Feversong

The day was not yet lost.

Her lips twisted in an imperious sneer.

He was coming, too!

The one from whom she’d begged her favor; the one who’d lied and, with the offer of a glass of wine to toast her freedom, had stolen her memory then dragged her off to live for hundreds of thousands of years among her enemy. Masquerading as ally at her side. Controlling her, shaping her. Taking what he wanted until what he wanted was nothing less than everything she had, at which point he’d tried to kill her.

Cruce was with them.

“Ack!” The T’murra squawked loudly from above, echoing bits of her earlier words again. “Give it what it wants!”

Aoibheal cocked her head and glanced up sharply, as the T’murra’s words abruptly seemed no longer quite so random.

MAC

This is how it feels to be the Sinsar Dubh.

Only better. I lack even its shallow frustration and glee.

There’s nothing left of emotion nor any desire for it.

I’m perfection of aim, purpose without self.

I’m arrow to goal without ego.

I expand effortlessly into my body to evict the parasite that thinks to take from me what is mine.

I apprehend the small, dark stain of it as if from a great distance.

How dare it walk within my walls?

This is my kingdom.

SINSAR DUBH

I lunge for the mirror, dropping the princess, leaving her behind. Cocooned like Cruce and the Highlander, she presents no threat to me, can’t contend for the True Magic. I am eager to taste my deserved victory and will visit her and my other toys soon, with ample time to savor their suffering. I realize now that the universe was once again favoring me, not working against me as I’d thought, when it permitted Jada to take my spear. Overeager from long incarceration, I would have rashly killed all three. Now I can draw out their tor—

STOP.

My feet skid to a halt on the black marble floor so abruptly I nearly topple face-forward. I try to lunge again but remain rooted where I am.

I cock my head without resisting further, pondering the oddity of just having forced myself to stop. Do I now possess in human form the equivalent of a gut instinct? Did it sense some peril to me I’ve failed to take into account?

I assess the Fae queen, her shadowy outline beyond the Silver. I hold the spear in my hand. There is no peril to me here.

I lunge forward again.

STOP.

My foot returns to the floor, mere paces from my goal. I’m so close I could reach out and touch the Silver.

The voice was mine.

But it wasn’t mine.

Who, then? Is there some other entity inside me that has been cleverly concealed from me all this time? The voice didn’t belong to the sniveling MacKayla. It is fetal, catatonic within me. It crumbled when I let It watch a single one of the glorious murders we’ve committed. It imploded beneath an onslaught of the illusions of guilt, complicity, regret. What the fuck is regret? I’ve never fathomed that muddy mix of emotion. It could never speak with such a voice.

This was a voice of power.

Who is it? WHAT IS IT?

DESIRE, PURPOSE, AND COMMITMENT TO THE PATH I CHOOSE TO WALK, MacKayla says in a voice just like mine.

I’d be rendered immobile if I weren’t already.

What has It done?

HOW has It done it?

My mind whirls, dances, and skids across bits and pieces of the facts of MacKayla’s existence I have tirelessly gathered over the years. I know this puny creature! I know Its limits, Its weakness. I know what It is capable of. AND NOT.

Ahhhhh. I would narrow my eyes and smile if I were in control of our vessel but, at the moment, It holds me motionless.

It has not tried to move my body. Has not tried to back me away. It can’t. No more than It can sustain this emotionless state of temporary power It has achieved. It’s an amateur, a rank pretender, aspiring to a throne it can never hold.

I giggle. “I’m flattered, really, but get over yourself, MacKayla.” It felt dead to me because It had IMITATED me. It did something I’d not thought possible for one born so flawed. Shed emotion like a skin It could doff and don at will.

Did MacKayla study me as I studied her?

No matter.

I AM THE REAL THING.

It is not.

I do what I’ve done so many times before, reach for Its subconscious and feed It vivid images to manipulate and distract. Exploit that oh-so-exploitable part of It. I show It what It did to Christian, to Cruce, and wait for It to shatter.

IRRELEVANT, is Its toneless reply.

Incensed, I flood It with graphic details of the moment I ripped Margery’s still beating heart from her breast.

DISTRACTION, It says without inflection.

I feel my right foot draw up from the floor then move BACKWARD as It dares to try to move me AWAY from my goal, so near, so near!

Behind me, the boudoir door crashes open, and I hear shouts of “Place the stones! Quickly!” Then Barrons roars, “Cruce, you fucking bastard, do it or die!” Snarls fill the air and I hear a scuffle.

I’m filled with fury, apprehending MacKayla’s plan. It doesn’t have to sustain Its emotionless state forever, just long enough to hold me motionless and permit them to contain us. It would see itself locked away with me forever simply to prevent me from achieving my rightful place in this world! How unfair! How positively PETULANT It is!

I play my trump card.

I slam graphic images into Its brain: finding Jo and offering her the poisoned water.

Grabbing her by the shoulder, smashing its fist into her face again and again. Shattering bones. Exploding brain. Kicking and pulping organs.