THE ELECTRIC HEIR

by Lee, Victoria

  He twisted his fingers up in the bedsheets beneath him. “Please say something.”

  “Like what?” Ames burst out at last. “Like . . . okay, Dara. You just told me you murdered my father. Forgive me if that takes a sec to sink in.”

  “He fucked me,” Dara said. The words tumbled out before he could stop himself. And the second they were in the air, he pressed one hand to his mouth like he could push them back in—but it was too late. Ames’s face had gone white, her staring at him and him looking back, wide eyed over the ridge of his fingers.

  Shit.

  Her tongue flickered out, wetting her lips. “What did you say?”

  Too late. No taking it back now—no denying it.

  “He . . . we were having sex.” General Ames raped you, Noam had said, but Dara’s mouth wouldn’t work that way. Couldn’t put it in those words. It felt like that word belonged to Lehrer.

  “Since fucking when?”

  “Since I was fifteen,” Dara said. “But he . . . I could read his mind, so. I knew he wanted it. Before.”

  That had been one of the more awkward conversations he’d ever had with Lehrer: the night they both witnessed the same scene playing out in Gordon’s mind, and Lehrer sat him down once they got home and tried to explain that sometimes people had certain thoughts, but that didn’t mean they planned to act on those thoughts. As if Dara weren’t a telepath. As if he didn’t know that better than anyone.

  Only less than a year later, Lehrer raped him for the first time—and then Gordon decided he wanted to act on those thoughts after all, and after eight months of Lehrer, Dara had been so desperate to blot Lehrer’s touch off his body with someone—anyone—else that Dara didn’t even try to stop him.

  Ames’s face twisted up, and for one horrible moment Dara was sure she was about to spit in his face—

  “That’s gross,” she said. “He’s—he was disgusting. I’m sorry. Jesus Christ, Dara.”

  Relief poured into him like ice water, shocking and cold. He let out a sharp, shaky breath. “It wasn’t that bad,” he said, tension still aching-tight in his shoulders; he lifted a hand to squeeze the side of his neck, trying to massage it out. “Relatively speaking. I don’t know. It pissed Lehrer off, anyway.”

  Although that came later. At first Lehrer had laughed in his face and called him a desperate whore.

  Lehrer’s anger had emerged in subtler ways, seeping up like rotten groundwater to poison them both.

  Ames twisted in her binds again, rubbing her wrists against the zip ties. “Still. Fuck. I wish you would’ve told me. I mean—I get why you didn’t. But, like . . . ugh, I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that my dad turned out to be a fucking pedo on top of everything else. I’m glad you killed him. What a creep.”

  Dara snorted. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”

  He’d never seen it that way. Maybe it was too much to bear, to think that Dara had let himself get put in this situation not once, but twice—that if it kept happening, that meant there was something wrong with Dara. Something fundamentally broken, just like Lehrer always said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Maybe Lehrer’s right about some things. I am the common denominator here. Maybe I . . . can we really blame your dad for fucking me, if I—”

  “Don’t you dare say that, Dara Shirazi,” Ames snapped. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything to make Lehrer or my dad or anyone—you didn’t. Okay?”

  Dara tipped his head down to press his palms against his brow and shut his eyes, long enough to take a steadying breath. Ames had told him the same thing after he confessed what Lehrer had done. He’d tried to explain it the way Lehrer would have explained it: I made Lehrer do it.

  But Ames had refused to accept that explanation. And she hadn’t stopped fighting him on that point until Dara finally relented and agreed she was right.

  If she was right then, she was right now too. Lehrer and General Ames were both grown men. Dara wasn’t responsible for the choices they made.

  His burner phone beeped on the bed next to him. Time for another dose.

  “Sorry about this,” Dara said, getting up and retrieving one of the syringes from atop his dresser. He made a face at Ames, and she mirrored it back but tilted her head to one side all the same, giving him easy access to slip the needle into her vein and depress the plunger.

  “How many of those you got?” she asked.

