Feversong: A Fever Novel

by Karen Marie Moning

  She glanced back at the concubine, tangled in bed linens with the king.

  They touched her, struck a chord somewhere deep within her. Was it possible remnants of memory survived the cauldron? That a love as consuming as the one the concubine had shared with the king left an indelible imprint on a being’s very essence despite the effects of the Elixir of Forgetting?

  With every ounce of her being she wanted to deny it. Yet she would not repeat the egotistical mistakes of the stubborn First Queen.

  Often, it was only the bold, fearless, risky action that had any hope of circumventing impending doom, as if Fate was amused by the colorfully unexpected, and while she was laughing, one might slip changes past the pernicious bitch.

  It was her duty to exhaust all means at her disposal to save her race. No matter how terrifying or distasteful.

  She eyed the sleek dark glass, peering through to the shadowy interior of the king’s bedchamber.

  Fire to his ice, frost to her flame.

  She had no idea where the thought had come from.

  But somehow she knew also that it was cold on the other side, his side. So cold it would be difficult to catch her breath.

  She shivered at yet another thought that made no sense. She didn’t need to breathe. She was energy and projection.

  Setting her jaw, she snatched up the concubine’s long-abandoned cloak of snowy velvet and plush fur.

  Pulling it close around her body, she glided toward the mirror.

  MAC

  I’m lying on a floor, staring at a door.

  Where am I? Every muscle in my body—my body!—burns from exertion and my teeth hurt. Why do my teeth hurt?

  Groaning, I take stock of myself. Can I move?

  Gingerly, I extend a leg.

  Fucking ow.

  It feels like someone beat me from head to toe. And I need to pee badly. Whatever nefarious deeds the Book committed, it pushed my body to the extreme in the process. I stay still for a long moment, reacclimating to corporeality. The extraordinary clarity I’d attained with no body to distract me threatens to dissipate beneath an onslaught of sensation.

  I press my palms to the floor, force my head up like a rearing cobra and peer into a dimly lit, chilly room furnished with neoclassical goth furnishings: a low brocade and velvet chaise, tall-backed chairs with those creepy canopies, an enormous four-poster bed draped in vintage velvets and taffeta.

  I know this place.

  I despise this place. And now that I’m back in my own skin, I can feel the palpable evil of the monstrous mansion wherein so many murders were committed. Evil leaves a residue, tainting and changing the very molecules of the location where it occurs.

  I hear, too, somewhere beyond this room, the dark melody of thousands and thousands of Unseelie clustered close. More than I’ve felt in a single, condensed area since the night I cowered atop a belfry as the sky ran black with a horde of monsters breaking free after an eternity in prison. The discordant song of so many castes mingling nearly deafens me until I dial my sidhe-seer senses back to low volume. It appears the Book chose to surround itself with an army from the Court of Shadows. And what more appropriate place? It must have scoped it out through my eyes when I’d been here with Barrons, the night I stole one of the four stones. I wonder how much it had actually been able to see that night. I wonder if it knows everything I know. I shudder at the thought. Regardless, it knew enough to know this place was here and would suit it.

  “Mallucé’s.” It comes out a fractured whisper. My throat is burning, dry, and my mouth is—oh, God. I stick a shaky finger in and pick at things caught in my teeth. Clearly the Book didn’t bother to brush and floss, and just how the hell long have I been gone, what did I do, and how did I get here?

  I drop back to the floor and fumble in my coat pocket for my cellphone. After what seems an eternity of clumsy rummaging, I close my fingers on it, pull it out, squint at the date and time, and collapse back to the floor with relief.

  It’s the same day, late night. Surely I haven’t K’Vrucked the world in so short a time!

  I stiffen, belatedly absorbing what else I just saw. Contracting muscles that loudly protest contracting, I push myself back up and peer warily at my hands. They’re covered with cuts and abrasions, my palms crusted with blood and bits of black…I squint…feathers, I think. My nails have been torn off to the quick and there’s other stuff stuck to…ew!

  I just put one of my fingers in my mouth. No wonder I have such a bad taste in it.

