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Feverborn: A Fever Novel (PDF + EPUB) Saga, Fantasy Story. Visit Burned ( eBook) Karen Marie Moning, Fever Series, Fever Book, Jericho Barrons. Open. Karen Marie Moning Feverborn Epub. Foo. Download feverborn or read online here in PDF or EPUB.. In Karen Marie Moning's latest. KAREN MARIE MONING is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Fever series featuring MacKayla Lane, as well as the Highlander series. She has a.
It had metamorphosed from a thriving metropolis bustling with people, to a silent iced shell, to its current incarnation: savagely alive as those who remained struggled to seize control. Dublin was a minefield, the balance of power shifting constantly as key players were eliminated without warning. Nothing was easy. Every move, each decision, a matter of life and death. It made for interesting times.
Small human lives were so limited. And for that very reason, so fascinating. Shadowed by death, life became immediate. He knew the past. He'd seen glimpses of many futures. Like its unpredictable inhabitants, Dublin had fallen off the grid of expected trajectories. Recent events in the area had not transpired in any future he'd seen. There was no telling what might happen next.
The possibilities were infinite. He liked it that way. Fate was a misnomer; an illusion erected and clung to by people who needed to believe when things spun out of their control there was some grand purpose for their fucked-up existence, some mysterious redemptive design that made it worth the suffering.
Ah, the painful truth: Fate was a cosmic toilet. It was the nature of the universe to flush sluggish things that failed to exercise free will. Stasis was stagnancy. Change was velocity.
Fate-a sniper that preferred a motionless target to a dancing one. But he knew better. Admitting there was no such thing as Fate meant acknowledging personal responsibility. He wasn't about to ante up on that hand. Still,,,every now and then one came along like him, like this city that defied all expectation, owned every action, flipped Fate the bird at each opportunity.
One that didn't merely exist. But lived. No price too high for freedom. He understood that. With a faint smile, he surveyed the city below. From the tower he could see all the way to the choppy whitecapped sea, its black and silver surface shadowed by the hulking shapes of abandoned ships and barges, and sleeker vessels bobbing on the storm-tossed waves, white sails snapping in the chilly gale.
To his left rooftops stretched, another shadowy rain-pelted sea, sheltering what humans had survived the fall of the ancient walls that had kept the Fae hidden for millennia.
Somewhere down there where gutters routed streams of water to a vast underground drainage system riddled by long forgotten catacombs, Fae walked the streets both openly and hidden, and neon signs cast fractured rainbows on the pavement, was the prior owner of that bookstore, if such a place was ever owned; his Machiavellian ruthless brother; and an invisible woman who, like the building to which she now laid claim, was far more than she appeared to be.
Farther to the left down winding rural roads, if one traveled a solid hour of stark desolation through a second hour of Faery-lush vegetation, was another of those ancient places that could never be owned and the brilliant, powerful woman determined to command it.
Barrons, Ryodan, Mac, Jada. The possibilities were enormous, dazzling, and he had a fair idea how things would go,,,but these moments were unpredictable, unscripted. He threw back his dark head and laughed. I didn't always like them and I broke them when they didn't work for me, but they were sturdy things I could rely on to shape the way I lived and keep me-if not totally on the straight and narrow, at least aware there was a straight and narrow I could return to if I got to feeling lost.
Rules serve a purpose. I once told Rowena they were fences for sheep, but fences do more than merely keep sheep in a pasture where shepherds can guide them.
They provide protection in the vast and frightening unknown. Only flag comments that clearly need our attention. As a general rule we do not censor any content on the site.
The only content we will consider removing is spam, slanderous attacks on other members, or extremely offensive content eg. Pornography, pro-Nazi, child abuse, etc. We will not remove any content for bad language alone, or being critical of a particular book. The Fae are free and hunting us. It's a war zone out there, and no two days are alike.
I'm Dani O'Malley, the chaos-filled streets of Dublin are my home, and there's no place I'd rather be. Dani 'Mega' O'Malley plays by her own set of rules—and in a world overrun by Dark Fae, her biggest rule is: Do what it takes to survive. Possessing rare talents and the all-powerful Sword of Light, Dani is more than equipped for the task. In fact, she's one of the rare humans who can defend themselves against the Unseelie.
But now, amid the pandemonium, her greatest gifts have turned into serious liabilities. Dani's ex—best friend, MacKayla Lane, wants her dead, the terrifying Unseelie princes have put a price on her head, and Inspector Jayne, the head of the police force, is after her sword and will stop at nothing to get it. I clutch my head with wet, stinking hands, determined to hold it together until the inevitable occurs--I pass out.
Nothing compares to the agony the Sinsar Dubh causes me. Each time I get close to it, the same thing happens. I'm immobilized by pain that escalates until I lose consciousness. Barrons says it's because the Dark Book and I are point and counterpoint. That it's so evil, and I'm so good, that it repels me violently.
His theory is to "dilute" me somehow, make me a little evil so I can get close to it. I don't see how making me evil so I can get close enough to pick up an evil book is a good thing.
I think I'd probably do evil things with it. In the past, each time I'd gotten close to the Book, Barrons had been with me, and I'd had the comfort of knowing he wouldn't let anything too awful happen to my unconscious body.
He might tote me around like a divining rod, but I could live with that. Tonight, however, I was alone. The thought of being vulnerable to anyone and anything in Dublin's streets for even a few moments terrified me. 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 had to get out of the puddle. I would not die so pathetically. A wintry wind howled down the street, whipping between buildings, chilling me to the bone.
Old newspapers cartwheeled like dirty, sodden tumbleweeds over broken bottles and discarded wrappers and glasses. I flailed in the sewage, scraped at the pavement with my fingernails, left the tips of them broken in gaps between the cobbled stones. Inch by inch, I clawed my way to drier ground.
It was there--straight ahead of me: the Dark Book. I could feel it, fifty yards from where I scrabbled for download.
Maybe less. And it wasn't just a book. Oh, no. It was nothing that simple. It pulsated darkly, charring the edges of my mind. Why wasn't I passing out? Why wouldn't this pain end?
I felt like I was dying. Saliva flooded my mouth, frothing into foam at my lips. I wanted desperately to throw up but I couldn't. Even my stomach was locked down by pain. Moaning, I tried to raise my head. I had to see it. I'd been close to it before, but I'd never seen it.
I'd always passed out first. If I wasn't going to lose consciousness, I had questions I wanted answered. I didn't even know what it looked like. Who had 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. Leaving only me. And them. The vision before me was not at all what I'd expected. 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.
I'm not sure I actually made a sound. My lungs were compressed with pain. The gunman let loose a spray of bullets, silencing their cries.