It wasn’t quite reflex, but it wasn’t quite intentional either. It was a cascade of light, searing down Noam’s spine and hurling Brennan back. He hit the floor eight feet away. He twitched once, twice, and went still.
Electricity still sparked across the surface of Noam’s skin and in the ambient air. His thoughts were white, formless, the room stretching dizzily around him as he knelt on the floor beside Brennan’s body.
Those brown eyes gazed blankly up at him, cold now and seeing nothing.
He was dead. He was dead, but Noam checked for a pulse anyway, because what if—what if?
Oh god.
It was an accident, Noam thought, his mind finally surging up on a rising tide of panic. It was . . .
He had to walk away. Right now, he had to stand up and walk out of here. Brennan was supposed to give a speech soon—in, fuck, in twenty minutes. Someone was going to come here for him, and when they found the body, Noam had to be gone.
The room tilted dangerously when Noam stood, sliding so far sideways that he had to catch himself on the edge of Brennan’s desk. And then, with another jolt of adrenaline, Noam tugged his sleeve down over his hand to rub his fingerprints away.
Fuck. Fuck, this was all wrong. Brennan was dead. Electrocuted. Fred Hornsby couldn’t . . . Brennan was supposed to get shot, the way a baseline would have done it.
Noam fumbled for the second gun, the one tucked into his waistband. Only after it was in his hand and pointed at Brennan’s head did he think, No, no, why would Hornsby shoot him if he was already lying down?
Noam dropped the gun on the desk and crouched down by Brennan’s body, reaching—fuck, don’t think about it, don’t think about it—and grabbing him under both arms. God, he was heavy, nothing but limp muscle and bone as Noam struggled to drag him back toward the desk chair. Dead weight. Noam wanted to laugh, the urge insane, almost overpowering.
Don’t look at Brennan’s face. Don’t look at his eyes.
Brennan’s head lolled forward as Noam hitched him up off the ground and into the chair, grunting with the effort.
His body was still warm. Jesus, he was still warm.
In that chair, Brennan looked like a marionette with its strings cut.
Noam picked up the gun again and pressed the silencer’s barrel to Brennan’s forehead. Then he took two steps back, trying to keep the gun steady. He only wanted to do this once. His hands shook.
Remember your training.
Inhale. Good. Exhale. Relax. Aim.
Fire.
Blood and brain matter exploded against the blue wallpaper behind the desk.
Noam stood there, watching the blood drip down toward the wood floor. He felt nothing. That shadow-self had its hands on his shoulders, cold comfort.
He edged closer, crouching down just enough to get a good look at the entrance wound. It was small, a round void surrounded by black powder residue. There was hardly any blood on Brennan’s face.
Shouldn’t he be horrified? All Noam could think about was training.
He and Lehrer had talked about this.
Leave the bullet and shell wherever they are, because they’ll trace to this gun, which we’ll plant in Hornsby’s house. Wipe your hands on your pants to get rid of powder residue. Hide the gun, not in Brennan’s office, and someone from the Ministry of Defense will retrieve it later.
Noam’s face was still too close to Brennan’s. Blood trickled from Brennan’s nose, his ears.
Reality crashed back in like a summer storm.
Noam stumbled back and turned roughly away, gulping in several breaths of air. Don’t puke at the goddamn crime scene.
Get out of here. Right now.
Brennan’s gun got kicked under the desk somehow while Noam was dragging the body around. He tugged it out with telekinesis, wiped it with a microfiber cloth, then put it on the desk again. Just to be safe, he wiped down the spot he’d grabbed the desk earlier one more time.
Then the . . . the murder weapon. Unscrew the silencer. Clean the prints; drop it in a plastic bag. Tie the bag off; tuck it back into trousers.
Through it all, Brennan’s eyes watched him with glassy interest. Noam couldn’t stop thinking about that, or the tick of the clock on the wall. He kept glancing over his shoulder to be sure Brennan was really dead, half-certain each time that he’d find the corpse hovering there with its hollowed-out skull.
