Atlantis Rising wop-1 Page 6

  Needing to know what had happened to him, even as he resented the intrusion into his head.

  "A fountain of water? Your childish games bring unwanted attention to us, priest. Be advised that I prefer it that you stop," he growled, resorting to formal speak.

  Alaric grinned again, clearly unrepentant, and released his hand. "Uh-oh. You're calling me priest, instead of Alaric. That must mean you're trying on your kingly ways, old friend."

  Then the grin faded, and the illusion of amiability vanished with it. A dark and lethal predator remained, ice-green eyes glowing with power. "Be advised that I do what I wish. Poseidon's high priest answers to none but the sea god himself."

  Before Conlan could frame a retort, he felt, rather than heard, his brother shoot up through the water, barely breaking the surface. He turned to watch Ven stride through the sand, the coppery blades of his orichalcum daggers unsheathed and held at the ready.

  Ven held the title of King's Vengeance by heredity and by battle right. No warrior was more skilled. Nobody could kick vamp or shape-shifter ass better. Which was a handy trait in the man whose sworn duty it was to protect his brother the high prince.

  Except for those times when Conlan sped off for the surface without waiting for either his brother or his elite guard.

  As he'd never done before. Something to prove, much?

  Conlan dismissed the idea of arguing with Alaric and turned to his brother. Ven was going to be pissed.

  He had a right to be.

  Ven stormed up the beach toward him. "What in the name of the nine hells were you thinking? Are you out of your damn mind? We're facing a threat that we don't even understand, and you pick now to go all Rambo?"

  Conlan strained to keep the snarl out of his own voice, and almost succeeded.

  Almost.

  "Do you offer battle challenge, my brother?" He got right up in Ven's face, in spite of the fact that his baby brother had a couple of inches and maybe fifty pounds on him.

  Ven bared his teeth. "Look, you idiot—"

  Conlan very deliberately swept one arm out, a ball of turquoise and silver light flashing in his upturned palm. Then he swept his gaze over Ven and the rest of the Seven and drew what shred of dignity he still possessed around him. "I think you overstep the role of King's Vengeance, my brother. I answer to no one."

  Even as the words left his mouth, he realized their similarity to those Alaric had just uttered.

  Evidently, so did Alaric, whose eyes gleamed with amusement. But at least he had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

  Not so with Ven. He gaped, staring at the ball of pure energy crackling in Conlan's hand. "Overstep? I overstep the role? I am the King's Vengeance, you overgrown excuse for a pigheaded princeling."

  Conlan glared at his brother, the two of them toe to toe, Ven giving as good as he got. Then the sound of applause broke through his focus. He jerked his head around to sear Alaric with a glare. The priest continued to clap his hands together.

  "Lovely. Very impressive," the priest drawled. "We have Reisen on the loose with the Trident and some unknown threat who has drained our prince's power, and yet we have time to play 'whose dick is bigger?' between the Brothers Grimace."

  Conlan opened his mouth, then closed it again, anger draining away. He waved his fingers and the energy ball vanished, then he stepped back from his brother.

  "You suck at respect for royalty, don't you?" he said to Alaric. "But, as much as I hate it, you're right."

  Conlan glanced at his guard, all clad like his brother in the black leather pants and long coats Ven had demanded they wear on any trips to the surface. Ven figured badass biker dude was as good a cover as any for men who towered over most human males.

  Conlan's warriors—Poseidon's Warriors—stood at battle alert, hands fisted on blade handles, all constantly scanning their surroundings for imminent threat to their liege.

  And here he stood wasting their time with a pissing contest.

  Ven shoved a hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, what happened? We all felt the disturbance in the elements when you were attacked. What kind of creature could have done that? Was it a vamp?"

  "No—"

  Ven continued, talking right over him. "And why in the nine hells did you face it without us? Why leave without us?"

  Conlan glanced at his men, his brothers in arms, before responding. Denal wore an expression of keen reproach, but immediately schooled his expression to implacability when he realized Conlan was watching him.

  Ven followed Conlan's gaze through the line. His warriors. Sworn to the service of Poseidon and to the throne, they faced lives of grim purpose. They fought any who threatened humankind. Many died. Those who lived got patched up and returned to fight again.

  And their reward? Bound into loveless marriages with females they were ordered to wed. As he himself would do in two weeks' time.

  Conlan measured the tenor of his men, realizing anew how lucky he was. There was nobody he'd rather have at his back.

  Alexios, fierce, scarred face grim.

  Brennan, emotionless but for the whitened knuckles on his blades.

  Justice, blue-tinged hair in a braid to his waist, the handle of his sword rising from its sheath behind one shoulder. The member of his Seven who Conlan understood least—trusted least. But a warrior to be reckoned with, by anyone's measure.

  Bastien, towering over the others. Nearly seven feet of pure muscle and honed battle instincts.

  Christophe, skin glimmering faintly with the residue of barely controlled power.

