Faefever (Fever, #3)

by Karen Marie Moning

Nobody looks good in their darkest hour. But it’s those hours that make us what we are. We stand strong, or we cower. We emerge victorious, tempered by our trials, or fractured by a permanent, damning fault line.

I’ve seen things that would make your skin crawl. I’ve done things that make my skin crawl.

You find what you look for. If you go hunting good in the world, you’ll find it. If you go hunting evil … well, don’t.

What idiot, I brooded, as I dragged myself up onto the sidewalk, had decided to give me special powers?

“Pieces of these … things … were in those little sandwiches?” His voice rose; his ruddy face was pale. “Uh-huh.” He looked at me, his Adam’s apple convulsing, and for a moment I thought he was going to vomit but he got it under control. “Lady, you are one sick fuck.”

I could hardly tell him it was because I’d been a little busy being driven to my knees by a sentient Book; watching my murderous employer tote a dead body around; serving addictive, cannibalistic tea to a homicide detective in order to turn him into my informant, then steering him around the city, forcing him to see monsters; and just now, reading up on how my sister had loved having sex with the very monster responsible for bringing the rest of the monsters through to our world.

If V’lane were a signpost, it would read Abandon All Personal Will, Ye Who Tread Here,

In a world that kept growing darker every day, Barrons sure did seem to have a knack for keeping all the monsters at bay. Because he was the biggest, baddest monster of all?

Yes. The best kind.

It’s not the hand you’re dealt that matters. It’s how you play the cards.

I slipped the biking helmet on my head and strapped it securely beneath my chin. It fit snugly so it couldn’t fall off in the heat of battle. I could do a flip (if I could do a flip) and the thing would stay stuck to my head. I’d superglued dozens of Click-It lights all over the surface of the helmet. Brackets stuck out several inches from both sides and the rear, with spelunker lights attached, pointing downward. I swept my arms out and took a deep bow: Presenting the MacHalo!

Hope strengthens. Fear kills.

“I don’t trust you!” “And you think I trust you? You haven’t been out of fucking diapers long enough to be trusted, Ms. Lane! I’m not even sure you should be allowed to handle sharp objects!” I punched him in the side. “That’s not true. Who ate Unseelie? Who survived no matter the cost? Who keeps getting out there facing all kinds of twisted monsters, and still manages to find something to smile about while she does it? That takes real strength. That’s more than you can do. You’re grumpy and broody and secretive all the time. You’re no joy to live with, I can tell you that!” “I smile sometimes. I even laughed about your … hat.”

I love their fights.

“I fed him Unseelie.” “Are you fucking nuts?” Barrons exploded. “It worked.” His eyes narrowed. “One might think you’re developing situational ethics.” “You think I don’t know what those are. My father’s an attorney. I know what those are.” A faint smile curved his lips.

Because they really were decent guys with decent motives, albeit very screwed-up personalities? Or because they didn’t want each other around when they used me to track it, and neither could think of a way to get rid of the other at the moment? Were we all letting it get away, to keep each other from getting it? Wow. I used to have a hard time with high school geometry. Life was way more complicated than math.

The only two times you ever called me Mac is when I was near death. Since there’s no other threat around right now, you must be about to kill me. It’s perfectly logical.” “I didn’t call you Mac.” “Yes, you did.” “I called you Ms. Lane.” “No, you didn’t.” “Yes, I did.” I clenched my jaw. Sometimes, despite Barrons’ eternal old-world sophistication, and my glamour-girl cool, he and I very nearly devolve into childish fights.

You can’t change an unpleasant reality if you won’t acknowledge it, Mac. You can only control what you’re willing to face. Truth hurts.

I didn’t hear him behind me. I felt him. Electric. Wild. One foot in the swamp. Never going to crawl all the way out. And I wanted to have sex with whatever he was. Where was I supposed to put that in my head? I wadded the thought up, stuffed it in my padlocked box, and tested the chains. I was going to need a few more.

At some point, each day, V’lane appeared to question me about the fruits of my labors. I made sure I had no fruits. He began bringing me gifts. One day he brought me chocolate that wouldn’t make me gain weight, no matter how much I ate. Another day he brought me dusky, spicy-smelling flowers from Faery that would bloom immortally. After he left, I threw them both out. Chocolate should make you fat and flowers should die. Those were things you could count on.

Making matters worse, each time I glanced out the window, or stepped outside, I had to battle the intense biological imperative to slay monsters. Or eat them.

“That time?” he echoed softly. “You mean time to stop at one of the multiple convenience stores we just whizzed past so you can buy tampons? Is that what you’re telling me?” I was going to throw up. It was too close. Saliva was pooling in my mouth. How far behind me was it? Two blocks? Less? “Yes,” I cried. “That’s it! But I use a special kind and they don’t carry it.” “I can smell you, Ms. Lane,” he said, even more softly. “The only blood on you is from your veins, not your womb.” My head whipped to the left and I stared at him. Okay, that was one of the more disturbing things he’d ever said to me.

Liminal sucks. You can’t grasp it with your hands and shape it. You can’t make midnight come faster, or grow up sooner, or avoid the in-betweens. You can only hang in there, and get through them.