Rathbone: Reasonably aware, but with some caveats. It is widely known in Carolinia that the nations as they exist today were formed from the only land remaining on the continent that had not yet been infected with magic. What is less known, of course, is that in the early days after the US government fell, Calix Lehrer and the early Carolinian government detonated a number of biological weapons containing the magic virus throughout the continent. We could have had Chicago, Toronto, a great deal of California . . . instead, Lehrer infected as much of the continent with magic as he possibly could.
Ariel: Why did he stop? Why not infect the entire continent—the entire world?
Rathbone: It was a political ploy. He had the means to infect the entire planet. But Lehrer stopped the bombings as soon as he was granted the full extent of the demands he made from the rest of the world during the establishment of Carolinia. It would be one thing if Lehrer had died at a normal old age and been succeeded by someone else. But with Lehrer still alive, holding power in Carolinia, that same threat has sustained Carolinia into the modern day. No nation dares undermine Carolinian autonomy. It’s why we have relatively open trade with the Carolinians despite limited diplomacy and sustained Carolinian isolationism. Lehrer has already established what he is capable of, how far he’s willing to go to get what he wants. He only needed to make an example of us once. Now the world will never forget.
That is Calix Lehrer’s legacy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
NOAM
A car waited on the tarmac when they landed in Dallas, black with tinted windows.
“I need to return to base,” Major General García told Noam before he disembarked, leaning with one elbow braced against a seat back and her hand curled in a loose fist. “That car will take you to the hotel.”
“Okay,” Noam said, but she still didn’t move—kept her arm where it was, blocking the aisle.
“Listen,” she said after a moment, tone softening, and all at once Noam felt like he’d swallowed ice, because he’d never heard García use that tone. Not ever. “What happened in Houston . . . you did the right thing.”
Those words curdled in Noam’s gut like sour milk.
“Oh,” he said awkwardly. “Thanks.”
A small smile tugged at one corner of her lips, and after a beat she reached out and squeezed his upper arm. “We’ll talk more, later. When we’re both safely back in Carolinia.”
She let him go, then, down the gangway and across the airfield toward the waiting car. For a moment, sitting there in the back seat with the doors shut and fresh air-conditioning blowing through his hair, Noam wondered if he was supposed to say something, tell the AI their destination maybe. But then, slowly, they rolled forward, and the front console navigation display switched to show a map into the city center.
Noam leaned back against the black leather seat and shut his eyes.
He must have been more tired than he thought; he dozed off somewhere between the airport and Dallas’s downtown, lurching awake only when the car rolled to a stop outside the Wilshire Hotel.
And the Wilshire Hotel was . . . well, it was a goddamn hotel all right. The façade was all limestone and tall windows, and when Noam stepped through the old-fashioned swinging doors into the lobby, he felt like this whole damn place was designed to make it obvious people like Noam Álvaro didn’t belong here.
So he took his time crossing that marble floor, trailing dust and dirt and soot in his wake.
The man at the front desk eyed him dubiously as he approached. It was only after he was in speaking distance that the man’s gaze fixed on the surname patch on Noam’s uniform.
“Mr. Álvaro,” he said, with a lilted note of surprise. “We weren’t expecting you so . . .”
“So dirty?”
“So soon,” the man revised. “You’re in room 904. And—Chancellor Lehrer wanted me to inform you he expects your presence as soon as you arrive. Suite 1200.”
Of course he did.
“Thank you,” Noam said, and he followed the man’s directions toward the bank of elevators that stood past the desk on the other side of the lobby.
As soon as the golden elevator doors slid shut behind him, Noam exhaled a heavy breath. What would Lehrer do if Noam just . . . didn’t show up? If he went to his own room and crawled in bed and refused to emerge for three days?
Only that was a dumb question. Lehrer would use electromagnetism to open the door and come in and drag him out. And he wouldn’t be angry. Just disappointed.
Noam punched the button for floor 12.
Lehrer’s was the only door on that floor, because of course it was. Noam knocked.
