The bartender reached for the bourbon bottle and pressed the cork back in. “I think you’re done.”
Dara lurched forward, but he wasn’t fast enough. The bartender had already set the bottle on the counter behind him, out of reach.
“I have money,” Dara argued. He slapped a wrinkled handful of cash on the counter. “If I’m paying for it—”
The bartender snorted. “How old are you, anyway? Seventeen?”
“I’m twenty-two. You saw my ID.”
“I saw your fake ID, sure.”
Dara made a face. “Fine, I’m nineteen. I’m still over age. Give me the bourbon.”
“Nope. Drink your water.”
Dara obeyed, then hated himself for obeying. The water wasn’t settling well in his stomach.
Down the bar, the old man tugged on his coat. When he left, the wind blew a flurry of snow in through the open door. The cold air cut through Dara’s clothes too easily, prickling against his skin like hundreds of tiny needles.
“Your bourbon’s shitty, anyway,” he informed the bartender. He was distantly aware the words weren’t coming out right, consonants bleeding together and vowels overlong. “D’you know that? Shitty. Fucking. Bourbon. Do better.”
“Oh? And what would you know about it?” The man’s brows went up, and he was smiling, damn him. “Are you an expert in fancy whiskeys?”
“Maybe I am.” Dara jabbed a finger against the sticky bar top. “Look at you. Serving your customers this . . . this high-rye swill. Not even single barrel.”
“Some people like rye bourbons.”
“Not. Me.”
The bartender laughed. “You’re a snobby little shit, aren’t you?”
Those words shouldn’t affect Dara like they did. It was like swallowing a gulp of whiskey too fast, a sudden heat blooming in his chest. “You don’t get to call me that.” He sucked in a shallow breath, one hand clenching in a fist. His heart raced. “Don’t.”
The man held up both hands. Surrender. “Sorry. It’s just rich kids don’t come in here that much. Kinda out of their way, you know?”
“Whatever,” Dara muttered. He tipped his head forward, pressing his brow against the chilly wood.
He imagined long fingers pressing against the nape of his neck, holding him in place.
Dara jerked upright, for one reeling moment sure—so sure—he was going to vomit. But the moment passed, and the bartender was looking at him with a frown on his lips, and he was gonna kick Dara out, make Dara wander up and down the icy street because he couldn’t go upstairs, not now, couldn’t pace circles round that tiny apartment for another six hours, couldn’t.
“You okay?” the bartender asked. He sounded uncertain. But of course he didn’t really care if Dara was okay. He had to ask. It was a liability thing.
“Fine.” Dara smiled, and it almost felt real. He pushed back his chair and stood, then hoisted himself up onto the bar. Swung his legs over the counter. Dropped back onto his own feet, this time behind the bar, where he could step forward and press both hands against the bartender’s warm chest. “I live right upstairs,” he said, trying to focus on the man’s eyes. His face was blurry, featureless. “Apartment 304. You can come up with me. But you have to bring the bourbon, that’s the rules.”
The man didn’t say anything. He held on to Dara’s arms, but he didn’t push him back, didn’t stop him as Dara leaned in, as Dara slid his fingers into his hair and kissed the line of his jaw. His skin was stubbly under Dara’s lips. Rough. The room swayed, and good thing the man had such a firm grip on him, because Dara’s legs couldn’t hold his weight anymore.
He closed his eyes. Took in a shallow breath that tasted like cheap aftershave. He murmured, “That’s my only rule.”
He stumbled, and the man hauled him up again, had him pinned between his body and the edge of the bar—good, good.
“I’ll do . . . ,” Dara mumbled, “whatever you want . . .”
He didn’t remember anything after that.
Consciousness returned with all the subtlety of a freight train, crashing into Dara full speed, all glaring light and motion sickness. He groaned and kicked the sheets off his sweaty body, but moving sent another lance of pain throbbing through his skull.
“God,” he muttered, and wanted nothing more than to burrow under the pillow and pretend the rest of the universe didn’t exist. His stomach had other ideas.
