THE ELECTRIC HEIR

by Lee, Victoria

  It shouldn’t be endearing. It really shouldn’t. Nope.

  “You have a little something,” Noam said, gesturing toward his own cheek. “Here.”

  “Well, why don’t you come and get it off?”

  Wolf huffed, clearly frustrated that he wasn’t going to be offered raw meat tonight, and slouched down to the floor. For his part Noam drifted closer, oddly transfixed by the smudge of flour dusting Lehrer’s cheekbone. He slid his hand along Lehrer’s flat stomach and rose up onto the balls of his feet, Lehrer leaning over enough for Noam to reach as he kissed the mark away.

  When he drew back, they were still too close, Lehrer’s free hand having found the small of Noam’s back and the tip of his nose grazing Noam’s own.

  “I missed you today,” Lehrer murmured. “During all those meetings, I kept thinking how much I’d rather be talking to you.”

  Noam’s breath caught and Lehrer laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

  “Still blushing, even after all this time?”

  “Sunburn.”

  “It’s January, you know.”

  “Yeah, I’m still gonna go with sunburn,” Noam said, and Lehrer—grinning—swooped in to kiss him on the mouth.

  Noam’s cheeks were still warm when Lehrer finally let him go. He felt embarrassingly like he was sixteen again, light headed at Lehrer’s touch. He gripped the edge of the counter and nodded toward the bowl of spiced meat.

  “Do you need any help with this?”

  “I think Wolf and I have it under control,” Lehrer said wryly. “But you should go and take a shower. I don’t mean to cause offense, but . . .”

  Right. Noam was still in his running clothes, sweat-streaked and disgusting. Even so, Lehrer’s hand trailed along his back as he moved away, escaping out the kitchen and to the cold mercy of Lehrer’s shower. There, he reminded himself once, twice, a dozen times: It didn’t matter if Lehrer played nice. Lehrer’s gift was persuasion—he was really good at playing nice. Just because his feelings appeared genuine didn’t make them so.

  Lehrer was a monster. He deserved to die. He did.

  And Noam had to play this pitch fucking perfect if he was getting out of this game alive.

  “Dara contacted me again,” he told Lehrer later, still wet haired but full of lamb dumplings and sitting in Lehrer’s living room.

  Lehrer looked up from the paperwork he’d been reviewing, pen still in hand. He hadn’t tried to get Noam in bed after dinner—had brushed a quick kiss to Noam’s mouth when he handed him a drink and then retreated to the opposite side of the room. They’d been sitting in relative silence for the past fifteen minutes, reading.

  “I see,” Lehrer said. He put down the pen. “And what did he have to say?”

  “There’s a meeting tonight. Of insurgents.” A careful term; the word resistance had been on the tip of Noam’s tongue, swallowed back just in time. “I’m invited.”

  He wasn’t quite sure what he’d expected from Lehrer’s reaction—for Lehrer to be annoyed, maybe, that Noam waited so long to tell him—but all Lehrer did was lean back in his chair, setting aside the paperwork on an end table.

  “You should go,” Lehrer said.

  “Yes,” Noam agreed. “I think so.” And this was where he had to be careful. Lehrer wouldn’t believe Noam wasn’t at least tempted to switch sides, if just for Dara alone. He drew a leg up into his chair, clutching his knee toward his chest with both hands. “I don’t . . . obviously, I want to protect Carolinia. And maybe . . . I might be able to convince Dara to leave them. Maybe not to join us, but—I don’t want him to get hurt.”

  Lehrer sat in silence, the tips of his fingers steepled together. He’d had 124 years to perfect his ability to read facial expressions, to tell when someone was lying—Noam just hoped he decided the risk of letting Noam go was worth it. That he trusted his own ability of persuasion.

  All of this only worked so long as Lehrer believed he was still in control.

  “There’s still hope for Dara,” Lehrer said at last, tone even and completely uninterpretable. “He hasn’t committed a crime against my government. Not yet. But if he turns to treason, even I won’t be able to protect him.”

  “I have to try,” Noam insisted. “I can’t—I won’t let him do this. And I’ll report everything back to you. Whatever they’re planning.”

