Noam let Lehrer pull him to his feet, once more the fond mentor, always in control, always alert. Noam swayed on his feet, and Lehrer carded his fingers through Noam’s hair, a flicker of gold magic against Noam’s spine keeping him upright as Noam laughed, said, “Guess I should have paced myself.”
It was only later, as Noam was washing the sweat off in Lehrer’s shower and rubbing his thumb against the burns on his wrist, that he knew.
He hadn’t imagined it.
On that sparring floor, Lehrer had been weak. Noam could have killed him. But he hadn’t. He’d chosen not to.
And that choice said far more about Noam Álvaro than he’d like to admit.
It wasn’t enough.
The next day, when Noam woke up sore from sparring and Lehrer was still there, still alive—the protests in response to Lehrer’s annexation of Atlantia all over the front page of theHerald—Noam called in sick to class and took the bus back to the high school.
It was a Thursday afternoon. The campus teemed with students migrating from one class to the next, all of them in knots of friends or staring at their cell phones or listening to music. Noam mingled unseen among them.
The basement hallway was crowded now; even so, with Noam’s power they didn’t notice him shouldering open a small door at the end of the hall and slipping inside. The room was as dusty as he remembered—the mannequin still peering eerily out from the shadows, the age-spotted mirror reflecting a yellow glow from the narrow windows high on the walls and the misshapen edges of rotting cardboard boxes.
Noam resumed his search per the grid he’d laid out earlier. This time, without classes to worry about—Lehrer, if he heard Noam was missing, would assume he was in the barracks; the teachers would all assume he’d gone to Lehrer’s—he was able to take his time. It didn’t look like anyone who worked at the school actually came down here, after all. That meant Noam wouldn’t be interrupted ... by Ames or anyone else.
He had no idea where the school got half the things he found in these boxes—ancient ballet shoes, about seven thousand copies of a printed-out script ofThe Lottery, outdated textbooks, art supplies—but none of it resembled a vaccine. None of it seemed like it had Lehrer’s fingerprints stamped all over it.
Noam was on the last grid, had just finished digging through a carton of old theater costumes and shoved the box aside, when he saw it. The black leather bag he’d taken off Michael, the dead man in the quarantined zone—still speckled with Michael’s blood, the strap gone stiff with it.
Noam’s chest abruptly tightened. All he could hear was the roar of his own blood in his ears, louder and louder, his hands shaking as he undid the buckled front.
This is it.Noam would take those vials, fit them to a syringe—fit the syringe’s needle in Lehrer’s neck. Flood his veins with something far more powerful than suppressant.
And then he’d kill him.
The strap slipped free, and Noam shoved open the bag, blinking against the dim light—
The bag was empty.
Empty—except for a single vial shattered at the bottom, spilled blood. Lehrer had been here already. He’d taken the vaccine, and he’d left the bag behind because he knew Noam would come, wanted Noam to know that Lehrer knew—
Maybe he just moves the vaccines often,Noam told himself, trying to believe it was paranoia, but ...
Noam was gripping that bag in both hands now. Why would Lehrer leave the bag if he was moving the samples to keep them from being found by a curious student or teacher? Surely bringing the bag with him would make transport easier.
He knows.
Noam’s technopathy felt clumsy, but he managed to send a text to Dara all the same.Found where Lehrer’s been hiding the vaccines, but he’s already moved them.
He paused a moment—could already imagine Dara’s response. So he sent another message on the heels of the first:
I’ll just have to figure out his next hiding spot. If I can find one, I can find the others.
I hope.
Because now that the adrenaline of the initial shock was wearing off, it was obvious Lehrer hadn’t discovered Noam’s game. Couldn’t have. Why would he have let Noam live—let him keep going to those meetings—if he suspected?
Noam dropped the bag back where he found it, under all those piles of petticoats. Wiped sweaty palms against his thighs. The air seemed thicker in here now as he made his way back across the basement room, nearly stumbling over the boxes he’d dislodged during his search. He pulled open the narrow door and edged back out into the hall, tugging the door shut and locking it telekinetically in his wake.
“You’re not supposed to be in there,” a voice said over his left shoulder.
Noam spun around and found himself face to face with a thin-lipped woman wearing a security guard’s uniform. She was standing too close, arms folded over her chest.
Dry mouthed, Noam managed to push aside the initial panic—what if she recognizes me from the papers, that article with Lehrer—what if she tries the lock, I used telekinesis, can’t unlock it again—she’ll hear—know I’m a witching—did Lehrer send her?—in favor of forcing a weak smile onto his lips. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just ... curious.”
