Lehrer’s answering smile was brittle. “Perhaps this discussion would be better held tomorrow, during the official meeting.” He rose from his chair, downing the rest of his bourbon in one swallow and using telekinesis to float the glass down to its coaster. His cigarette had already vanished, presumably decomposed into its component atoms and scattered like dust.
The rest of them stood as well, ripples in the wake of Lehrer’s decision.
“Mr. President,” Lehrer said, shaking Méndez’s hand. “I look forward to continued diplomacy.”
Méndez escorted them to the front door, trailed by a pair of blank-faced aides carrying their winter coats. And Noam sensed the metal a second before he saw it, the syringe clutched in the grasp of one of those aides. That metal: an inch from Lehrer’s neck as the aide helped Lehrer into his coat.
A low laugh escaped Lehrer’s throat, and the needle ripped itself out of the aide’s grip, flying neatly into Lehrer’s instead.
“Nice try,” Lehrer said, examining the syringe with an appraising gaze.
“Chancellor,” Méndez gasped, his face gone the same sickly color as the wallpaper. “I—we—I’m so—”
Watching the Texan president fumble for some kind of explanation for the obvious assassination attempt was like watching a man beg for his life at the guillotine. Some of Sacha’s supporters had begged that way at their executions. Lehrer had taken no mercy.
“Well,” Lehrer went on, as if he hadn’t heard the president’s reply. A small smile toyed with the corners of his lips, and when he glanced up, it was to meet Noam’s gaze. Noam felt something in his chest go cold, and Lehrer’s mouth twitched. “One should always finish what one started.”
Lehrer shrugged off his coat and dinner jacket and passed them off to Pulver, who accepted the burden wordlessly. He seemed incapable of looking anywhere but Lehrer’s face, even as Lehrer flicked open his cuff link and rolled up his sleeve in quick, efficient movements.
And as Noam and Méndez and the others all watched, Lehrer slid the needle into his own vein and pressed the vaccine into his bloodstream.
“Sir,” Noam managed to get out, the word breaking like thin ice.
Lehrer drew the syringe free and tossed it into a nearby houseplant. A slim line of blood cut down the length of his forearm.
“Are you satisfied?” Lehrer asked Méndez with an arched brow.
“Chancellor . . .”
“I suppose you thought I was an idiot,” Lehrer said conversationally, rolling his sleeve down again and concealing the blood. “Have you heard of mithridatism? The term refers to an ancient king who poisoned himself with small doses of lethal toxins to develop an immunity. He feared his mother planned to assassinate him, apparently. Ever since an iteration of the vaccine surfaced in the quarantined zone . . . well, I could hardly let myself stay vulnerable to such a threat. I’ve been injecting myself with the virus for months. With the rate of evolutionary change in magic, it seems this vaccine is rather outdated for all the strains of virus that infect me these days.”
Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit—
Lehrer held up his wrist, and a gold spark of magic lit through the air; his cuff link affixed itself to his sleeve. Telekinesis.
The vaccine didn’t work.
Lehrer laughed softly and retrieved his jacket from Pulver’s arms, draping it over his shoulders once more and slipping the buttons through their holes by hand. “I suppose this means there will be no peace treaty after all,” Lehrer told Méndez, who stood there as if his feet had grown roots into the floor. “I wish you all the best . . . and my condolences, about Houston.”
Noam followed Lehrer in a frozen daze as they departed the presidential residence. He drifted down the drive, a mind floating far above his body, which was tethered to Lehrer’s as if by an invisible cord. He watched them both climb into the waiting government car. Watched himself lean into the far corner of the back seat like he could vanish into it, while Lehrer glanced down at his wristwatch.
“Only nine,” Lehrer said, sounding pleased. “The night is still young.”
He knows.
Nausea crawled up the back of Noam’s throat and he swallowed convulsively, both hands clenching in fists against his thighs.
Lehrer glanced sidelong at him. “I apologize for all the theatrics,” he said, as if that was what upset Noam. “But politics are just that—a play on the world stage. Better you learn that now.”
