THE ELECTRIC HEIR

by Lee, Victoria

  Lehrer sipped at his scotch.

  Kill me, Dara had said, pale as parchment paper and clinging to Noam with both hands.

  The room tilted, surreal and dizzying. “Why would he want to kill you, then?”

  That, at least, earned him a pointed glance. “I’m sure he’s invented his reasons. Nevertheless, I will have to be careful in dealing with this. He’s been seen. Now, quiet; I need to think.”

  Noam hadn’t planned to say anything, but he kept his mouth shut. Lehrer’s gaze didn’t falter from his, a frown tugging at his mouth. At last, Lehrer turned away and put his glass down on the windowsill, pacing the length of the sitting room with long hands slid into his pockets.

  “Perhaps,” Lehrer said, “I should consider the possibility he’ll move against me openly. In that case, it would be best if I spoke against him early. I could disseminate a warrant for his arrest.”

  Noam put his full drink down on an end table and moved to the sofa, perching on the armrest. The same sofa, he thought, that Dara might have slept on those late nights he stayed up reading Russian literature past midnight.

  “No,” Lehrer said, deciding against himself a beat later. He turned at the far end of the room, pacing another lap. “Dara’s too skilled at illusion; it would make no difference. He could appear as anyone . . . unless he’d appear as himself just to make things difficult for me reputationally? But if I issue a warrant, that’s a challenge all its own.”

  Noam’s very bones felt sick. The effort of keeping his mouth shut was exhausting. He wanted to lie down on that sofa and press his face into the cushions and suffocate there.

  “I think perhaps it’s best if I tell a select number of people that Dara has escaped from the clinic and is gravely ill. I’m desperate for any assistance in finding him.” Lehrer stopped, there, in the middle of the room. He was positioned perfectly in front of the window, framed like an oil painting. “After all,” Lehrer went on, “he could die.”

  Dara hadn’t seemed very sick when Noam saw him. The opposite, in fact. If his eyes had been too bright, it wasn’t from fever.

  Something bitter climbed up the back of Noam’s throat. All at once the room was overhot, sweat prickling the nape of Noam’s neck. He dug his nails into the upholstery.

  “Don’t worry,” Lehrer said, and this was directed toward Noam. He even smiled, as if to be reassuring. “I won’t kill him. If Dara is connected to these insurgents, it’s far better to use him to find out who else is involved. I’m sure he has friends in this administration—I need to know who they are. I need to tear this little rebellion out by the root, not simply trim the weeds.”

  Noam closed his eyes. He couldn’t—all he could think about was the way Dara had looked at him tonight. Like Noam had torn his heart from his chest right there in front of him.

  The soft sound of footfalls on carpet, then Lehrer’s cool fingertips slid along Noam’s cheek. “It’s all right,” Lehrer said quietly. “You can look at me.”

  Noam looked.

  Lehrer’s touch stayed where it was, gossamer-light. Little shivers racked their way up and down Noam’s spine. Lehrer’s thumb rubbed the corner of his mouth. His gaze was steady, surveying.

  Lehrer said, “Thank you for listening. Forget this conversation now.”

  Noam turned his face away from Lehrer’s hand. The shivering kept getting worse. He knew Lehrer could see it, like a death chill.

  “Excuse me,” he mumbled and ducked under Lehrer’s arm. He didn’t even make it to the bathroom. He stumbled into the kitchen, gripped the cold steel edge of the sink, and threw up.

  The retching felt like it would never end. Nausea kept coming in waves, a salty ocean that closed overhead and threatened to drown. He was distantly aware of Lehrer entering the kitchen, but it was only when Lehrer stroked his spine and Noam’s body reflexively heaved all over again that he realized how close Lehrer stood.

  Noam vomited up everything he had for dinner, all the champagne, and after that his stomach kept trying to surge up through his mouth even though there was nothing left to come out. Lehrer turned on the faucet, washing away the evidence while Noam shut his eyes and tried to breathe, fighting back each successive gag.

