The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(49)

The soldiers split the cadets up into platoons, assigning three platoons per tent. Noam’s group was under Colonel Swensson’s command, which was just Noam’s luck because Swensson hated him.

“Listen up!” Swensson said. He didn’t even have to raise his voice to get their attention. “You might be immune to the virus, but you still have to follow hygiene protocol. That means washing your hands before and after each patient. Use full decontamination procedure when entering and leaving the ward. Wear gloves and a face mask, always. You might not be able to get sick, but you can still get other people sick if you’re carrying virus particles around on your skin and hair and clothing. Understand?”

He waited for them all to shout, “Yes, sir!” before going on.

“Good. You’d better. Now, the staff tell you to do something, you do it. No questions asked. These people are risking their lives to help in this crisis, and they know more than you. Respect that.”

With that, he funneled them past the gate, through decontamination, then across the courtyard toward their assigned tents. Stepping through that door was like stepping onto another planet. Noam would never have thought they could cram so many beds into such a small area, except they did, just enough room left between the mattresses to stand. A couple soldiers milled about carrying linens or jugs of water. Amid them drifted doctors and nurses wearing what looked like space suits. The smell was stronger here, reeking of the latrine buckets and the sick, sweaty bodies of the patients on their cots, interspersed with the chlorine scent of bleach.

The ground underfoot sprouted with flowers: magical little buds of gold and silver that moved without breeze, glittering petals spiraling up into the air. They weren’t real—when he reached out to touch them, they dissolved in a shower of sparks. When Noam inhaled, their magic was spun sugar on his tongue.

He was assigned to Dr. Halsing, as were Bethany and Taye. It was impossible to tell what kind of woman Dr. Halsing was behind all that protective gear: her eyes were the only thing visible, glinting above her paper face mask and shielded by the lenses of her plastic goggles. She’d never been infected.

“You’ll be helping me with patient care today,” she said, voice muffled. “Have you been through training?”

The others nodded, but Noam shook his head. Halsing muttered something behind her mask, possibly a curse.

“I know we’re shorthanded, but . . . well, you’re what we’ve got, and it’s better than nothing. Come on. I’ll show you our patients.”

There were six. Noam repeated their names over and over in his mind so he wouldn’t forget: Martha, Shaqwan, Lola, Amy, William, Beatriz. Most were too sick for it to matter, drifting deep in comatose waters. He dabbed the crusted blood from the corners of their mouths and moved sharp objects out of the way when they had seizures, kept an eye out for rogue magic with a habit of setting bedsheets ablaze.

The little girl was the best off. Beatriz King. Bea. She still hovered on the knife-edge of consciousness, tipping over to one side or the other from time to time. When they first met her, she was sitting up in bed, hair damp with sweat and pulled back from her face, a bucket between her knees and a book resting against her thighs. She put the book down when the doctor needed to check her heart and lungs, though no one needed a stethoscope to hear the way air rattled in her chest.

“How are you feeling?” Bethany asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“All right,” Bea said. Even her voice was weak, like watered-down tea. “Who are you?”

“I’m Bethany. This is Noam and Taye. We’re helping Dr. Halsing today.”

“You don’t have those big space suits,” she said, pointing at Bethany. “You’re going to get sick.”

“We’ve already been sick,” Taye reassured her. He angled his body away from her all the same.

“Oh. Can you do magic, then?”

“Sure can,” Noam said. “Want to see?”

She nodded, perhaps not as enthusiastically as she might have had she been well. Noam rubbed his gloved fingertips together, capturing the static and letting it spark into seed lightning, sizzling white against his palm.

“Be careful!” Taye said from somewhere over his left shoulder, but Noam ignored him. Bea’s face lit up, a smile spreading her cracked lips.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, leaning forward a little, and Noam shook his head.

“Not me. I wouldn’t touch it, though, if I were you.” He clenched his hand into a fist, and the lightning quenched. Bea pressed her fingers to the middle of his hand, as if testing to see if it was still warm. To her, maybe it was. Her skin was dry and cracked, fragile as paper.

“What else can you do?” she said.

“I can make things bigger and smaller,” Taye said. It was the kind of confession that made Noam twist round to look at him—Taye’d never talked about his presenting power before, at least not where Noam could hear.

“What kinds of things?” Noam said.

“You know. Whatever. Anything. Could do this table. Could do myself, even.”

Noam frowned. “Isn’t that complicated? I mean, you’d have to concentrate on . . . a lot of organs.”

Taye just smiled at him and said, “Nah, man. It’s just, like, exponents.” As if to demonstrate, a pen on the table by Bea’s cot expanded to almost six times its original size, then shrank just as easily.