THE ELECTRIC HEIR

by Lee, Victoria

  Lehrer nodded and let him leave.

  Let.

  It was Noam’s turn to cook lunch. He’d managed to expand his repertoire from cold pasta to include stir-fry and salad, which probably ought to be embarrassing, but Noam figured it was in everyone’s best interest if he never tried to fix anything more complicated than spaghetti bolognese. Ames had offered to help, but that seemed like it mostly involved her sitting on the kitchen counter by the stove and swinging her heels against the cabinets while pointing out everything Noam did wrong.

  “Maybe there’s someone out there whose presenting power is the ability to make a perfect meat sauce every time,” Noam said, prodding the sizzling onions with his spatula. “Sorry that’s not me.”

  Ames laughed and kicked one of her feet against his ribs. “Christ, can you imagine? You’d never even know you were a witching. You’d think you were, like, the first person ever to survive the virus without magic. But hey, at least you’d have a future at Italian restaurants.”

  “Mmm. I think the award for most useless power would go to somebody with the ability to . . . I don’t know, speed up iron oxidization by a factor of two. Everything rusts, but only twice as fast as it normally would.”

  At least she was talking to him. Noam had started to think she wouldn’t. These past few months she’d grown more and more distant—and that was Lehrer’s fault, of course. They might not talk about it, but Ames knew.

  Presumably she knew about what Lehrer did to Dara too. But Dara was another thing they didn’t talk about.

  The urge to tell her shot through him like a sudden bolt of lightning: Dara’s alive. Noam could imagine her reaction so clearly, how shock would dawn on her face—giving way to incredulity, happiness, relief.

  Only then she’d want to see him, and Noam couldn’t allow that. Bringing Ames into the fold would introduce one more weak spot for Lehrer to exploit. One more potential victim.

  He dumped the ground beef into the skillet too; the oil hissed and spat, violently enough Noam had to turn down the heat.

  “Oh, I got it.” Ames grinned. “Jesus tricks. You know, water into wine, that kind of thing. Or—no, that’s actually the best power ever. Okay. How about . . . carbonation. Your power is that you can carbonate anything.”

  “That has military potential, though. You could carbonate someone’s blood.”

  As soon as he said it, he wanted to take it back. Carbonate someone’s blood? It was exactly the kind of idea Lehrer would have come up with. Always looking for the martial application of a given power. Always twisting magic to his own ends.

  He could tell Ames was thinking the same thing; she’d stopped kicking the cabinets. For a moment she sat very still, both hands gripping the counter ledge.

  “Anyway,” Noam said, voice coming out strained. He grabbed the saltshaker, only his hand wasn’t steady. He poured too much. Shit. “What about talking underwater? That’s pretty useless.”

  “I’m gonna go watch TV,” Ames said flatly. She pushed off the counter and disappeared into the living room, leaving Noam alone to push browning meat around the skillet and wish he wasn’t such an asshole.

  Maybe he should stay in the barracks the next several nights. He’d tell Lehrer people were getting suspicious—not that Lehrer cared; every time Noam had said something to the effect, Lehrer had laughed and said, The rules don’t apply to people like us.

  He was right.

  Still, Noam would come up with some excuse. It would be good to spend more time with Ames. The others too. How long had it been since Noam spent an entire weekend here? Before Faraday, he’d been consumed by his obsession with Lehrer—with winning Lehrer’s affection scrap by pathetic scrap. After, he’d had a different obsession entirely.

  And while Noam was busy with Lehrer, every last one of his friendships had burned to the ground.

  The less time Noam spent around Lehrer, the fewer chances he had to mess up and say the wrong thing. Maybe that was enough reason to avoid him. Only avoiding him was suspicious—more so now that Dara was back. It wasn’t like Lehrer wouldn’t guess why Noam had the sudden change in heart.

  Noam had just finished making the sauce, straining the noodles through the colander over the sink, when he heard Ames speak up from the other room, voice sharp.

  “Noam. Noam, get in here, right now.”

