“We all assumed it,” Noam said, turning his gaze up toward the ceiling now and trying to slow his heart rate as Bethany moved on to his broken wrist. “We all thought he’d save the magic, use Holloway as bait to draw out any other sympathizers. And that was exactly what made sense, given everything else Lehrer was saying at the time—letting the resistance stay in place, waiting for a critical mass to strike. But.”
But they were wrong.
Lehrer didn’t have to persuade Holloway, because he’d been bad from the beginning.
Lehrer and Holloway’s twisted little alliance was stronger than ever. Probably the first political deal that either party had stuck to long term.
“Okay,” Ames said, ruffling her hair badly enough it stuck out from her head in all directions, scarecrow-like. “Okay. So we gotta leave. Right? But where?”
Noam flipped through the list of options: Migrant Center was out, of course; that was too obvious. Same with Ames’s house. The QZ was too far away. And Holloway had probably already warned every hotel in Durham to turn them in to the MoD if they showed up wanting rooms.
Goddamn it, why couldn’t Independence Day be tomorrow?
Bethany had finished with Noam’s wrist; she sat back on her heels as Noam pushed himself gingerly up to a sitting position. He still didn’t feel great, but he’d spent a lot of magic fighting Lehrer. Maybe that was to be expected.
He dragged both hands over his face and blew out against his palms. Looked up at the others again, gathered round the bed and staring at him like they expected Noam to have the solution.
And he had one, all right. He was just pretty sure they weren’t gonna like it.
“How do y’all feel about squatting?”
Noam was the one who found the house, listed online as for sale—had confirmed the present owners were out of town for the holiday week and that there were no showings or open houses scheduled until after Independence Day. Still, they had to wait till nightfall to flee, slipping out of Holloway’s house in the early hours like fugitives—which, Noam supposed, they were.
The escape was easy. Too easy, Noam had thought, and it was only after they’d broken into that house and Noam had set up the wards—after they’d unpacked their bags and claimed rooms and Dara had Claire and Priya on the phone, Bethany safely back in the barracks—that they realized how fucked they really were.
They’d been lying to themselves, thinking Holloway didn’t know they knew. Thinking Lehrer wouldn’t have warned him. This whole time Holloway must have been waiting for them to leave, because when Priya checked their supplies, everything was gone.
Holloway had stolen the suppressant.
It wasn’t like they couldn’t get more on the black market—and Noam did, of course; he had the package shipped to the mailbox of an empty house, and Ames picked it up early in the morning, backpack on like she was headed off to school. They tested it on Priya—You don’t need my magic as much as you need Noam’s, she’d said. Well, it was true. They couldn’t afford for Noam’s magic to fail before they confronted Lehrer.
Independence Day was out, obviously. Now that they knew about Holloway—now that Holloway knew they knew—they couldn’t follow through with the same plot as before. Problem was they didn’t have a better plan.
Or: they didn’t at first.
Lehrer made the announcement four days after Noam’d escaped. Noam was making tea in the kitchen when Claire called them into the living room, where she had the news playing on TV, Lehrer’s face blown up larger than life on the huge flat-screen. He stood on the steps of the government complex, the Carolinian flag rippling huge and blue behind him, illuminated by spotlights and city glow.
“In the years following the catastrophe, shortly after Carolinia was founded, our nation was besieged from all sides,” Lehrer said. He wore his military uniform, not the tailored suits he’d adopted as chancellor—and that had to be intentional. That was a message every bit as much as the words coming out Lehrer’s mouth. “Peace was hard won . . . but in the end, we convinced Texas and Japan and England and all the other nations that Carolinia is stronger than they imagined. Stronger than they could have imagined. Our message was heard and understood: Carolinia is a nation of witchings, and we will always fight back.”
Applause answered those words, a roar so loud that if there was anyone in that audience who had read all those files Noam leaked online, anyone who doubted Lehrer’s authority, their voices were completely subsumed.
Noam slowly sank onto the sofa next to Dara, whose gaze was locked on the screen. Dara didn’t even spare him a glance as Noam’s hand found his leg, squeezing above the knee.
