God, he couldn’t die like this, he couldn’t—not now, not here, not with . . . him—
“Please stop—please . . . sir.”
A moment later that hand let go. The pain vanished.
Normal sensation returned in slow pulses, a prickling like a thousand needles over his skin. Noam shuddered and rolled onto his side, dry heaving against the pool of spilled water.
All he could see was Lehrer’s legs, the shifting fall of his trousers as he stood. “Pull yourself together,” Lehrer said. His shoes paced away.
Noam sucked in another wet sob. The water against his cheek had gone lukewarm. It soaked into his uniform shirt.
“Get up,” Lehrer said again, more impatiently this time, and Noam could do nothing but push himself upright with trembling arms. The bruises along his ribs screamed in protest. His arm was an angry mess of dark color.
Noam wiped one hand over his face and dragged himself up under Lehrer’s unyielding gaze.
Only then did Lehrer turn and retrieve his tie from the chair where he’d left it. Somehow that felt so long ago now.
What the hell just happened?
Lehrer wasn’t . . .
Dara was right. Noam couldn’t defeat him. Not so easily.
He’d been a fool to ever think he could.
“Go,” Lehrer said, flapping one hand dismissively.
Noam clenched his jaw hard—which also hurt—and made himself say: “Are you at least going to . . .”
No, not like that.
“Will you . . . heal my ribs. Sir.”
Lehrer glanced toward him, still buttoning up his shirt. “Why?”
“I have basic on Monday. I can’t—I won’t do well. Like this.”
Lehrer finished with the buttons, left his tie hanging loose around his neck as he paced back toward Noam once more. And Noam instinctively flinched back, recoiling when Lehrer touched his fingertips to Noam’s cheek.
“This won’t leave a mark,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “As for the rest . . .”
Noam’s breath was a trapped bird in his chest.
“I don’t think so,” Lehrer said.
“Calix—”
“You know the rules,” Lehrer said, his hand falling away. “Act and consequence. Mistakes made sparring should live with you until you learn from them.”
“This wasn’t—this is different, you were—that was past my skill level. It’s not fair. I couldn’t defend myself.”
Lehrer let out a low laugh. “Then I suggest you practice. I won’t tolerate such a pitiful performance a second time.”
Noam stared at him, sweat and fatigue glazing his eyes until Lehrer’s face was an indistinct blur. Because one way or another, he was pretty sure . . .
There wouldn’t be a second time.
A heavily revised handwritten draft stolen from the desk of C. Lehrer. Dated ca. coup of 2123.
Notes added by N. Álvaro.
It is with reluctance a sense of great responsibility that I stand before you today, citizens people of Carolinia fellow Carolinians, representing as a representative of the military junta, to accept provisional interim command authority over our this our government. ^As a representative of the military junta and As a patriot, I accept this duty readily willingly; but as a man, I must admit I take on this role with a heavy heart. I, like many in this government, considered Harold Sacha an ally a friend. (Lehrer has a long and documented animosity toward H. S., see appendix C § 8.)
But as the report of Attorney General Holloway’s investigation is made public, you will soon realize it will become clear that ^Chancellor Harold Sacha’s treason not only constituted an aggressive act against Atlantia a foreign government, but ^was violence against all Carolinians. (Lehrer refers to an aggressive act against Atlantia here; records from the former Atlantian government and from the chancellor’s office show Atlantia was preparing to declare war against Carolinia before Lehrer’s junta ordered occupying soldiers in Atlantia to enforce annexation; see appendix D §§ 7–9. The members of the Atlantian government who were party to this decision—incl. Pres. Mary Tran, VP Fredrick Henderson, Maj. Gen. Jeremy Swyers, Maj. Gen. Amanda Shaw, Maj. Gen. Bert López, Maj. Gen. Jamie Kim, among others—all conveniently died of magic infection within two weeks of the annexation, excepting Maj. Gen. Shaw, who survived the virus only to be found dead by apparent suicide four days later; see appendix D § 10.)