  Noam dropped the colander and dashed into the living room, where Ames and the others all huddled around the television set. The news was running—and at first Noam didn’t know what he was seeing; they kept showing the same clip of a crowd of people and a sidewalk splattered with blood, antiwitching soldiers setting up a perimeter.

  Then he saw the ticker marquee running beneath the images, white text on a bright-blue strip:

  BREAKING NEWS: CALIX LEHRER ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT

  Noam felt like he’d swallowed gravel, stomach heavy and sick.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Taye made a soft noise against his teeth. “Idiots.”

  Normally Noam would be inclined to agree. Right now all he could think about was whether those idiots had gotten caught.

  “I have to go,” he said and pushed past Ames and Bethany. Ames called after him, but he didn’t hear what she said, didn’t care.

  He tangled his magic up in the radio signals that carried wireless internet through the training wing, traced them back to the router—and then he plunged that power down deep into wires, cording through the walls all the way down to the server room. A buzz of electromagnetism bypassed the Faraday shield meant to protect that data from technopaths like himself.

  Only there was nothing. Nothing—nothing useful, anyway. Either that meant the MoD didn’t know who was responsible for the attack, or they were intentionally keeping it off the grid. And if they weren’t storing that data on their servers, it was because they knew the antitechnopathy ward was compromised.

  There was only one person who could have told them that . . . and only one reason he would.

  But if Lehrer had made Noam, he would’ve sent someone to arrest Noam in the barracks, right? He wouldn’t let Noam run through the halls of the training wing, cutting across the atrium—wouldn’t still have Noam’s ID plugged into the biometric readers to let him into the west wing of the government complex. And he wouldn’t let Noam’s technopathy find his cell phone: in his office, the official one on the third floor.

  Because of course it was too much to hope that Lehrer had at least been injured in the attempt.

  People got out of Noam’s way, stepping aside when they saw him coming down the hall. He tried not to overanalyze the way they tilted their heads toward each other, murmured secrets whispered in listening ears.

  Lehrer’s secretary let him in past the anteroom without a word.

  The office was crowded with bodies, gray-uniformed military officers and two men in black suits who Noam could only surmise were the state police. Lehrer stood a head taller than them all, stripped down to a bloodstained white dress shirt with his magic crackling barely restrained beneath his skin.

  A doctor kept trying to get close enough to press her stethoscope to Lehrer’s chest; he waved her away. “I’m fine.”

  “We need to check your vitals again, sir,” the woman said in a strained voice. “Your pulse was 144.”

  “A mistake, I’m sure.” Lehrer’s words were all cold edges and blunt consonants.

  “But your temperature—”

  Lehrer’s gaze fixed on Noam at last.

  Was Noam imagining it, or did relief flicker across Lehrer’s face? Just for a moment, just briefly, before it was subsumed by careful neutrality.

  “Good, you’re here,” Lehrer said. “All of you—leave us.”

  There must have been a snap of persuasion beneath that, because this time everyone obeyed. One by one they filtered past Noam and out the door to the anteroom. Lehrer watched them go with narrowed eyes, silent, until finally the door shut behind the last of them.

  “I hat
e doctors,” Lehrer muttered with an acidity that was shocking coming from that mouth. He stepped out from behind his desk, and with the room emptied now Noam could get a better look at him. His bloodied shirt was torn right over the heart—and when Lehrer turned to face Noam properly, there was dried blood plastered against the other side of his face.

  A sharp jolt struck through Noam’s core, and he sucked in a tight breath.

  Although the bullet must have hit its target, tearing through flesh and bone and brain matter, Lehrer’s skull was as whole and unblemished as it had been last night.

  “They shot you,” Noam choked out, and he took a half step forward before he managed to stop himself. Both hands knotted into fists. “Calix—”

  Lehrer’s answering smile was bitter and disparaging. “My own fault; I didn’t deflect the bullets in time. This will be a public relations nightmare.”

  Lehrer’s hands rose to the collar of his ruined shirt, and he started pushing the buttons free—manually, not by magic. When he’d stripped the sticky fabric away, Noam gave into the urge. He moved closer until he was half a step away. He lifted both hands and pressed his fingertips against Lehrer’s flesh, half expecting . . . he didn’t know what he expected. Lehrer’s blood was still warm, slippery beneath his palms.

