And the vaccine . . . that might actually work.
Holloway was the first to break the fragile silence that followed Noam’s words, slipping off his barstool and slinging his satchel strap over one shoulder. “Although this has been productive, I’m afraid I must be getting back. I’m expecting a late conference call.”
“Of course,” Claire said smoothly, interjecting before the conversation could tilt back toward Noam and his suggestion. A suggestion Dara felt certain they’d all be discussing quite seriously in Noam’s absence while Priya drew up a cost-benefit analysis of trusting him. “I’ll be in touch. Thank you, Maxim.”
Holloway tipped his hat as he left, letting in a fresh flurry of snow.
Claire’s dark gaze fixed itself on Dara’s for a moment, then slid over to look at Noam again. “We can’t assume suppressants won’t work,” she said. “We have to test it. You said you have access to him.”
“Ye-es,” Noam dragged out the word, like he worried where this line of inquiry was headed.
Claire drew a small vial out of her coat pocket and slid it down the bar. Noam caught the glass before it could roll off the counter and shatter, lifting it so the light glittered off its clear contents.
“Suppressant,” Claire confirmed before Dara could say it. “Completely tasteless. Dose him with it; see what happens.”
“I’ve tried that,” Noam said. “I bought a few vials off the dark net and poured them in his scotch. It didn’t work.”
“Did you test them first?” Priya asked.
A pause, and then Noam shook his head. “No. I didn’t dose myself, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then how do you know they were even the real deal? People sell anything on the black market. It was probably sugar water.”
Noam’s lips pressed into a thin line; Dara could see a muscle twitching in his jaw. He didn’t want to take the risk.
And why should he? Why would he give up his cozy little slice of domestic bliss?
Dara downed the rest of his club soda in one swallow and wished it were something stronger.
“Fine,” Noam said. “Okay. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Excellent. You have Dara’s number, I presume. Text him when you’re done.”
Noam nodded, and it took Dara a second to realize—of course. Noam was a technopath. Dara didn’t have to tell Noam his burner number for Noam to know it.
Claire adjourned the meeting, and they all followed Holloway’s lead, chair legs scraping against the floor and glasses clinking against wood as they were set on the countertop. Leo snapped his towel a little too violently against the bar before he tossed it over his shoulder and started washing the dishes. I sympathize, Dara wanted to say.
But Noam lingered back, a still figure in his olive drabs as the others shrugged on coats and looped scarves around necks. Dara turned away, pretending to care about rolling his shirtsleeves down and doing up the cuffs. His thumb kept slipping on the button.
“Dara.”
Dara clenched his jaw and forced the button through its hole.
“Dara,” Noam said again, almost pleading this time.
Leo met Dara’s gaze from across the bar and arched a brow. It was a message Dara had seen telegraphed by a dozen bartenders over the years: Need me to get rid of him?
Dara exhaled and twisted around to face Noam at last, arms crossed over his chest. “Álvaro.”
Noam was closer than he’d expected. Close enough Dara nearly flinched back on reflex—damn it. Another instinct he’d lost with his telepathy. He had no sense anymore of how close people were if he couldn’t see them. He’d become like prey, nervous and jumping at the slightest sound.
Noam had noticed Leo, too; his gaze flickered over to him twice. But if Noam had hoped Leo would get the message and retreat to give them privacy, he was out of luck. Leo just wandered a little closer under the guise of putting away a clean glass.
“You know I’m right,” Noam said eventually, tacking onto a neutral subject. He met Dara’s eyes again. His expression was steady. Would be unreadable, if not for the muscle tic at his jaw.
“Why should anyone trust you?” Dara said, carefully noncommittal. “You’re with Lehrer.”
“And you were Lehrer’s son,” Noam said. He leaned on that last word, perhaps just to see Dara tense up—but if Noam was pleased to hit his mark, it didn’t show. “I should think, of everyone, the two of us know very well what Lehrer is capable of.”
Dara was too conscious of his own breath, how his shoulders rose and fell with each shallow gulp of air. He pressed down against the hiss of anticipation seething in his chest.
