“I want to,” Noam said. “I wish I could. But . . .”
Dara clenched his jaw. And after a moment he pushed back, sitting up and letting the quilt fall around his hips. “But you’re going back to him. Again.”
“I’m—no,” Noam said, and he sat up too. “I’m going to the barracks. There’s basic tomorrow.”
“Fuck basic—Noam. Please. Please don’t go.”
It was pathetic, it was . . . begging, and Dara knew that, but he had one hand on Noam’s thigh anyway, grip digging in. Noam’s fingers curled loose around his forearm, but he didn’t push Dara away.
“Dara. I can’t stay here. I—I have to go back.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
Noam pressed his lips in a tight line. “Think about it. Think about—you said yourself Lehrer’s smart. Do you really think he doesn’t know where you are? That he hasn’t figured it out?”
No. No. He—
Dara’s blood had gone still and cold in his veins. He couldn’t breathe all the sudden, his lungs laboring to take in air.
“The only reason he hasn’t killed you yet is because I keep going back,” Noam said. “Because I tell him what happens here. If I don’t show up tomorrow, he’ll come. He’ll find us.”
Dara swallowed against the thick bile in his throat. “So we go somewhere else. We—we can stay with someone. Holloway, maybe.”
“Holloway’s a government official; Lehrer will be watching him the same way he’s watching everyone. I can’t stay. And it—I’m sorry, Dara, because I know. I know it fucking kills you. And I wish . . . I wasn’t able to be there for you last year, when Lehrer was—and I wanted to. I want to be there for you, now. But—”
“But you can’t be here for me,” Dara said tightly, “because you’re still with him.”
Noam was the one shaking now, a low tremor in his limbs that Dara only noticed because they were touching. “Not for much longer,” he swore. “Not—it’ll be over soon. I promise.”
Dara inhaled through his nose.
He didn’t want to fight.
Not again.
“Fine,” he said. “All right. Go.”
Noam nodded. Then he leaned in and kissed Dara, an unsteady hand on Dara’s neck. Dara stayed in bed as Noam got dressed, pulling on pants and sweater and jacket, covering up all that bruised flesh. And when the door shut behind him, Dara sank low and pulled the covers up over his head, building a fortress around himself in the dark.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
NOAM
“I’m coming with you,” Taye said that next afternoon, catching Noam at the bedroom doorway right as Noam was about to head out on his daily run, water bottle already clutched in hand.
“What? Why?”
Taye’s brows went up. “I mean, I don’t have to, if it’s like . . . a personal-time thing. I just figured you might want the company. And I could use the workout; I’ve been dying in basic with all those sprints Li’s been making us do. I swear that woman hates me.”
Noam only realized he’d been staring at Taye in silence for several seconds when Taye added:
“So . . . can I come?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Let’s go.”
Noam waited for Taye to get changed and guzzle a truly inhuman amount of water at the kitchen sink before they headed out. Noam set them along his usual six-mile route—the route that had gotten longer and longer lately, Noam circling certain loops twice, three times to delay having to go back to the government complex.
Taye, at least, was fast. He kept up with Noam easily enough even though he was at least two inches shorter. Noam sensed Taye’s orange-red magic doing something to the soles of his shoes every time his stride landed, keeping himself from slipping on the ice even without crampons.
“Man,” Taye said once they’d covered the first couple miles, only slightly out of breath. “It’s so weird to think the year’s almost over. I mean . . . it’s almost March. I’ve been in Level IV half my life. Hard to believe that’s gonna end.”
“You’re graduating this year?”
“Yep. Turn eighteen in three weeks. Then I’m out of here, soon as the semester’s over.”
Noam had known on some level that Taye was about to age out of the program, but he hadn’t really thought about it before. Not really.
“It’ll just be you and Bethany,” Taye said. “I mean, unless Ames comes back and they make her redo spring semester, since she’s missed so much class.”
Lehrer had, ultimately, invented a story for Colonel Howard and the rest of the Level IV administration about Ames going to rehab for her addiction issues. Noam wished that were actually true.