This will not be the first time I have been given authority over the government of Carolinia, and neither time was I elected to that authority. The first time I was appointed king by a committee. This time, I have been afforded power by mere virtue of being the highest-ranking military official commander in ^of the Carolinian armed forces. I do not believe anyone should be bestowed (Emphasis sic) power; power should always only be granted by the people. This is ^the principle on which why I abdicated as king and abolished the monarchy, and. I stand by this belief this conviction now ^now. Therefore my goal is to keep tThe interim authority of this military junta ^will be limited to no more than two months’ time., sufficient period ^In the next two months, we will to hold a special election to replace Chancellor Sacha and his administration circle of traitors. (See appendix A for evidence of fabricated charges against many of the officials in Sacha’s administration who were speedily executed by guillotine the day following this speech.)
Remaining pages missing.
CHAPTER THIRTY
DARA
Ames and Dara were halfway through watching a nature documentary on her phone—the kind of film that was mostly an excuse to watch wolves stalk their prey across pale winter landscapes, an exercise in hoping the elk would live but pretty much knowing it wouldn’t—when a knock at the door interrupted the film midhunt.
They exchanged quick looks, and Dara glanced down at his watch.
“Oh,” he said. “It’s already six twenty. I didn’t realize it got so late.”
Ames pushed herself up and tracked over to open the door and let Noam in. He had bags slung over both arms, heavy with contents that turned out to be groceries when Noam unpacked them onto the dresser. Nothing that had to be cooked, of course; the apartment didn’t come furnished with a stove.
There was something unnatural about the way Noam moved, the back of his neck too stiff—like he was uncomfortable being watched.
“It’s a lot of fruit,” Noam said, half an apology. He glanced back over his shoulder; his lower lip was red and chewed on.
“I like fruit,” said Dara.
“Some protein bars.”
Ames met Dara’s eye when Noam turned his back again, her brows knitting together as she tilted her head in Noam’s direction. Dara shrugged.
“You know what,” Ames said. “I actually just realized I forgot something downstairs. Think Leo’ll let me sneak in and snag some snacks while I’m at it?”
“Always worth trying,” Dara said and allowed her a brief smile of gratitude as she slipped out the front door.
Noam kept unpacking, arranging the food atop Dara’s dresser in little clusters by type: fruit, protein bars, styrofoam cups of dried noodles. Dara drew his legs up onto the bed and watched as the back of Noam’s neck flushed a slow, dull pink.
“Do you need any help?”
Finally Noam turned around. “No. Sorry. I’m done.”
“You don’t need to apologize. We appreciate the help. Takeout was getting repetitive.”
Noam drummed his fingers against the top dresser drawer and said nothing. He was biting his lip again.
Dara didn’t like the feeling that was curling up in his chest. It itched, just out of reach.
At last Dara drew up the nerve: “Did something happen?”
“No. Not really.” Noam’s gaze skittered away from Dara’s to stare at a spot on Dara’s bed like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Okay, well, you don’t have to.”
God. W
hat was Dara supposed to say to that? The thing in his chest twisted tighter, and he gripped the edge of the mattress, sheets mussing under his palms.
How had they ended up here?
It was several seconds before Dara was able to speak again. “I don’t . . . I don’t want you to think that just because I—because I don’t want you there . . . with him . . . that you can’t talk to me at all.”
Noam’s gaze darted back to meet his. When he took in a breath, his shoulders trembled, visible even from across the room.
“It’s not anything he did,” Noam said slowly. “It’s . . . I’m . . . starting to worry. A little.”
And you weren’t worried before? Dara bit back those words right in time. “Worry about what?”
“I’m worried he knows,” Noam whispered. And he looked so young just then, no longer the cold killer Dara had met in the meetings, an assassin in tailored suits. He was just a seventeen-year-old kid caught deep in something he no longer knew how to escape.
Dara pushed himself up off the bed and paced closer—not close enough to touch, but near enough he heard the wood creak when Noam braced himself harder against the dresser.
“Did he say something?” Dara asked. He tried to keep his words quiet, nonconfrontational.
“He said he didn’t know if he could trust me. And he—he’s angry. Because I won’t . . .”