“So that’s your plan,” Dara said softly. “You’ll stay with him. You’ll play along with his games—don’t think I don’t know how you’re here, Noam; I know you told him you were coming.”
Because when Dara had thought about it, it was the only real explanation. The only gambit with any hope of paying off. Noam’s reaction—a sharp breath and an upward tilt of his chin—told Dara he was right on target.
Dara smiled, the expression grim and forced. “It won’t work. Not even for four weeks. Do you really think you can outsmart Lehrer?”
This time Noam’s cheeks flushed red, and it was anger that glinted in his eyes as he glared back at Dara. Noam took a half step forward—Dara’s pulse leaped into his throat—and Dara knew he’d gone too far. He’d pushed too viciously at a wound that still chafed.
He held up a hand to stop Noam before Noam could open his mouth and say whatever cruel retort was on the tip of his tongue.
“I mean it. Not because I think you’re stupid but because I know him. No matter how good your hand, his is better. And no matter how well you plan your play, Lehrer will always be two steps ahead.”
He grabbed his jacket from the other barstool and fixed Noam with one last look. Then he headed past him, stepping sharply abreast to stay out of Noam’s reach, leaving without looking back.
10 DOWNING STREET
London SW1AA 2AA
The Prime Minister
24 August 2123
Dear Chancellor Lehrer,
On behalf of the British government, congratulations on your recent election as chancellor of Carolinia.
The United Kingdom has great respect both for the nation of Carolinia and for yourself as its former monarch and once-again leader. We are confident that Carolinia will flourish under your leadership and hope this election signifies the beginning of a renewed peace between our countries.
Despite our great pleasure at hearing news of your election, I must also freshly inquire as to the matters we discussed on the 30th of July regarding the swift and unfortunate demise of Carolinia’s former governmental administration. I feel as if we left that conversation on the wrong foot, as it were, and I would very much like to revisit the subject. I hope you did not take our distaste for the junta’s methods as reflecting the United Kingdom’s general opinions of Carolinia or of yourself.
One hundred years ago, you met with British leaders to discuss the possibility of a peace treaty. I am not so bold as to expect you to offer me, now, what you would not agree to offer my predecessors. But I hope you will at least consent to meet for tea. London is lovely this time of year.
Sincerely,
James Mehta
Prime Minister of the United Kingdom
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NOAM
The morning after the first resistance meeting, Noam woke to an empty bed. For a moment he just lay there, stretching a hand out over the sheets and feeling for body heat—but there was none. Lehrer had been up for a while.
Noam could hear him out in the apartment, the creak of floorboards under Lehrer’s step, a faucet turning on and then off. Felt him too. Weight pressing down on the nails in Lehrer’s handmade leather shoes. Cuff links. The shimmer of Lehrer’s magic.
He exhaled and tried to convince himself to stay there, in bed, until Lehrer left. But now that he was awake, he couldn’t stay s
till. Tension prickled beneath the surface of his skin, Noam’s toes curling, legs stretching out long under the covers. At last he threw the sheets back and got up.
When he padded out into the apartment, still in pajamas, he found Lehrer sitting in his usual armchair by the window with a book perched in hand.
“What time is it?” Noam asked, even though he could have looked at the clock, could have felt it, even, the ticks of the second hand and the inevitable turning cogs.
Lehrer glanced at his wristwatch. “Ten thirty. You missed basic.”
“You should have woken me.”
“I thought you might prefer to sleep in.” Lehrer readjusted his cuff, tugging it down over his wrist once more. “You haven’t been well lately.”
It was true. Lehrer had already been in bed when Noam got back last night. The vial of suppressant had been burning a hole in his trouser pocket, Noam’s nerves alight with anticipation—already trying to figure out how he’d distract Lehrer long enough to dose him, if he even had it in him to keep a straight face when Lehrer took a sip. Only the apartment was dark, Lehrer a formless shape beneath the duvet. Noam had considered going back to the barracks to sleep, but Lehrer had explicitly said . . . and so Noam crawled in between the sheets slowly, worried too much movement would wake him. He’d curled up on his side facing the wall, so focused on pacing his breaths and keeping his eyes squeezed shut that he didn’t realize Lehrer was moving until his hand was already on Noam’s hip.
