MARCH IN ATLANTIS: A POSEIDON'S WARRIORS NOVEL Read online

  MARCH IN ATLANTIS

  A POSEIDON’S WARRIORS NOVEL

  ALYSSA DAY

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Thank You!

  Excerpt: January in Atlantis

  Books by Alyssa

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The Warrior's Creed:

  We will wait. And watch. And protect.

  And serve as first warning on the eve of humanity's destruction.

  Then, and only then, Atlantis will rise.

  For we are the Warriors of Poseidon, and the mark of the Trident we bear serves as witness to our sacred duty to safeguard mankind.

  After eleven thousand years beneath the seas, the lost continent is lost no more. Atlantis has risen and is now openly taking part in human affairs. But the creatures that formerly hid in the dark have come out into the daylight, too. Vampires, shapeshifters, the Fae, and more are now part of daily life on Earth…and often not to humanity's benefit.

  The fabled group known as Poseidon's Warriors must therefore continue their sworn task of protecting humankind, and a new group of fighters will vow to become the king's elite vanguard. The king calls them The Twelve.

  The rest of Atlantis calls them Denal's Deadbeats.

  January: Flynn, Jake and Griffin fought to save a group of kidnapped girls from the clutches of the demon and human members of Hell's Dark Angels…and Flynn met Eva, the love of his life, who just happens to be a demon whisperer.

  February: Jake, Griffin, and Lucas faced a moral dilemma – a band of rogue shifters planned to force the shift on the members of Humanity Prime, a hate group that works to destroy all creatures and beings supernatural, creating a moral dilemma for the warriors: which group is worse? But innocents were at the H Prime enclave, and Poseidon's Warriors would never stand for that. Jake met Savannah and reached the soul-meld with her just before she found out if her forced shift would turn her into a falcon--or kill her. And Lucas? Lucas went berserker and killed so many rogues he may never be able to come back from the depths of darkness…

  Now the month of March opens with the shock of a demon attack on Atlantean soil.

  It's going to be a hell of a year.

  1

  Atlantis, the queen's parlor adjacent to the throne room, February 28th

  "Demons! Demons! DEMONS!”

  The noise of shouting and the sound of pounding feet raced down the corridor toward them, and the ceremonial guard at the door looked in at Conlan.

  "Sire?”

  Just as he spoke, the warning bells, which had been silent for more than eleven thousand years, started pealing great, thunderous claps of sound, telling Atlanteans to beware, take cover, to arms, stand ready!

  King Conlan, whose ancestor had ruled in that long-ago catastrophic battle, put a hand on the hilt of the sword that rarely left his hip, even in these modern times of relative peace.

  "Ambassador, I'm afraid we'll have to cut this short,” he told the obsequious toad of a diplomat who'd been fawning over Conlan's wife for the past half hour.

  Fawning over Riley's breasts in that dress, to be more precise, causing Conlan to ignore the conversation and instead consider which of several particularly horrible techniques he'd employ to destroy the pervert. Drawing and quartering currently held first place.

  Demons. Unlikely, but still a great excuse to get out of this meeting.

  "Duty calls,” he told his wife, bending to kiss her.

  "Conlan—” Riley's eyes were flashing, which told him he'd be in trouble when this was over, whatever this was.

  "Protect the ambassador,” he requested, before she could get the rest of that sentence out.

  "To hell with the ambassador, I'm going to find our son,” she said, shoving the tea cart out of her way and reaching for the dagger at her side. Riley was damn good with a dagger—and even better with an umbrella. He almost smiled at the memory, but then remembered the fallout from that battle. Not good. And those had only been vampires, not demons.

  As they started for the door, Aidan's nanny ran in with the boy, and Conlan's heartbeat calmed a notch. Pelia, too, was armed with a short sword—she took her duty as caretaker to the royal prince very seriously—and ready for battle.

  "Your highness—Riley—the bells,” she gasped, holding a very annoyed toddler out to his mother.

  Aidan twisted his face into his too-familiar and utterly terrifying pre-scream grimace, but then he saw his father and cheered up mid-breath. "Daddeeeeeeeee!”

  Conlan grinned at his son, who was already a warrior at not quite two years old. "Not this time, Aidan.”

  "Be careful,” Riley demanded, already moving into position to protect the others.

  "Always.” He took a step, whirled around and kissed them both, and then he strode out of the room to join in a fight that probably wasn't happening, with demons that probably didn't exist except in some hungover guard's imagination.

  Wrong.

  The clamor of clashing metal and shouting that reached his ears told him how wrong he'd been.

  As he ran down the corridor and out of the palace, a phalanx of his guards falling in behind him, the sounds of battle grew into a roaring thunder. By the time he made it out the front doors of the palace, he was grimly prepared for the sight of battle, but not for the sight of his people battling scores of Minor Demons.

  Demons? They dared to attack here?

  "To me, Atlantis!” he roared, holding his blade up into the air.

  An answering roar sounded in the throats of all his people. "Atlantis!”