But there was something about the way Taye said it, his voice too light, too careful, that made Noam think Taye hadn’t bought that story either. The addict part might be right, but Taye probably knew Ames well enough to know she’d never put herself in rehab voluntarily.
“I’m sure they’ll let her graduate,” Noam said, trying to sound confident.
“Do you know what program she’s in?” Taye asked. “I was thinking I might send, like, a postcard or something, but nobody seems to have a forwarding address.”
Noam shook his head. “No idea.”
“You could ask Lehrer.”
Noam looked at him too quickly. Taye noticed, judging by the way his gaze lingered on Noam’s before he turned his attention back to the horizon.
“Yeah,” Noam said. “Yeah, I’ll ask. Good idea.”
They ran another quarter mile, the soles of their shoes hitting pavement punctuating the rapid pound of Noam’s heartbeat.
“Do you have plans for after graduation?” he made himself ask to fill that silence.
“Yep. Got a job waiting for me and everything.”
“You don’t sound very excited about it.”
Taye shrugged, the gesture comical when performed in motion. “I mean . . . it’s fine. I’m gonna be working in military engineering. Turns out math magic’s pretty good for building really big weapons.”
Noam grimaced. “Oh.”
Taye laughed, a little more breathless than before. “I don’t know, man. I’ve always been pretty lucky, you know? My parents are both still alive. They’re well off. I basically grew up surrounded by all these smart university professors who were only too happy to teach me everything they knew about anything. My parents still actually talk to me, unlike Bethany’s mom. And I guess I just . . .”
For several long moments, Noam thought Taye was gonna trail off and leave it at that. But then he shook his head and said:
“I wanted to do something useful with myself. Find a way to take all that good luck and use it to like . . . change the world, you know? Like maybe I could run for Congress or start a nonprofit or something. But looks like that’s not in the cards.”
“You could turn down the weapons engineering position.”
“It doesn’t work that way, dude. You know that. We’re Level IV—we do what they tell us to do.”
They ran the next five miles in silence. On mile eight, Taye knocked Noam’s shoulder with the heel of one hand, and they both stopped, Taye hunching forward to grasp both knees as he struggled to suck in a proper breath.
“Think we’ve gone far enough?” Taye asked, after Noam had dropped down onto a nearby bench and scrubbed the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “Like . . . Jesus, there’s only so far a human being was built to run.”
“I think I might keep going a little farther,” Noam said, once he was confident he could say that much without gagging on his own arrhythmic inhales. “Gonna try to get to thirteen.”
“You,” Taye said, “are an absolute madlad.”
Taye always did love his vintage slang. But that didn’t make him wrong, Noam thought a half hour later, after Taye had jogged back in the direction of the government complex and Noam was dry heaving with his head thrust into the bowels of a public trash can. Maybe he’d been pushing himself too far, to
o fast. But at least when he was running, there was no thinking about Lehrer, or Dara, or anything else. Just the cold and the pain.
More pain today than usual, though. Noam finally managed to gulp down his nausea and carefully draw his head back out of the opening on the side of the covered trash can, even if he couldn’t quite make himself straighten up again. Instead he draped himself over the lid and tried not to think about the pain in his chest or the way his limbs felt like they were about to give out. He was still two miles from the government complex—that was another two miles at least that he’d have to run to get home.
But when he tried to stand, his balance wobbled, and he ended up clutching the trash can for dear life as successive waves of dizziness swam through his head. Shit. He’d never reacted like this before, never felt this exhausted after a run. Maybe it was too much, trying to go for distance after the shitshow that had been sparring with Lehrer the other day.
Noam had almost asked Bethany to heal him after that, but he’d been afraid Lehrer would notice—and Lehrer would take that as insubordination, Noam’s refusal to obey his order. Act and consequence. Lehrer and his perfect syllogisms, spelling out the logic behind his casual cruelty.
Noam lifted a hand and touched hesitant fingertips to the spot on his ribs that still hurt, his abdominal muscles clenching up on reflex like his whole body wanted to flinch away. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the way Dara had looked at him when he’d seen the bruises. That memory, more than anything else, sent another ripple of sickness through him.
