Page 93 of Dark Sun (Wicked Lovely 6)

Some things were unchanged. Irial wasn’t prone to liking humans. He’d bedded his share, but genuine fondness for them was as rare as a blizzard in the Mojave. It could happen, but now that the last Winter Queen had been replaced, it was unlikely.

He looked again at the text Leslie had sent a few hours ago: “With Iri. Airport. NOLA. Love.”

He could reply, but getting answers when Discord was involved was as likely as turning coal to diamonds. It could happen, but not without a degree of pressure that Niall was unwilling to apply via another person.

Niall glanced at the time. By now, they were on the ground.Why? That was the real question. Of all the cities in the world, that was one of the few Irial avoided. That hadn’t always been the case. Niall remembered seeing him there, thinking that it was a city positively designed for the Dark Court. Back then, Niall had been advisor to the Summer King, and Keenan had toted the court there in pursuit of a potential Summer Queen—one who’d vanished.

He called Irial. Once. Twice. Tried Leslie’s number, too.

Then he did what any sane Dark King did when Discord was not easily located: he booked a trip of his own. His, however, was a bit more primal than steel tubes hurtling through the air as if by magic.

“Chela?” He spoke the word into the air, the shadow slithered across the ground, and the word moved at the speed of darkness. He ought to call her by her title, but he’d known her too long for that. Before her, her mate—Gabriel—had led the Hunt, but upon his death, Chela assumed the mantle.

“Gabriela,” Niall added, using the title out of respect.

Then he ordered a coffee. There was no way to keep up with Irial in New Orleans of all places and catch a bit of much needed sleep. Coffee was the best solution. Again. Some days, Niall wondered if he’d have flat-out refused the crown if he knew how little rest there would be.

Before an hour had passed, Niall could feel them: The Hunt rode. The earth itself seemed to quake, as if the soil would shake loose the dead. The weight of the fear that rolled out before them made the very air heavier, thicker, as if moving was impossible. Several mortals in the street shivered. The roll of terror that surrounded the Hunt made more than a few passing mortals look to the sky as if a storm rode overhead.

“We come,” the voices echoed. No mortal ear would hear. No human eye could see.

Chela and the Hounds never moved at a saunter.

When they arrived, Chela did not get off her steed, Alba, who appeared to be a massive lion currently. Chela’s shifted shapes the way some people changed clothes. Alba expressed his feelings with his shape. Since Gabriel’s death, Alba was often leonine, feral and ready to hunt anything that threatened Chela—or looked as if it could.

None of the steeds were in car form. Instead, they looked like a deadly menagerie: an oversized lion snarled next to a lizard-like beast; something that resembled a dragon paced next to a chimera; and scattered among them all were skeletal horses and emaciated red dogs. Atop the steeds were equally fierce Hounds.

The leader, Chela, dipped her chin. It was the closest to a bow that most Hounds offered. They weren’t strangers to the etiquette of court, but they weren’tsubjectsof any court either—and Chela was keen on reminding him of that truth. They stayed because she chose to stay. The fears they roused by their very presence were nourishing to the Dark Court. The terror that rolled off their skins was like the finest wine. And they, not shockingly, liked to be appreciated.

“Home?” The Hound paused and grinned. “Or has the old King done something troubling again?”

Niall walked up to her and said, “I don’t know, but I need to go find out.”

Chela grinned. “Where to?”

“New Orleans.”

Her pause would’ve escaped his notice if several of the Hounds accompanying her hadn’t frozen, too. For one extended moment, they all seemed to stop moving, as if time itself had held its breath. Then, with a falsely casual expression, Chela said, “Sure. We haven’t been there in ages. A little bayou excursion sounds good.” She motioned him toward her. “We’ll drop you at the house and go—”

“The house?”

Several Hounds exchanged glances.

“In the Garden District . . .? I thought Iri would be at the house,” Chela said haltingly.

“Whathouse?” Niall rubbed his temples and lit another cigarette. At some point, Niall figured he might know all the secrets the last Dark King held, but some days he suspected that was impossible.

“You visited,” a Hound said.

“The courtownsthat house?” Niall clarified. He remembered. It was an ostentatious Garden District mansion, but he’d assumed that Irial had merely rented it as most courts did in most cities.

More shuffling and their glances went everywhere but him. Niall couldn’t order them to obey him. The Hounds only obeyed Chela.

“Sentimental reasons,” Chela offered. “We all do things for reasons other than logic, don’t we?” She glanced at the steed that kept pace with her, riderless still.

The steed that had belonged to Gabriel had remained in the form of a giant black horse with a reptilian head. It flashed pit-viper fangs at Niall, not in threat but in a smile of sorts. Aside from Chela, the steed had only allowed him, Irial, and Leslie to ride. Niall suspected the Winter Queen could, but she simply visited the nameless creature from time-to-time.

Chela could order it to shift or choose a new master, but she had done neither.

---