THE ELECTRIC HEIR

by Lee, Victoria

  Dara grimaced. “No, that pretty much covers it.”

  A flicker of guilt crossed her face like a shadow, and she reached out—then faltered, like she was going to grab his arm and then thought better of it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “It’s fine,” Dara said. “It’s true, anyway. Or it was.”

  “Still. Sorry. I’m not trying to ruin our joyous reunion, or whatever. You know . . . you know I’m glad to see you.”

  She was chewing on her lower lip, the skin already gone red and chapped. A thread of regret unspooled down Dara’s spine, tangling in his stomach. There’s nothing I can do. Nothing. He rested one hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

  “I know,” he said gently. “I’m glad to see you too.”

  He left her there on the barstool, catching Noam’s gaze somewhere near the back door. Noam followed three steps behind as Dara headed out into the back alley. The snow was deep enough now to be cold around Dara’s ankles, melting down into his socks. He pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and cupped a hand over his mouth to light one. His hands were numb; his thumb kept slipping on the lighter, each spark quickly eaten up in the cold air.

  “Goddamn it.”

  “Here,” Noam said. “Let me.”

  He tramped through the snow, closing the distance between them. He snapped his fingers and lifted a flame to the end of Dara’s cigarette. Dara inhaled smoke and the scent of Noam’s aftershave—since when did Noam wear aftershave?

  Noam’s hand lingered a beat too long on Dara’s, his fingertips still warm with pyromancy.

  “Thanks,” Dara muttered and exhaled his smoke away from Noam’s face. It had the added benefit of turning his cheek toward Noam—Dara had the distinct suspicion Noam had thought of kissing him, just then. He fixed his gaze at a spot on the brick wall of the opposite building until finally Noam stepped away.

  “So,” Noam said eventually. “What’s up?”

  Dara turned back to him. Noam still managed to look hopeful, even with Lehrer’s watch on his wrist, even wearing Lehrer’s taste in clothes with Lehrer’s touch written all over his skin.

  “Ames is under persuasion,” Dara said. “She’s a spy for Lehrer.”

  He watched Noam process that information in waves: each shifting emotion a ripple across his expression—skepticism, realization. Horror.

  Dara set his mouth in a grim line—it shouldn’t be so satisfying. It was terrible. It was Dara’s best friend with her mind caught in Lehrer’s puppet strings. But. Noam believed him. And that wasn’t nothing.

  “How do you know?” Noam said in lowered tones, like he thought Ames might have her ear pressed to the bar door.

  “I know her,” Dara said. “I know how persuasion victims look. How they act. And what’s more, I know Lehrer.” He fixed Noam with a steady look. “You keep making the same mistake, Álvaro. You keep assuming Lehrer will act as you would act. It would never occur to you to enslave the will of a girl you’ve known since her childhood. But Lehrer doesn’t have your conscience, and he isn’t stupid. He doesn’t trust you, no matter what he says. He has to make sure.”

  Noam’s throat shifted as he swallowed. There was snow caught in his hair, dusting the lines of his shoulders. He looked like a statue slowly frosting over. “I know he doesn’t trust me,” he said slowly. “He put me under suppressants. Questioned me. But then I thought . . .”

  “You thought that would be enough for him,” Dara finished. He arched a brow. “Like I said. Maybe it would be enough for you, but—”

  “But, Lehrer.” Noam sighed and scrubbed one hand through his snow-damp hair. He had his eyes squeezed shut, mouth twisted in a knot. Dara didn’t need telepathy with him; Noam wore his heart on his sleeve. But when Noam finally looked back to Dara, his gaze was even. “Okay. Ames is under persuasion.”

  “Anything we say in front of her will get right back to Lehrer,” Dara said.

  “Right. And I think we should leave her in place.” Noam shrugged. “Better the devil we know.”

  It wasn’t what Dara expected him to say. It was exactly the kind of thing Dara himself might have come up with, but Noam wasn’t like that. He’d never seen his friends as weapons to hone and use. The Noam that Dara knew would have insisted on some harebrained rescue mission, would’ve tied Ames up in Dara’s apartment until he could figure out how to break the spell.

