And.
What thefuckam I doing?
Goddamn it. He couldn’t stop seeing the expression on Ames’s face, right before she stalked out of the kitchen this afternoon. The contempt curling her lip.
Too late to pull back now; he had no choice but to stand there and let Lehrer comfort him. As if Noam were actuallyconcerned, as if Noam cared abouthimand not the fact that he still. Wasn’t. Dead.
Eventually, though, Lehrer let Noam go—although not without pressing a chaste kiss to his brow first.
Noam glanced down at the gore smearing his hands.
“Here,” he said and used a wave of magic to clean the blood off them both.
Lehrer nodded approvingly, already back to playing the role of mentor. “Good.”
He tugged open a drawer on his desk, retrieving a clean shirt—packaged in plastic, as if it had only just been returned from dry-cleaning. Lehrer dressed with quick, efficient movements, looking back over to Noam as he knotted a fresh tie around his neck.
“You’ll find out who was behind this,” he told him. “I can only imagine it’s Dara and Holloway and all your other new friends.”
There’s still hope for Dara,Lehrer had said.He hasn’t committed a crime. Not yet.
Noam sucked in a shallow breath through his nose. “Yes, sir. I’ll look into it.”
And he would. He absolutely fucking would.
Video file stolen from C. Lehrer’s personal records.
INT. CALIX LEHRER’S OFFICE
Lehrer—approximately twenty years old—sits behind an oak desk positioned before large windows, sunlight streaming through. He holds a file in hand, reading with a pen tapped against his lower lip. He wears the king’s gold circlet atop his head.
A knock comes at the door; Lehrer lifts his gaze from the papers.
LEHRER: Enter.
The door opens. A man pokes his head inside: Lehrer’s aide.
AIDE: Dr. Gleeson for you, sir.
LEHRER: Show him in.
Dr. Gleeson enters. He is stocky and white, with auburn hair threaded through with gray and the drawn, gaunt look of a man who has aged a great deal in a short amount of time. He carries his worn leather satchel over to one of the chairs before Lehrer’s desk, and—when Lehrer gestures—he sits.
LEHRER (without looking up from his file): You’re tired.
GLEESON: I haven’t been sleeping well.
LEHRER: What a shame. Can I get you anything? Tea? Whisky ...?
GLEESON: No. Thank you.
LEHRER: Suit yourself.
Lehrer uses telekinesis to pour himself a dram of scotch. He slips the papers he’d been reading into the top drawer of his desk and leans back in his chair, surveying Gleeson over the rim of his glass.
LEHRER: So. Where shall we begin today?
GLEESON: I thought we might discuss your brother.
