“The Saint Louis Cemetery,” I whispered, my eyes unfocused as I sought out the location of death and destruction in my mind. “They're waiting for me there. This is a trap.”
“Then we can't go,” Killian frowned. “These are the creatures who held you? Who tortured you for more than a century?” I smiled softly at him, even through the secondhand fear and agony I was plagued with. My Lord of Winter was a sharp one—nothing got past him.
“Yes.” I nodded and he scowled, folding his leather clad arms over his muscular chest.
“Then we must get to the spear another way. It is too much of a risk, to let them near you again.” His jaw was locked stubbornly and I felt a little bad for what I needed to do next.
They were concerned for my safety, and they had every right to be. These creatures had bested the Veil Keeper once before, and look how that had turned out …
But that was Gràinne, not Ciarah. Ciarah was the one who'd escaped them.
“I cannot, will not, abandon those fae to those vile bastards.” I met Killian's defiant stare calmly as I threaded powerful, ancient magic into my words. “You will do as I command, and continue on this quest with me. Our duty demands we do everything in our power to save fae lives, and I will not accept retreat. Am I understood?”
Kill's eyes flashed with ice-cold fury, but I had layered so much magic into my voice that he was powerless to respond with anything but a curt nod. The same went for my other two Lords, as well as their comrades in arms.
As one, their eyes glowing bright with Keeper magic, the bikers kicked their rides back into gear and we proceeded towards the cemetery. This time, though, the silence of our ride was broken by Fionn's rough voice.
“And so we ride,” he growled out, his voice carrying through the still night, and the rest of the Wild Hunt echoed him in unison.
Guilt sat in my throat like a grapefruit, making it impossible for me to respond. My Lords’ anger was so palpable I could feel it radiating off them in waves.
Had I not just told myself that I would treat them with respect? Not to rule over them but to rule with them? And yet here I was, imposing my will on them and taking away their ability to choose for themselves.
I was no better than the Swamp Witch.
Hell, I was worse.
The first thing I noticed as we navigated the narrow streets of New Orleans on our way to the Saint Louis Cemetery, was the lack of people. Humans. They were nowhere to be seen.
Of course, it was several hours before dawn yet, but this was NOLA, a city which took ‘never sleeping’ to whole new heights, so the eerie lack of drunken humans was both a relief and a concern.
Could they feel the danger? I wouldn't have been surprised if they could … it was thick in the air like an impending hurricane.
From inside the walls of the burial ground, screams of dying fae echoed out to us, rattling my body and making me tense.
Not your body, not your pain, not your fear, Ciarah. You're strong. Powerful. They will not win, not this time.
The words repeated over and over in my head, and I wasn't even sure who spoke them. Me, or one of the previous Keepers. Whoever it was, I was thankful.
Those words helped me cling to sanity. They were the life raft I needed to keep my focus and do what needed to be done.
Killian rolled his bike to a stop alongside Arlo, and I swung my leg off without waiting for his assistance. He was furious with me, and I didn't blame him, so I wasn't going to push the issue until we were safe.
“These creatures,” I started, in a low voice intended for the ears of my Hunt only, “feed on fear. They cannot be harmed with human weapons, so do not waste your bullets shooting them.” I eyed a couple of the older bikers who were loading and checking their handguns. “They will stop at nothing to make you afraid, and then they will prey on that emotion. Don't let them.” I wove the magic of command into my voice once more. Whether it would work, I had no idea, but I had to hope.
Because without hope, those bastards may as well have won already.
The cemetery walls stretched out on either side of us, giants made of stone and topped with barbed wire. I remembered from my life as a human that there were numerous break-ins at this particular cemetery, looters and hoodoo practitioners defiling the sacred tombs of the dead. The city had this place on fucking lockdown.
As I stood there and peered up at the bright silver eye of the moon in the sky, my nostrils flared with the distinctly metallic scent of blood. Glancing to my left, I found the body of a policeman with his heart torn out, red splattered across the white walls of the cemetery and just barely visible in the shadows cast by the street lamps.
I remembered that, the sensation of having my beating heart torn from my chest. As the Veil Keeper, an immortal and invincible goddess of Faerie, it wasn't a death sentence … but it was pain. A heart is more than just an organ that pumps blood. It's the core of a person's being, the place where all their hopes and dreams, their love and their hate, their fears and their desires coalesce.
It was even worse than having my voice stolen from me and that was almost insufferable.
I glanced away from the comatose police officer. He was already dead, his soul gone, his flesh a shell of meat and blood that could do nothing for us now.
“The Wild Hunt rides,” I snarled and the men rushed the gate, snapping the heavy chains on the front with a pair of bolt cutters and pushing their way into the cemetery. I lagged behind, unfurling my wings from my back and tasting the air.
They were here.
They were fucking everywhere.
My body is unchained from the wall for the first time in months and I drop to the floor on my knees, weeping at the blessed feeling of being able to cross my arms over my chest, duck my head, curl my legs close.
It doesn't last.
The shadows swarm around me, dragging my head back in a fistful of claws, laying my body out on the floor with sheer force. They don't know the meaning of rape nor understand the appeal, but they fill every orifice I have with iron. It scalds and burns, makes my skin bubble and my body convulse.
I can't breathe; I can't speak; I can't even remember my own name anymore.
Blinking the vision away, I swiped my palms over my face and shook my head to clear it. Fuck. I'd been there all of two minutes and they were getting inside my head, summoning my worst nightmares to the surface.
“Psychological torture,” I whispered as the boys followed me into the cemetery, weaving through the mess of mausoleums.
The pain of the fae wracked my body with violent tremors, made my teeth hurt, my throat tight, my muscles sore. But I was having a hard time finding anyone but the members of the Wild Hunt.