Late Tuesday, the Atlantian Center for Pathogen Control declared a state of emergency as the number of victims of a magic outbreak in Birmingham rose to 143,000. This latest outbreak was first identified on December 28. Officials originally stated the epidemic had been successfully contained in southwest Birmingham; now, victims are being diagnosed as far north as Ensley. Carolinian minister of defense Amelia García confirmed several units of Carolinian infantry have been dispatched to Atlantia for aid.
Noam scrolled farther down the article on his phone with technopathy, slumping a little lower against the pillows. TheHeraldhad included a particularly gruesome photo: a man curled on his side, his spine like railroad tracks beneath bruised skin, bloodstains on his clothes. Dead, probably.
The man might’ve had a family. A husband who loved him—a daughter who thought he could do no wrong.
Now he was combustion fuel outside a red ward, him and the virus both burned like trash.
The vaccine Noam and Lehrer had found in the quarantined zone three days ago wouldn’t do the dead man any good. Wouldn’t do any of those people—those Atlantians—any good. How many would survive this outbreak? Would Lehrer find himself with a new crop of witchings ready to be trained and shaped into perfect Carolinian soldiers?
Or maybe, for once, magic would kill every one of them. Maybe it would burn through their blood and bone, and instead of rising from those ashes with incredible powers, the infected would just be dead.
The shower cut off in the adjoining bathroom. Noam let out a small breath and shut his eyes, wondering if he should pretend to be asleep. Better than answering questions likeWhat were you reading?andWhen are you planning to get out of bed?
Probably heshouldget out of bed. It was almost dinnertime. Probably he should finish writing that paper for Swensson’s class, start his physics p-set.
But instead he lay there, quiet, too conscious of the rise and fall of his chest as the bathroom door opened and footsteps padded across the room. The mattress dipped beneath new weight.
“Are you awake?”
Noam opened his eyes. There was no point pretending. Lehrer could sense Noam’s heartbeat, probably ever so slightly too fast. Lehrer had his wet hair combed back from his face, but a droplet fell onto Noam’s cheek anyway. Lehrer’s long fingers swept it away. He kissed him softly, as if Noam were fragile. As if he’d never put a gun in Noam’s hand and ordered him to shoot.
“Are you all right?” Lehrer murmured. He kissed Noam’s throat next.
Noam hummed out something wordless and closed his eyes. When he tipped his head back against the pillow, Lehrer’s lips shifted against his skin, smiling.
At last Lehrer drew away, pushing himself up and heading to the closet. Noam disentangled himself from the sheets and swung his legs off the edge of the bed as well. He half expected Lehrer to say something, change the subject to schoolwork or their next trip into the QZ—but there was nothing.
Noam went into the bathroom and shut the door.
The air was still humid, marble counter damp beneath Noam’s hands as he clutched the edge. When he rubbed away the fog on the mirror, the Noam reflected there was flush-cheeked and glassy-eyed, hair tousled. A bruise had formed above his collarbone where Lehrer’s teeth had caught the skin. He looked crazed.
Fevermad.
Noam flipped on the faucet and hunched over the sink, splashing cold water on his face. When he closed his eyes, he still felt Lehrer’s hand on his thigh, Lehrer’s breath hot against his ear. But the whole time Lehrer was touching him, all Noam could think about was that look on Dara’s face, the last time Noam saw him alive.
Noam pressed his face against one of Lehrer’s plush towels. Breathed out.
When he straightened, his reflection had reclaimed its composure. Noam dragged his fingers back through his hair and practiced smiling.
Lehrer was waiting when Noam returned. He’d changed into a plain shirt and trousers, incongruously casual—and when he reached out, Noam went to him, kissed him with both hands slipping into Lehrer’s still-cold hair. “Are you leaving?”
“Not tonight,” Lehrer said, gaze half-lidded. He rubbed his thumb against the hollow beneath Noam’s hip bone. “I thought you might like to stay until morning. I’ll even make you dinner.”
“Depends. What are you cooking?”
“Whatever you want.”
Noam tipped his head back, pretending to consider. “Pancakes.”
“Pancakes it is.”
Lehrer left Noam there to throw on fresh clothes from the selection he kept in Lehrer’s bottom dresser drawer. He wasn’t sure precisely when that had happened—when Noam started storing clothes here, a spare toothbrush in Lehrer’s medicine cabinet and his laundry mixed with Lehrer’s in the hamper. They’d started sleeping together two months after Dara disappeared into the quarantined zone—right around the time Noam realized that Dara was probably dead. Dara’s fevermadness had already been advanced, inflaming more organs than just his brain. So for all Noam gave Dara what he wanted by helping him leave, Noam had killed him in the same stroke.
Lehrer was the only person who understood that guilt.
Lehrer had lost Dara too.
Noam sat at the kitchen table as Lehrer cooked. Lehrer had rolled his sleeves up to the elbows; every time he tossed the pan’s contents, the muscles in his forearms shifted and drew taut. If Lehrer were to activate his power now, the handle of the cast-iron skillet would crumple in his grip easy as scrap paper. Noam’s gut twisted into a warm knot.