  “You’re okay,” Lehrer said gently. He had his hand on Noam’s hip, holding him up—Noam’s legs were too weak to manage standing now, Noam hanging on to the counter with both hands to stay upright. Lehrer shut off the faucet with his free hand, then combed water-damp fingers back through Noam’s hair. The cold felt good on his scalp. “There, now. It’s over. It’s all right.”

  Impossible to say if that was persuasion. If it was, and Noam vomited again, Lehrer would realize Noam had a Faraday shield. He’d realize he couldn’t influence him, and then—then . . .

  Noam’s gut kept clenching around air, but he didn’t puke again.

  Lehrer helped him away from the sink, half carrying him back out into the hall, down toward the darkened bedroom. He didn’t bother turning on the light, just pulled back the duvet with telekinesis and let Noam curl up there fully clothed on the clean sheets.

  Lehrer sat on the edge of the bed, his hip against Noam’s knee and his hand on Noam’s thigh.

  “I think you should stay here tonight,” Lehrer said as his magic tugged Noam’s shoes off one after the other. “I can speak to Sergeant Li about your missing basic tomorrow morning. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

  Noam was afraid if he opened his mouth, he’d gag again. So he nodded instead, and Lehrer brushed his hair off his forehead.

  “I’ll bring you some tea,” he said and slipped out of the room, leaving Noam alone in the dark.

  Noam pulled the covers up over his head and, when Lehrer returned a few minutes later bearing a mug of chamomile, pretended he was already asleep.

  THE CAROLINIA HERALD

  August 24, 2021

  TRAINING PROGRAM ESTABLISHED FOR WITCHING YOUTH

  Durham—Calix Lehrer announced yesterday afternoon the formation of a new government-funded training program to educate new survivors of the magic virus. The program will be split into four levels by dynamic ability, with the fourth level reserved for training particularly promising recent witchings as well as witchings who have advanced from lower levels. Level I will be located in Charleston, Level II in Asheville, and Level III in Richmond. Level IV will be headquartered in Durham at the government complex. Major Greta Handsmith has been assigned to administrate all units; Colonels Shawn Wang, Stephanie Gold, Bridget Prinz, and Thomas Singh will oversee Levels I–IV respectively.

  “These programs, and the Level IV program in particular, are designed to take advantage of the unique gifts and abilities of witching youth,” said Lehrer. “The programs will allow witching children to master their magic in a safe environment and help them develop new strengths with which they can become vital and productive members of Carolinian society.”

  The first cohort of students has already been recruited. Fifty-six total witching youth will be admitted as cadets, with three to attend Level IV.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DARA

  Claire found him in the apartment thirty minutes past one in the morning. He lay on the bed with the sheets kicked down around his ankles and face turned toward the ceiling, and only flinched a little when she slammed the door shut.

  “What the hell, Dara?”

  He tipped his head enough to see the look on her face: furious, of course, although that consternated expression might be from the cold air. “Hi, Claire.”

  “Don’t you ‘hi, Claire’ me. I’m waiting for your explanation.” She thrust both eyebrows up toward her hairline and folded her arms over her chest. “I can’t believe you. You were supposed to wait for my signal, then shoot him—not walk right up to his face and start a casual conversation!”

  “I know.”

  “Now he knows you’re still alive. He’ll have half the Ministry of Defense out looking for you. We’re so screwed. We’re so screwed.”

  “
I know.”

  “Stop saying I know!”

  “Sorry.” Dara pushed himself up, even though moving hurt. His bones were like glass, hollow and so, so breakable. He leaned back against the wall and breathed out and refused to think about where Noam was right now. Who he was with. “I do know, though. But it’s too late for that. We need to think about what we’re going to do next.”

  Claire jabbed a finger in his direction. “What you’re gonna do next is sit right here and keep your face out of the public eye until Lehrer’s dead in the ground. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Claire puffed out a heavy breath and paced the narrow length of the apartment, floorboards creaking with every step. Her hands were clenched into fists. “Okay. Okay, we’ll figure it out. I’ll call a meeting—we can talk to Holloway and the others in the ministry and figure out how much Lehrer has guessed. Then we’ll come up with a game plan.” She paced another lap, then shot a glance over at Dara, still on the bed. “Who was that with Lehrer, anyway? The teenager.”

