by Victoria Lee
Nothing.
“Listen,” Noam said anyway, hugging his arms round his waist and trying to look harmless. Just a scared kid caught in something too big for him to understand. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Can we talk? Please?”
He moved closer to the mirror, imagining Sacha standing on the other side. Even though he was probably staring somewhere over Sacha’s shoulder or something, Noam met his own gaze in the reflection and held it.
“Please. I just . . . I’m sorry. I know I was out of bounds. It was stupid. I won’t do it again. But really, isn’t this”—he waved his hand at the room—“overkill?”
Silence answered.
“Can I at least get a lawyer?”
He ought to stop talking. He had no idea what Sacha’s people knew. He could be damning himself with every word.
He spun away from the mirror so they couldn’t see his face. He was so fucked. Sacha knew Noam was Lehrer’s protégé. Sacha had little to no chance of ever getting Lehrer in this position with good reason to detain him and strip away his rights, so Noam was the next best thing.
Noam dragged one of the folding chairs out from behind the table and dropped into the seat. Okay. Eventually, Sacha would send somebody in. They’d ask about Brennan. About Lehrer. They’d probably torture him.
Let them, Noam thought. He knew how to keep his mouth shut.
They’d probably try to turn him against Lehrer. They’d use Dara, their ally, in any way they could.
But if he was careful . . . he could survive this. Lehrer’s coup would succeed, and he’d get Noam out of here.
Noam just had to live that long.
The door slid open. Noam was up on his feet before he realized he was moving. He didn’t know what he’d expected—some masked man in black with a tray of knives, maybe—but it was Chancellor Sacha. He was alone.
“Before you think about bashing my skull in with that chair,” Sacha said, “recall there are eight highly trained killers standing right behind that mirror just waiting for an excuse to shoot you the way you shot Tom Brennan.”
Stick to the story.
“What?” Noam choked out, grabbing on to the edge of the table for balance. It wasn’t even hard to fake that horrified edge to his voice. Noam was horrified. “What the fu—what are you talking about? Brennan, is he—is he okay?”
Blank eyes staring at the ceiling. Blood on the wall.
Sacha’s gaze narrowed. “That’s right,” he said, stepping farther into the room. “I nearly forgot. You were close with him, yes? We know you spent a lot of time at that center of his, both before and after your feverwake.” A pause. “Did that make it easier or harder to kill him?”
Noam shook his head, violently enough that it sent a fresh dart of pain shooting through his skull. “No, no, I—what do you mean? He’s dead ?”
“Oh yes.” Sacha dragged out the other chair and sat down. He crossed his legs neatly at the knees and looked at Noam, overhead light glittering off his steel circlet. He gave Noam a humorless smile. “Very thoroughly dead. I’m sure Lehrer would be proud, were he here.” Sacha paused. “Or maybe not. You did get caught, after all.”
Noam stared, fighting to keep his heart from leaping into his throat. “I’m not . . . I didn’t do it. I didn’t. You have to believe me.” He lurched up out of his chair and turned away from Sacha to pace along the wall of the cell. “Fuck.”
Why was Sacha here? Why was he interrogating Noam personally when he had an impending coup to contend with? What was his game?
“We know it was you, Noam,” Sacha said from behind him. “Anonymous tip, an hour ago. Everything all tied up in a neat little package. Location, approximate time, victim, villain. Mechanism of death, just in case we doubted its validity. It arrived a little too late for us to save Brennan, but at least we got you.”
Noam faltered midstep. He didn’t recover quickly enough; he knew Sacha saw.
But there were only three people who had that information. Noam himself, obviously. Dara, locked up in isolation.
And Lehrer.
Noam inhaled sharply and turned to pace back the way he came. That didn’t make sense. Why would Lehrer turn Noam in? This was his plan! Noam getting caught assassinating someone would undermine Lehrer’s whole coup. Everyone would know Noam did it on Lehrer’s orders.
Wouldn’t be the first anonymous tip he’s sent lately, a little voice whispered in the back of Noam’s mind.
