Feversong (Fever #9)(37)

“Mallucé’s.” It comes out a fractured whisper. My throat is burning, dry, and my mouth is—oh, God. I stick a shaky finger in and pick at things caught in my teeth. Clearly the Book didn’t bother to brush and floss, and just how the hell long have I been gone, what did I do, and how did I get here?

I drop back to the floor and fumble in my coat pocket for my cellphone. After what seems an eternity of clumsy rummaging, I close my fingers on it, pull it out, squint at the date and time, and collapse back to the floor with relief.

It’s the same day, late night. Surely I haven’t K’Vrucked the world in so short a time!

I stiffen, belatedly absorbing what else I just saw. Contracting muscles that loudly protest contracting, I push myself back up and peer warily at my hands. They’re covered with cuts and abrasions, my palms crusted with blood and bits of black…I squint…feathers, I think. My nails have been torn off to the quick and there’s other stuff stuck to…ew!

I just put one of my fingers in my mouth. No wonder I have such a bad taste in it.

“Shit,” I whisper. My finger hadn’t tasted any different than my mouth. What the hell has the Book been eating? I nearly heave the mysterious contents of my stomach at the thought.

I shove the phone back in my pocket. It takes me several long, agonizing moments to push myself to my feet, where I wobble dangerously before teetering into the dimly lit suite to search for J. J. Jr.’s bathroom.

When I find it, I’m sorry I did.

Obviously the Book wasn’t interested in cleaning and tending our shared vessel. It had been far too busy doing…other things.

I clutch the sink for support, staring at myself in the mirror. Thinking there shouldn’t even be a mirror here. Mallucé was pretending to be a vampire. Why the hell did he have to put a mirror here?

I close my eyes, swaying with exhaustion and horror.

The only part of my face that isn’t crusted with blood is the white of my eyes. Even my eyelids are spattered rusty red. My hair is matted with more blood and some kind of organic matter I wish I hadn’t seen. Bits of glistening gray stuff. Unseelie, I hope. My clothing is torn and equally plastered with ribbons of flesh and more blood. What in God’s name did I do?

I open my eyes and stare levelly at my reflection.

I killed. A wave of horror threatens to engulf me. Who? What terrible things did I do? What sins do I bear?

I inhale slowly, exhale long and even, willing the sick feeling in my stomach and the palpitations in my heart to calm. Horror will accomplish nothing.

I can either give in to fear and give up—or refuse to let it touch me and go on.

I opt for the latter because the former is pointless and destructive and would make me an even greater liability to my world.

After emptying a fuller bladder than I’ve ever had, I turn on the tap, splash water on my face, gulp it, swish and spit, then begin scrubbing with the half-used bar of soap Mallucé didn’t finish before he died. I scrub and scrape, then turn and grope blindly for a towel because the blood is crusted on my skin so thickly that it’s not coming off. I scour my face nearly raw with the hot, wet towel then plunge my head into the sink and lather my hair with the bar.

A few minutes later, trembling with exertion, I flip my wet hair back and look into the mirror again.

I study my eyes carefully, spying no hint of madness, no deeply buried glint of psychopathic glee. Just the wide, green-eyed gaze of a woman who has no idea what heinous acts her body committed during the past fifteen hours.

Less revolted by the thought of using Mallucé’s toothbrush than I am by the taste in my mouth—which says volumes about how horrific it is—I scald the dead vamp’s toothbrush under hot water then squeeze toothpaste on it and brush vigorously, despite the pain it causes.

When I finish, I rummage through the vanity drawers for floss, then drop to the floor and begin the agonizing process of cleaning between them.

I save what comes out, plaster it on a piece of toilet tissue and examine it.

I ate Unseelie, at the very least. Black feathers. “Please tell me it wasn’t Christian,” I whisper.

Laboriously, I strip off my jacket. And frown. My spear is gone, my shoulder holster empty. Why? Where did it go? Did the Book stab some hapless person and not bother to take it back? Surely it wouldn’t give away such a powerful weapon! I wonder again just what the hell I did over the past fifteen hours.

Clenching my teeth, refusing to get waylaid by dangerous thoughts, I focus on working my shirt over my head, and end up smearing blood all over my face again. The spear is gone. So much blood. I shake my head to keep it clear, desperate to strip down to nudity to leave behind all the incriminating evidence of whatever I’ve done, but there’s no way Mallucé’s pants will fit me. Still, I can change into one of his shirts.

After wiping my face clean again, I crawl into the closet that adjoins the bathroom. I sort through the dramatic, vintage goth clothing until I find a simple black brushed-silk tee and pull it on then lean back against the wall of the closet, frowning, catching my breath, pondering what just happened.

The Sinsar Dubh fell asleep.

I’d bet my life on it.

And somehow I’m awake and here again. Just how is that working? If it was so tired that it passed out, why doesn’t me moving around wake it up? Is it possible this is what happened the day it killed the Gray Woman—because it’s not accustomed to physical form, it quickly wears out and loses its control over me? Does this mean I’m me again and so long as I don’t use another spell I’ll be okay? Or does it mean once it regains its energy it’ll instantly reimprison me?