  “Shit,” I whisper. My finger hadn’t tasted any different than my mouth. What the hell has the Book been eating? I nearly heave the mysterious contents of my stomach at the thought.

  I shove the phone back in my pocket. It takes me several long, agonizing moments to push myself to my feet, where I wobble dangerously before teetering into the dimly lit suite to search for J. J. Jr.’s bathroom.

  When I find it, I’m sorry I did.

  Obviously the Book wasn’t interested in cleaning and tending our shared vessel. It had been far too busy doing…other things.

  I clutch the sink for support, staring at myself in the mirror. Thinking there shouldn’t even be a mirror here. Mallucé was pretending to be a vampire. Why the hell did he have to put a mirror here?

  I close my eyes, swaying with exhaustion and horror.

  The only part of my face that isn’t crusted with blood is the white of my eyes. Even my eyelids are spattered rusty red. My hair is matted with more blood and some kind of organic matter I wish I hadn’t seen. Bits of glistening gray stuff. Unseelie, I hope. My clothing is torn and equally plastered with ribbons of flesh and more blood. What in God’s name did I do?

  I open my eyes and stare levelly at my reflection.

  I killed. A wave of horror threatens to engulf me. Who? What terrible things did I do? What sins do I bear?

  I inhale slowly, exhale long and even, willing the sick feeling in my stomach and the palpitations in my heart to calm. Horror will accomplish nothing.

  I can either give in to fear and give up—or refuse to let it touch me and go on.

  I opt for the latter because the former is pointless and destructive and would make me an even greater liability to my world.

  After emptying a fuller bladder than I’ve ever had, I turn on the tap, splash water on my face, gulp it, swish and spit, then begin scrubbing with the half-used bar of soap Mallucé didn’t finish before he died. I scrub and scrape, then turn and grope blindly for a towel because the blood is crusted on my skin so thickly that it’s not coming off. I scour my face nearly raw with the hot, wet towel then plunge my head into the sink and lather my hair with the bar.

  A few minutes later, trembling with exertion, I flip my wet hair back and look into the mirror again.

  I study my eyes carefully, spying no hint of madness, no deeply buried glint of psychopathic glee. Just the wide, green-eyed gaze of a woman who has no idea what heinous acts her body committed during the past fifteen hours.

  Less revolted by the thought of using Mallucé’s toothbrush than I am by the taste in my mouth—which says volumes about how horrific it is—I scald the dead vamp’s toothbrush under hot water then squeeze toothpaste on it and brush vigorously, despite the pain it causes.

  When I finish, I rummage through the vanity drawers for floss, then drop to the floor and begin the agonizing process of cleaning between them.

  I save what comes out, plaster it on a piece of toilet tissue and examine it.

  I ate Unseelie, at the very least. Black feathers. “Please tell me it wasn’t Christian,” I whisper.

  Laboriously, I strip off my jacket. And frown. My spear is gone, my shoulder holster empty. Why? Where did it go? Did the Book stab some hapless person and not bother to take it back? Surely it wouldn’t give away such a powerful weapon! I wonder again just what the hell I did over the past fifteen hours.

  Clenching my teeth, refusing to get waylaid by dangerous thoughts, I focus on working my shirt over
my head, and end up smearing blood all over my face again. The spear is gone. So much blood. I shake my head to keep it clear, desperate to strip down to nudity to leave behind all the incriminating evidence of whatever I’ve done, but there’s no way Mallucé’s pants will fit me. Still, I can change into one of his shirts.

  After wiping my face clean again, I crawl into the closet that adjoins the bathroom. I sort through the dramatic, vintage goth clothing until I find a simple black brushed-silk tee and pull it on then lean back against the wall of the closet, frowning, catching my breath, pondering what just happened.

  The Sinsar Dubh fell asleep.

  I’d bet my life on it.

  And somehow I’m awake and here again. Just how is that working? If it was so tired that it passed out, why doesn’t me moving around wake it up? Is it possible this is what happened the day it killed the Gray Woman—because it’s not accustomed to physical form, it quickly wears out and loses its control over me? Does this mean I’m me again and so long as I don’t use another spell I’ll be okay? Or does it mean once it regains its energy it’ll instantly reimprison me?

