The Fever King (Feverwake Book 1)

by Victoria Lee

  Dara shouldered open the other door, Noam a half step behind as they tumbled into the hall. It was empty, and Noam figured out why a second later. Gunshots, from the east wing.

  “I can get us out of here,” Dara promised, tugging Noam toward the left.

  Noam wasn’t sure he ought to trust him. But he didn’t have a choice.

  He dashed at Dara’s side down the hall toward a staircase. His mind was stuck on the same searing note.

  Sacha was dead.

  They clattered down the stairs, footfalls obscenely loud to Noam’s ears. Dara hesitated for a second at the landing, then said, “There are people heading this way. We have to go right. Wait—fuck. In here!”

  Dara pulled Noam to one side, his power throwing open a random door. They darted inside, and Dara stood there with his forehead pressed against the frame, hand still grasping the knob.

  “Dara,” Noam whispered. It came out hoarse and odd. “How—”

  Glancing at Noam, Dara’s eyes gleamed in the light from the cracks between the window blinds. “Lehrer had me locked up in his apartment. He said I was fevermad—can you believe it? After the riots started and Lehrer found out you’d been arrested, he told me where to find you and let me go.”

  You are fevermad, Noam wanted to say.

  He didn’t have to, of course. Dara heard it anyway, judging by that grimace. In this light, his skin was a delicate, sickly hue. It was like someone had drained the color out of him, leaving a sepia imprint behind.

  “Don’t believe everything Lehrer tells you,” Dara said. “He’s the one who got you arrested in the first place. He sent in that tip. You were just a loose end Lehrer had to tie up.”

  Noam swallowed. If he was honest, he’d known that on some level already.

  He reached for Dara’s arm, regretting it only a split second after he’d already done it. But for once, Dara didn’t flinch. “Sacha . . . Sacha was trying to convince me Lehrer could control people’s minds.” He made a face, like, Isn’t that ridiculous? and battered down the lump in his throat.

  Dara nodded. “It’s true.”

  Sacha was right. Sacha was right. Sacha was right.

  “Fuck.” Noam let go of Dara’s arm to grab at the back of his own neck instead, a compulsion that did little to quell his writhing insides.

  Dara rubbed his sweat-glazed brow. “That’s one of the things I didn’t want to tell you.” He almost sounded apologetic. “He doesn’t use it all the time, but often enough. For obvious reasons, Lehrer doesn’t want that knowledge getting around. If he thought you knew, he’d . . .” Dara bit his lip, letting his words hang in the air.

  Noam got the sense he knew exactly what Dara was suggesting Lehrer’d do.

  “So why did you just murder Sacha? You’re supposed to be on his side!”

  “I think it’s fair to say I just defected,” Dara said dryly, and Noam thought about those bodies again. Sacha’s blank eyes.

  It was hard to breathe.

  “Why?”

  Dara gave him an odd look, the shadows softening his features into something strange and inhuman. “I couldn’t leave you there.” A moment passed, Noam’s chest tightening around each exhale. Dara tilted his head to one side. “I suppose Lehrer knows me better than I’d like to admit. Now be quiet. I’ve got a lot of minds to read.”

  Dara turned his face back toward the door, eyes closed, and Noam . . . Noam didn’t know what to think. It was too much. Sacha dead, Lehrer . . . complicated. And then there was Dara, whom Noam was starting to think he didn’t know at all.

  And Brennan.

  Don’t think about that.

  Noam scrubbed his hand against his face and turned away from Dara, toward the empty office. There was an uncapped pen on the desk and paperwork strewn over the floor. Someone had left in a hurry.

  He sensed the pen cap, he realized, a tiny shock sparking beneath his skin. It had rolled under the floor lamp. Whatever Sacha’s people had injected him with was wearing off.

  Of course, even if he and Dara got out of here, they had an entire battlefield between them and safety.

  Safety being Lehrer—and Lehrer’s mind control.

  He turned back toward Dara, who was half-slumped against the door, skin gone disturbingly pallid. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Dara said. He opened his eyes and pushed away from the door. He wavered for a moment, then balanced himself with a hand against the wall. “But Lehrer’s about to seize control of this country, and we don’t want to be caught up in it when he does.” He gestured toward the window. “We need to run. Is your electromagnetism quick enough to deflect bullets?”

