The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(77)

Dara was too far away to see Noam’s cheeks flush. But he nodded his head in Noam’s direction before slipping out the door.

“I have to go,” Noam muttered, and Linda didn’t fight him on it as he stripped his apron off and ran out onto the street. He expected to find Dara leaning against the brick wall, cigarette in hand and something sharp to say, but he wasn’t. Noam floundered for a moment, looking up the road past the bums with their change cups and the kids chasing a deflated soccer ball down the snowy gutter. And—there, a glimpse of Dara’s uniform turning the corner up ahead.

Noam started after him, half jogging, and he broke onto the main street just in time to see Dara’s head disappear into a cab. The car peeled away from the curb and left Noam standing there right as it started raining. The water soaked through Noam’s shirt and crystallized cold in Noam’s bones. He hugged his arms around his waist.

Why was Dara here?

Had he come to see Noam? If so, why hadn’t he stayed or said something? Had Lehrer sent Dara to find him? Or was this something to do with whatever Dara got up to those nights he didn’t come back to the barracks? Noam had always assumed he was out, in bed with some gorgeous stranger. But lately he’d started imagining Dara sitting in Sacha’s office far past midnight, the pair of them plotting just as Noam and Lehrer did, Dara leaning over Sacha’s desk with pen in hand, sketching the outline of Lehrer’s demise.

It was a cold, wet walk back to the government complex; back in the barracks, Bethany and Taye and Ames were watching some old movie.

“Where’s Dara?”

“I think he went up to the roof,” Bethany mumbled through a mouth full of popcorn.

It’s too wet to be on the roof, Noam almost said. Didn’t, though, because then they’d all get caught up debating the merits of drowning to death, and he wasn’t going to let Dara run off again.

The rain was falling more heavily by the time Noam got to the roof, as if the storm had been waiting for dusk to fall before it really hit.

Dara stood at the far end, leaning against the black iron railing, a dark smudge against the gray landscape. He wasn’t wearing a raincoat. With his back to Noam he was a slim figure frozen in time, storm whirling around him unseen. He didn’t look back when Noam started across the roof toward him.

The stone was perilously slippery beneath Noam’s boots. He hugged his jacket tight around him, tugging the hood up to keep out the rain—for what little good it did. The market lights strung over the courtyard looked like blurry fireflies caught in a thunderstorm.

It was only when he reached Dara’s side that Dara looked at him.

“Don’t you think the weather’s a little bad to be out here like this?” Noam said.

Dara was soaked through, hair plastered against his forehead and rainwater slick on his skin.

“I don’t mind it,” Dara said. His voice was soft, barely audible even though they were close. “We can go inside, if you’d rather.”

Noam shrugged and grasped the railing, the steel cold beneath his palms as he looked out over the courtyard below. Four stories down, the stream cut through the flagstones, running faster with all the extra water. A lone soldier made his rounds, hunched over against the elements.

“You came to the Migrant Center today.”

“Yes.”

“You left pretty quickly.” Noam glanced at Dara. “I don’t suppose you were looking for a volunteer position.”

Silence for a moment. Then: “No.”

Noam waited, but more information didn’t seem to be forthcoming. At last he gave up. “Well? Why were you there?”

Dara’s hands visibly tightened around the railing, his body a straight line from his hips to the back of his neck. For a second Noam thought he might not answer at all, but then: “I knew you worked there sometimes,” Dara said. “I . . . keep thinking about what you’d said, that night on the beach. About me being lucky.”

Noam stayed silent.

“I wanted to see if you were right.”

Noam’s chest kept clenching uselessly, a dull pain humming beneath his sternum. The humid air felt suffocating even when he breathed it in. “And was I?”

Dara’s mouth turned to a small and humorless smile. He looked at Noam again, raindrops glittering on his lashes, falling onto his cheeks when he blinked.

“I don’t want you to think I don’t sympathize with the refugees,” Dara said.

“But you still support Sacha.”

“Over Lehrer, yes.” Dara sighed. “There are more than two sides to this story, Noam. What would you say if I told you Sacha didn’t make these decisions on his own recognizance? What if he was just a character in someone else’s play, and all this suffering and death was smoke and special effects distracting you from the real agenda?”

“I’d tell you those are actual people whose suffering and death you’re talking about.”

“Of course they’re real,” Dara said. There was an edge of sincere passion to his voice this time, his body turning to face Noam more fully even though his hands stayed frozen in place. “That makes it worse! Lehrer doesn’t care about the refugees. He just wants Sacha as a convenient scapegoat so he can seize power.”

Noam frowned. Dara didn’t know about Lehrer’s coup—right?