by Victoria Lee
“Can I see him?”
That was all Noam had thought about all night. Dara, locked away in Lehrer’s apartment like some damsel in a fairy tale.
Dara was no damsel, perhaps, but the thought still nauseated Noam. Maybe Dara only thought he hated Lehrer because he was sick. But even so, until he was better, Dara would loathe being alone with him.
And what if it wasn’t just fevermadness? What if Lehrer had figured out Dara worked for Sacha? What if this was all part of Lehrer’s ploy to take Dara out of the game at the crucial moment?
It couldn’t be. Right? If Lehrer knew Dara was a traitor, Dara wouldn’t still be alive.
Was Dara still alive?
“I’m afraid not,” Lehrer said. “He needs to rest. He’s probably sleeping.”
Probably.
But what happened if the madness got worse before it got better? If Dara lost control and told Lehrer everything—confessed to working with Sacha, to killing General Ames—
“Can’t I just—”
“I told you he’s safe. Now stop asking.” Lehrer turned away, toward the cabinet, pulling down a bottle of scotch and pouring himself a dram. “You have better things to worry about.”
Lehrer put Noam through his paces, the same as every other day, sparring first with magic and then with fists. He didn’t seem concerned about conserving Noam’s energy for Brennan. Just about making sure Noam was still as powerful as he’d been last week.
Back in the barracks, the other three cadets accosted him as soon as he stepped inside.
“What did Lehrer say?” Ames asked, blocking Noam’s path to the showers with her body. “You asked about Dara, right?”
“The same thing we all figured,” Noam said, trying to edge around. “Dara’s been taken into protective custody. There was some kind of death threat. I don’t know the details.”
“Who would want to kill Dara?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Taye said. “Someone who thinks they can get to Lehrer through him. I mean, it makes sense. Lehrer kept Dara’s face and identity as secret as he could, but even when you’ve got PR handling information flow, shit still gets out. You can’t keep something as interesting as Calix Lehrer adopting a child private.”
Noam hadn’t known Dara was actually adopted by Lehrer. He’d just assumed Lehrer took a special interest in Dara from a young age, like he did Noam. He frowned. “Lehrer adopted him? How come I didn’t hear about this?”
Ames and Taye exchanged glances, and then Bethany said, almost gently, “You didn’t exactly grow up knowing the kinds of people who were privy to this information. Maybe it’s not surprising you hadn’t heard.”
“My mom thought it was nuts,” Taye said. “She used to work in the government complex, you know, so she was pretty up to date on the gossip. She thought there was no way Lehrer had the time to deal with a kid that age. Of course, Dara lived in Level IV since the start, so I guess Lehrer didn’t have to do much.”
Dara never talked about it. Then again, maybe he didn’t want to. Noam had only ever known him to hate Lehrer.
But what if that hadn’t always been true?
“I need to shower,” Noam muttered, finally pushing past Ames.
Noam slid down the shower wall the moment he was under the spray, sitting on the tile floor with his arms crossed over his knees. He stared at his hands, imagining how they might look covered in blood.
How red Dara’s must have been after stabbing the general so many times.
Only . . . Dara couldn’t have killed the general and covered his tracks so efficiently if he hadn’t had experience. Dara was more powerful than Noam. He was a telepath. He knew illusion magic.
Was that it, then?
Noam knew how Lehrer’s mind worked. Lehrer would have viewed Dara as a natural-born assassin. Had Lehrer asked Dara to make a similar sacrifice as he asked of Noam now?
Then, when Dara realized Lehrer had only taken him in so he could train him to be a killer, he rebelled and defected to Sacha.
Dara must have seen this as the perfect vengeance, using what Lehrer taught him to kill Lehrer’s friend—the one who had infected his own children with magic. This is what happens when you try to turn children into witchings and witching children into tools.
Did Dara feel sick when the general’s blood spurted over his hands? When he felt flesh give way and watched Ames Sr. take his last liquid breaths, did he feel guilty? Or had Lehrer trained that out of him?