  “Do you know how fast bullets are?”

  Dara sighed. “I figured. Still, better to ask.”

  “They injected me with suppressant. When it wears off, maybe I can keep a shield up,” Noam said. “Once we’re out on the streets. That way I don’t have to think about it, bullets will just . . .” He waved, and Dara managed a weak smile.

  “Perfect,” Dara said. “We should leave now. I’ll have Holloway escort you; that’s safer until we’re outside, but then we’ll have to be ourselves. The home secretary makes too good a hostage for the refugee block.”

  Noam almost asked if that was such a good idea—if fevermad people ought to keep using magic—but already Dara was gone, replaced by the same black-haired man from before. The illusion was absolute: Dara had even thought to wrinkle Holloway’s collar, the way someone dealing with an ongoing riot might look. Noam saw the threads of magic sewing it all together when he looked closely enough, but no one else would notice.

  “Are you ready?” Dara said in Holloway’s voice.

  Noam wasn’t ready. He nodded anyway.

  The hall was clear, but Dara didn’t break character. He guided Noam down to the left with one hand pressed to Noam’s back right between his shoulder blades, a gesture that could appear either paternalistic or authoritarian, depending on what someone expected to see. A nice touch, Noam thought, then almost laughed. They were running for their lives, and Noam was assessing Dara’s acting ability.

  “We’re about to run into some people,” Dara murmured after a moment, not slowing down. “Hard to say if they know Sacha arrested you; they’re not thinking about it right now.”

  “Can’t you cast an illusion on me too?” Noam whispered back.

  “I’m good, but I’m not omnipotent. Act natural, and follow my lead.”

  Noam sucked in a sharp breath. There was just enough time to worry whether his expression looked natural before they turned the corner. A platoon of soldiers held the hall, five covering each end of the corridor. Their CO shouted, five guns snapping up to point right at him and Dara. Noam reached frantically for his power, but all he managed to achieve was an odd little shiver through the metal of the nearest pistol.

  Thank god for small mercies. If it weren’t for suppressants, Noam would’ve just given them away.

  “I need you to let us through,” Dara said. He captured the stern tone of high command so perfectly that Noam could have believed he was listening to Lehrer himself.

  Of course, Lehrer was probably exactly whom Dara was trying to emulate.

  “Minister Holloway,” the lieutenant said. “All members of the administration are supposed to be in the bunker. We’ll escort you there immediately.”

  Dara’s hand moved up to Noam’s shoulder, squeezing once. “I’m afraid not. I need to deal with this one.”

  “We’ll bring you both to the bunker. It’s safer. You shouldn’t be out here when—”

  “Lieutenant,” Dara interrupted, “tell your men to get their guns out of my face.”

  The man’s cheeks darkened. He looked for a moment like he was struggling to get his mouth to cooperate. Then: “Stand down.”

  The guns lowered.

  “Thank you,” Dara said, a sardonic edge sharp on his voice. “Now. Let us pass.”

  “Sir—”

  “I don’t need to explain m
y orders to you,” Dara said, Holloway’s mouth wrinkling with dissatisfaction. “If you like, you may take this up with the chancellor when this is all over. Right now, I don’t have time.”

  “I think perhaps I should radio the captain . . .”

  “Lieutenant.”

  The lieutenant straightened. And, after a beat, faltered into an awkward half bow. “Yes, sir. Of course. Carry on.”

  Dara’s hand tightened on Noam’s shoulder, and he nudged him forward through the gathered platoon. Noam kept expecting it to be a trick. What if they’d found Sacha’s body? What if they knew someone looking like Minister Holloway had been there, that Noam had been in custody and was now missing?

  But no guns rose to meet them. They passed without interference, Holloway and his nameless civilian teenager progressing at measured pace through all that firepower.

  “Almost there,” Dara whispered when they were out of earshot. “Lehrer’s men cover the west exits. We’ll have a better chance slipping out there; they trust me since I’m Lehrer’s ward. This way.”