  King, warrior, husband, and father—with all that he was, Conlan plunged into the fight.

  2

  Green Cove Springs, Florida

  Lucas prided himself on his ability to be calm in all situations, but he'd never been literally stabbed in the back before.

  Pain sliced through him as he stumbled forward, shuddering down his nerve endings and turning the world a bright, blazing red. He fought against it—fought the warning signs of berserker rage escaping the tight leash he'd kept on it all his life…

  The knife slammed into his back again, narrowly missing his heart. Pain and rage combined into a tidal wave of fury, and still he fought against losing control. Then the door to the cabin the shifters had been using as a temporary HQ crashed open and a flood of enraged shifters bent on murder—his murder—swarmed out.

  Lucas pushed the pain to a small corner of his mind, pivoted, and caught the first man's wrist just before the blade struck a third and perhaps final time.

  Then, for the first time in more than a decade, he released the chains binding the berserker side of his nature. The ensorcelled daggers that came to his call when he needed them shot into his hands, their worn hilts already hot to the touch.

  "For Mycenae!” he roared, his throat closing with that all-too-familiar mix of shame and pride. "For Atlantis!”

  The half-dozen shifters hesitated for a split second before they charged, two of them beginning the shift while the others came at him in their human forms. They had knives, chains, and guns, but they w
ere foregoing the efficiency of shooting him for the pleasure of killing him up-close-and-personal.

  That was the last rational thought he had for a while.

  When Lucas came back to himself, back to some form of sanity, he stood alone in the center of a ring of bodies, his sword raised and dripping fat, scarlet drops onto the ground beneath him. He gulped down huge breaths of the cool night air and tried to think. Tried to remember exactly what he'd done.

  What he'd become.

  It took only a thought to heal his own wounds—his healing magic extended that far, at least—and then he forced himself to chase red-drenched memories through the darkness in his mind. But only flashes came. The red berserker haze and the whistling sound of his sword cutting through air, through flesh, through bone. He'd killed them. Killed them all. But his only emotion was a slight twinge of regret. Not for their deaths; for his failure.

  Dead men couldn't talk, and he needed to know their plans.

  A barely-audible moan broke through the haze that was slowly clearing from his mind, and he turned around to see that a single man—the one who'd first stabbed him—was still alive in that clearing filled with the broken forms of the fallen.

  "Don't kill me, man,” the shifter pleaded, his hands scrabbling to keep his guts inside his body.

  Lucas's mind calmly and automatically performed calculations:

  Abdominal wound.

  Head injury.

  Fatal loss of blood.

  Chance of survival: Nil.

  Ability to confess to the nature of the shifter group's plans: Limited.

  Time remaining to try: Two to three minutes, at most.

  All of this ran through his brain in seconds. He crouched down in front of the man, who flinched and cried out, trying to back away despite his deadly wounds.

  "Please. I didn't even want to do this. Any of this. Don't kill me, man. I'll tell you anything. Anything. Just don't kill me,” the man pleaded, tears and blood running down his face.

  "Your name,” Lucas said, his voice almost too rusty to be understood. He cleared his throat, pushed the rage—kill, rend, destroy—back, and tried again. "Your name.”

  "Burns. I'm Burnsie. Don't kill me,” the man blubbered.

  Lucas smiled, and Burnsie closed his eyes and wailed.

  "Burnsie, tell me your plans, and I won't kill you.” Lucas wasn't lying. He wouldn't do anything else to this dying man. Dying of a gut wound was horribly painful, or so he'd heard, and killing Burns would be a kindness the man didn't deserve.

  The rogue group's plans included killing women and children, after all.

  Burns clutched harder at his stomach and cried out but then cast a wide-eyed glance up at Lucas. It was amazing, the human capacity to hold on to hope in the face of overwhelming evidence of evil, despair, and imminent death.

  Lucas liked hope. Hope made killing them easier.

  "Tell me the plans for tonight.”

  Burns nodded, his lips quivering with eagerness. "We're infiltrated the H Prime retreat. You know them? Humanity Prime? They're at that retreat center a few miles over near the river.”

  Lucas nodded grimly. He knew the bastards. Humanity Prime was a hate group of human nationalists, and its sole aim was the utter destruction of everyone and everything supernatural. Ever since the Fae, vampires, shifters, and other paranormal entities had admitted the truth of their existence to the humans more than a dozen years ago, hate and fear had driven closed-minded humans to join up into groups whose goal was to prod their members into terrorism (H Prime and the others called it patriotism) designed to kill, destroy, and erase non-humans from the face of the earth.

  The northeast Florida chapter currently holding a retreat was the one Lucas and his fellow Poseidon's Warriors had been investigating, but not because of the H Prime members themselves. No, the reason Jake was undercover inside and Griffin was surveilling from outside the compound was even darker. They already knew that Burnsie's group of shifters had gone into the retreat, pretending to be human H Prime members, and the group planned a repeat of a horrifying assault they'd perpetrated before: they were going to attack the entire group of humans sometime tonight or tomorrow, just before tomorrow night's full moon, and attempt to force the Transition into shifter onto all of them.

