The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(98)

I’m going to shoot him, Noam thought. I’m going to have to shoot him; he’s giving me no other choice—

Brennan grasped the barrel of the gun.

And Noam . . .

Noam let it go.

The gun fell into Brennan’s waiting hand, Brennan’s relief a thick fog dipping between them.

Brennan exhaled.

“Good,” he said, “good.” And he reached for Noam’s arm.

It wasn’t quite reflex, but it wasn’t quite intentional either. It was a cascade of light, searing down Noam’s spine and hurling Brennan back. He hit the floor eight feet away. He twitched once, twice, and went still.

Electricity still sparked across the surface of Noam’s skin and in the ambient air. His thoughts were white, formless, the room stretching dizzily around him as he knelt on the floor beside Brennan’s body.

Those brown eyes gazed blankly up at him, cold now and seeing nothing.

He was dead. He was dead, but Noam checked for a pulse anyway, because what if—what if?

Oh god.

It was an accident, Noam thought, his mind finally surging up on a rising tide of panic. It was . . .

He had to walk away. Right now, he had to stand up and walk out of here. Brennan was supposed to give a speech soon—in, fuck, in twenty minutes. Someone was going to come here for him, and when they found the body, Noam had to be gone.

The room tilted dangerously when Noam stood, sliding so far sideways that he had to catch himself on the edge of Brennan’s desk. And then, with another jolt of adrenaline, Noam tugged his sleeve down over his hand to rub his fingerprints away.

Fuck. Fuck, this was all wrong. Brennan was dead. Electrocuted. Fred Hornsby couldn’t . . . Brennan was supposed to get shot, the way a baseline would have done it.

Noam fumbled for the second gun, the one tucked into his waistband. Only after it was in his hand and pointed at Brennan’s head did he think, No, no, why would Hornsby shoot him if he was already lying down?

Noam dropped the gun on the desk and crouched down by Brennan’s body, reaching—fuck, don’t think about it, don’t think about it—and grabbing him under both arms. God, he was heavy, nothing but limp muscle and bone as Noam struggled to drag him back toward the desk chair. Dead weight. Noam wanted to laugh, the urge insane, almost overpowering.

Don’t look at Brennan’s face. Don’t look at his eyes.

Brennan’s head lolled forward as Noam hitched him up off the ground and into the chair, grunting with the effort.

His body was still warm. Jesus, he was still warm.

In that chair, Brennan looked like a marionette with its strings cut.

Noam picked up the gun again and pressed the silencer’s barrel to Brennan’s forehead. Then he took two steps back, trying to keep the gun steady. He only wanted to do this once. His hands shook.

Remember your training.

Inhale. Good. Exhale. Relax. Aim.

Fire.

Blood and brain matter exploded against the blue wallpaper behind the desk.

Noam stood there, watching the blood drip down toward the wood floor. He felt nothing. That shadow-self had its hands on his shoulders, cold comfort.

He edged closer, crouching down just enough to get a good look at the entrance wound. It was small, a round void surrounded by black powder residue. There was hardly any blood on Brennan’s face.

Shouldn’t he be horrified? All Noam could think about was training.

He and Lehrer had talked about this.

Leave the bullet and shell wherever they are, because they’ll trace to this gun, which we’ll plant in Hornsby’s house. Wipe your hands on your pants to get rid of powder residue. Hide the gun, not in Brennan’s office, and someone from the Ministry of Defense will retrieve it later.

Noam’s face was still too close to Brennan’s. Blood trickled from Brennan’s nose, his ears.

Reality crashed back in like a summer storm.

Noam stumbled back and turned roughly away, gulping in several breaths of air. Don’t puke at the goddamn crime scene.

Get out of here. Right now.

Brennan’s gun got kicked under the desk somehow while Noam was dragging the body around. He tugged it out with telekinesis, wiped it with a microfiber cloth, then put it on the desk again. Just to be safe, he wiped down the spot he’d grabbed the desk earlier one more time.

Then the . . . the murder weapon. Unscrew the silencer. Clean the prints; drop it in a plastic bag. Tie the bag off; tuck it back into trousers.

Through it all, Brennan’s eyes watched him with glassy interest. Noam couldn’t stop thinking about that, or the tick of the clock on the wall. He kept glancing over his shoulder to be sure Brennan was really dead, half-certain each time that he’d find the corpse hovering there with its hollowed-out skull.

The last moments, standing there looking at that scene and trying to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, were the longest in Noam’s life. There could be fibers. Hair. Noam had no way of being sure. Lehrer said he’d make sure any such evidence got buried in the investigation, but that assumed Lehrer had power after this to bury anything at all.

Couldn’t worry about it now.

Noam waited at Brennan’s door, listening to the movements in the hall outside. Cell phones. Tablets. Wristwatches. As soon as the hall was clear, he reached out and plunged his power into the security cameras again.

It was clumsy. The wires fried. Fuck. Someone was gonna notice that.