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

by Karen Marie Moning

Days? My head swivels and I stare. I could be stuck in here with him for days?

  The sooner we get started, the better.

  A dozen halls open off the foyer, some well lit, others soothingly dim. Nothing is frightening. The House exudes a sense of well-being and peace. Still, it is a grand labyrinth, and I wait for him to choose our path. Although I have long been dreaming of this place, I do not know this foyer. I suspect the House is so large that an entire human life of dreams would not be enough to explore it all.

  “There are several rooms in the mansion that house Silvers. The one we seek holds a single mirror.” He gives me a sharp look. “Avoid the other mirrors if you stumble upon them. Do not gaze into them. I am not forbidding you knowledge, merely trying to protect you.”

  Right. And the White Mansion is really black. “You make it sound as if we’re splitting up.” I’m surprised. He worked so hard to get me at his side. Now he’s letting me go? Have I been so convincing? Or does he have an ace up his sleeve I don’t know about?

  “We cannot afford to waste time here. The longer I’m here, the more chance there is for someone else to find my book.”

  “My book,” I correct.

  He laughs. “Our book.”

  I say nothing. My book—and he’s dead the moment I’ve got it and know how to use it. Sooner, if he’s no longer useful.

  He leans back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. In this room of sky, he is a golden angel, shoulders propped against a cloud. “We can both have everything we want, MacKayla. With you and I allied, there are no limits. Nothing and no one can stop us. Do you realize that?”

  “I get to use it first.” He won’t exist to use it by the time I’m done with it. No, wait, unmaking him would be too easy a death.

  I want to murder him.

  “We have plenty of time to decide who does what with it first. But, for now, are we friends or not?”

  It is on the tip of my tongue to mock him, to tell him words mean nothing. Why does he ask me absurd questions? I can so easily lie. He should judge my actions, but I don’t share advice with the enemy. “We are friends,” I say easily.

  He gestures for me to take the nearest corridor on my right, one with a dusky-rose floor, and turns for the first one on his left, which gleams deep bronze.

  “What do I do if I find it?” I ask. It’s not like we have cell phones programmed with nifty little acronyms.

  “I branded you at the base of your skull. Press your fingers to the mark and call for me.”

  He has already turned away and begun walking down his hall. I hiss at his back. The day will come, and soon, when I remove his brand, if I have to scrape my skull down to bare bone. I’d do it now, except I don’t want to run the risk of damaging Barrons’. It’s all I have left of him. His hands were on me there, gentle, possessive.

  There is a smile in Darroc’s voice when he warns, “If you find the Silver and return to Dublin without me, I will hunt you.”

  “Right back at you, Darroc,” I say in the same light, warning tone. “Don’t even think of leaving without me. I may not have a mark on you, but I’ll find you. I’ll always find you.” I mean it. The hunter is now the hunted. I have him in my sights and will keep him there. Until I decide to pull the trigger. No more running. From anything.

  He stops and glances over his shoulder at me. The tiny gold flecks in his eyes flare brighter, and he inhales sharply.

  If I know Fae as well as I think I do, I just turned him on.

  The Dani Daily

  97 Days AWC

  Dani “Mega” O’Malley SLAYS a HUNTER!!!

  READ ALL ABOUT IT IN TDD, YOUR ONLY SOURCE FOR THE LATEST NEWS IN AND AROUND DUBLIN!

  Sidhe-seers celebrate! We did it, we took one down!!! Took us all feckin’ night, but Jayne and the Guardians finally bagged one of the flapping fecks! Pumped it full of so much iron it crashed to the street. I stabbed the blimey feck straight through the heart with the Sword of Light! It was something to see, you shoulda been there! Thing bled dark up into the sword, all the way to the hilt, & for a sec I worried it mighta broke it or something, but it’s working again fine, so tell Ro not to get her panties in a twist!

  Call to arms, dudes! Get outta that abbey and fight, fight, fight!!! Enough reconnoitering already! Rhymes with loitering, dudes—USELESS! DO something. We CAN make a difference. Haul ass to Dublin Castle. ’S’ new headquarters for the new Garda, and they’re way cool. Said all sidhe-seers welcome. ’SPECIALLY SINGLE ONES!!!!

