THE ELECTRIC HEIR

by Lee, Victoria

  “She’s okay,” Dara said, which felt like an oversimplification, but he wasn’t sure Noam would really get it even if Dara tried to explain. Dara and Ames had built a friendship out of mutual self-destruction, chasing oblivion because it was easier than facing reality. And sure, maybe Noam enjoyed a drink every now and then, but he wasn’t like Dara. He wasn’t like Ames. He didn’t have that sickness inside him, constantly threatening to swell up and overtake everything.

  Dara had talked to Ames about it a lot, lately. Sobriety, withdrawal, how difficult it was to face the emptiness that all the drugs and alcohol had been covering up for so long.

  But . . . frankly, Ames probably needed more help than Dara could offer. Professional help.

  Not that Dara would say that out loud.

  It wasn’t any of Noam’s business.

  And—there it was: bar snacks, scrawled in Leo’s big blocky hand. Dara crouched down to drag the box out from its place. All those peanuts were surprisingly heavy.

  He turned around and found that Noam was looking at him now, arms crossed over his stomach like he was defending himself from a blow. Two of his fingers pinched his shirtsleeve between them, twisting the fabric round.

  “I think Lehrer’s going fevermad,” Noam said.

  Dara’s hands slipped on the box. He would have dropped it if not for Noam’s telekinesis flashing out to grab it from him, floating it over to sit on a nearby crate.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not positive,” Noam added quickly. “But . . . there are signs. He’s been feverish. Fatigued, too—he was weak when we sparred. I almost—” His throat bobbed when he swallowed. “Anyway. Maybe if I can convince him to spend more magic . . . he’ll get worse.”

  Dara’s lungs didn’t feel like they were working properly. Each breath just burst out of him again the second he took it. His chest ached. “Fevermadness doesn’t kill you that quickly. Even if he spends a lot of magic—it could be months. And he’d take a steroid prescription before he’d put himself on suppressants.”

  He turned on his heel—away from Noam—and paced down to the far end of the storeroom. Back again.

  “Besides,” he added, facing Noam once more, “I’m not so sure you’re right about that. Lehrer’s a hundred and twenty-four years old—and he’s been using magic that whole time, even if just to keep himself young. I went fevermad at eighteen.”

  “So maybe he figured out some tricks. Or maybe telepathy’s more draining than eternal youth.”

  “Than constantly healing your own cells over and over?”

  Noam gestured broadly with both hands. “I dunno. You’re right—he’s been fine so far. But something has clearly changed. He’s sick now. Even if he was able to sustain himself for two lifetimes off his own magic before, maybe he’s reached the end of that rope.”

  To be fair . . . it was bound to happen eventually. Lehrer must have known that. Living forever wasn’t sustainable, not if you had to use magic. Dara just didn’t get why it took this long. Why Lehrer could be so old, when Dara . . .

  Dara got sick in a matter of months.

  As with everything, Lehrer was just that much better than Dara.

  “What are you going to do?” Dara said after that taut silence. “Make him perform all your telekinesis for you? Hurt yourself on purpose to make him heal you? That isn’t enough.”

  “No,” Noam said. “But on Independence Day—when we have to fight him—we’ll have to get close enough to give him the vaccine in the first place. To make sure it . . . works.”

  “It’ll work.”

  Noam made a complicated-looking expression, like he was about to say something else, then changed his mind last second. “Even so, it’s to our benefit to weaken him as much as possible. We’ll have to tempt him into spending a huge amount of his magic in one go. Then inject him. And then . . . we’ll see, I guess.”

  Dara’s mouth twisted. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of this, actually, but he’d made himself pretty clear on that front already.

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s as good a plan as any, I suppose. If you think you can manage it without him just . . .”

  Just cutting you down like an inconvenient weed.

  “He’s struggling,” Noam said. “I can do it. I know I can.”

  Dara exhaled another soft sigh. It seemed like he was sighing all the time lately. And always because of Álvaro. “Okay,” he said again. Gestured toward the box of bar snacks. “Carry those for me, then. Since you’re so magically ept now.”