  “Yes,” Lehrer said, one elegant brow going up. “You will.”

  Right there—that had to be persuasion. Lehrer, accounting for the element of risk.

  Noam swallowed and nodded.

  Lehrer drew up an arm, tugging back his sleeve far enough to glance at his wristwatch. “Well then. I suppose you’d better be going. You wouldn’t want to be late on your first day.”

  It was remarkable Lehrer couldn’t hear Noam’s heart pounding all the way from the other side of the room as Noam pushed himself up from the chair, draining the last swallow of scotch. Lehrer had spent so much time training Noam how to appear calm, even when he wasn’t.

  Could he see the threads of his own design stitching Noam together?

  Noam grabbed his satchel off the floor. “Okay. I’ll see you, then.”

  He was almost at the door to the study, already halfway down the hall and outside Lehrer’s line of sight, when Lehrer said:

  “Oh, and Noam . . . you’ll come back here tonight. To debrief.”

  Noam shut his eyes, one hand pressed flat against the wood of the door. “Yes, sir.”

  So the game begins, Noam thought. But he got the feeling it was a game Lehrer invented—one where only Lehrer knew the rules.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DARA

  Empty of people, the bar seemed larger than before, even though it was still just a narrow strip of space, hardwood floors and bar top both gleaming thanks to Leo’s vigorous deep clean. Dara sat at the end of the bar farthest from the liquor shelves, nursing a club soda and watching Leo scrub out a glass that already sparkled.

  “You sure you don’t want any peanuts?” Leo said. “I bought more.”

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  He glanced at his watch: three minutes till nine. What if no one else showed up? What if they were all too paranoid Leo was a traitor, what if they didn’t trust Dara’s judgment, what if they didn’t want him anymore since he ruined the gala plan—

  But then the door swung open. In spilled Claire and Priya and a flurry of snow; Claire rubbed her gloved hands together and declared, “It’s cold as a frog’s behind out there.”

  Dara turned his face toward his club soda—quickly, before they noticed his relief.

  “You must be Leo,” Claire said, waltzing forward and thrusting a hand toward the bartender. “Claire. You have an admirable record.”

  “Oh good,” Leo said, “you’ve researched me.”

  “Don’t take it personal. We research everyone. This is Priya.”

  Priya, busy examining the windows and back exit to make sure they weren’t bugged or watched, lifted a hand in acknowledgment.

  The door opened again, this time depositing Holloway and still more snow on the welcome mat. “I hope I’m not late.”

  “We’re glad you could get away,” Claire said.

  Dara was the only one, it seemed, who noticed how Leo’s expression had gone rigid. He’d stopped cleaning the bar, both hands white knuckled where they gripped the edge of the counter.

  Of course. Leo didn’t know Holloway like Dara did. To Leo, Holloway was the draconian new home secretary, an old guard Sacha loyalist. In his previous position as attorney general, Holloway pushed for the death penalty more often than all his predecessors. He’d charged army deserters with treason.

  And perhaps that was something Leo had fantasized about, those darker nights down in Atlantia—packing up a rucksack and just walking away.

  It’s all fake, Dara wanted to tell Leo. It’s an act. Just politics.

  Somehow he doubted that would change Leo’s opinion much.

  Dara was about to ask
for another lemon slice, to distract him, when the door opened a third time.

  Noam.

  Dara pushed to his feet, the legs of his barstool scraping against the floor. He was dizzy with the change in posture, sick with it, but god, god—

  “Why are you here?” he said, too sharply.

  Did Lehrer know? Oh god, was—was Lehrer coming right on Noam’s heels, had he followed him here? Would the door open one final time, Lehrer’s figure a shadow against the streetlights, his magic a snap of gold and glitter as he crushed all their hearts in their chests?

  But maybe Noam came here on his own, because he knew, because he finally understood, because he was leaving Lehrer and joining the resistance and fighting at last to bring Lehrer down.

  Vertigo crept in black waves through Dara’s vision. He clutched the bar for balance. Relax. You have to be in control.

  Noam stared back at him, unspeaking. Damn it, why didn’t he answer? Why was he looking at Dara like that, like—

  “I invited him,” Holloway said, settling himself down on an empty stool and leaning one elbow atop the bar. He looked so out of place in his bespoke suit next to the recycled wood counter and the dirty glass ashtrays, like an actor who’d walked onto the wrong set.