  Dara’s Noam wouldn’t say things like, “It’ll help my cover if Ames only reports back the same things I report. We can feed her misinformation to lead Lehrer off track.”

  Dara let out a breath. Well, Noam wasn’t wrong—and if he was finally thinking like Lehrer, Dara had no right to complain. This was what he said he wanted. “I agree,” he said at last. “But it does mean we’ll have to find other times to meet too. Times that Ames and Lehrer don’t know about.”

  Noam nodded. “I can make it work.” And from the set of his jaw, the fierce gleam in his eyes, Dara almost believed him.

  He glanced toward the door, still shut. Ames was still in there, probably getting suspicious. And whether she wanted to or not, she’d have to report those suspicions to Lehrer. “We should go back inside.”

  “Wait,” Noam said. He reached for Dara’s arm—almost grasped, but instead his fingertips awkwardly grazed Dara’s shoulder, then dropped toward his elbow.

  Dara’s fingertips were numb. He pressed his hands against his thighs, for what little good that did. “What?”

  The snow was falling more heavily now, blanketing the alley and making the street seem oddly silent, or maybe that was Noam, building a ward. Without magic, Dara couldn’t tell.

  Noam blinked, a few flakes of snow falling from his lashes to dust his cheeks instead. “We need to talk about the bartender. Leo.”

  “What about him?”

  Noam bit his lower lip, an expression he used to make all the time back in the barracks, usually when he was considering how to say something he knew Dara didn’t want to hear. Dara frowned.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know if we can trust him,” Noam said, thrusting his hands into his pockets and locking his elbows in against his sides. “I mean . . . how well do you really know this guy? Who’s to say he won’t turn us in as soon as he has enough information to make a case?”

  “Lehrer already knows about the Black Magnolia. Or have you forgotten?”

  “I’m not worried he’s working for Lehrer. I’m worried he might turn us in to the police.” Noam’s voice was firmer now, like he was talking himself into it even as he spoke. “If we get arrested by the Ministry of Defense, Lehrer isn’t gonna intervene. We’ll all get guillotined. Just like Sacha’s supporters.”

  Dara’s eyes narrowed. “I should think I’m a better judge of character than you are.”

  “Or maybe you think he’s good looking.”

  That hit Dara like a poison dart shot between the ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. It came out in a breathless sort of laugh. “Is that so?”

  Noam visibly recoiled, shaking his head once and drawing a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t—I don’t know why I said that.”

  “I do.” Dara’s pulse was a drum beating in his stomach, a rhythm that reverberated through his whole body. He didn’t even feel the cold anymore, even though ice had crystallized on his shirtsleeves, seeping down into his marrow. A quick and vicious smile cut across his lips. “You’re afraid I’ll fall in love with someone who isn’t you. You don’t even distrust Leo—you just want him gone. And you’ve been around Lehrer enough you’ll do whatever’s necessary to take back what you think is yours.”

  He didn’t let Noam respond to that. He just gave him one last derisive look and headed back inside—into the gold light of the bar, back to the building that would imprison him until Lehrer was dead, and to the girl who was now as trapped in Lehrer’s thrall as everyone else.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  NOAM

 
; It was an awkward walk home through the snow, Ames and Noam trudging along side by side and not speaking. Noam didn’t dare open his mouth—he worried he might say something stupid, like, Promise me you aren’t under persuasion or Tell me you aren’t talking to Lehrer after this. Every time he stole a glance at her, she was staring at a spot on the sidewalk a few paces ahead of them, a muscle twitching in her jaw.

  Dara was right. And now that Noam knew that, it seemed impossible that he hadn’t noticed earlier.

  She didn’t say a word to him until they were back in the atrium of the government complex. Then she turned to face him in the middle of the room, melted snow dripping off her coat and puddling on the marble floor, and said: “Are you sleeping in the barracks tonight?”

  Whatever part of Noam hadn’t withered into ash in that alley with Dara died inside him now. He tried to keep his posture easy, casual, even though he felt like all his blood had gone dry. “I have a meeting with Lehrer.”

  Ames gazed back at him unblinkingly. Then she made a rough sound in the back of her throat and shook her head. “Figures. Fine. Go have your eleven p.m. meeting. I guess I’ll see you in the morning. Maybe.”

