But he hadn’t, and with each passing day I grew to dread my inevitable confession more. The lie loomed larger, seemed increasingly impossible to retract.
I would never forget the hope in his eyes. The joy in his smile.
I’d put it there. With a lie.
He was never going to forgive me when he found me out.
You can still do it …
I squeezed my eyes shut.
That insidious voice had been torturing me ever since we’d left the abbey: the Sinsar Dubh. I couldn’t decide if it was a memory of what it had said to me when it tempted me to embrace it—or a reality that was actually inside me.
Had the Book really “downloaded” a copy of itself into me while I was still an unformed fetus inside my mother?
Had it really created the perfect host for itself twenty-three years ago, making me a human facsimile of it, waiting for me to mature?
Most important of all: Was the spell to lay his son to rest really inside me?
Could I give it to him? Hear the joy in his laughter again? Free them both? At what cost?
I dug my nails into my palms.
Last night, right before I drifted off to sleep, I’d heard the child/beast howl. Hunger, anguish, eternal misery.
We’d both heard it. He kissed me, pretending he hadn’t. Then later, when he left to go do whatever it was he did for the child, I’d choked back tears of shame and failure.
He’d asked me for one thing. And I hadn’t been strong enough to get it for him and survive the getting.
I opened my eyes and stared at the bookstore, at the sign swaying gently in the breeze. Dusk brushed the store in shades of violet. A tinge of a metallic silver gauzed the windowpanes, one of the many new Fae hues.
Barrons would be back soon. I had no idea where he went when he left. But I’d learned the pattern. When he returned, I would be able to feel his heartbeat.
I didn’t let myself think about doing it. I knew if I thought about it, I never would. I’d chicken out. I let my eyes drift out of focus and took the plunge.
The water was frigid, unwelcoming, black as pitch, black as original sin. I couldn’t see a thing. I kicked deep.
I felt small, young, and afraid.
I kicked deeper.
The lake was enormous. I had miles and miles of dark, icy water inside me. I was surprised my blood didn’t run black and cold.
Melodrama. See you finally got some, a familiar voice purred. How is that flamboyance coming? Universe hates a dull girl.
“Where are you?”
Keep swimming, MacKayla.
“Are you really in here?”
Always have been.
I kicked harder, pushing deeper into the blackness. I couldn’t see a thing. I might as well have been blind.
Suddenly there was light.
Because I said let there be, it said silkily.
“You’re not God,” I muttered.
I am not the devil either. I’m you. Are you finally ready to see yourself? What lies at the bottom, the great taproot?
“I’m ready.” I’d no sooner said it than there it was. Shining, resplendent, at the bottom of my lake. Golden rays shot out from it, rubies shimmered, locks gleamed.
The Sinsar Dubh.
I have been here all this time. Since before you were born.
“I beat you. In the study, I saw through your games twice. I walked away from the temptation.”
Can’t eviscerate essential self.
I was no longer swimming but dripping wet and floating to the floor of a black cavern. I drifted to my feet, boots lightly touching down. I looked around, wondering where I was. In the dark night of my soul? The Sinsar Dubh was open on a regal black pedestal in front of me. Gold pages shimmering, it waited.
It was beautiful, so beautiful …
Inside me all this time. All those nights I’d been hunting it, it had been right under my nose. Or, actually, behind it. Just like Cruce, I was the Sinsar Dubh, but unlike Cruce, I’d never opened it. Never welcomed or read it. That was why I’d never understood any of the runes it had given me. I’d never looked inside. Only taken what it offered to use it as recommended.
If I’d ever dived to the bottom of my glassy lake and opened the Book, I’d have had all the king’s dark knowledge at my disposal, in detail. Every spell and rune, the recipe for every experiment, including how to create the Shades, the Gray Man, even Cruce! It was no wonder the Unseelie King had regarded me with paternal pride. I possessed so many of his memories, so much of his magic. I supposed that was as close to having a daughter as the king would ever get. He’d spat out a part of himself, and it was in me now. Sperm, essential self: what difference to a Fae? He could see himself in me, and the Fae liked that.
It was also no wonder K’Vruck had pushed at me mentally and recognized me. He’d found some part of the king inside me, and to him, king was king. He’d missed his traveling companion. Ditto with the Silvers. They’d recognized the essence of the king in me, and while most had resisted me pushing into them and spat me out enthusiastically—thanks to Cruce’s botched curse that hadn’t been Cruce’s at all—the oldest and first Silver that joined the king and concubine’s boudoir was unaffected by the curse and had permitted me passage for the same reason. I was wearing Eau d’King. Even Adam had sensed something about me, and I knew Cruce must have, too. They just hadn’t known exactly what. Then there was the time the dreamy-eyed guy had told the fear dorcha to look deeper and the pin-striped terror had backed off.