  They managed to avoid other soldiers before reaching the west wing service exit. It took twice as long as it should have—good for Noam’s power but less so for his nerves. Dara led them through winding back halls and up and down several sets of stairs, occasionally still shoving him into a shadowy office to stay out of sight while a unit trampled past.

  But they made it.

  Dara dropped his Holloway illusion at the exit door, stern features fading to reveal Dara’s wan face.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Noam said, gingerly touching Dara’s elbow. “You look—”

  “I said I’m fine,” Dara snapped. “Sorry. All this switching sides is making me motion sick.”

  “It’s going to be all right,” Noam said. He willed Dara to believe him, feeding confidence into his expression. “I promise. It’s almost over, and then we can . . . we’ll figure it out. Okay?”

  Dara just said, “You should put up that electromagnetic field now.”

  Noam obeyed, drawing up a thin bubble of charge all around them, strong enough the hairs on his arms stood on end. And then, on Dara’s cue, he opened the door.

  “Freeze!”

  Noam and Dara stumbled to a halt right there on the doorstep, the metal service door clanging shut. At least twenty soldiers surrounded the exit, all with guns pointed at Noam’s and Dara’s heads. Noam practically tasted his heart in his mouth as he threw his hands up.

  Be Lehrer’s men—God, fuck, please be Lehrer’s men—

  The force of Noam’s electromagnetic field pushed against the metal guns; the soldiers struggled to keep them steady as the barrels tilted toward the sky. Noam couldn’t spare focus to appreciate their confusion. Next to him, Dara was visibly trembling.

  “Don’t shoot,” Noam managed to get out through a tight throat. “We’re unarmed. Please don’t shoot.”

  “Sir!” one of the soldiers shouted. “Sir, that’s Dara Shirazi.”

  “Lower your weapons.”

  The guns went down, if maladroitly, and a beat later so did Noam’s hands. The unit leader edged his way between the gathered men. Noam saw, now, that he had a ribbon of ripped blue cloth tied around his upper arm—Carolinian blue. His face was beaded with sweat.

  “Dara Shirazi,” the man said, pointing at Dara. “And you must be Noam Álvaro, right? Lehrer’s new student?”

  Noam nodded.

  “Hi, Evan,” Dara said in a strained voice.

  The man, Evan, sighed. “What the hell’re you two doing here? You oughta be in the training wing. It ain’t safe.”

  “We need to get to Lehrer,” Noam said. It was obvious Dara wasn’t going to be able to speak again without throwing up all over Evan’s military-issue boots. Dara did manage to send a little burst of static electricity against Noam’s shoulder, though, which Noam ignored. Of course Dara wouldn’t be happy about going to Lehrer, but he wasn’t exactly in a state to be making life-and-death decisions. “Where is he?”

  Evan shook his head. “Y’all got about a quarter mile of angry protesters between here and there. I can’t recommend it.”

  “We’re both Level IV. We can defend ourselves.”

  “You think so, do you?” Evan folded his arms over his chest and lifted grizzled gray brows. “This shit’s messy as it gets, boy. We’re soldiers, and even we can barely tell the difference between us and them. Hard to know who’s on which side with everyone wearin’ the same uniform. If the rioters don’t trample you to death, one side of the Ministry or the other’ll shoot you, thinking you’re rioting. Not good.”

  “Please,” Noam insisted, knowing that wasn’t exactly a good argument, but what was he supposed to say? He couldn’t tell what Evan was thinking, had no idea what might convince him. “We can’t go back to the training wing; Sacha’s got the whole complex covered.”

  “Y’all can stay here with us.”

  “And if you get attacked? You’re right at the government complex. This isn’t exactly a secure position. Dara and I are wearing civvies. We’ll blend in with the refugees, so they won’t attack us. We’ve already got an electro—a magic shield up. We’ll head straight for Lehrer. He . . .” Noam fumbled for something else to say. Something persuasive. “He told us to come find him. It was a direct order. He’s minister of defense, he’s our commanding officer, so we have to go.”

