Dara took in a sharp breath and made himself exhale slowly.
All right. Where was Claire? He had to wait for the signal.
He felt people’s eyes on him, gazes snagging on his face and dragging after him as he walked deeper into the room. They were thinking about approaching him. Dara didn’t need telepathy to know that. And if they weren’t thinking about approaching him, they were thinking of approaching Lehrer, waiting for a break in conversation to say, Dara looks well. You must be so relieved.
He scanned the faces of the passing servers, meant to be unobtrusive in their plain black uniforms. What if something had come up with Claire’s papers and she hadn’t been able to get past security? He should find Holloway, perhaps. Make sure.
Only—no. There she was, tangled up in a knot of giggling socialites who’d clearly already had enough to drink. She had a tray in hand, little glasses of schnapps. Which one was meant for Lehrer? Or had she poisoned them all?
Their gazes met. He arched a brow. She shook her head, however minutely.
Not yet.
Maybe Dara could go hide in that bathroom after all.
He started off in that direction, slipping his hands in his pockets and trying to look like he was headed somewhere in particular so he wouldn’t be interrupted. He made it about ten feet before the crowd shifted, a knot of partygoers departing toward the refreshment table, and Dara could see clear through to where Lehrer stood. He was facing away, toward the hearth, momentarily free from sycophants. But he wasn’t alone.
Dara froze in place.
He’d spent eight months memorizing the shape of that body, the long limbs and narrow waist now flaunted to great effect in a tailored suit. How his hair looked almost red in the firelight, neatly trimmed for once and swept out of his beloved face, briefly visible in profile as he glanced toward Lehrer and said something inaudible.
Dara’s pulse roared in his ears.
And Lehrer.
Lehrer’s hand rested on the small of Noam’s back like it belonged there, as Lehrer leaned over and murmured into Noam’s ear, then smiled.
Dara spun on his heel, gasping for a breath that felt like it wasn’t coming. The rest of the party seethed on around him, loud voices wordless and incomprehensible, someone’s laughter, the distant shatter of a dropped glass.
No. He was . . . this wasn’t. He must have imagined it.
Only he hadn’t imagined it, and he hadn’t misinterpreted it. Because Dara had once been the one standing at Lehrer’s side while Lehrer touched him and told him exactly what he planned to do to him later tonight once they were alone. He knew what that looked like.
And he knew what he saw.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He never should have left. He should have stayed, locked up in Lehrer’s apartment drunk on sedatives and suppressant, because at least then Lehrer would have been somewhere Dara could see him.
In the QZ, Dara used to imagine Noam realizing the truth and escaping—showing up at camp dirty and exhausted but alive. After all, Noam had believed Dara—he’d worshipped Lehrer just like the rest of them, but at the end of it all Noam still believed Dara when no one else would, and so why not? Why not hope that was still true, that the bright-burning kernel of goodness that existed at Noam’s core could somehow overwhelm even Lehrer’s magic—that he’d come back to Dara?
But it turned out all Noam wanted was to stay here, with Lehrer, and relish his temporary victory while Lehrer tied a rope around his neck.
Only . . .
No.
That wasn’t right.
Noam was a lot of things, but Dara refused to believe he would let Lehrer drag him down into this prison so willingly.
Dara turned around again, and when he inhaled this time, his breath was even.
He pushed forward, evading the sparkling socialite who tried to get his attention, ignoring the irritated grumble of the man whose champagne he plucked from his hand as he passed. The fluted glass fit perfectly against his palm, chilly and slightly damp. All Dara could see was them; all he could hear was the white noise buzzing in his skull.
Lehrer must have heard him approach or sensed him somehow, even though Dara doubted they were close enough now for Lehrer to read his mind, because he began to turn when Dara was still two steps away, and their gazes met. It was like being shot in slow motion, adrenaline ricocheting through his chest and leaving him raw and bloody in its wake. Lehrer’s gaze was . . . exactly, it was exactly how Dara remembered it, that odd crystalline quality, the patternlessness of his irises. Dead eyes, Sacha had said once, but that wasn’t true. If anything they were too alive, lit from their own internal electric circuit that never shut off.
There was that brief moment of recognition, shock flickering across Lehrer’s features, before it was subsumed by the still-water surface of Lehrer’s usual placid mask.
“Lovely party,” Dara said. And that was when Noam turned too.
He looked both completely the same and yet not at all. The same features, same height and skin color and brownish hair. But he looked too perfect somehow, as if someone (Lehrer) had taken the time to file away the rough edges and trim every loose end. Tall and neat and polished to within an inch of his life. It was worse, now that Dara couldn’t read his mind. Noam felt less like a person and far more like a sculpture.
That perfection cracked, though, when he looked at Dara. The color drained from his cheeks, the series of expressions that flickered over his face all tumbling into one another and leaving Noam gaping at Dara like he, Dara, was a dead man.
It occurred to Dara only now that was probably exactly what Noam thought he was.
“Britta always did know how to play hostess,” Lehrer said without missing a beat.
Noam was still staring at Dara, still shell shocked. A beat later his gaze flickered down to Dara’s hip.
Of course. He sensed the gun.
“You’re looking well,” Lehrer commented. He lifted his glass of scotch and took a small, controlled sip. His attention never wavered from Dara’s face.
Something feral clawed at the inside of Dara’s chest. Run. Run away. Run now.
“Must be all that fresh mountain air,” Dara said.
Lehrer smiled blandly, politely, and stepped forward. Dara moved back just quickly enough, before Lehrer could reach for him. He saw it in Lehrer’s eyes, what Lehrer meant to do—the same thing Lehrer did that time at Minister Langley’s party, Lehrer’s hand on Dara’s shoulder: barely touching him, but with enough magic seeping through his fingertips that it felt like being crushed under a boulder. Dara had fought so hard to keep from crying out, from letting the pain flicker across his expression and betray them both. It would be so easy, even now, for Lehrer to close his fingers around Dara’s arm and direct him away from here, out of sight, somewhere he could snap Dara’s neck like a twig and deal with the fallout later.
Instead, Lehrer’s fingertips skimmed empty air.
“Don’t you ever,” Dara said, his voice low and very, very even, “touch me again.”
Lehrer’s hand curled into a loose fist, and his arm dropped back down to his side. That mild smile was back. Of course, Lehrer didn’t want to cause a scene. Not here. And especially not in front of Noam.
Dara looked back at Noam. Noam’s gaze immediately flitted away, staring down at his whisky instead like it was the most interesting thing in the world.