“The time has come to fight back once more. Texas has played their gambit. Now, we decide how Carolinia will respond. Tomorrow afternoon, at five p.m., I will be speaking live from Duke Chapel—a message for Texas, and for Carolinia . . . and anyone else who cares to listen.”
Lehrer’s gaze met the camera at that, and ice plunged into Noam’s blood because for a second—just for a second—it felt like Lehrer knew somehow. Like he sensed Noam watching there on the other end of that live feed. Like these words were for him.
“This is it,” Dara said from Noam’s left. “We have to go tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Priya echoed sharply. “We aren’t ready. We only just got the suppressant. We haven’t had time to assess the security at the event—figure out where Lehrer’s supposed to be and when—we have no plan.”
“Waiting for Independence Day isn’t any better,” Dara snapped. He’d gone straight-backed, one of his hands in a fist against his knee. “He’s still weak from fighting Noam. We can’t give him time to recuperate—we have to strike now.”
“I agree,” Noam said, and all their gazes slid to fix on him.
“This is a terrible idea,” Ames warned.
“All our ideas are terrible. But we can’t do nothing.”
After all . . .
With enough IV steroids—enough transfusions, even if from less powerful witchings, witchings who’d burn out and die in hours—Lehrer might regain his strength. He might recover.
It was now or never.
Even after their meeting dissolved, anticipation hung over the house like a building storm. None of them spoke to each other after the decision was made, splitting off in separate directions to separate rooms, all coming to terms with the possibility this might be their last night alive.
Downstairs, Ames was probably drinking herself unconscious in the kitchen. Leo had locked himself in his room with the lights off—asleep already, perhaps, or awake in bed staring into the yawning dark.
Noam and Dara shut themselves away after dinner, Noam crouched down on the floor and struggling to start a fire in the stone hearth. Even with pyromancy it was difficult; he couldn’t get the wood hot enough to catch. The newspaper burned itself out, over and over, and Noam kept thinking about Lehrer doing that to him tomorrow—and at last he snapped, “Fuck it” and dropped back onto his heels.
“Can I help?” Dara asked from his perch on the edge of the bed. He looked thinner than ever, shadows deepening beneath his cheekbones and fingers like spider legs clutching bony knees.
“You’re welcome to give it a shot.”
Dara pushed up and crossed to retrieve the poker from where it leaned against the wall, used it to stab at the coals and dig the newspaper deeper under the logs. Noam shifted aside to make room as Dara crouched down and blew on the embers, sparks flaring up toward the chimney.
They’d debated the various risks and benefits to lighting a fire in an unoccupied house, but after the second night with no heat—the homeowners had turned it off in their absence, and Priya’d expressed concern about their fancy smart-tech system alerting them if the squatters turned it back on—they’d decided it was worth not freezing to death before they could defeat Lehrer. Ground rules, of course: no turning on the lights—and they only burned fires at night, when dusk would conceal the rising smoke.
&
nbsp; Dara and Noam sat back and watched as the pale flames licked at the underside of the dry wood. Slowly, slowly, the bark began to smolder and—at last—to catch.
“We can add fire starting to your list of hidden talents, I suppose,” Noam said as Dara stood and offered Noam a hand to pull him to his feet.
“A rare benefit of living in the QZ for six months.” Dara hadn’t let go of Noam’s hand; his thumb rubbed a pattern against Noam’s skin, warm and steady. “Come on. Let’s sit down.”
He drew Noam back to the bed, both of them climbing up to sit cross-legged facing one another, knees bumping. They hadn’t had sex since that night in Dara’s apartment. They’d tried, the first evening, but when Noam touched Dara in the darkness, kissed him, Dara had gone taut and still, and nothing Noam said—no number of reassurances spoken in a low voice—had been enough to remind him Noam wasn’t someone else.
Noam had his own tiny terrors. They rose up sudden and silent in the middle of the night when Dara shifted in bed next to him, every one of Noam’s nerves thrown on edge waiting for long fingers at the nape of his neck and Lehrer’s voice whispering in his ear.