What would Noam feel, when the time came?
He closed his eyes and stayed until the water ran cold.
It was Noam who identified the perfect patsy: Fred Hornsby, a former soldier who’d retired after an injury sustained in the war against Atlantia and had been complaining about refugees ever since. He was a custodian in the government complex, which meant his access card could get him pretty much anywhere. Even better, he’d been Sacha’s friend at university. As far as Noam could tell from trawling through Hornsby’s emails, Hornsby and the chancellor lost contact years ago, but the connection was close enough. Any closer and whomever they framed for Brennan’s murder would be an obvious ruse.
He and Lehrer agreed it was too complicated to convince the security cameras that Noam was Hornsby in real time. Noam would have to get the appearance perfect, the mannerisms. No. Better if Noam had the cameras see nothing at all, then erase the tapes later. It would look like Sacha tried to hide the evidence.
“And you’re sure this won’t hurt him permanently?” Noam asked, dubiously examining the vial of clear liquid Lehrer passed him.
Lehrer arched a brow. “Noam, you’re already framing Hornsby for Brennan’s murder. As someone who’s willing to let a man get executed in your place, I can’t understand why you’re having qualms now.”
Noam stared at Lehrer, waiting. Finally, Lehrer sighed.
“Yes, I’m sure it won’t kill him,” Lehrer said. “It wouldn’t do us any good if he died in his home while he was supposed to be assassinating Tom Brennan, after all.”
“And what about this?” Noam picked up the gun from the seat cushion next to him, balancing it in his palm. It was a .22, Texan made and more advanced than what Noam was used to. “What if I miss?”
“You are a trained soldier, Mr. Álvaro.”
“I’ve shot targets. I’ve never shot people.”
Lehrer beckoned, and Noam handed him the gun. Lehrer picked up the silencer from the end table, screwing it onto the barrel with quick, efficient movements. “It isn’t difficult,” Lehrer said. He pressed the gun’s cold snout to Noam’s temple. Knowing the gun wasn’t loaded made no difference; Noam’s heart pounded bloody in his mouth. Lehrer’s lips formed a dry smile. “Point and shoot.”
Point and shoot. Those words beat like an anthem in Noam’s head as he pressed his hand to the scanning screen at the entrance to the government complex and the computer read in Fred Hornsby’s biometrics. Point and shoot.
Lehrer made sure the antitechnopathy wards were inactive for the next four hours. It was the very rare witching, Lehrer told him, who could sense magic. The only one aside from Noam and Lehrer who might be able to tell the wards were down was Dara, and Dara wasn’t going to be warning anyone from MoD custody. Still, Noam was sick to his stomach waiting there, watching the door watch him as it processed the image of Hornsby’s retina. But then the lock clicked, and the door swung open to reveal a cramped service stairwell.
Fourth floor, Noam told himself. It helped when he thought it in the harsh tone Sergeant Li might’ve used during a drill. Fourth floor, soldier.
The red exit signs glowed so brightly they gave him a headache; he squinted every time he rounded the corner to take the next flight up. He stood at the door to the fourth floor for a long while, brow pressed against the cold metal frame, tracking the movement of people’s bodies up and down the hall beyond. Overhead the security camera droned blindly on. Noam wondered if Lehrer was watching, if he had some way of bypassing Noam’s technopathy.
/> Probably not. Lehrer didn’t have any technopathy of his own. If he did, he wouldn’t need Noam.
The gun tucked into the waist of Noam’s civilian trousers felt large and obvious, even though Noam knew it wasn’t visible beneath his loose shirt. They should’ve done this at nighttime, sneaked into Brennan’s house and killed him while he slept. It would’ve been easier. Kinder too. But Lehrer kept insisting it happen today, in broad daylight. Brennan was due to give a press conference at three, but he would never show up. People crowded the square outside for a scheduled protest in support of Brennan’s speech; they’d been audible even from the barracks, but the only word Noam could make out was down.
Down. Down, down, down.
