The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(93)

It felt wrong that Noam should be so easily persuaded they should kill someone he’d once loved like an uncle.

“I’m sorry. I know you were close,” Lehrer said. He touched Noam’s knee very lightly, just a brush of fingertips Noam barely felt through his trousers.

Were being the operative word. Had they ever been close?

Even before, they’d never had something like what Noam had with Lehrer. Lehrer was ten times as powerful as Brennan, was minister of defense, but he still found time to teach Noam personally.

Lehrer had saved the world a dozen times over—and he’d done it using tactics just like this.

“I need to think,” Noam said. He lifted both hands to his head, thumbs pressing against his temples.

“We don’t have time for that,” Lehrer said. “We have to move quickly, before the rage dies down and people become complacent under martial law. I need you to say that you will help me in this.”

The headache kept getting worse.

It was impossible to think of anything else but that pain. Pain and the awful decision that coalesced in his mind like dark fog—yes. Yes, Noam would help Lehrer.

Yes, of course.

Yes, yes, yes, yes.

He loathed himself, because he didn’t even bother trying to fight it.

“God,” Noam dropped his head back, face toward the ceiling. “Fuck. Okay. Okay. I’ll help you. Jesus.”

He was selling his fucking soul.

“Thank you,” Lehrer murmured. His hand curled around one of Noam’s wrists, fingers cool against skin. “Noam, this is what I’ve been training you for all this time. I’d planned to use Dara, of course, but that isn’t going to be possible now. You have the skill and the knowledge. And most importantly, you have my trust. You are, perhaps, the only person I can trust.”

Noam knew where this was heading. He was so stupid; he should have realized, of course, of course. His gut sloshed, full of salt water.

“I can’t be anywhere near this. You know that,” Lehrer said, hand tightening slightly on Noam’s wrist. “It has to be you.”

“Surely you have people for this,” Noam said, lowering his head to look at Lehrer again, struggling to keep the tension out of his voice. “You’re minister of defense. Don’t you have some kind of personal assassin you can use?”

“Most of those people are on government payroll. I can’t be sure they’ll be loyal to me over Sacha, in the end. If caught, they might betray me.”

“And if I’m caught, I won’t? Even if I refuse to say a word, everyone knows I’m your student.”

“Don’t get caught.” Lehrer said it too evenly, like it was that easy. But then, after a beat, he added, “If you do, I trust you’ll do what’s necessary to keep this quiet.”

Noam got the gist.

He tipped forward, bracing his forehead against the fingertips of one hand and staring at the other lying there in his lap, Lehrer’s fingers still curled around its wrist. That other presence in Noam’s mind, that shadow version of himself, twined its way through his every thought. Was this who Noam really was?

Maybe. Maybe he’d known the truth for a while: that he’d do just about anything to win this war.

“How long do I have to plan?”

“Two weeks.”

Noam and his first girlfriend, back before the virus, used to sit and plot out what they called the “perfect murder.” He had a feeling the real thing took a bit longer than a few hours in Carly’s tenement to plan.

Noam touched his throbbing temple very, very gingerly.

“All right.” Just thinking about this made him want to go to sleep for a year. “But what about Dara? He’s a telepath. He’ll know what I’m planning.”

And tell Sacha, because he’s a traitor.

Shit. He shouldn’t have mentioned Dara’s telepathy. Lehrer already knew, of course, but Noam probably wasn’t supposed to.

“Speaking of Mr. Shirazi . . . ,” Lehrer said. Although he must have noticed Noam’s slip, he didn’t mention it. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he hasn’t been well lately.”

Noam had noticed. “He’s stressed.”

Murder tends to have that effect on people.

“It’s not stress. I’ve seen this before. I should have done something sooner, but . . .” Lehrer ran his fingers through his hair, a few fair strands falling loose over his forehead. All of a sudden he looked older. Tired. His attention dipped away from Noam’s for a moment, grasp finally dropping from Noam’s wrist. “I told you about Wolf.”

It took Noam several seconds to realize Lehrer meant his brother, not the dog.

And then his own heartbeat was all he could hear.

“You don’t think . . .” He swallowed against the rawness in his throat.

The manic glint in Dara’s eyes as he’d paced back and forth across their narrow bedroom. The dry-desert heat of his skin. His wild theories, his paranoia. I won’t be the one that kills you.

Noam’s nails dug into the meat of his palm, but the pain didn’t chase this away.

“I’m afraid so. I’ve had my concerns for a while now. I thought perhaps—Dara’s always been high strung, and with his drinking problem . . .”