THE ELECTRIC HEIR

by Lee, Victoria

  Dara’s heart seized. Abruptly it was very difficult to walk, as if all the bones in his legs had gone to liquid. He staggered left, deeper into the chancel. He had to . . . hide, he had to get out of sight. But where?

  The altar was out. That was the obvious choice, would be the first place Lehrer checked. The smaller pews off to the side also seemed less than ideal, but—

  Taye: he’s going inside

  The pulpit.

  Dara darted across the chancel, up the few curving wooden steps that led to the carved stone pulpit perched there at the corner. He huddled himself deep against the chilly limestone and clenched his eyes shut, willed his breath to come soft and steady. Inaudibly.

  He couldn’t hear anything. God, he couldn’t—he couldn’t hear anything.

  Lehrer could be anywhere.

  Dara opened his eyes to stare down at his phone again, at Taye’s last words. He’s going inside.

  He was here. He was in the chapel now, near enough that if Dara weren’t wearing earplugs, he would hear Lehrer’s footsteps on the wooden floor. Would hear his voice, perhaps, low and silken and laden with magic.

  Taye: halfway up the aisle. he’s checking the pews as he goes

  Dara stared at the wall opposite him, at the long strip of carved wood that ran like a ribbon between pillars of smooth stone.

  He should have chosen a better hiding place. He should have hidden in the choir pews after all, should have—

  Taye: he’s at the chancel

  Dara pressed a hand against his mouth. He couldn’t tell if it did any good. He was shaking now, violently. Was that audible? Could Lehrer hear?

  A tear slid down his cheek, catching at Dara’s knuckle, and he bit down on his own palm to swallow back a sob.

  God, he could be anywhere. He could be walking up the lectern steps right now, might round the corner and fix his colorless gaze on Dara’s face and say—

  He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t, he had to—

  Dara crept forward onto his hands and knees, moving inch by agonizing inch until he was able to peer around the edge of the pulpit.

  Lehrer stood at the altar, one long-fingered hand resting atop its surface, looking down at it as if the wood held a secret it might confess if he waited long enough. Lehrer lifted his head. Adrenaline seared through Dara’s veins, blinding-white, and for a moment his mind was full of buzzing static—but Lehrer wasn’t looking at Dara; he wasn’t drawing closer. He was just gazing at the broken windows beyond the altar, out into the fast-falling night.

  And . . . even from here, Dara could see he didn’t look well. Lehrer’s skin had gone the sallow color of candle wax, and the hand atop the altar was trembling.

  Dara watched as Lehrer turned away from him, moving across the chancel and toward the iron grate that barred off the smaller side chapel.

  That grate crumpled like paper with a wave of Lehrer’s hand. But as it fell, Lehrer swayed on his feet, reaching out to brace himself against the wall.

  It was several seconds before Lehrer was able to move forward again, drifting into the small chapel and examining its altar, trailing his fingertips over the cold wicks of the prayer candles.

  He turned, and Dara lurched back behind the pulpit just in time.

  God, he wanted to take out his earplugs—just to hear the moment Lehrer moved into the crypt—he couldn’t miss that moment, couldn’t abandon Noam down there to be trapped and killed in close quarters—

  Dara dug out his phone and typed a message to Taye: now?

  Taye responded almost immediately.

  Taye: at the crypt door. just looking at it, hasn’t gone in

  What the hell was he waiting for?

  Dara edged forward again, glancing out from behind the pulpit. He could barely see Lehrer from here now, just a slice of dark suit and tawny hair before Lehrer finally turned the knob and vanished down the stairs to the crypt.

  To Noam.

  Dara dragged himself to his feet, grasping the edge of the lectern for balance. He was shaking badly enough it was hard to walk—but he made it, clinging to the wall as he moved down the wooden stairs again and stole across the chancel to the open crypt door.

  The stairs led down into shadow, cut only by the slightest glint of flickering amber light. Dara grasped the banister and moved down slowly, slowly. His heart was a live thing in his mouth, wild and broken as all those animals Lehrer used to kill in front of him, trying to force Dara to bring their minds back to life.

  Dara peered around the edge of the stone wall that blocked the stairs from the rest of the crypt.