Not tonight, Noam had said and tried not to flinch away. I have a headache.
This morning, Lehrer watched Noam with an even pale gaze.
Always two steps ahead.
“And . . . don’t you have work? It’s Tuesday.”
“I canceled my meetings to stay here with you,” Lehrer said, and he finally gave Noam a slim smile. “I told you—I’ve been worried.”
Two months ago, that statement would have landed very differently. Today, Noam just wished he had more clothes on.
“I’m gonna get coffee,” Noam said, jerking his thumb toward the kitchen. “Do you want any?”
“Why not,” Lehrer said, and it was that easy—it really was that easy, it seemed, to dart back into the kitchen and pour two mugs from the carafe. To pop the cap off the vial with shaking fingers and stir a dose of suppressant into Lehrer’s drink.
For a moment Noam stood there doing nothing, staring down at the black liquid swirling in Lehrer’s cup—imagined Lehrer in this same kitchen, pouring a vial of his own into Noam’s drink.
That was enough to make Noam pick up the cups and carry them back into the living room, passing the dosed mug into Lehrer’s expectant hand.
Noam sat down on the sofa, gripping his own cup between both hands. He couldn’t bring himself to drink—felt certain the moment the coffee hit his stomach, it’d come right back up again.
“Tell me what happened last night,” Lehrer said, and as Noam watched, he lifted the mug to his lips.
Noam stared. He didn’t know what he expected. There was no change in Lehrer’s expression, no dawning realization. No fear.
“We met in a bar off Geer Street,” Noam said at last.
“You and Dara,” Lehrer said and waited for Noam to nod. “Who else?”
“Two women named Claire and Priya, both from a terrorist cell in the quarantined zone. The bartender—first name Leo, I don’t know the surname. And . . .” He hesitated, long enough for Lehrer to lift a brow. “Minister Holloway. The home secretary.”
Lehrer’s expression didn’t change, but he did put aside his book. His hand lingered a moment on its spine, thumb stroking the embossed letters of the author’s name as he took another sip of coffee.
“I’ve suspected Maxim for some time,” Lehrer said at last, almost musingly. “But I always assumed if he moved against me, it would be within the political sphere. This is quite the departure.”
Noam’s mug felt slippery against his palms. “He seemed to be deeply involved.”
“Mmm.”
What if this was a mistake? What if Lehrer changed his mind about his plans to wait and see, let the grassroots rebellion make a honey trap of themselves, drawing in would-be revolutionaries for Lehrer to crush under his heel?
But Lehrer didn’t reach for his phone, didn’t call the Ministry of Defense to have Holloway taken into custody.
Instead, Lehrer tapped his armrest: one-two. “What else?”
“Oh. Um.” Noam fumbled for something else to say, something that wouldn’t damn them all. “They had planned to assassinate you at the Keatses’ gala. Obviously that failed, but there’s no decisive new plan.” Except for Noam’s plan. Undermine Lehrer’s command. Find the vaccine. Kill him. “Suppressant came up a few times.”
Lehrer’s laugh was bone-dry. But the smile that curled around his mouth was benign, even indulgent. “Good. For now, your orders are to carry on as you have been. Attend their meetings, and report back to me. We should gather more information before we decide what to do about this situation.”
“Yes, sir.”
I can’t tell if it worked, he texted Dara, technopathically accessing the phone in his satchel. He hasn’t tried to use magic.
And if he did . . . the moment Lehrer tried, if the suppressant had worked . . . he’d know Noam betrayed him. Noam wouldn’t have another choice—he’d have to kill Lehrer right then and there.
But how? Just . . . electricity, the same way he killed Brennan? Maybe that was appropriate.
Or maybe Noam should use the Beretta Lehrer thought fit his hand so very well.
