The Fever King

by Lee, Victoria

  “This past week has been difficult,” Lehrer said. “I know that. And I hope you realize you can talk to me.”

  Noam sat on his hands to keep from reaching for his flask. “I’m fine,” he said eventually. He couldn’t quite meet Lehrer’s gaze, even now. Even after everything Lehrer had done for him, for Atlantians. For Carolinia. He stared at his knees instead and said, “Sacha told me about your power. Mind control. I thought you should know that I know.”

  He stole a glance, quick enough to catch the flicker of emotion darting across Lehrer’s face: shock, uncertainty, a sudden tension. Noam braced himself for Lehrer to—what? Kill him, like Sacha said he would?

  Noam knew Lehrer better than that, or so he liked to think.

  “It’s not mind control, Noam.”

  “Persuasion, then.” Noam shook his head, discarding the semantics. That fear still gripped the base of his skull, white knuckled and refusing to let go. “I thought about it. I decided . . . I won’t tell anyone. I’m sure you could persuade me to keep silent, or whatever, but you won’t have to. Just for the record.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Lehrer said wryly.

  In the far distance, someone set off a firecracker: a sharp snap and someone’s answering whoop of ecstasy.

  Eventually, Noam made himself say it.

  “Have you used your power on me?”

  “No.”

  Noam grimaced. “I suppose you’d say that either way.”

  “Probably,” Lehrer admitted. “So, you’re just going to have to trust me.”

  A hard gift to grant. Lehrer must understand that. He and Noam were alike in that way. They’d both grown up in environments where trusting the wrong person would get you killed.

  When Noam was a young child, his grandmother used to tell him terrifying stories meant to keep him close to home—or make him Catholic, as his mother had always implied. It was no secret Noam’s grandmother disapproved of her son’s conversion to Judaism. So she told him stories about La Llorona, about El Boraro. About El Mandinga: the Evil One, a silver-tongued devil wearing the guise of a handsome man.

  If he speaks, close your ears. If he follows, you pray. But never look him in the eyes; a single glance, and your soul belongs to him.

  Noam met Lehrer’s clear-glass gaze.

  “What about Sacha? Did you persuade him?”

  Lehrer didn’t blink. “Sometimes.”

  “Did you . . .” Noam faltered. He swallowed. “Did you . . . make him . . . do all of that? To the refugees? Just to undermine him?”

  “Of course not,” Lehrer said, more firmly this time. “Sacha was a xenophobe and a bigot, Noam. You know what happened to witchings in the catastrophe. To my family. Do you really think I’d perpetuate that on another minority group?”

  Heat flushed Noam’s cheeks, but he couldn’t just give in. Not now. Not after everything. “I have to ask.”

  “I used my power on Sacha because he had to be stopped,” Lehrer said. “At any cost. I care about nothing as much as I care about this country. I was there when this nation was born, Noam, and like hell will I watch it die at the hands of a baseline.”

  There was a roughness to the way Lehrer said the words. The lighting out here reflected strangely in his eyes, like something moving beneath the surface of a lake.

  “You turned me in to Sacha.”

  “I did.” Lehrer’s expression did not change.

  “Why?”

  “I needed Sacha to think he still had a chance. While he was distracted with you, my men surrounded the government complex.” Lehrer seemed less human now than he once did. Now he was cold and utilitarian, as precise as an elegant machine. Those moments Noam had glimpsed true emotion were more fractured and unnatural than the mask itself. “And I knew if I sent Dara to save your life, he would kill Sacha for me.”

  Which Dara did.

  All of them—even Dara, who had been so suspicious of Lehrer’s motives—were just easy pawns in Lehrer’s game.

  The ache lingered in Noam’s chest. When he turned his gaze toward the electric lights strung overhead, Lehrer reached over and set his hand gently on Noam’s leg.

  “I’m proud of you,” Lehrer said. “I asked a lot of you these past several weeks. But you kept your head, even when all seemed lost. I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. In many ways you remind me of myself.”

  Nothing Noam felt made sense anymore, as if his thoughts and his body were completely divorced from each other. He’d think, I’m happy, even as his lungs convulsed around a new breath. He’d think, Everything is perfect now, while his skin burned and his hands formed fists.