  “That what he said, is it?” Evan tapped his fingers against his arm.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Evan looked like he was prepared to argue some more, but at last he just blew out a hard gust of air and said, “Fine. But your shield stays up. Always, you got me? Always. Don’t you talk to anyone; don’t get involved in any skirmishes. And I know y’all’re witchings, but you’re still gonna take a weapon with you.” He snapped his fingers. “Hardy. Give ’em your handgun.”

  One of the privates unholstered his pistol and passed it to Evan, who handed it to Noam. “Keep that out of sight.”

  Noam tucked the gun into his jeans, pressed flat against his back and hidden by the hem of his shirt. The cold metal burned his skin.

  Blackwell and Vivian.

  “Yes, sir,” Noam said again and didn’t think about that, didn’t think about it.

  Focus on Dara. His palm was clammy when Noam reached for his hand, but his grasp was strong.

  “Get on out of here.” Evan gestured toward the mouth of the alley. “Left up there. Keep heading north toward warehouse twelve. Lehrer’s commanding a unit roundabout there. And be careful.”

  “We will. Thank you,” Noam said, tugging at Dara’s hand before Evan could think better of letting them go.

  The square teemed with bodies, thousands of faceless people united in a roar of sound. Impossible to tell the difference between chanting and screaming now. Noam gripped Dara’s hand, looking back to meet his wide eyes. Glass shattered ten feet to their right, and an answering voice yelled something incoherent and enraged.

  “This way,” Noam shouted, though it was hard to tell if Dara could hear him. There were too many people, all headed in different directions and bleeding together like paint. Somewhere toward the east, a black cloud of smoke billowed overhead. A pop-pop-pop of gunshots. Noam’s pulse stumbled clumsily against his ribs.

  “Burn them!” someone yelled behind him, a raw and rough voice that scraped the marrow from Noam’s bones. “Burn the rats in their nest—”

  North, north, Noam told himself, just keep going north. But the crowd was an endless sea stretching over the horizon, no shore in sight.

  More screams, closer. Noam didn’t look. He didn’t want to see. Noam’s nails dug into the back of Dara’s hand, and they would have been swept underfoot if it weren’t for Noam’s power pushing people away, and—when that failed—his elbows.

  The buildings on the north side of the square were close now; just twenty more feet and they could duck down an alley. He could see warehouse twelve.

  More gunshots peppered the air
somewhere behind him, the bullets glinting like falling stars to Noam’s magic, though none of them met flesh, not yet. Just soldiers shooting deadly warnings toward the sky.

  The tide shifted. Suddenly the crowd was all moving in one direction—east, away from the government buildings, as if propelled by some terrible force. Noam’s power battered uselessly against the wave of people crushing in from the west. They were like cattle, Noam realized frantically as he found himself swept up in the mad dash. Cattle with wolves biting at their heels.

  A blockade was up; it must be. The army had them pinned into this square like an enraged bull crowded into a pen before a fight, chased by guns at their backs to beat themselves bloody against the barricade. Noam learned about this in Swensson’s class, remembered the diagrams Swensson drew on the chalkboard, white flaking lines to show troop movements: barricade here, then hammer nail.

  The crowd roiled against the blockade, burning with a rage that had nowhere to go. Magic sizzled all around. Witchings. Lehrer’s soldiers or Sacha’s? Not a risk Noam was willing to take.

  Warehouse twelve. Just get to warehouse twelve.

  Dara yanked on his arm and yelled something.

  “What?”

  “Noam!”

  Noam shoved a stranger out of the way and tugged Dara closer, until they were pressed chest to chest by the seething mob, Dara’s breath hot on Noam’s neck and his hair a tangled mess.

  “What is it?”

  “We have to run!”

  “We are running.”

  But Dara pulled back against Noam’s grip on his wrist. When Noam got a proper look at his face this time, it was . . . changed. Paler than before, if such a thing were even possible.

  “No, we have to—into the quarantined zone,” Dara said. “I can . . . there are people. I can find people. But I’m not going back.”

  The mob washed round them like a writhing sea.

  “Dara—no. You’re sick.”

  “But Lehrer—”

  “We’ll figure out what to do about Lehrer later. Right now he’s our best chance at staying alive.”

  Noam pulled Dara’s arm again, and this time Dara tipped off-balance, knocking against Noam. He was weak, so weak.