  Lehrer knelt on the floor before Noam, tipped forward with one hand pressed against the center of Noam’s chest.

  It was all Dara could do to keep from launching himself forward, the immediate surging panic that Lehrer was killing him already, was reaching magic into the electrical signals inside Noam’s heart and drawing them flat.

  Dara pulled out the syringe instead, gingerly tugging the cap off the needle and slipping it into his pocket.

  He crept out into the crypt itself, step by cautious step, approaching Lehrer from behind.

  Lehrer didn’t seem to hear him, didn’t seem to notice, too focused on seizing whatever magic Noam had left.

  Closer.

  Dara could see the way the back of Lehrer’s collar puckered away from his neck, the faint sheen of perspiration on his spine. Lehrer’s suit was discolored now, layered in a thin patina of stone dust. From this angle Dara could make out the line of his jugular, the sharp edge of one cheekbone.

  Noam beyond him, ashen and so, so still.

  Dara was right behind Lehrer, close enough he smelled the sickly scent of his black vanilla aftershave, when Lehrer shifted, turning his head toward—

  The needle sank into flesh, and Dara pressed down on the plunger as their eyes met, Lehrer’s pale and furious as Dara stumbled back, fear like unfathomable agony burning through his blood.

  Lehrer rose to his feet and yanked the needle from his neck. Threw it aside.

  His mouth was moving—he was saying something, and all Dara could hear was the low rumble of wordless noise. Lehrer lifted a hand, gestured, and . . .

  . . . nothing happened.

  For a moment they stared at each other, Lehrer’s shoulders still heaving with the effort of so much magic. And then slowly, unsteadily, Dara’s hands lifted up to pull the earplugs free.

  Sound rushed in to fill the void of silence. Lehrer’s breath came in ragged bursts, the distant roar of battle far away but drawing closer. Dara’s own pulse pounded in his skull.

  “You have no idea what you’ve done,” Lehrer said, the words dragged out of him hoarse and rough, as if over broken glass.

  He took a step forward, and Dara held up both hands. “Stay there.”

  A cruel smile twisted Lehrer’s lips. “Or what, Dara? You’ll kill me?”

  Another step; Dara stumbled back, the limestone floor gone slippery underfoot.

  “You have no weapons. No magic.” Lehrer drew closer still, his cheeks coal-bright and his gaze glowing with some terrible internal heat. “But I don’t need magic to destroy you, Dara. I think we both know that.”

  “Stop,” Dara whispered, knowing it was no good, his throat full of gravel and his heart sunken in his chest.

  There was nowhere else to go. Dara’s back hit the rough wall of the crypt, Lehrer advancing with slow, deliberate steps.

  The dead watched with indifferent eyes as Lehrer lifted a hand and slid his fingers along the line of Dara’s jaw. And Dara was fixed in place, unable to move, unable to breathe. Lehrer’s touch drifted downward, along Dara’s throat, and he said, “You’ve always been such a disappointment.”

  Something silver and blazing exploded in the cramped space, blinding as a dying star. Lehrer flew back, crashing against a pillar with enough force dust rained down from the ceiling above.

  Ames stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand still outstretched and her face a lurid mask,
magic glittering between her fingers. Taye was right behind her, service weapon drawn and the collar of his Level IV–issue dress uniform gone askew.

  “Fuck,” Ames shouted, and Dara had never seen her like this, luminous with rage. She hurled another burst of magic at Lehrer when he tried to get up, this one violent enough to crack his skull against the stone. Lehrer fell still.

  For a moment they all stared at the sight of Lehrer—unconscious, a slow trickle of blood seeping down his brow, rendered abruptly and unmistakably human.

  “I was just gonna point the gun at him,” Taye said, “but okay.”

  Dara’s legs couldn’t hold him anymore. He sank down the wall, still staring at Lehrer’s body. “How did you . . . how did you know I was . . . ?”

  Taye holstered his weapon. “I was watching, remember?”

  Ames moved closer to Lehrer—gingerly this time, like some part of her still expected him to rise up and kill them all. She nudged him with the toe of her boot. Lehrer made a soft, pained noise and didn’t move, so Ames braced herself against the column for leverage and kicked him in the ribs with the full force of her body weight.

