Shadowfever (Fever #5)

by Karen Marie Moning

Hope strengthens. Fear kills.

Every time I think I’m getting wiser, more in control of my actions, I go slamming into a situation that makes me excruciatingly aware that all I’ve succeeded in doing is swapping one set of delusions for a more elaborate, attractive set of delusions—that’s me, the Queen of Self-Deception.

Yes, I have loved, Ms. Lane, and although it’s none of your business, I have lost. Many things. And, no, I am not like any other player in this game and I will never be like V’lane, and I get a hard-on a great deal more often than occasionally. Sometimes it’s over a spoiled little girl, not a woman at all. And, yes, I trashed the bookstore when I couldn’t find you. You’ll have to choose a new bedroom, too. And I’m sorry your pretty little world got all screwed up, but everybody’s does, and you go on. It’s how you go on that defines you.

Although I’ve straightened his lapel a few times, it was only for the excuse of touching him. Stepping into his personal space. Exercising familiarity to underscore that I had the right. Unpredictable as a hungry lion, he might be feared by everyone else, but he never ripped out my throat, only licked me, and, if his tongue was a little rough sometimes, it was worth it to walk beside the king of the jungle.

I trust him in death like I never did in life. What a piece of work I am.

“That implies love. Fae don’t.” “Debatable. I recognize myself in you and find it … compelling. It makes me less alone.” Translation: I serve as a mirror and the Fae enjoy their own reflection.

“Small creatures create small things.” “Large creatures’ egos are so big they don’t see the small things coming,” I murmur. Like traps, I don’t say. He intuits it. He laughs and says, “I will remember the warning, MacKayla.”

I’m in one of the corridors, heading for the screams, but suddenly everything is as dark as it must be where Rowena’s head is—straight up her ass.

My breath frosts the air, then turns to steam as it passes an invisible demarcation.

She loves the word demarcation.

He stumbles and collapses to the ground. Somewhere nearby, I hear garbled sounds. Oh, God, his head is still talking. Good! Can he form sentences? I’m in a strong bargaining position. Tell me what I want, and I’ll put your head back on.

Some people bring out the worst in you, others bring out the best, and then there are those remarkably rare, addictive ones who just bring out the most. Of everything. They make you feel so alive that you’d follow them straight into hell, just to keep getting your fix.

This was the jackass I’d been grieving? Whose return I’d been celebrating?

You can be so daft sometimes.

“We’ve got serious problems, Barrons.” He slammed the brakes so hard I got whiplash. If I hadn’t had my seat belt on, I’d have gone through the windshield. I’d been so lost in thought that I hadn’t realized we’d arrived. “Mortal over here!” I said irritably, rubbing my neck.

Not once had he lost control like this around me. Was his ability to contain his animal nature getting weaker? Or was I more deeply rooted beneath that changeable skin? I smiled, but it held no mirth. I liked that thought. I wasn’t sure who that made more screwed up: him or me.

I turned and pushed into the wall. “What the fuck do you think you’re—get your ass out of—Ms. Lane! Fuck! Mac!” As I vanished into the wall, I felt his hand close on my coat, and I laughed. He’d called me Mac, and I wasn’t even dying.

I took a perverse pleasure in irritating him. “A day? Three? Five? What does it depend on? How badly you’re injured?” “If I were you, Ms. Lane, I’d never bring that up again. You think you’re suddenly a major player because you went through that Silver—” “I left Christian at the mirror. I found him in the prison,” I cut him off. His mouth snapped shut, then, “Why the fuck does it always take you so long to tell me the important things?”

It’s not my fault who I am. The only thing that’s my fault is what I choose to do with it.”

“When you get inside, go to the stairs and one of them will escort you up. Go directly to the stairs,” he said pointedly. “Try not to get in trouble or cause a riot on the way.” “I don’t think that’s a fair statement. Life isn’t always chaotic around me.” “Like when isn’t it?” “Like when I’m …” I thought a minute. “Alone,” I finished pissily. “Or asleep.”

Another pebble. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for it to stop. Five minutes of incessant pebbles later, a stone crashed through my window, spraying glass and scaring the hell out of me. I shot up in bed and glared at the mess on the floor. I couldn’t even march over and snap his head off. I had to dig around for shoes first.

Yet for a few months there’d been no lines of demarcation between us.

“Bluebeard’s wives didn’t have a life.” I studied him. They were all so controlled, so hard and ruthless. “How many have you taken from one another? So many that you hate the sight of one another? Has the merry band of brothers become a walking, talking, immortal Cold War?”

“She killed my sister!” “With malice? Spite? Out of cruelty? Hunger for power?” “How would I know?” “You love her,” he said roughly. “That means you know her. When you love somebody you see inside them. Use your heart. Is Dani that kind of person?”

“I don’t need a Keltar Druid to know when you’re lying.” I scowled. “Why is that?” “I’ve been around a long time. You learn to read people.” “Exactly how long?” “What did it say to you?” I blew out a breath, exasperated. “It said I used to ride it. It called me ‘old friend.’ ” One nice thing about talking to Barrons was that I didn’t have to mince words. He burst out laughing.

“They’ll try to kill you.” “Good thing I’m hard to kill.” Only one thing concerned me. “Will you?” “Never. I’m the one who will always watch over you. Always be there to fuck you back to your senses when you need it, the one who will never let you die.” I pull my shirt over my head and kick off my shoes. “What more could a woman ask?”

How could a peacock lust for a lion? I’d been as fancy as one of the proud males, in my useless plumage. I’d strutted around, stealing glances at the king of the jungle, denying what I felt. I’d assessed my tail and his killing claws and understood that if the lion were ever to lay down with the peacock—it would only be on a nest of bloody feathers. It hadn’t stopped me from wanting him. It made me grow claws.

I’d walk through hell and back, smiling, as long as he was beside me. As long as I could glance over at him and our eyes would meet and we’d share one of those wordless looks.

“The moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were trouble.” “Ditto.” “I wanted to drag you between the shelves, fuck you senseless, and send you home.” “If you’d done that, I never would have left.” “You’re still here anyway.” “You don’t have to sound so sour about it.” “You’re upsetting my entire existence.” “Fine, I’ll leave.” “Try and I’ll chain you up.” He glowered at me. “That’s vacillating.” He sighed. After a moment, he held out his hand. I slipped mine into his.

Imperfect as it was, this world was real. Illusion was no substitute. I’d rather live a hard life of fact than a sweet life of lies.