The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(112)

If he speaks, close your ears. If he follows, you pray. But never look him in the eyes; a single glance, and your soul belongs to him.

Noam met Lehrer’s clear-glass gaze.

“What about Sacha? Did you persuade him?”

Lehrer didn’t blink. “Sometimes.”

“Did you . . .” Noam faltered. He swallowed. “Did you . . . make him . . . do all of that? To the refugees? Just to undermine him?”

“Of course not,” Lehrer said, more firmly this time. “Sacha was a xenophobe and a bigot, Noam. You know what happened to witchings in the catastrophe. To my family. Do you really think I’d perpetuate that on another minority group?”

Heat flushed Noam’s cheeks, but he couldn’t just give in. Not now. Not after everything. “I have to ask.”

“I used my power on Sacha because he had to be stopped,” Lehrer said. “At any cost. I care about nothing as much as I care about this country. I was there when this nation was born, Noam, and like hell will I watch it die at the hands of a baseline.”

There was a roughness to the way Lehrer said the words. The lighting out here reflected strangely in his eyes, like something moving beneath the surface of a lake.

“You turned me in to Sacha.”

“I did.” Lehrer’s expression did not change.

“Why?”

“I needed Sacha to think he still had a chance. While he was distracted with you, my men surrounded the government complex.” Lehrer seemed less human now than he once did. Now he was cold and utilitarian, as precise as an elegant machine. Those moments Noam had glimpsed true emotion were more fractured and unnatural than the mask itself. “And I knew if I sent Dara to save your life, he would kill Sacha for me.”

Which Dara did.

All of them—even Dara, who had been so suspicious of Lehrer’s motives—were just easy pawns in Lehrer’s game.

The ache lingered in Noam’s chest. When he turned his gaze toward the electric lights strung overhead, Lehrer reached over and set his hand gently on Noam’s leg.

“I’m proud of you,” Lehrer said. “I asked a lot of you these past several weeks. But you kept your head, even when all seemed lost. I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. In many ways you remind me of myself.”

Nothing Noam felt made sense anymore, as if his thoughts and his body were completely divorced from each other. He’d think, I’m happy, even as his lungs convulsed around a new breath. He’d think, Everything is perfect now, while his skin burned and his hands formed fists.

“How’s Dara?” he asked.

Lehrer paused. His hand stayed where it was, but it had gone still, a heavy weight against Noam’s thigh.

“He’ll be all right,” Lehrer said at last. “A few months under suppressants . . .”

“Those are illegal.”

“They are. But to save Dara’s life . . . he’s like a son to me.” Lehrer turned his face up as well, toward the lights. “I have him on a constant IV drip of suppressants and steroids to calm the inflammation. My personal physician is very discreet.”

“Will that . . . work?” It felt like too much to hope.

“Eventually,” Lehrer said. “Most likely. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. There’s a reason suppressants are illegal—depriving a witching of his magic is a terrible thing . . .” He trailed off, and Noam didn’t ask. Everyone knew what they had done to Lehrer in those hospitals. The torture, the experiments. Probably worse things, too, that Lehrer had kept quiet.

“Can I see him?”

“No. Not yet.”

“When?”

“Soon. I promise.”

They sat there in silence after that, twin minds floating in space.

Eventually, it started to rain.

That night, Noam dreamed about Dara again.

It was his building, where he grew up. The same wood floor creaking underfoot, the shadows peering from between the bookshelves. It was August 2120, cicadas in the window, too hot. Once, this scene was all Noam saw when he shut his eyes. And so Noam knew, he knew down to his bones, before he even saw the body.

But it wasn’t Noam’s mother hanging from the ceiling light. It was Dara.

Ghostly hands fell upon his shoulders, golden magic flickering through the night like heat lightning. A soft and familiar voice murmured in his ear: You will do whatever I say.

The next morning, Noam skipped basic. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared across the room at Dara’s empty one. The duvet was unwrinkled, but a book lay open near the foot; when Dara had put it down, he’d planned on coming back.

What if he didn’t come back?

When Noam thought back over that conversation with Lehrer in the courtyard, he felt like he’d swallowed grease, oil sloshing around in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t figure out what about it felt wrong.

Noam had the distinct sense there was something he ought to remember, something he didn’t. The effect of shock, maybe.

Or maybe it was the way Lehrer had said, You’re going to have to trust me, and Noam realized, in that moment, Lehrer easily could have made him.

Perhaps Noam should leave. It wasn’t too late. He could pack his things right now and steal a car and drive until he broke past the border into the QZ. Until he was lost in the wild and fatal wilderness.