  Finally back to Denal, the youngest of the Seven and newest to the role. He'd still been training at the academy when Conlan had… gone away.

  Before Conlan could speak, Ven's voice rang out again. "Are you going to clue me in on what you were thinking? Were you even thinking at all? These men are sworn to protect you, even to die for you. But you have to go play action hero?" Ven snorted, disgust written all over his face. "'Cause that worked out so well for you the last time, right?"

  Somebody gasped. Conlan inclined his head, acknowledging the solid body blow. If he'd waited for sufficient warriors when he'd chased Anubisa back into her lair, maybe he'd…

  No. Hindsight was for losers.

  He fought for calm in his voice. "Still don't hesitate to fight dirty, do you, brother?"

  Ven shook his head, brows drawn together. Disgust plain on his face. "A good ruler allows his subjects to do their jobs, Conlan. Maybe it's about time you learned that."

  Conlan whipped around to face his brother, fists clenching. Then he took a deep breath and considered. "Maybe you're right."

  He heard another gasp from behind him. Even before his capture, they'd never heard much in the way of backing down from their prince.

  Maybe it was time. Reason should temper rage. Maybe the philosopher had to rise to stand hand in hand with the warrior.

  Conlan nodded at his brother. "You're pissing me off, but you make a lot of sense."

  Ven blinked, apparently speechless. Conlan kept talking while that happy state continued. "But I'd consider it a personal favor if you'd forgive and forget, and we could get on with finding the Trident."

  Ven blinked again, then swept a brief bow, a grin quirking up the edges of his lips. "Consider it done, Your Highness."

  "Call me 'Your Highness' again, and I will kick your ass."

  Conlan said, a rueful grin spreading over his face, then fading. "I should have waited, I admit it. But that's not all I need to admit. We've got to talk. Consider it a matter of the utmost urgency."

  Ven raised a single eyebrow. His body, if possible, stiffened into an even more heightened state of wariness, as he whipped his head from side to side, scanning the beach and darkness beyond. "What is it? Reisen? Did you encounter any of the vamps or were-folk? Give me something to fight, damnit."

  Alaric glided noiselessly across the sand, coming closer, reminding Conlan of a shark preparing to strike.

  "What
was the threat?" Alaric demanded. "Did you encounter some new form of magic that can control even the elements?"

  Conlan shook his head, weighing his words. "I'm almost certainly going to regret telling you this. But you have a right to know. Especially when it concerns a potential weakness."

  Except now he was talking about a personal weakness. A weakness in the heir to the throne. Atlantean political strategy would demand he keep silent.

  Atlantean battle strategy would demand that he reveal all.

  He measured Ven and Alaric with his gaze. Ven was family, and Alaric had been Conlan's friend since childhood. Conlan had never concealed any truth from either of them. Yet, as he gazed into the fierce green glow of power shining in the priest's eyes, Conlan came to an unpleasant realization: he wasn't entirely sure Alaric could say the same.

  Conlan called his guard to approach, then spoke clearly and in the formal tones of his office. Never mind that formality felt false after so many years.

  Hell, maybe if he sounded like a king, he'd feel like one. "My haste in departing was unseemly and wrong in this matter. My brother reminds me that a good king allows his warriors to do what they have trained to do."

  He measured the face of each warrior in turn, and then continued, voice somber. "However, be advised of this. I will be king, and I am even now high prince. I will act as I consider warranted at all times."

  He paused, flashed a grin at Ven. "Just try to keep up, little brother."

  Humor fading from his face, Conlan lifted his head and scented the wind for any change in the elements, scanning for any of the living or undead nearby. Then he sent out a mental casting to touch Riley again, gritting his teeth at the realization that even their brief separation was making him tense.

  Edgy.

  Damnit. Who was she? More, what was she?

  She didn't even realize that he'd stayed in her mind, unnoticed, as she'd driven the short distance to her small home. He'd broken the connection during the discussion with his warriors and Alaric.

  He sent out a gentle touch. I'm here, Riley. Are you safe?

  He sensed her startled gasp and could almost see her. Her touch returned to him, her emotions fluttering like tiny sea anemones in his mind.

  Conlan? You can still talk to me? But I'm almost ten miles from the beach and—somehow I know you're still there.

  I can feel you, aknasha. I'm going to protect you, too. You have great value to… my people.

  She sent a slight hint of amusement—that, and an overwhelming sense of her exhaustion. That is a very pretty thought, but I'm not very valuable to anyone. I just need to take a bubble bath and go to sleep now. Good-bye.

  With that, the feel of mental doors crashing down snapped off his connection to her. He flinched back from the sensation, mouth dry, fighting to keep his body from hardening anew at the idea of her naked body glistening in a tub of scented bubbles.

  He clenched his eyes shut and groaned.

  Ven's eyes narrowed. "What is it? The threat?"

