Karen Moning - Faefever

Empty, they would find another woman to play, and gorge again, giving her sex at its most elemental, at its purest, and most potent, channeling all that it was to be alive out of her, back into her, and out again. My orgasms were not petit mal but repeated births, a re-creation of myself every time I came. It was sex that was life that was blood that was God that filled every empty orifice I had, inside and out.

And it was killing me.

And I knew it.

And I had to have more.

We rolled and slid across the cool marble floor of the anteroom, my three dark princes and I, seeking purchase on the carpeted stairs, one beneath me, one behind, one inside my mouth.

They moved deep in me, filling me with sensations as kaleidoscopic as their tattooed bodies. I narrowed to a tiny blossom, exploded outward, and fragmented again and again into bits of shattered woman. They tasted of nectar, smelled of dark, drugging spices; their bodies were hard and sculpted and perfect, and if every now and then the ice of their black torques and pink tongues and white teeth were sharp nips of frostbite at my skin, it was a small price to pay for what they did inside me.

I felt my mind slipping; moments of my life flashed before my eyes, before dropping away to some forsaken place. I cried out, begging to be freed, but my mouth shaped only words of instruction, and demand: more, harder, faster, there.

My last month in Dublin, with all its hopes and worries and fears, flashed through my mind—and was forgotten. There went the day I’d spent in Faery with Alina, followed by all memory of Mallucé and Christian and the O’Bannions and Fiona and Barrons, and meeting Rowena in the bar, that first night in Ireland. My summer was flying backward past my eyes, falling away. Was there a fourth male kissing me now? Tasting me? Why couldn’t I see him? Who was he?

I pricked myself on the day of Alina’s death, then it was gone, too, and that day hadn’t happened, and my life continued to unfurl backward.

I lost my college years to Pestilence’s kisses. I bade farewell to high school with Famine spurting sweetly in my mouth. I lost my childhood in three Fae Princes’ arms. If there was a fourth, I never saw his face. Only felt the strangeness of another, who wasn’t quite the same.

And then I’d never been born.

I was only now.

This moment. This orgasm. This hunger. This endless emptiness. This mindless need.

I was aware that others had entered the anteroom but I could not see beyond my dark princes. Didn’t care. More was good.

When my princes drew away from me, my body grew so cold I thought I would die. I writhed on the floor, begging for more.

Someone reached for me.

I grasped with both hands for the succor of touch, tossed a tangle of hair from my eyes, and looked up, straight into the face of the Lord Master.

“I think she’ll obey me now,” he murmured.

Obey him?

I’d die for him.

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

In Bloodfever Mac says, “Although it may not seem like it, this isn’t a story about darkness. It’s about light. Khalil Gibran says Your joy can fill you only as deeply as your sorrow has carved you . If you’ve never tasted bitterness, sweet is just another pleasant flavor on your tongue. One day I’m 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 Faefever Fever, book 3 Karen Marie Moning This one’s for the Moning Maniacs—the best fans any writer ever had. “And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” — T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” — Dylan Thomas Maps or www.sidhe-seersinc.com Faefever Fever, book 3 Karen Marie Moning This one’s for the Moning Maniacs—the best fans any writer ever had. “And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” — T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” — Dylan Thomas Maps .

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

At www.karenmoning.com Faefever Fever, book 3 Karen Marie Moning This one’s for the Moning Maniacs—the best fans any writer ever had. “And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” — T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” — Dylan Thomas Maps you’ll find a fantastic message board community where I sometimes drop in.

Stay to the lights, Karen

*AMULET, THE: Unseelie or Dark Hallow created by the Unseelie King for his concubine. Fashioned of gold, silver, sapphires, and onyx, the gilt “cage” of the amulet houses an enormous clear stone of unknown composition. A person of epic will can use it to impact and reshape reality. The list of past owners is legendary, including Merlin, Boudica, Joan of Arc, Charlemagne, Napoleon. Last purchased by a Welshman for eight figures at an illegal auction, it was all too briefly in my hands and is currently in the possession of the Lord Master. It requires some kind of tithe or binding to use it. I had the will; I couldn’t figure out the way.

BARRONS, JERICHO: I haven’t the faintest fecking clue. He keeps saving my life. I suppose that’s something.

Addendum to original entry: He keeps a Sifting Silver in his study at the bookstore and when he walks through it, the monsters retreat from him just like the Shades. I saw him carry the body of a woman out of it. She’d been killed, brutally. By him? Or by the things in the mirror? He is at least several hundred years old, and possibly, probably, way older than that. I made him hold the spear to see if he was Unseelie, and he did, but I found out later from V’lane that the Unseelie King can touch all the Hallows (as can the Seelie Queen) and, although I can’t fathom why the Unseelie King wouldn’t be able to touch his own Book, maybe that’s exactly why Barrons thought he would be able to touch it. Maybe it evolved into something more powerful than it began as. Also, I can’t rule out that he might be some kind of Seelie/Unseelie hybrid. Do the Fae have sex and reproduce? Sometimes. I think he’s human. gone very wrong. Other times I think he’s nothing this world has ever seen. He’s definitely not a sidhe -seer but he sees the Fae as plain as day, just like me. He knows Druidry, sorcery, black arts, is superstrong and fast, and has heightened senses. What did Ryodan mean by his comment about the Alpha & Omega? I’ve got to track that man down!