THE ELECTRIC HEIR

by Lee, Victoria

  Leo drummed his fingers against the bar top. “Are you okay? You seem . . . off.”

  Diplomatic. “Fine. Couldn’t sleep.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “Glanced in a mirror lately, Zhang?” It came out more snappish than Dara intended, but he didn’t take it back.

  Leo just rolled his eyes and propped both elbows atop the counter, leaning in. His hair was messy now, at the end of the night; it hung lopsided over his face in that kind of carefree fashion Dara used to spend ages trying to achieve every morning.

  So irritating.

  “I used to know kids like you,” Leo said musingly. “Brash, arrogant. Vain. Bullies who started making fun of other people hoping no one would notice how broken they really were.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Lashing out to hide your own insecurities? Please, Dara. At least try to be original.”

  Dara opened his mouth to retort but immediately clamped it shut again. He wasn’t going to prove Leo’s point. Instead he narrowed his gaze and picked up his soda, swallowing venom down with the water.

  Leo laughed. “Here,” he said. “Have some peanuts. I need to check on the other customers.”

  The bar was emptying out, bit by bit, but with Leo gone Dara felt far too visible sitting here alone nursing a sparkling water and wearing this ugly, too-large sweater. He pulled out his burner phone and pretended to be texting. Of course, he didn’t know who he’d text. The only numbers he’d memorized were Claire’s and Priya’s. He didn’t dare contact Noam.

  Noam, who was probably in Lehrer’s apartment right now, lounging on Lehrer’s sofa and drinking Lehrer’s scotch, his phone screen perfectly in Lehrer’s view.

  On second thought, maybe he should text Noam. Something incriminating. Something dirty. Something Lehrer would see that would—

  Only, no. God. Of course he didn’t want that. He felt guilty even thinking it. He didn’t want Noam to get hurt.

  Unless . . . there was a chance Lehrer was totally different with Noam. The bond they shared might be different, more affectionate, less violent and—

  Dara scrubbed the heel of one hand over his face and made himself exhale hard. Stop it. This is unproductive.

  “Dara.”

  Dara lifted his head. Claire stood right next to his chair, arms crossed over her chest and brows raised.

  “You’re alive,” Dara said, the words coming out all on one breath. “I thought—when we didn’t hear—”

  “Yeah, I’m alive. And you’re out of your room.”

  Oh, right. “Sorry. Couldn’t sleep.” But that was rather beside the point, of course.

  He pushed at the legs of the stool next to his, dragging it out for Claire to sit. And, after a frustrated beat, she did.

  “What happened?” he pressed.

  Claire lifted a hand to get Leo’s attention. He dropped the dishcloth he’d been using to wipe out a cocktail shaker and came to join them, both hands braced against the edge of the counter.

  “Lehrer,” Claire said in low tones, “is far more powerful than he lets on.”

  “I could have told you that,” Dara said.

  “Yeah? Well, you didn’t tell us he could heal a goddamn head shot. I blew his brains out. He was suppressed. How the fuck did he survive?”

  Both she and Leo were looking at him expectantly. Dara shrugged. “I don’t know. You should ask Álvaro.”

  He had to admit he was surprised himself. He’d known Lehrer could perform magic so quickly that it seemed instantaneous—all those decades of knowledge so well engrained in his memory as to become intuitive—but this . . . this was something else entirely. Inhuman.

  But more than that, he was surprised Lehrer let himself get shot at all.

  “Are you sure your friend actually dosed Lehrer?” Leo asked, something almost apologetic lacing his voice. “If he’s Lehrer’s new favorite, he might have chickened out.”

  “He didn’t chicken out.”

  “You can’t possibly know that,” Claire said. “I’m not necessarily saying he betrayed us, just . . . all kinds of things could have happened. Maybe he never got a chance.”

  “Noam told me he dosed him,” Dara insisted. “And if he said he dosed him, he dosed him. End of story.”

  Claire and Leo exchanged glances, and Leo sighed. “I hope you know we’re taking your word on this. It better not backfire.”

  Dara couldn’t bring himself to reassure them.

