The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(106)

Noam sucked in a sharp breath. There was just enough time to worry whether his expression looked natural before they turned the corner. A platoon of soldiers held the hall, five covering each end of the corridor. Their CO shouted, five guns snapping up to point right at him and Dara. Noam reached frantically for his power, but all he managed to achieve was an odd little shiver through the metal of the nearest pistol.

Thank god for small mercies. If it weren’t for suppressants, Noam would’ve just given them away.

“I need you to let us through,” Dara said. He captured the stern tone of high command so perfectly that Noam could have believed he was listening to Lehrer himself.

Of course, Lehrer was probably exactly whom Dara was trying to emulate.

“Minister Holloway,” the lieutenant said. “All members of the administration are supposed to be in the bunker. We’ll escort you there immediately.”

Dara’s hand moved up to Noam’s shoulder, squeezing once. “I’m afraid not. I need to deal with this one.”

“We’ll bring you both to the bunker. It’s safer. You shouldn’t be out here when—”

“Lieutenant,” Dara interrupted, “tell your men to get their guns out of my face.”

The man’s cheeks darkened. He looked for a moment like he was struggling to get his mouth to cooperate. Then: “Stand down.”

The guns lowered.

“Thank you,” Dara said, a sardonic edge sharp on his voice. “Now. Let us pass.”

“Sir—”

“I don’t need to explain my orders to you,” Dara said, Holloway’s mouth wrinkling with dissatisfaction. “If you like, you may take this up with the chancellor when this is all over. Right now, I don’t have time.”

“I think perhaps I should radio the captain . . .”

“Lieutenant.”

The lieutenant straightened. And, after a beat, faltered into an awkward half bow. “Yes, sir. Of course. Carry on.”

Dara’s hand tightened on Noam’s shoulder, and he nudged him forward through the gathered platoon. Noam kept expecting it to be a trick. What if they’d found Sacha’s body? What if they knew someone looking like Minister Holloway had been there, that Noam had been in custody and was now missing?

But no guns rose to meet them. They passed without interference, Holloway and his nameless civilian teenager progressing at measured pace through all that firepower.

“Almost there,” Dara whispered when they were out of earshot. “Lehrer’s men cover the west exits. We’ll have a better chance slipping out there; they trust me since I’m Lehrer’s ward. This way.”

They managed to avoid other soldiers before reaching the west wing service exit. It took twice as long as it should have—good for Noam’s power but less so for his nerves. Dara led them through winding back halls and up and down several sets of stairs, occasionally still shoving him into a shadowy office to stay out of sight while a unit trampled past.

But they made it.

Dara dropped his Holloway illusion at the exit door, stern features fading to reveal Dara’s wan face.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Noam said, gingerly touching Dara’s elbow. “You look—”

“I said I’m fine,” Dara snapped. “Sorry. All this switching sides is making me motion sick.”

“It’s going to be all right,” Noam said. He willed Dara to believe him, feeding confidence into his expression. “I promise. It’s almost over, and then we can . . . we’ll figure it out. Okay?”

Dara just said, “You should put up that electromagnetic field now.”

Noam obeyed, drawing up a thin bubble of charge all around them, strong enough the hairs on his arms stood on end. And then, on Dara’s cue, he opened the door.

“Freeze!”

Noam and Dara stumbled to a halt right there on the doorstep, the metal service door clanging shut. At least twenty soldiers surrounded the exit, all with guns pointed at Noam’s and Dara’s heads. Noam practically tasted his heart in his mouth as he threw his hands up.

Be Lehrer’s men—God, fuck, please be Lehrer’s men—

The force of Noam’s electromagnetic field pushed against the metal guns; the soldiers struggled to keep them steady as the barrels tilted toward the sky. Noam couldn’t spare focus to appreciate their confusion. Next to him, Dara was visibly trembling.

“Don’t shoot,” Noam managed to get out through a tight throat. “We’re unarmed. Please don’t shoot.”

“Sir!” one of the soldiers shouted. “Sir, that’s Dara Shirazi.”

“Lower your weapons.”

The guns went down, if maladroitly, and a beat later so did Noam’s hands. The unit leader edged his way between the gathered men. Noam saw, now, that he had a ribbon of ripped blue cloth tied around his upper arm—Carolinian blue. His face was beaded with sweat.

“Dara Shirazi,” the man said, pointing at Dara. “And you must be Noam álvaro, right? Lehrer’s new student?”

Noam nodded.

“Hi, Evan,” Dara said in a strained voice.

The man, Evan, sighed. “What the hell’re you two doing here? You oughta be in the training wing. It ain’t safe.”