The buzzing on his phone as he’d walked out of Gallows Hill had not been, as he’d hoped it might be, a sarcastic comment or tantalizing threat from Tristan. Instead, for unknown reasons and without his noticing, Callum had become the kind of person that other people came to for help. Was this any sign of improvement on the state of the world? Surely not. But he was game for anything, really, so maybe that was all anyone needed to know. And conveniently, he was already in London.
Mere hours after he’d left a slightly traumatized Wyn Cockburn in the belly of Adrian Caine’s pub, Callum arrived in another, more forgettable establishment of near identical styling. Only this time, someone familiar was waiting for him by the bar in a pair of black jeans, her silk top draping beneath the hard lines of a dark gray blazer.
“This,” Callum said as he sidled up to her stool, “is borderline butch for you, Parisa.”
He leaned one elbow onto the counter as she slid a glance at him, a glass still clutched in her hand. “Yes, well. I recently had to go shopping.”
“So it appears.” She seemed in no particular hurry to move and did not invite him to take a seat. “Are you going to explain this any further?”
He had received the message from an unknown number, alerting him as to time and place with no mention of why. When he’d rung the number back just to see, a masculine voice delivered the message that Pierre was unavailable, or something to that effect. Callum’s French was not so good.
Parisa shrugged, finishing her glass of something clear, which caught the light. He arched a brow and she rolled her eyes. Water, dipshit.
Callum smirked, and Parisa nodded to the bartender, a young woman in a low-cut top, who flicked a glance at Callum. “This guy bothering you?”
“Yes,” said Parisa. (Callum smiled beatifically back.) “But unfortunately, I asked him to.” She left money on the bar alongside her bill and rose to her feet, gesturing for Callum to follow. “Well? Dazzle me, empath. How am I doing?”
Ha. Well, context clues aside. “Poor,” Callum judged. “Very poor indeed.”
“Mm.” She seemed to be chuckling under her breath. “And you? Very convenient that you happen to be in London.”
“Is it?” said Callum.
She shrugged. “I hope Reina’s crusade for divinity isn’t terribly inconvenienced by my call.”
They were delivered into fading London sun from the cool intestines of the pub; the sun was setting earlier and earlier, eradicating daylight in favor of festive garlands and twinkling lights. Still, Callum reached for his sunglasses while Parisa donned hers.
“You know,” he remarked, “I do slightly resent being treated as an accessory.”
“Why? I take very good care of my accessories.” True, her lenses were spotless.
“You’re feeling very purposeful,” he observed aloud. “But don’t think that conceals all the other things you’ve got floating around in there.”
“Shall we compare notes?” Parisa came to a sudden pause, turning to face him as two pedestrians went around them on the sidewalk. “Nobody else is listening. We can be what we are.”
“Fine.” He observed her as closely as he typically pretended not to. “You don’t actually need me.”
One brow arched.
“You want my help,” he said. “Though you’re not nearly as cross about it as you should be. I can’t think why.”
“Of course not. You’re too busy thinking about Tristan.” Now she was smirking. He wondered if that was how he usually looked and deduced that it was. No wonder people generally couldn’t stand his presence.
There was something else, though. Something autumnal, deep-rooted. Earthy.
“You’re grieving,” Callum realized aloud.
Beneath the lenses of her sunglasses her dark eyes left his, floating temporarily to something over his shoulder before returning. A liar’s tell. “You’re misinterpreting,” she said in a clipped voice. “It’s not grief.”
“Isn’t it?” He did occasionally misinterpret. Emotions had their inaccuracies, their misleading fingerprints. He wasn’t mistaken here, but there was no point arguing that.
She shook her head, perhaps witnessing his skepticism.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “But I messaged you because Atlas is dead.”
The news took a moment to settle. Callum had suspected death, obviously, but these were not the feelings he associated with Atlas Blakely. There were no hollow corners of mistrust, no sticky feelings of misuse. This was something closer to longing, not quite regret, not entirely remorse. More like inhaling the unfamiliar, the feeling of being far from home.
Callum straightened, choosing not to indulge his own thoughts on the matter, whatever they were. “What are we doing about it? Don’t tell me you’re going to take over the Society.”
“Of course I’m going to take over the Society.” She tossed her hair over one shoulder. “In a sense.” She gestured with her chin for him to follow. “Come on. We’ve got an appointment.”