  “Well, Álvaro was right about one thing,” Claire said grimly. “We’re definitely gonna need that vaccine.”

  Dara lost track, sometimes, of the fact it had been over a year since he first met Noam Álvaro.

  November 2123—that was the month, even if Dara couldn’t remember the precise date. But he remembered everything else with the kind of crystalline clarity that accompanied the most formative events in one’s life: first kills, first kisses, first fucks.

  First loves.

  He’d hated Álvaro so much at first. He’d hated Álvaro’s stupid ill-fitting clothes, his gratingly southern accent, his penchant for eating crunchy pork rinds during the sad parts of movies. Hated the way Noam tilted toward Lehrer as if Lehrer were the only light source in the universe.

  But Dara couldn’t stay out of his mind.

  Past that angry, devil-may-care façade, Noam Álvaro was . . . more. Dara could have spent hours listening to him internally debate the merits of communism versus anarcho-syndicalism, changing his mind every two seconds, it felt like, only to get distracted because someone brought up the Velvet Underground (which, as Dara had learned, was Noam’s favorite vintage band).

  Dara knew he was a selfish person himself. But he’d been in a lot of minds—selfishness was a universal trait. Unless you were Noam Álvaro. Then your thoughts were a mess of anger and idealism, tilted so sharply toward the greater good that anything else, everything else, became ephemera. It was one of the things that made Álvaro so frustrating, so impossible to talk to. It was a naivete that couldn’t be shattered by anything Dara said. Worse, Dara wasn’t sure he wanted to shatter Noam. He feared Noam would put himself back together all wrong, the pieces mismatched, his mind taking on the same dingy patina as everyone else’s.

  Besides, Noam didn’t see Dara the way other people did. He had no idea who Dara was, politically speaking—he didn’t know Lehrer had adopted Dara as a child or what that meant. Therefore, he didn’t see Dara as someone to be used. In fact, he spent most of his time thinking Dara was insufferable.

  Noam thought about Dara quite a lot, actually.

  One time Ames had dragged them all out to a club, and afterward they’d sat in a little twenty-four-hour diner on the outskirts of town that served floppy waffles drowning in corn syrup and shriveled-looking strawberries. Dara had eyed his plate and promptly asked the waiter to bring him a bowl of lemon slices, which he ate plain while Noam bloody Álvaro stuffed his face with 1,020 calories worth of preservatives and carbs.

  “Shall we order you a second serving?” Dara had said dryly once Noam had consumed the last bite of waffle—although not without smearing it around to soak up all the extra syrup first.

  Noam had glanced up, his amber eyes meeting Dara’s across the table. Dara ignored the little thrill that rolled down his spine.

  “Not all of us can survive on lemon slices and sour grapes, Shirazi.”

  And then Álvaro’d reached over and picked up Dara’s plate of waffles and eaten them too.

  “Don’t worry,” Ames had added, her elbow poking Dara in the ribs. “Dara gets plenty of calories from bourbon.”

  A comment perfectly crafted, of course, to make Dara want to crawl under the table and disappear.

  They walked back from there, even though it was two miles from the government complex through what Taye informed them all was a bad neighborhood. Dara could tell from the bitter twist to Noam’s thoughts that he’d interpreted the comment to mean Atlantian.

  “It seems fine
to me,” Dara had said. “There’s even a playground. It’s probably a lot of families.”

  Ames snorted. “You grew up in the government complex, Dara.”

  “And you both grew up in Forest Hills. What’s your point?”

  Noam just kept walking, his gaze fixed on the broken concrete of the sidewalk a few paces ahead. And suddenly Dara was irritated—with all of them, including himself. Because Noam clearly wasn’t going to point out that he’d grown up in a neighborhood a lot worse than this one. That worse just appeared to be a synonym for poor. And even if there were violent criminals lurking in the bushes, they’d hardly stand a chance against four Level IV cadets at the height of their powers. The damage that a single word from Dara Shirazi could do against someone from this neighborhood was a whole lot worse than anything they might do to him.

  “Whatever,” Ames said. “I’m calling a car.”

