“And the plan B is ...?” Lehrer pulled a cigarette out of the case on his nightstand, holding it up to his mouth with his right, nondominant hand. Noam thought there was something a little rough about the way he lit the flame, a sharp snap of his fingers and an answering spark—but then again, maybe there wasn’t. Maybe Noam was getting paranoid, seeing violence even in the mundane.
“There isn’t one. I’d tell you if there were.”
Lehrer gave him a look, narrowed eyes keen even through the haze of smoke that drifted up in front of his face. “It sounds,” he said, “like a very disorganized revolution.”
“Well, not everyone can be you and Adalwolf Lehrer.” Noam tossed his wet shirt into the hamper with telekinesis.
“Evidently not. In fact, I’m sure you could come up with something better, given your training.” Lehrer put down the sheaf of papers he’d been working on and stepped closer to Noam, close enough he could smell the sweet-smoke scent of tobacco. Lehrer tilted his head to one side. “How would you kill me, Noam?”
Noam faltered. He should have seen that question coming. Should have prepped for it—with Dara, maybe, or even on the walk home while Dara’s words were still ringing in his head: how he needed to think more like Lehrer.
But not too much like Lehrer, apparently.
“Oh,” he said. Shit. The obvious best answer was the one they were actually planning to attempt—could he say that? Would Lehrer think it was an impossible errand and laugh it off? Or would he double down the security on the vaccine, make twice as certain Noam never discovered its location?
Noam moved forward, narrowing the distance between them. Smiled, a slow smile, the kind of smile that has secrets. Lehrer’s hand—the one holding the cigarette—drifted down to his side, as if he already knew what Noam was going to do.
“Let’s see,” Noam said softly, examining Lehrer with an even gaze. “You’re too powerful to kill by conventional means. You could block most magical attacks. And I suspect you heal too quickly for suppressants to be of any use.” He let the fingertips of one hand skim up Lehrer’s chest, drawing a faint line along his sternum. He felt the steady movement of Lehrer’s breath as his touch skimmed the skin at the base of his neck.
Noam rose on the balls of his feet and pressed the heel of his hand forward, closing his fingers around Lehrer’s throat.
“But maybe,” he said, “with superstrength ...”
He tightened his grasp only slightly. Lehrer’s eyes were half-lidded, gazing down at Noam and darkened in the dim light. Noam imagined gripping harder, and then harder still, until bruises bloomed like black flowers under Lehrer’s skin. Until he choked and grasped at Noam’s wrist, desperate for air.
Noam’s smile sharpened, his thumb grazing up along the line of Lehrer’s carotid to press over his pulse point.
Lehrer surged forward, one hand finding Noam’s hip and driving him back. Noam’s shoulders hit the wall, and Lehrer kissed him, leaning his weight in against Noam’s body. He tasted like smoke and whisky. The hand that held his cigarette skimmed through Noam’s hair, and for one reeling moment Noam was sure Lehrer would burn them both down together.
Noam kissed back, that one hand staying in place on Lehrer’s throat, pushing against his windpipe; Lehrer made a soft, low noise, like a growl. Noam shivered.
Lehrer’s hand smoothed up his bare ribs, then down, reaching for his belt. “Take these off,” he murmured against Noam’s lips.
Cold water darted into Noam’s veins.
Persuasion? It’d been half a year now, and Noamstillcouldn’t tell the difference—
This had already gone on too long. Noam should have stopped Lehrer sooner, should have realized where this would end when he dared to tighten his fingers round Lehrer’s neck.
He knocked Lehrer’s hand away, but it was just to finish undoing his belt buckle on his own, with telekinesis. Lehrer grinned against Noam’s mouth, clearly pleased with the use of magic, his teeth catching Noam’s lower lip as Noam kicked his wet trousers off and away.
He let Lehrer keep kissing him for a moment. But not for long.
Noam turned his face away, suddenly breathless. His skin was cold now, damp and exposed, as he stood there in his underwear with Lehrer the only source of heat.
“What is it?” Lehrer murmured and didn’t draw away.
“Sorry,” Noam said, blinking against the suddenly too-bright light of the lamp on Lehrer’s bedside table. “I just. Headache.”
Lehrer’s fingers slid along his jaw, tilting his chin so he faced him once more. His gaze slid over Noam’s face—although what he searched for Noam wasn’t sure. “It’s the stress,” Lehrer said at last. “Maybe I was wrong to trust you with this.”
Noam’s pulse stumbled. “No,” he said, trying not to argue back too quickly—he didn’t want to seem defensive. “It’s ... fine. I’m just tired.” He pressed his lips into a tight smile.
“Perhaps,” Lehrer said slowly. “I’ll admit I’ve been ... concerned. You’ve shown remarkable progress these past six months, since the coup. I was impressed with how you handled the Brennan situation. But surely that was difficult for you. And this winter, especially—” His thumb grazed Noam’s lower lip. “You’ve been drinking too much. It concerns me.”
“Not that much.”Not like Ames.“You’re the one who’s always handing me a glass of scotch every time I walk into the room—”
“Enough.” Lehrer’s hand fell from Noam’s face and he stepped away, retrieving his papers from the foot of the bed. He paced away from Noam again, reading—and at first Noam thought that was the end of it, that perhaps Lehrer might even order him to change into his uniform and return to the barracks. But then Lehrer said, his back to Noam: “I would hate for you to end up like Dara.”
