The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(43)

Noam made a face. “Alternatively,” he said, “you could just tell me what you were looking for. Maybe I can help.”

“Nice try. Cute, though.”

“Are you trying to undermine Lehrer?”

“Now why would I do a thing like that?” There was something to the lilt of Dara’s voice, something almost bitter.

“You tell me. Is it just to get Lehrer’s attention?”

That hit a nerve. Dara physically recoiled, knuckles going briefly white around the neck of the bourbon bottle. His mouth was a thin line.

“I’m sorry,” Noam said. “I didn’t mean that. I just . . .”

“Wanted to get under my skin?” Dara said, voice still strained, even though he smiled before he took a swig of whiskey. “Well, good job. I think you’re right. That must be it.”

Noam bit his lip to stop himself from asking more questions. “Yeah,” he said instead, just to fill the silence. “So. New topic. Um. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Dara snorted.

“I mean it. Bethany wants to be a healer. Ames wants to keep climbing military ranks. Taye’s gonna . . . well, okay, who even knows what Taye wants. But what about you?”

Dara drank again, relaxing back against the bench and turning his face toward the market lights strung overhead. “I don’t know,” he said, passing the bottle back to Noam.

This time, Noam kept it. He could tell Dara was already starting to feel the liquor—his eyes were glassy-bright, cheeks flushed. He must’ve been drinking already, before they came out here.

Maybe it wasn’t any of Noam’s business. Dara would almost certainly say so, that he was allowed to drink if he wanted to drink.

But Noam wanted to get to know him. To really know him, not just the version of Dara that emerged from the bottom of a bourbon bottle.

“Sure you do,” Noam said.

“I really don’t.”

“What about politics? You have the connections for it.” Connections to Lehrer. To Sacha, whom Dara didn’t even bother to greet in the hall.

It wasn’t an entirely innocent question, but Noam kept himself wide eyed and curious all the same.

“Not that,” Dara said, screwing up his face and shaking his head. “I always thought . . .” He hesitated for a moment, darting a quick glance at Noam from beneath his lashes. Then: “I’d like to live out on a farm somewhere. With a garden, and maybe some goats. Somewhere I can see the stars.”

Oh please.

Whatever. If Dara didn’t want to tell him the truth, then fine.

Noam was happy to just drink with him. It was good whiskey. And besides, Noam liked the way the liquor made him feel, his thoughts warm, fat fish swimming through the sea of his mind. He was still better off than Dara, who had finally tugged the bottle back out of Noam’s grasp and slung one arm over the railing, his face toward the glittering sky.

“Never had bourbon before,” Noam said at last. “No, really. It’s all beer and shine in my parts.” Or aguardiente, if Noam’s dad was feeling nostalgic. “You ever had moonshine?”

“Do you really think Lehrer let me drink moonshine growing up?”

“Lehrer does seem more the vintage imported whisky type,” Noam admitted. “Like, he’d probably say we could only enjoy this drink if we had sophisticated adult palates.”

“You’re right,” Dara said, looking back to Noam and holding the bottle out over the brick sidewalk, mischievous. “Maybe we should just pour it out. Better than insulting the distillery by drinking it with our crude palates.”

“Don’t you dare.” Noam lurched forward, grabbing for the bottle, but Dara was quicker, pulling it out of reach and tipping his head back for another swallow, this one long, as if he were luxuriating in it. Dara gave him a considering look when at last he lowered the bottle, fingers toying with the neck. He had transformed, somehow, in the past several minutes—from cold and cautious to something brighter, buoyant.

Dara reminded Noam of a piece of tourmaline he found once, gleaming a different color every time he tilted it to a new angle. He was fascinating.

“We should do this again sometime,” Dara said.

Noam fought to ignore the sudden, prickling rush of adrenaline flooding beneath his skin.

“Oh yeah?”

Dara set the bottle down on the bench between them with a clink of glass on wood. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s not often that I meet someone who shares my taste in liquor.”

“Or tastelessness, as it happens.”

Dara smirked and put the bourbon away. “Yes, well. We should get inside before Howard sends someone looking for us.”

Noam got to his feet, and after a second’s hesitation, extended a hand to help Dara up. Dara laughed and ignored him, pushing himself up with far more grace and ease than Noam had expected.

“I’m not as drunk as you think,” Dara said.

“You just consumed your body weight in bourbon.”

“Well, I did grow up drinking decent whiskey instead of your bootleg moonshine, so I suppose I’ve built up a tolerance.” Dara started off toward the training wing, glancing back after three paces to gesture Noam along.

When they got back to the barracks, it was to find the others still awake and crowded into the common room, bowls of popcorn perched on their knees.