Noam tipped forward and pressed his head against his palms, staring at the floor of the car. A tremor had started up in his gut, spreading fast like a virus. “I wasn’t able to get in the Texan servers,” he told his own shoes. “I couldn’t get past security.”
Only silence answered. Noam stayed there, holding his breath in his mouth, until at last he couldn’t stand it anymore—he had to look up, twist around in his seat toward Lehrer.
Lehrer reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a slim silver cigarette case. He selected one and lit it with pyromancy, rolling down the window enough to blow his smoke toward the night sky.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Noam ventured, and Lehrer’s gaze met his again.
“I’m sure you are.”
He knows, that voice whispered again: He knows. Noam dragged a hand back through his hair, twisting the short strands around his knuckles and wishing he were anywhere else—somewhere he could vomit into a convenient bush without earning Lehrer’s false concern.
“Headache?” Lehrer said idly.
“Mmm.”
Lehrer took another drag off his cigarette. “Perhaps we should consider suppressants,” he said. “At least until these headaches subside.”
Noam stared at him, something sharp and venomous shooting through his veins. “What? Why?”
“Don’t forget I’ve been here before. With Dara. I can recognize the signs.”
“I’m not fevermad.”
“We’ll see.” Lehrer turned away from him now, focusing his gaze out the tinted window at the city that slid by outside, and left Noam to tilt his head against the back seat and count how many more days he could get away with this.
Whether it was still even worth it at all.
Video footage stolen from the offices of the Psychiatric Associates of Carolinia.
INT. DR. GLEESON’S OFFICE
Dr. Gleeson sits behind his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose, examining a file. He lifts his head at a knock on the door, but before he can rise, the door swings open, and another man enters.
Gleeson stands quickly, both hands braced atop his desk.
GLEESON: Mark? What are you doing here? Why—
Gleeson must have found the answer in Mark’s mind, because he goes visibly pale. An instant later Mark draws a gun from the back of his jeans and points it at Gleeson.
GLEESON: Mark. Put down the gun.
Mark says nothing. His hand visibly shakes as his thumb pulls back the hammer.
GLEESON: You don’t have to do this, Mark, you . . .
MARK: He told me to.
GLEESON: Who? (A beat later.) Calix? Calix told you to kill me?
MARK: I have to.
GLEESON: Mark. Mark, listen to me: he’s trying to frame you, don’t—
Mark pulls the trigger. A gunshot explodes, loud enough the audio crackles. Gleeson’s body falls back against his chair, blood splattering his shirt and the window glass.
Mark stands there for a moment, staring at Gleeson’s corpse and breathing thickly enough his shoulders heave with each inhale. Then he lifts the gun, as if in a trance, and shoves the barrel into his mouth. He shoots himself.
The film continues, fixed on this silent scene, for another ten minutes before the bodies are found.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DARA
Ames woke slowly, a dull, pained hum escaping her lips.
Dara abandoned his book, tossing it aside on the bed without thinking to mark his place. Ames blinked her eyes open, blurry gaze skimming the unfamiliar room befor
e fixing on Dara and going sharp.
“Where am I? Shirazi . . . what the hell did you do?”
“I’m sorry, Ames.” He gripped the edge of the bed with both hands, wishing he could reach for her but not quite daring to. “We couldn’t take the risk.”
Her mouth tightened, but she didn’t deny it. Didn’t admit it, either—although knowing Lehrer, he’d ordered her not to tell them the truth. And for a moment Dara almost thought she was angry, that Lehrer had pushed his persuasion so deep he’d convinced her she actually wanted this.
But the glint in her eyes wasn’t rage. With her hands bound, she couldn’t brush away the tear that escaped down her cheek or hide the way she shuddered when she took a breath.
“He’s an asshole,” she said at last, voice coming out tight and low.
“I think that’s been established,” Dara agreed. He slid closer to the edge of the bed and at last reached out to touch the barest tips of his fingers to her knee. “We’ll figure this out. I promise. Noam’ll be back from Texas any day now—he was able to get Lehrer out of his head somehow. He’ll get Lehrer out of yours too.”
