Feversong (Fever #9)(63)
He inhaled sharply, not missing that what I’d just said accorded a degree of accountability to him I’d never permitted before. I meant it. The next time I had to go somewhere, I would bloody well find a way to leave him a note.
His grin was instant and blinding.
Then he was talking a mile a minute, catching me up on all the work they’d been doing, outlining the preferred theories, eyes sparkling.
Dancer was convinced the black holes suspended slightly above the earth weren’t remotely the same as the ones in outer space. “I think the ones up there”—he jerked his head toward the ceiling—“are naturally occurring phenomena. They have the right to be what and where they are. The theory is that primordial black holes were birthed at the dawn of time, have always existed and for some reason need to. I like to think of them as the universe’s trash collectors, gathering up old, defunct detritus, clearing the way for new things to be born. The holes we’re dealing with don’t behave in accordance with modern black hole theory. While it’s possible modern black hole theory is wrong—I mean, bloody hell, we believed Newtonian laws right up until Einstein turned everything on its ear—the smell I get off our black holes is that they’re anathema to the universe. They don’t belong, should never have come into existence, and are in complete defiance of the natural order of things.”
“They smell? I never noticed a smell and I have a super sniffer.”
He ducked his head, looking mildly embarrassed. “They say a great physicist is distinguished by his ability to sniff out the difference between a superior theory and one not worth pursuing.”
I smiled. “Well then, you’ve definitely got a super sniffer, too.”
He grinned. “I suspect these entities are literally spheres of ‘unmaking’ in…well, I hate to say a magical sense because I tend to lean toward everything being explainable by science, but I also believe in God, and the Fae are real and maybe magic is just a word for those things we can’t yet explain or understand.”
“What does this tell us about how to get rid of them?”
“That the Song of Making is likely the only thing that has a chance.” He was silent a moment and his eyes got that dreamy, faraway look that told me he was happily pondering a highly abstract concept. “A melody of creation—think of it, Mega!” he exclaimed. “That math and frequency might actually be capable, on some level we don’t understand, of creating new things, repairing damaged ones!” He shook his head. “There’s something about the concept that resonates with me. Makes sense on a gut level but it’s so bloody far beyond my ability to interpret and elucidate that I feel like a child, staring up at the night sky, wondering what the Milky Way is. Regardless, the fabric of our world is unraveling and has to be stitched back together again somehow, and I believe the song the Fae used to know is the only thing that’s going to work. An Unseelie created the holes. It seems quid pro quo that a Seelie must repair them. Maybe, if we had a few centuries to work on the song we’d get somewhere, but I don’t think we have a tenth that much time.”
“Months,” I told him grimly. “Perhaps even less.”
His eyes widened. “You know that for sure?”
I nodded.
He plunged his hands into his hair, raking it back. “Mega, we’re at a complete impasse with the song. We need some kind of clue, a fragment of the melody, then at least I’d understand what I’m aiming for, and stand a chance at figuring out what the bloody hell it is!”
I pressed a hand to my forehead. It was hot. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d eaten and was abruptly aware I was dangerously hungry. “Do you have anything high calorie to eat around here?”
“Always.” He led me to a small room off the back of the laboratory where a fridge was loaded with food. There were boxes and boxes of chilled protein bars. Peanut butter. Even beef jerky and milk!
“Where did you get all this?” I reached for the glass jar of milk, topped with a yellow layer of heavy cream, mouth watering.
“Ryodan,” he said, and rolled his eyes. “He’s bloody well taken over the bloody world and suddenly everyone has food. Which means he had it all along and just wasn’t sharing. Got this, too.” With his foot he nudged a box toward me, filled with canned goods.
Chocolate syrup! I unscrewed the top off the milk, squeezed the chocolate in, recapped the glass bottle and shook the milk hard enough to mix. I guzzled it for several long seconds, only stopping with a twinge of embarrassment when there were a few inches left to ask him hastily, “Did you want any of this?” When he shook his head, smiling faintly, I finished it, and chased it with two protein bars. That was better. I could feel myself cooling down already.
“We have the queen,” I told him.
“What?” he exploded. “And you’re just now telling me this? Where is she? How did you get her to come back here?”
I filled him in on what had happened in the past day, my time, omitting the parts about my meltdown and Shazam and killing Ryodan and Mac calling me a cunt.
He was pacing, repeatedly raking his hands through his hair by the time I finished. “I need to talk to Mac. Now. Like, this very instant.”
“If Mac had any information about the song, she’d already be here, sharing it. I think it’s going to take time for her to decipher what the queen passed on and figure out how to use it.”