Feversong (Fever #9)(133)

“Do you hear it, Mac?” Alina said grimly.

The music was horrifying and I more than heard it. I felt it in my bones.

I knew then.

Whatever happened to this planet was going to affect far more than merely our world. It was going to have a catastrophic impact on our entire galaxy.

But it wouldn’t stop with our galaxy. It would spread beyond that.

This Song of Unmaking would slowly but inevitably unmake everything.

It would take time. But it would happen.

And it was my fault.

I felt the blood draining from my face. I looked at Alina.

“What?” she demanded.

I shook my head. “Just didn’t expect it to be so big. The song hurts me. Does it you?”

She nodded.

I lied, “I forgot to get a couple of things for the party. See you guys later?”

They nodded and I hugged them both fiercely and whispered “I love you” in their ears before we went our separate ways.



Over the course of my many encounters with Cruce, I’d attempted repeatedly to describe him in my journal, as V’lane or as himself. I’d used words like: terrifyingly beautiful, godlike, possessing inhuman sexuality, deadly eroticism. I’d called him lethal, I’d called him irresistible. I’d cursed him. I’d lusted for him, even writhed beneath him. I’d called his eyes windows to a shining Heaven, I’d called them gates to Hell. I’d filled entries with scribblings that later made no sense to me, comprised of columns of antonyms: angelic, devilish; creator, destroyer; fire, ice; sex, death.

I’d made a list of colors, every shimmering shade of black, raven, blue, and ice known to man. I’d written of oils and spices, scents from childhood, scents from dreams. I’d indulged in lengthy thesaurus-like entries, trying to capture the sensory overload that was Cruce.

I’d failed at every turn to truly capture him.

Because I’d been describing his body. Not his essence.

If I was good and he was evil…or perhaps if I was Light and he was Dark…had I done enough to try to bring those two together in truce?

No. I’d written him off as a lost cause.

Are we being tested? I’d asked the DEG.

Always, was his reply.

I stood in the empty museum because it was the site of one of my encounters with V’lane, and because BB&B was sacred and I wouldn’t summon Cruce there.

If I could summon him at all.

But I was damned well going to try. Despite what it might cost me.

I sat on a small pedestal that had been looted of its artifact long ago, probably shortly after the walls fell. Holding my journal, I made another series of notes because writing things down helps me think.

Cruce was proud, vain, ruthless, deceptive, a consummate liar, powerful, power-hungry, cunning, and committed. He’d manipulated and set into motion the very events that had precipitated the king creating the Sinsar Dubh and the destruction of the walls between our worlds and led us straight to our current disaster. He’d tried to control me. He’d used me every chance he’d gotten. He’d raped me.

But as Aoibheal had said, he was patient, wise. He’d seemed to sometimes actually have genuine emotion. As V’lane, he’d told me that Cruce was the renegade, rogue warrior. He’d hidden and pretended to be someone else for more time than I could even conceive of, patiently pursuing his goals. And he had constantly maintained, despite the lack of any perceivable gain in it for him, the contention that he cared for me. Wanted me.

I’d seen that truth in his face, as I stood near the black hole at Chester’s and both Barrons and Cruce had regarded me with identical expressions of hunger and desire.

What had Cruce said then?

You alone speak to the finest of all that I am.

That was my mission—to bring out his finest now. By any means necessary.

No boundaries. No refusals. Even if it destroyed me inside and out. And it might. Because if Cruce gave me the song, it was entirely possible my using it would kill Barrons but leave me alive. And it would definitely kill my sister.

If I made love to him willingly, would he give me the song? Would avenging himself on Barrons be amusement enough to entice? If he agreed, would he keep his word?

I closed my eyes. If he was willing, could I go through with it?

Yes. This wasn’t about me. I was expendable. The universe wasn’t. I’d pay any price to save it.

“Cruce,” I said softly. Then more strongly, “Cruce, I need you. Please come. At least listen to me, I beg of you. I’m begging, do you hear me? Once, you liked that. I see you now. I see the wrongs that were done to you. I see the chances you had and the chances you were never given. I’ve wronged you. I never let myself be open to you. I’m sorry.”

“MacKayla. At last.” His voice arrived before his body and I knew he’d been watching from somewhere beyond, for some time. I wondered why he could still sift. How was that even possible?

A faint outline appeared, filled in and solidified.

He wore no glamour but stood before me, unvarnished Cruce, the formidable, towering, iridescent-eyed Fae prince with majestic black velvet wings and kaleidoscopic tattoos. Then his wings were gone and he was wearing tight-fitting black leather pants, steel-toed boots, and a rugged sweater. His long black hair was bound at his nape, his sharply chiseled face stunning. His eyes flickered and changed before settling on warm gold.