  Need to repopulate Dublin, ya know. Ain’t gonna happen by itself. Lots of heroes on the streets, risking their lives, kicking Fae ass. Hook up NOW!

  MEET TONIGHT!!!

  DUBLIN CASTLE!!!

  EIGHT O’CLOCK!!!

  JOIN THE HUNT!!!

  PS: Mac’s sorry she can’t be there, still busy with other stuff, but she’ll be back REAL soon.

  I slap the latest edition of my rag to the streetlamp and pound in a nail. I tell ’em what’ll work for me and don’t tell ’em what won’t. ’Times you gotta lie.

  I cram a candy bar in my mouth and freeze-frame to the next streetlamp on my route. I know my rags are getting to the peeps. I been seeing results. Couple sidhe-seers ditched the abbey already. I’m taking over where Mac left off—shit-stirrer extraordinaire, bucking Ro’s rules and regs, all the while telling her whatever she wants to hear.

  Two candy bars and a protein pack later, I’m done with my route and burning up the pavement for my fave place. I got hours for myself now and gonna spend ’em all circling Chester’s, slicing and dicing everything that comes within a ten-block radius of it.

  I swagger down the street.

  Ry-O and his men are in there—least I think they are. Ain’t seen none in a while but keep hoping. See, ’cause they piss me off. They threatened me.

  Nobody threatens the Mega.

  I snicker. Pub ain’t no good if patrons can’t get in. I can’t keep ’em out all night, ’cause I hunt with the Guardians and kill what they trap, but I do ’nuff damage during the day. Jayne caught me one afternoon, said they’ll kill me for it. He’s heard tales of ’em, steers clear. Says they’re no more human than the Fae.

  Told ’em the pricks can just try to mess with me. See, ’nother thing I didn’t tell nobody is, when I stabbed the Hunter, something weird happened: The dark came all the way up my sword and got into my arm a little. Infected me like a splinter. For a couple days, my hand had black veins and was icy like it was dead. Had to wear a glove to hide it. Thought I might lose it, hafta learn to fight right-handed.

  Looks okay now.

  Ain’t in no hurry to kill a Hunter again.

  But I think I’m faster. And Ro’s orders don’t seem to make me feel near as conflicted as they used to.

  Think Ry-O and his dudes maybe got nothing on me, and I’d like to test it. Like to show Mac, but it’s been more than three whole weeks since I saw her last. Since we broke into the libraries.

  Barrons ain’t ’round neither.

  I don’t worry. Ain’t my nature. I live. Leave the worrying for the warts.

  But I sure wish she’d show up. Any time now’d be real good.

  Sinsar Dubh’s been all over this city past few days. Took out a dozen of Jayne’s men in one night, like it was playing with us. Kept dividing us, picking us off.

  Kinda starting to wonder if it’s looking for me.

  5

  In the House, away from my enemy, I find solace for a time. Grief, loss, pain melt away. I wonder if they cannot exist inside these walls.

  The weight of my spear in the holster beneath my arm is back, heavy against my side. Like V’lane, Darroc has some way of taking it from me, but when we are apart he returns it. Perhaps so I can defend myself. I can’t imagine needing to in a place such as this.

  There has never been and will never be another place in any realm, in any dimension, that holds me in such thrall as the White Mansion. Not even the bookstore competes for dominance in my s
oul.

  The House is mesmerizing. If, deep down inside where I feel psychotic, I am angered by this, I’m too lulled by whatever drug it feeds me to focus on it for long.

  I wander the rose-floored corridor, absorbing it in a dreamy daze. Windows line the right side of the hall, and, beyond the crystal-edged panes, dawn blushes over gardens filled with pink roses, wreathed heads nodding sleepily in the gentle morning breeze.

  The rooms that open off this corridor are decorated in hues of morning sky. The colors of the hall, the day beyond, and the rooms complement one another perfectly, as if, from every angle, this wing was designed as an outfit, flawlessly accessorized, to be donned depending on the mood.

