The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(96)

Lehrer made sure the antitechnopathy wards were inactive for the next four hours. It was the very rare witching, Lehrer told him, who could sense magic. The only one aside from Noam and Lehrer who might be able to tell the wards were down was Dara, and Dara wasn’t going to be warning anyone from MoD custody. Still, Noam was sick to his stomach waiting there, watching the door watch him as it processed the image of Hornsby’s retina. But then the lock clicked, and the door swung open to reveal a cramped service stairwell.

Fourth floor, Noam told himself. It helped when he thought it in the harsh tone Sergeant Li might’ve used during a drill. Fourth floor, soldier.

The red exit signs glowed so brightly they gave him a headache; he squinted every time he rounded the corner to take the next flight up. He stood at the door to the fourth floor for a long while, brow pressed against the cold metal frame, tracking the movement of people’s bodies up and down the hall beyond. Overhead the security camera droned blindly on. Noam wondered if Lehrer was watching, if he had some way of bypassing Noam’s technopathy.

Probably not. Lehrer didn’t have any technopathy of his own. If he did, he wouldn’t need Noam.

The gun tucked into the waist of Noam’s civilian trousers felt large and obvious, even though Noam knew it wasn’t visible beneath his loose shirt. They should’ve done this at nighttime, sneaked into Brennan’s house and killed him while he slept. It would’ve been easier. Kinder too. But Lehrer kept insisting it happen today, in broad daylight. Brennan was due to give a press conference at three, but he would never show up. People crowded the square outside for a scheduled protest in support of Brennan’s speech; they’d been audible even from the barracks, but the only word Noam could make out was down.

Down. Down, down, down.

A door shut, and the hall was empty. Noam pushed those questions aside and seized his chance—he didn’t know how long it would last or when he’d get another one.

The hall he stepped into was short, maybe forty feet. That was a good thing: Noam wouldn’t have far to run, if he had to run. The closest office to the stairwell was W402, four doors to go. Mouth dry, Noam walked at a steady pace, his power threading out in all directions. It webbed through the electrical wires, the computers on desks in the rooms he passed. It was strange, Noam thought, that his heart beat so fast when he felt nothing at all.

He paused outside Brennan’s door. His head throbbed.

He could leave. Tell Lehrer he changed his mind, wasn’t interested in doing this kind of work. That when he’d said he was willing to kill for the greater good, he hadn’t meant it.

Brennan would finish up and go home. Fred Hornsby would be sick for twelve hours, then recover and come to work tomorrow, confused why his emailed sick note never reached his supervisor. Everything would proceed as usual.

The refugees would keep screaming for freedom, like always. And like always, they’d be ignored.

Behind him and two doors down, someone’s chair slid back from a desk. The person moved toward the door. Noam had to get out of the hall before he was seen, one way or another. He knocked.

Two doors down was four paces away, three, two—a wristwatch approached the knob. Bile surged up in the back of Noam’s throat.

“Enter,” said a voice within Brennan’s office.

Noam stepped out of the hall just in time, the other door swinging open even as Brennan’s slammed shut.

Brennan sat behind his desk, still typing. Just looking at him made Noam’s heart ache. Those furrows on Brennan’s brow were new. They hadn’t been there when Brennan used to come with Noam’s father to pick Noam up from school, when he’d go home with them to peruse the shelves of the bookshop—Rivka, can I borrow . . . ?

Brennan looked up. “Noam.” Brennan sounded surprised. He shut off his holoreader immediately. Why? Did he think Noam would spy on him too? Noam was here to do far worse. “What are you doing here?”

Point and shoot. That simple. Noam would pull out the gun and aim it at Brennan’s head and shoot him and blood and brain would spatter the wallpaper behind his desk and he’d be dead.

Noam pressed damp palms against his thighs. Carefully, so carefully, his power latched the door. “I have private lessons in the building. You remember. With Minister Lehrer?”

“And you thought you’d drop by to see where I spend my time these days?” Brennan asked, clasping his hands together atop his computer. He didn’t believe him. “You shouldn’t be here. It looks suspicious enough, you volunteering at the Migrant Center. You don’t want to be accused of conspiring with the enemy.”

Oh.

It would have been so much better, easier, if Brennan had said almost anything else. Because now all Noam could think was how he was conspiring with Lehrer. Had been conspiring, for weeks now, to murder. And here sat Brennan, wanting Noam to go home and stay safe.

And, a voice added cruelly, to not get involved in things you don’t understand.

Noam took in a steadying breath. “I’m not really . . . worried about that,” he said.

Brennan sighed. “I know you want to help, but you really need to stay far away from this. Bad enough I was responsible for one black mark on your record already.”

“Lehrer’s on our side,” Noam said abruptly. That got Brennan’s attention; he sat up a little straighter in his chair, frowning. Noam’s brain was all wordless static. “We’re working together. He’s trying to bring down Sacha.”