He lurched up and grabbed the trash bin next to the bed to spew bourbon and bile into the liner bag. He’d just had time to wonder at the bin’s convenient placing next to the head of the bed, between heaves, when someone pressed a cool, wet cloth against the nape of his neck.
“Better out than in,” said a semifamiliar voice, and after Dara spat the last of the nasty taste out of his mouth, he looked up.
The bartender from last night perched on the edge of the bed, even more stubbly than he’d been before. It turned out he was, in fact, attractive. So at least Dara’d been right about that much.
“Hi,” Dara said when he was finally sure he wasn’t going to puke again—or at least, not immediately.
“Hi,” the bartender said back. He withdrew the cloth from Dara’s neck and offered it to him; Dara took it, wiping his mouth.
Did we have sex last night? The question perched on the tip of Dara’s tongue, but there was no point asking. He knew the answer.
“You didn’t have to stay all night,” he said instead.
The bartender’s brows went up. “Really? Because last night you kept saying stay and don’t leave me here alone over and over, and I figured I should stick around. Just, you know, to make sure you didn’t have alcohol poisoning.”
Well, that was embarrassing.
Dara felt color rising in his cheeks and hoped the man blamed it on the hangover. “How considerate of you,” he said. “But as you can see, I’m fine now. You can go.”
“Fair enough.” The bartender pushed himself off the bed, but he didn’t leave. He just stood there in the middle of Dara’s tiny apartment, both hands stuck in his pockets.
“You aren’t going.”
“For the record,” the man said, “we didn’t sleep together. You were trashed. Like, barely even conscious. I wouldn’t do that to you. I want you to know that. I only came up here to make sure you were okay.”
Dara narrowed his eyes, not entirely sure he believed him. But the man was shifting from foot to foot, uncomfortable but still here. And now that Dara thought about it, he was still in the same clothes from last night. The bartender had apparently taken off Dara’s shoes, but that was it.
“Okay,” Dara said.
But instead of leaving, the bartender turned and paced the narrow length of the studio, from the rickety radiator to the far wall and back again. “Listen,” he said eventually, stopping and examining a chip on the corner of Dara’s dresser. “So. You got kind of talkative last night. I don’t know if you remember.”
Dara definitely didn’t remember. But he got that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach anyway.
The bartender abandoned his pretense of being fascinated by the dresser. “I know who you are. You told me. You’re Dara Shirazi. Lehrer’s son.”
Dara kept his mouth shut. He didn’t trust himself not to vomit again.
“It was a little bit funny, actually,” the bartender went on with a quirk of his mouth. “You kept going on about do you know who I am and you wouldn’t be cutting me off if Lehrer were here. You’re like a walking caricature of every minister’s kid I ever met.”
“What’s your point?” Dara snapped at last. Something was smoldering behind his breastbone, dangerous and too hot. He reached for his magic. It wasn’t there. Shit. His gun was all the way on the other side of the room, in the drawer of that dresser the bartender leaned against.
“My point,” the man said, “is that Dara Shirazi, Chancellor Lehrer’s son, has no business being in a bar like mine, staying in an apartment like this, on the north side of town. Dara
Shirazi doesn’t need a fake ID. So if Dara Shirazi is in hiding, I’m curious why.”
Dara stared at him. The bartender stared back. His eyes were black and bright and far too intelligent.
Dara should have predicted this was how it would happen. That he’d somehow miraculously escape Lehrer’s clutches, and Lehrer’s assassin, only to get arrested because he got wasted at a bar and spilled everything to a handsome bartender too chivalrous for his own good.
“Why is it any of your business?”
“It’s my business because you live above my bar, and if you’re in some kind of trouble, I at least want to know about it before the MoD firebombs my place of work. So. Are you in trouble?”
Trouble. How adorably euphemistic.
Dara pushed himself up off the bed and moved closer to the bartender, close enough the man stepped aside—putting more space between them, like he thought Dara might try to kiss him again. Dara leaned against the dresser and braced his hand near the drawer handle. Just in case.
