The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(72)

For the briefest moment, Brennan looked pained. The expression was gone so quickly Noam might have imagined it. “There are rules. We have to work within those boundaries if we want to be taken seriously. I’ll organize a protest. We’ll march on the government complex. This is how progress happens, Noam. It’s slow and frustrating, but this is reality.”

“Since when?” Sweat cut a slick line down the back of Noam’s neck. Heat was a living thing pulsing beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. He sucked in a sharp breath, and the pen he’d been chewing on earlier rolled off the counter. The sound it made when it hit the floor was too loud. Violent. “The last time this country saw real change was in 2018, but I don’t recall it taking all that long.”

“A different time.”

“Not that different. The Lehrer brothers’ militia didn’t do much peaceful protesting either.”

Brennan’s gaze went sharp. “Do I look like Calix Lehrer to you?”

“No. More’s the pity.”

Silence followed. It stretched out like saltwater taffy, until all Noam could hear was his own rage buzzing between his ears.

At long last, Brennan slid the pamphlet off the side of the counter and folded it along neat lines. It was wet; it had gotten caught in the puddle of condensation from Noam’s water bottle.

“You’re angry. I understand. We’re all angry, Noam. But you should take care that anger doesn’t blind you to reason.” He paused, glancing down at the pamphlet even though the text was nearly unreadable now. “You’ve always been a bright boy. What happened to your parents was criminal, but now you have a chance to go back to school and make something of yourself. With the cards in your deck, one day you could effect real and lasting change in this country. Don’t be shortsighted.”

Brennan tucked the pamphlet into his jacket pocket. In its place he set down a few coins.

“For a water bottle.”

After he left, it was several seconds before Noam could think to sit down. And then several more before he could concentrate to sharpen his power enough to cut the mutated plastic bottle cap off his palm.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A note, signed with Lehrer’s name, waited for Noam after he finished field training one Saturday evening.

It wasn’t in code, but it didn’t have to be. Noam knew exactly what this was about, because yesterday he’d cut power to the west side again.

People were incandescent with rage. By the time Noam arrived and Lehrer was opening the study door, Noam’d read through the past six hours’ worth of live updates on social media.

“Did you tell anyone you were coming?”

“No,” Noam said. “Of course not.”

Lehrer nodded once, then allowed Noam a small smile. “Then you’d better come in,” he said, “before people start asking why I have teenage boys visiting my apartment in the middle of the night.”

He gestured Noam into the study. Noam paid attention, again, when Lehrer undid the wards to his apartment, but they were as opaque as ever. One day, Noam thought, trailing his own bluish magic through Lehrer’s characteristic gold. One day I’ll figure it out.

Lehrer’s apartment was cool tonight, the windows all thrown open to let the summer breeze ripple in past the curtains.

“How are people reacting to the power outage?” Lehrer asked him.

“As you might expect.” Noam leaned to give Wolf the scratch behind the ears he demanded, Wolf’s tail happily knocking against Noam’s leg. “They’re furious. They’ll be even angrier once they read the new pamphlets.”

“Good. Would you like a drink?”

This time, Noam felt the magic in the air before Lehrer even gestured; a cabinet unlocked, and two glasses plus a bottle flew to hover in the air between them.

Interesting. So Lehrer really didn’t need the gestures at all; they were just habit. Or perhaps not even that. A farce? If opponents thought Lehrer needed hand movements to perform magic, then they’d be watching for them, giving Lehrer the advantage.

“Have you tried scotch before?” Lehrer asked, pouring both glasses.

Noam shook his head.

“Well then, you’re in for a treat. This is an Islay single malt—very peaty and very good. Smell it first.”

Noam did. It felt like breathing in campfire smoke.

“Drink,” Lehrer said.

The taste was much the same, a hot streak burning its way down the back of Noam’s throat as he swallowed. Lehrer was watching; he wouldn’t miss the heat that bloomed in Noam’s cheeks.

“It takes some getting used to,” Lehrer said, though when he took a sip it was with his characteristic control. “Please, sit. Relax. Can I get you anything else? Something to eat, perhaps, before we discuss our next move?”

“No. Thank you.”

Noam wasn’t the sort of person who ought to be holding a glass of expensive scotch and sitting on the defense minister’s sofa. The friction between his world and Lehrer’s scratched against his every nerve.

“Thank you, by the way,” Lehrer said, claiming the armchair opposite. “For everything you’re doing to help with this. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“Oh—no, I’m happy to help.” Wait, that sounded wrong. “I want Sacha gone as much as you do, I mean.” Noam took a hasty sip of scotch to cover his embarrassment. It didn’t burn so badly this time.