I am open to the spell you want. You need only come close enough to read me, MacKayla. It is that easy. We will be rejoined. And you can lay the child to rest.
“I suppose you have a perfectly good reason for destroying my sign?” Jericho appeared beside me. “I had to paint the bloody thing myself,” he said pissily. “There’s not a sign-maker left in the city. I have better things to do than paint.”
I gaped. Jericho Barrons was standing beside me.
Inside my head.
I shook it, half expecting him to be knocked off his feet and go rattling around.
He remained standing, urbane and implacable as ever.
“This isn’t possible,” I told him. “You can’t be here. This is my head.”
“You push into mine. I merely projected an image with the push this time, to give you something to look at.” He gave me a faint smile. “Wasn’t easy getting in. You give a whole new meaning to ‘rock-head.’ ”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He invaded my thoughts and gave me guff even here.
“I found you standing in the street, staring at the sign over the bookstore. Tried talking to you but you didn’t respond. Thought I’d better take a look around. What are you doing, Mac?” he said softly—Barrons at his most alert and dangerous.
My laughter died and tears sprang to my eyes. He was in my head. I saw little point in hiding anything. He could take a good look around and see the truth for himself.
“I didn’t get the spell.” My voice broke. I’d failed him. I hated myself for that. He’d never failed me.
“I know.”
My gaze flicked to his face, bewildered. “You … know?”
“I knew it was a lie the moment you said it.”
I searched his eyes. “But you looked happy! You smiled. I saw things in your eyes!”
“I was happy. I knew why you’d lied.” His dark gaze was ancient, inhuman, and uncharacteristically gentle. Because you love me.
I drew in a ragged breath.
“Let’s get out of here, Mac. There’s nothing for you down here.”
“The spell! It’s here. I can get it. Use it. Lay him to rest!”
“But you wouldn’t be you anymore. You can’t take a single spell from that thing. It’s all or nothing. We’ll find another way.”
The Sinsar Dubh poisoned the moment. He lies. He hates you for failing him.
“Shut it down, Mac. Ice the lake over.”
I stared at the Book
, shining in all its glory. Power, pure and simple. I could create worlds.
Ice his ass over. He’s just worried you’ll be more powerful than he is.
Barrons held out his hand. “Don’t leave me, Rainbow Girl.”
Rainbow Girl. Was that who I was?
It seemed so long ago. I smiled faintly. “Remember the skirt I wore to Mallucé’s the night you told me to dress Goth?”
“It’s upstairs in your closet. Never throw it away. It looked like a wet dream on you.”
I took his hand.
And just like that, we were standing in the street outside Barrons Books and Baubles.
Deep inside me, the Book whumped closed.
As we headed for the entrance, I heard gunshots, and we looked up. Two winged dragons sailed past the moon.
Jayne was shooting at Hunters again.
Hunters.
My eyes widened.
K’Vruck!
Could it be that simple?
“Oh, God, that’s it,” I whispered.
Barrons was holding the door open for me. “What?”
Excitement and urgency flooded me. I clutched his arm. “Can you get me a Hunter to fly?”
“Of course.”
“Hurry, then. I think I know what to do about your son!”
54
Jericho Barrons buried his son in a cemetery on the outskirts of Dublin, after five days of keeping vigil beside his lifeless body, waiting for it to disappear and be reborn wherever it was they were reborn.
His son never disappeared and was never reborn.
He was dead. Truly dead.
I kept a vigil of my own at the door to his study, watching him stare at the beautiful boy through the long days and nights.
The answer was so simple once I’d thought of it.
It had taken a while to find him flying over the city, but he’d finally soared in beside me, blacker than blackness, with his Nightwindflyhighfreeeeeee comments and his old friend remarks—serene and smooth, chuffing the night air in small frosted puffs. The wind had steamed like dry ice in his wake.
I’d asked a favor. It had been the best kind for a Hunter. It had amused.
It took Barrons and five of his men to get the beast from beneath the garage up onto the roof of a nearby building, safely restrained.
Once they’d been far enough away, they radioed me and I had my new “old friend” fly in and do what he does best.
Death isn’t nearly as final as a good K’Vrucking.
When he closed his great black leathery wings around the beast and inhaled long and deep, the beast turned into the boy.
And the boy died.
As if K’Vruck had simply inhaled his life essence.
After he’d suffered who-knew-how-many thousands of years, the child was finally at peace. So was Barrons.
Ryodan and his men had sat with Barrons through the days and nights, waiting, wondering if it was possible one of them could actually be killed. They’d seemed as offended as they’d been relieved. Kasteo had sat in the room and stared unblinking at me for hours. Ryodan and the others had to drag him away. I wondered what they’d done to him a thousand years ago. I knew what grief looked like when I saw it.