  The cab met them at an upcoming intersection. Ames and Taye piled into the back seat, but Noam held back, shaking his head.

  “It’s a nice night,” Noam said. “I think I’m just going to walk the rest of the way back.”

  “Are you sure? It’s our treat,” Taye offered, which was of course the stupidest thing he could possibly have said.

  “Pretty sure. Thanks.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Dara said abruptly, taking a step back up onto the curb.

  Noam grimaced. “You don’t have to. I don’t need protection.”

  “Don’t worry—I’d just as soon let the serial killer have you.” Dara shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m feeling queasy, that’s all. I need the fresh air.”

  And of course there was nothing Noam could say in response to that. He’d shrugged and let Dara fall into step beside him as the cab peeled away, taillights vanishing over the dark horizon.

  “I’m sorry I stole the rest of your food,” Noam said after a while.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’ll buy you another waffle.”

  Dara snorted. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

  Noam laughed and kicked half a broken beer bottle into the grass. There was a warm quality to his mind all of a sudden. Dara wanted to curl in closer to that heat, let it sink from Noam’s skin into his.

  “So you really like lemons, huh?” Noam said.

  “Shut up, Álvaro.”

  “Well, at least we know why you’re queasy.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You might as well have swallowed a glassful of battery acid.”

  “I happen to like battery acid.”

  Dara could tell Noam was trying not to laugh again, sensed him purse his lips to hold back a smile. Noam was unable to come up with a response; Dara relished his temporary victory. He had the sudden urge to bump his shoulder against Noam’s and knock him off the sidewalk, half hoped that if he did, Noam might retaliate and bump him back. Then maybe they’d walk the rest of the way back to the government complex like that, elbows brushing, Dara’s heart in his throat.

  Upon reflection, Dara had loved Noam since the moment they met. But this was the night he always thought of as the night he first knew, down in his soul, that he’d never feel this way about anyone else, ever again. Noam had crawled his way into Dara’s mind and planted himself there, a root system tangled into Dara’s thoughts and Dara’s telepathy.

  Inextricable.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  NOAM

  It snowed again the evening of the second meeting Noam attended of the Black Magnolia.

  He was soaked to the core as he let himself into Leo’s bar, hair plastered cold to his forehead. The umbrella he’d borrowed from Lehrer had done little to preserve him from the snow when the winds were blowing practically at gale force. The weather had been terrible ever since Carolinia’s only meteorpath died in Lehrer’s coup; according to the news anchors, this was the worst storm in half a decade.

  But that hadn’t stopped the Black Magnolia from holding their meeting at the regularly scheduled time. No way to communicate a change in plans, after all—Noam and Holloway both couldn’t be contacted on their government-issue phones. All communication happened in person, always, and “in person” relied on a steady schedule.

  Holloway was already there, at least, perched on a barstool and nursing a gin martini. A tiny bead of relief burst in Noam’s chest—part of him had worried they’d decide involving Noam was too great a risk. That he’d show up here to a locked door and a CLOSED sign in the window.

  That he’d never see Dara again.

  So although Noam never thought he’d consider Maxim Holloway to be a familiar face, he smiled as he sat down in the seat to Holloway’s left.

  “You look dry.”

  “I took a car.” Holloway’s gaze dropped down the length of Noam’s form, taking in his sodden sweater and squelching boots. “Can’t Lehrer at least spring for a bus pass?”

  Noam made a face. “Buses aren’t running. Blizzard conditions—old fashioned, thanks,” he added when Leo approached.

  Leo’s gaze narrowed. “I told you. I’m not serving you if you’re underage.”

  “Somehow,” Holloway drawled, scrolling through emails on his phone, “I think losing your liquor license should be the least of your worries, Mr. Zhang.”

  “Not happening. Besides. All I have is bottom-shelf rye, which I’m told isn’t good enough.”

  Noam made a face. “Honestly, I can’t taste the difference.”

  Leo laughed, even though Noam didn’t see how that was funny. He slapped a coaster down in front of Noam and headed down the bar to pour Noam a soda.