“Well,” Noam said, fumbling to reclaim his anger. His ears rang. “They’re lying, obviously. Because I didn’t fucking kill anyone!”
Sacha watched him with interest, tracking Noam’s progress back across the room to the opposite corner.
No. Lehrer was a lot of things, but he was ultimately rational. He liked risks, but only when he was sure he could control the outcome.
Surely it wasn’t him.
Surely.
“You know,” Sacha said as Noam reached the other wall and spun around again, “if you hadn’t doubled back into the building, you might have gotten away.”
“I didn’t do it,” Noam recited, stomach writhing.
“Mmm. Yes, you said. Please sit. You’re making even me nervous.”
Which . . . actually, Sacha did look nervous. Sweat beaded his brow; his tie was knotted askew like he’d thrown it on last minute.
Of course. Noam was down here getting interrogated for murder, but to Sacha he was a weapon—perhaps the only one Sacha had left to resist Lehrer’s coup. This whole time Sacha had been a step behind, realizing Lehrer had a plan only after he’d already carried it out. But now he was in the middle of it, Lehrer’s plot unfurling around him like a black flag. That’s why he was down here, with Noam, instead of out there amid the chaos.
Noam was it. Either Sacha got him to turn on Lehrer, or Sacha went down.
Noam sat.
“Thank you,” Sacha said. He exhaled, then twisted in his seat to face Noam directly. He kept his hands folded atop the table, like they were in a goddamn business meeting.
“Noam, where is Dara Shirazi?”
Not the question Noam expected. “Why are you asking me about Dara when I’m being accused of murder?”
Sacha gave him an arch look. “Answer the question.”
“I don’t know. Protective custody, I think.”
“That’s convenient,” Sacha said. “A threat to Mr. Shirazi’s life arrives right before Lehrer plans to make his final gambit. The telepathic spy is off the chessboard.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do. You’re friends, aren’t you? And we all know you, Mr. Álvaro, are not as stupid as your test scores would have you appear.” Sacha’s mouth twitched up, like it was some mutual joke. “So I’ll ask again. Where is Dara?”
“I don’t know. Probably the Ministry of Defense. I’d tell you to ask Lehrer, but I know you won’t.” Noam crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at Sacha with all the hatred he’d stored up these past years. Fuck you. Fuck you. You’re a fucking murderer. “You already decided what you think happened. So fuck the truth, am I right?”
“He’s not in the Ministry,” Sacha said. “I checked. I even asked Calix, but he told me Dara’s safety depended on his location staying a secret.”
“Yeah. It probably does. So why are you still asking?”
“Because there’s no death threat, Noam. Not unless you count whatever Calix plans to do to Dara when this is all over.”
“You’re crazy,” Noam said, but that did nothing for the cold that laced down the back of his neck.
“I’m trying to protect him.”
“Yeah. You have a great track record protecting the people who live in your country.” He gritted his teeth so hard it hurt. “Fuck you. I can say that, right? Or is that treason now too?”
“Of course,” Sacha murmured, unclasping his hands. He leaned back in his seat. “You consider yourself one of the refugees, don’t you? You were born h
ere in Carolinia, but your parents weren’t.”
Noam glared in silence.
“Undocumented too. I looked them up. We never managed to get our hands on your father, but he had quite the unofficial record himself. Is that how you got involved with Brennan’s people in the first place? Your dad?”
“How dare you talk about my dad,” Noam snapped. “You have no right.”
“Should we talk about you instead?” Sacha was unmoving. “After your mother killed herself, you filled her shoes well enough. You got two jobs and dropped out of school. You took care of Daddy when he couldn’t take care of himself.”
“Shut. Up.” Noam couldn’t quite breathe. The air in his lungs felt like acid. He was drowning in it.
Sacha gazed back at him dispassionately. “Then let’s change the subject. Tell me what Lehrer is really after—because I know he doesn’t care about being king again.”
Noam imagined Sacha with his neck on a guillotine. That was how Lehrer had dealt with traitors after the catastrophe, after all.
A pretty thought. Noam exhaled, long and slow. Steady. Calm.
