The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(99)

Noam darted into the hall, shutting Brennan’s door and heading toward the staircase as fast as he could without outright running. Fear was a constant fire at his back. He couldn’t think straight. He knew he’d forgotten something—he must have. His blood roared in his ears.

He made it three steps before a door at the end of the hall swung open.

Shit, shit—

Noam spun on his heel and started walking in the opposite direction. He ducked his head, eyes trained on the ground five feet in front of him and hoping the most anyone saw of him was the back of his neck.

“—talk to Barbara about getting those papers signed before the end of the day,” a female voice said behind him.

“She should still be in her office,” someone replied. They were at least a few yards behind Noam but between him and the way he came in.

Any second now, he thought. Any second someone would call out to him, and he’d have to choose between showing his face and running.

An exit sign glowed over a door at the end of the hall. Alarmed, though, emergency exit only. There wasn’t a biometric reader, not that Noam could sense, no way to tag Hornsby’s presence here a second time. No turning around either. This had to be good enough.

Noam cut the alarm signal as he shouldered the door open. The stairs were dimly lit and narrow, concrete walls bowing in on either side. When the door slammed shut, that first gasp of air gusted into his lungs so fast and cold his chest ached.

Of course, he wasn’t free yet. These stairs seemed to stretch on forever.

Fuck it. Noam looped magnetism around the handrails for balance and swung himself over, dropping into the void. Three floors shot past, Noam’s power dragging against metal to slow his fall.

His knees buckled when he landed, pain shooting up the outside of his right ankle, but Noam didn’t stop. He clinched off the wiring in the final door and pushed out into the brilliant white sunlight.

The alley was, thankfully, deserted, drain water splashing underfoot as Noam ran toward the street. The square in front of the government complex teemed with people, with more dashing up the road to join them waving flags bearing the red star of Atlantia.

Right. That’s right, Brennan was meant to speak; these people were here for him. All refugees?

Didn’t matter. They were good cover. Noam ducked his head and pushed into the throng, weaving through the shouting voices and sharp elbows.

They were still chanting, he realized as he struggled past all these unfamiliar bodies, one word that rose above the stamping of feet and shouting of orphan children: Brennan’s name.

Noam’s body felt too hot, burning ash consuming him from the inside out. Nausea sloshing in his throat, he grabbed on to the arm of a stranger as the world tilted off its axis.

What had he done?

Everyone stared, their eyes all whites. Brennan, Brennan. It pounded through the ground and throbbed in the air.

Noam lurched forward and vomited. There wasn’t much to get up, just bile and foam, but it got on someone’s shoes, and the man whose arm Noam grasped pushed him roughly away.

He stumbled to the right and bumped into someone else, nowhere to go that wasn’t already taken. Noam’s mouth tasted like blood, and he felt blood, too, against the back of his hand. Only he looked and, no, it was just a quarter, someone’s lost change magnetized to his skin.

The gun. He had to get rid of the gun.

Noam cast his gaze wildly about, but all he saw were people. More people. An endless throng.

No. There.

He followed the scent of metal, tracking it to a garbage bin on a street corner. It was crowded enough that no one noticed Noam stuff the plastic bag in with the rest of the refuse. Or he hoped no one noticed. This was . . . this was . . . Blackwell and Vivian. Don’t forget. Blackwell and Vivian, trash can on the corner.

Noam wiped his mouth on his sleeve and took in a steadying breath, turning to look back toward the government complex again. Soon they’d set up a perimeter. They’d search everyone and strip every last shred of evidence. They’d find Noam.

What time was it? How long until Brennan was supposed to give his press conference?

Lehrer’s people were here, too, interspersed through the crowd in their green uniforms. He felt their guns, their witching magic.

Noam couldn’t be on the street when the riots began.

After it’s done, Lehrer had told him, come to my study. I’ll be your alibi . . . though hopefully you won’t need one.

Noam headed back toward the government complex, shouldering his way through the shouting crowd and keeping his head down. Only . . . the entrance guards. They’d recognize him. Idiot, he never should have left the building. He could’ve gone down the hall on some other floor and made it back to Lehrer’s study with time to spare. It was probably a matter of minutes before they found the body.

If they hadn’t already.

He couldn’t use Hornsby’s biometrics again and get caught reentering the government complex, not when Hornsby was supposed to get arrested at home. Another emergency exit, then? Where the hell would he find one?

No time to search. He’d have to go back the way he came. If he was fast, he could dart through and into a first-or second-floor hallway before they put everything on lockdown.

Not a great plan, but better than being trapped out here with no alibi and rioting refugees when they started hunting for a killer.