  This was wrong in so many, many ways. The shifter council had decreed that no human could be granted the Transition without counseling, informed consent, and the agreement by the shifter pack involved.

  Not to mention that forced Transition was punishable by death under human law, because the human courts considered that the act essentially killed the person who had existed before. The non-shifter version of the person was, in truth, dead, if one chose to look at it a certain way.

  And given that nearly half of all humans who attempted the Transition died during their first shift—worse, more than three-quarters of the women did—a forced shift was often murder in more ways than just semantic.

  "Tell me their plans,” Lucas growled, and Burns flinched again.

  "Tomorrow. Midnight. They're going to call the leadership into a meeting and kill Greer—he's the chapter leader?”

  Hate groups had chapter leaders. For some reason, this struck Lucas as almost worse than anything else. The bigotry bureaucracy; who would have guessed?

  "Go on,” he told Burns, narrowing his eyes.

  "That's it,” Burns whined. "After Greer and his leadership guys are dead, the group is going to attack the rest of the humans there and force the—” the man broke off into a spasm of wet-sounding coughing.

  Maybe some lung damage, Lucas's mind automatically noted. Best to hurry this along.

  "Force the Transition? On those humans? Do you realize there are women and children in there?” His voice lowered to a deadly calm, but Lucas could feel himself losing control again. He took a deep, centering breath to force himself to focus. Killing this pathetic weasel of a man would accomplish nothing; he needed to know more.

  "Hey, don't be sexist,” Burns wheezed, when he finally stopped coughing. "Some of H Prime's most bloodthirsty ringleaders are women.”

  "The children are innocents, at least,” Lucas snarled.

  Burns shrugged. "Collateral damage, man. You're not human, right? You get it. We have to save ourselves.”

  Lucas grabbed him by the throat. "I'm from Atlantis. Children are never, ever collateral damage to us.”

  Collateral damage. Children. That's the expression he'd heard several times when he was listening outside the cabin, too.

  Collateral fucking damage.

  Lucas's vision started to turn red again, but he fought it back. Must. Not. Give. In. He was a man, not a monster.

  Man, not monster.

  Man, not monster.

  Repeating it helped some. Not a lot—he didn't really believe it—but enough. Enough to allow him to release the man's throat.

  Burns, clearly realizing in some part of his lizard brain that he was in immediate and deadly peril, hunched into a ball, clutching his belly. Trying to hold his guts in.

  Too little, too late, Lucas could have told him, but he didn't bother. He had what he needed. Dismissing the dying man on the ground, Lucas stood and took a step away from the rank stench of perforated bowel.

  He needed to talk to the rest of the Twelve, at least the ones who were here with him on this mission. Before he could reach out, he heard Jake's voice in his mind on the Atlantean mental communications pathway.

  Denal. We need to talk. I've got innocents here, and we need to get them out of the way before anything happens. What's the timeline on getting the P-Ops people in here?

  Lucas realized Jake was trying to contact Denal, who was their leader now and, in the past, had also been a member of King Conlan's first elite team of warriors—the Seven. Denal was also a serious pain in Lucas's ass, but that was irrelevant right now.

  He answered Jake: Denal, our fearless leader, had to return to Atlantis to deal with some emergency.

  Gr
iffin spoke up next: I can handle the guards and, in fact, any obvious guns in the compound. What's the situation there?

  Jake: The situation is bad, verging on horrible. I have no way to tell who's a shifter and who isn't. I haven't seen any sign of the werewolf prince, either. Maybe he isn't here after all.

  Lucas cut in. He'd heard the shifters discussing this, too, before Burns had caught him off guard with that damn knife.

  He's there. I found the rogue shifters' base a few miles away from the H Prime retreat and listened long enough to get their plans. They're planning to attack at midnight on the full moon, which is tomorrow. They know there are children inside, Jake. They don't care. The words "collateral damage" were repeated several times.

  Jake: Those bastards. If only I knew which one the leader was, I could get a fix on his people.

  Lucas nodded to himself. He could help with that. Easy enough.

  He focused hard and sent the image of the leader into Jake's mind, carried by the mental pathway. He'd seen it on the phone image that one of the shifters had been passing around to a couple of the newcomers. Ugly. Thuggish. Old. Scraggly gray hair.

  Jake's voice came through, sounding resigned. He's the bear?

  Lucas responded: Yes. His son, who looks just like him, is the raptor. Mother must be a bird shifter. Stay clear of the son, Jake. He's completely insane and has gutted several of his own pack, just for the fun of seeing them die.

  Jake: Little late for that, but I'll do what I can from now on.

  Griffin's voice cut into the conversation: How exactly did you get all this information, Lucas?

  Lucas looked at the bodies littering the ground around him and laughed—a choked sound that carried nothing of amusement or humor.