  “Not enough,” he admitted grimly, tossing the syringe into the trash—no sharps container—and retreating back to the bed. “So we’d better hope Priya gets back to us with more soon—or that Lehrer sends Noam home from Texas to figure this out.”

  “Great.” Her mouth twisted up, but there was nothing either of them could do.

  Theme of their entire friendship, really.

  They just had to wait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  NOAM

  Holloway found Noam within an hour of his return to Carolinia—a message sent to his cell phone not fifteen minutes after Noam got back to the barracks: Come to my office.

  And it was there, standing in front of Holloway’s mahogany desk still wearing his tailored civilian clothes from Texas, that Holloway told him the Black Magnolia had Ames.

  Noam skipped dinner to take the bus up to Geer Street instead, climbing the steps to Dara’s apartment two at a time and tugging down the wards he’d erected in a single motion. Even so, he made himself pause long enough to knock, weight shifting from foot to foot as he heard steps approaching and Dara opened the door.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” Noam said, and he looked past Dara, over his shoulder and into the room—Ames was strapped to a chair near the window. His electromagnetism sensed a small pile of empty syringes in the trash can.

  Ames shrugged one shoulder, presumably her best attempt at a wave considering both her arms were restrained. “Hi, Noam.”

  Dara stepped aside to let him in, and Noam shut the door, throwing the wards back up in his wake.

  “So.”

  “So,” Ames said, “as much as I wish this was some kind of kinky thing Dara’s into now, it’s really not. And I’d like not to die strapped to a chair in the shittiest apartment I’ve ever seen.”

  “You were able to get Lehrer out of your head, right?” Dara said softly, glancing sidelong at Noam. “Can you do the same thing for her?”

  Faraday. It took enough effort to maintain that already—if someone attacked him, and he was supporting two shields . . .

  But then again, the moment he’d implemented the Faraday shield around his mind, all his memories instantaneously came back—all those things Lehrer ordered him to forget. And when Lehrer suppressed him later, the persuasive orders hadn’t automatically reactivated. Having the shield up, even briefly, had been enough to undo Lehrer’s command.

  Noam sucked in a shallow breath. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think so. But I can’t keep it up forever. We . . . we’ll just have to hope Lehrer doesn’t get suspicious and put persuasion on her again. As long as he thinks she’s still under his control, she should be safe.”

  Ames shifted uncomfortably in her chair, hands gripping the seat. “Is it gonna hurt?”

  “What? Oh, no. Don’t worry. It’ll be over in just a sec. You won’t feel a thing.”

  She looked dubious, but Noam shut his eyes and concentrated, focusing on the way the geomagnetic field warped around her body, her skull, the same way it shifted to accommodate all physical objects. Focus. He gritted his teeth, and drew on his magic, and pulled a Faraday shield into being around her mind.

  It wasn’t—it wasn’t quite as difficult as he’d expected. Yes, he could feel the strain on his magic like a weight added to the hem of an already heavy coat. But there was no instant exhaustion, no fever rising under his skin.

  Even so. He released the shield almost as soon as he’d erected it. When he opened his eyes, Ames was still looking at him like she was waiting for something.

  “That�
��s it,” Noam said.

  “Wait, it’s over?”

  Noam laughed a little. “Yeah, it’s over. You’re all good.”

  “Oh thank god. Dara, release me from my chains.”

  Dara moved forward, pulling out a pocketknife to snip the zip ties binding Ames down. She immediately stretched her legs out along the floor and rubbed her wrists, which had gone pinkish over however many hours Dara’d kept her here.

  “Shit,” she said. “I really gotta pee. Dara, no offense, but guys’ bathrooms are nasty. Is there—?”

  “Turn left out the door, and it’s the last room on the right,” Dara said, collecting the discarded zip ties—like he cared so very much about keeping a tidy floor. Or maybe he wanted an excuse not to look at Noam as Noam tugged down the wards and Ames darted out the apartment door, leaving them alone again.

  “So,” Noam said, standing there with his thumbs hooked awkwardly in his belt loops.

  Dara tossed the zip ties in the trash and straightened up, finally turning round to meet Noam’s gaze. “So, what?”

