The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(97)

Brennan pushed back his chair and stood. For a moment he hovered there, fingertips pressed atop the surface of his desk, but then he moved, stepping away and toward the window. There was something about his posture that was . . . off. His spine was stiff, shoulders squared as he glanced out between the curtains. The protesters outside kept shouting.

Down.

Brennan dragged his fingers back through his hair, and Noam realized with a jolt that his hand was shaking. “Listen to me,” Brennan said, although he didn’t look at Noam. He was still staring out at the protesters in the square. “The last time Lehrer overthrew a government—”

“The last time Lehrer overthrew a government, we got Carolinia,” Noam said.

“I don’t doubt his ability. Just his methods.”

The gun was white hot against Noam’s back. “He did what was necessary. I’ve read the history books too.”

“History is written by the victors.” Brennan turned, his narrowed gaze holding Noam in place. Brennan’s mouth was thin. “You look nervous, boy.”

Did he? Sweat prickled the back of Noam’s neck.

God, his head felt like it was about to explode.

“I’m not,” Noam said.

Brennan frowned, like he saw right through the lie and into Noam’s quivering core. There was a certain weakness to the way he grasped the arms of his chair as he sat again. When he spoke, it was with surprising gentleness.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

He knows. Brennan knows.

Noam hadn’t realized, a moment ago, how comforting it was to feel he still had a choice. But with those words, Brennan had just slammed shut the door of escape. If he tried to leave now, he’d have to kill his way out of here once Brennan called for help. Everyone would know the truth—that Noam came to kill someone and that Lehrer had sent him. In one moment of cowardice, Noam would demolish half of Carolinia’s government. He’d damn the refugees. He’d reinforce Sacha’s authority.

He couldn’t just walk away.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Noam said, trying to buy himself time, but there wasn’t any. It had leaked away, all of it, while Noam wasn’t looking.

Brennan shook his head. “You do.” He breathed in. Noam could see the tension in his neck from here. “You’re sixteen. You’ve never killed a man.”

Noam shook his head and wondered if this was it, if this was the moment he was supposed to do something. He stood there silently and watched it slide by.

“Don’t be in such a rush to get started.”

Brennan looked past Noam, toward the shut door, and a shadow crossed his face—something almost like pain, deepening at the end toward regret. Noam understood why a split second later when he felt Brennan’s hand close around the handgun strapped to the underside of the desk.

Noam had sparred too often with Lehrer to hesitate. He yanked the gun out of Brennan’s hand before Brennan could pull back the hammer. The grip was slippery in Noam’s palm when he caught it out of the air, and he shifted his posture to a steadier stance. Aimed the gun at Brennan’s head.

“Don’t move!”

Brennan, on his feet, stopped, both hands slowly lifting to shoulder height.

“Noam,” he said, very carefully, “think about this. You don’t have to do this. I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but there are other ways. Let . . . we can talk about them. Sit down. Please.”

“Be quiet,” Noam said. If he thought his headache was bad before, that was nothing compared to the way it felt now.

Brennan shut up. His gaze flicked around the room, looking for another exit.

There wasn’t one. Noam had checked.

Noam squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck. Maybe he could just knock Brennan out. Maybe if he hit hard enough, Brennan wouldn’t remember what had happened when he woke up.

Red sparks flashed against his eyelids.

He was so fucking stupid. He never should have come here. He should have stayed in the barracks where he belonged. He wasn’t Dara, and he sure as hell wasn’t Lehrer—no matter how much he might like to be. What was he doing here?

Brennan’s wristwatch moved.

“Stay where you are,” Noam snapped and opened his eyes. Brennan had made it to the side of his desk, hands still in the air. “I mean it. Stay right there, or I’ll shoot.”

“You won’t,” Brennan said. He took another tiny step forward. “You can’t. You’re too afraid.”

“That makes me more likely to shoot you, not less.” Noam’s hands were so sweaty he felt like he was going to drop the gun, but they didn’t shake.

He and Brennan stared at each other across the scant five feet between them. Brennan’s eyes were so wide Noam could see white all around his irises.

“Put the gun down.”

Noam’s power burned through the chamber. “I told you to be quiet.”

Another step closer. “Please, son. It’s all right. It’s all right.”

Brennan was so close now, close enough that Noam saw the sheen of perspiration on his brow.

“I’m not your fucking son!” Noam’s voice cracked on the last word.

Electricity snapped visibly in the air now, wild and dangerous. Noam’s head pounded; it felt like an earthquake shuddering in the ground beneath him, through him.