Dara definitely didn’t remember. But he got that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach anyway.
The bartender abandoned his pretense of being fascinated by the dresser. “I know who you are. You told me. You’re Dara Shirazi. Lehrer’s son.”
Dara kept his mouth shut. He didn’t trust himself not to vomit again.
“It was a little bit funny, actually,” the bartender went on with a quirk of his mouth. “You kept going on aboutdo you know who I amandyou wouldn’t be cutting me off if Lehrer were here. You’re like a walking caricature of every minister’s kid I ever met.”
“What’s your point?” Dara snapped at last. Something was smoldering behind his breastbone, dangerous and too hot. He reached for his magic. It wasn’t there. Shit. His gun was all the way on the other side of the room, in the drawer of that dresser the bartender leaned against.
“My point,” the man said, “is that Dara Shirazi, Chancellor Lehrer’s son, has no business being in a bar like mine, staying in an apartment like this, on the north side of town. Dara Shirazi doesn’t need a fake ID. So if Dara Shirazi is in hiding, I’m curious why.”
Dara stared at him. The bartender stared back. His eyes were black and bright and far too intelligent.
Dara should have predicted this was how it would happen. That he’d somehow miraculously escape Lehrer’s clutches, and Lehrer’s assassin, only to get arrested because he got wasted at a bar and spilled everything to a handsome bartender too chivalrous for his own good.
“Why is it any of your business?”
“It’s my business because you live above my bar, and if you’re in some kind of trouble, I at least want to know about it before the MoD firebombs my place of work. So. Are you in trouble?”
Trouble.How adorably euphemistic.
Dara pushed himself up off the bed and moved closer to the bartender, close enough the man stepped aside—putting more space between them, like he thought Dara might try to kiss him again. Dara leaned against the dresser and braced his hand near the drawer handle. Just in case.
He had limited options, as far as he could see. And thanks to his rigorous training as Lehrer’s erstwhile assassin, he could see pretty damn far.
Option one: Kill the bartender. He could use the gun to threaten him into a more vulnerable position, but then he’d probably have to finish it off by snapping the man’s neck or slitting his throat. A gunshot would draw attention. Potential consequences: Messy. Bartender might have friends who’d come looking for him. And Dara would prefer to avoid murdering innocent people as much as possible.
Option two: Make up some story about having argued with Lehrer. Potential consequences: Bartender believes him. Either he drops the issue, or he decides to play hero and sends word to Lehrer to come rescue his wayward son.
Option three: Tell the bartender the truth. Potential consequences: Bartender agrees that Lehrer needs to be taken down and keeps Dara’s secret. Alternatively he doesn’t, in which case Dara kills him before he can tell anyone what he heard. But at least the bartender would probably give some sign that was his plan—if he was repulsed by Dara’s treason, it would show on his face. That kind of thing was hard to disguise.
Dara didn’t like the idea of killing the bartender—not at all.
But he liked the idea of letting Lehrer killhimeven less.
“Okay,” Dara said. “To put it bluntly: Lehrer has been infecting Carolinians with the virus for years to create more witchings. His goal is to transform Carolinia into a witching state. A witching majority and a witching oligarchy. He’ll invade as many countries as it takes, if it means he gets more witching citizens. Naturalizing the Atlantians gave us, what? Five thousand new witchings? That’s not insignificant. I’ll bet you a hundred argents Carolinia launches a formal annexation of what’s left of Atlantia within a month.”
The bartender hadn’t moved. Had barely even blinked. He was a fish caught on a hook, and Dara just had to reel him in.
“Well, some of us have a problem with mass genocide. There’s a resistance group, the Black Magnolia. We’re a mix of Carolinians, Texan outcasts, people who grew up in the quarantined zone. I’ve been living in the QZ with them for the past six months, and I came back here to kill Lehrer. Is that the kind of trouble you meant?”
He grasped the dresser handle, his whole body alight with adrenaline. The chair by the window—he could get the bartender there, use the wall as leverage against his back when he snapped the neck—
“Sounds about right,” the bartender said.
“I beg your pardon?”
The bartender gestured, both hands palm up as if in surrender. “I mean, someone has to do it. If what you say is true.”
This wasn’t at all what Dara had expected. He didn’t trust the unexpected.
He didn’t let go of the dresser drawer. “It’s true. But why should you believe me? Aren’t you ... shocked?”
The bartender leaned back against the wall, both arms folded over his chest. “Before I was a bartender, I was a soldier. Like you. Only I wasn’t a witching. So instead of a cushy Level IV gig, I got sent down to Atlantia.” He shook his head, very slowly. “The things they made us do down there ... Lehrer should be charged with fucking war crimes.”
Dara laughed, the sound ripping itself out of his throat before he could stop himself. He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, gripping the dresser for balance now more than anything else. “Right,” he said. “You’re right. He should.”
But that was never going to happen.