For Dara. For Dara, and Brennan, and my father, and anyone else Lehrer ever hurt.
Lehrer rose from his chair; his book tumbled off the armrest to fall forgotten in the vacant seat. Noam was still, so still—still enough his back ached. But when Lehrer touched his shoulder, trailing fingertips down Noam’s arm, he didn’t flinch.
“Thank you, Noam,” Lehrer said softly. He sat, this time on the sofa next to Noam, one leg tilted in so his knee pressed against Noam’s thigh. “I know this hasn’t been easy. Doing what we do . . . it will never be easy. But it is necessary.”
“I know.” He let his shoulders relax slightly, in case Lehrer had used persuasion there. It was, as always, impossible to tell. “And I know . . . I know you might not trust me entirely. Because of Dara.” His gaze flickered up, meeting Lehrer’s. “But I promise. I won’t betray this country.”
Lehrer nodded. His gaze was curiously soft, tender in a way Noam hadn’t seen in a long time. It was more than the fondness with which he looked at Noam sometimes, when Noam did well in class or the QZ—when Noam woke up that early morning three weeks ago to Lehrer brushing a lock of hair away from his face.
This was different.
“I need to discuss something with you,” Lehrer said.
Noam took in a shallow breath, and Lehrer reached for his hand. His thumb moved in a slow pattern against the backs of Noam’s knuckles, soothing. Noam wondered if he could tell how clammy Noam’s palms felt.
Last time Lehrer said I need to discuss something with you, it ended with Noam standing over a corpse in the quarantined zone, a gun in his hand and blood on his clothes.
“Let me guess,” Noam said. “Another crime in the name of the greatest good.”
Lehrer’s mouth did twitch at that, although hard to say if it was a smile or something else. “It’s about Atlantia. The outbreaks. You know they’re getting worse—Atlantia is no longer a functioning nation. They rely on us for all their resources, for contamination protocol, for defense against a potential Texan invasion. If we withdraw, Atlantia will not survive on its own.”
Noam did know. He was the Atlantian liaison—he knew better than anyone how bad it was down there. He’d spoken to the refugees, the ones fleeing the latest outbreaks. Some of them brought photos. He’d seen the bodies.
And he knew where this was going.
How long ago did you dose him? Dara’s response pinged against
Noam’s technopathy. Noam silenced his phone’s alert noise just in time.
Five minutes, he sent back.
“I want to help,” Lehrer said, leaning in a little closer to Noam. Close enough Noam would’ve been able to see the striations in his irises, if he had any; Lehrer’s eyes were patternless as glass. “But I can’t justify the expense, not when we’re already spending so much to support the new citizens here in our own country. Atlantia is still, after all, a foreign nation.”
A horrible thrill shot through Noam’s heart. “You want to annex Atlantia.”
“It’s their only chance at survival,” Lehrer said softly. “They have no defenses left—against the virus, or against Texan greed.”
“So we invade them before Texas does.”
Lehrer looked grim. “You know that’s not—”
“Do it.”
Lehrer faltered. His grip on Noam’s hand tightened.
Noam knew what his father would have said. He could imagine the disappointment written all over Jaime Álvaro’s face. The way his mother would have turned away, unable to look at him.
But saving the Atlantian people was more important, right now, than saving a nation in name alone.
“You’ll give them all citizenship,” Noam said, holding Lehrer’s gaze. “You’ll protect the old Atlantian borders with the same technology we use in Carolinia.”
“Of course.”
“Then you should do it.” He took a breath. “You’re right. It’s necessary.”
He tugged his hand out of Lehrer’s and stood. Lehrer rose as well, but he didn’t reach for Noam again—just stood there, with the firm and commanding posture of someone who has always known he’d get his way. Who never really worried Noam might say no.
Was that Lehrer’s magic Noam still sensed, glittering gold about him like an aura?
Noam stepped past him, telekinesis grabbing his satchel from the hook by the door. “I have to go to class,” he said. “I’ll tell you if the insurgents contact me again.”
THE ELECTRIC HEIR Page 11