  When the rose floor ends and a sudden turn in the corridor sets me on a lavender path, violet dusk clings to the windows. Nocturnal creatures frolic in a forest glade beneath a moon rimmed with brilliant cerulean. The rooms in this corridor are furnished in shades of twilight.

  Yellow and reflective floors open onto sunny days and sunnier rooms.

  Bronze corridors have no windows, only tall arched doors that lead into enormous, high-ceilinged, kingly rooms—some for dining, some filled with books and comfortable chairs, others for dancing, and still more for what I think are forms of entertainment I don’t understand. I imagine I hear echoes of laughter. Lit by candles, the rooms off bronze corridors are masculine and smell of spice. I find the scent intoxicating, disturbing.

  I walk and walk, looking into this room and that, delighted by the things I find, the things I recognize. In this place, every hour of day and night is always available.

  I have been here many times before.

  There’s the piano I played.

  Here is the sunroom where I sat and read.

  There’s the kitchen where I ate truffles smothered in cream and filled with delicate fruits that don’t exist in our world.

  Here, a flute lies on a table, beside an open book, next to a teapot decorated with a pattern as familiar to me as the back of my own hand.

  There’s the rooftop garden, high atop a turret where I’ve gazed through a telescope at an azure sea.

  Here, a library of endless rows of books, where I’ve passed time uncounted.

  Each room is a study in beauty, each item in it adorned with intricate detail, as if its creator had infinity in which to work.

  I wonder how long the concubine was here. I wonder how much of this house is her creation.

  I taste forever in this place, but, unlike in the Hall of All Days, forever here is exquisite, gentle. The House promises a blissful eternity. It does not terrify or cow. The House is time as it was meant to be: endless, serene.

  Here—a room of thousands of gowns! I dash through row after row, my arms spread wide, my hands fanning the fabulous fabrics. I love these gowns!

  I pluck one from its hanger and spin around, dancing with it. Faint strains of music drift upon the air and I lose track of time.

  Here’s a curio cabinet housing items I cannot name but nonetheless recognize. I pocket a few of the smaller trinkets. I open a music box and listen to a song that makes me feel I am drifting in space, enormous and free, more right in my skin than I’ve ever been, poised on the brink of all possibles. I forget everything for a time, lost in joy that is larger than the mansion itself.

  In room after room, I find something familiar, something that makes me happy.

  I see the first of many beds. As in my dreams, there are so many that I lose count after a time.

  I wander sumptuous room after room, see bed after bed. Some of the rooms have nothing but beds.

  I begin to feel … uneasy. I don’t like looking at these beds.

  The beds disturb me.

  I turn my head away, because they make me feel things I don’t want to feel.

  Need. Desire. Alone.

  Empty beds.

  Don’t want to be alone anymore. So tired of being alone. Tired of waiting.

  After a time, I stop looking in the rooms.

  I was wrong when I thought it might not be possible to feel negative things inside the White Mansion.

  Grief wells up inside me.

  I’ve lived so long. Lost so many things.

  I force myself to focus. I remind myself that I’m supposed to be looking for something. A mirror.

  I love that mirror.

  I shake my head. No, I don’t. I just need it. I don’t have any emotions about it!

  It brings me such pleasure! It brings us together.

  White marble, Darroc said. I need to find white-marble floors. Not crimson, not bronze, not pink, and especially not black.

  I envision the mirror as he described it: ten feet tall, five feet wide.

  Gilt-framed, like the ones at 1247 LaRuhe.

  The mirror is a part of the vast Unseelie Hallow that is the network of Silvers. I can sense Hallows. I can sense all Fae OOPs—Objects of Power. It is perhaps my greatest advantage.

  I reach out with my sidhe-seer senses, expand and search.

  I sense nothing. It didn’t work in the Hall of All Days, either. Impossible, I suppose, to sense a Silver while inside the Silvers.

  My feet turn me, and I begin walking in a new direction with complete confidence. I’m suddenly certain I have seen the mirror I need many times and I know exactly where it is.

  I’ll find the way out long before Darroc does. And although I will not leave without him—I have much use for him—it will please me to best him.

  I hurry down a mint corridor, turn without hesitation onto an iridescent path, and rush down a pale-blue hall. A corridor of silver turns to blush wine.

