Fever 3 - Faefever (24 page)

“For a few hours. I want a look at the city, then we’ll come back for a car.”

Unseelie were everywhere in the damp, cobbled streets. The ever-increasing crime rate didn’t seem to be keeping anyone at home. The juxtaposition of the two worlds—carefree humans, some half drunk, others only beginning their night on the town, laughing and talking, mingling with the predatory, grimly focused Unseelie draped loosely in glamour that I now had to work to see, as opposed to having to work to see
past
—painted the night with the slick menace of a traveling carnival.

There were Rhino-boys, and those creepy-looking street vendors with the huge eyes and no mouths; there were winged things, and things that scampered. Some were in high glamour, walking down the sidewalk with human companions. Others perched on buildings, birds of prey, selecting a kill. I half-expected one of them to recognize us, sound the alarm, and descend in force.

“They’re self-serving,” Barrons said, when I mentioned it. “They obey a master as long as he’s in their face. But an Unseelie’s true master is its hunger, and this city is a banquet. They’ve been trapped for hundreds of thousands of years. There is little left of them but hunger at this point. It’s consuming to feel so empty, so . . . hollow. It blinds them to all else.”

I looked at him sharply. He’d sounded strange there at the end, almost as if he felt . . . sorry for them.

“When did you last kill one of them, Ms. Lane?” he said suddenly.

“Yesterday.”

“Was there trouble you didn’t tell me about?”

“No. I just cut him up for parts.”

“What?”
Barrons stopped and looked down at me.

I shrugged. “A woman died the other day. She wouldn’t have, if I’d had it handy. I won’t make that mistake again.” I was secure in my conviction that I was doing the right thing.

“The woman in my store?” When I nodded, he said, “And just where are you keeping these . . . parts, Ms. Lane?”

“In my purse.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

”I think I just said I did,” I said coolly.

“You do realize if you eat it again, you won’t be able to sense the one thing we need?”

“I’ve got it under control, Barrons.” I hadn’t even looked at the jars since lunch.

“One never has an addiction under control. If you eat it again, I will personally kick your ass. Got it?”

“If I eat it again, you can
try
to personally kick my ass.” Being able to hold my own with Barrons had been one of the many upsides to eating Unseelie. I often craved it for that reason alone.

“I’ll wait till it wears off,” he growled.

“What fun would that be?” I would never forget the night we’d fought, the unexpected lust.

We looked at each other and for a moment those clouds of distrust lifted and I saw his thoughts in his eyes.

You were something to see,
he didn’t say.

You were something to feel,
I didn’t reply.

His gaze shuttered.

I looked away.

We walked briskly down the sidewalk. Abruptly, he grabbed my arm and detoured me down a side alley. Two dark Fae were doing something near a trash can. I really didn’t want to know what.

“Let’s see how good your fighting skills are, Ms. Lane, when you’re not pumped up on Unseelie steroids.”

But before I could lose myself in the bliss of killing a few of the bastards, my cell phone rang.

It was Inspector Jayne.

THIRTEEN

T
he next few days settled into a strange routine, and sped by with me mostly in a daze.

Barrons came each night and taught me Voice. And each night, unable to find my backbone, I came away with fresh wounds.

Then we hunted the
Sinsar Dubh
.

Or rather
he
hunted the
Sinsar Dubh,
and I continued taking great pains to avoid it, as I had the other night when Jayne had called to tip me off, steering Barrons in the opposite direction, keeping us far enough away that I wouldn’t betray subtle signs of its proximity, like flailing in a puddle, clutching my head, or foaming at the mouth.

At some point, each day, V’lane appeared to question me about the fruits of my labors. I made sure I had no fruits. He began bringing me gifts. One day he brought me chocolate that wouldn’t make me gain weight, no matter how much I ate. Another day he brought me dusky, spicy-smelling flowers from Faery that would bloom immortally. After he left, I threw them both out. Chocolate
should
make you fat and flowers
should
die. Those were things you could count on. I needed things to count on.

When I wasn’t busy being yo-yoed back and forth between the two of them, I tended the bookstore, badgered Kat and Dani for information, and continued pushing my way through stacks of books about the Fae, having exhausted my Internet search for anything of use. There was so much role-playing and fanfic online that it was impossible to distinguish fact from fiction.

I was getting nowhere, a car spinning its tires in the mud, all too aware that, even if I got out of the mud, I didn’t know where to go.

The tension and indecision in my life became unbearable. I was edgy, and snapped at everyone, including my dad when he called to tell me Mom finally seemed to be getting better. They were decreasing her Valium, and increasing her antidepressants. She’d cooked breakfast Sunday: cheese grits (how I missed those!), pork chops, and eggs. She’d even made fresh yeast bread. I pondered that breakfast after I hung up. Tried to place it somewhere in my life, while I munched a power bar.

Home was a gazillion miles away.

