He shuffled them back into the drawer quickly, glancing over his shoulder toward the dark hall leading back to Lehrer’s bedroom. Empty. Some part of him had expected Lehrer to be standing there watching—Lehrer was a light sleeper, after all; he frequently woke just from Noam rolling over in bed.
He shut the drawer with his hip and glanced through his phone with technopathy. Noam doubted these pictures were anything they could use ... but it was better than doing nothing.
Nothinghad become a slow poison in Noam’s veins. The kind of poison that would eat away at his organs and soft tissue until there was no part of Noam Álvaro left to fight.
Noam’s fist collided with Lehrer’s shoulder, the lead jab quick and forceful enough to make contact before Lehrer could block it. Lehrer didn’t reel back—he’d increased his own weight, the vinyl floor cracking underfoot like thin ice—and when he returned the blow, it was with enough strength Noam staggered, power dragging against metal pipes in the walls to keep from falling over.
“Too low,” Lehrer said. “Aim for my face.”
“I can’t reach your fucking face,” Noam got out through gritted teeth. Sweat dripped down his brow, stinging in his eyes as he blinked it away. His rotator cuff ached—not torn, not yet, but agonized from throwing off Lehrer’s clinch.
“Then play to your strengths. I’m much taller than you. How can you use that?”
Noam sucked in another breath, lungs straining with the effort. Then he lunged forward with a rear kick, aiming for low on Lehrer’s stomach, under his center of gravity. This time it was Lehrer’s turn to stumble, magic glittering in waves over his torso as his cells repaired themselves.
Noam had been feeling sick for two weeks, ever since the assassination attempt, the subsequent annexation—stress, he didn’t doubt. But this morning he woke up alert again, alive, adrenaline hot in his veins like magic. And it felt good to fight.
It felt good to fight Lehrer, in particular.
A grin cut across Lehrer’s mouth. “Better. But what—”
Noam didn’t let him finish. He’d pushed forward into Lehrer’s space, drawn close enough he could smell Lehrer’s cologne even over his own perspiration. His right fist punched upward, under Lehrer’s jaw; he felt the snap of bone on bone reverberating against his knuckles as Lehrer’s teeth crashed together. He’d used superstrength, enough to break Lehrer’s mandible.
Healed instantaneously, of course, but it was still immensely satisfying to imagine the bolt of pain that would have shot through Lehrer’s nerves in that split second.
As far as Noam was concerned, Lehrer didn’t feel nearly enough pain.
This time, Lehrer dispensed with the instructional remarks. He just retaliated, several strikes with his magic in quick succession; Noam blocked them all and gave up none of the ground he’d gained. He could practically taste all that magic buzzing in the air, vibrant and humming with danger. Only Noam wasn’t afraid. That was reckless, probably—foolish, even, with Lehrer standing opposite him with errant strands of his tawny hair fallen over his brow and the first buttons of his shirt undone, power burning under his skin.
But Lehrer’s cheeks were flushed, and there was a faint sheen of perspiration along the exposed line of his neck. Noam was so used to seeing him as Calix Lehrer—legendary, effortlessly omniscient. But this ... it was intoxicating. Noam wanted to push more, harder, until he fractured Lehrer’s defenses the same way Lehrer’s magic had cracked the floor. Until Lehrer paid for everything he’d done. Until Noam stopped seeing Atlantian faces—stopped seeingDara’sface—every time he shut his eyes.
He looped his power into the hum of the earth’s geomagnetic field and used it as leverage to lift his whole body off the floor, to propel himself forward so both feet collided with Lehrer’s sternum. Lehrer’s body absorbed the shock, bones breaking and healing all in the same instant. Which, fuck, was probably how Lehrer survived the bullet wound. If whatever part of his brain that controlled his magic hadn’t been destroyed, it would have repaired the rest on reflex.
They needed that vaccine. Of course, Lehrer would never let them find it.
Electricity came next—easily, because Noam was already using magnetism. It struck out from his body like lightning, white hot and blinding in the small room. Lehrer’s responding blow missed, skirting off the edge of Noam’s shields and exploding uselessly against the far wall in a crash of smoke and light.
Maybe Lehrer had gotten back into sparring too quickly after the assassination attempt. Right now ... right now, Noam felt like it would be only too easy to tear Lehrer’s defenses apart like paper and burn them into ash. Lehrer felt it too. Noam saw it in his eyes, when they were close, in that second before Lehrer parried Noam’s next punch: pupils dilated, sweat beading on his temples.
Noam drew back, magic still held at the ready but putting space between them. Lehrer pressed the heel of one hand against his brow, wiping away the blood from an injury he’d already healed.
“We can stop,” Noam offered, his own breath coming in uneven little gasps. But for once he wasn’t dizzy with exertion—he was illuminated by it, ebullient. “If you’re tired. We can just end it.”
Lehrer exhaled again, and when he stepped forward, Noam saw something else in his eyes—not exhaustion this time. A shadow, dropping like a curtain onstage.
Noam saw it coming a blink before Lehrer moved. He threw up an arm, blocking Lehrer’s hook before it could crack against his cheekbone. Adrenaline reared up in the back of his mind, all animalistic reflex—fight, flight—but too slow; Lehrer was faster than reflex. Faster than any human should be.
Lehrer’s magic barreled into him with the force of a hurricane, blasting Noam off his feet and sending him flying across the room. He smashed into the wall hard enough he cried out, pain searing through his vision bright as a magnesium flare. His body dropped broken to the floor, Noam’s breath shallow and shuddering against his shattered ribs. The pain was too much. It had chased his magic away, electricity just a flicker at his fingertips, sparks from a frayed wire.
Lehrer approached on silent feet, steps surer now than they had been when Noam was all power and euphoria and impossible strength. When he crouched down in front of Noam, the sweat on his skin had evaporated, his hair already slicked back and his shirt collar rebuttoned like he’d just come from his office: chancellor of Carolinia again.
He reached out a hand and healed Noam’s broken ribs.
But he left the bruises. He always did.Cause and effect, act and consequence.
“You’re right,” Lehrer said at last, pushing to his feet. He glanced at his wristwatch. “I think that’s enough for today.”
He held out a hand to help Noam up, his grip firm and forceful. The exhaustion, the way Lehrer’s magic seemed to falter in his grasp—it was as if Noam had imagined it all. Instead Noam, heavy-limbed and dizzy, was the one who felt as if all the life had drained from him over the course of several seconds.
