The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(7)

The Boulder Summit was also meant to host the signing of both a peace treaty between all the new nations as well as a mutual support agreement in pursuit of developing a magic vaccine. These plans went unmet, with competing claims as to why the treaty was not signed: Carolinian propaganda stated that other nations—including Texas and Atlantia—demanded an 80 percent reduction in witching population from Carolinia as a gesture of goodwill. Atlantian officials claimed that no such demands were ever made and that the refusal to sign a treaty was a strategic move by Lehrer and others to establish Carolinian military dominance in the region.

The true series of events at the Boulder Summit remains unclear to historians, as the original classified records were destroyed in a freak fire in 2063. With other witnesses since deceased, Calix Lehrer (then king of Carolinia, prior to his abdication in 2024) is now the only one with accurate knowledge of the Boulder Summit. Given limited diplomacy between Carolinia and other nations, it is unlikely these secrets will ever be told.





CHAPTER THREE

The car arrived on schedule: a sleek black vehicle with tinted windows and cushioned seats. Durham sped past, a blur of ancient brick buildings and glittering neon nightclubs paving the way to the government district. They passed the old stadium, lit up for some event or another. Here the streets were peppered with green-uniformed Ministry of Defense soldiers. Not too many, not enough to frighten, but enough for Noam to get the message: don’t try any shit.

Noam tugged at the sleeves of his new sweater to pull them down over his wrists, little linty flecks detaching to float down onto his thighs, and avoided his chaperone’s gaze. They weren’t far from Noam’s neighborhood—although that was probably a firebombed shell by now. Best way to stop a virus spreading, after all, was to burn everything infected to the ground.

In that neighborhood, people lived two families to a home and boiled swamp water for drinking. He knew every person who lived in the bookstore, from old Mrs. Brown to the family downstairs with six kids who never slept. There was mold damage on the ceilings and a rat nest that came back no matter how many poison traps Noam set out.

The government complex was nothing like that.

It used to be an old tobacco warehouse, then was repurposed, and repurposed again, renovated year after year before magic made the world fall into ruin. During the catastrophe it had been a barracks. Then it became a courthouse. Now it belonged to Chancellor Sacha. The brick walls smelled like history, remortared so many times that they were more mortar than brick. The people here dressed so well they had a new set of clothes every day of the week—and the more important they were, the better they dressed, all the way up to the ministers, with their crisp suit jackets and papercut collars.

These were the people Noam’s father had spent half his life trying to undermine.

Now Noam was one of them.

Level IV, they’d told him in the hospital, was the highest rank of the witching training program, practically a factory for generals and senators and future chancellors. They said it was modeled off the same training Adalwolf Lehrer gave his militia before they overthrew the US government in 2018. They said this was the seat of all real power in Carolinia, that Noam’s blood test made him the perfect Level IV candidate.

Noam reckoned he’d stay the perfect candidate right up until they remembered he was Atlantian. Then it’d be all, thanks for your time and conflict of interest.

“Wait here,” Noam’s chaperone said and disappeared through a heavy wooden door. Noam was alone.

It was a cool night, autumn perched on the blade of winter, quiet even in the center of the city. Someone’s magic, Noam thought—and shivered.

He sat on a bench and braced his hands against the seat, leaning his head back. In that strange silence, the seconds stretched out like dark molasses. Noam imagined he could feel radio waves arcing over the city—a cobweb trawled by government spiders and their all-seeing eyes. He thought about his father, about that same sky curving over his now-dead neighborhood, and shut his eyes.

He ought to feel more than this. He hadn’t cried over losing his father since feverwake three days ago, and now it felt wrong to be upset, as if he had the chance to grieve and missed it.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” a voice said from behind Noam’s left shoulder. His eyes snapped open.

Him. It was him. The doctor from the hospital.

Only he wasn’t a doctor at all.

“You,” Noam forced out, and Minister Lehrer’s mouth twitched into a small smile.

“Me. Enchanted to make your acquaintance properly, Mr. álvaro.”

How the hell hadn’t Noam recognized him before? His grandmother’d had a photo of Calix Lehrer hanging in her house.

This time, Lehrer was unmistakable. In his military uniform, tawny hair combed back, he could’ve been freshly clipped from a newspaper photograph.

The air caught in Noam’s throat, oxygen suddenly something he could choke on. Reading about Lehrer, discussing him in history class and over the dinner table, wasn’t quite the same as seeing him in person. The uniform made him seem even taller.

Which, fuck, Noam was still sitting in the presence of the defense minister. He started to get up, but Lehrer touched his shoulder and gently pressed him down onto the bench again.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Next time perhaps we can stand on ceremony, but today, I think, exceptions can be made.”