A door shut, and the hall was empty. Noam pushed those questions aside and seized his chance—he didn’t know how long it would last or when he’d get another one.
The hall he stepped into was short, maybe forty feet. That was a good thing: Noam wouldn’t have far to run, if he had to run. The closest office to the stairwell was W402, four doors to go. Mouth dry, Noam walked at a steady pace, his power threading out in all directions. It webbed through the electrical wires, the computers on desks in the rooms he passed. It was strange, Noam thought, that his heart beat so fast when he felt nothing at all.
He paused outside Brennan’s door. His head throbbed.
He could leave. Tell Lehrer he changed his mind, wasn’t interested in doing this kind of work. That when he’d said he was willing to kill for the greater good, he hadn’t meant it.
Brennan would finish up and go home. Fred Hornsby would be sick for twelve hours, then recover and come to work tomorrow, confused why his emailed sick note never reached his supervisor. Everything would proceed as usual.
The refugees would keep screaming for freedom, like always. And like always, they’d be ignored.
Behind him and two doors down, someone’s chair slid back from a desk. The person moved toward the door. Noam had to get out of the hall before he was seen, one way or another. He knocked.
Two doors down was four paces away, three, two—a wristwatch approached the knob. Bile surged up in the back of Noam’s throat.
“Enter,” said a voice within Brennan’s office.
Noam stepped out of the hall just in time, the other door swinging open even as Brennan’s slammed shut.
Brennan sat behind his desk, still typing. Just looking at him made Noam’s heart ache. Those furrows on Brennan’s brow were new. They hadn’t been there when Brennan used to come with Noam’s father to pick Noam up from school, when he’d go home with them to peruse the shelves of the bookshop—Rivka, can I borrow . . . ?
Brennan looked up. “Noam.” Brennan sounded surprised. He shut off his holoreader immediately. Why? Did he think Noam would spy on him too? Noam was here to do far worse. “What are you doing here?”
Point and shoot. That simple. Noam would pull out the gun and aim it at Brennan’s head and shoot him and blood and brain would spatter the wallpaper behind his desk and he’d be dead.
Noam pressed damp palms against his thighs. Carefully, so carefully, his power latched the door. “I have private lessons in the building. You remember. With Minister Lehrer?”
“And you thought you’d drop by to see where I spend my time these days?” Brennan asked, clasping his hands together atop his computer. He didn’t believe him. “You shouldn’t be here. It looks suspicious enough, you volunteering at the Migrant Center. You don’t want to be accused of conspiring with the enemy.”
Oh.
It would have been so much better, easier, if Brennan had said almost anything else. Because now all Noam could think was how he was conspiring with Lehrer. Had been conspiring, for weeks now, to murder. And here sat Brennan, wanting Noam to go home and stay safe.
And, a voice added cruelly, to not get involved in things you don’t understand.
Noam took in a steadying breath. “I’m not really . . . worried about that,” he said.
Brennan sighed. “I know you want to help, but you really need to stay far away from this. Bad enough I was responsible for one black mark on your record already.”
“Lehrer’s on our side,” Noam said abruptly. That got Brennan’s attention; he sat up a little straighter in his chair, frowning. Noam’s brain was all wordless static. “We’re working together. He’s trying to bring down Sacha.”
Brennan pushed back his chair and stood. For a moment he hovered there, fingertips pressed atop the surface of his desk, but then he moved, stepping away and toward the window. There was something about his posture that was . . . off. His spine was stiff, shoulders squared as he glanced out between the curtains. The protesters outside kept shouting.
Down.
Brennan dragged his fingers back through his hair, and Noam realized with a jolt that his hand was shaking. “Listen to me,” Brennan said, although he didn’t look at Noam. He was still staring out at the protesters in the square. “The last time Lehrer overthrew a government—”
“The last time Lehrer overthrew a government, we got Carolinia,” Noam said.
“I don’t doubt his ability. Just his methods.”
The gun was white hot against Noam’s back. “He did what was necessary. I’ve read the history books too.”