He had limited options, as far as he could see. And thanks to his rigorous training as Lehrer’s erstwhile assassin, he could see pretty damn far.
Option one: Kill the bartender. He could use the gun to threaten him into a more vulnerable position, but then he’d probably have to finish it off by snapping the man’s neck or slitting his throat. A gunshot would draw attention. Potential consequences: Messy. Bartender might have friends who’d come looking for him. And Dara would prefer to avoid murdering innocent people as much as possible.
Option two: Make up some story about having argued with Lehrer. Potential consequences: Bartender believes him. Either he drops the issue, or he decides to play hero and sends word to Lehrer to come rescue his wayward son.
Option three: Tell the bartender the truth. Potential consequences: Bartender agrees that Lehrer needs to be taken down and keeps Dara’s secret. Alternatively he doesn’t, in which case Dara kills him before he can tell anyone what he heard. But at least the bartender would probably give some sign that was his plan—if he was repulsed by Dara’s treason, it would show on his face. That kind of thing was hard to disguise.
Dara didn’t like the idea of killing the bartender—not at all.
But he liked the idea of letting Lehrer kill him even less.
“Okay,” Dara said. “To put it bluntly: Lehrer has been infecting Carolinians with the virus for years to create more witchings. His goal is to transform Carolinia into a witching state. A witching majority and a witching oligarchy. He’ll invade as many countries as it takes, if it means he gets more witching citizens. Naturalizing the Atlantians gave us, what? Five thousand new witchings? That’s not insignificant. I’ll bet you a hundred argents Carolinia launches a formal annexation of what’s left of Atlantia within a month.”
The bartender hadn’t moved. Had barely even blinked. He was a fish caught on a hook, and Dara just had to reel him in.
“Well, some of us have a problem with mass genocide. There’s a resistance group, the Black Magnolia. We’re a mix of Carolinians, Texan outcasts, people who grew up in the quarantined zone. I’ve been living in the QZ with them for the past six months, and I came back here to kill Lehrer. Is that the kind of trouble you meant?”
He grasped the dresser handle, his whole body alight with adrenaline. The chair by the window—he could get the bartender there, use the wall as leverage against his back when he snapped the neck—
“Sounds about right,” the bartender said.
“I beg your pardon?”
The bartender gestured, both hands palm up as if in surrender. “I mean, someone has to do it. If what you say is true.”
This wasn’t at all what Dara had expected. He didn’t trust the unexpected.
He didn’t let go of the dresser drawer. “It’s true. But why should you believe me? Aren’t you . . . shocked?”
The bartender leaned back against the wall, both arms folded over his chest. “Before I was a bartender, I was a soldier. Like you. Only I wasn’t a witching. So instead of a cushy Level IV gig, I got sent down to Atlantia.” He shook his head, very slowly. “The things they made us do down there . . . Lehrer should be charged with fucking war crimes.”
Dara laughed, the sound ripping itself out of his throat before he could stop himself. He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, gripping the dresser for balance now more than anything else. “Right,” he said. “You’re right. He should.”
But that was never going to happen.
Dara looked at the bartender appraisingly now, taking in his untidy white shirt—same one he wore last night, with the sleeves rolled up like Dara might request he make another old fashioned at any moment—and messy hair. If the bartender had been ranting about Sacha’s crimes instead of Lehrer’s, he’d remind Dara a lot of Noam.
But at least for now, the bartender got to live. Dara’s hands could stay marginally less dirty.
“What’s your name?” Dara asked.
“Leo.”
“Do you have a last name, Leo?”
“Leo Zhang.” Pronounced jong.
“All right, Leo Zhang. What time does your bar open on Mondays?”
Leo crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. “We’re closed Mondays. Why?”
“Well,” Dara said, and smiled. “If you really want to help the resistance, we’re in the market for a meeting space.”
CHAPTER NINE
NOAM
Noam had just swallowed his last bite of Friday-night roast chicken when he realized he couldn’t sense his cell phone anymore.
He lowered his fork slowly, glancing across the table at Lehrer, who took a sip of wine and arched a brow. Cold dread shot through Noam’s gut, and he twisted his hand in his napkin.
