Karen Marie Moning’s Fever Series 5-Book Bundle: Darkfever, Bloodfever, Faefever, Dreamfever, Shadowfever

by Karen Marie Moning

  “I wouldn’t have let you up this far.” I was furious the desk clerk had let him up. I’d thought the place had better security. I was going to have a word with the manager tomorrow.

  “I told them I was your brother.” He gleaned my thoughts from my face.

  “Right. Because we look so much alike.” If he was winter, I was summer. If I was sunshine, he was night. A dark and stormy one.

  Not an ounce of amusement flickered in those dark eyes. “Well, Ms. Lane?”

  “I’m thinking.” Now that he knew where I was staying, if he wanted to harm me, he could do it anytime. No need to rush into it tonight. He could lie in wait for me and jump me somewhere tomorrow in the streets. I would be no safer in the future than I was from him now, unless I was willing to move about from inn to inn, trying to lose him, and I wasn’t. I needed to be in this part of town. Besides, he just didn’t look like the kind of creep that would messily murder a woman in her hotel room; he looked like the kind of creep that would line her up in the sights of an assassin’s rifle without a shred of emotion. That I would use that as an argument in his favor should have worried me. Later I would realize I’d been walking around still more than a little numb from Alina’s death during those first weeks in Ireland, and more than a little reckless from it as well. I sighed. “Sure. Come in.”

  I closed the door, unhooked the chain, opened it again, then stepped back, allowing him to enter. I pushed the door open all the way and left it flush to the wall, so anyone walking past could see in and, if I needed to, I could shout down the third floor with my cries for help. Adrenaline was pumping through my body, making me feel shaky. He was still wearing his impeccable Italian suit, his shirt just as crisp and white as it had been hours ago. The cramped room was suddenly stuffed to overflowing with Jericho Barrons. If a normal person filled one hundred percent of the molecules they occupied, he somehow managed to cram his to two hundred percent capacity.

  He cast a brief yet thorough glance around and I had no doubt, if questioned later, he would be able to accurately recount every detail, from the rust-colored water spots high up on the ceiling, down to my pretty flowered bra lying on the rug. I nudged the rug with my toe, pushing it and its cargo beneath the bed.

  “So what is it?” I said. “No, wait—how do you spell it?” I’d tried everything today, and assuming he told me and I lived, I wanted to be able to research it on my own.

  He began pacing a small circle around me. I turned with him, not willing to give him my back. “S-i-n-s-a-r,” he spelled.

  “Sinsar?” I said it phonetically.

  He shook his head. “Shi-sa. Shi-sa-du.”

  “Oh, that makes great sense. And the ‘du’?” He stopped circling, so I stopped too, his back to the wall, mine to the open door. In time, when I began to see patterns, I would see that he always positioned himself in such a fashion, never with his back to an open window or door. It wasn’t about fear. It was about control.

  “D-u-b-h.”

  “Dubh is do?” I was incredulous. It was no wonder I hadn’t been able to find the stupid word. “Should I be calling pubs poos?”

  “Dubh is Gaelic, Ms. Lane. Pub is not.”

  “Don’t bust a gut laughing.” I’d thought I was being funny. Stuffy, like I said.

  “Nothing about the Sinsar Dubh is a laughing matter.”

  “I stand corrected. So what is this gravest of graves?”

  His gaze dropped from my face to my toes and back again. Apparently he was unimpressed by what he saw. “Go home, Ms. Lane. Be young. Be pretty. Get married. Have babies. Grow old with your pretty husband.”

  His comment stung like acid on my skin. Because I was blonde, easy on the eyes, and guys had been snapping my bra strap since seventh grade, I’d been putting up with the Barbie stereotype for years. That pink was my favorite color, that I liked matching accessories and eye-catching heels, didn’t help much. But I’d never been turned on by the Ken doll—even before I looked down his pants and saw what was missing—I wasn’t jonesing for a white picket fence and an SUV in the driveway, and I resented the Barbie implications—Go procreate and die, I’m sure that’s all someone like you can do. I might not be the brightest bulb in the box, but I wasn’t the dimmest, either. “Oh, screw you, Jericho Barrons. Tell me what it is. You said you would.”