  Noam had to tell him. He couldn’t just . . . he couldn’t hide the fact Lehrer was resistant to the vaccine from the whole of Black Magnolia. But the moment those words came out of his mouth, he knew what Dara would say.

  And Noam wasn’t sure he was ready for that particular fight.

  He wet his lips and shook his head. “I just. I . . . missed you, Dara. That’s all.”

  Dara tilted his head to one side, and for a second Noam thought he didn’t believe him—only, no, that wasn’t it. There was a softness to Dara’s gaze that hadn’t been there before, a consideration.

  “Ames told us you went to Dallas with Lehrer,” he said. “Was that . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, but Noam couldn’t help imagining what might’ve come next—Was that okay? Were you okay?

  Although that might be wishful thinking on Noam’s part. There were so many ways that question could end.

  “Yeah,” Noam said, lifting a hand to drag his fingers back through his hair. He dropped down onto the edge of Dara’s bed, the spring mattress bouncing a little under his weight. “It was . . .”

  Terrible.

  Noam hadn’t slept the entire flight back to Durham. Just paced the length of the plane, adrenaline shivering up and down his spine. And every time he shut his eyes, he saw the bodies of those soldiers crumpling as Noam killed them—killed all of them. Every time he stood still, he felt Lehrer’s touch on his skin—heard Lehrer’s voice: We’ll see.

  His mouth had gone dry. He licked his lips, or tried to. Shook his head. “I . . .”

  Dara was staring at him from across the room.

  “We saw combat,” Noam said eventually. “Ames probably told you.”

  Dara exhaled, shifting his weight to the other foot. “She did,” he said. “I . . . I’m sorry. I know that was . . .”

  Noam tipped his head forward to scrub the heels of both palms over his face. “Thousands of people. I killed . . . thousands of people, Dara. For fucking—for what? For Lehrer? For this bullshit—this—”

  “People die in war. It’s not your fault.”

  “Yeah, well, these people died because of me. So it kinda is my fault, actually.”

  “You weren’t you. You were—you’re a soldier, Noam. You acted for Carolinia.”

  Noam laughed against his own hands, the sound muffled and low. “You know I’m an anarchist, right? I don’t even believe in fucking . . . I don’t believe in borders. I don’t believe in states. But I just killed a whole lotta people in the name of one.”

  “What else were we supposed to do? Texas is locking up witchings—experimenting on them. I hate Lehrer more than anyone, but he’s right. Something had to be done.” Dara’s footsteps were soft as they approached. The mattress dipped next to him—and after a long moment, Dara’s hand settled light on Noam’s spine. “Besides,” he added, “I thought you were a communist. Wasn’t that the point of your whole coup?”

  Noam snorted and lifted his head. Dara was watching him with a small smile on his lips, soft and hesitant. “That,” Noam said, “was before I really got to know Calix Lehrer. I’ve changed my mind now. All states are corrupt.”

  “Edgy, Álvaro.”

  “Says the guy who tried to shoot a head of state at a dinner party.”

  Dara’s grin tilted a little wider. “I also killed Sacha for you, so I think I deserve some ancom street cred.”

  “Did you just unironically say the words street cred?”

  “Is that not a thing people say anymore?”

  “Dara, that is not a thing anyone has ever said.” Somehow it felt as if a weight had lifted from Noam’s chest; his next breath came easier, and Dara’s hand smoothed against his back, dragging from his neck down his spine and then up again.

  After a second Dara took in a breath—a sharp one, like he was girding himself for something—and said, “Noam. When you went to Dallas—”

  But he didn’t get a chance to finish the thought, as that was the moment Ames chose to return from the bathroom, pale but otherwise not much worse for wear. The conversation naturally refocused around her and what the hell she was supposed to tell Lehrer when he called her in to debrief, and how utterly fucked they’d all be if Lehrer persuaded her again.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go back at all,” Ames said, standing there by the window staring down at the radiator as it spat weak steam against the wall. She kicked it, but even the violence was half-hearted. “I know way too much. If Lehrer gets paranoid . . .”