The last moments, standing there looking at that scene and trying to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, were the longest in Noam’s life. There could be fibers. Hair. Noam had no way of being sure. Lehrer said he’d make sure any such evidence got buried in the investigation, but that assumed Lehrer had power after this to bury anything at all.
Couldn’t worry about it now.
Noam waited at Brennan’s door, listening to the movements in the hall outside. Cell phones. Tablets. Wristwatches. As soon as the hall was clear, he reached out and plunged his power into the security cameras again.
It was clumsy. The wires fried. Fuck. Someone was gonna notice that.
Noam darted into the hall, shutting Brennan’s door and heading toward the staircase as fast as he could without outright running. Fear was a constant fire at his back. He couldn’t think straight. He knew he’d forgotten something—he must have. His blood roared in his ears.
He made it three steps before a door at the end of the hall swung open.
Shit, shit—
Noam spun on his heel and started walking in the opposite direction. He ducked his head, eyes trained on the ground five feet in front of him and hoping the most anyone saw of him was the back of his neck.
“—talk to Barbara about getting those papers signed before the end of the day,” a female voice said behind him.
“She should still be in her office,” someone replied. They were at least a few yards behind Noam but between him and the way he came in.
Any second now, he thought. Any second someone would call out to him, and he’d have to choose between showing his face and running.
An exit sign glowed over a door at the end of the hall. Alarmed, though, emergency exit only. There wasn’t a biometric reader, not that Noam could sense, no way to tag Hornsby’s presence here a second time. No turning around either. This had to be good enough.
Noam cut the alarm signal as he shouldered the door open. The stairs were dimly lit and narrow, concrete walls bowing in on either side. When the door slammed shut, that first gasp of air gusted into his lungs so fast and cold his chest ached.
Of course, he wasn’t free yet. These stairs seemed to stretch on forever.
Fuck it. Noam looped magnetism around the handrails for balance and swung himself over, dropping into the void. Three floors shot past, Noam’s power dragging against metal to slow his fall.
His knees buckled when he landed, pain shooting up the outside of his right ankle, but Noam didn’t stop. He clinched off the wiring in the final door and pushed out into the brilliant white sunlight.
The alley was, thankfully, deserted, drain water splashing underfoot as Noam ran toward the street. The square in front of the government complex teemed with people, with more dashing up the road to join them waving flags bearing the red star of Atlantia.
Right. That’s right, Brennan was meant to speak; these people were here for him. All refugees?
Didn’t matter. They were good cover. Noam ducked his head and pushed into the throng, weaving through the shouting voices and sharp elbows.
They were still chanting, he realized as he struggled past all these unfamiliar bodies, one word that rose above the stamping of feet and shouting of orphan children: Brennan’s name.
Noam’s body felt too hot, burning ash consuming him from the inside out. Nausea sloshing in his throat, he grabbed on to the arm of a stranger as the world tilted off its axis.
What had he done?
Everyone stared, their eyes all whites. Brennan, Brennan. It pounded through the ground and throbbed in the air.
&nbs
p; Noam lurched forward and vomited. There wasn’t much to get up, just bile and foam, but it got on someone’s shoes, and the man whose arm Noam grasped pushed him roughly away.
He stumbled to the right and bumped into someone else, nowhere to go that wasn’t already taken. Noam’s mouth tasted like blood, and he felt blood, too, against the back of his hand. Only he looked and, no, it was just a quarter, someone’s lost change magnetized to his skin.
The gun. He had to get rid of the gun.
Noam cast his gaze wildly about, but all he saw were people. More people. An endless throng.
No. There.
He followed the scent of metal, tracking it to a garbage bin on a street corner. It was crowded enough that no one noticed Noam stuff the plastic bag in with the rest of the refuse. Or he hoped no one noticed. This was . . . this was . . . Blackwell and Vivian. Don’t forget. Blackwell and Vivian, trash can on the corner.