  The mirror is ahead. It draws me. I can’t wait to get to it.

  I’m focused, so focused that the crimson hallway barely makes a dent in my awareness.

  I’m focused—so focused on my goal that, by the time I realize what I’ve done, it’s too late.

  I don’t know what makes me look down, but something does.

  I freeze.

  I’m at a crossroads, the intersection of two halls.

  I can go east, west, north, or south—if such directions exist in the House—but whichever way I choose, the floor is the same color.

  Black.

  I stand uncertainly, berating myself for screwing up again, when suddenly a hand slips into mine.

  It is warm, familiar. And much too real.

  I close my eyes. I’ve been played with in Faery before. Who am I to be tortured with now? What is my punishment to be? Which ghost will nip at me now with needles for teeth?

  Alina?

  Barrons?

  Both?

  I fist my other hand so nothing can hold it.

  I know better than to think if I keep my eyes closed my ghost will go away. It doesn’t work that way. When your private demons decide to mess with you, they demand their pound of flesh. It’s best to pay it and get it over with.

  Then I can focus on finding my way off the black floor. I brace myself for how bad it’s going to be. I speculate that if golden floors in the Hall of ALL Days were bad, black floors in the White Mansion will be … forgive the pun … beyond the pale.

  Fingers twine with mine. I know the hand as well as my own.

  Sighing, I open my eyes.

  I jerk away and scramble back frantically, boots slipping on the shiny black surface. I sprawl flat on my back with such a jolt that I bite my tongue.

  I begin to hyperventilate. Does she see me? Does she know me? Is she there? Am I?

  She laughs, a silvery sound, and it makes my heart hurt. I remember laughing like that once. Happy, so happy.

  I don’t even try to get up. I just lay there and watch her. I’m bewildered. I’m hypnotized. I’m carved in two by a sense of duality I cannot reconcile.

  Not Alina. Not Barrons.

  At the juncture of east, west, north, and south, she stands.

  Her.

  The sad, beautiful woman who haunts my dreams.

  She is so dazzling it makes
me want to weep.

  But she’s not sad.

  She’s so happy that I could hate her.

  She glows radiantly, she smiles, and it curves lips of such soft, divine perfection that mine part instinctively to receive her kiss.

  Is this her—the Unseelie King’s concubine? No wonder he was obsessed!

  When she begins to glide away down one of the corridors—the blackest of the four, the one that absorbs the light cast by candles in sconces—I push myself up.

  Moth to a flame, I follow.

  According to V’lane, the concubine was mortal. In fact, her mortality was the first domino in a long, convoluted line that toppled out of control and led to this moment.

  Nearly a million years ago, the Seelie King asked the original Seelie Queen—since her death, many queens have risen, only to be ousted by another who achieved greater power and support—to turn his concubine Fae, to make her immortal so he could keep her forever. When the queen refused, the king built his concubine the White Mansion inside the Silvers. He secreted his beloved away from the vindictive queen, where she could live without aging until he was able to perfect the Song of Making and turn her Fae himself.

  If only the queen had granted his one simple request! But the leader of the True Race was controlling, jealous, and small.

  Unfortunately, the king’s efforts to duplicate the Song of Making—the mystical stuff of creation, a power and right that the queen of their matriarchal race selfishly hoarded—created the Unseelie, imperfect half-lives that he couldn’t bear to kill. They lived. They were his sons and daughters.

  He created a new realm, the Court of Shadows, where his children could play while he continued his work, his labor of love.

  But the day came when he was betrayed by one of his own children and found out by the Seelie Queen.

  They clashed in a battle to end all battles. Seelie struck down their darker brethren, who sought only the right to exist.

  The dominoes fell, one after another: the death of the Seelie Queen at the hands of the king; the suicide of the concubine; the act of “atonement” in which the Seelie King created the deadly Sinsar Dubh.

  He rechristened himself the Unseelie King—never again would he be associated with the petty viciousness of the Seelie; henceforth he would be Unseelie, literally meaning not of the Seelie. He no longer called his home the Court of Shadows, in which he hid to perform his labor of love. It became simply Unseelie court.