“I’m Level IV,” Noam said by way of explanation. “Sometimes training gets rough.”
Ames’s mouth closed so hard her lips had gone white. She wasn’t going to contradict him. But Dara ...
Dara didn’t look capable of speech.
Noam made himself move closer, pull out a chair at Claire and Priya’s table and sit down. He wasn’t sure he was fooling anyone. Claire and Priya had fallen silent, and from the way Leo was looking at him, Noam knew he was reconstructing the blows in his head the way only a soldier could. Even Holloway had an odd expression on his face, eyes narrow and considering.
It was several seconds after Noam had settled in that Dara slowly, slowly sank back down into his chair. Holloway picked up where he’d left off, shuffling the notes on the table before him and licking his thumb to flip to the next page, lecturing on about camera angles.
Not that any of that mattered when there was a technopath on hand.
Noam let Holloway talk. Now that Noam was here, it was like all that terror from the hallway of Lehrer’s apartment had finally seeped into his bones, a sickness that spread like mildew through his marrow. One hand curled round the seat of his chair, hidden by the table, gripping it so hard a splinter caught under his nail.
He wasn’t any better by the time the meeting was over, and he couldn’t remember a single thing they discussed. Noam’s mind was a jumbled cacophony of meaningless words. His head hurt like a motherfucker.Lehrer was right about that much,he thought and nearly laughed.
Noam tried to leave quickly, but Dara called his name from across the room before he even made it to the door. And then Noam had to turn and look at him.
Dara had one hand braced against the tabletop, his skin gone the sickly color of old photographs.
“Can I talk to you?” Dara said, and Noam had no choice.
He nodded.
Dara led him out into the alley behind the bar—the same alley where Noam lit his cigarette once, Dara’s hair dusted white with snow.
“I have everything under control,” Noam said.
Dara shook his head. The sound he made next was half a laugh and half a hitched breath, pitch falling low. And now that they were out here, it seemed like he couldn’t even look at Noam. His gaze flitted from the ground to the brick wall to Noam’s coat to the end of the alley, anywhere but Noam’s mangled face. When he finally tilted his head toward the sky, the streetlights reflected in his eyes, off unshed tears.
Noam took a tiny half step closer to Dara, expecting Dara to move back to regain distance. He didn’t. That clenching feeling in Noam’s gut twisted tighter.
“I can—we’re so close, Dara,” Noam said, insisted. Already his hands were going numb in the cold; he pressed them into his coat pockets. “It won’t be long now. I’ve been taking pictures of anything I can in the apartment—old letters, journal entries. Hacking video files. And he must keep the vaccine nearby. I know it.”
Dara still wasn’t speaking. A single tear had fallen free of his lashes, slid down his cheek.
“Independence Day is in two weeks,” Noam said.
“You won’t last two weeks.”
Dara lowered his gaze at last, and with the redness in his eyes—the way he fixed them on Noam like he could pin him down with sight alone—made him look as furious as he did heartsick.
“Dara—”
“I keep telling you these things. You keep not listening. Just like last time.”
“I’m—Dara, you know I believe you. It isn’t about that—”
“He won’t stop,” Dara cut in. “He’ll keep hurting you. He’ll do more than that. He’ll—”
Something cold crystallized in Noam’s heart, the certain knowledge of what came next; and he didn’t think he could survive hearing it said on Dara’s lips, after everything.
“Don’t—” he started, but Dara pushed on, a fierceness twisting his features as he said it.
“He’ll rape you.”
A fresh wave of pain crested through the bruises on Noam’s face. He was crying, Noam realized belatedly. The salt from his tears had gotten in the open wounds.
“He won’t,” Noam said, but he barely recognized his own voice.
