The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(104)

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,” Holloway 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.

Dara shouldered open the other door, Noam a half step behind as they tumbled into the hall. It was empty, and Noam figured out why a second later. Gunshots, from the east wing.

“I can get us out of here,” Dara promised, tugging Noam toward the left.

Noam wasn’t sure he ought to trust him. But he didn’t have a choice.

He dashed at Dara’s side down the hall toward a staircase. His mind was stuck on the same searing note.

Sacha was dead.

They clattered down the stairs, footfalls obscenely loud to Noam’s ears. Dara hesitated for a second at the landing, then said, “There are people heading this way. We have to go right. Wait—fuck. In here!”

Dara pulled Noam to one side, his power throwing open a random door. They darted inside, and Dara stood there with his forehead pressed against the frame, hand still grasping the knob.

“Dara,” Noam whispered. It came out hoarse and odd. “How—”

Glancing at Noam, Dara’s eyes gleamed in the light from the cracks between the window blinds. “Lehrer had me locked up in his apartment. He said I was fevermad—can you believe it? After the riots started and Lehrer found out you’d been arrested, he told me where to find you and let me go.”