Karen Marie Moning - Faefever

Dell Books by Karen Marie Moning

BEYOND THE HIGHLAND MIST
TO TAME A HIGHLAND WARRIOR
THE HIGHLANDERS TOUCH
KISS OF THE HIGHLANDER
THE DARK HIGHLANDER
THE IMMORTAL HIGHLANDER
SPELL OF THE HIGHLANDER
DARKFEVER
BLOODFEVER

About the Author

KAREN MARIE MONING is the internationally bestselling author of the Highlander and Fever novels. Her books have appeared on the New York Times, USA Today, and Publishers Weekly bestseller lists, and have won numerous awards, including the prestigious RITA. The Fever series has been optioned by Twentieth Century Fox/New Regency Productions. You may write to her at Karen@KarenMoning.com.

Pronunciation Guide

AN GARDA SIOCHNA: In Dublin, garda, or on garda shee-a-conna. Outside Dublin, gardee.

AOIBHEAL: Ah-veel. (Not Irish Gaelic but an older language unique to the Fae.)

CRAIC: Crack.

CUFF OF CRUCE: Like the cruc in crucify.

DRUI: Dree.

FIRBOLG: Fair bol ugh.

LEABHAR GABHALA: Lour Gow ola (lour like flower, Gow like cow).

MALLUC: Mal-loosh.

Irish pronunciations obtained from sources in Dublin at the Garda and Trinity. Any errors in pronunciation are mine.

Sidhe-Seers, Inc.

See, Serve & Protect

Be the first to get the inside scoop on Seelie and Unseelie sightings around the world, the inner workings of PHI, and the occasional tidbit from Mac about whats going on in Dublin and where she is now.

Visit www.sidhe-seersinc.com and sign up to become an official member of Sidhe-Seers, Inc.

A Note to the Reader

I foreshadowed this moment. And Ive foreshadowed whats yet to come, but for those of you with flashlights running low on batteries, who feel the Shades closing in, and fear theres no hope in sight, consider this:

In Bloodfever Mac says, Although it may not seem like it, this isnt a story about darkness. Its about light. Khalil Gibran says Your joy can fill you only as deeply as your sorrow has carved you. If youve never tasted bitterness, sweet is just another pleasant flavor on your tongue. One day Im going to hold a lot of joy.

And she will. That was my promise in her words.

For the latest news on Mac, future release dates, and the like, drop by www.karenmoning.com or www.sidhe-seersinc.com.

The latter is an interactive Web site, with hidden links, so you might have to do a little searching but its well worth it. My Web designers are wonderfully talented, with a great sense of fun. Youll find a game to play, Mac vs. the Shades, Fever-world music downloads, Macs complete (until the next Fever installment) glossary, the Wall, the Map Room, and much, much more.

At www.karenmoning.com youll find a fantastic message board community where I sometimes drop in.

Stay to the lights, Karen

ONE

T he pain, God, the pain! Its going to splinter my skull!

I clutch my head with wet, stinking hands, determined to hold it together until the inevitable occursI pass out.

Nothing compares to the agony the Sinsar Dubh causes me. Each time I get close to it, the same thing happens. Im immobilized by pain that escalates until I lose consciousness.

Barrons says its because the Dark Book and I are point and counterpoint. That its so evil, and Im so good, that it repels me violently. His theory is to dilute me somehow, make me a little evil so I can get close to it. I dont see how making me evil so I can get close enough to pick up an evil book is a good thing. I think Id probably do evil things with it.

No, I whimper, sloshing on my knees in the puddle. Please... no! Not here, not now! In the past, each time Id gotten close to the Book, Barrons had been with me, and Id had the comfort of knowing he wouldnt let anything too awful happen to my unconscious body. He might tote me around like a divining rod, but I could live with that. Tonight, however, I was alone. The thought of being vulnerable to anyone and anything in Dublins streets for even a few moments terrified me. What if I passed out for an hour? What if I fell facedown into the vile puddle I was in, and drowned in mere inches of... ugh.

I had to get out of the puddle. I would not die so pathetically.

A wintry wind howled down the street, whipping between buildings, chilling me to the bone. Old newspapers cart-wheeled like dirty, sodden tumbleweeds over broken bottles and discarded wrappers and glasses. I flailed in the sewage, scraped at the pavement with my fingernails, left the tips of them broken in gaps between the cobbled stones.

Inch by inch, I clawed my way to drier ground.

It was therestraight ahead of me: the Dark Book. I could feel it, fifty yards from where I scrabbled for purchase. Maybe less. And it wasnt just a book. Oh, no. It was nothing that simple. It pulsated darkly, charring the edges of my mind.

Why wasnt I passing out?

Why wouldnt this pain end?

I felt like I was dying. Saliva flooded my mouth, frothing into foam at my lips. I wanted desperately to throw up but I couldnt. Even my stomach was locked down by pain.

Moaning, I tried to raise my head. I had to see it. Id been close to it before, but Id never seen it. Id always passed out first. If I wasnt going to lose consciousness, I had questions I wanted answered. I didnt even know what it looked like. Who had it? What were they doing with it? Why did I keep having near brushes with it?

Shuddering, I pushed back onto my knees, shoved a hank of sour-smelling hair from my face, and looked.

The street that only moments ago had bustled with tourists, making their merry way from one open pub door to the next, was now scourged clean by the dark, arctic wind. Doors had been slammed, music silenced.

Leaving only me.

And them.

The vision before me was not at all what Id expected.

A gunman had a huddle of people backed against the wall of a building, a family of tourists, cameras swinging around their necks. The barrel of a semiautomatic weapon gleamed in the moonlight. The father was yelling, the mother was screaming, trying to gather three small children into her arms.

No! I shouted. At least I think I did. Im not sure I actually made a sound. My lungs were compressed with pain.

The gunman let loose a spray of bullets, silencing their cries. He killed the youngest lasta delicate blond girl of four or five, with wide, pleading eyes that would haunt me till the day I died. A girl I couldnt save because I couldnt fecking move. Paralyzed by pain-deadened limbs, I could only kneel there, screaming inside my head.

Why was this happening? Where was the Sinsar Dubh? Why couldnt I see it?

The man turned, and I inhaled sharply.

A book was tucked beneath his arm.

A perfectly innocuous hardcover, about three hundred and fifty pages thick, no dust jacket, pale gray with red binding. The kind of well-read hardcover you might find in any used bookstore, in any city.

I gaped. Was I supposed to believe that was the million-year-old book of the blackest magic imaginable, scribed by the Unseelie King? Was this supposed to be funny? How anticlimactic. How absurd.

The gunman glanced at his weapon with a bemused expression. Then his head swiveled back toward the fallen bodies, the blood and bits of flesh and bone spattered across the brick wall.