He tried to sound more certain than he was.
“I wondered about that,” Ames said, sitting a little straighter. “Lehrer didn’t tell me he couldn’t read Noam’s mind anymore, obviously, but I kinda figured something had to have happened. Otherwise . . .”
Persuasion stole the rest of the sentence, but Dara got the gist: Otherwise, why would he need me?
A short laugh tore out of Ames’s throat. “Although now that you’ve told me as much, I guess I’m not getting out of here anytime soon. Either Noam does his little trick, or you have to kill me.”
“Ames—”
“No, don’t worry about it. I bet Taye five hundred argents you’d be the death of me one day. I mean, I can’t use five hundred argents once I’m dead, obviously, but it’s the principle of the thing.”
Dara managed a weak smile, one that did nothing to quell the waves pitching in his stomach. He drew his hand back into his lap.
Ames turned her face toward the ceiling, tapping her toes against the hardwood floor. “Well,” she said, “since we’re gonna be here awhile, I guess we should, like . . . figure out a topic of conversation or something. Just not astronomy, Dara—you know that shit’s boring.”
“All right.” Dara drew his legs up onto the bed, crossing them under his body. “Tell me about Texas.”
“Oh, that. That was . . . I fucked up. Basically.”
“What do you mean?”
Ames exhaled. “I mean I didn’t wait for orders. I attacked the enemy encampment on my own and brought all hell raining down on our heads. So then obviously Texas sent in all their antiwitching units, and Noam’s unit had to attack the airport to split their manpower. We barely got out of there.”
“How? With antiwitching units—”
“We retreated over a river, and I drew up all the moisture to make the ground soggy and swampy. Antiwitching armor was too heavy to get through. They went back for helicopters, but by that point we’d had reinforcements come in. Probably would’ve won, if the powers that be hadn’t called for a cease-fire.”
Clever. Ames’s presenting power was influence over water. So you’re essentially a cartoon character, Dara had said to her when they first met, Ames eight and himself nine—but she’d just come back with I probably got it from watching too much anime. It made her one of the first people Dara had met who seemed impervious to his insults. And that made them friends. Even so, it took a solid year of training and seeing the destructive strength of Ames’s abilities firsthand before Dara learned to respect them.
Maybe Leo was right. Maybe he was a bully.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly. He didn’t really mean it in the physical sense. Ames had always wanted to climb the ranks in the military.
That dream was probably dead now.
“I’ll live. Whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Everything’s fucked.”
“I’m glad you’re safe,” he said. “Not that being locked up in here is all that much better.”
Ames raised her brows. “Not better than getting shot at?”
Dara grimaced. “I didn’t mean it like that. But you have to admit, this”—he gestured, encompassing the tiny apartment: the broken radiator, the protein bars Priya had brought him that he never ate, the unmade bed—“is not exactly where I thought I’d be by age nineteen.”
“And where did you think you’d be? Lehrer was never gonna let you fly off and be a diplomat in fucking Prague or wherever—”
“Dead. I thought I’d be dead,” Dara said. And for a moment they looked at each other, Dara’s fingers twisting up in the bedsheets and Ames strapped to that goddamn chair, messy hair casting shadows over her eyes. Dara sighed. “Not like that. Not . . . necessarily. But I never thought I’d make it this far. I was so sure Lehrer would kill me once he could prove I’d betrayed him—and if he didn’t, Sacha would, the second I stopped being useful.”
“Yeah, and if neither of them got around to assassinating you, you’d have taken matters into your own hands. Is that it?”
“For god’s sake, Ames—”
She blew out a heavy breath and shook her head. “It’s a fair fucking question, and you know it.”
The words were punctuated with a long silence, both of them remembering the day after Dara got home from the hospital—the first time Lehrer let Ames visit, her sitting at the foot of his bed with both of them staring at each other and refusing to speak. She’d been so furious with him. He had seen it written in the line of her mouth, the way she dug her nails into her palms.
