Feversong Read online

  Feversong is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Karen Marie Moning

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  DELACORTE PRESS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Background art on title page, part openers, and chapter openers by iStock.com/Cloudniners

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Moning, Karen Marie, author.

  Title: Feversong : a Fever novel / Karen Marie Moning.

  Description: New York : Delacorte Press, 2017. | Series: Fever ; 9

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016042486| ISBN 9780425284353 (hardback) | ISBN 9780425284360 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Paranormal romance stories. | BISAC: FICTION / Romance / Paranormal. | FICTION / Fantasy / Paranormal. | FICTION / Romance / Fantasy. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.O527 F49 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016042486

  Ebook ISBN 9780425284360


  Book design by Caroline Cunningham, adapted for ebook

  Cover design: Eileen Carey

  Cover photographs: Shutterstock





  Title Page


  Glossary Alert

  Part I


  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Part II

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Part III

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Part IV

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Author’s Note




  By Karen Marie Moning

  About the Author

  If this is the first book you’ve picked up in the Fever Series, at the end of this novel I’ve included a guide of People, Places, and Things to illuminate the backstory.

  If you’re a seasoned reader of the series, the guide will reacquaint you with notable events and characters, what they did, if they survived, and if not, how they died.

  If you’re reading an ebook, factor this into your expectation of when the story ends, which is a bit before the final page count.

  You can either read the guide first, getting acquainted with the world, or reference it as you go along to refresh your memory. The guide features characters by type, followed by places, then things.


  My philosophy is pretty simple—any day I’m not killing somebody is a good day in my book.

  I haven’t had many good days lately.

  I reflect on the highlights of the past year:

  July 5, the day my sister, Alina, called my cellphone and left a frantic message that I ended up not hearing until weeks later. She was murdered, abandoned in a trash-filled alley shortly after she placed that call.

  August 3, the night I arrived in Dublin, saw my first Fae monster behind the glamour and realized either I was crazy or the world was. Turns out the world was but that didn’t help much.

  September: an entire month vanished during a single afternoon in Faery, playing volleyball with an illusion of my dead sister.

  October 3, I was tortured and nearly killed by the vampire-wannabe Mallucé in his hellish grotto beneath the Burren. That’s the night I learned to eat the flesh of dark Fae for its healing properties and the enormous strength it bestowed.

  October 31, Halloween, the night the walls between man and Fae came crashing down, I was gang-raped by four Unseelie princes and turned into a mindless shell of a woman, an addict to Fae sex.

  November, December, and part of January are calendar pages ripped cleanly from my mind, leaving no memory at all, until I surfaced from being hellishly Pri-ya to find I’d spent all that time in bed with Jericho Barrons.

  Then there’s that date I’ll never know—impossible to gauge the day, year, or even century in the Silvers—when I killed Barrons and, believing him dead, became a woman obsessed with obtaining the Sinsar Dubh so I could re-create a world with him in it.

  More of January and February: lost in the Silvers, working with the enemy, the Lord Master, plotting my revenge.

  May 11, the night I learned the girl I loved like a sister was the one who’d killed my sister.

  May 16, the day we reinterred the Sinsar Dubh in the underground chamber at the abbey and I discovered V’lane was really Cruce, one of my four rapists, and that I’d been working all along with the most cunning, dangerous Unseelie prince in existence.

  June 26, the day I chased Dani into the Hall of All Days, a place I didn’t dare follow. If I had a do-over, I’d leap through that damned Silver and chase her anyway, despite the formidable odds.

  July 22, I discovered who Jada was, and that my brilliant, effervescent, spunkalicious Dani was gone, leaving behind a controlled, humorless, stone-cold killer.

  Now, I add another date to my grim tally.

  One year five days after I first touched my well-pedicured foot to Ireland’s wild soil—August 8: the day the Sinsar Dubh won. And all it had to do to defeat me was wait patiently, quasiquietly, with gentle nudges here and there, until I mindfucked myself into crossing that forbidden line. It took my hostile squatter a mere two and a half months from the day I buried the corporeal Book beneath the abbey to seduce me into opening it.

  I’d spent most of that time sleuthing for a spell to summon the Unseelie King and demand he reclaim his Book from inside me, withdrawing from Barrons and the world, becoming a shell of who I was—all because I’d been afraid the Sinsar Dubh might somehow trick me into opening it.

  It had.

  I understand something now: that which we fear, we somehow beckon near and engage in a dance, as toxically intimate as a pair of suspicious lovers. Perhaps it’s because deep down we