Feversong (Fever, #9)

by Karen Marie Moning

“You want to measure your power by the power of those with whom you play. It turns you on.”

The most critical, defining battles we wage in life, we wage alone. Against ourselves. It might be getting past an abusive childhood, struggling every day to regain belief in your own worth. Or being overweight and accepting that you don’t have to look like whatever the ideal woman currently is to be loved. Maybe it’s quitting drugs or giving up cigarettes. No one can do any of those things for you.

“It doesn’t matter what you destroy, but that you destroy. There are two types of people in this world: those who can create and those who can’t. Creators are powerful, shaping the world around them. All beings crave power over their slice of existence. Those who can’t create do one of three things: convince themselves to accept a half-life of mediocrity and seething dissatisfaction, deriving enjoyment from whatever small acts of dominance they manage to achieve over their companions; find a creator to leech onto and exploit to enjoy a parasitic lifestyle; or destroy. One way or another, someone that can’t create will find a way to feel in control. Destruction feels like control.”

We developed routines. Life went on. You don’t know things are strange when you don’t know any different.

But I think whenever you put other people in a cage—any kind of cage—you start to think of them as less real.

Zara was connected to all, bound to none. She was wild and free, a powerful witch of the forests and stars and seas, her every breath filled with joy. Her name was a prayer, uttered by her people in times of need. She always came: a fevered child to be tended, a wounded animal to mend, a tree damaged by storm. She healed, nurtured, repaired, and, when necessary, helped those whose time it was to become the next thing. Death was but a doorway to another life. She could see the souls of the living, their colors, shapes, and sizes, ailments and strengths. She could feel the soul of the All. Everything fit precisely where it was, had been, and was going.

What’s the surest way to be victimized? Believe yourself a victim. To win? Believe yourself a champion.

Silence can’t be interpreted. It can’t be anticipated. It gives away nothing. And in most people, prolonged silence instills unease. We fill it up with the very best or worst of our imagination. As Ryodan said, the wise man is the silent one.

I’m fully formed, missing nothing, needing nothing to leech onto. I have worlds of possibility inside me. It has none. It’s empty, so empty that it tries desperately to fill itself by stealing from others.

It’s nothing but need. Empty, greedy, black-hole-sucking need. And it knows it, so it tells itself lie after lie, weaves an elaborate illusion of superiority, in hopes of escaping the horrific awareness that it is fatally, damningly flawed, missing something of the divine the rest of us have.

“You smell fearless. And you smell good a lot. Like fall leaves, hot apple cider spiked with dark rum, and a fire topped with twigs of sassafras. You smell like life and the kind of days I want to enjoy while I’m here.

“You never make peace with some things. But, like an oyster, chafed by a grain of sand you can’t dislodge, eventually you polish it into something of value.”

Beneath me lay the only man that could probably ever understand what I’d become at that moment, and could admire it. It would have terrified most men, to watch a woman strip away everything that made her human in order to get the job done. He found my strength beautiful. My monster and his beast; they liked each other.

I was ten when I realized you couldn’t yield even an ounce of your essential self for any reason. Good people didn’t turn bad overnight. It happened from the accumulation of many small compromises, sacrifices, and losses. Small, consistent erosions turn into landslides in time.

She’d never wanted to keep me in a cage. A woman without family, alone, without education, didn’t have many choices. She’d just needed a little help. She’d never gotten it from anyone.

The world tries hard enough to kill you and succeeds eventually. Why cooperate or rush it?

I see—that’s why you think you’re the law—because you never have to answer for anything you do. But you’re not. None of us are. We fuck up. Over and over. And we get back up and try to do better. That’s all any of us do.”

“Failure is always new information, and those who are willing to suffer it repeatedly make it a stepping-stone to success.”

When people have absolutely no control over the things that really matter to them, they tend to do one of three things: devolve into animals and prey on others, indulging their base instincts (wolves); huddle in herds for comfort and safety from the chaos (sheep); or invoke a rigid daily routine, effecting control over those few things they can while endeavoring to change what seems an inevitable fate (sheepdogs).

If only. I got it now. Why people got so fucked up as they grew older. Impossible choices, impossible trade-offs; each erosion had a price you carried in your heart forever.

Dancer’s kiss was sweet and dreamy and exciting. Ryodan’s kiss had razor edges, sharp and dangerous as the man. Being in Dancer’s arms was like living on the edible planet. Being in Ryodan’s was like stepping into the eye of a cyclone. Dancer was easy laughter and a normal future (sans abrupt death). Ryodan was endless challenge and a future that was impossible to imagine.

Dancer accepted me any way I wanted to be without question. Ryodan made me question myself and pushed me to be the most I could be.

He kissed me like I was the empire he was sworn to protect and would die a thousand deaths to keep secure. He kissed me like I was a woman with a deep dark wildness that needed to be fed and he knew just how to do it. He kissed me like he was dying and this was the last kiss he would ever taste. Then his kiss changed and his tongue was velvet and silk as he kissed me like I was fine bone china that needed exacting care and gentleness.

I felt something building in me, a hunger that was exhilarated to be alive and knew it could come out and play as hard as it wanted, because I could never break this man. Not even with all my superpowers. I could dump every bit of myself on him and never have to worry about giving him a heart attack or breaking a bone or giving him a black eye by accident. He could handle anything. My high temper, my need for adventure and stimulation, my intellect, rages, and rants, my sheer physical strength, even the darkness of my shadow-self. He was a broad-shouldered beast.

good and evil didn’t exist, there was only power and choice. Power went where you willed it, wrong or right, dark or light.

Our entire existence was fluid and living and, as a race, a planet, a universe, it was all connected and we were all part of one another. And when we hurt one another, we hurt ourselves. And when we warred, we hurt the universe, and that was ourselves. And we were so stupid sometimes I couldn’t believe the song even hung around and let us use it.

“I love you, Dani Mega O’Malley,” Dancer said against my ear as he moved inside me. “More than the world is big. Deeper than the sky is blue. Truer than the universe is vast. I love you more eternal than pi.”

No tears, Mega. Only joy. We were the lucky ones.

Love doesn’t die just because the person does. Everything we felt for each other still exists, Dani. It’s in your heart. Don’t turn it off, wild one. Never turn it off again. The world needs you. And you need the world.

He loves you like pi, too, he said. Eternally. Wake up. Seize the day. He needs you now. There will always be someone who needs you. And you’ll always answer the call. That’s your place in the Great Slipstream, Dani. And you’ve always known it.

“Your pain is mine. When you hurt, I hurt. If someone who truly loves you sees you in pain, they share it.”

Home. I knew some truths about that word now. You weren’t always born into one. But if you were lucky, you found one somewhere along the way. It was a place where you fit and were accepted, where people helped you with your problems and you helped them with theirs. Where you made mistakes and so did they but the love never wavered. A place where erosions never turned into landslides because you dug one another out. And always would.

You are your kingdom. A vibrant, empathic, all-the-colors-of-the-rainbow kingdom. But there are those who walk among us that lack such a rich internal landscape. Courage, above all, is the first quality of a warrior.