  “You could stay here,” Dara suggested, gesturing at the room. “It’s not exactly diplomatic accommodations, but it’s better than the alternative.”

  “What would I tell Lehrer?” Noam said. “That y’all realized she was a spy? Then what—you killed her? Or should I say y’all have some massive stockpile of suppressants somewhere that he doesn’t know about? I can’t tell him about Faraday.”

  “You don’t have to tell him either way. We could be using suppressants still, but we’re running low. It would make us sound weak—that’s beneficial.”

  Noam twisted his cuff in his fingers, looking for a loose thread to wrap round his knuckles—but his shirt was too new, too expensive. He clenched his nails in against his palms instead. “I don’t think so. The whole argument for leaving Ames in place to begin with was that we could control the flow of information—let Lehrer think he has two functioning spies, corroborate our stories. If he knows we’ve made her, he’ll have to act fast to mitigate the damage. And he won’t expect me to be fine with it—I’ll have to be . . . I’ll have to be angry with him.”

  He bit back the rest of that narrative.

  I’ll have to be angry. Which will make Lehrer angry.

  And he’s angry enough already.

  But it wasn’t as if they’d be better off if Lehrer realized Ames wasn’t persuaded. He’d know Noam must have figured out a way to evade his power. That would be a certain death sentence.

  “Actually, you know what, I have an idea,” Dara said, and they both swung their gazes round to look at him. “Neither of you go back. You both stay here. Seems as if that would solve the problem altogether.”

  Noam sighed and pushed himself off the bed. He immediately regretted it—without the press of Dara’s body against his side he felt too cold, bereft. “Fine,” he said. “Ames stays here. I’ll . . . I’ll figure it out.” Somehow.

  Because if he left Lehrer now, they’d be worse off than they started. Without suppressants—without the vaccine—

  It was starting to seem more and more like Lehrer had no weakness at all.

  And yet Noam still remembered sparring in the government complex—the sheen of sweat on Lehrer’s brow, Lehrer’s defenses always a beat too slow. The low heat in Lehrer’s cheeks as he stood in the bathroom door and watched his doctor drain Noam’s blood for the transfusion.

  He did have a weakness.

  And Noam was the only one, now, who stood a chance
at exploiting it.

  Lehrer allowed him two days.

  Two days to steep himself in Level IV culture, two days to go to basic and curriculum classes and eat at the little table in the barracks kitchen—skipping their one-on-ones in favor of frigid runs through downtown, shoes tamping down snow that had already gone to dirt and slush. Two days without sleeping. Two days—long enough for Noam’s anxiety to rise to a fever pitch.

  Then the text message: You will attend our lessons today.

  Noam stood outside the door to Lehrer’s study, sucking in tiny gulps of air with damp hands clutching his satchel strap—imagining Lehrer winding that strap round his neck.

  Lehrer had to sense him out here the same way Noam sensed him in return, Lehrer’s golden magic a flickering net around his body as it moved from the window toward the bookshelf. Noam knocked.

  The door swung open of its own accord, and Noam moved into the room. Lehrer had just selected a thick text—Ethics in Virological Discourse—and said, without glancing at Noam:

  “Take a seat.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “Suit yourself.” Lehrer took another book off the shelf and then, finally, turned his gaze to meet Noam’s. His long fingers tapped against their embossed spines. “Where is Carter Ames?”

  Noam suspected Lehrer already knew the answer. There was a cool, even set to his eyes that Noam didn’t like. Dara’s voice in his head: You keep making the same mistake, Álvaro.

  “Have you really not figured that out?” Noam said, a laugh biting at the last of his words. He clenched his fists at his sides and hoped Lehrer interpreted that as anger and not what it really was. “They made you, Calix. They—we all know what you did.”

  A moment’s pause, punctuated only by the tick of the clock on the wall. Lehrer set the books down on a nearby table and moved closer—not directly toward Noam, but curvilinearly, as if he didn’t want Noam to realize his approach till it was too late. “And what is it,” he murmured, “that I’m said to have done?”

  Dara, Noam realized with a feeling like a dart in his chest. He thinks I talked to Dara.