The sound of footsteps on a tile floor, and the door swung open.
Lehrer was in civilian clothes, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows and his collar undone. His gaze slid down the length of Noam’s body, taking in the disheveled uniform and blood-smeared face, but he stepped aside to let Noam in all the same.
The penthouse was . . . massive, like the ground floor of someone’s fancy house, all gleaming mahogany furniture and fresh flowers in crystal vases, the floor-to-ceiling windows providing a clear view of downtown Dallas. Noam didn’t bother pretending not to stare; he twisted his head to take it all in, from the perfectly carved wall molding to the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
“I told them I wanted a single room,” Lehrer commented; Noam glanced back as Lehrer shut the door by hand, a dry smile twisting his lips. “Nevertheless, they insisted.”
“It’s very . . .”
“Ostentatious?”
“I was gonna say obnoxious.”
Lehrer snorted and stepped farther into the suite, Noam frozen in place as he drew closer. Lehrer’s fingers pressed into Noam’s cheek, thumb curving under his jaw, and Lehrer tilted Noam’s face toward the right.
Could he tell how Noam’s breath went cold in his lungs? How Noam’s skin felt too hot under Lehrer’s touch?
He’d drawn his Faraday shield back up on the plane—but he’d been exhausted, drained. What if it wasn’t enough?
“I wish you would’ve cleaned this,” Lehrer said, and one finger slid up to graze Noam’s cheekbone.
Noam sucked in a sharp gasp, a spark of pain flaring when Lehrer bore down. For one reeling moment he thought that was Lehrer—some sadistic punishment for walking in here covered in dust and mud—but when Lehrer drew his hand away, there was blood on his fingertips. Not the Texan’s blood, presumably.
“Oh,” Noam said, lifting his hand now to touch the laceration on his cheek. The flesh around it was bruised, throbbing. “I didn’t even notice.”
Lehrer wiped his hand on a nearby tablecloth, even though he could have evanesced the blood just as easily. “Do you want me to heal it?”
Once upon a time, Noam would have said no. Had said no, wanting to preserve bruises as trophies of war. Now he just thought about the people he’d killed.
About the bruises on Dara’s thighs, the ones Noam had kissed.
“Yes,” he said.
Lehrer reached for him again, but this time his grasp was firm and intentional; a shudder ran through Noam as he felt Lehrer’s magic stitch through his torn flesh, doing the arcane work of regenerating cells and summoning lymphocytes to consume any early infection. When his fingers skimmed Noam’s cheek again, this time it was painless and smooth.
But Lehrer didn’t let go. Instead he curved that hand back around the nape of Noam’s neck and tugged him closer, leaning down to press a kiss to Noam’s lips.
Noam kissed him back, told himself it was just to maintain the illusion of interest—that there wasn’t some part of him that still grew warm thinking how easy it would be to skim his touch down from Lehrer’s waist to his narrow hips.
Noam was still trying to come up with a fresh excuse to stay out of Lehrer’s bed when Lehrer drew back. He brushed his thumb over Noam’s lower lip, that quartz gaze still fixed on Noam’s mouth.
“Go clean yourself up. You reek of
death.”
Lehrer released him, moving away instead of closer—toward the bar cart, picking up a glittering decanter of scotch.
Noam’s heart was still a trapped animal hurling itself against his rib cage. He made himself inhale, one hand—his right hand, the one Lehrer couldn’t see—clenching in a fist.
“I don’t have any other clothes,” Noam said.
Lehrer turned toward him again, lifting that dram of whisky to his lips. He took a small sip, swallowed, then said: “I’ll have some delivered. They’ll be here long before we have to leave for dinner.”
Noam blinked. “Dinner?”
“Yes. With the Texan president and his wife and some of their cabinet members.” Lehrer lowered the scotch glass to hip level, finger tapping against its rim. “I’ve already told them you’ll be attending, in your official capacity as Atlantian representative.”