Halloween was ten days away.

Soon, the
sidhe
-seers would be doing their thing at the abbey. Barrons and the MacKeltars would be doing theirs, in Scotland. I hadn’t yet decided where I would be. Barrons had asked me to accompany him, no doubt to OOP-detect the MacKeltar estate while we were there. I was considering crashing the abbey. I wanted to be somewhere, doing my part, whatever that might be, even if my part was only keeping Barrons and the MacKeltars from killing each other. Christian had phoned yesterday to tell me things were moving ahead, but if they survived the ritual, they might not survive each other.

Come All Hallows’ Eve, the walls would stand or fall.

Weirdly, I’d begun looking forward to Halloween, because at least my waiting would be over. Limbo would end. I’d know what I had to deal with. I’d know exactly how good or bad things were going to be. I’d know if I could be relieved—a year would buy me plenty of time to figure out what to do—or if I should be terrified. Either way, I’d have concretes.

I had no concretes where the Book
(beast!)
was concerned. I didn’t know how to get it or what to do with it.

I had no concretes where Barrons or V’lane were concerned. I didn’t trust either of them.

Making matters worse, each time I glanced out the window, or stepped outside, I had to battle the intense biological imperative to slay monsters. Or eat them.

Rhino-boys were everywhere, looking absurd in city employee uniforms, stumpy arms and legs popping buttons and straining seams. I felt a constant mild nausea from their presence. Reluctant to turn my “volume” down again, I’d begun taking Pepcid with my morning coffee. I’d even tried switching to decaf to calm my nerves. That had been a monumental mistake. I needed my caffeine. I made it one day.

Something had to give. I was a jumpy, broody, temperamental mess.

I can’t tell you how many times over those endless, angsty days, I decided to trust Barrons.

Then tossed him out in favor of V’lane.

I made my cases painstakingly, with lengthy lists of pros and cons neatly tabulated in my journal in three columns, tallying their “good” actions, “bad” actions, and those of “indeterminate nature.” The latter was by far the longest column for them both.

One day I even persuaded myself to throw in the towel, give Rowena my spear, and join up with the
sidhe
-seers. There was not only safety in numbers; I could pass off the crushing responsibility of decision-making, and hand it over to the Grand Mistress. If the world subsequently went to hell in a handbasket, at least
I
was off the hook. That was the Mac I knew. I never wanted to be in charge. I wanted to be taken care of. How had I gotten myself stuck in this mess where I was supposed to take care of everyone else?

Fortunately by the time Rowena returned my call, I was even grumpier, she was her usual pissy self, we’d swiftly gotten into one of our standoffs, and I’d come to my senses, pretending I’d only called to make sure she’d gotten the Orb, since she hadn’t been there when I’d dropped it by.
If you called expecting thanks, you’ll be getting none from me,
she’d snapped and hung up, reminding me of all the many reasons I couldn’t stand her.

Each day, I made one more slash mark on my calendar, and October 31 marched closer.

I remembered past Halloweens, the friends, the parties, the fun, and wondered what it would bring this year.

Tricks? Or treats?

Oh, yeah, something had to give.

At noon on Wednesday, I was at a spa in St. Maarten, getting a massage—V’lane’s latest gift from whatever Human Dating Manual he was reading. Was it any wonder I was rapidly losing any sense of reality? Monsters and mayhem and massages, oh my.

When it was over, I dressed and was escorted to a private dining room in the hotel where V’lane met me on a terrace overlooking the ocean. He pulled back a chair and seated me before a table drenched with linen, fine crystal, and finer food. Mac 1.0 would have felt many things: flattered, flirtatious, in her element. I felt hungry. I picked up a knife, stabbed a strawberry, and ate it off the blade. I might have used my spear but, as usual, it vanished the moment he appeared. I felt more naked without it fully clothed than I did nude, and if given the choice, I would have walked through the resort bare as I’d been born, if it had meant keeping the spear.

For the past few days, V’lane had been in his most humanlike form when we’d met, heavily muted. He, too, was trying to get on my good side. Ironically, the more he and Barrons tried, the less I trusted them both. Heads turned when the Fae Prince moved through the public places he took me. Even turned off, women stared after him with voracious eyes.

I dug into the spread with gusto, piling a plate with strawberries, pineapple, lobster, crab cakes, crackers, and caviar. I’d been living on popcorn and ramen noodles too long. “What exactly is the
Sinsar Dubh,
V’lane, and why does everyone want it?”

V’lane’s eyelids lowered halfway and he looked to the side. It was a human look, secretive, contemplative, as if he were sorting through a wealth of information, trying to decide how much, if anything, to share. “What do you know of it, MacKayla?”

“Virtually nothing,” I said. “What’s . . . in it . . . that everyone wants so badly?” It was hard to think of it as a book, with an “it” for information to be “in” when scored into my mind was the dark shape of the Beast, not pages at all.

