The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(100)

Noam took a sharp left and got an elbow in the ribs when he nearly tripped over a man wearing red face paint. “Sorry,” Noam muttered and kept going.

Every fiber of him was desperate to run, anxiety clawing up his spine like a live thing. What if one of the soldiers out here recognized him?

Don’t think about that. Keep going.

The alley was still deserted. Finally, Noam gave in to instinct and broke into a sprint.

Please, please, don’t sound the alarm, not yet, please . . .

Noam yanked the door open with his power and tumbled into the dark stairwell for a second time. His legs trembled as he dashed up the steps two at a time. Hall was empty. Good. Noam let himself in.

His heart pounded so hard in his chest he felt like he might be dying. Could sixteen-year-olds have heart attacks?

Noam rubbed his hands against his sweaty face, pushing his hair back into something resembling order. Okay. Just a regular person with a totally good reason to be here, walking down the hall. Just walking.

The door at the other end of the hall opened. Three soldiers, headed this way.

They wore antiwitching armor.

Noam’s stomach convulsed. Act normal, act normal, act normal. They don’t care about you. They don’t care. Don’t do anything stupid.

He should run. He should get the fuck out of here while he still could.

The three soldiers were still walking. They hadn’t drawn their weapons.

You’re safe. Go. Keep going.

Twenty feet away. Ten feet. Noam kept his gaze trained on the floor. Don’t recognize me, don’t recognize me, please, fuck, please don’t even look at me—

The three soldiers walked past and didn’t give Noam a second glance.

Noam felt like he was going to shatter into a million pieces. Fuck, okay, fuck, almost there. Five minutes.

The door opened again, and out spilled six soldiers in iridescent armor—another antiwitching unit. Every one of them had a gun. Every gun was aimed at Noam.

“Stop!”

A hot flare burst in Noam’s gut. He spun around, but those three soldiers he’d passed blocked him in from behind, two with guns drawn and the third holding up hands that sizzled with magic.

Witchings, they have witchings.

“Wait,” Noam gasped out. He held up his arms, fingers spread wide. “I think . . . there’s been some kind of mistake.”

“No mistake.”

Noam knew that voice. Noam knew that voice.

He turned, slowly, slowly, back to face the six soldiers at the door. A seventh man had joined their number, this one clothed in a neat black suit. A silvery circlet perched upon his head. His face was a twisted mask of satisfaction.

Noam’s insides turned to stone, and Sacha smiled.

“Arrest him.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

They took him to the fifth floor, far away from the Ministry of Defense and, presumably, Lehrer’s influence.

The soldier to Noam’s right had a bruising grip on his arm even though Noam wasn’t struggling, pulling at him every three steps and nearly knocking Noam off his feet. People they passed in the hall stared, government workers and soldiers alike.

Surely at least one of these people will recognize me, Noam thought. Someone would tell Lehrer. Right? But then, he wasn’t in his cadet uniform. In his worn-out civvies he could’ve been anyone—a refugee kid dragged in off the street for incitement.

Noam spent the whole trip asking what he’d done, insisting something was wrong because he didn’t belong here—he was just trespassing, he swears, he swears. He knew it was useless but kept talking anyway. Just in case.

They got on the elevator, and Noam opened his mind to the web of technology glimmering out of normal sight, quivering little waves and wires connecting people to machine. Lehrer didn’t have a computer, as if he thought owning something made after 1965 would throw off his aesthetic. But he had a phone. Noam bypassed the wards and made the message show up on Lehrer’s screen:

Arrested. With Sacha now.—N

He didn’t dare say anything about Brennan or the mission. His attention hovered over that phone like a finger over the screen, waiting for some kind of confirmation that Lehrer had seen it, but there was no way to know. Lehrer might be busy dealing with the fallout from Brennan’s murder. He might be orchestrating a riot. What if he didn’t check his phone for hours? What if Sacha decided to have Noam executed before then? He’d killed a government official. They could decide he was a threat to national security and sentence him without a trial.

Could Sacha make that kind of determination without Lehrer signing off on it? Noam had no idea.

He sensed the Faraday cage as soon as they stepped out of the elevator. It was hidden behind an unlabeled white door, metal glittering in Noam’s awareness like the outline of a weapon.

Sacha turned to look at him, his expression something that could have been amusement, but wasn’t quite.

“That’s right,” Sacha said, as if he could tell what Noam was thinking. “Pure copper. I had it made specially. In there, you can’t use your power to influence anything outside that room, and no one else’s power can reach you. Still. Better to be cautious.”

He gestured, and something sharp jabbed into Noam’s neck.

“Suppressant,” Sacha said as the soldier to Noam’s left put the plastic cap back on his syringe. Noam clapped a hand to his neck, as if that would make a difference. “Developed by the old US government during the catastrophe. Illegal now, of course. Our mutual friend made sure of that. But there are always loopholes.”