Feversong

I sat on the couch, rubbing my temples, fighting a headache, thinking how ridiculously difficult the queen’s job was. It was no wonder they got so bitchy and ruthless. Power was a crushing weight. Then again, Fae queens didn’t get headaches. They felt no pain at all, and as far as I knew, suffered no physical demands. No need for sleep or food.

Frowning, I sank inward and accessed the Elixir of Life. Not for myself but for Dancer. I’d already tried hunting for topics like Healing Humans, which hadn’t yielded a single tab; no surprise there. Why would a Fae care to (a) heal a human, (b) make any files about it if they did.

That was yet another limit to all this bloody information I had. Some things were common knowledge to Fae, so they didn’t bother recording it. Why would I make a file on how to brush my teeth or dry my hair?

It wasn’t long before I sighed and shook my head. The potion of immortality had been—as many Fae things were—stolen from some other race an eternity ago. It wasn’t capable of “healing,” it dramatically transformed any being that consumed it. And it carried a high price: barrenness and, in time, it eradicated every vestige of the immortal soul if you believed in such things, and I did. When a Fae died, there was no afterlife. At best they drifted, their essence scattered to the molecules of the world on which they’d died. At worst they were simply gone as if they’d never been. I was fascinated to discover the Fae believed humans were reincarnated again and again with many different lives, eternally. But a dead Fae could never have its essence scraped back together to become something else.

I wondered what made the Fae decide a nearly immortal existence without children or pain—but very little pleasure either—was worth it, suddenly apprehending them not as a vastly more powerful race, but cowards. I’d rather roll the dice, play the lottery, enjoy an unpredictable and sometimes scary eternity of passion and pain than the fate they’d chosen to embrace.

Regardless, the elixir was not the answer for Dancer.

The bell above my door tinkled as it opened and closed. My head lifted.

And my heart sank.

Lor stalked into the bookstore, an enormous blond Viking dressed in black leather pants, boots, and a Woodstock tee that looked like it might actually be an original. “Hey, Mac.”

“Barrons isn’t here,” I said hastily.

He sliced his head to the left. “Not looking for him. I came to see you.”

Well, shit. He was pretty much the last person I wanted to see. I couldn’t look at him without my box that contained thoughts of Jo threatening to explode.

When he dropped onto the couch, the frame protested the impact of his weight. Lor, like the rest of the Nine, stood well over six feet and was massively muscled and badly scarred. With thick blond hair and chiseled good looks, he was the fun-loving caveman, the hardcore rock-and-roll partier that burned through bombshell blondes yet somehow managed to leave them in an adoring stupor when he moved on. He had a soft spot for women and children and had been Dani’s shadow for years, without her ever knowing it.

I’d sent Jo to him. After she broke up with Ryodan, I’d taken one look into her red-rimmed, wounded eyes and known instantly that she was never going to be able to toe that line. One way or another, if she didn’t move forward to the next thing, she’d end up trying to go back.

And Ryodan would never take her back.

Only thing worse than dumping a boyfriend you deep down wanted to keep but shouldn’t for one reason or another was backsliding, and getting dumped yourself.

I did that once. Choosing to leave had made me feel empowered. Going back and getting rejected had screwed with my head for a quite a while. Once you walked away, you had to keep walking and never look back.

My brain had put two facts together that day at the bar: fun-loving Lor who never had relationships and allegedly was a mind-blowing, enthusiastic fuck, and Jo needing a distraction to keep her from backsliding. It had seemed like the perfect solution. Harmless. With potential for good. Lor gets his world rocked, Jo moves on. No way they’d ever repeat it. Lor didn’t do do-overs.

I’d never once thought it would turn out to be anything more for Jo than a stepping-stone to a new life.

But they’d sparked off each other. I’d seen it. There’d been something building.

And I’d killed her.

“What’s up?” I said briskly. “I was just about to head out,” I lied.

“Hear about Jo?”

I nodded. Cleared my throat. “I’m so sorry, Lor.” In more ways than he knew.

“I had plans for that one,” he murmured. “Ah, did I ever. Crazy bitch. Thought she didn’t wanna fuck me, and anybody could see plain as day she loved fucking me.”

Yep. Twist that knife.

He stared at me a long, unreadable moment. Finally he said, “I can’t talk to those fucks about her. Can’t talk to anybody. Figured you’d listen ’cause you were friends with her. Hell, you’re the one sent the little spitfire to me.”

And I was endlessly sorry I had.

“I got a rule, see. Never fuck a brunette. Know why?”

Nope, but I could see he was going to tell me. I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. All I could see was me shattering Jo’s skull. Eating her. I thrust the images away. There was danger here. The Nine were far too capable of skimming minds.

“I had a wife once. Long time ago.”

Let me guess. She was a brunette. “You know,” I said quickly, “I’m not supposed to know about any of this, remember? What would Ryodan do if he heard you were talking to me?”