“I like this house,” Noam said after several moments without either of them speaking. He lifted Dara’s hand to press his lips to Dara’s knuckles, glancing up between his lashes to meet Dara’s gaze. “Maybe we can buy it when all this is over.”
“We?”
Noam lowered Dara’s hand but didn’t let go. “Imagine it, Dara. We could have a life together—we could start over and do it properly this time. We’ll get a dog. I could learn to cook, and Lakewood’s close enough to downtown that we wouldn’t be far from other options if we got bored playing domestic.”
At first he worried Dara might say no—tug his hand away and tell Noam that was too fast, or that he wanted something different once they were free. But instead his grip tightened on Noam’s, a tremulous smile flitting across his lips. “That sounds nice.”
“I want to choose you,” Noam said softly. “Every day, again and again.”
Dara kissed him, Noam’s lips parting under the pressure of Dara’s mouth and his hand lifting to Dara’s cheek. And for that moment Noam let himself believe in the future they’d spun together, all its brightness and its flaws, something so magnificently mundane it almost felt unachievable: late mornings waking up together, Dara perched on the kitchen counter while Noam made dinner, trading work stories over tea in the early evening, Wolf curled up in bed between them while they slept.
After the fire had died down, Dara drifting in a doze curled up on his side of the bed, Noam still couldn’t sleep. He stared at Dara’s face in what was left of the ember-light, every muscle in his body clenched up hard enough it almost hurt.
Noam wanted that future. He wanted it so fucking much.
But in less than twelve hours they would be at Duke Chapel—both magic-less, defenseless, hoping past the point of reason that their terrible plan would work.
That Lehrer hadn’t outsmarted them even now.
Noam hadn’t put voice to his fears, and neither had the rest of them, although he knew they all felt the same way: like criminals on the eve of execution.
An encrypted email exchange between C. Lehrer and his personal physician, sent using a private server.
To: Lilian Hillary, MD
From: Calix Lehrer
Subject: [Time-Sensitive] Require new dose
Monday, March 11, 2124, 10:23 p.m.
Dr. Hillary,
Please bring an additional two units of Álvaro’s blood by my apartment tomorrow morning before 7 AM.
C. L.
To: Calix Lehrer
From: Lilian Hillary, MD
Subject: Re: [Time-Sensitive] Require new dose
Monday, March 11, 2124, 10:31 p.m.
Dear Chancellor,
Unfortunately, as we discussed at our last appointment, I must advise against taking another dose of witching blood so soon after the last. Although Mr. Álvaro’s dynamics, like Mr. Shirazi’s, are comparable to your own, excessive use of Mr. Álvaro’s magic will eventually burn him out. Perhaps he would not go fevermad as quickly as the original, weaker witching donors. But as we saw with Mr. Shirazi, death of the donor is ultimately unavoidable.
Again, I recommend you conserve your magic expenditure for the sake of your own health as well as the donor’s. You should remember to drink water and to rest.
Yours sincerely,
Dr. Hillary
To: Lilian Hillary, MD
From: Calix Lehrer
Subject: Re: re: [Time-sensitive] Require new dose
Monday, March 11, 2124, 10:32 PM
This matter is not up for debate.
To: Calix Lehrer
From: Lilian Hillary, MD
Subject: Re: re: re: [Time-sensitive] Require new dose
Monday, March 11, 2124, 10:34 PM
Dear Chancellor,
Yes, sir. I will bring two vials of Mr. Álvaro’s blood first thing tomorrow morning.
Dr. Hillary
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
DARA
The next day dawned bright and sunny, a stark shift from the frigid gray clouds that had gripped the country for the past several weeks. It was a poor omen, Dara thought—like the universe itself granting approval to Lehrer’s speech later today.
Alternatively, of course, the government had discovered another meteorpath and paid them to improve the weather just in time for a patriotic event.
They arrived at the Carolinia National University campus expecting a wildly different security scenario than the one they encountered. Armored tanks, maybe—hundreds of antiwitching units in their iridescent armor, undercover police skulking through the shadows. With all secrets revealed, now, why would Lehrer let them waltz into Duke Chapel so easily?