  He’d never seen Lehrer bleed.

  Lehrer’s stomach shifted beneath his touch as he took in a breath—and then Lehrer drew him in, one arm around Noam’s waist, one hand cupping the back of Noam’s head like a child’s. “I’m fine,” Lehrer said, more gently. “You don’t have to worry.”

  And.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  Goddamn it. He couldn’t stop seeing the expression on Ames’s face, right before she stalked out of the kitchen this afternoon. The contempt curling her lip.

  Too late to pull back now; he had no choice but to stand there and let Lehrer comfort him. As if Noam were actually concerned, as if Noam cared about him and not the fact that he still. Wasn’t. Dead.

  Eventually, though, Lehrer let Noam go—although not without pressing a chaste kiss to his brow first.

  Noam glanced down at the gore smearing his hands.

  “Here,” he said and used a wave of magic to clean the blood off them both.

  Lehrer nodded approvingly, already back to playing the role of mentor. “Good.”

  He tugged open a drawer on his desk, retrieving a clean shirt—packaged in plastic, as if it had only just been returned from dry-cleaning. Lehrer dressed with quick, efficient movements, looking back over to Noam as he knotted a fresh tie around his neck.

  “You’ll find out who was behind this,” he told him. “I can only imagine it’s Dara and Holloway and all your other new friends.”

  There’s still hope for Dara, Lehrer had said. He hasn’t committed a crime. Not yet.

  Noam sucked in a shallow breath through his nose. “Yes, sir. I’ll look into it.”

  And he would. He absolutely fucking would.

  Video file stolen from C. Lehrer’s personal records.

  INT. CALIX LEHRER’S OFFICE

  Lehrer—approximately twenty years old—sits behind an oak desk positioned before large windows, sunlight streaming through. He holds a file in hand, reading with a pen tapped against his lower lip. He wears the king’s gold circlet atop his head.

  A knock comes at the door; Lehrer lifts his gaze from the papers.

  LEHRER: Enter.

  The door opens. A man pokes his head inside: Lehrer’s aide.

  AIDE: Dr. Gleeson for you, sir.

  LEHRER: Show him in.

  Dr. Gleeson enters. He is stocky and white, with auburn hair threaded through with gray and the drawn, gaunt look of a man who has aged a great deal in a short amount of time. He carries his worn leather satchel over to one of the chairs before Lehrer’s desk, and—when Lehrer gestures—he sits.

  LEHRER (without looking up from his file): You’re tired.

  GLEESON: I haven’t been sleeping well.

  LEHRER: What a shame. Can I get you anything? Tea? Whisky . . . ?

  GLEESON: No. Thank you.

  LEHRER: Suit yourself.

  Lehrer uses telekinesis to pour himself a dram of scotch. He slips the papers he’d been reading into the top drawer of his desk and leans back in his chair, surveying Gleeson over the rim of his glass.

  LEHRER: So. Where shall we begin today?

  GLEESON: I thought we might discuss your brother.

  LEHRER: Adalwolf is dead. There’s nothing to discuss.

  GLEESON: He’s been dead for over a year, and we still haven’t talked about it. You need to process what happened to him, come to terms with—

  Lehrer arches a brow.

  GLEESON: —how he died.

  LEHRER: He died in the battle for DC. He was a martyr to Carolinia. A hero.

  GLEESON: You told me . . . you said there was a note.

  A pause.

  LEHRER (eventually): Yes.

  GLEESON: What did the note say?

  LEHRER: He wrote that he was going to DC. He . . . made it clear he did not expect to return.

  GLEESON: But there was no reason for Adalwolf to be in DC, was there? And he was ill.

  LEHRER: No. He should have stayed in Durham. Nevertheless . . . nevertheless, I’m not convinced this was suicide. I told him to release the virus on DC. I used persuasion. If he misinterpreted the order—

  GLEESON: Is that likely?

  LEHRER: I don’t know. Possibly. Yes. But on the other hand, Adalwolf was sick. He’d gone fevermad. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that he would have elected to take matters into his own hands.