  I felt it losing control of my body, experienced its rage, overheard its frantic thoughts.

  I feel the same as I did after regaining consciousness the day it killed the Gray Woman, only worse, hurting everywhere, and desperately tired. I wonder, in years past, when I slept, did the Book slip out to play? Did I sleepwalk in my youth without ever knowing it? I wish I could ask Mom and Dad. Will the Book think that’s what it did, if it regains awareness to find itself in a different location, clean, wearing different clothes?

  I sigh. I have no idea what’s going on or how long I have. I must make good use of the time. The only other time I lost control, I blacked out and was completely unaware of time passing. This time, I was aware, but locked away. It would be foolish to conclude that I’ve regained permanent control. I can’t take anything for granted where the Book is concerned.

  The last memory I have of my actions is the Sinsar Dubh taking possession of me as I screamed at Jada to run. I pray she heeded me and ran fast and far enough. If I sacrificed everything to save her only to end up killing her—

  I can’t even finish that thought.

  Barrons. Surely he would have come after me—it. Is he dead? Did I kill him? Again? What did the Book do with its freedom? Surely, it has goals, objectives. But what? Considering that I’ve carried this thing around inside me all my life, I don’t really know much about it other than it was prone to puerile taunts and threats to K’Vruck the world. But what does it really want? No doubt, beneath its glib, maniacal behavior lies a sharply focused, brilliant mind.

  I force myself to breathe slowly, deeply, trying to sort through my thoughts, but Mallucé’s scent permeates the closet with the noxious odor of his cologne and a whiff of decay that clings to his attire, and suddenly I can’t get out of there fast enough. The mere scent of him is throwing me back to time spent in a hellish grotto beneath the Burren, and I need to be fully in the here and now.

  I leverage myself up using hatboxes and a small trunk for support, stagger from the closet and stumble out into the bedroom, where I sink down against the wall, draw my legs up to my chest, wrap my arms around them and rest my head on my knees.

  Life used to be so simple. When we’re young, it feels like grand adventures await us around every corner. We’re strong, resilient, undamaged. We think our soul mate is headed our way, we’ll marry, have babies, and be loved. I bought into that. I thought I’d raise my children with Alina, take shopping excursions to Atlanta, attend PTA meetings, and enjoy family holidays. Spend lazy summer afternoons listening to the music of the gently creaking porch swing beneath slow-paddling fans, sipping a magnolia-drenched breeze and sweet tea, watching my children grow up in a mostly decent, normal world.

  Maybe for some people it works that way.

  But that was never my destiny.

  I think I got twenty-two blissful, trauma-free years only because the rest of it was going to suck so massively. I mean, really, my godawful life was foretold over a thousand years ago by Moreena Bean, a half-mad washerwoman who prophesied that one of the Lane sisters would die young and the other would wish she was dead (yup, feeling that right now), and the younger they were both killed, the better off the world would be. If that’s not destiny, what is?

  But wait…the prophetic washerwoman had also said there were many stones to be tossed into the great loch of the universe, many possibles. And Kat had said we were only at the beginning of Mad Morry’s predictions. Which implies, despite the dire nature of our current problems, the Earth is going to survive and go on for some time. Humanity is going to make it.

  I just need to figure out what my part in ensuring that is.

  Am I supposed to kill myself? Is my current age young enough? And on that note, is my sister still really alive? If so, is that why everything went wrong—because neither of us died?

  I strip the idea of suicide of all emotion and weigh it as nothing more than an intellectual option. Will it remove all potential threat I present to the world?

  If it would terminate the existence of the Sinsar Dubh, then unequivocally—yes.

  I don’t want to die.

  A sudden familiar tension grips my body. I stare through the dimly lit room at the door.

  Jericho Barrons.

  He’s alive. I didn’t kill him.

  And he’s here.