Noam wiped his mouth on his sleeve and took in a steadying breath, turning to look back toward the government complex again. Soon they’d set up a perimeter. They’d search everyone and strip every last shred of evidence. They’d find Noam.
What time was it? How long until Brennan was supposed to give his press conference?
Lehrer’s people were here, too, interspersed through the crowd in their green uniforms. He felt their guns, their witching magic.
Noam couldn’t be on the street when the riots began.
After it’s done, Lehrer had told him, come to my study. I’ll be your alibi . . . though hopefully you won’t need one.
Noam headed back toward the government complex, shouldering his way through the shouting crowd and keeping his head down. Only . . . the entrance guards. They’d recognize him. Idiot, he never should have left the building. He could’ve gone down the hall on some other floor and made it back to Lehrer’s study with time to spare. It was probably a matter of minutes before they found the body.
If they hadn’t already.
He couldn’t use Hornsby’s biometrics again and get caught reentering the government complex, not when Hornsby was supposed to get arrested at home. Another emergency exit, then? Where the hell would he find one?
No time to search. He’d have to go back the way he came. If he was fast, he could dart through and into a first- or second-floor hallway before they put everything on lockdown.
Not a great plan, but better than being trapped out here with no alibi and rioting refugees when they started hunting for a killer.
Noam took a sharp left and got an elbow in the ribs when he nearly tripped over a man wearing red face paint. “Sorry,” Noam muttered and kept going.
Every fiber of him was desperate to run, anxiety clawing up his spine like a live thing. What if one of the soldiers out here recognized him?
Don’t think about that. Keep going.
The alley was still deserted. Finally, Noam gave in to instinct and broke into a sprint.
Please, please, don’t sound the alarm, not yet, please . . .
Noam yanked the door open with his power and tumbled into the dark stairwell for a second time. His legs trembled as he dashed up the steps two at a time. Hall was empty. Good. Noam let himself in.
His heart pounded so hard in his chest he felt like he might be dying. Could sixteen-year-olds have heart attacks?
Noam rubbed his hands against his sweaty face, pushing his hair back into something resembling order. Okay. Just a regular person with a totally good reason to be here, walking down the hall. Just walking.
The door at the other end of the hall opened. Three soldiers, headed this way.
They wore antiwitching armor.
Noam’s stomach convulsed. Act normal, act normal, act normal. They don’t care about you. They don’t care. Don’t do anything stupid.
He should run. He should get the fuck out of here while he still could.
The three soldiers were still walking. They hadn’t drawn their weapons.
You’re safe. Go. Keep going.
Twenty feet away. Ten feet. Noam kept his gaze trained on the floor. Don’t recognize me, don’t recognize me, please, fuck, please don’t even look at me—
The three soldiers walked past and didn’t give Noam a second glance.
Noam felt like he was going to shatter into a million pieces. Fuck, okay, fuck, almost there. Five minutes.
The door opened again, and out spilled six soldiers in iridescent armor—another antiwitching unit. Every one of them had a gun. Every gun was aimed at Noam.
“Stop!”
A hot flare burst in Noam’s gut. He spun around, but those three soldiers he’d passed blocked him in from behind, two with guns drawn and the third holding up hands that sizzled with magic.
Witchings, they have witchings.
“Wait,” Noam gasped out. He held up his arms, fingers spread wide. “I think . . . there’s been some kind of mistake.”
“No mistake.”
Noam knew that voice. Noam knew that voice.
He turned, slowly, slowly, back to face the six soldiers at the door. A seventh man had joined their number, this one clothed in a neat black suit. A silvery circlet perched upon his head. His face was a twisted mask of satisfaction.
Noam’s insides turned to stone, and Sacha smiled.
“Arrest him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They took him to the fifth floor, far away from the Ministry of Defense and, presumably, Lehrer’s influence.
The soldier to Noam’s right had a bruising grip on his arm even though Noam wasn’t struggling, pulling at him every three steps and nearly knocking Noam off his feet. People they passed in the hall stared, government workers and soldiers alike.
