The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(54)

Noam should never have given those emails to Brennan. He should’ve released them to the public and exposed Sacha’s moral rot for the world to see.

He’d spent so much time waiting, hoping Brennan might come around, understand that now they were all each other had. That Brennan would let Noam take his father’s place at Brennan’s side, and together they would repair the world.

Only he kept waiting, and hoping, and Brennan did nothing.

All Noam did these days was wait. He was waiting right now, even: on Lehrer. Lehrer, who had a plan. Lehrer, passing cryptic notes in empty courtyards.

Maybe it was childish to keep wishing someone—Brennan, or Lehrer, or his father—would come along and tell him what to do next.

He ought to fight, whether he had help or not.

When the European Federation found out what the US was doing to witchings, it had intervened. The whole country was nuked half to hell by the time Adalwolf and Calix Lehrer’s militia started gaining ground. Maybe Europe would intervene now, too, on behalf of the refugees.

Or maybe not.

Still, Noam could have done something. And then there would be no refugee camps where Sacha could condemn people to grisly death by infection and magic.

Whatever Brennan was planning, it wasn’t enough. It hadn’t stopped Bea from dying, and it wouldn’t stop the next outbreak either.

But if Noam acted on his own and failed, could he live with himself?

Noam turned to head toward the smokestack, and when he looked up, he saw him: a shadowed figure on a balcony dimly illuminated by the lamplight. Lehrer leaned against a wrought iron railing, the red coal of his cigarette glowing as he brought it to his mouth and inhaled. His attention was fixed out toward the distant horizon.

It wasn’t the Lehrer Noam knew from lessons or press conferences. This Lehrer had shed his military uniform, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and his collar left undone. The look on his face was softer than Noam expected. Pensive. Lehrer draped his wrist over the rail, cigarette smoke drifting through the frozen air like fog.

Lehrer hadn’t noticed Noam’s presence. There was something strange and intimate about Noam watching Lehrer and Lehrer watching the sky—like sharing a secret.

Eventually Lehrer put his cigarette out on the iron, the burning coal a sudden bright blaze in Noam’s sense of the metal, and turned to disappear back inside.

Noam stayed, staring up at the gold light still visible through that open door. With Lehrer’s antitechnopathy wards temporarily unraveled, Noam could sense the movement of his wristwatch within the apartment, Lehrer’s body heat against the gold as real as if Noam were to feel it against his own skin. Then the door fell shut, and Noam’s sense of him cut off with the close of the latch.

Faraday.

Lehrer said they were alike, and what he’d meant was Noam couldn’t wait to grow up or gain power to make a difference in Carolinia. If Noam wanted things to change, he had to change them. At sixteen, Calix Lehrer incited a war.

Noam had his own war to win.

And Faraday was the key.

Brennan was waiting when Noam arrived at the Migrant Center that next Saturday, standing in the office where Noam usually did his database tasks and wearing his government suit. He looked uncomfortable, like the expensive cotton was abrasive on his skin. Noam couldn’t imagine what Lehrer said to make Brennan take on the liaison position. He knew better than anyone what Brennan thought of people who aligned themselves with the feds, even for the greater good.

“I heard about the outbreak,” Brennan started, and when Noam’s gaze met Brennan’s, it was suddenly difficult to breathe.

He took a step forward, then another, and then Brennan was reaching for him, Brennan’s arms closing around Noam’s shoulders. Noam pressed his face against the fine collar of Brennan’s shirt and sucked in shallow gulps of detergent-scented air.

Brennan’s hand was a steady pressure on Noam’s spine. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. His breath on Noam’s neck was warm. “I can’t . . . I can’t even imagine.”

Noam was shaking, he realized belatedly, a tremor that got worse when he noticed it. Brennan’s fingers twisted into the fabric of Noam’s sweater, like he thought that might keep him still.

“Everyone died,” Noam whispered. “Everyone.”

Only that wasn’t true, was it? There were four survivors out of four hundred, or so Noam heard. They were witchings now. They were going to Charleston.

Their magic was paid for with other people’s lives.

“We have to do something,” Noam said. This time he pushed Brennan back, hating the way his cheeks felt damp but needing to see Brennan for this. To look him in the eye and make him understand they couldn’t keep quiet anymore, couldn’t keep pushing papers around a desk and hoping for change. “How many more people will die if Sacha starts mass deportations?” He pushed against Brennan’s shoulders with both hands, knocking him back a half step. Anger twisted up his spine like a rope soaked in poison. “Do something!”

Do anything.

Do what Lehrer would have done a hundred years ago.

“I know,” Brennan said. His voice was soft but stricken.

“I mean it,” Noam said.

“I—”

“Tom, please!”

Brennan still had hold of Noam, one hand on each arm. That grip tightened now. “Listen to me, Noam. The recent outbreak has only made Sacha more determined to initiate deportations—I met with him this morning. He thinks what happened in the camp is a harbinger of what would happen in the cities if he let the refugees stay.”