And when they’d left, although hostility had poured off them in my direction, I knew I’d won a stay of execution.
They wouldn’t kill me. Not now. I didn’t know how long they might feel benevolent toward me, but I’d take what I could get.
And if one day they decided it was war between us, it was war they’d get.
Somebody’d made me a fighter. With him by my side, there was nothing I couldn’t do.
“Hey baby, you up there?” Daddy’s baritone soared up from the street.
I peeked over the edge of the rooftop and smiled. Mom, Dad, and Inspector Jayne were standing down below, in front of the bookstore. Daddy was carrying a bottle of wine. Jayne had a notebook and a pen, and I knew he was planning to grill me about methods of Fae execution and try, once again, to get his hands on my spear.
I was thrilled my parents had decided to stay in Dublin. They’d taken a house in the city, so we could visit. One of these days, I would give Mom most of Alina’s stuff back. We would sit and talk, go visit her apartment. I’d take Mom to the college where Alina had been happy for a time. We’d remember her and celebrate what we’d had with her while we had it. Mom was a different woman now, stronger, more alive than ever before.
Dad was going to be some kind of brehon, or lawmaker, and work with Jayne and his crew to maintain order in New Dublin. He wanted to fight, but Mom wasn’t real keen on that idea.
She was spearheading a group called NDGU. New Dublin Green-Up was devoted to making the city green again—fertilizing the soil, filling the planters, putting down sod, and eventually bringing the parks and commons back to life. It was the perfect job for her. She was the ultimate nester, and Dublin’s nest was sorely in need of some feathering.
“It’s open, come on up,” I called. Mom was carrying two pretty ceramic pots, and I could see the green tips of bulbs sprouting. All my window boxes and planters were still empty. I hadn’t had time to get out to the abbey yet and dig a few things up. I hoped they were a housewarming gift.
I turned and checked the table. The drinks were chilled, the plates out, the napkins folded. It was my first garden party.
Barrons was looming over a gas grill, searing thick steaks and trying, unsuccessfully, to hide his disgust. I wasn’t sure if he found the act of cooking meat revolting—as opposed to eating it raw—or if he just wasn’t much for dead cow because he preferred live … cow. Or live something.
I didn’t ask. Some things are better left unsaid.
He looked at me and I shivered. I never get enough of him. Never will.
He lives.
I breathe.
I want. Him. Always.
Fire to my ice. Ice to my fever.
Later we would go to bed, and when he rose over me, dark and vast and eternal, I’d know joy. Who knew? Much later we might fly a couple of Hunters to the moon.
While I waited for our dinner company to come up the stairs, I stared at the city. It was mostly dark, with only a few lights flickering. It wasn’t remotely the same city I’d met last August; still, I loved her. One day she would be filled with life, teeming with craic again.
Dani was out there in the streets somewhere. Soon I would go looking for her.
But not to kill her.
We’d fight back to back.
Sisters and all.
I think Alina would understand.
The good guys and bad guys aren’t as easy to tell apart as I used to think they were. You can’t look at someone with your eyes and take their measure.
You have to look with the heart.
The end …
… for now.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel would never have reached readers’ hands if not for my brilliant dynamo of an agent, Amy Berkower, nor would it have been remotely what it is without all the wonderful people at Random House. Special thanks to Gina Centrello, for listening and for being there. Words can’t express my gratitude! And to Shauna Summers, my fabulous editor and biggest fan, and to the rest of the team at Random House: Libby McGuire, Scott Shannon, Matthew Schwartz, Sanyu Dillon, Gina Wachtel, Anne Watters, Kristin Fassler, the art department for the sensational cover, the sales team for getting my books out there, and the booksellers for hand-selling the series with so much enthusiasm. Thanks to my first readers who see the manuscript before anyone else and give me their unflinching critique: the talented and amazing Genevieve Gagne-Hawes, and my husband, Neil Dover (chef, musician, editor, and my inspiration in so many ways!)—I couldn’t do it without you two. Thanks to Leiha Mann, for making all things cyber-Fever and event-related run smoothly and feel magical. Last but by no means least, thanks to YOU, dear readers, for your feverish commitment that has made the Fever series such a success, and allowing me to do what I love most every
day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling author KAREN MARIE MONING is the author of the Fever series, featuring MacKayla Lane, and the award-winning Highlander series. Her events draw fans from all over the world, and her novels have been published in fifteen languages. She has a bachelor’s degree in Society and Law from Purdue University, and is currently working on a new series set in the Fever world and a graphic novel featuring MacKayla Lane.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 653ca5a5-e8c6-49c9-b1e6-d8d50b84f2a3
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 20.1.2011
Created using: calibre 0.7.37, FB Editor v2.3 software
Document authors :
Bakoro
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/
Shadowfever f-5 Page 56
