The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(12)

Noam’s whole body was on edge, waiting for someone to say it. Someone was going to say it, any second now. Carolinians just couldn’t help themselves—

“Border control is shit,” Ames agreed. She hadn’t stopped watching Noam. “You flood a small neighborhood with a bunch of rednecks who’re probably infected already, and it’s gonna be a shitshow.”

And there it was.

Noam felt a thin layer of frost crystallize under his skin before he even opened his mouth. “How long is the virus incubation period, d’you reckon?” he asked as lightly as he could manage—as if he didn’t know. As if every Atlantian hadn’t learned all too well from the constant fear that seethed in the slums and the refugee camps, the silent and savage knowledge they could be next.

“Twenty-four hours,” Bethany said.

“Ish,” added Taye, but Bethany’s expression had gone oddly still, her hands in loose fists atop the table. She, at least, had cottoned on.

Noam smiled, sickly sweet.

“Wow,” Noam said. “It took my dad way longer than that to get sick after he came here from Atlantia.”

It was worth it just to see the looks on their faces, staring at him like he was the unholy incarnation of Typhoid Mary. Taye’s toothpick hung forgotten in his hand.

Noam propped his elbows on the table, smile widening. Spite tasted like bile in his mouth. “No worries. I survived, so pretty sure I’m not contagious anymore.”

“Of course you’re not. And we couldn’t get infected again, even if you were.” Bethany actually scooted closer to him, not away, and gave him a tiny grin. “Though you’re about to be in a world of trouble all the same. Have you been reading this?”

The change in subject was so abrupt that at first he didn’t know what she was talking about, until he looked down and saw her pointing at Invitation to a Beheading.

“Oh,” he said. “Not really?”

Bethany shook her head. “That’s Dara’s book. I’d be careful if I were you. He doesn’t like people touching his things.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t have left it out, then,” Noam said. Across the table, Ames lifted a brow.

“That’s a risky stance to take,” she said. “Good luck with it.”

It was such an ominous thing to say that Noam almost laughed, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making a face. He had no idea who Dara was, but if he was another student, then he couldn’t be older than eighteen. Noam found it difficult to imagine any boy, even one who survived the virus, being worthy of that kind of warning.

Then again, he’d heard stories. They’d all learned about that kid back in the ’50s who came out of feverwake with the ability to split atoms. He didn’t have control. It was an accident.

He’d leveled his whole city with a nuclear blast twice the size of the one that destroyed New York.

“So,” Taye said, “what’s your presenting power?”

Noam didn’t get a chance to answer; that was the moment Dr. Howard returned, tapping her watch and declaring the others were about to be late for class. Noam stayed where he was while the cadets’ lives eddied around him: showers and quick snacks eaten over the sink, shouts down the hall in pursuit of lost socks, wet-haired teenagers wandering through the den in various states of undress. The barracks felt smaller with people in it. Noam preferred it that way.

Was this going to be his life now? Clean halls and real doors, the chance to go to school again?

He wanted that, but he hated himself for wanting it. All this . . . all of it was bought and paid for with the blood of dead fevervictims. Carly, Noam’s old juvie friends, deportees. Noam’s own father.

“Noam?” Dr. Howard zeroed in on him the second the other students had been ferried out the door. “It’s time for your aptitude testing.”

Noam didn’t move. “What does this ‘aptitude testing’ entail, exactly?”

She glared disapprovingly, but the carefully blank look on Noam’s face didn’t falter.

“We need to know what you can do and how well you can do it,” she elaborated at last. “We need to know more about your magic—any special affinities, boundary conditions. It’s standard operating procedure, Mr. álvaro. There’s nothing to worry about. Now come with me.”

Noam really, really didn’t want to go with her. He couldn’t imagine anything less appealing than being asked to make a fool of himself in front of a whole bunch of government officials.

Still. He was admittedly interested in figuring out what kind of magic he could do.

He got up, dusted off his trousers—though there wasn’t much he could do to make the old hand-me-downs presentable—and followed Howard out into the hall.

Now that it was daylight, the corridors swarmed with government officials, tall and cold and blank eyed like ghosts from another world. Their gazes lingered on Noam as he went past—as if he had contamination threat painted all over him. Like Atlantia was written on his skin as much as in his blood and bone.

Just wait. He pushed the thought back at them and their smug faces. I’ll learn magic. I’ll become a witching. And I’ll use everything Carolinia teaches me to help Atlantia instead.

They might’ve been in the west wing, the wing that usually housed high command, but Howard didn’t bring him to someone’s office. Instead they went down, following a narrow spiral staircase into the basement. There was a single door. Howard knocked.