Where was Dara now?
When Dara had looked at them, at Noam standing so close to Lehrer, listing toward him as if Lehrer were the only light in the dark—had he known? Could he tell? Did he look into Noam’s eyes and see all those memories of how Noam had felt after Dara left—the day he realized Dara was probably dead, had died alone and feverish in Atlantia like so many of Noam’s old friends? This whole thing with Lehrer had seemed so horribly inevitable: Noam and Lehrer, shipwrecked by the same grief.
Now Dara was back.
Something sickly reached long fingers down into Noam’s gut and tangled him into a hot, pulsing knot.
He barely paid attention in the rest of his lessons that day, even though they were doing demonstrations with Adebayo, and he usually loved watching the other Level IV witchings put their presenting powers to work. Instead he sat in the back row, saying nothing, while Ames shifted water from liquid to gel state and Taye exponentially shrank Adebayo’s desk down to the size of a pinhead. Their magic washed over him in strange oceanic waves, incomprehensible. Lehrer had canceled their private lessons, in the interest of catching up on some work he’d missed while watching Noam that first day after the gala. That meant Noam spent his afternoon bouncing around the barracks and wishing he had a power he could stretch out over the city—the kind of power that let youfindpeople. Probably Lehrer would have wanted Noam to go straight back to his apartment now that classes were done, but he couldn’t bring himself to obey. It felt worse, somehow, to spend these hours staring at the same walls he’d stared at for three days, waiting obediently for Lehrer to come home like Lehrer’s ... like Lehrer’s goddamn trophy wife.
No. He wasn’t doing that.
So Noam didn’t leave the barracks until six, an hour before he knew Lehrer would be leaving work himself. Plenty of time to get back, to seem like he’d kept himself busy readingLolitawhile Lehrer shook hands with all the self-important diplomats and signed treaties Noam knew damn well Lehrer had no intention of honoring.
As he walked through the government complex, he dragged his technopathy through the passing mobile phones, tablets, laptop computers—by force of habit more than anything else. The data poured through his mind and then slipped from conscious awareness just as easily. Noam realized only as he was passing the atrium that any of these people could be Dara. With Dara’s illusion ability ... he could be here, even now—the black-suited man scowling at Noam as he headed for the doors, the woman chatting away into her phone. Noam still remembered how complete the disguise had been when Dara pretended to be Minister Holloway. That same dark-haired man walked toward Noam now, absorbed in his phone, typing away into the notes feature—
Wait.
Noam,Holloway typed.
Noam stared—but Holloway didn’t even look up, just kept typing.
I have a message from Dara. He wants you to meet him in apartment 304 above that dive bar on Rigsbee Ave, near the original athletic park. Go now. Make sure you don’t run into Lehrer on your way. Right now.
Holloway brushed past Noam, close enough Noam could have reached out and trailed his fingers against Holloway’s jacket sleeve. He left the distinct scent of bergamot cologne in his wake.
Noam felt as if his body had suddenly been emptied of all organs, nothing left but a yawning void.
Right.
Right, okay.
Noam was five steps from the door into the west wing when he diverted track—not for the front door, of course, as he didn’t doubt Lehrer had instructed the guards not to let him leave. He went back into the east wing instead, climbed the stairs to the second floor, then jumped out a hall window using magnetism to break his fall. He landed soft on the pads of his feet, right between the dumpster and the recycling bin. There was a security camera watching, but these days it took next to no effort to ensure it didn’t register his presence.
Noam knew what bar Holloway was talking about. It was a mile or so away—easily walkable, but if Dara was there—if Dara was waiting for him—then seriously,fuck that.
He grabbed the first northbound bus and stood there crammed in with all the government complex employees commuting home from work, staring at the back of someone’s conservative haircut with someone else’s briefcase bumping against his thigh. The ride felt as if it took ten years, each second dragging on into the next. Noam’s body buzzed with adrenaline, and he realized he was clenching his teeth only when his jaw started to hurt.
He shoved his way out of the crowd when the bus stopped three blocks from the bar; there were closer stops, but he had to be sure he wasn’t being followed. He was too anxious to try and lose a tail or try again another day. Likely he’d have just killed whomever it was and dumped the body in a convenient alley.
Noam’s breath froze in front of his face as he tramped through the snow that still hadn’t been shoveled off the sidewalk. Jesus, he should have at least gone back to the barracks and grabbed a coat and gloves. Instead he was going to show up on Dara’s doorstep, the first time after six months’ separation, teeth chattering and nose red and runny. He tried to adjust his satchel so the strap fell over the cadet star on his sleeve; drawing attention was the last thing he needed.
Hopefully it was dark enough nobody would notice him at all.
The bar was beginning to fill up, even at six thirty. The orange light glowing through the windows looked warm and welcoming from where Noam stood out on the sidewalk trying to decide which door was the right door to go up to the apartments. His fingers were frozen in fists.
Whatever. Left door looked good enough.
Noam opened it with telekinesis so he didn’t have to take his hands out of his pockets, leaning in with his shoulder to block the obvious magic from passing gazes.
A narrow stair led upward, lit only by a single bare bulb screwed into the ceiling. Noam sucked in a shallow breath and started up. Each step jarred him down to the bone, spelling out a familiar rhythm:Da-ra. Da-ra.
Apartment 304 was right at the end of the hall. Noam loitered on the stoop, staring at the peeling fake-gold stickers that numbered the door.
It took several moments for him to muster the courage to lift his hand and knock.
Footsteps, on the other side of the door. The creak of a loose floorboard. The heat of someone’s skin on the opposite knob. It turned, and the door opened.
Dara looked as if he had just stepped out of Noam’s own memories. Well. His hair was shorter, unevenly cut, like it had been chopped off at some point and grown back wrong. But that face was the same. The expression on that face, too, as if someone had taken a snapshot of him as he was before the fever turned his eyes overbright and his cheeks too pink, and given it life.