  The heat was finally draining from Dara’s head, thoughts reconstructing themselves in his mind shard by shard, and—

  “Noam,” Dara breathed.

  He dragged himself upright, staggering across the crypt. The force of Ames’s blow had sent Noam sprawling aside, fallen next to one of the bronze memorial plaques. Dara hunched over him and turned his face toward the dim light overhead. He was still breathing, but barely.

  “Shit,” Ames said, when she finally stepped over Lehrer’s unconscious form and saw Noam. “Is he—fuck—”

  “He’s alive,” Dara said, but it felt like a plea—Let him stay that way.

  Noam was the gray color of bone dust, his skin so hot it hurt to touch.

  “I’ll get help,” Taye said, and he dashed up the steps out of the crypt as Ames knelt down next to Dara and helped him tip Noam’s head back to keep his airway open, stripping off Noam’s jacket as if that’d be enough to cool his fever.

  When Taye returned, it was with medics—but also with the army, antiwitching soldiers who escorted them up into the chapel, guns trained at their napes. But as they stepped out into the evening air, Dara curled his cuffed hands into soft fists and turned his face toward the sky, each breath a staggering reminder that he was alive.

  Audio-recorded interview clips with suspects in the March 14 CNU terror attack.

  INTERVIEWER: This is Investigator Price, badge number 0420-319, interviewing Dara Shirazi at the National Intelligence Agency headquarters, interview room number 4. Mr. Shirazi has waived his right to an attorney. Mr. Shirazi, can you tell me again what happened in the crypt?

  DARA: Is Lehrer here?

  INTERVIEWER: Don’t worry about that right now.

  DARA: Answer the question first. Is he still suppressed?

  INTERVIEWER: Chancellor Lehrer is still in the hospital. Your friends could have done serious damage.

  DARA: But is he suppressed?

  INTERVIEWER: The chancellor is still unconscious. Suppressants are illegal.

  DARA: You should make an exception.

  INTERVIEWER: Those are very serious allegations, Miss Glennis.

  BETHANY: It was a very serious crime.

  INTERVIEWER: Do you have any proof that these acts occurred?

  BETHANY: You really should be talking to Noam about this.

  CLAIRE: I’m a Texan citizen. Before I answer any questions, I want to speak to a representative of my embassy.

  DARA: For the hundredth time, no. We weren’t trying to kill him. We’re Level IV–trained cadets, and he was suppressed. If we wanted to kill Lehrer, he’d be dead.

  AMES: You know what? I wish I had fucking killed him. Would serve him right.

  BETHANY: No. I’m not thirsty. Thank you. Does my mom really have to be in here?

  INTERVIEWER: You’re fifteen years old.

  BETHANY: Yes. So they keep telling me.

  DARA: You should at least keep him suppressed for his own sake. He’s going fevermad now. I’m sure the doctors have already told you.

  INTERVIEWER: That’s none of your concern.

  DARA: If Lehrer gets his power back, it’ll be all of our concern.

  LEO: I won’t say anything without a lawyer present.

  INTERVIEWER: You know, it always helps to look like you’ve been collaborative. Juries like to see collaboration. Only guilty people won’t talk without their lawyers.

  [Leo does not respond.]

  INTERVIEWER: Mr. Zang . . .

  LEO: Zhang. Can you at least get my name right?

  INTERVIEWER: Mr. Zhang, will you collaborate?

  LEO: I’ll happily collaborate. With my lawyer.

  DARA: Did you put Lehrer in the same hospital as Noam?

  INTERVIEWER: Mr. Washington, how did you even get tangled up with all of this? You seem like a good kid, from a good family.

  TAYE: Constantly underestimated. Constantly.

  INTERVIEWER: Can you elaborate?

  TAYE: Um, yeah. Thought you’d never ask.

  Like, I mean, half of Level IV disappeared. Dara was dead, Noam was constantly gone. Then Ames disappears. Bethany starts acting shady. I figured it had something to do with Lehrer—he’s the common denominator. Something’s up with him and Noam, Ames hates him, Dara hated him. But if I could find Noam, I could get to the bottom of it. It seemed like a safe bet Noam’d be at the CNU speech, what with Noam and Lehrer all attached at the hip these days.