  “If you insist. Don’t be a fool. Don’t insist.”

  “I’m insisting. What is it?”

  “Last chance.”

  “Too bad. I don’t want a last chance. Tell me.”

  His dark gaze bored into mine. Then he shrugged, his fine suit sliding over his body with suppleness and ease only exorbitant custom-made clothing could achieve. “The Sinsar Dubh is a book.”

  “A book? That’s all? Just a book?” It seemed terribly anti-climactic.

  “On the contrary, Ms. Lane, never make that mistake. Never think it just a book. It is an exceedingly rare and exceedingly ancient manuscript countless people would kill to possess.”

  “Including you? Would you kill to possess it?” I needed to know exactly where we stood, he and I.

  “Absolutely.” He watched my face as I took that in. “Reconsidering your stay, Ms. Lane?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You’ll be going home in a box, then.”

  “Is that another of your threats?”

  “It is not I who will put you there.”

  “Who will?”

  “I answered your question, now it’s your turn to answer mine. What do you know of the Sinsar Dubh, Ms. Lane?”

  Not nearly enough, obviously. What on earth had my sister gotten into? Some kind of shadowy Dublin underworld filled with stolen artifacts, peopled by murderers and ruthless thieves?

  “Tell me,” he pressed. “And don’t lie. I’ll know.”

  I glanced at him sharply, almost able to believe he would. Oh, not in some extrasensory way—I don’t believe in that kind of stuff—but in the way of a man who scrutinizes people, gathers their tiniest gestures and expressions, and measures them. “My sister was studying here.” He’d given me the bare minimum. I would give him nothing more. “She was killed a month ago. She left me a voice-mail message right before she died, telling me I had to find the Sinsar Dubh.”

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t say. She just said everything depended on it.”

  He made an impatient sound. “Where is this message? I must hear it myself.”

  “I accidentally deleted it,” I lied.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. “Liar. You would make no such mistake with a sister you care enough about to die for. Where is it?” When I said nothing, he said softly, “If you are not with me, Ms. Lane, you are against me. I have no mercy for my enemies.”

  I shrugged. He wanted the same thing I wanted and he was willing to kill for it. That made us enemies in my book any way I looked at it. I glanced over my shoulder at the hallway beyond the open door and pondered my next move. His threat did not decide me. I wanted to see his face when I played the message for him. If he’d had any involvement with my sister or her death, I hoped he would betray something when he heard her voice and her words. I also wanted him to know that I knew as much as I did, and to believe the police did, as well.

  “I already gave a copy of this recording to the Dublin Gardai,” I told him, as I fished my cell phone out of my purse and thumbed up my saved messages. “They’re working to track down the man she was involved with.” See Mac bluff. Better than See Mac run. Way better than See Mac get her stupid self killed. He didn’t challenge my words—so much for his boast that he would know if I lied. I pressed speakerphone, then play, and Alina’s voice filled the small room.

  I flinched. No matter how many times I listened to it, it made me cringe—my sister sounding so frightened, hours before her death. Fifty years from now, I would still hear her message, ringing in my heart’s ear, word for word.

  Everything has gone so wrong … I thou
ght I was in love … he’s one of them … we’ve got to find the Sinsar Dubh, everything depends on it … we can’t let them have it … he’s been lying to me all along.

  I watched him intently as he listened. Composed, aloof, his expression told me nothing. “Did you know my sister?”

  He shook his head.

  “You were both after this ‘exceedingly rare book’ yet never ran into each other?” I accused.

  “Dublin is a city of a million-odd people inundated daily by countless commuters and besieged by a never-ending wave of tourists, Ms. Lane. The oddity would be if we had encountered each other. What did she mean by ‘you don’t even know what you are’?” His dark gaze fixed on my face as if to gauge the veracity of my answer in my eyes.

  “I wondered that myself. I have no idea.”

  “None?”

  “None.”