This headache was fucking stunning.
“I don’t know,” Noam said.
Sacha was grasping at straws, trying to make Noam angry enough to give something away. That meant he was almost out of time.
Good.
Sacha rubbed his temple with two fingers. Was Noam imagining it, or did he look paler now than he had a moment ago?
At last, Sacha sighed again and met Noam’s eyes, his mouth drawn into a thin line. He gestured toward the crown on his head. “Do you know why I wear this thing?” he asked.
“Because you’re an asshole?”
“It’s a Faraday cage. Just like the one you’re sitting in right now.” Sacha reached up and lifted the circlet from his head, placing it on the table between them. It was plain, no ornamentation, just a seamless steel-and-copper band.
Of course. Noam had sensed the copper worked into the circlet that time in Lehrer’s apartment. It didn’t seem like a Faraday cage then, but now that Sacha said it, that was obviously what the crown really was.
“Plus a few magical additions, courtesy of your friend Mr. Shirazi,” Sacha said. “It’s always nice to have a telepath on your side when you’re up against someone like Minister Lehrer.”
Noam frowned and crossed his arms again. “Yeah, I can tell you and Dara have a lot in common. Why don’t you stop being cryptic and just say what you’re trying to say?”
Sacha gave him an appraising look. “All right,” he said. He picked up the circlet, rubbing one thumb against its steely curve. “I had this made so that no one could use magic to influence the electrical signals in my brain. I spent weeks avoiding Calix while it was being built. Didn’t want to risk hearing even one word from that silver tongue of his.”
Noam’s throat felt strange, constricted. Sacha laughed softly.
“Calix can convince you to do anything. Absolutely anything. He might have to tell you verbally, and as far as I can tell, he can only influence a few people at a time, but it’s a remarkable power.”
Noam . . . he wasn’t hearing this.
Sacha was lying again. Right?
“Wait,” he started, but Sacha overrode him.
“It’s subtle. He doesn’t even have to tell you to do something outright. He’ll persuade you, piece by piece, until you can’t tell which thoughts are your own and which are ones he put there.” Sacha leaned forward abruptly, close enough that Noam reflexively jerked back. “Who are you, Noam Álvaro? How much of you is still you, and how much is him?”
It was a trick, had to be.
Noam knew this would happen. Sacha was just trying to sow the seeds of doubt. Make Noam distrust Lehrer, or at least doubt him. He knew that.
And it was working.
Was that kind of thing even possible? Magic was . . . you had to understand whatever you were trying to do. Like physics. But mind control? What the hell would that even involve? An understanding of . . . of human psychology?
Lehrer had said presenting powers were different. Unpredictable. That they could be anything.
Sacha was looking at him with grim satisfaction on his face, like he thought he’d just made his play and won the game.
Sick. This was fucking sick.
Do I even trust Lehrer? Or do I just think I do?
“Who else knows about this?” Noam said, words coming out tight and aggressive. “If you were telling the truth, someone else would have figured it out too. Abilities have to go on record. You can’t keep something like this secret.”
Sacha snorted. “My boy,” he said, “how many people who know about his power do you think Calix has left alive?”
The question hung in the air, gas waiting for a flame.
Beneath the table, Noam’s hands gripped his knees, nails digging in. “You, for one.”
“Those in the Defense Ministry loyal to Calix are seizing the city as we speak. Even inside this building, his witchings have turned on us. Oh, my people are putting up a good fight, but we’ll soon be surrounded. I suspect my days are numbered.”
Noam was going to throw up. For a reeling moment he was so sure of it, was half-out of his chair before the sickness ebbed.
“So you have no proof,” Noam insisted, swallowing hard. “You could be making this up. How do I know Lehrer’s even staging a coup?”
“I don’t need proof,” Sacha said evenly. “You already know I’m telling the truth.”
Sacha placed the circlet over his brow once more and stood. He lingered there a moment, fingertips brushing the back of his chair. “Your friend Dara knows Lehrer better than anyone. I’m given to understand his telepathy makes him one of the only people Calix can’t influence. So why do you think Dara turned on him?” A thin smile. “Consider that, Noam, while you decide how much you’d like to tell me.”