  “Noam Álvaro.”

  She stopped pacing. “Really? That was Lehrer’s new protégé?”

  Dara nodded.

  “Huh. Thought he’d be younger.”

  So she hadn’t noticed anything strange about the way Lehrer had been with Noam—or if so, she wasn’t admitting it out loud. Was Dara reading too far into things? Was this just paranoia and old grudges clouding his judgment?

  Dara rested his chin in his palm, fingers curved just so to hide the set of his mouth.

  He questioned himself like this, when he was younger. Used to think if he’d been a little less foolish, hadn’t gotten himself involved with Lehrer in games he was too young to understand . . .

  It took a long time for Dara to trust himself. He wasn’t about to start doubting now.

  He knew what he saw.

  “What do you think?” Claire wondered aloud, pausing by the window to peer out at the dark street. “Could he be turned? Or manipulated, perhaps? If he’s close to Lehrer, he could be a valuable resource.”

  “I’m not sure.” Dara would kill for a drink; he really would. Or seven drinks. “He helped me escape into the quarantined zone—but he also chose to stay with Lehrer. The pair of them are . . .” Dara didn’t know how to explain it to Claire, the things Noam thought he owed Lehrer—but also the way Noam didn’t trust anyone, not even Lehrer. Certainly not Dara. Eventually Dara shrugged and said, “It doesn’t matter. Lehrer probably has him under persuasion, anyway.”

  “Is there any way to tell for sure?”

  “No.” Even when he had telepathy, Dara couldn’t always tell. Lehrer’s power didn’t leave a mark in someone’s mind—not a visible one, anyway. The mind wasn’t a box of thoughts he could sieve through at leisure. He could only read what people were actively thinking about. So unless they were reminiscing on all the nasty orders Lehrer’d given them of late, Dara had been as blind as anyone else.

  He drew his hand away from his mouth.

  “Claire,” he said. “Do you think you could get a message to him?”

  “To who?”

  “Álvaro.”

  “Sounds dangerous. Didn’t you say Lehrer could read his mind?”

  “So we do it when he’s not around Lehrer.” Dara shook his head. “But believe me, Álvaro’s a loose thread we can’t afford to leave hanging.”

  Claire narrowed her gaze at him, like she was trying to pick apart his words and ascertain his real motives. Good thing Dara hadn’t gotten chatty when he was fevermad. If she knew the truth about Dara’s relationship with Noam—or even about Lehrer—she’d never have brought him back to Carolinia.

  He barely remembered most of those months of fevermadness, especially toward the end. Just moments and images, the prick of the vaccine needle sliding into a vein. Then an emptiness as complete as death.

  At the time, he hadn’t wanted the vaccine to work. That was another secret he’d kept hidden, like a pill under his tongue. He’d wanted to slip into that darkness and never emerge. He was . . . grateful for it.

  But he did emerge. And then he’d had to figure out a way to go on living—without Noam, without his magic, and with Lehrer just out of reach.

  Claire left him, eventually, with promises to get Dara’s message to Noam and a series of colorful threats as to what she’d do to him if he left the apartment. Of course, that meant that the moment she was gone, all he could think about was slipping out that door, down two flights of stairs, holing up in the pub, and asking the barman to leave the bottle.

  He didn’t, of course.

  But he wanted to.

  For the past six months, when Dara thought of Noam, he’d remember him as he last saw him: a figure diminishing in the rear window, framed by brick and concrete. The heat waves rising off the asphalt had blurred Noam’s features too quickly. Dara didn’t have time to memorize them.

  But that quickly became the least of his worries.

  Noam’s friend Linda couldn’t go into the QZ with him—she’d never been infected; she’d probably die there—so Dara had to continue past the wall and into the woods on foot. It was summer, but the setting sun shining through the leaves was so red it looked like blood on the forest floor. But maybe that was just magic. Or hallucinations, creeping back into his mind as the last of Lehrer’s steroid drip metabolized and wore off.