Surely at least one of these people will recognize me, Noam thought. Someone would tell Lehrer. Right? But then, he wasn’t in his cadet uniform. In his worn-out civvies he could’ve been anyone—a refugee kid dragged in off the street for incitement.
Noam spent the whole trip asking what he’d done, insisting something was wrong because he didn’t belong here—he was just trespassing, he swears, he swears. He knew it was useless but kept talking anyway. Just in case.
They got on the elevator, and Noam opened his mind to the web of technology glimmering out of normal sight, quivering little waves and wires connecting people to machine. Lehrer didn’t have a computer, as if he thought owning something made after 1965 would throw off his aesthetic. But he had a phone. Noam bypassed the wards and made the message show up on Lehrer’s screen:
Arrested. With Sacha now.—N
He didn’t dare say anything about Brennan or the mission. His attention hovered over that phone like a finger over the screen, waiting for some kind of confirmation that Lehrer had seen it, but there was no way to know. Lehrer might be busy dealing with the fallout from Brennan’s murder. He might be orchestrating a riot. What if he didn’t check his phone for hours? What if Sacha decided to have Noam executed before then? He’d killed a government official. They could decide he was a threat to national security and sentence him without a trial.
Could Sacha make that kind of determination without Lehrer signing off on it? Noam had no idea.
He sensed the Faraday cage as soon as they stepped out of the elevator. It was hidden behind an unlabeled white door, metal glittering in Noam’s awareness like the outline of a weapon.
Sacha turned to look at him, his expression something that could have been amusement, but wasn’t quite.
“That’s right,” Sacha said, as if he could tell what Noam was thinking. “Pure copper. I had it made specially. In there, you can’t use your power to influence anything outside that room, and no one else’s power can reach you. Still. Better to be cautious.”
He gestured, and something sharp jabbed into Noam’s neck.
“Suppressant,” Sacha said as the soldier to Noam’s left put the plastic cap back on his syringe. Noam clapped a hand to his neck, as if that would make a difference. “Developed by the old US government
during the catastrophe. Illegal now, of course. Our mutual friend made sure of that. But there are always loopholes.”
The soldier on Noam’s right entered a code on the keypad next to the door, and when the door slid open, he shoved Noam inside. By the time Noam caught his balance, the door had shut, trapping him within that perfect copper net.
Immediately he reached out with his power—or tried to. It was like grasping at someone’s soapy hand, grip slipping every time he clenched his fingers.
“Fuck!” Noam shouted, kicking the table hard enough it skidded two feet across the concrete floor.
Calm the fuck down, he told himself, his toe throbbing and breaths coming in shallow little gasps. That wall’s a one-way mirror. Sacha’s out there. You have to be calm.
All right. Okay.
Single table, two folding chairs. One door, locked. Observation mirror. Suppressants. Faraday cage.
Well, Noam could presumably use the chairs as weapons if he had to, but even if he knocked out whomever was in the room with him, he wouldn’t get far. There was no keypad to unlock the door from inside, for one. And if he got into the hall, he’d have to deal with the other soldiers. They’d have guns, and he didn’t have magic.
How long did the shit in that syringe last, anyway? Was there a chance it could wear off before they remembered to re-up him? Noam scanned the room but couldn’t see cameras or any other tech.
I had it made specially, Sacha had said.
Noam got the feeling he wasn’t the one this room was built to contain.
That’s it, then. He was fucked. If this room was strong enough to keep Lehrer in, no way was Noam breaking out.
Single table, two folding chairs. One door, locked. Observation mirror. Suppressants. Faraday cage. No cameras. What else?
People. There were people out there, presumably watching right now. Could they hear him?
That tech could be fucking flawless, but Noam was a programmer. He knew all about human error.
“Hello?” Noam said, turning to face the one-way mirror. His reflection peered back, wide eyed and pale. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
“Listen,” Noam said anyway, hugging his arms round his waist and trying to look harmless. Just a scared kid caught in something too big for him to understand. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Can we talk? Please?”
The Fever King Page 30