  The door opens and time seems to suspend and spin out in slow motion. I feel like I haven’t seen him in a hundred years, perhaps because I was afraid I would never see him again. The Book had control of me for fifteen hours, and since I know it takes him longer than that to return from wherever he’s reborn, that means I didn’t kill him. Thank heavens. He gets beyond irate when I do, as if somehow it’s a personal insult.

  He’s wearing black leather pants and a white shirt, cuffs rolled up, revealing strong forearms and a thick sliver Celtic cuff. His beautiful face is inscrutable as ever. I use the word “beautiful” but to the rest of the world he’s not. The casual observer finds him disturbingly carnal, animal, unsettlingly predatory. The genetic stamp of Jericho Barrons’s face was tossed in the gene pool trashcan eons ago. His bone structure is sharp, primal, his brow prominent, and he can seem downright feral if you catch a glimpse of him when he thinks he’s unobserved. His eyes are so dark they’re nearly black, and when he’s angry, crimson sparks glitter within. His hair is midnight, slicked back. He has one of the most symmetrical faces I’ve ever seen. His body…well, I see the lithe grace and power of the beast in him even in his human form.

  He glides into the room in that fluid, animalistic way he adopted around me months ago. He recedes from sight then appears again, standing, staring down at me.

  Nice shirt, his dark eyes say. He misses nothing. I smell of Mallucé and he doesn’t like it. I don’t like it either but the vamp’s shirt was preferable to mine. Barrons is both the most and least complex man I’ve ever known.

  Mine was dirty. I bite back a laugh because it doesn’t seem appropriate to laugh in the middle of such grim circumstances, but it strikes me as bizarrely funny that on the heels of me turning into a full-fledged psychopath, the first words we speak to each other are about my attire.

  He sinks down next to me, leans back against the wall, leg and shoulder brushing mine.

  “Did you know I was me again?”

  “I felt you regain control.”

  I rub the tattoo on the back of my skull. Though I’d initially been furious he’d branded me with his mark, I’ve come to appreciate its advantages. “How did you get through all those Unseelie out there?” He doesn’t look like he’s been in a fight. Or a few thousand.

  “The feth fiada. A druid spell of invisibility.”

  I scowl. “You never taught me that one.”

  “A born snooper like you? Hardly.”

  “Did I kill anyone?”

  “You injured some but the Book appeared to
be having a hard time acclimating to controlling your body. Jada is fine, as are your parents.”

  I narrow my eyes. I’d had far too much blood on my hands, hair, face, and clothing to have merely “injured” people. I study his profile. It doesn’t elude me that he answered what should have been a yes or no question with an offer of parallel information that, while pertinent, was deftly evasive. He hadn’t lied. But he hadn’t told the truth either.

  He turns his head and looks at me.

  I know I killed, I say levelly.

  Then don’t waste my time.

  Our gazes lock. In his eyes I see a wall I might push through to reveal names, places, and how. But if I get tangled up in who and how I killed, I’ll come undone. I must be a smooth flat stone, skipping lightly on a dark lake that could drown me.

  A few moments pass and I realize my heartbeat is returning to normal, my stomach no longer feels queasy, and I’m not nearly as tired and sore as I’d been feeling. In fact, I feel…good. All because this man sat down next to me. Such a simple thing, such a powerful thing. “Did you ever see that movie What Dreams May Come?”

  He slices his head to the left.

  Barrons always denies watching TV or movies, as if it’s too plebeian a pastime for a man of his ilk. “I loved that film.”

  He gives me a cool look. “What the fuck was there to love about it? They all died. First the children. Then the parents.”

  I smirk. “I knew you watched it.” The reason I’d loved it was because when the wife killed herself, she was sent to Hell to suffer in madness, alone for all eternity. But her husband refused to let that happen. “You came to my couch and joined me in my hell.”

  He smiles faintly. “Maybe you came to mine.”

  “Guess it doesn’t matter whose couch it is.” I lift my hand, hesitate, drop it back to my thigh. He’s not a man for physical displays of affection. He’s either having sex or not touching. “So, what am I supposed to do?”