Darkfever

“It must sense the proximity of its counterpart. It is said if the four are brought together again they will sing a Song of Making.”

“You mean, they’ll create something?” I asked.

Barrons shrugged. “There are no words in the Fae language equivalent to ‘create’ or ‘destroy.’ There is only Making, which also includes the unmaking of a thing.”

“That’s odd,” I said. “They must have a very limited language.”

“What they have, Ms. Lane, is a very precise language. If you think about it a moment, you’ll see it makes sense; case in point, if you’re making sense, you’ve just unmade confusion.”

“Huh?” My confusion hadn’t been unmade. In fact, I could feel it deepening.

“In order to make something, Ms. Lane, you must first unmake what is in the process. Should you begin with nothing, even nothing is unmade when it is replaced with something. To the Tuatha Dé there is no difference between creating and destroying. There is only stasis and change.”

I’m a bottom-line girl. I barely managed Cs in my college philosophy courses. When I tried to read Jean-Paul Sartre’s Being and Nothingness, I developed an unshakable case of narcolepsy that attacked every two to three paragraphs, resulting in deep, coma-like fits of sleep. The only thing I remember about Kafka’s Metamorphosis is the awful apple that got impacted in the bug’s back, and Borges’ stupid story about the avatar and the tortoise didn’t teach me a thing, except how much better I like Little Bunny Foo Foo; it rhymes and you can jump rope to it.

The way I saw it, what Barrons had just told me was this: A Faery not only wouldn’t care whether I lived or died, it wouldn’t even really register that I was dead, just that, before, I could walk and talk and change my clothes by myself, but afterward I couldn’t, as if someone had yanked the batteries out of me.

It occurred to me that I could really learn to hate the Fae.

With a muttered apology to my mom, I snatched up a shredded pillow, hurled it across the ransacked bedroom, and cried, “Damn, damn, damn! Where did you put it, Alina?”

Feathers showered the room. What remained intact of the slashed-up pillow crashed into a framed picture of a thatch-roofed seaside cottage above the headboard—one of the few items in her apartment that had been left undisturbed—and knocked it off the wall. Fortunately, it fell on the bed and the glass didn’t break. Unfortunately, it didn’t reveal a convenient hidey-hole.

I sank to the floor and leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for inspiration to strike. It didn’t. I’d run out of ideas. I’d checked every place Alina had ever hidden a journal at home and then some, with no luck. Not only hadn’t I found her journal, I’d discovered a few other things missing as well: her photo albums and her floral-paged Franklin Planner were gone. Alina carried her planner as faithfully as she wrote in her journal, and I knew she had two photo albums in Dublin: one of our family and home in Ashford to show to new friends, and a blank one to fill while she was there.

I’d had no luck finding any of them. And I’d done a thorough search.

I’d even stopped at a hardware store on the way over and bought a hammer, so I could tear apart the baseboard in her bedroom closet. I’d ended up using the claw handle to pry at all the moldings and casings in the place, looking for loose trim. I’d tapped at the wood nooks and crannies of the fireplace facade. I’d hammered at floor planks, listening for hollow spots. I’d examined every piece of furniture in the place, tops, sides, and bottoms, and even checked inside, as well as beneath, the toilet tank.

I’d found nothing.

If her journal was hidden somewhere in the apartment, she’d outdone me this time. The only thing left for me to try was complete demolition of the place: smashing out the walls, ripping off the cabinets, and tearing up the floors, at which point I’d have to buy the darned building just to pay for all the damages, and I didn’t have that kind of money.

I caught my breath. But Barrons did. And I could offer him an incentive to want to find her notebook. I wanted Alina’s journal for the clues it might hold to the identity of her killer, but there was a good possibility it also contained information about the location of the Sinsar Dubh. After all, the last thing my sister had said in her message was, I know what it is now, and I know where—, before her words had abruptly terminated. The odds were high she’d written something about it in her diary.

The question was, could I trust Jericho Barrons, and if so, how far?

I stared into space, wondering what I really knew about him. It wasn’t much. The darkly exotic half Basque, half Pict was a self-contained mystery I was willing to bet he never let anyone get close enough to unravel. Fiona might know a thing or two about him, but she was a mystery herself.

I knew this much: He was going to be royally pissed at me by the time he saw me again, because the last thing he’d said to me, in his typical high-handed manner, before I’d stumbled exhaustedly off to bed early this morning was, “I have things to do tomorrow, Ms. Lane. You will remain in the bookstore until I return. Fiona will procure anything you might need.”

I’d ignored his orders and, shortly after I’d awakened at half past two in the afternoon, slipped out the back way, down the alley behind the store. No, I wasn’t being stupid and I didn’t have a death wish. What I had was a mission, and I couldn’t afford to let fear shut me down, or I might as well reserve the first seat available on the next flight back to Georgia, tuck tail and run home to the safety of Mom and Dad.

Yes, I knew the Many-Mouthed-Thing was out there looking for the blonder, fluffier version of me. Yes, I had no doubt that while Mallucé slumbered his daylight hours away, tucked in a garish Romantic-Goth coffin somewhere, dripping blood-encrusted lace, his men were already scouring Dublin for the thieving Ms. Rainbow.

But nobody would be looking for this me. I was incognito.

I’d scraped my dark hair tightly back into a short ponytail and tucked it up beneath a ball cap, pulled down low. I was wearing my favorite faded jeans, a sloppy oversized, nearly threadbare T-shirt I’d swiped from Dad before I left, which had once been black a few hundred washings ago, and scuffed-up tennis shoes. I didn’t have on a single accessory and I’d used a brown paper bag as a purse. I’d applied no makeup; zip, zilch, nada, not even lipstick, even though my mouth felt really weird without it. I’m pretty addicted to moisturizers. I think it comes from living in the heat of the South. Even the best skin needs a little extra care down there. But the crowning triumph of my disguise was a truly hideous pair of magnifying spectacles I’d purchased at a drugstore on the way over that I currently had hooked on the neck of my dingy tee.