  Noam rolled his eyes, but he was still grinning as he heaved the peanuts off the table with telekinesis and floated them ahead out into the bar.

  The others seemed to have moved on to a new conversation topic, so Noam and Dara ended up sitting at a separate table, sharing a little bowl of chipotle salted peanuts. Dara squeezed his lime over the bowl and tossed the remainder into his fresh glass of club soda.

  It felt pointless arguing with Noam now. A part of Dara still wanted to, though, that need like tiny rodent claws scratching at the inside of his sternum.

  Dara picked out a single peanut to roll on the table under his fingertip, leaving a trail of damp-looking salt in its wake. “Don’t take this the wrong way—”

  “A promising start.”

  “—but do you know what your problem is, Álvaro?”

  Noam raised both brows. God, Dara would never get over how much he loved Noam’s eyes: the perfect shade of tree-bark brown.

  “You can’t ever let it go,” Dara said. “Once you get an idea in your head, that’s it. You’ll chase it way past the point of reason. Even when chasing that goal means you have to do things you never would otherwise.”

  Noam tossed one of the peanuts in his mouth, crunched down. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t really think you’re wrong. But you make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

  “It’s not, necessarily. The way you do it, though . . .”

  “The way I do it makes it bad?”

  “This isn’t coming out right.” Dara grimaced. “I mean—yes, sometimes. I always respected how driven you were to fight for Atlantian rights, for example. Even if we disagreed on some of the practicalities, you were . . . it was impressive. It was one of the things that I . . .”

  The word loved caught in his throat like a half-swallowed pill.

  “Yeah, and you think I took it too far,” Noam said, thankfully not seeming to have noticed the way Dara was gulping water all the sudden, washing old confessions down. “You think I took a good cause and made it violent.”

  Dara ate a peanut to buy himself time. “I suppose. You don’t—you have to admit, Noam, you have trouble drawing the line.”

  “And you think I crossed it. With Lehrer.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Lehrer.”

  “Okay. We won’t, then. But . . . Dara, I’m not gonna apologize for caring about things other than myself.”

  “Oh, and I only care about myself? You—”

  “That’s not what I said,” Noam interrupted. “I said I have an ideology. And there’s nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing wrong with fighting for something you believe in.” He dropped an uneaten peanut back into the bowl and fixed Dara with a flat stare. “What are you doing here if you don’t believe in this too?”

  Of course Dara believed in the resistance.

  He did.

  He believed Lehrer needed to die.

  . . . Only that wasn’t what Noam meant. Then again, Noam wasn’t asking because he didn’t already know the answer.

  “What do you believe in, Dara?” Noam pressed again.

  Dara sipped at his soda. Swirled his straw round the glass when he lifted his head again. “I believe Vladimir Nabokov is the best novelist of all time.”

  “Dara.”

  Dara gazed back at him, Noam’s incredulity written all over his face. Without telepathy, Dara couldn’t quite tell if he was actually frustrated or just . . .

&nbs
p; But then Noam snorted and said, “Yeah. All right. What else?”

  The corners of Dara’s mouth tipped up. “I believe in utilitarianism,” he said. “I believe bourbon is the gentleman’s choice in whiskey. I believe pineapple belongs on pizza. Oh, and the fact that goats eat everything you own just makes them more endearing.”

  “You are ridiculous,” Noam said—but he was laughing now, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over this chest.

  And—god, Dara had missed this. The softness to Noam’s eyes when he looked at Dara, and even without telepathy Dara still remembered how that expression had paired with a softness to Noam’s thoughts too. Something warm curled up in Dara’s chest.

  He picked up a peanut and tossed it across the table. Noam leaned forward to try and catch it in his mouth and missed by a mile.

  “And what are you doing with your life, when you aren’t making terrible decisions in the name of the resistance?” Dara asked.

  “Running,” Noam said, bending over to retrieve the peanut from the floor. He—disgusting boy—ate it anyway, then smirked when Dara made a face. “And . . . I’ve been getting involved with the Atlantian nationalist movement.”

  “I saw,” Dara said. “You’ve been in the newspapers.”