  “Noam Álvaro,” Priya said flatly. “Lehrer’s student.”

  “And Dara’s old friend.” Holloway’s expression was calm as a shallow sea. “Isn’t that right, Dara?”

  Everyone was looking at Dara now.

  Dara ignored Holloway. “Are you here to stay?”

  But he knew the answer, even before Noam opened his mouth. It was written all over Noam’s face, the furrow between his brows and the way he braced his shoulders, tilting his head back to stand a little taller.

  “No,” said Noam. “And that’s exactly why you need me.”

  Dara wished he could reach for magic, twist it into something electric and painful that he could snap against Noam’s skin. This was Noam’s problem: he was too good, too agonizingly good, which meant he couldn’t see further than the end of his nose.

  Noam and his goddamn hero complex were going to get them all killed.

  Claire shot Priya a sidelong glance. “He could be under persuasion. Do you think . . . ?”

  “I’m not.” Noam stepped farther into the room, and Dara recognized that glint in his eyes. Stupid, stubborn boy. “He can’t read my mind, either, before you ask. I found a way to keep him out.” His arms folded over his chest. “If Lehrer thought I knew about his psionic abilities, he’d kill me. Or make me forget. That’s how you know I’m telling the truth.”

  “Lehrer could still be controlling him,” Priya said. “This could be Lehrer’s script. A gambit. I don’t like it.”

  But Claire was looking at Dara now. Her long spiky nails drummed an arrhythmic beat on the counter; it set Dara’s teeth on edge. “Can we trust him?”

  It was so damn tempting to say no.

  Only, if Noam walked out of here—if he wasn’t allowed to come back—Dara might not get to see him again.

  Noam’s gaze was still steady and fixed on Dara.

  Dara sat back down, gripping the seat of the barstool hard enough it hurt. He felt like he’d swallowed acid. “Yes. We can.”

  For better or for worse.

  Noam’s mouth tipped into a smile, almost like he was trying to show gratitude. Dara shot back his best withering glare and looked away.

  He kept his attention fixed on the condensation building at the base of his club soda, one droplet cutting a quick path down to dampen the napkin tucked underneath, as Claire said:

  “All right, then. Take a seat. And a beer, maybe—you’re serving, right, Leo?”

  “He’s seventeen. He’ll have water,” Leo said and grabbed a glass, holding it under the tap. His movements were still stiff, mechanical.

  Noam slid onto one of the stools nearer the door. Dara wished the bar weren’t quite so small after all. Even on the other side of the room, Noam was close enough Dara caught the way he glanced sidelong at him. Close enough to make out the tightening to his lips and the tension in his cheek.

  And really, how dare Noam play the victim? How dare he sit there with that sad, wounded look on his face, like he was the one who got hurt?

  Dara tugged his napkin out from beneath his glass and smoothed it flat on the bar in front of him.

  “Tell us what you’re offering, Noam,” Priya said, laser focused as ever. “You’re Lehrer’s protégé. How close are you, really?”

  “Close enough,” said Noam. “I see him almost every day. For lessons. And he’s taken me into the QZ before, looking for vaccine samples. He . . . relies on me.”

  Slowly, carefully, Dara began tearing his napkin into strips.

  “Do you have access to his apartment?”

  “Yes. Lehrer trusts me. I know how to get past his wards.”

  Not that he needed to most of the time, surely. Lehrer was probably there, always, to take them down himself. To tug Noam over the threshold and deeper into his web.

  And now that they had Noam, probably Black Magnolia wouldn’t even need Dara anymore. What use was he now? His face was too recognizable. He’d blown his cover at that gala. Lehrer was looking for him. He didn’t have any magic. Yes, he was trained in physical combat, but he’d have to get past so many layers of security to use it.

  Essentially, he was useless. Dead weight.

  “I’ve been collecting material from his apartment,” Noam said—and this, at last, made Dara look up.

  Noam had his water held between both hands, undrunk. At least he wasn’t still staring at Dara; he was focused on Claire, back straight and his feet hooked through the rungs of his stool.