Goddamn it. No way was Noam going to make it back in this condition. He could barely keep himself awake, never mind force his body to run again.
Lehrer would be informed, of course, that Noam ordered the car. But at this point, Noam didn’t care. He pulled out his phone and called the government complex valet and had them send a sedan to pick him up. Noam collapsed in the back seat and drifted there, halfway between consciousness and unconsciousness, the rest of the way home.
Noam had come to expect it now: the ten p.m. text, the moment after one of their private lessons when Lehrer would trail his fingertips along Noam’s cheek and say, Come over tonight.
It felt like so long ago that Noam had responded to such invitations with a low thrum of heat in his belly, drunk off a lethal mix of the sexual and illicit. And Lehrer had been . . .
Not kind. But something close to it.
Fond, perhaps.
And Noam had eaten it up. All those late nights, both of them staying awake even though Lehrer had meetings in the morning—Lehrer reading terrible poetry out loud and Noam laughing so hard his stomach hurt. Lehrer catching his wrists with one hand and pinning him down, Noam intoxicated by the thrill of losing control.
God. Noam had been such an idiot.
Tonight was no different than all the rest. Only this time Noam felt like he didn’t belong here, in Lehrer’s apartment, surrounded by all the accoutrements of a long life lived—Lehrer’s antique carpets and cozy sofas, the smell of the old book in Noam’s hand, the taste of expensive whisky on his tongue. Now Noam was an actor on an unfamiliar set, fumbling to remember his lines.
He would rather be in Dara’s tiny broken-down apartment than among all this antique finery.
Being here was like being close to Dara in a different, darker way. He could imagine Dara sitting in that chair or gazing out that window. Could see him curled up on the rug by the fireplace with Ada in hand.
Lehrer had been in the kitchen cleaning up dinner—boeuf bourguignon and glasses of dry red wine—but he came back into the living room now. Noam heard his footfalls on the carpet as much as he sensed his magic like a controlled firestorm to Noam’s back.
Noam didn’t dare look. He kept his gaze fixed on the page, although he was no longer processing the words written there. Lehrer drew closer, closer—until he was standing just behind the sofa, near enough Noam smelled his black vanilla aftershave. Suddenly it took all Noam’s concentration to keep his breath coming slow and even, to turn the page on cue.
Don’t be paranoid, he ordered himself—but all he could think as Lehrer slid his fingers against the nape of Noam’s neck was whether Lehrer was about to tighten that grip, to snap bone.
Could Lehrer tell? Could he see Dara’s touch written on Noam’s body, the way Dara had seen Lehrer’s?
“You seem tense,” Lehrer murmured. And then he did press in, but it was just to massage the place where Noam’s neck met his shoulder. “Perhaps I should have gone easier on you the other day.”
Noam let the book fall shut in his lap.
Lehrer’s fingers kept working that muscle, his other hand rising up to grasp Noam’s other shoulder. This time he dug into the aging bruise; Noam hissed between his teeth, and Lehrer’s touch dropped.
Noam shouldn’t start a fight. He should play easy and innocent, put Lehrer at ease.
But what came out was: “Yeah. You should have.”
Lehrer moved round the arm of the sofa now, into Noam’s line of view. His face was still set in a mask of false concern. “You know I only ever do what’s best for you, Noam. Such experiences are educational.”
Noam stared back at him with a flat gaze.
Lehrer tapped his tongue against the backs of his teeth, an admonishing sound. “This petulance is unbecoming. You should have grown out of that by now. You must, if you ever hope to gain real power.”
Noam’s answering anger was too quick, too waspish to control: “And how much power is left to go around, Chancellor?”
Lehrer’s expression stilled—and when he tilted his head, the light from the hearth cast long shadows below his cheekbones, at his temples, transforming his face—however briefly—into something terrifying and macabre.