“This isn’t an oversight,” Priya murmured from the front seat of the car as they rolled slowly past the line of cars queuing up for entrance onto the event grounds. “It’s a threat.”
“Or a trap,” said Ames.
Next to Dara, Noam was gripping his thighs so hard his fingertips blanched with the pressure. Dara reached over and placed his hand atop Noam’s; Noam shot him a small appreciative smile.
It felt like they had to rely on so many assumptions for this to work. They assumed Claire’s contacts in the security detail were still loyal. They assumed they wouldn’t get recognized the second they set foot onto the grounds. They assumed all Dara’s physics calculations were correct, and they could avoid killing hundreds of innocent people. They assumed the suppressant would work on Lehrer if he was weak enough—that they could even get close enough to use it.
Early this morning, before Noam was awake, Dara had sat at the corner of the sofa downstairs with his brow tipped against the cold windowpane and stared at the ice as it cracked and melted off the tree outside. He’d tried to imagine death: a quiet dark embrace welcoming him home.
Such dreams had come easily, once. When Dara was sixteen, he’d chased after death with both arms outstretched—and death had felt like warm bathwater and drugs in his veins, had smelled like spilled blood.
He couldn’t reclaim that feeling now. He couldn’t imagine stepping out of this life and leaving Noam behind—or Ames, or Leo, or even Priya. That story Noam wove last night about their future had sunk deep into his bones, and he couldn’t excise it.
Dara wanted that.
For the first time in years, Dara wanted to live.
“Equipment check,” Claire said, and they all counted off: no guns, of course, but earplugs—a weak defense against Lehrer’s persuasion—and two vials of suppressant.
It was almost time.
At least one assumption held: they made it onto campus without being stopped. It was next to impossible to secure the entire Carolinia National University grounds, but even so Dara’s heart was in his throat as they parked the car and walked right by all those guards in uniform, all the soldiers with guns and magic in their veins.
The quad was a mass of people, citizens and journalists and security murmuring into their walkie-talkies. The whole of Black Magnolia blended in almost seamlessly—Claire and Priya and Ames in street clothes, Noam and Dara both wearing press badges around their necks.
“Time to split up,” Priya said when they reached the center of the quad, cordoned off by white ropes that kept a path clear from the drive up to the chapel itself—the path Lehrer would ascend when he arrived. The same path he’d walked on his coronation day.
Lehrer always did have a flair for symbolism.
“Good luck,” Ames said to them both, extending a hand to shake Dara’s first, then Noam’s. “See you on the other side.”
I hope.
The three of them—Ames and Priya and Claire—faded into the crowd, quickly consumed by the anonymity of three hundred unfamiliar faces.
And Noam and Dara made their way toward the chapel.
“Over there, maybe?” Dara asked as they drew closer to the front doors—which were well guarded, a dozen soldiers in antiwitching armor checking identification with guns at their hips.
Noam nodded, and they split off, weaving against the current of the crowd as it filtered into the narthex.
As they passed one of the chapel’s side entrances, Dara was suddenly very glad they’d decided against positioning themselves inside the chapel itself. The Chancellarian Guard was already here, wearing dark suits and lining the arched walkways; soldiers in antiwitching armor stood watch by the doors.
They were early enough to get a good position near the portal at least, flashing press badges when they needed to elbow in closer. Dara leaned out over the path, peering down toward the drive where Lehrer’s car would pull up. His stomach curdled; it was a long walk. Plenty of time for Lehrer’s gaze to scan the crowd and see two familiar faces staring back at him.
“It’s going to be okay,” Noam said from over his shoulder. His hand caught Dara’s, their bodies pressed together by the mob. Dara turned to look at him—and for a moment it was like nothing else existed. He tipped his face forward and rested his brow against Noam’s. He focused on Noam’s eyes, on the little threads of gold weaving through Noam’s irises like striations in marble.
THE ELECTRIC HEIR Page 38
