“Perhaps,” Lehrer said, “I should consider the possibility he’ll move against me openly. In that case, it would be best if I spoke against him early. I could disseminate a warrant for his arrest.”
Noam put his full drink down on an end table and moved to the sofa, perching on the armrest. The same sofa, he thought, that Dara might have slept on those late nights he stayed up reading Russian literature past midnight.
“No,” Lehrer said, deciding against himself a beat later. He turned at the far end of the room, pacing another lap. “Dara’s too skilled at illusion; it would make no difference. He could appear as anyone ... unless he’d appear as himself just to make things difficult for me reputationally? But if I issue a warrant, that’s a challenge all its own.”
Noam’s very bones felt sick. The effort of keeping his mouth shut was exhausting. He wanted to lie down on that sofa and press his face into the cushions and suffocate there.
“I think perhaps it’s best if I tell a select number of people that Dara has escaped from the clinic and is gravely ill. I’m desperate for any assistance in finding him.” Lehrer stopped, there, in the middle of the room. He was positioned perfectly in front of the window, framed like an oil painting. “After all,” Lehrer went on, “he could die.”
Dara hadn’t seemed very sick when Noam saw him. The opposite, in fact. If his eyes had been too bright, it wasn’t from fever.
Something bitter climbed up the back of Noam’s throat. All at once the room was overhot, sweat prickling the nape of Noam’s neck. He dug his nails into the upholstery.
“Don’t worry,” Lehrer said, and this was directed toward Noam. He even smiled, as if to be reassuring. “I won’t kill him. If Dara is connected to these insurgents, it’s far better to use him to find out who else is involved. I’m sure he has friends in this administration—I need to know who they are. I need to tear this little rebellion out by the root, not simply trim the weeds.”
Noam closed his eyes. He couldn’t—all he could think about was the way Dara had looked at him tonight. Like Noam had torn his heart from his chest right there in front of him.
The soft sound of footfalls on carpet, then Lehrer’s cool fingertips slid along Noam’s cheek. “It’s all right,” Lehrer said quietly. “You can look at me.”
Noam looked.
Lehrer’s touch stayed where it was, gossamer-light. Little shivers racked their way up and down Noam’s spine. Lehrer’s thumb rubbed the corner of his mouth. His gaze was steady, surveying.
Lehrer said, “Thank you for listening. Forget this conversation now.”
Noam turned his face away from Lehrer’s hand. The shivering kept getting worse. He knew Lehrer could see it, like a death chill.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled and ducked under Lehrer’s arm. He didn’t even make it to the bathroom. He stumbled into the kitchen, gripped the cold steel edge of the sink, and threw up.
The retching felt like it would never end. Nausea kept coming in waves, a salty ocean that closed overhead and threatened to drown. He was distantly aware of Lehrer entering the kitchen, but it was only when Lehrer stroked his spine and Noam’s body reflexively heaved all over again that he realized how close Lehrer stood.
Noam vomited up everything he had for dinner, all the champagne, and after that his stomach kept trying to surge up through his mouth even though there was nothing left to come out. Lehrer turned on the faucet, washing away the evidence while Noam shut his eyes and tried to breathe, fighting back each successive gag.
“You’re okay,” Lehrer said gently. He had his hand on Noam’s hip, holding him up—Noam’s legs were too weak to manage standing now, Noam hanging on to the counter with both hands to stay upright. Lehrer shut off the faucet with his free hand, then combed water-damp fingers back through Noam’s hair. The cold felt good on his scalp. “There, now. It’s over. It’s all right.”
Impossible to say if that was persuasion. If it was, and Noam vomited again, Lehrer would realize Noam had a Faraday shield. He’d realize he couldn’t influence him, and then—then ...
Noam’s gut kept clenching around air, but he didn’t puke again.
Lehrer helped him away from the sink, half carrying him back out into the hall, down toward the darkened bedroom. He didn’t bother turning on the light, just pulled back the duvet with telekinesis and let Noam curl up there fully clothed on the clean sheets.
Lehrer sat on the edge of the bed, his hip against Noam’s knee and his hand on Noam’s thigh.
“I think you should stay here tonight,” Lehrer said as his magic tugged Noam’s shoes off one after the other. “I can speak to Sergeant Li about your missing basic tomorrow morning. You’ve had a terrible shock.”
Noam was afraid if he opened his mouth, he’d gag again. So he nodded instead, and Lehrer brushed his hair off his forehead.
“I’ll bring you some tea,” he said and slipped out of the room, leaving Noam alone in the dark.
Noam pulled the covers up over his head and, when Lehrer returned a few minutes later bearing a mug of chamomile, pretended he was already asleep.
THE CAROLINIA HERALD
August 24, 2021
TRAINING PROGRAM ESTABLISHED FOR WITCHING YOUTH
Durham—Calix Lehrer announced yesterday afternoon the formation of a new government-funded training program to educate new survivors of the magic virus. The program will be split into four levels by dynamic ability, with the fourth level reserved for training particularly promising recent witchings as well as witchings who have advanced from lower levels. Level I will be located in Charleston, Level II in Asheville, and Level III in Richmond. Level IV will be headquartered in Durham at the government complex. Major Greta Handsmith has been assigned to administrate all units; Colonels Shawn Wang, Stephanie Gold, Bridget Prinz, and Thomas Singh will oversee Levels I–IV respectively.