Noam didn’t have to finish that sentence, and Dara didn’t want him to. Cold fingers knit around his heart. It hurt.
“You have to get out of there,” Dara said in a low tone. “It’s been six weeks—you’re out of time, Noam. He’ll hurt you.”
Noam was breathing fast and shallow, his pupils dilated like they couldn’t take in enough light. Dara slipped his hand around Noam’s wrist, fingertips pressing in against his pulse. It, too, beat quick and erratic.
“I should have left with you,” Noam confessed, softly enough it was barely audible at all. Dara tipped in closer to catch the last words. Noam twisted his arm under Dara’s grasp to catch Dara’s hand with his own, tangling their fingers together and squeezing hard. “I’m sorry. I should never have—I let you go out there alone. I’m sorry. I’d give anything to go back and . . .”
“Leave?”
Noam swallowed, nodded.
“You still have that choice,” Dara said. “You can leave him. Right now. You don’t have to go back.”
Already the words felt dead in his mouth. Dara had said that before, and Noam always gave the same answer.
Noam stared at him, his throat convulsing, clearly trying to figure out how to tell Dara no—how to tell him, for the hundredth time, that staying with Lehrer was more important to him than Dara was.
“Don’t say it. Don’t even . . . don’t bother.”
Dara tried to extricate his hand from Noam’s, but Noam gripped tighter, keeping him in place. “It’s not that,” Noam said. “It’s—I was going to say . . . you’re right.”
Dara’s gaze flicked up. Noam wet his lips.
“It’s . . . what you said, in the bar the other night. About how I can’t let things go. You’re right. And maybe—I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’ve been so—my whole life, people do things to, they . . . they hurt the people I love. And there was never anything I could do about it. Not until I got magic.” Noam’s hand slackened against Dara’s, but Dara didn’t try to pull away again. He rubbed his thumb against the backs of Noam’s knuckles, and Noam said: “I can do something, now. And maybe I . . . maybe I’m afraid of being powerless again.”
The moment that followed was heavy and silent, thick enough between them Dara could’ve twisted it in his grasp like fabric.
“You aren’t powerless.” Dara’s voice wavered. “You—Noam, even if you didn’t have magic, you wouldn’t be powerless. You’re so . . . you’re the bravest person I know. The stupidest too.” That earned a broken sort of laugh from Noam. “But. You’re strong. He won’t break you like he—”
His throat closed around the rest.
Noam’s inhale was sharp, audible. He lifted his hand and slid chilly fingers into Dara’s shorn-short hair. “You aren’t broken, Dara.”
A soft noise pulled itself up from Dara’s chest, not quite a sob, and Noam’s fingertips pressed in against the back of his head, his breath warm on Dara’s lips—and whatever that sound was, it was muffled against Noam’s mouth when Noam kissed him.
Dara’s heart couldn’t possibly keep beating this fast. It wasn’t sustainable—and yet he never wanted to stop feeling this way, like something was finally opening up in his chest . . . blooming, a flower he’d thought wilted long ago.
He stepped closer, pinning Noam between himself and the sharp edge of the dresser, one hand finding Noam’s hip as he kissed Noam back—more, harder, like he could make up for lost time. Noam’s body felt solid beneath Dara’s hands in a way nothing had in years. He couldn’t get enough.
If the kiss after Dara’s return had been messy and needy and desperate, this one was all of that in a different way. This was stained with hurt and betrayal and resentment—but there was affection, too, a deeper and more vibrant kind of love. Dara had worried he’d lost the capacity for that when he lost his telepathy. That without the ability to read someone’s mind, he’d never know them well enough to want them like this.
But god, he wanted Noam. He wanted him so much.
He slid his hands under the hem of Noam’s shirt; Noam’s telekinesis kicked in a second later, undoing the buttons so Dara could push the fabric off his shoulders. The shirt dropped to the floor behind them, Noam kicking it out from underfoot.
Dara’s breath froze in his lungs.
“Noam—”
His touch skimmed along Noam’s ribs, skirting the inflamed skin along his flank. Bruises burst like so many dark nebulae, darting down toward his hip. More, on Noam’s arms and shoulder.