  “So,” Holloway murmured, still not looking up from his phone; Noam resisted the intense urge to reach into the cell drive with technopathy and read along with him. “I hear this whole Atlantia annexation plan of Lehrer’s was your idea.”

  “Is that what Lehrer said?”

  Holloway turned toward Noam at last, gaze steady and curious. “Certainly. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he asks you to collaborate with me to construct a palatable way to present it to the public.”

  Noam’s chest was overtight, ribs restricting around his lungs. He took his drink from Leo as soon as the man returned, covering up the twist of his lips with a long swallow. A mistake—the soda settled odd in his stomach, made him queasy. But when he lowered the glass, at least, he was in control.

  “Then we’ll have an excuse to meet in private,” Noam said, turning his gaze back to Holloway, whose mouth twitched in half a smile.

  “That we will.”

  The door opened again. Noam felt the gust of cold air at the back of his neck and reached for his collar, tugging it up to cover his nape. Dara swept into the room like a black storm cloud—and with an expression to match.

  “Probably my fault,” Noam muttered to no one in particular.

  As predicted, Dara headed straight across to the bar. He slapped something down on the counter between Noam and Holloway—a folded-up newspaper. Noam twisted round in his chair to look.

  Front of page six: a half-page photo of Noam and Lehrer, in color, captioned Chancellor Lehrer Makes Time to Mentor Level IV Protégé.

  The worst part was Noam remembered exactly when this was taken: a week ago, on their way back from the grocery store. Lehrer had a bag in hand. Noam was . . . god, Noam was even wearing one of Lehrer’s old vintage Rolling Stones shirts. They’d gone home afterward and baked lemon cake, laughing in the kitchen, Lehrer singing along to AC/DC on vinyl. It was sickeningly domestic. It was—

  Holloway picked up the paper to take a closer look, but Noam was already looking for Dara, who was down at the far end of the bar sipping a club soda and chatting with Leo. He didn’t even glance in Noam’s direction.

  “Let’s get started,” Claire announced, clapping her hands to get their attention.

  Silence fell, punctuated by the clink of drinks glasses and the flick of Dara’s lighter as he held it up to a cigarette.

  “So clearly we have a problem,”
Claire said. “Don’t know if you’ve all seen the news, but it seems our immortal friend is even more immortal than we all were led to believe. Álvaro was right; suppressants won’t work on Lehrer.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up, by the way,” Noam said bitterly. “If Lehrer had realized I dosed him, I’d be dead right now.”

  “Sorry about that,” Claire said, although she didn’t sound all that sorry. “Name of the game. We didn’t know we could trust you. But now we need a plan B.”

  Yeah. And they were going to spend the next thirty minutes dancing around the obvious, too, if no one stopped them.

  “The vaccine,” Noam said. “I don’t see what other option we have. No single one of us is powerful enough to match Lehrer.”

  Maybe Dara, maybe once. But that was a long time ago.

  “A plan that relies on you finding said vaccine,” Priya interjected, her odd accent—some hybrid of Atlantian and Texan, perhaps unique to those who had grown up in the quarantined zone—as smooth as butter.

  “My odds are better than most. Unless you have another idea?”

  Noam let the question hang in the air, Priya and Claire trading glances—then Priya glanced toward Dara, one brow raised. Dara stabbed at his club soda with his straw.

  “We have to,” Dara said. “The vaccine should work.” The words I think tagged along on the tail of that sentence, unspoken but still heard. “But we can’t just inject him and kill him and hope for the best. You’ve seen how everyone’s reacted to the assassination attempt. The people adore him.”

  “We need to fix public opinion,” Holloway confirmed. “It’s as you said last time, Dara. We have to undermine his entire administration. We can’t let him become a martyr like his brother.”

  Dara nodded slowly. “And we can’t move too quickly either. Even if we were to release all the material I collected last year right now, it wouldn’t be enough. People will be confused. Ambivalent. And in ambivalence, people will always choose to maintain the status quo. It’s simple loss aversion—” Dara must have noticed the way they were all looking at him, flat-expressioned. “Tversky and Kahneman, 1991,” he added impatiently, like that was supposed to clarify anything.