High Voltage (Fever #10)(17)

Sighing, I retrieved the sword that I wasn’t allowed to use for its universe-given purpose from its perch within reach of the shower.



I love my sword. I pet it; it soothes me. Cold, hard, frequently bloody, we’re two of a kind. Made for war, but with a bit of work we shine right back up again. Double-edged, the straight blade swells in thickness and width as it nears the guard. The blade, apart from the hilt, is 34.5 inches long—most of the time. In battle, I’ve seen that length increase and decrease. Dancer was never able to identify what it’s made from but it’s oddly light yet weighty at the same time, razor-sharp, and has proved unbreakable.

Although the blade shimmers alabaster, the grip is fashioned from engraved lengths of ebony and ivory metals woven together. The guard is dark as midnight and resembles narrow wings that arc back toward my hand. The heavily engraved pommel is formed from the same obsidian metal as the guard and is always cold. Ornate dark symbols—a cipher that has never ceased to stump me despite the considerable time I’ve wasted over the years with pen and paper trying to work it out—flow the length of the blade on both sides. The symbols often move, swirling too rapidly for me to transcribe. When I fight, my sword burns incandescent, and I often find those undecipherable symbols seared into the flesh of our victims.

Most of all, it feels good in my hand. As if it was made just for me. And one day, I just know deep in my bones, I’ll get to use it again.

I padded out into the bedroom.



My fingers tightened on the hilt.

There was a man sitting on my bed.

Not Fae.

But considering he’d breached my many booby traps to gain entrance, there was no way he was human either.





I put a spell on you

“BY LOKI’S BALLS,” THE man said, shaking his head, “you’re not at all what I expected.”

Expectations limit your ability to perceive things. I try to have few. I leaned against the doorjamb, assessing him, sword deceptively at ease at my side.

He scanned me back, absorbing the bare feet, the holes in the knees of my jeans, the face void of makeup, the tumble of wet hair. His gaze hitched briefly on my left hand and his eyes flared infinitesimally then narrowed. “But you’re a mere child. How did something like you get your hands on the Faerie sword?”

On February twentieth of this year, my last birthday, I’d decided to commit to an age. As I was somewhere between twenty-one and twenty-three, I split the difference and settled on twenty-two. Casual and without makeup, I knew I looked several years younger. It worked for me; strangers often underestimated me.

I shrugged and said nothing.



“Well, hand it over and let’s be done with it,” he said, pushing up from the bed, hand outstretched, eyes fixed possessively on the softly glowing blade at my side. “Time is short, I’ve much to do.”

I laughed in spite of myself. He was shorter than me, with a lean build, wearing black jeans, boots, and a green shirt. Wavy raven hair swept back from a high forehead above a narrow face. His eyes were nearly as emerald as mine, with tiny amber flecks, and alight with amusement. I was the one holding the sword. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t carrying a single weapon. “I don’t think so.”

“We made a deal. You will honor it.”

“I made no deal with you.”

He spanned the distance between us in a sprightly leap, smiling broadly. “Oh, but you did.” He caught my hand in his and lifted it to his lips, kissed it then held it between us and glanced meaningfully at the cuts across my fingertips.

Right. He was wearing black and green, like his calling card. His hair was black and his eyes were green. What was with people? Wasn’t anyone normal anymore? Was having a color theme the new trend? “That was a cheat,” I said irritably. “You made the edges razor sharp and flung it at me.”

He cooed brightly, “And you caught it. There will be no welshing. You plucked it from the sky, offered me your blood, and made a wish. I granted it. You owe me.”

“I didn’t make a wish and you didn’t grant anything. And I didn’t offer you my blood. You took it. Through deceit.”

Green eyes danced with mischief. “I just love that part, don’t you? Blood is blood no matter how you obtain it.” His gaze shifted, swirling with menace and mockery.

“That’s a trap. You can’t sucker people into spells.”

He clasped his hands together beneath his chin and sneered, “Oh, please, as if your history isn’t positively mired in tales of stupid humans lured into unsavory deals and contracts. And their repercussions.” He snapped his fingers sharply beneath my nose. “Wake up, child. Pay attention. Fools fall. It’s what they do.”



I growled, “I’m neither a child nor a fool.”

“By my standards, you’re both. You didn’t have to catch it. I presented an opportunity. You took it. Pay up. The sword is mine.”

I said coolly, “I didn’t make a wish and you didn’t grant one. I’m not giving you the sword.”

He hopped with delight and did a fast, merry dance in a tight circle, as if pleased with himself beyond enduring. I half expected him to kick his heels together and break into a sprightly jig. Then he spun about to face me, applauding with gusto—clearly himself, not me. “That’s the very, very, very best part,” he gushed, eyes sparkling. “I did grant your wish. You just don’t know it yet.”