“It’s nothing,” Noam said, both his hands back on Dara’s face, cupping it between them so Dara had no choice but to meet Noam’s eyes again. “Sparring. I swear.”
Sparring. As if a thin guise of pedagogy made the violence any easier to swallow.
Dara shook his head roughly, fingertips digging in at Noam’s wrist, but Noam just said again—“I swear”—and kissed him, and Dara . . . Dara couldn’t. He couldn’t push him away. Not anymore.
Noam took a step forward, and Dara stepped back, letting Noam press them across the narrow room until Dara’s calves bumped up against the edge of the bed. Noam stripped off Dara’s shirt slowly, like he wanted to remember every inch of skin he revealed. He kissed the line of Dara’s collarbone and murmured against Dara’s neck, “I love you.”
A shiver unwound in Dara’s stomach. He caught Noam’s mouth with his, kissed him hard enough to press his answer into Noam’s lips, his body, his skin.
The bed felt smaller when they fell onto it, limbs tangled and Dara’s hands combing through Noam’s hair. He couldn’t stop needing more—not when Noam tracked kisses down his chest, his stomach—not when they’d both shed their trousers and it was skin on skin, friction and heat.
In the lamplight, Noam’s body glowed gold. Dara trailed his touch along Noam’s unbruised shoulder. Noam’s eyes were half-lidded, shadowed beneath his lashes.
Dara shifted beneath him, curling a leg around Noam’s waist and drawing him down close. Noam’s lips parted with a soft exhale.
“Do you have a condom?” Noam asked. “Lube?”
Dara nodded, but Noam still hesitated, one hand hovering over Dara’s hip.
“I’ve never done this before,” Noam said—then his cheeks flushed, and he added: “Well, that—I mean, I’ve never—not like—”
Dara didn’t want the details.
“It’s okay,” he said, pressing a finger to Noam’s lower lip to shut him up. Then Dara grinned, the dangerous kind of grin that used to turn Noam’s thoughts dark and liquid. “I’ll teach you.”
Still—knowing this was new, at least for Noam, that there w
as one thing Dara could give him that Lehrer hadn’t—it tasted, fiercely, of victory. That coal burned in Dara’s chest as they moved together, Noam whispering in Dara’s ear the kinds of words Dara had always wanted him to say. On Noam’s voice they were soft and low, rough like Noam’s kisses became, and later—when they were both lying still and spent on that slim bed—they smoldered in Dara’s mind like they’d never go out.
Noam’s brow tucked in against Dara’s chest, each exhale hot against Dara’s overwarm skin. His hand had gone still on Dara’s stomach; Dara wanted to memorize the sight of his fingers against Dara’s ribs.
After several moments Noam lifted his head. “It just occurred to me . . . ,” he said. “What happened to Ames?”
Dara laughed. “Oh, she got the picture, I think. She probably won’t come up until you go down there and tell her it’s safe.”
Noam’s face scrunched up. “Fuck, that’s embarrassing.”
“Are you really under the delusion that it wasn’t obvious to everyone what happened in the barracks that time? Noam. This isn’t news.”
Noam groaned. “Right. Telepathy. I really didn’t need those fears confirmed, thanks.”
“I’d say I’m sorry, but . . .” Dara grinned.
“You’re awful, and I hate you.”
It was so close to being like it was before—or how their relationship should have been, if Dara hadn’t spent that year terrified and traumatized and slowly going fevermad. He pushed up far enough to snag the edge of the quilt at the foot of the bed, tugging it up to wrap them beneath the blanket, together. In the warm cocoon built by that blanket, it almost felt like they’d never have to leave. They could wind the hours out longer and longer until time lost all meaning, the rest of the world vanishing into an ever-expanding black hole.
“Don’t leave,” Dara said against the heat of Noam’s skin. He squeezed his eyes shut—the way he used to shut his eyes when he wished on shooting stars, as if not looking could make his dreams come true. “Stay here, with me.”
Noam’s hand drew a slow motion along Dara’s back, up and down.
THE ELECTRIC HEIR Page 32