But when he spoke again, his voice was soft, even paternal. “What brought this on?” he murmured. He moved closer, away from the flickering fire and into the lake of yellow light that fell beneath the lamp on Noam’s end table. His steps were slow and sure, movements steady as a ship cutting through cold water. “It wasn’t so long ago you still believed in what we can achieve together. What have I done to convince you to abandon everything we’ve worked for?”
Really? He was really asking that question?
Noam shoved his book aside and stood. Not that it did him much good; Lehrer still towered over him, same way he towered over everything.
“Maybe I’m sick of your methods.”
Lehrer drew nearer still, until Noam had to take a step away, putting the coffee table between them. “It’s Dara, isn’t it?” Lehrer said softly. “You’ve been going over there . . . letting him put ideas in your head . . .”
“It has nothing to do with Dara.”
“Of course it does. Everything does, with you—with both of us. Don’t lie to me, Noam.”
Persuasion. God, it was—had to be.
Dread fell like a heavy stone into Noam’s gut.
Noam shook his head once, roughly. “I’m going,” he said. “I’m leaving. I need to—I’m going back to the barracks. We can talk about this tomorrow.”
Something crossed Lehrer’s face then, a shadow far deeper than any the fire had cast. Noam turned and headed for the door, quick strides—he needed distance, needed a shut door between the both of them—
But Lehrer was faster. Always faster.
He caught up with Noam in the hall, hand grasping Noam’s wrist and tugging him back hard enough Noam stumbled.
“Don’t,” Lehrer said. Their gazes met; Lehrer’s glittered with something unseen and dangerous. “We aren’t finished here.”
“Let go of me.”
Lehrer didn’t let go.
“Where is it you have to go so quickly?”
“I told you, the barracks—”
A smile twisted Lehrer’s lips. “And that’s where you’d rather be, is it? Not here. Not with me.”
Noam pulled his arm against Lehrer’s tightening grip. It accomplished nothing. “Calix. Let—”
<
br /> He didn’t finish. Lehrer’s mouth crushed against his, swallowing up the words in a kiss. Lehrer pressed him back, pinning Noam against the wall with one hand braced over his shoulder, Lehrer’s teeth catching his lower lip, Lehrer’s other hand abandoning Noam’s arm in favor of sliding down from his waist toward his thigh.
“Don’t pretend you don’t want this,” Lehrer said against Noam’s numb mouth. “Don’t act like you don’t—”
Noam twisted his head aside, forcing Lehrer’s kiss to graze his jaw instead—and somehow that was what it took to make Lehrer release him, taking a sharp step back toward the opposite wall.
Noam’s pulse was a wild thing between his ribs, his skin alight with chills as he pushed himself upright. He and Lehrer stared at each other for a moment, Lehrer gone still like he was actually surprised for once in his ancient life.
Not that Noam was gonna stick around to enjoy it.
There was nothing left to say. He spun on his heel and started off toward the front door once more—made it two steps before Lehrer’s hands found his bruised ribs, drawing him back.
“Stop,” Noam said—gasped, really, because his lungs barely had the capacity for speech. All he could think was Dara’s voice in his head, He’ll hurt you. “Stop,” Noam said again, twisting enough to look Lehrer in the eye, both his hands balling into fists. “I—”
“—have a headache?” Lehrer finished for him.
Noam’s protests were dead leaves in his throat. And Lehrer still hadn’t let him go, Lehrer’s magic sparking off his skin and against Noam’s, tiny oscillations of pain.
A sharp breath, and Noam jabbed his heel against Lehrer’s instep, missed. Lehrer’s hand abandoned his ribs to twist in Noam’s hair instead. He used that grip to shove Noam forward, Noam’s feet stumbling under his own weight as Lehrer slammed him headfirst against the wall.
White light exploded behind Noam’s eyes, bright and loud as a gunshot. The agony cascaded from his face to his skull, down the rope of his spine to tingle in the tips of his fingers. He barely choked in a breath before Lehrer thrust him forward again.
The second impact was like shattering every bone in his body. Something hot and wet coursed down Noam’s cheek, tasted like metal in his mouth.
THE ELECTRIC HEIR Page 33