It was the first time Dara had thought Lehrer actually cared if he lived or died. He’d stayed home all week. Slept in a chair in the corner of Dara’s bedroom, snapping awake every time Dara rolled over.
“No. Well—I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. It’s not . . . it doesn’t matter now, anyway. It’s over.”
Ames wet her lips. “Okay. So. I’m trying to trust you, Dara. But you have to promise me . . . promise you’d tell me if you ever felt. Like that. Again. Okay? Because I’m not doing that shit a second time, I . . .”
“I will. Ames . . . I will. I promise. I’d tell you.”
“And eat your fucking protein bars.”
He snorted and let his weight drop back onto his elbows, legs coming to dangle over the edge of the bed. “Your protein bars, too, now. We eat well at Maison Shirazi.”
“Dara, this doesn’t even count as a maisonette.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—we can’t all live in an art deco mansion in Forest Hills.”
She made a face. “To be honest, I’d rather live here. That place is just . . . it was my dad’s, not mine.”
“So redecorate.”
“Dara. I am not going furniture shopping with you.”
“Who said anything about shopping ourselves? You can pay people for that.”
“You are, in fact, the worst person I have ever met.”
“Thank you.” Dara grinned, but that second of happiness was chased by an immediate flicker of guilt. The same guilt that always laced his interactions with Ames because . . . he’d never told her about him and her father. He should have. Especially by now, he should have told her. If she didn’t already know.
If Noam hadn’t told her.
Only he didn’t, he wouldn’t have, and Dara knew it.
There was no reason to keep it secret anymore. The general was dead. Dara had watched him choke on his own blood, in his own bed.
But how the hell did you say that to someone? How was that merciful?
“I might sell the house,” Ames said, shifting against her bindings. Her wrists weren’t red yet, but they would be after a few hours. “I can’t handle being there. Not . . . I mean, he got murdered in that house. And then I spent two hours sitting in this tiny room with Lehrer while he asked me question after question and made me tell the truth.”
“I’m sorry,” Dara said.
“Don’t be. It’s fucking . . . that was so long ago now. It doesn’t matter. It just pisses me off that Lehrer went to all those lengths; then he still never bothered finding the actual killer. So like . . . what was even the point?”
Dara clenched his teeth so hard his jaw hurt.
While he was suppressed, he’d been susceptible to Lehrer’s persuasion. Without his telepathy’s interference, Lehrer had been able to keep him trapped in that apartment better than any locked door ever could. That had been the first time Dara realized what it was like to have one’s mind cut open and spread wide, fertile ground for the taking. And there’d been no way to tell what was persuasion and what wasn’t. Every word out of Lehrer’s mouth might have been a seed planted in dark soil. Every thought Dara had, potentially traitorous.
But he got his telepathy back in the QZ, at least for a while. Any influence Lehrer had gained over him deteriorated there. Ames, though . . .
Ames had spent weeks under persuasion now. Weeks reliving the trauma Lehrer put her through in that MoD cell, teasing her mind apart thread by thread.
“Me,” he said, the word falling from his lips before he even realized he’d made the decision. “It was me. I killed him.”
If some part of him had hoped the confession would make him feel better, well . . . it didn’t. He felt like someone had wound a chain through his guts and drawn it taut.
Ames wasn’t saying anything. She just sat there, her hands fallen still against their restraints. Her gaze was fixed on his face—he couldn’t tell if she was angry, or . . . or relieved, or shocked. Or all three. She looked at him like she’d never seen him before.
“It was . . . Sacha asked me to do it, but that was . . . I’d talked to him. About your dad and what he did to your family. It was my idea. So.”
Ames still didn’t move. How did people survive without telepathy? Because Dara wasn’t so sure he could.
All he could do was wait and will her to forgive him, to—to not hate him, at least, although he knew he didn’t have any right to expect something like that. God. Ames had always . . . she’d always been there for him, kept all his terrible secrets, and this was how he repaid her.
THE ELECTRIC HEIR Page 28
