The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(115)

Noam opened his eyes. Dara stared back, chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths—but he let go of Noam’s wrists, hands dropping limp to his sides.

“Are you . . .”

Noam didn’t know how put it in a way that didn’t sound awful. Are you still going to resist?

“I’m okay,” Dara said, but it came out almost like a question. He exhaled sharply. “I think . . . I think I’m okay.”

Noam drew back the superstrength but didn’t let go—not yet. “Are you sure?”

Dara shuddered beneath him, lashes fluttering briefly against his cheeks. “I don’t know. I think . . . let me up?”

It could be a trick. It could be Dara, in Lehrer’s power, trying a new tactic to get himself back across that threshold and into the dubious safety of the foyer. But Lehrer himself was on the stairs, taking them two at once, and they were out of time.

Noam let go.

Dara pushed himself up onto his elbows. He looked haggard. Sick. But he didn’t try to fight again. So Noam slid off his lap, climbing to his feet and offering Dara a hand to pull him up. Dara wavered on his feet, clinging to Noam’s shirt, then stabilized.

“Lehrer will be here any second,” Noam said.

Dara took in a short breath and nodded.

Dara really was free. He’d fought, and he was free.

A question surfaced from beneath murky waters: Lehrer claimed he’d never used his power on Noam, but Noam didn’t believe that was true.

Lehrer had told him to kill Brennan, and Noam had done it.

Maybe that had been his own decision, but what if . . .

What if Noam fought harder, resisted more? Would the idea have snapped in his mind like a taut cord, the way it had for Dara? Without Lehrer’s voice whispering shadows in his ear, would he have killed Brennan at all?

“We have an hour until the suppressant wears off,” Dara said as they darted across the unlit study and through the door out into the hall. Still empty—Noam had checked. “Until then, I don’t have telepathy. Lehrer and I might still be close enough, he might be able to . . . or we might not. I don’t know. We’re going to have to think fast—no plans, nothing predictable. Do you understand?”

Noam didn’t, really, but this wasn’t exactly the time to argue with a fevermadman. Lehrer was one floor below.

“Yep, got it. Left. Let’s go. Right now.”

They took the fastest route out of the building, down the stairs and through the atrium and onto the street. Not that they were safe now. None of the guards stopped them—Lehrer tried calling it in, of course, but Noam had blocked the transmission. Lehrer was a lot of things, but as far as Noam could tell, he still wasn’t a technopath. Once Lehrer got to the atrium, he’d tell the guards in person—nothing Noam could do about that—but by then he and Dara would’ve lost themselves in the city crowds.

They ran up Blackwell toward Main, dodging cyclists bearing carts piled high with fresh summer fruit and barking dogs on frayed ropes, commuters heading to work, angry men in cars, a pickup ball game near the memorial.

“I called a friend of mine on the way over,” Noam said, breathless and squeezing Dara’s hand—Dara hadn’t let go since they left the government complex. His palm was clammy. Noam didn’t care. “He kind of owes me one. Sam. He’ll get you anywhere you need to go—”

“No,” Dara said, stopping abruptly. Noam stumbled on an uneven bit of concrete, power catching a streetlamp to keep from falling. “I told you. No plans. You think Lehrer won’t find out about that? He knows everything. Everything you’ve thought of, he’s thought of. Something else. Something new.”

Jesus. Dara . . . Dara might be crazy, but he was right. If this was the obvious solution to Noam, it would be obvious to Lehrer as well. Lehrer had been there when Noam was arrested after the protests. He knew about Sam and DeShawn and all the others, had gotten their records wiped. He’d know everyone black bloc.

“Shit. Um. Okay.” Noam scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Then: “Okay. New idea. Let’s—”

“Don’t tell me. Don’t even think it. Just do it.”

Dara shoved at his arm; Noam nodded. “Yeah. Come on.”

It was a well-worn route, a sprint Noam’s feet had learned from eight months of tracking it again and again. His mind was the white noise of adrenaline and blood pumping through his skull, Dara’s fingers digging into the back of his hand, and this. This was perfect. They could keep running, just like this, all through Durham, into the neighboring towns, all the way out over the wall and into the quarantined zone.

They could disappear.

Noam’s shirt was sweat soaked by the time they stumbled through the door of the Migrant Center, Dara’s hair plastered to his forehead and the summer humidity hanging over their shoulders like a wet blanket. Linda startled to see them, nearly dropping the potted plant she’d been carrying to a windowsill.

“Noam,” she started. “Sugar . . . are you—”

“No time,” Noam gasped, chest aching every time he sucked in air. Fuck. He could’ve sworn he was in better shape than this after all that basic training. “Listen. Linda. You helped Brennan get people out of Atlantia, right? Refugees. You sneaked people over the Carolinian border.”

Linda’s gaze slid from his face to Dara’s.