Feversong

I study my eyes carefully, spying no hint of madness, no deeply buried glint of psychopathic glee. Just the wide, green-eyed gaze of a woman who has no idea what heinous acts her body committed during the past fifteen hours.

Less revolted by the thought of using Mallucé’s toothbrush than I am by the taste in my mouth—which says volumes about how horrific it is—I scald the dead vamp’s toothbrush under hot water then squeeze toothpaste on it and brush vigorously, despite the pain it causes.

When I finish, I rummage through the vanity drawers for floss, then drop to the floor and begin the agonizing process of cleaning between them.

I save what comes out, plaster it on a piece of toilet tissue and examine it.

I ate Unseelie, at the very least. Black feathers. “Please tell me it wasn’t Christian,” I whisper.

Laboriously, I strip off my jacket. And frown. My spear is gone, my shoulder holster empty. Why? Where did it go? Did the Book stab some hapless person and not bother to take it back? Surely it wouldn’t give away such a powerful weapon! I wonder again just what the hell I did over the past fifteen hours.

Clenching my teeth, refusing to get waylaid by dangerous thoughts, I focus on working my shirt over my head, and end up smearing blood all over my face again. The spear is gone. So much blood. I shake my head to keep it clear, desperate to strip down to nudity to leave behind all the incriminating evidence of whatever I’ve done, but there’s no way Mallucé’s pants will fit me. Still, I can change into one of his shirts.

After wiping my face clean again, I crawl into the closet that adjoins the bathroom. I sort through the dramatic, vintage goth clothing until I find a simple black brushed-silk tee and pull it on then lean back against the wall of the closet, frowning, catching my breath, pondering what just happened.

The Sinsar Dubh fell asleep.

I’d bet my life on it.

And somehow I’m awake and here again. Just how is that working? If it was so tired that it passed out, why doesn’t me moving around wake it up? Is it possible this is what happened the day it killed the Gray Woman—because it’s not accustomed to physical form, it quickly wears out and loses its control over me? Does this mean I’m me again and so long as I don’t use another spell I’ll be okay? Or does it mean once it regains its energy it’ll instantly reimprison me?

I felt it losing control of my body, experienced its rage, overheard its frantic thoughts.

I feel the same as I did after regaining consciousness the day it killed the Gray Woman, only worse, hurting everywhere, and desperately tired. I wonder, in years past, when I slept, did the Book slip out to play? Did I sleepwalk in my youth without ever knowing it? I wish I could ask Mom and Dad. Will the Book think that’s what it did, if it regains awareness to find itself in a different location, clean, wearing different clothes?

I sigh. I have no idea what’s going on or how long I have. I must make good use of the time. The only other time I lost control, I blacked out and was completely unaware of time passing. This time, I was aware, but locked away. It would be foolish to conclude that I’ve regained permanent control. I can’t take anything for granted where the Book is concerned.

The last memory I have of my actions is the Sinsar Dubh taking possession of me as I screamed at Jada to run. I pray she heeded me and ran fast and far enough. If I sacrificed everything to save her only to end up killing her—

I can’t even finish that thought.

Barrons. Surely he would have come after me—it. Is he dead? Did I kill him? Again? What did the Book do with its freedom? Surely, it has goals, objectives. But what? Considering that I’ve carried this thing around inside me all my life, I don’t really know much about it other than it was prone to puerile taunts and threats to K’Vruck the world. But what does it really want? No doubt, beneath its glib, maniacal behavior lies a sharply focused, brilliant mind.

I force myself to breathe slowly, deeply, trying to sort through my thoughts, but Mallucé’s scent permeates the closet with the noxious odor of his cologne and a whiff of decay that clings to his attire, and suddenly I can’t get out of there fast enough. The mere scent of him is throwing me back to time spent in a hellish grotto beneath the Burren, and I need to be fully in the here and now.

I leverage myself up using hatboxes and a small trunk for support, stagger from the closet and stumble out into the bedroom, where I sink down against the wall, draw my legs up to my chest, wrap my arms around them and rest my head on my knees.

Life used to be so simple. When we’re young, it feels like grand adventures await us around every corner. We’re strong, resilient, undamaged. We think our soul mate is headed our way, we’ll marry, have babies, and be loved. I bought into that. I thought I’d raise my children with Alina, take shopping excursions to Atlanta, attend PTA meetings, and enjoy family holidays. Spend lazy summer afternoons listening to the music of the gently creaking porch swing beneath slow-paddling fans, sipping a magnolia-drenched breeze and sweet tea, watching my children grow up in a mostly decent, normal world.

Maybe for some people it works that way.

But that was never my destiny.

I think I got twenty-two blissful, trauma-free years only because the rest of it was going to suck so massively. I mean, really, my godawful life was foretold over a thousand years ago by Moreena Bean, a half-mad washerwoman who prophesied that one of the Lane sisters would die young and the other would wish she was dead (yup, feeling that right now), and the younger they were both killed, the better off the world would be. If that’s not destiny, what is?