The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(13)

“Enter.”

“Go on, then,” Howard said.

Noam looked at the door, at its unassuming steel knob.

He wouldn’t be any use to Brennan or the cause if he was intimidated by a few men in suits.

He opened the door.

The room within was not the kind of room you’d expect to find so far underground, not unless they’d torn out the ceiling to merge it with a room on the floor above. It had a tile floor and soaring rafters, with streams of light cast down from tiny rectangular windows near the ceiling. The space was empty, if you didn’t count the two tables at the far end—one bearing a whole mess of objects, the other surrounded by people in military uniforms.

A ripple of shock ricocheted through him: Minister Lehrer was among them.

Lehrer was also in uniform, although his had a commander’s circle of silver stars on its sleeve instead of lesser insignia. Noam managed not to falter, but it was a near thing.

Lehrer met his gaze, a small smile crossing his lips.

“Noam álvaro,” one of the others said, reading off a folder in front of him. “álvaro—is that a Carolinian name?”

Jesus, people just couldn’t quit today, could they?

Noam raised a brow. “Are you trying to find out if I’m Atlantian or just if I’m white?”

That, at least, earned him a reaction. The man’s throat convulsed and he frowned, then tipped his head closer to his holoreader to cover his expression. “The former.”

“Yes. My parents were Atlantian.”

The man looked up. “Documented?”

“No,” Noam said. “But I was born here, if you’d like to see my papers.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Noam desperately wanted the man to say something else about Noam’s father. Fuck going back to prison, and fuck self-control.

Calm down. He’d chosen this for a reason; he had to remember that. His heart pounded in his chest, and he forced himself to breathe, unsteady little gulps of air that didn’t make him feel any better.

The young woman intervened, tapping the table. “Come closer, please.” Noam approached until she said, “That’s far enough. Ivar, if you will . . . ?”

The last man, black haired and wearing a colonel’s phoenix insignia, said nothing. Did nothing. He sat there and looked at Noam, unblinking, until Noam’s skin itched.

Maybe he was having some kind of seizure.

Noam was about to open his mouth and say something when the man finally twisted toward Lehrer and spoke. “His dynamics are well within range for Level IV. You were right about that much, sir.”

“I usually am,” Lehrer said benignly; he didn’t seem to find the remark insubordinate. He gestured toward the other table. “Mr. álvaro, why don’t you go have a look at all these. Let us know if anything stands out.”

Another test. If Noam really was Level IV, he’d probably send the whole table spinning up toward the ceiling. He’d turn it invisible. Light it on fire.

Instead he walked over to look down at the items spread like some bizarre buffet before him. There was a baseball bat, a bowl of water, some matches, what looked like metal ball bearings . . . even a couple lamps, their cords dangling off the edge of the table, one snaking along the floor to plug in to an extension cord and the other simply hanging loose.

What if his presenting power turned out to be something dumb, like changing his eye color? They’d probably kick him out.

He glanced back at the others. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?”

The woman shrugged. “You tell me.”

All I see is a bunch of random shit.

Noam pretended to be interested anyway, poking around a stack of magazines, an ancient-looking and incredibly ugly necklace, a pile of misshapen rocks. He rolled one of these around between the palm of his hand and the table, bemused by the way two of the adults suddenly leaned forward in their seats, anticipatory, only to seem disappointed when he moved on to the next thing.

There was no magic. No moment when his fingers grazed metal, or wood, or stone and he felt a telltale spark.

Useless.

“This is a waste of time,” one of them—the black-haired man—muttered.

Lehrer cleared his throat and picked up a pen to make a note on a pad of paper.

It was oddly gratifying to watch the way the others’ faces went pale. All gazes swung back round to Noam, as if he were suddenly the most important person in the world.

They made him stay at the table for ten minutes. Ten excruciating minutes examining every last piece of yard sale nonsense before, at last, Lehrer said, “That’s enough, Mr. álvaro. Thank you.”

“So,” Noam said, returning to the center of the room and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Did I pass?”

Judging from the disappointed looks on their faces, the resigned set to the woman’s mouth, that was a no. Noam fought the strange emotion bubbling up within him, a hot mixture of anger and embarrassment. What did they expect? They brought him in here, told him nothing, propped up a table full of garbage, and expected him to perform miracles? He fucking told Lehrer he couldn’t do any of this shit, but Lehrer had let him get his hopes up anyway, had let him believe for one second he wasn’t damned to the same life as his parents. That he might ever amount to more than just another unemployed slum rat with a criminal record and a foreign last name.