  Not for the first time, Dara was struck with the thought that Noam seemed so . . . different from how he was six months ago. He didn’t think he could blame all of that on the clothes or Lehrer. But Dara missed the version of Noam that wore clothes he got from the thrift store—or, on one memorable occasion, from a dumpster. Dara had fallen in love with the Noam who drifted off surrounded by calculus books and made terrible decisions in the name of what he thought was right, who read Karl Marx and trusted himself more than he trusted anyone else.

  The old version of Noam didn’t have this Noam’s eyes—wary, watchful. Dara could never have imagined his version of Noam killing Tom Brennan.

  Killing whomever else Lehrer had made Noam murder since.

  “Dara started that, back when he was working with Sacha,” Noam went on. “I don’t know what he did with the stuff he found”—he glanced toward Dara, briefly—“but I’ve been trying to find anything I can that might help undermine Lehrer’s reputation. Because that’s the thing, right? We can’t just assassinate him or put him on trial. We have to turn public opinion against him. The same way we turned public opinion against Sacha to bring Lehrer into power.”

  He faltered on the we.

  “Do you think no one’s ever tried to dig up dirt on Lehrer before?” Dara interjected at last, dropping the final clump of ruined napkin onto the bar. “Like you said, I tried. But it takes a lot to sway public opinion. And even if you do, you really think Lehrer will care? He’ll just declare himself dictator and make them obey.”

  “It’s better than nothing,” Noam said. “And maybe that’s why I haven’t released any of the shit I’ve collected yet—I don’t know. You’re right. We need to do more.”

  Claire and Priya exchanged glances. Whatever the new plan was—the one to replace the gala plan—they weren’t sharing. Not until they’d vetted Noam better than this.

  Noam clearly noticed, because when he finally took a sip of his drink, he watched them over the rim the whole time. When he set the glass down again, he said, “We don’t have much time. If I’m going to play both sides of this, Lehrer will catch on eventually. Especially now that he knows Dara is back. I’d give us about four weeks, if that.”

  Dara’s next breath hitched in his chest, but he didn’t get a chance to r
espond.

  “But I can do better than find dirt on Lehrer,” Noam barreled on. “I told you we’ve been going into the quarantined zone. There are labs out there developing a magic vaccine. I’m sure all y’all know that already. And you also know Lehrer’s been collecting it. Studying it to find a way to prevent it from being effective.”

  Of course they knew. Dara had been there, in the QZ, when Priya stumbled into camp bloody and covered in dirt. She’d been one of those lab techs working on the vaccine. One of thirty at the location near Asheville.

  Lehrer had razed it to the ground.

  After that, the labs fell like burnt kindling. There was no vaccine left. Lehrer had stolen it all.

  “We know about the labs,” Claire said coolly. “I have friends who died in those labs, thanks to him.”

  More than just friends. Not everyone in the quarantined zone survived birth—the vaccine wasn’t ubiquitous yet, and with magic grown deep into the land, it infected everyone who lived there. A baby was born while Dara lived there—born, and infected, and sick, and dead: all within a week. They’d buried its corpse outside town, deep in that soil still teeming with old magic from Lehrer’s dirty bombs, scraping away at the earth with shrapnel. No one in Carolinia ever talked about that. Winning the war back in 2018—defeating the United States—came at this cost.

  The quarantined zone was more Lehrer’s child than Dara had ever been.

  “I can find the vaccine,” Noam said. “I’ll steal it. We’ll inject Lehrer with the vaccine, and then we’ll kill him.”

  Dara could practically taste it in the air. He knew they all did too, sharp and pungent: possibility.

  No matter whether they trusted Noam yet, this was a hard offer to disregard. All their plans revolved around suppressing Lehrer—and that had always been a long shot, Dara knew. Lehrer healed so quickly. He might metabolize the suppressant before it could bind to the proper receptors in his brain, the same way he couldn’t get drunk, no matter how well he liked that expensive scotch.

  They held out hope, still; suppressant was fast acting, and Lehrer couldn’t heal if he didn’t have magic. But that was probably unrealistic. Their best bet was, had always been, discovering some weakness of Lehrer’s to exploit.