“What did it look like when you saw it? A book? Ancient and heavy, bound by bands and locks?”

I nodded.

“Have you seen the creature it becomes?” He absorbed my face. “I see you have. You neglected to tell me that.”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

“Everything that concerns the
Sinsar Dubh
is important. What legends do humans tell of our origins,
sidhe
-seer?”

It was a sure sign he was displeased when he called me by title, not name. I told him what little I’d learned from the Irish Book of Invasions.

He shook his head. “Recent history, grossly inaccurate. We have been here far longer than that. Do you know the history of the Unseelie King?”

“No.”

“Then you do not know who he is.”

I shook my head. “Should I?”

“The Unseelie King was once the King of the Light, the Queen’s consort, and Seelie. In the beginning, there was
only
Seelie.”

He had me. I was riveted. This was true Fae lore straight from a Fae. Stuff I doubted I’d ever find in the
sidhe
-seer archives. “What happened?”

“What happened in your Eden?” he mocked. “What always happens? Someone wanted more.”

“The king?” I guessed.

“Ours is a matriarchal line. The king held vestigial power. Only the queen knew the Song of Making.”

“What’s the Song of Making?” I’d heard of it from Barrons and seen references in the books I’d been reading but still didn’t know what it was.

“Impossible to explain to your stunted consciousness.”

“Try,” I said dryly.

He gave me one of his affected shrugs. “It is life. It is that from which we come. It is the ultimate power to create, to destroy, depending on how it is used. It sings into existence . . . change.”

“As opposed to stasis.”

“Exactly,” he said. Then his eyes narrowed, “You mock me.”

“Only a little. Do Fae really only understand those two things?”

A sudden, icy breeze buffeted the terrace and tiny crystals of frost settled over my plate. “Our perception is not limited,
sidhe
-seer. It is so vast it defies your paltry language, as does my name. It is because we comprehend so much that we must distill things to their essential natures. Do not presume to think you understand our nature. Though we have long consorted with your race, we have never shown our true face. It is impossible for you to truly behold us. If I showed you—” He stopped abruptly.

“Showed me what, V’lane?” I said softly. I popped a bite of cracker spread with lightly frosted caviar in my mouth. I’d never had it before. I wouldn’t be having it again. Rhino-boy was more palatable. I hastily downed a strawberry chased by a gulp of champagne.

He offered me a smile. He’d been practicing. It was smoother, less alien. The day heated up again; the frost melted. “Irrelevant. You wanted to know of our origins.”

I wanted to know about the Book. But I was eager to hear anything else he was willing to share. “How do you know the history of your race, if you’ve drunk from the cauldron?”

“We have stores of knowledge. After drinking, most seek immediately to become reacquainted with who and what we are.”

“You forget to remember.” How strange. And how awful, I thought, to be so paranoid, to have lived so long madness settled in. To be reborn but never truly wiped clean. To come back fearful, in a place of such strange and treacherous politics. “The Seelie King wanted more,” I prompted.

“Yes. He envied the queen the Song of Making, and petitioned her to teach it to him. He had become enamored of a mortal of whom he did not wish to be deprived until he had sated his desire for her. It did not appear to be waning. She was . . . different to him. I would merely have substituted another. He asked the queen to make her Fae.”

“Can the queen do that? Make someone Fae?”

“I do not know. The king believed she could. The queen refused, and the king tried to steal from her that which he sought. When she caught him, she punished him. Then she waited for his obsession to pale. It did not. He began . . . experimenting on lesser Fae, in hopes of teaching himself the Song.”

“What kind of experiments?”

“A human might grasp it as an advanced form of genetic mutation or cloning, without DNA or physical matter to mutate. He tried to create life, MacKayla. And he succeeded. But without the Song of Making.”

“But I thought the Song
is
life. How could he create life without the Song?”

“Precisely. It was imperfect. Flawed.” He paused. “Yet it lived, and was immortal.”

I got it, and gasped. “He made the Unseelie!”

“Yes. The dark ones are the Seelie King’s children. For thousands of years he experimented, concealing his work from the queen. Their numbers grew, as did their hungers.”

“But his mortal woman must have been long dead by then. What was the point?”

“She was alive, kept so in a cage of his making. But trapped, she withered, so for her, he created the Sifting Silvers and gave her worlds to explore. Although time passes outside them, within them it does not. One might spend a thousand centuries in there, and walk out not one hour older.”

“I thought the mirrors were used for travel between realms.”

“They are used for that, too. The Silvers are . . . complicated things, doubly so, since they were cursed. When the queen felt the power of the Silvers spring into existence, she called the king to court and demanded he destroy them. Creation was her right, not his. In truth, she was disturbed to discover he had grown so powerful. He claimed to have made them as a gift for her, which pleased her, as he had paid her no tribute in eons.