The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(46)

“It felt no pain, Dara,” Lehrer said, with the impatient tone of a man who has said this many times before. “It didn’t have a mind. Just reflexes.”

Dara’s next inhale shuddered audibly. “Even if I could resurrect it,” he said, clearly forcing the words past clenched teeth, “it would still be mindless. It would still be nothing, and nobody.”

“Perhaps . . . very well. Take Noam’s seat. Read Hirschel’s Practical Virology, Volume 4.”

Dara frowned. “That’s elementary stuff. You had me read Hirschel when I was twelve.”

Complaining was a mistake. Lehrer’s gaze narrowed, and he tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Do as I say. Tomorrow, I expect you to come to our lesson prepared. Noam, move to the red chair.”

Shit.

If Lehrer could be that frustrated with Dara for being unable to do something so clearly impossible for everyone but Lehrer himself, what would he think when he turned his attention to Noam? Noam hadn’t read a goddamn word since he walked in.

Still, he rose to his feet and collected his book and satchel from the floor. He met Dara’s eyes as they passed each other; Dara’s mouth was pressed into a thin line, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Dara’s gaze darted away from Noam just as quickly, back toward Lehrer. This glance was more furtive—but he headed for the bookshelves without argument, leaving Noam with no choice but to sink down into the burgundy-upholstered armchair Dara sat in moments ago.

Noam watched, hardly daring to breathe, as Lehrer removed the birdcage and placed it under the table, out of sight.

But when Lehrer turned that calm attention to Noam, it wasn’t to demand he perform impossible magic. He just had Noam run through a mind-expansion exercise, memorizing strings of numbers and then reciting them back after a filler task. As Lehrer put it, “Your antibodies to the virus keep it from killing you, but the more antibodies you have, the less magic is free to be wielded. Quite aside from the risk of inflammation, of course. Lower antibodies mean a more powerful witching. You have room in your body for lots of magic, so let’s make sure there’s plenty of room in your head too.”

Noam recited the numbers without complaint, keenly aware of Dara watching him from across the room and of the dead bird under the table, his foot bumping the metal cage when he crossed his legs. Lehrer didn’t relent, not until the clock hand approached the hour—and then, before Noam could get up, Lehrer said:

“No, stay here. Dara, you may return to the barracks and prepare for your next class.”

Dara caught Noam’s gaze, one of his brows flicking upward. Noam couldn’t shrug, not with Lehrer watching, so he hoped the look on his face made it clear enough that he had no idea what Lehrer could want. Still, Dara took his sweet time packing his satchel. When he eventually left, it was without comment.

Lehrer finished his coffee in one last swallow. When he got to his feet, it gave the impression of something unfolding, Lehrer’s height making the chair look diminutive by comparison. He gestured toward one of the bookshelves. “I need to take Wolf out, do you mind? That’s my dog.” He pronounced it like “vulf.”

“Oh. No. Of course not. I can just wait here until you’re done.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll come with us,” Lehrer said. “You like dogs, don’t you?” Noam nodded. “Then it’s not a problem.”

He gestured for Noam to follow as he crossed the room to one of the bookshelves and reached in above the spines of To the Lighthouse and Jeeves and Wooster to flick something metal. Noam sensed something deeper moving in the walls, a complicated set of steel mechanisms shifting and latching, completely unconnected to the lever, which Noam realized now wasn’t actually connected to anything at all. The apparatus was driven by magic, Lehrer’s magic, the switch just there for show. A panel of the wall directly to the right clicked and swung inward, exposing a carpeted hall. It was the same hall Dara disappeared down before, after General Ames caught them in the government complex.

Lehrer stepped inside with the confidence of a man who’d done this many times. When Noam didn’t immediately follow, he looked back, motioning again with his hand until Noam followed after him. The hall was lit from overhead by little golden lights casting pools against the beige walls and blue rug, all soft colors and warmth. Was this where Lehrer lived? Would Lehrer really bring him home?

Even with Lehrer in front, right where Noam could see him, Noam couldn’t stop thinking how easily Lehrer had quenched the life from the resurrected bird. He could do the same thing to Noam, here in the dim secrecy of his home. Noam would be dead before he hit the floor.

“I’ll warn you,” Lehrer told Noam. “Wolf isn’t used to company.”

He led them into a foyer of some kind, open doors branching out into other rooms. Noam caught glimpses from here: a sitting room, a library, the telltale electromagnetic hum of cutlery from what must be the kitchen. There was no tech at all. Nothing, not even a microwave, in this entire apartment.

Noam didn’t have much time to stare, though, before there was the click of nails on hardwood floor, and Lehrer said, “Here, Wolf!”

The dog bolted out of the sitting room, tail wagging so hard Noam was surprised it kept its balance. He could see where Wolf got the name: it had pale eyes and a clever lupine face, with the sleek body of a wild animal. Its thick coat gleamed, nothing like the mangy strays that wandered through the west side, and when Lehrer knelt down to scratch Wolf behind an ear, it made every effort to lick his cheek.