The Fevered Bookaholic Novels & Stories

Zoe stared at the book, her fingers hovering over its worn cover, tracing the cracks in the leather and the faint symbols etched into its spine. It felt… alive. Not in a way she could explain, but there was something ancient about it—something that pulsed beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered. The Book of Life, her heart raced, every answer she had been searching for… could be inside.

Tell me, Miss Matiwane, do you think it kind of me, or terribly low? Have you heard of this aphorism, in which the heat encourages humanity to act at their very worst? That the fever of the sun encourages all vices, even those long dormant in the gentlest of souls, to rear their ugly heads? The delinquents have been driven from their stifling burrows and now they roam the streets, thieving and plundering at every opportunity that presents itself.

“Too much.” Nana hears her, but the words arrive distorted, as though spoken from beneath water. She tries to respond, but her lips remain still, her body too heavy, sinking deeper into the mattress. Felicia does not pause. She moves with purpose, her grip steady as she wrings a cloth, pressing the damp fabric to Nana’s skin, chasing the fever that refuses to break. “This is not normal,” she says, almost to herself. “Not an ordinary fever.” Her gaze flickers toward the door, lingering.

Perfect. As I flipped through the chapters, the story heated up fast. The protagonist, a shy librarian much like me, was cornered in the stacks by a dominant stranger. His hands roamed her body without mercy, fingers teasing her nipples until they ached, then dipping lower to claim her wetness. I shifted on the couch, feeling that familiar tingle between my legs. God, why did these books always get me so worked up? My thighs pressed together instinctively, seeking friction.

I said, She didn’t argue. I moved through the darkened hallways like a ghost, down to the kitchen. The night cook had already gone to bed, but the pantry light was still on. I found the ingredients by memory, bone broth I’d simmered myself two days ago, fresh ginger, garlic, lemongrass, a knob of turmeric, honey, and the fever healing recipe my mother used to steep whenever one of us pups came down with fever. The scent alone brought back flashes of her cool hand on my forehead, the low lullaby she sang while stirring the pot, I kept swearing to avenge their death because to everyone it was an accident but I knew, it wasn't.

She lost herself in the words, letting them pull her into another world, another time, another story that wasn’t hers. She didn’t even notice when her eyelids grew heavy. Didn’t notice when the book slipped from her fingers. Didn’t notice when she drifted into unconsciousness. Heat. It was the first thing she felt. An unbearable, suffocating heat pressing against her skin, wrapping around her throat like a vise. Then the smell—thick, acrid, choking. Something was burning. Her eyes snapped open, and terror crashed into her like a tidal wave. Flames. They licked hungrily at the bookshelves, devouring the store in angry tongues of gold and crimson. Smoke curled in thick plumes, turning the air

KELLY The room had grown colder, though Nevaeh burned like a star in my arms. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her skin slick with sweat. I pressed a damp cloth to her forehead, but it was useless. The fever wasn’t ordinary. It pulsed beneath her skin like something alive. “Stay with me, baby,” I whispered, brushing her hair from her face. “Please.” Her little hand clutched at my wrist, too weak to hold on.

The warmth from the fire didn't really ease the uneasy feeling growing inside me. Taking a deep breath, I opened the book. Each page turn felt like stepping back into a past I wanted to forget. The flames continued to dance, casting a flickering light that seemed to play along with the emotions swirling within me. I turned another page, the words becoming guides through a landscape of recovery I wasn't sure I was ready to navigate. Memories, like shadows, crept in as the fire crackled. Each sentence seemed to awaken echoes of my own experiences. It was as if the library held its breath, waiting for me to absorb the weight of those stories and somehow find my own path within them.

If anyone walks in, I could pretend to be making the bed, I think to myself. Quietly I pad across the floor and lift the mattress of the bed. The book falls with a soft thud to the frame of the bed. Reaching under the bed I grasp the book in my hand and the symbols glow brightly as they change shapes into letters that I can read. 'Prophecies of the Fae.'

"I don't want that car." "Kabir, don't be an idiot. That's your car." "A car that made me worse." He met my challenge. "A car that made you cry. I don't want it." "I get it. I really do." I calmed my mind by staring into his eyes, felt the fever lurking in them. "Kabir, you have a fever. Rest, please." "Bookworm—"