Faefever | Karen Marie Moning | #1 New York Times Bestselling Author. Fever Series | Karen Marie Moning | Urban Fantasy | Romance | Young Adult | #1 Faefever. He calls me his Queen of the Night. I’d die for him. I’d kill for. Faefever: Fever Series Book 3 [Karen Marie Moning] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER He calls me his.

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He calls me his Queen of the Omning. I’d kill for him, too. But evil is closer. And suddenly the sidhe -seer is on the hunt: And for an ancient book of dark magic so evil that it corrupts anyone who touches it. I clutch my head with wet, stinking hands, determined to hold it together until the inevitable occurs—I pass out. Each time I get close to it, the same thing happens. He might tote me around like a divining rod, but I could live with that. Tonight, however, I was alone. What if I passed out for an hour?

What if I fell facedown into the vile puddle I was in, and drowned in mere inches of I would not die so pathetically.

Monin wintry wind howled down the street, whipping between buildings, chilling me to the bone. I flailed in the sewage, scraped at the pavement with my fingernails, left the tips of them broken in gaps between the cobbled stones. It was there—straight ahead of me: I could feel it, fifty moningg from where I scrabbled for purchase. It was nothing that simple. It pulsated darkly, charring the edges of my mind. I felt like I was dying. Saliva flooded my mouth, frothing into foam at my lips.

Even my stomach was locked down by pain. Moaning, I tried to raise my head.

I had to see it. What were they doing with it? Why did I keep having near brushes with it? Shuddering, I pushed back onto my knees, shoved a hank of sour-smelling hair from my face, and looked.

The street that only moments ago had bustled with tourists, making their merry way from one open pub door to the next, was now scourged clean by the dark, arctic wind. Doors had been slammed, music silenced. A gunman had a huddle of people backed against the wall of a building, a family of tourists, cameras swinging around their necks.

The barrel of a semiautomatic weapon gleamed in the moonlight. The father was yelling, the mother was screaming, trying to gather three small children into her arms. At least I think I did. My lungs were compressed with pain. The gunman let loose a spray of bullets, silencing their cries. He killed the youngest last—a delicate blond girl of four or five, with wide, pleading eyes that would haunt me till the day I died.


Paralyzed by pain-deadened limbs, I could only kneel there, screaming inside my head. Why was this happening? A perfectly innocuous hardcover, about three hundred and fifty pages thick, no dust jacket, pale gray with red binding. The kind of well-read hardcover you might find in any used bookstore, in any city. Was this supposed to be funny? The gunman glanced at his weapon with a bemused expression.

Then his head swiveled back toward the fallen bodies, the blood and jarie of flesh and bone spattered across the brick wall. The book dropped from beneath his arm. It seemed to fall in slow motion, changing, transforming, as it tumbled, end over end, to the damp, shiny brick. Now the thick dark volume was changing again, becoming taefever new.

It swirled and spun, drawing substance from wind and darkness. In its place rose a I have no words to describe it, because nothing exists in our world to compare it to. My soul shivered, as if perceiving on some visceral level that my body was not nearly enough protection for it.

The gunman looked at it, and it looked at the gunman, and he turned his weapon on himself.

I jerked at the sound of more shots. The shooter crumpled to the pavement and his weapon clattered away. Another icy wind gusted down the street, and there was movement in my periphery. She stooped, picked it up, tucked it beneath her arm, and turned away. Evil that celebrated its existence every chance it got through chaos, demolition, and psychotic rage. The Beast was inside her now, in control. And it would retain control of her until it was done using her, when it would dispose of her and move on to its next victim.

Passing from one set of hands to the next, transforming each of its victims into a weapon of violence and destruction. Barrons had told me that Fae relics had a tendency to take on monin life and purpose of their own in time.

The Dark Book was a million years old.

Fever Series by Karen Marie Moning

That was a lot of time. It had certainly taken on some kind of life. The woman disappeared around the corner, and I dropped to the pavement like a stone. Eyes closed, I gasped for shallow breaths. It was the most dangerous Hallow ever created—and it was loose in our world. It had looked at me, seen me. You want to know about life, Mac? Keep watching rainbows, baby. Keep looking at the sky. You find what you look for. If you go hunting evil. What fool thought I could do something about problems of such enormity?


Tourists were flooding back into the street. Music began playing, and the world started up again. Laughter bounced off brick. Oblivious to them all, I threw up until I dry-heaved.

Then I dry-heaved until not even bile monung. I pushed to my feet, dragged the faaefever of my hand across my mouth, and stared at my reflection in a pub window. I was stained, I was soaked, and I smelled. My hair was a soppy mess of beer and. Karem were a dozen of them, wearing red cummerbunds and bow ties over jeans and sweaters.

A bachelor party, off to celebrate the joy of testosterone. They gave me wide berth. Walking through Temple Bar, feeling alive and attractive, and ready for whatever the world might decide to throw at me next? I looked around for my missing heel. It was nowhere to be seen. I sighed inwardly and told myself to get over it.

At the moment, I had bigger problems on my mind.

Fever Series

Barrons was going to be so pleased. Delighted, even, although delight is a difficult expression to read on that dark, arresting face. Chiseled from savagery by a sculptor-savant, Barrons is a throwback to a lawless time, and looks as stoically primitive as he behaves. On my way back to faefefer bookstore, it began to rain. I limped miserably through it. I hate the rain. Three, it makes Dublin at night even darker than usual, and that vaefever the monsters get bolder.

Four, it makes me need an umbrella and when people carry umbrellas they have a tendency to pull them down really low and hunch behind them, especially if the rain monning being blown into their faces. Which means I get completely soaked and that leads me to the fifth thing I hate about rain: My makeup runs and my hair becomes a mop of cowlicks. But every cloud really does have some kind of silver lining and, after a good, hard drenching, at least I no longer smelled quite so bad.