  “Ames—”

  “You know Bethany asks about you, right?” She had her arms folded over her chest, sodden hair plastered to her cheeks. Her eyes were brighter than he’d ever seen them, even those nights she came back from Raleigh dizzy and flush-cheeked with a bloody nose, her pupils gone wide. “All the time. She can’t figure out why you don’t ever come to the barracks anymore. Or to class. Or basic. I’m kind of running out of excuses to give her.”

  Noam clenched his jaw so hard he heard his teeth grinding together. “Tell her whatever you want. You’re clearly dying to just come out with whatever the hell it is you think—”

  “What I think?” Ames laughed and took a sharp step forward, bringing her close enough Noam had no choice but to move back. “Dara’s alive, Noam. He’s fucking—he’s alive. So you have to stop this fucking—this bullshit, okay?” She shoved him with both hands, making him stumble back again. She leaned in, bringing her face near his; he couldn’t tell if her skin was wet from the snow or if she was crying now. Every breath she took hitched in her throat. “You know what Lehrer did to him. You know.”

  And Noam wasn’t—he couldn’t deny it, couldn’t look her in the eye and . . . there was a strange weight in his chest, heavy and painful as a bullet. He shook his head once, twice, sucked in a shallow lungful of air that didn’t do much against the way the room had started spinning.

  Ames was right. Dara was right. And Noam was the worst fucking person in the world, because—

  “You two, break it up!”

  One of the guards was halfway across the atrium already, a hand resting on his comm. Ames stepped back, her mouth twisted in a cruel smile.

  “I’ll see you around, Álvaro.”

  She turned on her heel and stalked off toward the training wing, the wet soles of her boots squeaking on the floor and leaving a watery trail in her wake. He watched her go with a dark knot in his throat, one he couldn’t swallow down no matter how many times he tried.

  “Everything all right, Mr. Álvaro?” the guard asked when he was close, and Noam shook his head—then nodded, quickly, and forced half a laugh.

  “Yeah. Sorry. Fine. Just . . . it’s fine.”

  And he tried very hard not to think about when he’d become Mr. Álvaro. About when he’d become so much a fixture in this part of the government complex that the night guards knew him by name.

  It was a silent walk through the halls and up the stairs back to Lehrer’s apartment. He was starting to hate how empty the west wing was in the evenings. The silence made it too clear he wasn’t supposed to be here. Why he was here.

  He hesitated in Lehrer’s study, standing there on the plush carpet with his magic already tangled up in Lehrer’s wards.

  Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe he should go back to Level IV, like Ames said. It didn’t have to be a . . . a thing. It wasn’t like he and Lehrer were together. They just . . .

  He could end it all.

  Put Dara out of his misery.

  But if he did that, he’d give up any chance of finding the vaccine.

  Ames was right. Noam did know what Lehrer had done to Dara. And he was going to make sure Lehrer fucking suffered for it.

  He tugged down Lehrer’s wards, letting himself into the apartment. They re-formed behind him automatically, glittering gold threads knitting together in an impenetrable tapestry. The living room was dark, only a single lamp lit on the table by Lehrer’s usual armchair, which was empty. For a moment Noam thought maybe this was a sign after all, but then Lehrer’s voice drifted down the hall: “Come here, Noam.”

  There was no choice but to obey.

  Noam padded down the hall, damp socks squelching on the hardwood floor. Lehrer was in the bedroom, dressed in the T-shirt and loose flannels he usually slept in, a sheaf of paper held in one hand. He stood somewhere between the bathroom and the closet, like he’d been pacing back and forth before Noam showed up. He was barefoot.

  “I was wondering when you’d show up,” Lehrer said, cool gaze traversing Noam’s wet hair, then dipping down his body—Noam’s clothes as sodden as his socks. At last, his eyes flicked back up to Noam’s face. His mouth pressed into a thin line. “I take it the meeting ran late.”

  Noam got the hint. He shrugged off his sweater, peeling the wet fabric away from his skin. “Ames confronted me on my way out,” he said. “She made me take her with me. So. She’s involved now.”

