Feversong (Fever #9)(29)
He is an embarrassment to his form, weakened by the illusions of love and self-sacrifice and no doubt countless others. One can never sell oneself a single illusion. More lies are always necessary to support the original lie.
Wasted eyes follow me as I pass: shocked, dimly curious, lustful, too drugged to approach. Mallucé’s followers linger in the house, heroin-thin and pale, nested on pallets in dark corners or sprawled in a tangle of naked limbs on low-backed velveteen divans, burning incense, playing music, shooting up, snorting back, fading out.
Stoned passive prey.
My children will have food when they arrive.
Pity I lack the energy to partake of it myself.
I seek the basement. By the time I reach the subbasement that houses the suite of rooms where J. J. Jr.—human of surprisingly refined intellect—once lived, I am crawling.
I drag myself down the dimly lit corridor on my belly for a small eternity until I reach the immense square black door belted with bands of steel. I lie on my back and shove it open with both legs.
After a time I creep inside.
After another small eternity I rotate my body and push it closed with my feet.
After still more time I push myself to my hands and knees to slide the dead bolt, then collapse hard to the floor.
I lay curled against the door.
Something is wrong, very wrong.
I summon one of my crimson runes to seal the doors.
No rune appears.
Shivering, I try again and again, but each time I endeavor to sing a rune into existence I have only an empty, slack hand, fingers curled on nothing.
My magic springs from my will, not my body. The ever-increasing weakness of my form should not affect my power.
I cease my efforts, turning inward, examining myself.
My mind, disembodied, has been eternally cognizant. Not an instant of my existence has passed without my awareness of it. I am ever vigilant, ever alert, ever plotting and planning. At all times, since the moment of my birth, I have been a superior, incessant, voracious thinking entity.
Now it feels as if my very essence is being tampered with. My apprehension of myself is growing…dim, difficult to see clearly and focus upon. Focus is power.
Has the interfering little bitch found some way to attack me from within?
I sink inside and examine the box in which I placed her. It’s a seamless construct without void; sleek, black, cold.
I willed it into existence and believe in it—therefore it is.
My belief is driven by intellect. Hers by emotion. I place my faith in no one but myself. She places hers in everyone but herself, and that makes her susceptible to anyone with a will more focused than her own.
I posit and push. She fears and doubts.
I WIN.
She’s in a box that doesn’t really exist and believes it inescapable.
Belief is reality.
Belief is so delightfully malleable.
I giggle but nothing comes out.
I think SOMETHING IS HAPPENING TO ME! WHAT IS IT?
My eyelids are heavy and remain closed although I would prefer them open.
I think I WILL NOT LOSE CONTROL OF THIS VESSEL AGAIN!
My limbs tremble, flaccid upon the floor, then go still.
I lie, immobilized. What is befalling me? Who is interfering with my plans? Have I been…wounded in some manner…of which I’m not…aware?
Is this
Dying?
Did I do
Something wrong
To my
Body? Did.
Someone.
Poison—
JADA
When she descended into the dissonant musical battleground of Chester’s many subclubs, Jada wasn’t surprised to find the nightclub packed. The worse things got out in the streets of Dublin, the harder the party rocked inside the slick chrome and glass walls at 939 Rêvemal, where the darkest fantasy could be indulged for a price.
Pushing her way through the crowded dance floors she realized that, although it was business as usual, there was a disturbing difference in today’s clientele. There were only humans and Seelie in the many clubs. She hadn’t spotted a single Unseelie and was already halfway to the guarded stairs that granted access to the private upper levels.
Eyes narrowed, she spun in a tight circle. The Unseelie were insatiable patrons of Chester’s, but currently there wasn’t a single Rhino-boy, not one of the grotesque singularities, or any of the Lord Master’s militant guards to be seen. Not even Papa Roach with his stumpy-legged body formed of gelatinous, shiny carapaces was ambling about, hawking his fat-devouring, cockroachian wares, and she’d begun to suspect the revolting creature lived somewhere in Ryodan’s palatial demesne.
The Sinsar Dubh had returned and there were no Unseelie in Chester’s; it was a worrisome coupling of facts.
Nodding coolly to Fade and the eerie white-haired member of the Nine with dark, burning eyes whose name she’d not yet uncovered, she ascended the staircase, moving like a Joe, staring down at the dance floors, absorbing every detail. Although there were many advantages to accessing the slipstream, moving faster than reality blinded her to it, and she couldn’t assess and report on current events if she didn’t take the time to see them.
When she reached Ryodan’s office, the dark glass was set to privacy, which meant the occupants could see out but no one could see in. She placed her palm against the panel. The door whisked aside and she peered into the dimly lit room.