Feversong (Fever #9)(75)

He was right. But I would certainly have appreciated a little more time to deal with the unpleasant reality of Dancer’s flawed biology before having to deal with the very pleasant reality of Dancer, alive and laughing and ready to tear off on our next reckless adventure—which would never happen again because he wasn’t blowing out his heart on my watch. That was something I’d really hate myself for, and not one day. Instantly.

“Aw, c’mon,” he protested, “I’ve never ridden a Ducati before. Show me what it can do!”

I was gripped by a sudden fierce desire to protect him. Or lock him up somewhere and never even let him breathe hard.

“Seriously, I want to walk.” I loped off down the street, knowing he’d follow.

He didn’t. But I didn’t figure that out for a block and a half, when I turned to snatch a sideways glance at him, see if I saw any signs of strain in his face, if I was walking too fast.

I was alone, confirming how off-kilter I was. With my senses, I should have registered that I wasn’t hearing him.

I spun around, peering into the night. There he was, way down the street, still standing in front of Barrons Books & Baubles, arms folded over his chest, leaning against a streetlamp. I felt my chest grow tight and caught my breath. I’d always thought he was attractive, now even more so with the amber glow of the gas lamp burnishing his dark hair with a kiss of gold, his eyes the color of tropical sea surf. It made me feel perversely mad at him. “What the hell are you doing?” I snapped.

“Waiting for you to come back here and tell me what the bloody hell is wrong with you,” he snapped back.

A dozen caustic replies took shape on my tongue but all that came out was a soft, miserable sigh. There he stood, six feet four inches of solid, healthy man, but the heart inside his athletic body didn’t possess the same strength. What kind of universe pulled such a dickhead stunt? And why him? Why not, say, someone mean and deceitful like Margery or someone evil like Rowena—but no, that old bitch had lived well into her eighties! I sank down cross-legged on the sidewalk as the unthinkable happened and tears stung my eyes. I ducked my head so he wouldn’t see it, so he’d think I was just being stubborn and staying where I was, making him come to me.

A few seconds later I glanced up and saw the weirdest thing. Dancer was hurrying down the street toward me, but that’s not what was weird. Ryodan was the weird thing. He was standing outside the bookstore, staring down the street at us, hands fisted at his sides, looking quite possibly angrier than I’d ever seen him, and I’ve seen that dude ten shades beyond pissed, well into homicidal fury.

I knew he could see the faint shimmer of moisture on my cheeks. Eagle Eyes once saw a drop of moisture on an ice sculpture I hadn’t been able to see. I gave him a look and a shrug, like, What? You wanted me to cry and let it out. Just doing what you told me. Are you ever happy with a damn thing I do? Then I flipped him off. Shit. I plunged the defiant hand into my pocket. That wasn’t me. That was someone I used to be. What the hell was happening to my center?

But I knew the answer to that. First Shazam. Now Dancer. Did the universe harbor a secret grudge against me? Was it not going to be happy until it had stolen everyone I cared about?

“I wasn’t flipping you off,” I told Dancer as he approached.

But when Dancer glanced back to see who’d pissed me off, Ryodan was gone.



“Caoimhe told you, didn’t she?” Dancer said a short time later as he handed me a heaping bowl of mixed fruit topped with whipped cream. “She promised me she would never talk to you about it. I told her you knew but hated discussing it.”

I nodded. I’d eliminated all trace of tears by the time Dancer had reached me, and if he’d noticed my eyes were red, he chose not to comment. I didn’t understand the point of crying. All you got from it was a stuffed up nose and a short-lived headache, and I was always dangerously hungry afterward. It didn’t solve a thing. It didn’t change a thing. It only made you feel worse.

“How much did she tell you?” he asked, motioning me to follow him into the living room.

“You never brought me here before,” I dodged, wondering what he meant by “how much.” Hadn’t she told me the worst? I terminated that thought and resumed studying his digs. “Here” was the top floor of an old firehouse that overlooked the River Liffey and had been converted into a huge one-room loft, partitioned with furniture placement into kitchen, living room, and bedroom. Thick cream sheepskin rugs covered well-worn hardwood floors. The furnishings were simple, modern, comfortable. The entire wall facing the river was window from floor to ceiling. I stared out, watching the silvery slide of the water, wishing I could slide off on it.

“This is where I live most of the time. I kept a lot of other places because I never knew what part of town you might be hanging out in.”

“You lived two completely separate lives. One with me and one without.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had…you know?”

“A bad heart? You’d have disappeared and I’d never have seen you again. There was no room in your world for anything less than a superhero. I’m not sure there is now either.”

I said fiercely, “I’m here, aren’t I?” And I didn’t want to be. I wanted to be anywhere else, doing something with purpose that made me feel good, not staring into Death’s impersonal jaws as they tried to close on one of the few people I wanted to see often, and couldn’t wait to see each time so we could blurt out everything we thought to each other. At fourteen there’d never been a sense of urgency. We’d been kids. We were going to live forever. He was always going to be somewhere around the next corner.