He and Brennan stared at each other across the scant five feet between them. Brennan’s eyes were so wide Noam could see white all around his irises.
“Put the gun down.”
Noam’s power burned through the chamber. “I told you to be quiet.”
Another step closer. “Please, son. It’s all right. It’s all right.”
Brennan was so close now, close enough that Noam saw the sheen of perspiration on his brow.
“I’m not your fucking son!” Noam’s voice cracked on the last word.
Electricity snapped visibly in the air now, wild and dangerous. Noam’s head pounded; it felt like an earthquake shuddering in the ground beneath him, through him.
I’m going to shoot him, Noam thought.I’m going to have to shoot him; he’s giving me no other choice—
Brennan grasped the barrel of the gun.
And Noam...
Noam let it go.
The gun fell into Brennan’s waiting hand, Brennan’s relief a thick fog dipping between them.
Brennan exhaled.
“Good,” he said, “good.” And he reached for Noam’s arm.
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 wasstill 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.
