The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(107)

“We need to get to Lehrer,” Noam said. It was obvious Dara wasn’t going to be able to speak again without throwing up all over Evan’s military-issue boots. Dara did manage to send a little burst of static electricity against Noam’s shoulder, though, which Noam ignored. Of course Dara wouldn’t be happy about going to Lehrer, but he wasn’t exactly in a state to be making life-and-death decisions. “Where is he?”

Evan shook his head. “Y’all got about a quarter mile of angry protesters between here and there. I can’t recommend it.”

“We’re both Level IV. We can defend ourselves.”

“You think so, do you?” Evan folded his arms over his chest and lifted grizzled gray brows. “This shit’s messy as it gets, boy. We’re soldiers, and even we can barely tell the difference between us and them. Hard to know who’s on which side with everyone wearin’ the same uniform. If the rioters don’t trample you to death, one side of the Ministry or the other’ll shoot you, thinking you’re rioting. Not good.”

“Please,” Noam insisted, knowing that wasn’t exactly a good argument, but what was he supposed to say? He couldn’t tell what Evan was thinking, had no idea what might convince him. “We can’t go back to the training wing; Sacha’s got the whole complex covered.”

“Y’all can stay here with us.”

“And if you get attacked? You’re right at the government complex. This isn’t exactly a secure position. Dara and I are wearing civvies. We’ll blend in with the refugees, so they won’t attack us. We’ve already got an electro—a magic shield up. We’ll head straight for Lehrer. He . . .” Noam fumbled for something else to say. Something persuasive. “He told us to come find him. It was a direct order. He’s minister of defense, he’s our commanding officer, so we have to go.”

“That what he said, is it?” Evan tapped his fingers against his arm.

“Yes, sir.”

Evan looked like he was prepared to argue some more, but at last he just blew out a hard gust of air and said, “Fine. But your shield stays up. Always, you got me? Always. Don’t you talk to anyone; don’t get involved in any skirmishes. And I know y’all’re witchings, but you’re still gonna take a weapon with you.” He snapped his fingers. “Hardy. Give ’em your handgun.”

One of the privates unholstered his pistol and passed it to Evan, who handed it to Noam. “Keep that out of sight.”

Noam tucked the gun into his jeans, pressed flat against his back and hidden by the hem of his shirt. The cold metal burned his skin.

Blackwell and Vivian.

“Yes, sir,” Noam said again and didn’t think about that, didn’t think about it.

Focus on Dara. His palm was clammy when Noam reached for his hand, but his grasp was strong.

“Get on out of here.” Evan gestured toward the mouth of the alley. “Left up there. Keep heading north toward warehouse twelve. Lehrer’s commanding a unit roundabout there. And be careful.”

“We will. Thank you,” Noam said, tugging at Dara’s hand before Evan could think better of letting them go.

The square teemed with bodies, thousands of faceless people united in a roar of sound. Impossible to tell the difference between chanting and screaming now. Noam gripped Dara’s hand, looking back to meet his wide eyes. Glass shattered ten feet to their right, and an answering voice yelled something incoherent and enraged.

“This way,” Noam shouted, though it was hard to tell if Dara could hear him. There were too many people, all headed in different directions and bleeding together like paint. Somewhere toward the east, a black cloud of smoke billowed overhead. A pop-pop-pop of gunshots. Noam’s pulse stumbled clumsily against his ribs.

“Burn them!” someone yelled behind him, a raw and rough voice that scraped the marrow from Noam’s bones. “Burn the rats in their nest—”

North, north, Noam told himself, just keep going north. But the crowd was an endless sea stretching over the horizon, no shore in sight.

More screams, closer. Noam didn’t look. He didn’t want to see. Noam’s nails dug into the back of Dara’s hand, and they would have been swept underfoot if it weren’t for Noam’s power pushing people away, and—when that failed—his elbows.

The buildings on the north side of the square were close now; just twenty more feet and they could duck down an alley. He could see warehouse twelve.

More gunshots peppered the air somewhere behind him, the bullets glinting like falling stars to Noam’s magic, though none of them met flesh, not yet. Just soldiers shooting deadly warnings toward the sky.

The tide shifted. Suddenly the crowd was all moving in one direction—east, away from the government buildings, as if propelled by some terrible force. Noam’s power battered uselessly against the wave of people crushing in from the west. They were like cattle, Noam realized frantically as he found himself swept up in the mad dash. Cattle with wolves biting at their heels.

A blockade was up; it must be. The army had them pinned into this square like an enraged bull crowded into a pen before a fight, chased by guns at their backs to beat themselves bloody against the barricade. Noam learned about this in Swensson’s class, remembered the diagrams Swensson drew on the chalkboard, white flaking lines to show troop movements: barricade here, then hammer nail.