Sacha left. The door slid shut behind him, and Noam sat there, staring at his own white-faced reflection in the one-way mirror.
This wasn’t something he could dismiss out of hand—he had to . . .
He had to at least consider Sacha might be telling the truth.
But what would that mean? Just how deep did this go? Had Lehrer forced Noam to agree to kill Brennan?
What about the coup, or how easily Noam discarded Dara’s warnings in favor of trusting Lehrer?
No one does anything in this country that Lehrer doesn’t want them to.
Dara said that, up on the roof. Was it possible—Sacha, with the Faraday cage . . . all those horrible things Sacha did. Was Lehrer responsible for that too? Was it just a play to undermine Sacha’s power and pose Lehrer as his heroic opponent?
Noam pressed his brow against the heels of his hands, hunching forward to brace his elbows on the table.
Fuck. No. That wasn’t right. Sacha had worn that crown for ages now. So even if Lehrer could have controlled him once, he hadn’t for a while. And in that time, Sacha made no moves to dismantle the refugee camps. He’d even declared martial law—goaded by Noam and Lehrer’s machinations, sure, but that was still Sacha’s decision. Sacha wasn’t some lily-white victim.
But part of Noam believed him anyway.
Jesus.
How was Noam supposed to untangle this shit? Impossible to tell how much was another layer of Lehrer’s game and how much was a ploy on Sacha’s part to twist Noam’s loyalty. If Noam still trusted Lehrer, was that real? Had Lehrer ever ordered Noam to trust him?
He couldn’t remember.
Noam exhaled roughly, lifting his head and looking up toward the ceiling. He had to choose. He had to pick a side and hope to hell he wasn’t making a mistake.
Either way, he was probably being manipulated.
The door opened again. But it wasn’t Sacha this time. It was some man Noam only recognized from photographs, General Ames’s replacement: the new home secretary.
Noam frowned. “Minister Holloway?”
“Oh, right,” Hollowa
y said and waved his hand.
The illusion dissipated, there one second and gone the next. Noam leaped to his feet, adrenaline burning through his veins. The sudden change in position made him light headed, Noam grabbing on to the table for balance.
Dara was pale, skin stained by the circles beneath his eyes and his clothes disheveled—but it was him. It was him.
“Come on,” Dara said. “I’m getting you out of here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dara. Dara, still flushed with fevermadness. Dara, who could read minds and hated Lehrer and spied for Sacha’s government. Dara was here. Breaking Noam out of jail.
“We have to hurry,” Dara said when Noam didn’t move, glancing over his shoulder toward the anteroom.
“What are you doing here? Where’s Sacha?” Noam said. “You . . .”
Dara didn’t look well. Whatever else, Lehrer was right about that much: Dara was definitely sick.
Dara’s face contorted into a brief, complicated expression. “Don’t worry about it. Please, Noam, we need to go.”
He held out his hand, and somehow that broke the fragile ice that had frozen Noam’s feet to the floor. Noam lurched forward, and Dara’s hand closed around his, firm and overhot and pulling him out the cell door.
The anteroom was filled with bodies.
“Fuck,” Noam gasped, stumbling to avoid tripping over the leg of one of those black-clothed soldiers. The man’s face was slack and openmouthed. No blood. “Dara, what did you do?”
All of them, Dara had killed all of them. Sacha’s body lay twisted near the door, the circlet still lodged atop his head.
Noam’s heart convulsed.
God. God, Dara was . . . he was crazy. That was the only explanation. Never mind utilitarianism. Never mind assassinating General Ames for a cause.
Killing six people was crazy.
“I did what I had to. Do you really think Sacha would let you walk out alive? Now come on.”
Dara’s grip tightened on Noam’s hand, and Noam looked at him, Dara’s wide eyes and tousled hair, his fear so out of place he was almost unrecognizable.
Noam sucked in a sharp breath. Sacha’s body was visible out of the corner of his eye, limp as a discarded rag. He nodded.