Noam didn’t want to go to dinner. How the hell was he supposed to sit there and look right at the leaders of this godforsaken country and pretend he hadn’t killed thousands of their soldiers just this morning?
He swallowed around something hot and leaden in his throat. “I can’t. I’m not a diplomat.”
Lehrer waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry—I’ll do all the talking. You’re just there as window dressing.” He arched a brow. “I want you to be able to make an easy escape. The dinner is hosted in the presidential residence; all their tech is protected by antiwitching technology. Find a computer—any computer—and program us a back door past their firewall.”
Okay, well at least that was something Noam could do. He gave Lehrer a half smile. “All right. Consider it done.”
Because, yeah, maybe Texas was siding with the Black Magnolia, but that didn’t make them not a country led by antiwitching genocidal tyrants. If Lehrer managed to take Texas down before the resistance killed him, so much the better.
The en suite bathroom was as elaborate as the rest of the penthouse. Noam shed his ruined uniform and climbed into Lehrer’s massive glass-walled shower, letting out a soft sigh as the hot water pounded down on his back and sluiced away all those layers of grime and blood. The water ran brown as it swirled round the drain, and Noam shut his eyes, scrubbing both hands over his healed face.
Only all he could see then was those lines of unarmed Texan soldiers falling like cut flowers as Noam’s unit gunned them down.
His eyes flew open, and he tipped forward, pressing his brow against the wet glass as he sucked in a series of ragged breaths.
It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.
Repeating the litany didn’t make it any less untrue.
How the—how the hell did Lehrer do it? Shut off his conscience and just . . . do what had to be done?
The shower steam was suddenly oppressive, dizzying as a sauna. Noam grabbed a washcloth and scrubbed off as efficiently as he could, rubbing a round of shampoo into his hair and rinsing off the suds. The nausea abated only when Noam pushed open the shower door and stepped out onto the plush white bathmat.
Lehrer was on the phone when Noam emerged from the bathroom, towel wrapped tight round his waist. Lehrer glanced over at him, midsentence talking about tariffs, and pointed left.
Noam followed his direction, padding through the formal sitting room and through a set of heavy wooden doors into what must be Lehrer’s bedroom.
Lehrer—or someone else—had already unpacked his suitcases, all Lehrer’s suits hung on neat hangers from the rack of his walk-in closet. Noam flipped past his military uniform and a series of tailored jackets to find a plain T-shirt and a pair of flannel bottoms. He had to roll the waist of those three times over to keep the hems from dragging on the floor, but it was a far sight better than lounging around Lehrer’s room in a goddamn towel.
Lehrer was still talking when Noam emerged, pacing back and forth through the main living area and far more absorbed in that conversation than in Noam. Even so, when Noam made for the door, Lehrer broke conversation to say, “No, stay here.”
Noam paused, arching a brow. Lehrer gazed back unblinkingly, and of course, Noam broke first. He dropped down onto one end of an antique-looking sofa and propped his bare feet up on the opposite armrest. He shot off a few texts to Bethany, Ames, and Taye via technopathy, but only Bethany replied immediately:
Everything’s under control here, don’t worry. All the Level IV students are being recalled to Carolinia until the peace talks are over.
Peace talks?
Noam looked toward Lehrer again, but Lehrer was at the bar cart pouring a fresh drink and didn’t notice.
They’re having peace talks? he sent back.
Guess so, Bethany responded. Who knows, maybe something’ll actually come of it this time.
Something had come of it last time. Carolinia had refused to sign the treaty, refused to decimate its witching population, and had closed its borders. That was what passed for peaceful resolution when dealing with Texas.
Only . . .
Peace talks. Did that mean—
Lehrer hadn’t said a word about Noam’s performance at the airport. Did Lehrer consider that success or failure?
What if the only reason they were in peace talks at all was because Noam had failed to hold back his battalion—because they never took Houston?
“Feeling better?” Lehrer said, skimming long fingers through Noam’s damp hair.
Noam hadn’t even noticed he was off the phone.
