The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(86)

If he’d had to rely on software or even the command line, it would have taken next to forever to recover anything from that kind of damage. But with technopathy it took five minutes, Noam’s power quicker than a program at flipping through the metadata and absorbing it. And metadata was the thing that stood out, in a folder entitled Software Updates. Not unusual itself, but its original path had been from the desktop, not applications.

It was full of video files.

Noam opened it on-screen. Dozens of thumbnails popped up in the window, moments frozen in time. Even just from the preview images, Noam could tell what kind of videos they were—a blur of skin and hair, naked bodies tangled up in sheets and trapped in ecstasy.

Noam’s heart pounded as he told the computer to open one of the videos and play, palms sweaty where he pressed them flat against his thighs to resist the urge to reach for the mouse. The general was instantly recognizable; he or his lover must have held the camera with telekinesis to get them both in the frame at once. For what it was, the cinematography was exquisitely composed. The candlelight gave everything a warmer glow, easing the contrast between the general’s pale skin and the brown flesh of his lover, like snow against maple wood.

He really is beautiful, Noam thought, gazing at Dara’s face. He was everything Noam had ever wanted.

Noam’s body remembered Dara’s heat, as if Dara had branded himself on Noam’s skin when he touched him. He felt sick.

Everything—everything took on new meaning now. The way the general had looked at Dara, touched Dara, tried to get Dara to stay with him after the dinner party. Did Lehrer know? Is that why he’d insisted Dara come home with him instead?

Fuck—did Lehrer suspect Dara killed Ames Sr.?

Noam felt like all his guts had been torn out, leaving him empty of anything except this knowledge.

He checked the dates in properties. The videos were from all different times. Some were recent, taken last month. Some years old. Noam didn’t want to calculate Dara’s age, didn’t want his mind to start automatically ticking down the years from age eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen . . . Noam tasted bile, no matter how many times he tried to swallow.

The videos uploaded to the flopcell. Noam pulled it out of the port and slipped it into his pocket, then cleared the last few minutes from the computer’s memory. He floated back out into the hall and down the stairs to the ground floor. The low hum of conversation from the wake sounded far away.

Noam couldn’t stop thinking about those bruises on Dara’s skin, where someone’s fingers had pressed in. And he couldn’t get those videos out of his head.

God.

Noam’s pulse was so loud in his ears it was a miracle he heard them at all: soft voices, in a room to the right. Or maybe it was because he was thinking about Dara, a kind of psychic self-fulfilling prophecy—speak of the devil and he shall appear.

Only, no, of course Dara had come. The home secretary had been like a father to him (some father). So here he was, returned to the scene of the crime.

But why was he talking to Lehrer?

Noam drew closer. His chest felt tighter than it had just a moment ago because—Lehrer. Lehrer must have figured it out. Somehow, without saying a word, Lehrer knew Dara was a killer, would arrest Dara here and now—

“Well?” Dara’s voice said. He was barely audible. “Is this it, then? The final step in your master plan?”

A moment of silence, broken only by the rustle of cloth. It stretched on and on, long enough it felt like Noam’s nerves were being dragged over razor wire. He wasn’t thinking clearly, Noam decided later; he was still in shock from what he’d seen upstairs. That was why he crept toward the door, close enough that he could press his face to where it was held ajar and peer within. Out of pure bloody luck neither Lehrer nor Dara saw him. Lehrer stood just two feet from Dara with his back to Noam, close enough to be heard while speaking quietly. Lehrer had one hand on Dara’s shoulder. There was something paternalistic in the way he squeezed it, like he was giving reassurance.

Dara didn’t seem reassured. In fact, Noam had never seen Dara this on edge. Tension practically rolled off him in poisonous waves, his gaze so fixed on Lehrer that he didn’t notice Noam watching.

The wood of the doorframe was cold against Noam’s brow, Noam’s own anxiety a fever inside him.

“With your remarkable gift, Dara, surely you must know the answer to that question,” Lehrer said, far too calmly.

Noam gripped the flopcell in one hand, tightly enough it dug into his palm. What gift?

His stomach was full of hot tar.

“You know I don’t,” Dara said. “You’re stronger than I am. You’ll always be stronger.”

Noam didn’t have to see Lehrer’s face to know he was smiling. “And don’t you forget it.”

His hand fell from Dara’s shoulder back to his side. Dara, both hands pressed to his own stomach, was visibly relieved.

“I do wish you would trust me more,” Lehrer said, sounding genuinely disappointed. “I taught you better than this. Such accusations should not be made lightly.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Dara said, and when Lehrer moved, he flinched, even though all Lehrer was doing was lifting a hand to adjust his own tie. Lehrer laughed softly.

“Relax. You’re a nervous mess today, really. And you should be out there with your friend, who is mourning her father. We’ll speak again later.”