  GLEESON (patiently): And why do you think he would do such a thing?

  LEHRER: I told you, he was—

  GLEESON: Fevermad, yes. But there’s another reason. You thought it, just now.

  Lehrer’s gaze sharpens, and for a moment it’s Gleeson’s turn to sit a little taller, both hands gripping his own knees. Then:

  LEHRER: In the letter . . . he said something. He said he wanted me to abdicate power. To—move on with my life.

  Gleeson says nothing, although Lehrer is clearly expecting him to finish the thought. At last:

  LEHRER: I suspect he saw his death as a way to instill grief in me.

  GLEESON: Why would he want you to grieve? Why would anyone—

  LEHRER (flatly): Because he wanted me to feel something. Those were his words. He wanted to use his own death as a weapon to cut me back into the image of a mind and character he found acceptable. Even after he was gone, he wanted to control me.

  GLEESON: Is that how you see it? That Wolf wanted to control you?

  LEHRER: Am I wrong?

  Gleeson elects not to answer that question.

  LEHRER: From the moment I left that hospital, Adalwolf saw me as a tool. I’d always been intelligent. Once Wolf realized he could use me to craft his strategies—to win the war—that became my purpose, in his eyes. Of course . . . (Lehrer smiles coldly.) He didn’t anticipate that I might just as easily use my power against him.

  Video file is incomplete.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DARA

  The room was featureless and yet familiar, less a setting than a set stage—or maybe that was just how Dara felt, as if the furniture and walls and windows had all fallen away, the world a void beyond the patch of floor where they stood. Dara’s eyes were barely closed, breath shuddering in his chest with every inhale. His lashes fluttered against his cheek—don’t open your eyes, don’t. A light touch skimmed down his upper arm, dropped to his hip. Don’t open your eyes.

  Only Dara did. And suddenly he wasn’t him anymore, was outside his body—and his body was Noam’s instead, Noam’s hip under that grasp, Noam’s lips kissing that mouth. Then the hand that had been on Noam’s hip slid up, under the hem of his shirt, and Lehrer said—

  Dara lurched upright into humid darkness. For a moment all he could hear was his own heartbeat, fingers twisted in damp bedsheets
and lungs aching.

  When he reached for the clock on his bedside table, it read 2:03 a.m. Bass thumped through the walls—a car parked outside—punctuated with the rising-pitch laughter of a drunken undergrad.

  A shadow shifted against the wall. Dara’s gaze snapped up, and he lifted a hand, half prepared to reach for his magic. Only there was no magic, and the shadow was just the glow of passing headlights filtered through the window blinds.

  He couldn’t stay here.

  Dara shoved the blankets off his legs and staggered out of bed, grabbing his wristwatch from the dresser and buckling it on, shoving his feet into his old scuffed-up shoes. He clattered down the stairs, fear prickling the nape of his neck. That feeling of being watched—of a presence following just out of sight—didn’t diminish until he was stepping into the gold light and low music of Leo’s bar.

  “Three drinks, max,” Leo said when he caught sight of Dara, holding up three fingers to underscore his point.

  “Just club soda, thanks,” Dara said, sliding onto one of the stools.

  A few patrons clustered at far tables, and two older men were deep in conversation at the other end of the bar, but it was a bit late for crowds. Not that crowds would have stopped Dara tonight. He’d have preferred the risk of being recognized to staying up in that room alone with nightmares scratching at the windows.

  Leo inclined his head, something almost appraising in his gaze before he went to get a glass. Dara dug the side of his thumbnail into the table grooves, tracing the grimy wood grain through the damp spots left by previous drinks.

  “Have you heard from Claire?” he asked when Leo returned.

  Leo set the soda down on a coaster by Dara’s right hand. He’d stuck a lime wedge on the rim. “No. Why? Should I have?”

  Dara glanced toward the television positioned in the far top corner of the room. Judging by the closed captions, they were still talking about the failed assassination attempt. But if they’d caught someone . . . if they had a suspect in custody, that would be reported. Right?

  “No reason.”

  He sipped at his club soda. It was a little clubbier than normal; Leo’s spigot must’ve added too much carbonation.