The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(23)

“And we are grateful,” Brennan said at last, voice soft and nearly paternalistic, “but we never asked you to do any of that.”

“Right. Because you couldn’t ask me. You had to keep your distance from it. But you knew what I was planning, and you didn’t try to stop me.”

When Noam opened his eyes again, Brennan looked tired, dragging one hand back through his hair and avoiding Noam’s gaze. “If you regret what you did . . .”

“That’s not what I said. I don’t regret it.” Only that wasn’t true, not entirely. Noam had done it for the cause, but he’d also done it to prove to his father—and to Brennan—that he could help, that he was good for something. And now being a witching erased all that.

Noam’s legs ached with the need to get to his feet. To pace around this tiny office. He stayed where he was.

“I’m telling you I want to do more. I’m telling you I can do more, and all you can say is that you don’t want my help anymore now that I’m not working two jobs and practically living on the street.”

“You do have certain privileges now—”

“My father is dead!”

And Noam was on his feet after all, dizzy with the rush of blood away from his head and his veins burning. It was hard to breathe, like he’d plunged underwater and given up on air.

Brennan watched him in silence, eyes dark and unreadable even in the office fluorescence.

Whatever else Noam had planned to say was gone. All his thoughts were white noise. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the office chair and slung it over his arm, stalking past Brennan and slamming the door behind him.

Out on the street he only felt worse, anger exposed under the bright sunlight and impossible to avoid. This had been his life. This had been his life, his father’s life, and now it meant nothing.

Noam had magic. He was one of them now.

Noam meant to go back to the government complex, but in his foggy rage, that wasn’t where he ended up.

He found himself ducking under red quarantine tape instead, stepping off the sidewalk and onto a softer ground of black ash. Soot plumed underfoot, a cloud of it that tasted like charcoal and made him cough. Once upon a time, this street had teemed with people, street carts selling candied plums and pulled-pork sandwiches, kids playing, families on their way to church.

All those buildings, the street carts, the children and families—all just dust in Noam’s mouth.

It didn’t matter what Brennan said.

Noam thought about his father, draped over that useless chair and refusing to speak. There was medicine that might have made him better if they’d been able to consistently afford it.

Noam could still see the sign in the pharmacy. NO PAPERS, NO PILLS!!

When they were rounding up people to take to refugee camps, his father had fit perfectly into the cabinet beneath the sink, thin and frail as a moth.

Noam looked out at his ruined neighborhood. He exhaled soot and bone.

He’d break into the government complex. He’d find out what Chancellor Sacha was planning next, and he’d bring it to Brennan. He’d prove what side he was really on. And then.

And then.





Diary of Adalwolf Lehrer, from the private collection of Calix Lehrer, stolen and delivered to Harold Sacha, October 2122

February 4, 2015

I still can’t believe it’s him.

He doesn’t even look human now.

February 5, 2015

Calix is out of surgery. Raphael managed to get that damn metal gag off his face, but now he’s a mess of open wounds. If he survives, he’ll have scars.

I didn’t read Raphael’s report. I don’t want to know the details of what they did to him in that place. All that matters is he’s here.

Calix reacted badly coming out of anesthesia. To be expected. Will have to talk to the men about it next meeting, must try to explain. He couldn’t help it. He was scared. Magic doesn’t behave the way you’d like when you’re scared.

G-d. He’s just a kid.

February 8, 2015

C. was sick last several days, infected central line. Doing better now. Raphael expects him to recover.

Damn kid demanded I bring him books from the stacks. Wants to read Wittgenstein.

Who the fuck is Wittgenstein.

February 10, 2015

Seriously, I thought 16-year-olds were supposed to be into comics and girly magazines, not Husserl.

Guess it’s reassuring to see C. hasn’t changed a bit.

He’s still having the nightmares. I’ve started sleeping in his room just so he isn’t alone. The way he screams sometimes makes me want to tear my own ears out. I can’t stand it.

February 11, 2015

Prep for CDC mission. Israfil and Nakir have everything in order. Will be ready by May deadline.

April 24, 2015

Calix joined us for the prep meeting. I think being around him makes the others nervous. Maybe because he’s powerful, more likely because of his face. Even I don’t like to look at it.

He sat silently in the back, though, which is good.

April 28, 2015

I take back what I said about silence.

May 2, 2015

Final preparations. Not getting much sleep, thanks to Calix.

Raphael says he needs therapy. Dunno where we’re gonna find that in NC these days. Does he think shrinks set up shop in bombed-out supermarkets and give out pills at the Shell station?