The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(101)

The soldier on Noam’s right entered a code on the keypad next to the door, and when the door slid open, he shoved Noam inside. By the time Noam caught his balance, the door had shut, trapping him within that perfect copper net.

Immediately he reached out with his power—or tried to. It was like grasping at someone’s soapy hand, grip slipping every time he clenched his fingers.

“Fuck!” Noam shouted, kicking the table hard enough it skidded two feet across the concrete floor.

Calm the fuck down, he told himself, his toe throbbing and breaths coming in shallow little gasps. That wall’s a one-way mirror. Sacha’s out there. You have to be calm.

All right. Okay.

Single table, two folding chairs. One door, locked. Observation mirror. Suppressants. Faraday cage.

Well, Noam could presumably use the chairs as weapons if he had to, but even if he knocked out whomever was in the room with him, he wouldn’t get far. There was no keypad to unlock the door from inside, for one. And if he got into the hall, he’d have to deal with the other soldiers. They’d have guns, and he didn’t have magic.

How long did the shit in that syringe last, anyway? Was there a chance it could wear off before they remembered to re-up him? Noam scanned the room but couldn’t see cameras or any other tech.

I had it made specially, Sacha had said.

Noam got the feeling he wasn’t the one this room was built to contain.

That’s it, then. He was fucked. If this room was strong enough to keep Lehrer in, no way was Noam breaking out.

Single table, two folding chairs. One door, locked. Observation mirror. Suppressants. Faraday cage. No cameras. What else?

People. There were people out there, presumably watching right now. Could they hear him?

That tech could be fucking flawless, but Noam was a programmer. He knew all about human error.

“Hello?” Noam said, turning to face the one-way mirror. His reflection peered back, wide eyed and pale. “Can you hear me?”

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.”