“You were really that certain I’d show?” He slipped through the crowd in her wake, catching up to her in two long strides. “And be careful,” he added with a glance around at the figures lingering in doorways. “There are quite a lot of people who want us dead, and I’m not even counting the other four people in our cohort.”
“Not anymore. Well,” Parisa amended. “Not if we do this neatly.”
“Do what?”
She stopped in front of a colonial building; Dutch Baroque in style, if Callum had to guess. Sober and restrained, with Palladian windows supported by classical columns, a triumphal arch. There were no labels on the glass doors, no numbers on the building. Marble floors winked at them from the glossy interior.
He recognized the soul of the building instantly, as Parisa must have known.
“You and I,” she offered in explanation, “are attending a meeting of the Alexandrian Society Board of Governors.”
Callum craned his neck to look upward, quirking a brow. Yes, this was the same building they’d been in once before. A mix of old and new, with the taller contemporary addition masked by re-creations of the original Venetian-influenced design up front. “Our objective being what? To seat you at the head of it? Crown you High Empress or something of the sort?”
“You’ve spent too much time around Reina. I have no interest whatsoever in ruling anything.” Parisa waved a badge in front of a sensor, the door creaking open for her.
“You’re right, it’s more complex than that.” He could feel the gravity, the organization. A sequence of dominos falling, one thing that led to the next.
“Of course it is,” she told him, making her way through the lobby.
No heads turned their way.
“Of course it is,” Callum echoed under his breath.
Parisa walked as if she’d been there before, familiar with the territory. He sensed no apprehension, though there was plenty of doubt. He felt the tick in a ledger, her steps like the tapping of an abacus. Not a victory, not quite. Her loss was calculated but still substantial. “This is a compromise.”
“Yes.” She stepped into the lift, hitting a button for the top floor. “Any other observations?”
He flexed a hand, realizing this was recreational. Like children on the playground. It wasn’t not fun. “You made a deal with someone?”
“Obviously.” She glanced at him with disapproval.
Fair enough. He’d been around amateurs too long. “It’s not personal,” he added with interest.
In response, she snorted derisively. “Of course it’s personal. Haven’t you heard? I’m not capable of selflessness.”
“Ah, I see Reina hit a nerve.” Parisa removed her sunglasses and glared at him. He did the same and laughed. “Fine, maybe it benefits you, but it isn’t for you,” he corrected himself. “I know what you look like when you’re winning.”
“I don’t see a win. This is close enough.” The lift reached her chosen floor and dinged. Parisa stepped out, and Callum reached out to take hold of her arm.
“You mean that.” It was disconcerting, the sincerity. It was not unlike the thing he’d felt before from the professor he’d impulsively fucked with at the Society gala last winter. Heaviness that was also emptiness. Parisa didn’t just not see a win—she was no longer looking for one.
“Of course I mean it,” Parisa said irritably. “What would be the point of saying otherwise? We’ll do this thing and then tomorrow I’ll do another thing. And eventually I’ll get old and nothing will have changed and I’ll die and so will you, and it’ll be over.” He had the distinct taste of something acidic in his mouth. Balsamic vinegar and a paper cut. “I don’t see a win,” she repeated. “So maybe I’m done with winning.”
“But then—” Callum realized he was frowning when Parisa’s glance flicked laughingly to his forehead.
“Careful,” she said. “Time to check on those fine lines.”
“Don’t weaponize my vanity just to get out of talking about yours.” He searched her for something else, something that used to be there or something that had changed. Existing just to exist, he’d said that about her before. Surviving just to survive, out of a pure instinctual meanness. It was still there, though, everything he’d seen in her before. Was it the lack of change that was so disconcerting?
She laughed aloud. “You’re missing the obvious, aren’t you? I’m the same as I always was. You were just wrong about me the whole time.”
“No.” No, he wasn’t wrong. He occasionally misinterpreted, but he had always known Parisa to be dangerous, to have the constancy of a threat.
“Here’s what you’re missing, you beautiful idiot. I didn’t change,” she informed him. “You did.”
If he was staring blankly at her, it was only because he was trying to concentrate.
She looked amused. “Atlas Blakely’s dead,” she reminded him, “and what was your first thought?”
“Good?” he guessed.
Her expression in response was familiar, at least. “Wow.” She turned and continued walking. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”
“Wait.” He chased her down with another long stride. “What was my first thought?”
She ignored him, pushing open a conference room door and waltzing through it without waiting.