  “Hmm. This was all she left you? A message?”

  I nodded.

  “Nothing more? No note or package or anything of the sort?”

  I shook my head.

  “And you had no idea what she meant by the Sinsar Dubh? Your sister didn’t confide in you?”

  “I used to think she did. Apparently I was wrong.” I couldn’t mask the note of bitterness in my voice.

  “Who did she mean by ‘them’?”

  “I thought you might be able to tell me that,” I said pointedly.

  “I am not one of these ‘them,’ if that is what you’re inferring,” he said. “Many seek the Sinsar Dubh, both individuals and factions. I want it as well, but I work alone.”

  “Why do you want it?”

  He shrugged. “It is priceless. I am a book collector.”

  “And that makes you willing to kill for it? What do you plan to do with it? Sell it to the highest bidder?”

  “If you don’t approve of my methods, stay out of my way.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine. What else have you to tell me, Ms. Lane?”

  “Not a thing.” I retrieved my cell phone, resaved the message, and jerked a frosty glance from him to the door, encouraging him to leave.

  He laughed, a rich dark sound. “I do believe I’m being dismissed. I can’t recall the last time I was dismissed.”

  I didn’t see it coming. He was nearly past me, nearly to the door, when he grabbed me and slammed me back against his body. It was like hitting a brick wall. The back of my head bounced off his chest, and my teeth clacked together from the impact.

  I opened my mouth to scream, but he clamped a hand over it. He banded an arm beneath my breasts so tightly that I couldn’t inflate my lungs to breathe. His body was far more powerful beneath that fine suit than I ever would have guessed, like reinforced steel. In that instant, I understood that the open door had been nothing more than a mocking concession, a placebo he’d fed me that I’d swallowed whole. Anytime he’d wanted, he could have snapped my neck and I wouldn’t have gotten off a single scream. Or he could simply have suffocated me, as he was doing now. His strength was astonishing, immense. And he was only using a small fraction of it. I could feel the restraint in his body; he was being very, very careful with me.

  He pressed his lips to my ear. “Go home, Ms. Lane. You don’t belong here. Drop it with the Gardai. Stop asking questions. Do not seek the Sinsar Dubh or you will die in Dublin.” He released enough pressure on my mouth to afford my reply, enough on my ribs to permit me breath to fuel it.

  I sucked in desperately needed air. “There you go, threatening me again,” I wheezed. Better to die with a snarl than a sniffle.

  His arm bit into my ribs, cutting off my air again. “Not threatening—warning. I haven’t been hunting it this long and gotten this close to let anyone get in my way and fuck things up. There are two kinds of people in this world, Ms. Lane: those who survive no matter the cost, and those who are walking victims.” He pressed his lips to the side of my neck. I felt his tongue where my pulse fluttered, tracing my vein. “You, Ms. Lane, are a victim, a lamb in a city of wolves. I’ll give you until nine P.M. tomorrow to get the bloody hell out of this country and out of my way.”

  He let me go, and I crumpled to the floor, my blood starved for oxygen.

  By the time I picked myself up again, he was gone.

  FIVE

  “I was hoping you could tell me something about my sister,” I asked the second-to-last instructor on my list, a Professor S. S. Ahearn. “Do you know who any of her friends were, where she spent her time?”

  I’d been at this most of the day. With Alina’s e-mail schedule clutched in one hand, and a campus map in the other, I’d gone from class to class, waited outside until it was over, then cornered her teachers with my questions. Tomorrow I would do the same all over again, but tomorrow I would go after the students. Hopefully the students would yield better results. So far what I’d learned wouldn’t fill a thimble. And none of it had been good.

  “I already told the Gardai what I know.” Tall and thin as a rail, the professor gathered his notes with brisk efficiency. “I believe it was an Inspector O’Duffy conducting the investigation. Have you spoken with him?”

  “I have an appointment with him later this week, but hoped you might spare me a few minutes in the meantime.”

  He placed the notes inside his briefcase and snapped it shut. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lane, I really knew very little about your sister. On those rare days she bothered to come to class at all, she hardly participated.”

