Dreamfever (Fever #4)

by Karen Marie Moning

me. If I knew a fraction of what you know, my odds of surviving would be way higher.” “Perhaps you’d no longer want to.” “Would you just cooperate?” I said, exasperated. “I do not know that word,” he mocked in falsetto. “I’m trying to arm myself so I can fight like I fuck,” I snapped. “But you refuse to help.” I hated it when he reminded me of when I’d been Pri-ya. “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to say that word again, Ms. Lane. Time was, you had no reservations. ‘Fuck me, Jericho Barrons,’ you’d say. Morning, noon, and night.” There are two kinds of verbal honey a Southern woman can slather on her words when she feels like it: the kind that attracts flies, melts men’s hearts, and firms up all their other parts, or the kind that makes a man want to curl up and die. I employed the latter. “I didn’t know getting you to talk was so easy, or I’d have said it five minutes ago. Fuck you, Jericho Barrons.” He raised his head and laughed, teeth flashing white in his face. I dug my nails into my palms. “The Silvers,” he said, when he’d stopped laughing, “once numbered in the tens of thousands, but some say they’re now infinite. Fae things tend to—” “I know. Take on a life of their own. Change, evolve in strange ways.”