“Parisa,” Callum hissed. “I’m—”
He stopped, realizing the room was already occupied by the wafting stench of boredom and a uniformly catered lunch. Gluten-free sandwiches. At least two bankers. Bacon. Two women aside from Parisa. Oh, wait, one was Sharon, the woman who worked in administrative services. The other was older, quite a bit older. She did not care for the dimensions of Parisa’s neckline. Callum sensed egg salad and envy, watercress and distaste.
One not-Sharon woman. Five men—no, six. Several were indeterminately European or American, one was brown-skinned, South Asian or Middle Eastern—and slightly familiar, Callum thought, tucking hazy recollection away—and another more of an olive, Italian or Greek. Two men were arguing in Dutch (only one was a native speaker) until Parisa cleared her throat, gesturing for Callum to join her. She’d pulled two chairs for them, away from the table.
“They don’t seem to be wondering what we’re doing here,” Callum observed, sitting in the chair she’d offered him.
“They wouldn’t, would they?” Parisa agreed, which was enough, he supposed, of an answer.
“Shall we begin?” called the woman primly. French, maybe Swiss.
“We’re still waiting on—”
The door opened again, a much younger Asian woman stepping through it. She bowed her head in apology, clocking Callum and Parisa and then appearing to ignore them.
“Ah,” said one of the Dutch-speaking men. “Miss Sato.”
Parisa shifted in her chair. Without being prompted, Sharon—Callum jumped, having forgotten Sharon for a moment—leaned forward to answer the unspoken question in Parisa’s ear. “Aiya Sato. She’s been selected for nomination to the board of governors.”
Parisa nodded, thinking. Callum could hear the tumble of consequence again. “Young,” she observed. “Japanese?”
“Yes.” Sharon, Callum could see, was proving a very useful resource, though he couldn’t imagine what possessed her to serve as Parisa’s personal assistant.
“Did someone die?” Parisa asked Sharon casually.
“Yes, and another stepped down. There are two vacancies needing to be filled. Nine total governors.”
“Only one vacancy, then,” Callum said with a frown. “There are eight people present.”
Parisa glanced at him from her periphery. “When you’re needed, I’ll let you know.”
The other members had begun taking their seats at the table. One, Callum realized—the South Asian gentleman—took a seat opposite the others, who took their place in a line. Aiya Sato had not been offered a seat, which had not surprised her. She pulled one from the end, glancing briefly at Callum.
Iron. She was used to this.
“So,” the French or Swiss woman said, before the Italian man began speaking over her.
“Can we be quick about this? Some of us have business to attend to.”
There was an instant wave of agreement with one or two pricks of annoyance. Someone was Portuguese, Callum guessed, looking more closely at things like designers, details of importance, loyalties. Three total Brits.
“Fine, does everyone have the minutes?” One of the Englishmen rose to his feet. “It’s early still, but we should keep an eye on the latest recruitment profiles.”
“That could easily be an email.” Ah, Callum had been wrong, one of the Brits was actually Canadian. “I thought this meeting was called to take a vote?”
“Right, a vote of no confidence in Atlas Blakely—which should be very simple,” the Swiss (Callum sensed neutrality) woman said, “seeing as he has not bothered to appear.”
Callum glanced at Parisa, who shot him a warning look. They think a dead man has simply absconded his post?
You know what you forgot to ask? she informed him in reply, turning her attention back to the members at the table. Who killed him.
“All in favor?” called the Italian.
“Aye,” said the remainder of the room. The South Asian gentleman hadn’t spoken yet, but Callum could feel a smugness wafting from him, a sense of satisfaction. Lavender and bergamot with milky condensation, like a floral cup of London Fog. He looked terribly familiar, like someone Reina had pointed out to him before. (Which naturally he had not committed to memory—whatever for?)
“Done,” said the Swiss woman. Aiya Sato, on probation, sat quietly in the corner, frowning.
Parisa leaned toward Callum. “Turn her suspicion down.”
Callum frowned questioningly, but shrugged. It was easy to find, easier still to tinker with. Aiya’s shoulders relaxed. She stopped toying with the cuticle of one finger. Odd that only one person carried any suspicion, Callum thought, but at least he wasn’t having to strain.
Are you going to tell me why?
No, said Parisa.
Couldn’t you have taken care of this alone?
Yes. Something pulled at the corner of her lips. But it’s hot and I am le tired.
The South Asian man’s sense of entitlement was gently suffocating Callum, who slumped down further in his seat, leaning into Parisa’s shoulder. This is the man you chose to replace Atlas Blakely? He doesn’t seem your type.