  The trees grew close together, root systems tangling up and knotting underfoot. It wasn’t the kind of forest one saw in movies. The underbrush was thick and full of thorns, nearly impassable in some areas; a hole got ripped in Dara’s trousers fifteen minutes in, and his flesh was next.

  Infection, Bethany’s voice said in his mind, the perennial healer. You’re going to get an infection.

  He’d get worse than that if he didn’t put enough distance between himself and the border before Lehrer got an antiwitching unit out here.

  He didn’t even know what he was running to. Not Atlantia—Atlantia was full of Carolinian soldiers; he’d be caught in no time. York was too far. The quarantined zone, it seemed, was a destination in and of itself.

  Dara wasn’t under any illusions he’d survive fevermadness. But if he was going to die either way, he wanted to die here—on his own terms—and not by Lehrer’s magic. Not anywhere Lehrer could find his body and make a pretense of mourning over it, somehow twisting Dara’s death into a political weapon.

  He’d walked all day and well into the night, stumbling over fallen branches and angry roots, until the fever rising hot in his veins was smoldering in his mind so bright he couldn’t see straight. So he found a patch of ground blanketed in soft and earthy-smelling mushrooms, curled up there, and fell into a fitful sleep.

  He’d thought the fever would break in a few hours. It usually did, those waves of sickness coming and going like an inevitable tide.

  Only it turned out fevermadness wasn’t the biggest threat. Not at all.

  Dara woke while the sky was still gray, dawn light not quite filtering down through the branches. He felt like something had seized his chest, a giant’s hand clenching around his heart—and he managed to push himself up on trembling arms in time to vomit all over the mushrooms and twigs and rotting leaves.

  Oh. Right.

  He’d been here before, that time—sixteen years old—he’d tried to get sober. He’d spent days shivering and puking in his bedroom at Lehrer’s apartment, until at last he couldn’t stand it anymore, and he drank down three glasses of Lehrer’s best bourbon while Lehrer sat there in his armchair and didn’t say a word. At the time, Dara had seen it as a small mercy.

  This time, there was no bourbon.

  The shaking got worse. Dara tried to keep walking, to put more distance between himself and Carolinia, but he didn’t make it far. Better, he decided eventually, to hole up in a defensible spot and wait it out until the withdrawal or the fever finally took him for good.

  He’d found a tree with large roots that curved around a sunken trough of earth and c
urled up on the damp black soil. It was only after he’d been lying there awhile, staring at the sun tracking its way across the distant sky, that he realized he’d never found any water.

  Sooner rather than later, then, Dara remembered thinking, and that was his last coherent thought before the delirium took him.

  Later, he found out that he’d probably only lain there for a few hours at most. It felt like more. He watched the trees come alive and trundle around like giant insects. He saw the ghosts of the dead parents he didn’t remember flit between their trunks. And soon he slid into a daze, color and light bleeding into a muddy blur that darkened to black.

  He was unconscious for four days. When he woke, he was still sick. Still fevermad. But the withdrawal had faded to a dull throb in his temples and a lingering queasiness. And he was no longer in the forest. He was in an unfamiliar building, a blank concrete ceiling staring down from overhead, and when he tried to get up, found he was strapped down to the bed at both wrists and ankles.

  “You’re awake,” a voice had said, a voice with a thick Texan accent. The speaker, when she stepped into view, was a slim black girl with close-cropped hair and sharp eyes.

  Her name was Claire.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NOAM

  For three days, Lehrer flat-out refused to let Noam leave his apartment.

  He had plenty of good reasons: You’re still in shock. You’re ill. We don’t know who might be looking for you. Dangerous.

  It almost didn’t even matter where Noam was. He barely even got out of bed. He spent his hours curled up under the blankets with his eyes closed, trying to pretend he didn’t exist.

  The morning Lehrer finally relented, he stood there in the foyer with both hands on Noam’s shoulders and looked at him like he thought he could still strip back the layers of Noam’s mind if only he tried hard enough. His pale gaze flicked back and forth between Noam’s eyes, tiny saccades that sent a strange flutter down Noam’s spine.