“History is written by the victors.” Brennan turned, his narrowed gaze holding Noam in place. Brennan’s mouth was thin. “You look nervous, boy.”
Did he? Sweat prickled the back of Noam’s neck.
God, his head felt like it was about to explode.
“I’m not,” Noam said.
Brennan frowned, like he saw right through the lie and into Noam’s quivering core. There was a certain weakness to the way he grasped the arms of his chair as he sat again. When he spoke, it was with surprising gentleness.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”
He knows. Brennan knows.
Noam hadn’t realized, a moment ago, how comforting it was to feel he still had a choice. But with those words, Brennan had just slammed shut the door of escape. If he tried to leave now, he’d have to kill his way out of here once Brennan called for help. Everyone would know the truth—that Noam came to kill someone and that Lehrer had sent him. In one moment of cowardice, Noam would demolish half of Carolinia’s government. He’d damn the refugees. He’d reinforce Sacha’s authority.
He couldn’t just walk away.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Noam said, trying to buy himself time, but there wasn’t any. It had leaked away, all of it, while Noam wasn’t looking.
Brennan shook his head. “You do.” He breathed in. Noam could see the tension in his neck from here. “You’re sixteen. You’ve never killed a man.”
Noam shook his head and wondered if this was it, if this was the moment he was supposed to do something. He stood there silently and watched it slide by.
“Don’t be in such a rush to get started.”
Brennan looked past Noam, toward the shut door, and a shadow crossed his face—something almost like pain, deepening at the end toward regret. Noam understood why a split second later when he felt Brennan’s hand close around the handgun strapped to the underside of the desk.
Noam had sparred too often with Lehrer to hesitate. He yanked the gun out of Brennan’s hand before Brennan could pull back the hammer. The grip was slippery in Noam’s palm when he caught it out of the air, and he shifted his posture to a steadier stance. Aimed the gun at Brennan’s head.
“Don’t move!”
Brennan, on his feet, stopped, both hands slowly lifting to shoulder height.
“Noam,” he said, very carefully, “think about this. You don’t have to do this. I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but there are other ways. Let . . . we can talk about them. Sit down. Please.”
“Be quiet,” Noam said. If he thought his headache was bad before, that was nothing compared to the way it felt now.
Brennan shut up. His gaze flicked arou
nd the room, looking for another exit.
There wasn’t one. Noam had checked.
Noam squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck. Maybe he could just knock Brennan out. Maybe if he hit hard enough, Brennan wouldn’t remember what had happened when he woke up.
Red sparks flashed against his eyelids.
He was so fucking stupid. He never should have come here. He should have stayed in the barracks where he belonged. He wasn’t Dara, and he sure as hell wasn’t Lehrer—no matter how much he might like to be. What was he doing here?
Brennan’s wristwatch moved.
“Stay where you are,” Noam snapped and opened his eyes. Brennan had made it to the side of his desk, hands still in the air. “I mean it. Stay right there, or I’ll shoot.”
“You won’t,” Brennan said. He took another tiny step forward. “You can’t. You’re too afraid.”
“That makes me more likely to shoot you, not less.” Noam’s hands were so sweaty he felt like he was going to drop the gun, but they didn’t shake.
He and Brennan stared at each other across the scant five feet between them. Brennan’s eyes were so wide Noam could see white all around his irises.
“Put the gun down.”
Noam’s power burned through the chamber. “I told you to be quiet.”
Another step closer. “Please, son. It’s all right. It’s all right.”
Brennan was so close now, close enough that Noam saw the sheen of perspiration on his brow.
“I’m not your fucking son!” Noam’s voice cracked on the last word.
Electricity snapped visibly in the air now, wild and dangerous. Noam’s head pounded; it felt like an earthquake shuddering in the ground beneath him, through him.
I’m going to shoot him, Noam thought. I’m going to have to shoot him; he’s giving me no other choice—
Brennan grasped the barrel of the gun.
And Noam . . .
Noam let it go.
The gun fell into Brennan’s waiting hand, Brennan’s relief a thick fog dipping between them.