Page 1 of You Give Me Fever

Chapter

One

I’M IN HEAVEN, AND MY HEART BEATS SO THAT I CAN HARDLY SPEAK

A disturbing horde of creatures had been visiting Clara Bailey for the past week. Maybe she had been alone too long on what was once her parents’ farm, or maybe the crisp air of autumn had brought upon it some devilry. Perhaps it was the evening she’d been stuck walking home from town in the rain, soaked and freezing, that was to blame.

There had been flashing bright flies swirling at the corners of her vision on Monday, scuttling spiders on Tuesday, and by Wednesday, shadow cats and snakes were undulating beneath her feet, only to disappear the moment she stepped down. By the week’s end, a hulking black shape had taken up residence in the corner of her room, and the visions were accompanied by shakes and a chill.

None of that was a problem, however, because Clara Bailey was not sick. She had no time to get sick with chickens to care for, eggs to sell, endless firewood to chop, and something in the house breaking every day or three.

At twenty-eight, she had already cultivated a stubborn streak to rival a ninety-year-old cigar-smoking widow. Sick was out of the question; she was only “a touch under the weather.” Or so she told herself the days following her monsoon jaunt, even as she rattled and shook like the barn in a storm.

So if she was still awake when the Grandfather clock in the study below marked three in the morning, alternately throwing off her blankets and then bundling herself up tightly into a gigantic quilted pastry, it was not a fever.

It was far more likely—even preferable—that her old family farmhouse was haunted. It was a little over a hundred years old, after all, and any dwelling or, for that matter, book, pair of trousers, or cocker spaniel that old surely had a ghost attached. If not, Clara reasoned, then its owner must be very unlucky indeed.

“Get out, ghost,” she said in a groan, rolling over.

Unfortunately for Clara, her instincts were correct. She was not, in fact, alone. The thing’s eyes went wide as he watched. That thick, smooth thigh, perfectly on exhibit, flung out of the bedclothes, with her nightdress hitched up practically to her hips, was giving him the insane urge to run his tongue along its curve. Her face was turned away from him, her nimbus of dark curls masking what he knew to be her freckled nose, her long dark eyelashes, her lips so soft he wanted to sleep on them, and that flush all over from the raging fever she refused to acknowledge. What was turned toward him was her backside, and there his eyes were locked. Round, luscious... sizeable. He could practically feel it beneath his palm.

Oh... and then she groaned.

Could the thing blush? He came from heat, was made of heat, had heat for every meal, but what rose to his face at hearing that soft sound was hotter even than he.

What sounds might she make if he touched her? If his fingers should find their way between those delicious thighs? Would she sound different if those sighs and groans came from pleasure—from him?

The thing was made of nothing solid, made of shadow, steam and ill-intent, and yet, in that moment, he swore he could feel a tightening between his hips, an ache on the tip of his tongue that he felt he might be able to soothe if he could slip it between her⁠—

He snapped to attention. Hands of shadow were creeping up the bed, crawling spider-like toward his girl. They were not his hands.

Just as the long fingers reached the swirling typhoon of sheets around Clara’s legs, the thing grabbed it and yanked, slamming this new threat against the wall. He narrowed his eyes at the creature squirming in his grip.

“Frenzy,” the thing growled.

“Ahh… is this one yours?” Frenzy asked with a thin shellac of courtesy. “I didn’t realize you had already been given another one. Dropping like wheat in the field these days, aren’t they?”

“Out,” said the thing, squeezing with his huge hand until his rival made a noise of protest.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Frenzy held his palms up and smiled. “This one’s a fighter. I’m looking forward to seeing how you handle her.”

“OUT. NOW.” This time, the thing bared his bright teeth.

“Relax, Shiver,” said the other fever demon. “I’m out.”

Frenzy dispersed slowly, his dark form breaking up in wisps of steam. The last bit to go was that slippery smile.

Shiver kept his eyes on that smirk until it disappeared. Only when he was finally sure that he was alone with the girl did he flash to her bedside, looming over her to inspect for injuries. If that obscene worm had so much as tousled her hair, Shiver would bury him sixteen hells deep.

Silence once again held the room, broken only by the raspy breaths of the girl.

Clara was far away, her head burning so hot she could hear it against her ears like bacon in the iron. There was no way to be comfortable, freezing and burning and freezing again. She flipped over and squinted into the darkness of her room. Had she left a lantern on? Or... two? Or were those eyes burning white hot against the blackness?

“Thought I t-told y’to take a powder, ghost,” she slurred. One might find it funny that she was talking to eyes in the dark—well, why not? Clara talked to everything since living alone, the chickens, the eggs, the trees, the radio. May as well talk to a ghost.

Shiver froze. She was looking right at him. If she could see him already, things were worse than he thought. She could be in real trouble. Which... he was not supposed to care about.

“I said m’not sick. Shoo.”