“Yes.” Noam tilted his head back to look at him, but Lehrer was already crossing round the sofa; he nudged Noam’s legs aside and took the other cushion, settling himself in with one arm slung over the seat back.
“What are you thinking about?”
Noam put his feet back down on the floor, curling his toes in the thick rug. “Bethany said we’re in peace talks with Texas.”
“We are,” Lehrer confirmed. But he didn’t look angry. In fact, he smiled, hand dropping to Noam’s shoulder to trace little circles on the knob of his collarbone. “You did very well out there. I’m pleased.”
Noam’s gaze snapped up to meet Lehrer’s.
Lehrer laughed softly. “You ought to trust yourself more. When your classmate made a poor decision, you reacted swiftly and decisively. You saved two Level IV students from certain death. You secured the Houston airport. And with that, we almost don’t need the city itself—they have no more supply chain. They’re effectively besieged.”
“We’re winning,” Noam said, the relief like cool water plunging into his veins.
“We’re winning,” Lehrer said. That hand on Noam’s shoulder trailed down his arm; Lehrer laced their fingers together on the seat between them. “Thanks to you.”
Noam had always loved the way Lehrer’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. But he also knew, now, how easily that gaze went cold.
Noam wet his lips, his hand tightening around Lehrer’s. “You never sent orders,” he said. “I—we had to do something. Why didn’t you give us orders?”
“You haven’t figured that out already?”
Noam stared at him. Lehrer’s thumb moved in a steady pattern against the back of Noam’s hand.
“No,” Noam croaked out eventually. “No, I haven’t, actually. We could have died. All of us.”
“If you’d died, then my trust in you would have been grossly misplaced,” said Lehrer calmly. “But you didn’t die. You survived. Noam . . . you showed great leadership ability today.” He smiled, letting go of Noam’s hand to graze his touch along Noam’s jaw instead, fingertips lingering at Noam’s mouth. Noam hardly dared to breathe. “I won’t live forever, you know. Even with all my abilities, I am not immortal. I need an heir.”
Noam’s heart was beating too fast, something hot and liquid spreading beneath his skin. And maybe this was the wrong move, but it didn’t feel wrong, it—
Noam caught Lehrer’s lips in a kiss. He felt Lehrer smile against his mouth as Lehrer pressed Noam back against the sofa, and Noam . . .
After a beat he remembered to put his hands on Lehrer, too, smoothing from his shoulders down to his waist.
“I love the way you look in that shirt,” Lehrer murmured, already sliding his touch up under the hem to find bare skin. “I’ll like it even better once you take it off.”
Five minutes, Noam told himself. Just five minutes, long enough to make Lehrer think—believe—
But already he was grasping Lehrer’s wrist, pushing his hand back down to the safer territory of Noam’s hip. “I’m too tired,” he said when Lehrer lifted his head to give him a questioning look.
A tight sigh, but Lehrer pushed up, withdrawing back to his own end of the sofa. He drew out a cigarette and lit it with a snap of pyromancy, exhaling smoke toward the window. “It’s always something.”
“I’m sorry,” Noam said, curling back into a seated position. “It’s not intentional. I just . . .”
Lehrer cut him a sharp sideways glance, his eyes as hot as the cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Noam’s excuses died in his chest.
“I’ve been very patient with you.”
Noam’s stomach shriveled. “I know.”
Lehrer took another drag from his cigarette. It had been five weeks now since Noam went undercover. And for a reeling moment Noam wondered if this was it—if Dara might prove his point right here and now. If Lehrer ordered him into his bed, Noam would have no choice but to obey, Faraday shield or no Faraday shield. If he lost his cover, it was over. But all Lehrer said was: “Go back to your room.”
Noam didn’t need to be told twice. He left his dirty uniform in Lehrer’s hamper and took the service stairs down three floors to the room he’d been assigned. It was only after he shut the door behind him and turned the useless lock that he realized his hands were shaking.
THE ELECTRIC HEIR Page 25
