The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(11)

Invitation to a Beheading. Noam smiled despite himself; he’d read this book at least four times. The bookshop had multiple copies, so there was always an Invitation to a Beheading lying around somewhere to be picked up when bored. He pressed a thumb against the pages and let them flitter against his skin, a papery fwip until there was just the cover in his grasp. He peered at the book jacket, intending to read the summary, but someone had scrawled a note:

Dara Shirazi, return to owner.

The latch turned. He shut the book, pushing it across the table just in time as the front door swung open. A series of teenagers spilled into the room, all wearing identical olive cadet uniforms: one boy, two girls. Last night’s anxiety rushed back in all at once, thickening like nausea in Noam’s throat.

“—an ego thing. Swensson’ll never admit you’re right, so you might as well let it go. You only just got off his bad side, anyway . . .”

The girl who was speaking seemed to realize Noam was there only as she finished the sentence, words faltering, then trailing off in uncomfortable silence. Probably wondering how much Noam heard and how much she trusted him to hear it.

But then the silence cracked like an egg, and the girl brushed past the others to smile at Noam. The expression was bright and sincere seeming on her young face.

“Hey. You’re the new guy, right? I’m Bethany.”

Up close she looked to be around fourteen or fifteen, white with curly blonde hair pulled into a bouncy ponytail, like one of those perfect golden girls Noam used to know, the ones always knotted together and whispering in groups. Upon inspection, even the way she smiled reminded Noam of his ex-girlfriend. Carly’d had that same carelessness about her, as if she believed the world could orbit around an undocumented Atlantian girl living in the slums.

But Bethany wasn’t Carly. And she wouldn’t die like Carly had, deported to an infected homeland she didn’t remember.

She extended her hand. After a moment, Noam took it.

“Noam,” he said. Her grip was surprisingly firm. “Was I supposed to be up early this morning?”

“Free pass, since it’s your first day and all. All you missed was basic—lucky, really.”

She perched on the edge of the chair just across from him, and after a taut moment, the other two took her cue, joining Noam and Bethany at the table.

“This is Taye,” she said, tilting her head toward the tall black boy with a toothpick sticking out of his mouth like a skinny cigarette, “and Ames,” the other white girl, who had flipped out her phone as soon as she sat down and was now furiously tapping out a text. “Ames is a bitch,” Bethany said after a beat; Ames gave them all the finger without lifting her gaze from her phone. Her finger, like most of the rest of her Noam could see, was tattooed.

“It’s nice to meet you, Noam,” Taye said, and he reached past Ames to shake Noam’s hand. “Have you been to aptitude testing yet? I hear you came from outside.”

He said outside like it meant something, like the world beyond the Level IV program was some foreign place he’d never been. Maybe he hadn’t. Most people who survived the virus were a lot younger than Noam. If Taye came from one of the other programs, promoted into Level IV rather than being assigned to it directly, he might not remember anything else.

“Not yet,” Noam said. “Dr. Howard didn’t mention anything about tests.” Should he be worried? Was this the kind of thing he ought to study for? Or was it just assumed he’d know all about aptitude testing, the kind of thing he would’ve learned if he’d ever taken a civics class?

“Don’t worry about it,” Bethany said. “It’s not a big deal. You’ll do fine. I mean, if you got sent straight to Level IV, you’ve got to be pretty talented, right?” She glanced at Taye and Ames, as if for confirmation; the latter had finally put down her phone.

“I don’t know about that,” Noam said. “I haven’t even done any magic yet.” Judging by the looks on their faces, that was the wrong thing to say. “Lehrer just showed up in my hospital room and told me I was coming here. Something about my antibody titers.”

“Wait, Minister Lehrer sent you?” Taye shot a meaningful look at Ames. “Do you think Dara knows?”

“Don’t think he cares,” Ames said. Still, she fixed Noam with a narrowed gaze. Noam got the abrupt impression he was being observed and summarily analyzed, as if Ames were jury, judge, and executioner of the Level IV social scene. “Where you from, Noam?”

“Here,” Noam said. He gestured vaguely toward the window. “On the west side. Ninth Street.”

“Ooohh, right.” Taye tugged the toothpick free. “That’s super Atlantian territory now, right? I heard it’s pretty overcrowded, with all the refugees.”

“Yeah. I guess it’s”—what the hell was he even saying?—“super Atlantian.”

All of them watched with bated breath, like he was supposed to keep going. Under the table, Noam hooked both ankles round the legs of his chair.

Stay calm. Stay calm. He wouldn’t be able to help Atlantians if he got thrown in jail his first day in Level IV.

“It’s a little crowded,” he added.

That seemed to be what they were waiting for, because Taye nodded knowingly and said, “It was only a matter of time before there was an outbreak.”