Noam’s mind flashed back to the images he’d seen on the TV—all that blood black like tar on the sidewalk. Soaking Lehrer’s shirt as he stripped it off in his office.
Lehrer seemed to be waiting for a response. Noam nodded.
“Unfortunately,” Lehrer began, and that unsteady hand curled into a fist. “Unfortunately, my body has not yet been able to recover on its own. And I spent too much magic healing myself in the moment; I can’t risk using more.”
“Oh.” Noam bit the inside of his lip, fingertips pressing harder into the seat cushion. “I ... you know that I don’t know healing magic. Maybe Bethany ...?”
“Not that,” Lehrer said, a humorless smile passing over his mouth. He drew the book aside and pushed himself up. Slowly, like his joints were stiff and painful. He swung his legs off the sofa to plant his feet flat on the ground, facing Noam. “I was rather hoping I might convince you to loan me your blood.”
Noam was so used to thinking of magic as the solution for everything, these days, that for a moment he almost laughed—almost said,What, are you a vampire now?—and Lehrer must have recognized the look on his face before he arched a brow and interjected:
“A transfusion, Noam. I need a blood transfusion.”
A dull heat rose in Noam’s cheeks, one he tried to push away by folding his arms over his stomach and lifting his chin.Right.Of course.
“So ...,” he said, not really sure where he was going with this but needing to fill the awkward silence that had welled up in the wake of Lehrer’s words. “You need ...”
“We have the same blood type,” Lehrer said. “I checked your records from the red ward. You can understand why I want to keep this as discreet as possible. There are ways to track who receives transfusions delivered through the usual donation system. I can’t afford to seem weak right now.”
That much was true. Especially after an attempt on his life—Lehrer was right, it was a PR shitshow. Lehrer was supposed to be untouchable, and now there was video footage of his blood all over the ground. Witnesses who could say they’d seen him with a bullet in his head. It wasn’t exactly Lehrer’sbrand.
“Okay,” Noam said. “Sure. I mean ... yes. All right.”
He didn’t know what he’d expected—that Lehrer might make him an appointment at the hospital the following day, perhaps, send him to some clinical office with white walls that smelled of antiseptic—but an hour later he was sitting on the edge of Lehrer’s bathtub, Lehrer’s personal physician kneeling at his feet as she scrubbed his forearm with an alcohol wipe.
“This might sting,” she murmured and slid the hollow needle into his vein.
Noam’s blood was dark as garnet as it slid out of his arm and into the clear tubing that snaked down past his knee toward the bag on the floor. He squeezed the rubber ball she’d given him to hold.
“I suppose it’s a good thing I’ve never been afraid of blood,” he said and attempted a grin she didn’t return.
Lehrer stood in the doorway, a silhouette watching in silence. He met Noam’s gaze when Noam lifted his head, then turned away. His footsteps retreated through the bedroom and down the hall, toward the living room.
Lehrer sent him back to the barracks when it was done. Noam kept his shirtsleeve rolled down to cover the gauze taped to his inner elbow; he couldn’t explain this to Ames. Couldn’t even really explain it to himself. It was harmless, it was—it wasn’t like Noam could have said no.
But still.
He went to bed early, curling up under the sheets and clutching his arm to his chest; his skin throbbed where the needle went in, and he felt ... tired, drained, like that doctor had drawn more than just blood. But he couldn’t sleep. He kept twisting under his blankets, sweat beading at the small of his back, until finally he kicked the duvet away and grabbed his bottle of sleeping pills, swallowed five with his head stuck under the sink faucet.
When he finally slept, his dreams were haunted by shadows and beasts.
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
DARA
Sometimes, Dara missed the quarantined zone.
Not the social life, of course—there were about 150 people total living in the little commune Claire and Priya and the others had built up. Not that being back in Durham was much better, given Dara couldn’t even leave this damn apartment without seeing his face plastered on every missing person poster from here to Raleigh.
But the rest of it. The way it felt to beno one. To live somewhere that his identity didn’t matter—no one respected him more because he was Lehrer’s ward. No one heard him sayLevel IVand raised their brows. He didn’t have to overhear the endless monologue inside people’s heads: always eitherWill he tell Lehrer about this?orCan’t get over how pretty that boy is. Like Dara could be reduced to those two attributes: Lehrer and looks. Nothing more.
If people still thought of him that way, at least he didn’t know it. But these weren’t the social-climbing, prestige-obsessed sycophants of Carolinian high society. These were the anarchist terrorist motherfuckers who would tear that whole hegemony to the ground. If Dara knew Lehrer, well, that was an unfortunate piece of background information to be politely ignored, like having a parent who’d been convicted of murder.
And once Dara had shuddered and vomited and hallucinated his way through the worst of alcohol withdrawal, it had been easier not to drink. No booze in the quarantined zone, as Claire had reminded him so astutely. Not since forever.
No temptation.
Unlike here, where Dara quite literally lived right over a bar. Leo had taken a habit of going straight for the club soda whenever Dara walked in, sliding it across the counter and ignoring the way Dara’s gaze inevitably drifted toward his top shelf. He somehow managed to be both a twelve-step program and a judgmental parent all rolled into one convenient package.