  Which Lehrer knew already, of course—not that it showed on his face.

  “What else?”

  “Well, she definitely figured out about this.” Noam gestured broadly between himself and Lehrer. “She made that clear.”

  Lehrer waved a dismissive hand. “Inconsequential. Carter knows when to keep things to herself. The meeting, Noam.”

  “I told them you were worried about Texas,” Noam said. “Claire and Priya are going to try to get in touch with one of Claire’s Texan contacts, see if we can get our hands on their antiwitching tech schematics.”

  “Good. Play that out. What else?”

  “That was pretty much it. Lots of talk about the Atlantian independence protests. Oh—Claire is the one who shot you, by the way. Claire Jackson. Obviously that was a no-go, so they’re all fumbling around trying to come up with a plan B.”

  “And the plan B is . . . ?” Lehrer pulled a cigarette out of the case on his nightstand, holding it up to his mouth with his right, nondominant hand. Noam thought there was something a little rough about the way he lit the flame, a sharp snap of his fingers and an answering spark—but then again, maybe there wasn’t. Maybe Noam was getting paranoid, seeing violence even in the mundane.

  “There isn’t one. I’d tell you if there were.”

  Lehrer gave him a look, narrowed eyes keen even through the haze of smoke that drifted up in front of his face. “It sounds,” he said, “like a very disorganized revolution.”

  “Well, not everyone can be you and Adalwolf Lehrer.” Noam tossed his wet shirt into the hamper with telekinesis.

  “Evidently not. In fact, I’m sure you could come up with something better, given your training.” Lehrer put down the sheaf of papers he’d been working on and stepped closer to Noam, close enough he could smell the sweet-smoke scent of tobacco. Lehrer tilted his head to one side. “How would you kill me, Noam?”

  Noam faltered. He should have seen that question coming. Should have prepped for it—with Dara, maybe, or even on the walk home while Dara’s words were still ringing in his head: how he needed to think more like Lehrer.

  But not too much like Lehrer, apparently.

  “Oh,” he said. Shit. The obvious best answer was the one they were actually planning to attempt—could he say that? Would Lehrer think it was an impossible errand and laugh it off? Or would he double down the security on the vaccine, make twice as certain Noam
never discovered its location?

  Noam moved forward, narrowing the distance between them. Smiled, a slow smile, the kind of smile that has secrets. Lehrer’s hand—the one holding the cigarette—drifted down to his side, as if he already knew what Noam was going to do.

  “Let’s see,” Noam said softly, examining Lehrer with an even gaze. “You’re too powerful to kill by conventional means. You could block most magical attacks. And I suspect you heal too quickly for suppressants to be of any use.” He let the fingertips of one hand skim up Lehrer’s chest, drawing a faint line along his sternum. He felt the steady movement of Lehrer’s breath as his touch skimmed the skin at the base of his neck.

  Noam rose on the balls of his feet and pressed the heel of his hand forward, closing his fingers around Lehrer’s throat.

  “But maybe,” he said, “with superstrength . . .”

  He tightened his grasp only slightly. Lehrer’s eyes were half-lidded, gazing down at Noam and darkened in the dim light. Noam imagined gripping harder, and then harder still, until bruises bloomed like black flowers under Lehrer’s skin. Until he choked and grasped at Noam’s wrist, desperate for air.

  Noam’s smile sharpened, his thumb grazing up along the line of Lehrer’s carotid to press over his pulse point.

  Lehrer surged forward, one hand finding Noam’s hip and driving him back. Noam’s shoulders hit the wall, and Lehrer kissed him, leaning his weight in against Noam’s body. He tasted like smoke and whisky. The hand that held his cigarette skimmed through Noam’s hair, and for one reeling moment Noam was sure Lehrer would burn them both down together.

  Noam kissed back, that one hand staying in place on Lehrer’s throat, pushing against his windpipe; Lehrer made a soft, low noise, like a growl. Noam shivered.

  Lehrer’s hand smoothed up his bare ribs, then down, reaching for his belt. “Take these off,” he murmured against Noam’s lips.

  Cold water darted into Noam’s veins.

  Persuasion? It’d been half a year now, and Noam still couldn’t tell the difference—