  “Not that. That’s propaganda for Lehrer—I’m supposed to position myself opposite Holloway.”

  “I did think your whole argument sounded uncharacteristically flaccid.”

  “That’s a terrible choice of word.”

  “Soft, then. Not the Noam Álvaro we all know and loathe.”

  “Well, as you so astutely pointed out just a few minutes ago, I can’t let shit go.” Noam tapped one finger against the table. “So I’ve been meeting up with community leaders in secret. Not encouraging riots per se, but . . .”

  “You never quit, do you?”

  “Never,” Noam said with a self-satisfied grin. “The second Lehrer’s finished, Atlantians are taking our country back.”

  Dara smiled back. “Good for you,” he said sincerely. “But . . . so much for anarchy, hmm?”

  “Well, letting Atlantia get absorbed into Carolinia isn’t really congruent with anarchist values either, you know. Baby steps.”

  Dara kicked his ankle under the table and immediately wished he hadn’t. The lines of Noam’s expression softened further, and Dara knew, he knew Noam was . . .

  Noam was still in love with him. And Dara had no idea what to do about it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  NOAM

  Second Wednesdays of the month were for sparring.

  The days leading up tumbled into each other like a fallen house of cards, Sunday into Monday, Monday into Tuesday—until it was Wednesday morning and Noam had to leave the barracks and go down to the empty room they’d been using these past months, water bottle clutched in one sweaty hand and his magic sizzling like static in his bones. He sensed Lehrer’s own magic from a floor away, like some kind of primitive self-preservation instinct.

  Noam paused in the stairwell and pressed his face against the brick wall, holding that cold water bottle to the nape of his neck.

  If this was anything like last time . . .

  If this was like last time, and Lehrer was weakened, Noam couldn’t hesitate. He couldn’t make that same mistake.

  He had to follow through.

  His stomach clenched and flexed, a feeling not unlike motion sickness. Noam swallowed against it, but his throat convulsed around his own spit; his short nails scraped at the mortar between the bricks.

  Calm down. You have to be calm.

  Lehrer would sense Noam’s heart beating too fast, the electrical signals in his ventricles flickering like bad lights. He had to relax.

  He couldn’t relax.

  He’d tell Lehrer he went for a run beforehand, Noam decided as he pushed off the wall and made himself go down the last flight of stairs. That’s why he was late, and sweaty, and anxious.

  But when Noam pushed open the door to the sparring room, Lehrer’s gaze didn’t so much as glance down at his chest.

  “I heard the most interesting rumor today,” Lehrer said, shucking off his tie and tossing it into a folding chair.

  The razor edge to his voice wasn’t reassuring. That sickness in Noam’s gut pitched higher, his tongue suddenly sandy in his mouth.

  Lehrer was waiting. For Noam to say something, clearly.

  “What rumor?” Noam managed.

  Lehrer’s slim fingers undid the first several buttons at his collar. Rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. “I’m told you’ve been preaching some interesting ideas in Little Atlantia. Ideas that are . . . let’s say, incongruent with the narrative we mutually agreed upon.”

  Shit.

  It wasn’t like Noam didn’t think Lehrer would hear about all that. But maybe he kind of . . . hoped he wouldn’t, anyway.

  He lifted his water bottle, screwed off the cap, and took a desperate swallow. His throat stayed raw.

  “Yeah,” he said after a long beat. “About that . . .”

  He didn’t know what to tell Lehrer. He was too—he’d prepared something to say, but all those words had flown out of his head, chased off by the fever-pitch fear of standing here in front of Lehrer, Lehrer’s anger like magic glinting in his pale eyes.

  Lehrer stepped closer. Stopped two paces away, near enough Noam could see each individual strand of his hair.

  “I’m waiting, Noam.”

  Noam fumbled to get the cap back on his water bottle. “I’m sorry,” he said belatedly. “I don’t . . . I know it’s not what we talked about. But this—the whole story line about waiting, accepting what help we’re given—it’s not true, Calix. We both know that.”

  “And so you willingly undermined our plans,” Lehrer said softly, “because you didn’t . . . personally . . . believe in our message.”