  “How’s Dara?” he asked.

  Lehrer paused. His hand stayed where it was, but it had gone still, a heavy weight against Noam’s thigh.

  “He’ll be all right,” Lehrer said at last. “A few months under suppressants . . .”

  “Those are illegal.”

  “They are. But to save Dara’s life . . . he’s like a son to me.” Lehrer turned his face up as well, toward the lights. “I have him on a constant IV drip of suppressants and steroids to calm the inflammation. My personal physician is very discreet.”

  “Will that . . . work?” It felt like too much to hope.

  “Eventually,” Lehrer said. “Most likely. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. There’s a reason suppressants are illegal—depriving a witching of his magic is a terrible thing . . .” He trailed off, and Noam didn’t ask. Everyone knew what they had done to Lehrer in those hospitals. The torture, the experiments. Probably worse things, too, that Lehrer had kept quiet.

  “Can I see him?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. I promise.”

  They sat there in silence after that, twin minds floating in space.

  Eventually, it started to rain.

  That night, Noam dreamed about Dara again.

  It was his building, where he grew up. The same wood floor creaking underfoot, the shadows peering from between the bookshelves. It was August 2120, cicadas in the window, too hot. Once, this scene was all Noam saw when he shut his eyes. And so Noam knew, he knew down to his bones, before he even saw the body.

  But it wasn’t Noam’s mother hanging from the ceiling light. It was Dara.

  Ghostly hands fell upon his shoulders, golden magic flickering through the night like heat lightning. A soft and familiar voice murmured in his ear: You will do whatever I say.

  The next morning, Noam skipped basic. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared across the room at Dara’s empty one. The duvet was unwrinkled, but a book lay open near the foot; when Dara had put it down, he’d planned on coming back.

  What if he didn’t come back?

  When Noam thought back over that conversation with Lehrer in the courtyard, he felt like he’d swallowed grease, oil sloshing around in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t figure out what about it felt wrong.

  Noam had the distinct sense there was something he ought to remember, something he didn’t. The effect of shock, maybe.

  Or maybe it was the way Lehrer had said, You’re going to have to trust me, and Noam realized, in that moment, Lehrer easily could have made him.

  Perhaps Noam should leave. It wasn’t too late. He could pack his things right now and steal a car and drive until he broke past the border into the QZ. Until he was lost in the wild and fatal wilderness.

  But then he went to the Migrant Center and saw the same faces he always saw—children who might be citizens but were still starving. Noam couldn’t abandon them.

  And what about Dara? Can you abandon him?

  In the fear-splattered tumult of Lehrer’s coup, Noam felt so sure that going back to Lehrer was Dara’s best chance at survival. If Dara didn’t get treated, he’d keep making antibodies, and those antibodies would keep attacking his own tissue. The brain now, but then his kidneys, his liver, his heart. Dara’s body would fail in pieces.

  But if Noam let
him stay here, Dara would die anyway.

  Noam didn’t see the signs with his mother. One day she was smiling, singing in the kitchen and kissing Noam’s cheek. The next night she’d killed herself, and Noam still, still, still didn’t understand why.

  He wasn’t making the same mistake again.

  He didn’t plan anything. There was nothing to plan—he didn’t have contingencies, no connections in clandestine places who knew how to make a man disappear. All he had was impulse and the flash-fire certainty that yes, yes, this was the right thing to do.

  It was the middle of the workday when Noam grabbed a bag from his trunk and stuffed in several sets of civilian clothes, socks, and the copy of Laughter in the Dark from Dara’s bed. Ames was the only one in the common room as he went out, lying on the sofa with one arm slung over her face to block out the light, still sleeping off the previous night. She hadn’t been sober since her father died.

  He couldn’t undo the wards to Lehrer’s apartment, but he could pick the lock to the study—and then all he had to do was knock.

  Muffled footfalls on a wooden floor. Then Dara’s voice, low and wary, said, “Who is it?”

  Noam leaned in against the shimmering gold mesh of Lehrer’s magic. “It’s me. Can you let me in?”