“What the hell did you do?” he croaked.
Noam’s magic was gone. He was defenseless.
He’s going to kill me.
Sudden sweat prickled at the back of Noam’s neck.
“Forgive me,” Lehrer said. “I had to know if I could trust you.”
Noam’s gaze snapped down to his own wineglass, sitting so innocuously next to his dinner knife. It hadn’t even tasted any different.
Lehrer hadn’t stopped watching Noam with those eerie colorless eyes, and Noam was sure, so damn sure Lehrer was reading his mind. He could practically sense Lehrer’s power tangling up in his thoughts like so many golden threads, snaring him in a net of knots. And the truth would be plastered all over Noam’s mind: the truth about Faraday, about Dara. About what Noam had remembered.
Lehrer reached across the table and rested his hand atop Noam’s. His fingers were so long, his palm so broad, Noam’s hand seemed to be consumed by it. “It will wear off in an hour,” he said, almost like an apology. “In my position—you have to understand, Noam, I can’t take any risks. I had to be sure you weren’t using magic against me.”
And Noam was alive. Noam was still alive, which meant . . .
Lehrer couldn’t read his mind. Not even now, with Faraday obsolete. They weren’t close enough anymore—Dara had said Lehrer’s telepathy required vulnerability, required his victim to feel like they wanted that intimacy. And thank god for that, or else Lehrer would be right back in his mind. He’d know that Noam had used magic to keep him out.
“I’m not,” Noam managed to say. Lehrer had to have noticed how his hand trembled slightly beneath Lehrer’s own. “I don’t understand. How would I use magic against you? I don’t—I can’t—”
“I know that,” Lehrer said quickly. “That’s clear, now. This wasn’t personal—I have to keep national security in mind.”
“I don’t understand,” Noam said again. That’s what the old Noam would have said—the version of Noam who hadn’t figured out Faraday and remembered the truth.
“You don’t have to understand.” This time the words were firm. Lehrer pushed his chair back from the table, legs scraping the tile floor, and picked up his plate. He held out a hand for Noam’s, and after a beat
Noam passed it over.
All it would take was one order. One twist of Lehrer’s persuasive magic, and Noam would be forced to tell Lehrer anything Lehrer wanted to hear.
The world seemed too silent now, blanketed under the weight of an unnatural snow. No buzz of static flickered over Noam’s skin, no humming laptop from the next floor down. Even the sound of the dishes clinking as Lehrer set them down in the sink was muted.
Noam braced himself for the order to forget, but it never came.
Because Lehrer trusted them to move past this? Or because he didn’t think keeping Noam happy mattered anymore?
Lehrer turned on the faucet. Only then did he glance back over his shoulder. “You should go back to the barracks. You have reading to do, and I’ll expect you to be prepared in our lesson tomorrow.”
It wasn’t an order, not the persuasive kind anyway, but Noam still had no choice. He went.
But not to the barracks.
When they had returned from the quarantined zone two weeks ago, after Noam and Lehrer split in the atrium to head in their separate directions, Noam’d tracked Lehrer through the security cameras as he made his way back out of the government complex. Noam had watched him go out to the barricade and speak to one of the guards there, have a car brought up. Not driverless: Lehrer was paranoid enough to avoid using a computer system.
Even so, Noam had been able to follow him through CCTV up Roxboro Street until he turned onto Main Street and headed west. It had been a struggle to stay on top of the tech. He’d almost lost Lehrer when he turned onto Duke Street, but then his technopathy had caught a glimpse of the car from the high school’s security system. Lehrer had pulled in front of the school’s main building and emerged into the camera’s black-and-white field of view—disappeared into the building itself.
With the school’s internal security cameras, Noam had been able to track Lehrer through the empty halls—his tailored suit out of place amid the graffitied lockers and sticky floors—at least, until he disappeared down a narrow flight of stairs and vanished from view for ten minutes. When he finally emerged, it had been to return to his car and drive straight back to the government complex.
THE ELECTRIC HEIR Page 8