  Noam twisted the cap on his bottle again, on-off, on-off—Lehrer made an exasperated sound and snatched the bottle out of his grasp, tossing it aside violently enough it burst, spilling water all over the vinyl floor.

  “Answer me.”

  Noam took in a shallow breath, tilted his chin up even though every instinct told him to tuck his face down, retreat like a scared baby deer. “I couldn’t do it. I can’t say those things. It’s not—I don’t have it in me. You—”

  “I what?”

  “You know that about me,” Noam finished, but it came out quiet, vulnerable. A childish plea.

  Lehrer didn’t blink. Didn’t move. It was as if some switch inside him had shut off, the man in front of Noam as cold and soulless as a machine.

  A slow bead of sweat cut down Noam’s spine.

  Then—at last, the moment cracking like thin ice—Lehrer turned away, pacing toward the other end of the room.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Lehrer said. “Let’s spar.”

  Noam didn’t even have a moment to prepare.

  Lehrer’s first burst of magic snapped across the space between them like a bolt of lightning. Noam deflected it right in time to see it detonate against the wall to his back, soot like a black star against the paint.

  The second followed almost instantly on its tail, the floor quaking underfoot; Noam stumbled, flinging out electromagnetism to keep his balance—and that was all the hesitation Lehrer needed to close the distance. Noam’d managed to blink the stars from his eyes, to reach for his own offensive play, when he glanced up, and Lehrer was there, he was right—there—and Noam shoved his knee up toward Lehrer’s stomach too late.

  The blow hit him on the cheekbone, powerful enough Noam stumbled back three paces. His skin was blazing with pain; he launched a volley of electricity back at Lehrer, but Lehrer tossed it away like a discarded cloak. Lehrer’s long strides consumed the short space between them once more.

  Noam lifted his arm against his face in a defensive posture in time for Lehrer’s hook to catch his wrist, skipping away from his face.

  Noam jabbed his foot forward, trying to prop
el Lehrer back, but Lehrer was too fast. He grabbed Noam’s ankle and yanked him off balance, sending Noam crashing to the floor hard enough his breath whooshed from his lungs in one fell beat.

  Fuck—fuck, Lehrer was—

  Weak was the last word that could describe Lehrer now.

  Noam’s magic had gone dumb and useless, a blunt weapon—all he could sense was electricity, magnetism, as if every other ability had abandoned him right when he needed them most. He clung to those, tried to—

  If he could sense the electrical signals in Lehrer’s heart, or his brain, he could—

  His power slipped off Lehrer like oil on water. Lehrer kicked him in the ribs, hard enough Noam cried out, curling forward reflexively to protect his organs. He flung out one hand, clawing at Lehrer’s leg, trying to get purchase to—to what? To drag Lehrer down, or himself up, or—he didn’t know, and Lehrer wasn’t giving him time to think. The attacks came too fast, almost as if they weren’t even in succession anymore—like Lehrer was somehow using more than one kind of magic at once: electricity but also strength but also something else, a pain unlike anything Noam had ever felt in his life. Fire chased down wires inside him, a conflagration of his—

  Nerves.

  Lehrer had seized control of Noam’s own nervous system and twisted it toward agony. Because Lehrer might not be able to manipulate Noam’s brain, but he sure as fuck could manipulate the tiny bright neurons in Noam’s fingers and muscles and bones.

  A shifting sound of cotton on cotton, barely audible above Noam’s own broken voice—was he screaming? Crying?

  A cool hand pressed against his throat. Lehrer’s fingers tightened very slightly, almost but not quite enough to cut circulation.

  “Do you want me to stop?” Lehrer murmured.

  Noam was past the point of pride. “Yes,” he groaned, both hands clutching at Lehrer’s. His nails scratched uselessly against Lehrer’s knuckles, Lehrer’s skin breaking and repairing all in the same breath.

  “Yes, what?”

  A hitching sob tore out of Noam’s throat. “Yes, please—”

  Lehrer’s grasp tightened further, and something black cut in at the edges of Noam’s vision, his mind gone fuzzy.