  Dara’s sharp inhale was audible even from the other side of the door. “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think? I’m on a rescue mission, Rapunzel. Now let down your hair.” He smiled even though Dara couldn’t see it. He pressed his hand against the cool wooden frame and imagined Dara standing just a foot away, perhaps touching the same wood.

  The seconds ticked past, one after the other.

  Eventually, Noam said, “Dara? Did you hear me?”

  “Yes. I . . . I can’t undo the ward. No magic. I’m—”

  “Suppressed.” Obviously. Fuck. “Um. Okay. Can you tell me how to do it?”

  He could practically see Dara’s expression, probably derisive. Dara explained the process to him anyway, step by halting step. Noam’s magic felt like a blunt instrument scraping against Lehrer’s fine thread work, but at last it unraveled like a spool of string.

  The door opened, and there he was, Dara, standing on the other side in civvies with an IV in his arm and a surprised look on his face—as if Noam wasn’t who he expected to find standing there after all.

  “It’s really you,” he said.

  “Who did you think it was? Chancellor Sacha, risen from the dead?”

  Noam grinned, and after a moment Dara smiled back, a tentative thing that didn’t quite fit on his lips. Of course—once upon a time, Dara would have had his hands in Noam’s mind already, fingers combing through his thoughts. He’d have known exactly who was on the other side of the door, even if Noam didn’t say a word.

  At least Dara didn’t look like he was dying anymore—and he was coherent, which was something. Still.

  Noam’s heart clenched. He ignored it.

  “We’d better hurry,” he said and gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “Lehrer probably felt me take the wards down. He’ll be here any second, and I really don’t want to go back to prison just yet.”

  But Dara didn’t go get his things, didn’t even tear the needle out of his arm. Instead he lurched forward and threw his arms around Noam, face pressing against Noam’s shoulder. “I knew you’d remember,” he murmured into Noam’s neck. His brow, pressed to Noam’s skin, was still feverish.

  “I couldn’t leave you here,” Noam said. He slipped a hand into Dara’s hair, resisting the urge to twist his fingers in those curls and keep Dara there for good. “What you said, after . . . I thought you might . . .”

  Dara’s mouth stayed silent. Noam closed his eyes and took in a breath of Dara’s scent, sharp with the salt of sweat. It was several seconds before he could bring himself to grasp Dara’s shoulders and push him back. Dara’s cheeks were a dark rose now, and that wasn’t just inflammation.

  “Do you have anything you need to get? I brought some clothes,” Noam said and lifted the pack demonstratively.

  “No. Nothing.” Dara hesitated for just a second, then ripped the tape off his IV site. The needle slipped free easily, ruby droplets spilling across Lehrer’s polished wood floor. “I should have taken it out earlier. But Lehrer said . . .” Dara trailed off, rubbing the heel of his hand against the pinprick wound. When he drew his hand away, there was blood on his palm. Dara stared at the reddened skin and bit his lower lip.

  At last, Dara whispered, “I didn’t know what he would do.”

  Noam nodded slowly. Dara was right. Lehrer wouldn’t have let Dara leave that easily, not with the stakes so high.

  Which was why it was insane that he was doing this now. Dara could die. Noam knew that.

  But if he left Dara in here . . .

  Dara said he’d rather be dead, and Noam had believed him.

  He pinged the security cameras. Lehrer was on the second floor and headed this way. He’d be here in less than ten minutes. He didn’t look pleased.

  “We gotta go,” Noam said.

  But Dara stayed where he was, pale and twisting his fingers together in front of his stomach. “Listen, Noam,” he started. For one dizzying second Noam was so sure Dara was about to say, I changed my mind—but then: “Lehrer . . . he told me not to leave the apartment.”

  It took a second for those words to parse. Then:

  “Oh. Right.”

  Of course he did.

  Noam rubbed his eyes and tried to think. Did Lehrer’s persuasion eventually wear off? Or did that only apply if you had a Faraday shield, like Sacha?

  “Dara . . . ,” he started, not sure where he was going with it, but then Dara said:

  “Okay. All right. So, when I was ten, Lehrer invited some men over for dinner. I didn’t learn until later that Lehrer had discovered they were Texan spies.”

