The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(95)

“What did Lehrer say?” Ames asked, blocking Noam’s path to the showers with her body. “You asked about Dara, right?”

“The same thing we all figured,” Noam said, trying to edge around. “Dara’s been taken into protective custody. There was some kind of death threat. I don’t know the details.”

“Who would want to kill Dara?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Taye said. “Someone who thinks they can get to Lehrer through him. I mean, it makes sense. Lehrer kept Dara’s face and identity as secret as he could, but even when you’ve got PR handling information flow, shit still gets out. You can’t keep something as interesting as Calix Lehrer adopting a child private.”

Noam hadn’t known Dara was actually adopted by Lehrer. He’d just assumed Lehrer took a special interest in Dara from a young age, like he did Noam. He frowned. “Lehrer adopted him? How come I didn’t hear about this?”

Ames and Taye exchanged glances, and then Bethany said, almost gently, “You didn’t exactly grow up knowing the kinds of people who were privy to this information. Maybe it’s not surprising you hadn’t heard.”

“My mom thought it was nuts,” Taye said. “She used to work in the government complex, you know, so she was pretty up to date on the gossip. She thought there was no way Lehrer had the time to deal with a kid that age. Of course, Dara lived in Level IV since the start, so I guess Lehrer didn’t have to do much.”

Dara never talked about it. Then again, maybe he didn’t want to. Noam had only ever known him to hate Lehrer.

But what if that hadn’t always been true?

“I need to shower,” Noam muttered, finally pushing past Ames.

Noam slid down the shower wall the moment he was under the spray, sitting on the tile floor with his arms crossed over his knees. He stared at his hands, imagining how they might look covered in blood.

How red Dara’s must have been after stabbing the general so many times.

Only . . . Dara couldn’t have killed the general and covered his tracks so efficiently if he hadn’t had experience. Dara was more powerful than Noam. He was a telepath. He knew illusion magic.

Was that it, then?

Noam knew how Lehrer’s mind worked. Lehrer would have viewed Dara as a natural-born assassin. Had Lehrer asked Dara to make a similar sacrifice as he asked of Noam now?

Then, when Dara realized Lehrer had only taken him in so he could train him to be a killer, he rebelled and defected to Sacha.

Dara must have seen this as the perfect vengeance, using what Lehrer taught him to kill Lehrer’s friend—the one who had infected his own children with magic. This is what happens when you try to turn children into witchings and witching children into tools.

Did Dara feel sick when the general’s blood spurted over his hands? When he felt flesh give way and watched Ames Sr. take his last liquid breaths, did he feel guilty? Or had Lehrer trained that out of him?

What would Noam feel, when the time came?

He closed his eyes and stayed until the water ran cold.

It was Noam who identified the perfect patsy: Fred Hornsby, a former soldier who’d retired after an injury sustained in the war against Atlantia and had been complaining about refugees ever since. He was a custodian in the government complex, which meant his access card could get him pretty much anywhere. Even better, he’d been Sacha’s friend at university. As far as Noam could tell from trawling through Hornsby’s emails, Hornsby and the chancellor lost contact years ago, but the connection was close enough. Any closer and whomever they framed for Brennan’s murder would be an obvious ruse.

He and Lehrer agreed it was too complicated to convince the security cameras that Noam was Hornsby in real time. Noam would have to get the appearance perfect, the mannerisms. No. Better if Noam had the cameras see nothing at all, then erase the tapes later. It would look like Sacha tried to hide the evidence.

“And you’re sure this won’t hurt him permanently?” Noam asked, dubiously examining the vial of clear liquid Lehrer passed him.

Lehrer arched a brow. “Noam, you’re already framing Hornsby for Brennan’s murder. As someone who’s willing to let a man get executed in your place, I can’t understand why you’re having qualms now.”

Noam stared at Lehrer, waiting. Finally, Lehrer sighed.

“Yes, I’m sure it won’t kill him,” Lehrer said. “It wouldn’t do us any good if he died in his home while he was supposed to be assassinating Tom Brennan, after all.”

“And what about this?” Noam picked up the gun from the seat cushion next to him, balancing it in his palm. It was a .22, Texan made and more advanced than what Noam was used to. “What if I miss?”

“You are a trained soldier, Mr. álvaro.”

“I’ve shot targets. I’ve never shot people.”

Lehrer beckoned, and Noam handed him the gun. Lehrer picked up the silencer from the end table, screwing it onto the barrel with quick, efficient movements. “It isn’t difficult,” Lehrer said. He pressed the gun’s cold snout to Noam’s temple. Knowing the gun wasn’t loaded made no difference; Noam’s heart pounded bloody in his mouth. Lehrer’s lips formed a dry smile. “Point and shoot.”

Point and shoot. Those words beat like an anthem in Noam’s head as he pressed his hand to the scanning screen at the entrance to the government complex and the computer read in Fred Hornsby’s biometrics. Point and shoot.