  INTERVIEWER: So you just came to the speech hoping to run into Mr. Álvaro.

  TAYE: I was on security detail. My parents are both professors at CNU, heard the team was looking for more witchings. And I mean, I’m Level IV. My security clearance is bomb.

  INTERVIEWER: I don’t know what that means.

  TAYE: It’s an idiom. It’s vintage. Means I’m the best.

  INTERVIEWER: Okay. And how did you find Mr. Álvaro and Mr. Shirazi in the crowd?

  TAYE: I watched TV.

  BETHANY: Is Ames okay?

  INTERVIEWER: She’s fine.

  BETHANY: I want to see Ames.

  INTERVIEWER: Once we’re finished with this interview, I’ll see what I can do.

  INTERVIEWER: I think you need to stop worrying so much about Chancellor Lehrer and start worrying more about yourself, Dara. You were missing for six months. Then you come back . . . you hook up with these terrorists . . . and you try to assassinate your own father. This could end very badly for you if you don’t start talking.

  DARA: He’s not my father.

  INTERVIEWER: Why did you try to kill your father, Dara?

  DARA: He’s not—

  INTERVIEWER: Where were you the past six months?

  DARA: Does it even matter?

  INTERVIEWER: You might as well start being honest with us, Dara. Your friend Noam Álvaro already told us everything. Noam’s a very cooperative young man.

  [Dara starts laughing. He can’t seem to stop.]

  INTERVIEWER: You’re obviously a very sweet girl, Bethany. It’s clear you just got in over your head. Maybe if you can help us clear up a few of these questions, we—

  BETHANY: Oh, shut the fuck up.

  BETHANY’S MOTHER: Bethany Glennis, language!

  BETHANY: You too, Mom. All you care about is whether my arrest is going to reflect badly on your medical career.

  INTERVIEWER: Let’s all take some deep breaths. Bethany, maybe—

  BETHANY: Go to hell.

  INTERVIEWER: Why would you throw away such a potentially illustrious career in the military . . . for this? I understand Dara was your friend, and that he and the chancellor didn’t get along. But most family feuds stop short of murder.

  AMES: Yeah, Lehrer still seemed pretty alive when we last saw him, so I dunno about this whole murder business.

  INTERVIEWER: Attempted murder, then.

  AMES: Is that what we’re c
alling it?

  INTERVIEWER: You tell me. What would you call it, Carter?

  AMES: Retribution.

  INTERVIEWER: . . . with Noam Álvaro at Carolinia National University Medical Center intensive care unit. Mr. Álvaro is a minor ward of the state; therefore, an advocate as well as Erin Chen, Mr. Álvaro’s attorney, are both present. Mr. Álvaro, would you like to explain the events of March 14?

  NOAM: I’m happy to explain everything.

  CHEN: Noam—

  NOAM: Under one condition. There are over a hundred files on this flopcell. Read them first.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  NOAM

  The investigation stretched out for weeks, the media consumed in a sudden storm of rumor and speculation—and then facts, testimonies, a headline in bold black type:

  THE INDICTMENT OF CALIX LEHRER

  After reliable information emerged proving Calix Lehrer was himself responsible for infecting Carolinian and Atlantian citizens with a weaponized strain of the magic virus, Lehrer was indicted today in international court on charges of war crimes . . .

  None of it felt real. Fifteen days in the hospital blurred into a featureless landscape of pain and suppressants and steroids washing through Noam’s veins. Then the deafening emptiness when he woke the eighth day and reached out with his power, and all that equipment keeping him alive, all the computer screens at the nurses’ station, the phones and holoreaders and security cameras—it was all blank space, an open wound where Noam’s magic used to live.

  Even now, three months into the aftermath, Noam’s memories of winter were fragile and fragmented. Sometimes he wasn’t sure he even wanted to piece them together again—even if Ashleigh, his therapist, said one day he’d have to face what happened and reckon with it.

  Dara was a constant: there every night Noam was in the hospital. Holding his hand on the long drive home. A quiet presence every time Noam tried to draw on his magic, not remembering; when he broke down at the kitchen table and Dara’s hand at the nape of his neck was the only thing keeping him anchored to the ground.