What exactly do you think my type is?
True, I have no idea what you saw in Dalton, Callum replied with a shrug. Nor, I suppose, in Tristan.
Ah yes, you have no idea what could possibly be attractive about Tristan.
Sarcasm via telepathy was somehow more grating. Those weren’t my words.
One of the Dutch men was speaking. In this particular instance I like my men obedient, Parisa informed Callum over the drone of some perfunctory introduction, and useful.
Should I be insulted? he replied, and she drew a finger to her lips, shushing him.
“This is unorthodox, to say the least,” the Swiss woman was arguing with the Italian. “It’s not as if we’ve never recruited from the Forum before—”
Callum shot a look at Parisa, who shook her head, silencing him again.
“—but can you honestly say this speaks to any particular integrity? Or—”
“If I may,” the South Asian man cut in smoothly. “I understand your reservations. My mission as part of the Forum has always been to prioritize access. But I do believe there is some value in building bridges across high-minded philosophies, and my position on the Alexandrian Society has always been one of utmost respect.”
It struck Callum far too belatedly. This was Nothazai, the Forum’s de facto head. Respect? This man has tried to kill us several times. Callum wasn’t unfamiliar with delusion, especially not shared delusions among powerful men, but that was impressively misguided.
It’s cute, isn’t it, Parisa replied. Wait and see how many people nod.
Callum counted. Three. Four. Is this your doing?
Parisa shrugged. I planted the idea in that one. She nodded in the direction of the Canadian. He did the rest.
Why him?
It didn’t really matter which one. They don’t have many adequate choices. The other candidates that Sharon provided to them were all … Parisa’s mouth pursed with derisive laughter, something both condemning and unamused. Unsuitable.
Callum wondered which weapons she’d chosen to use. Unsavory background? Sexual orientation? Place of education? Quality of birth? Presence of vagina? The members of the Society’s governing board weren’t opposed to all women, obviously, given the presence of two. Optics suggested their voices could be handily ignored, but even bigots had their favorites.
Yes, Parisa confirmed.
Fun, Callum replied. Shall I nominate myself for this board?
Only if you want to subscribe to their weekly email.
Noted, Callum said with a shudder, and quietly, Parisa laughed.
So I take it you want me to persuade them to vote in favor of Nothazai? Callum pressed her.
She made a noncommittal sound and he could taste it, the disappointment, when she said, If you like. I don’t think you’ll need to, but it would end the meeting sooner.
He thought he’d understood why she brought him when they walked into the room, but upon further consideration he hadn’t the faintest clue. All this to avoid breaking a sweat?
No answer.
He pushed her again. What did Nothazai do to convince you?
She looked at him. What makes you think he had anything to do with this?
Callum scoured the room another time, looking for the piece he must have missed. He didn’t see it. Whatever weapon Parisa intended to use was unclear, as was whatever she might have needed a weapon for. You could have easily chosen yourself. You could have taken over if you really wanted to.
Callum. She looked at him tiredly. What was your first thought when you learned Atlas Blakely was dead?
He opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by the sound of scattered applause.
“—the ayes have it,” confirmed the Canadian man, rising to his feet to extend a hand to Nothazai across the table. “Congratulations, Edwin.”
Edwin? Callum made a face, but Parisa wasn’t listening.
“Thank you,” Parisa said over her shoulder to Sharon, whom Callum had once again forgotten, before rising to her feet, gesturing for him to follow.
Wait, where are we going?
When Parisa pushed open the conference room door, no heads turned this time. She moved more quickly than Callum anticipated, as if she had somewhere else urgent to be.
“Wait, Parisa—” Callum jogged after her again. “What am I really doing here? You didn’t need me for that meeting.” Nobody in that room had needed his help to do something infernally dumb, not that anyone had asked for his opinion.
She pushed through another unmarked door and Callum followed, bewildered. He felt the pulse of her stride in his ears, loud and ringing.
No, wait, that wasn’t her stride he could feel, it was—
“Parisa. Where are we going?”
Not her footsteps. Her heart. The sound in his ear, it was the rush of her blood.
She hit a button to call the lift. “We’re going back.”
“Back?” There was only one place to go back to, though he couldn’t imagine what the point would be. She’d wanted out and so had he. “Why?”
She shoved something into his hand and he blinked, closing his fingers around it.
“Parisa, what the—”
“I’ll tell you when we get there,” she confirmed as the lift doors opened, leaving Callum to bear the burden of the pistol in his hands.