  Noam stared at him, openmouthed. “Dara,” he said, “this isn’t really a good time for personal anecdotes.”

  But Dara kept going, barreling on as if he hadn’t heard Noam at all. “They knew about Lehrer’s persuasion, of course. So when Lehrer told one of them to drink from a poisoned cup, the others immediately knocked the glass out of his hand. It shattered. Whisky went everywhere.”

  Dara was fevermad. Of course he was. And now he was raving on about his good-old-time adventures with Lehrer from before he decided to hate him.

  “And that was it. Without whisky to drink, the spy couldn’t obey Lehrer’s order. The spell broke, and Lehrer had to kill them all the old-fashioned way.”

  Dara met Noam’s gaze, unflinching. Noam expected to see madness blazing in his eyes, but Dara was perfectly, horribly sober.

  Noam frowned.

  “Wait,” he said. “Are you saying . . .”

  Only, he knew what Dara was saying.

  Dara was telling him, the only way Dara could tell him, that if Noam wanted to get him out of here . . . he was going to have to do it by force.

  Blood dripped down Dara’s forearm, pooling on the floor.

  Lehrer had made it to the atrium.

  Noam started forward, and Dara took a step back.

  “I’m really sorry about this,” Noam said.

  He lunged for Dara, who ducked. Noam’s hands closed around empty air just in time for Dara to jab a fist into Noam’s solar plexus.

  Noam choked, pain bursting like a star beneath his ribs. Thank god for basic, though, and sparring with Lehrer—Noam knew how to ignore pain. It washed overhead, then away. Noam caught Dara’s arm, twisting it up behind his back so Dara had no choice but to stumble forward.

  “Get off me,” Dara growled and stomped his heel against Noam’s instep.

  Noam hissed but refused to let go. He tightened his grip even as Dara tried to yank away—Lehrer was so close now, and they didn’t have time, they didn’t . . .

  He tapped superstrength. Dara cried out as Noam’s fingers dug in, bruisingly hard.

  “I’m sorry,” Noam
said again, all but pleading with Dara to believe him, but he couldn’t do anything less—he didn’t want to hurt Dara, but he couldn’t waste time fighting fair. Not when Dara had years of training on him.

  Dara tried to twist out of his grip, but Noam was too strong now. With magic it was only too easy to grab Dara’s other arm and drive him toward the threshold.

  Dara screamed, kicked Noam’s shins, threw his head back in an attempt to crush it against Noam’s brow. Dara fought without concern for his own safety, like he didn’t care if he forced Noam to break bones.

  Because, of course. Because Lehrer wouldn’t be so specific.

  Lehrer had said, Don’t leave, and right now Dara would rather die than disobey.

  Noam manhandled Dara through the doorway, and that last thrust of strength sent Dara toppling onto Lehrer’s lush carpet. He scrambled to get up, but Noam was quicker—he pinned Dara down against the floor, straddling his hips and pressing both hands against Dara’s shoulders.

  “Stop fighting,” he said, breathless.

  Dara’s short nails scratched at his wrists, Dara’s whole body squirming beneath his weight. “You’re hurting me,” Dara gasped, and Noam, gritting his teeth, said, “I know.”

  Fuck, how long would it take? Dara said it would wear off—if Noam just—

  But Dara was still struggling, cheeks wet with tears and pupils too large. And Noam hated it, hated himself for the way Dara was looking at him. Like he was afraid.

  Afraid of Noam.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and hunched forward over Dara, who still writhed. He had to make a decision right now. It would be quick, over in a moment. The lamp he sensed on Lehrer’s desk was heavy enough. Noam wouldn’t even have to let go of Dara; he could use his power to bash the metal base against Dara’s temple. He’d have to drag Dara’s unconscious body out of the government complex, but that would be easier than managing a Dara determined to fight him every step of the way.

  But he’d just reached out with his power when Dara went abruptly still between his thighs.

  Noam opened his eyes. Dara stared back, chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths—but he let go of Noam’s wrists, hands dropping limp to his sides.

  “Are you . . .”