  “On those rare days she bothered to come to class?” I repeated. Alina loved college, she loved to study and learn. She never blew off classes.

  “Yes. As I told the Gardai, in the beginning she came regularly, but her attendance became increasingly sporadic. She began missing as many as three and four classes in a row.” I must have looked disbelieving, perhaps a little stricken, because he added, “It’s not so unusual in the study-abroad program, Ms. Lane. Young people away from home for the first time … no parents or rules … an energetic city full of pubs. Alina was a lovely young girl like yourself … I’m sure she thought she had better things to do than sit in a stuffy classroom.”

  “But Alina wouldn’t have felt that way,” I protested. “My sister loved stuffy classrooms. They were just about her favorite thing in the world. The chance to study at Trinity College meant everything to her.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m only telling you what I observed.”

  “Do you have any idea who her friends were?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?” I pressed.

  “Not that I was aware. On those occasions I saw her, if she was in the company of others, I didn’t notice. I’m sorry, Ms. Lane, but your sister was one of many students who pass through these halls each term and if she stood out at all—it was through her absence, not her presence.”

  Subdued, I thanked him and left.

  Professor Ahearn was the fifth of Alina’s instructors that I’d spoken to so far, and the portrait they’d painted of my sister was that of a woman I didn’t recognize. A woman that didn’t attend classes, didn’t care about her studies, and appeared to have no friends.

  I glanced down at my list. I had a final professor to track down, but she taught only on Wednesdays and Fridays. I decided to head for the library. As I hurried out into a large grassy commons filled with students lounging about, soaking up the late-afternoon sun, I thought about possible reasons for Alina’s unusual academic behavior. The courses offered through the study-abroad program were designed to promote cultural awareness, so my sister—an English major who’d planned to get a Ph.D. in literature—had ended up taking courses like Caesar in Celtic Gaul and The Impact of Industry on Twentieth-Century Ireland. Could it be she’d just not enjoyed them?

  I couldn’t see that. Alina had always been curious about everything.

  I sighed and instantly regretted the deeply indrawn breath. My ribs hurt. This morning I’d awakened to find a wide band of bruises across my torso, just beneath my breast
s. I couldn’t wear a bra because the underwire hurt too much, so I’d layered a lacy camisole trimmed with dainty roses beneath a pink sweater that complemented my Razzle-Dazzle-Hot-Pink-Twist manicure and pedicure. Black capris, a wide silver belt, silver sandals, and a small metallic Juicy Couture purse I’d saved all last summer to buy completed my outfit. I’d swept my long blonde hair up in a high ponytail, secured by a pretty enameled clip. I might be feeling bruised and bewildered, but by God I looked good. Like a smile that I didn’t really feel, presenting a together appearance made me feel more together inside, and I badly needed bolstering today.

  I’ll give you until nine P.M. tomorrow to get the bloody hell out of this country and out of my way. The nerve. I’d had to bite my tongue on the juvenile impulse to snap, Or what?—you’re not the boss of me, second only to an even more juvenile impulse to call my mom and wail, Nobody likes me here and I don’t even know why!

  And his assessment of people! What a cynic. “Walking victim, my petunia,” I muttered. I heard myself and groaned. Born and raised in the Bible Belt, Mom had taken a strong position about cussing when we were growing up—A pretty woman doesn’t have an ugly mouth, she would say—so Alina and I had developed our own set of silly words as substitutes. Crap was fudge-buckets. Ass was petunia. Shit was daisies and the f-word, which I can’t even recall the last time I used, was frog. You get the idea.

  Unfortunately, we’d said them so often as children that they’d become a habit just as hard to break as real cusswords. To my endless humiliation, the way it usually worked was the more upset I got, the more likely I was to fall back on my childhood vocabulary. It was a little difficult to get an out-of-hand bachelor party at the bar to take you seriously when your threat was they’d better “back off or the bouncer was going to kick the fudge-buckets out of them and toss their petunias right out the door.” In this desensitized day and age, clean language got you laughed at more often than not.