Shadowfever (Fever #5)

by Karen Marie Moning

back another scream. It’s trapped inside me now, stuffed down into my belly, burning the back of my throat, making it painful to swallow. I hear it in my ears even though my mouth makes no sound. It’s a silent scream. The worst kind. I lived with this once before, to keep Mom and Dad from knowing that Alina’s death was killing me, too. I know what comes next, and I know it’s going to be worse than last time. That I’m going to be worse. Much, much worse. I remember the scenes of slaughter Barrons showed me in his mind. I understand them now. Understand what might drive a person to it. I kneel beside his naked, bloody body. The transformation from man to beast must have shredded his clothing, exploded the silver cuff from his wrist. Nearly two thirds of his body is inked with black and crimson protection runes. “Jericho,” I say. “Jericho, Jericho, Jericho.” Why did I ever begrudge him his name? “Barrons” was a stone wall I erected between us, and if a hairline fracture appeared, I hastily mortared it with fear. I close my eyes and steel myself. When I open them, I wrap both hands around the spear and try to pull it from his back. It doesn’t come out. It’s lodged in bone. I have to fight for it. I stop. I start again. I weep. He doesn’t move. I can do this. I can. I work the spear free. After a long moment, I roll him over. If there was any doubt in my mind that he was dead, it vanishes. His eyes are open. They are empty. Jericho Barrons is no longer there. I open my senses t...