Dara looked at the bartender appraisingly now, taking in his untidy white shirt—same one he wore last night, with the sleeves rolled up like Dara might request he make another old fashioned at any moment—and messy hair. If the bartender had been ranting about Sacha’s crimes instead of Lehrer’s, he’d remind Dara a lot of Noam.
But at least for now, the bartender got to live. Dara’s hands could stay marginally less dirty.
“What’s your name?” Dara asked.
“Leo.”
“Do you have a last name, Leo?”
“Leo Zhang.” Pronouncedjong.
“All right, Leo Zhang. What time does your bar open on Mondays?”
Leo crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. “We’re closed Mondays. Why?”
“Well,” Dara said, and smiled. “If you really want to help the resistance, we’re in the market for a meeting space.”
CHAPTERNINE
NOAM
Noam had just swallowed his last bite of Friday-night roast chicken when he realized he couldn’t sense his cell phone anymore.
He lowered his fork slowly, glancing across the table at Lehrer, who took a sip of wine and arched a brow. Cold dread shot through Noam’s gut, and he twisted his hand in his napkin.
“What the hell did you do?” he croaked.
Noam’s magic was gone. He was defenseless.
He’s going to kill me.
Sudden sweat prickled at the back of Noam’s neck.
“Forgive me,” Lehrer said. “I had to know if I could trust you.”
Noam’s gaze snapped down to his own wineglass, sitting so innocuously next to his dinner knife. It hadn’t even tasted any different.
Lehrer hadn’t stopped watching Noam with those eerie colorless eyes, and Noam was sure,sodamn sure Lehrer was reading his mind. He could practically sense Lehrer’s power tangling up in his thoughts like so many golden threads, snaring him in a net of knots. And the truth would be plastered all over Noam’s mind: the truth about Faraday, about Dara. About what Noam had remembered.
Lehrer reached across the table and rested his hand atop Noam’s. His fingers were so long, his palm so broad, Noam’s hand seemed to be consumed by it. “It will wear off in an hour,” he said, almost like an apology. “In my position—you have to understand, Noam, I can’t take any risks. I had to be sure you weren’t using magic against me.”
And Noam was alive. Noam wasstill alive, which meant ...
Lehrer couldn’t read his mind. Not even now, with Faraday obsolete. They weren’t close enough anymore—Dara had said Lehrer’s telepathy required vulnerability, required his victim to feel like theywantedthat intimacy. And thank god for that, or else Lehrer would be right back in his mind. He’d know that Noam had used magic to keep him out.
“I’m not,” Noam managed to say. Lehrer had to have noticed how his hand trembled slightly beneath Lehrer’s own. “I don’t understand. How would I use magic against you? I don’t—I can’t—”
“I know that,” Lehrer said quickly. “That’s clear, now. This wasn’t personal—I have to keep national security in mind.”
“I don’t understand,” Noam said again. That’s what the old Noam would have said—the version of Noam who hadn’t figured out Faraday and remembered the truth.
“You don’t have to understand.” This time the words were firm. Lehrer pushed his chair back from the table, legs scraping the tile floor, and picked up his plate. He held out a hand for Noam’s, and after a beat Noam passed it over.
All it would take was one order. One twist of Lehrer’s persuasive magic, and Noam would be forced to tell Lehrer anything Lehrer wanted to hear.
The world seemed too silent now, blanketed under the weight of an unnatural snow. No buzz of static flickered over Noam’s skin, no humming laptop from the next floor down. Even the sound of the dishes clinking as Lehrer set them down in the sink was muted.
Noam braced himself for the order to forget, but it never came.
