restore that amount of energy and power themselves unless—”
“Unless they could,” Gideon answered for him, and then, “Unless someone exists who can.”
The idea that someone could possibly be so powerful was beyond disconcerting. It was well outside the scope of Nico’s understanding. He had never met anyone more powerful than he was, or more powerful than Libby was, so for this to have been the work of some unknown medeian who wasn’t even in this Society was—
“They wouldn’t have to be more powerful than you,” Gideon said. “It could be a very specific ability. Something very niche, possibly even limited.”
“Stop,” grumbled Nico, because Gideon was reading his mind. It wasn’t the same as Parisa reading his mind, because Parisa didn’t care and she did it by magic, but Gide
on was doing it because he did care and it wasn’t magical at all. It was because Gideon knew Nico too well, and all the caring Gideon was doing about Nico was starting to make Nico feel slightly sick, or at least unsteady. It was wrapping around Nico like a blanketed embrace, making him drowsy, serving a gratifying warmth to the aching in his chest.
“Help me,” Nico said. He was suddenly tired, too tired to stand, and he sank backwards. “Help me find her, Gideon, please.”
“Yeah, Nico. Okay.”
“Help me.”
“I will.”
“You promise?”
“Yes. I promise.”
Nico felt it again, the touch that had been against his cheek before, only now it was full-bodied, whole. He remembered it from years ago, suddenly reapplying itself like a fine layer of gauze over the person he’d once been.
You don’t need to help me, Nico. You have a life, plans, a future—
You should have all those things!
Face it, a ticking clock isn’t the same as a future.
You and your ticking clock, Gideon, that’s my future. That’s mine.
Gideon’s voice was apparitional, in two places at once.
“Sleep well, Nicky.” Distant. Safe.
Comforted, Nico finally closed his eyes and drifted, the warmth of his memories slowly fading into the precipice of rest.
PARISA
In Libby’s absence, the five remaining members were offered initiation. When asked whether there would be magical consequences for not fulfilling the traditional ritual, Dalton was unflappable as usual.
“Something,” he evasively explained, “has come up.”
They had taken a week to look for Libby with no results. Parisa had been among the first to give up, as she could no longer feel or sense Libby’s thoughts and therefore did not want to know what had happened to her. Whatever it was, it was enough to effectively kill her, and that was all Parisa needed to know. If the Society had enemies who could wipe a person’s consciousness from the face of the earth, clearly it was worth it to lay claim to whatever else it had to show them.
The five remaining candidates had settled uncomfortably into the painted room for the introduction of their next subject, leaving Libby’s chair empty out of habit. Not that they sat in any particular order, but disorder was hardly preferred. Libby usually sat near Nico, on his left. Nico refused to look at the empty seat beside him, and Parisa could hear the same buzzing from his mind that she heard from everyone else’s. The acknowledgement of a missing piece, like a dismembered limb.