  Conlan's eyes snapped open, and he saw Ven and the rest of the Seven crouch into battle readiness, blades at the ready. Alaric threw his arms into the air as if to command power, the ocean waves instantly responding with a crashing symphony of percussion against the shore.

  Conlan held up one hand. "No, it's okay. There is no threat."

  He grinned. "Or, to be more accurate, the threat is going to take a bubble bath."

  Chapter 9

  "What is it, Lord Reisen?"

  Reisen sliced his hand through the air, commanding his warrior to desist. Stop making noise while Reisen opened his mind and senses to any disturbance in the elements.

  For a minute, he'd almost thought—

  But, no. Conlan was long dead. The royal house in chaos. Nobody willing to step up and admit that Anubisa had murdered the heir to the Seven Isles.

  Until now.

  Reisen glanced down at the long shape wrapped in scarlet velvet on the table. The Trident. He almost couldn't believe that he'd actually taken it. That it now lay on a table in one of his safe houses, right under the noses of the sleeping land-walkers in the buildings around him.

  Snatched out from under Alaric's nose.

  The thought of that last gave him a great deal of satisfaction. Arrogant prick. Their final confrontation, nine days ago, flashed into his mind.

  "You know he's not coining back, Alaric," Reisen said, pacing the marble floor of the priest's private receiving chamber. "It's been seven years. Even if he does come back, he won't be Conlan."

  He stopped, fixing the priest with his gaze. "He'll be—wrong."

  Alaric folded his arms across his chest, looking more like a street thug than Poseidon's chosen, until you saw the power burning in his eyes. "Conlan is stronger than any of the rest of you. Stronger than any warrior in Atlantean history. Poseidon has given me no indication that he is dead. Or changed."

  Alaric's eyes narrowed. "Do you tell me that you doubt the sea god?"

  Reisen smacked his fist into his palm. "I have never blasphemed, and I'm not starting now, so don't go there, priest. I merely wonder if you're really hearing what Poseidon is telling you. Or are you just channeling your own hopes for your boyhood friend?"

  "Never dare to challenge me, Reisen. The house of Mycenae will regret it." Alaric didn't raise his voice, but the walls of the temple shuddered.

  Reisen never blinked. "Perhaps it is you who will regret this day, Alaric."

  Then he strode from the temple, never looking back.

  Already formulating his plan.

  Reisen reached out to touch the folds of velvet covering the Trident. He'd been more than half prepared to be killed for the sacrilege of touching it. Poseidon's Trident. The vehicle of ascension for Atlantean kings for millennia.

  Yet, when he'd grasped it that day in the temple, it had remained quiescent. Inanimate. Merely a pretty artifact, melded gold, silver, and orichalcum shaped in the same design he wore branded into his chest.

  But with seven open spaces that showed where its seven jewels had nestled before the Cataclysm.

  Before they were scattered to the surface lands for protection and safekeeping.

  "My lord—" the warrior began again. Pulled from his musings, Reisen glanced at him. Micah, first of his Seven.

  "We need to move on. They will surely be after us soon," Micah said, hands fisted on the handles of his daggers.

  Brother warriors of Poseidon. Further bonded by the enormity of the act they committed now.

  "Is it justice, Micah?" Reisen wondered aloud. "Is it justice that we do for our homeland? Or is it treason, as Alaric will surely name it?"

  Micah's eyes shone with the fervor of their cause. "It is justice to seek the jewels that have been lost. To restore Atlantis to its former glory, my lord. After more than eleven thousand years, it is surely time."

  Reisen nodded slowly. "Yes, it is time. We were tasked to serve as first warning on the eve of humanity's destruction," he said, quoting the ancient words.

  "The brazenness of the denizens of the night is surely more than a first warning," Micah growled.

  A smile fleetingly crossed Reisen's face. The denizens of the night. The archaic language reminded him that Micah hadn't spent much time out of Atlantis. And yet, it was chillingly accurate.

  "To Atlantis, then, Micah," he said, holding his own dagger high in the air. "To restoring the glory and supremacy of Atlantis."

  The rest of his warriors, who'd entered the room as he and Micah spoke, raised their daggers above their heads in unison.

  "To Atlantis!" they shouted in unison. "To Mycenae!"

  Reisen smiled. Yes, to Atlantis and Mycenae. And to his own ascension to the throne of a newly restored Atlantis.

  "To Mycenae," he roared.

  Then he glanced yet again at the bundle on the table, struck by a glimpse of motion and flickering light.

  "I must have imagined it," he muttered, words drowned out by his warriors' thundering shout
s.

  Because, just for a split second, the velvet had seemed to glow.

  "Are you out of your royal mind?" Taking a break from pacing and swearing viciously in ancient Atlantean, Latin, and a little-used dialect once heard near Constantinople, Ven stopped in front of his brother, hands fisted on his hips.

  Conlan sighed, not knowing whether to award his brother battle medals for creativity, or order Justice to arrest the King's Vengeance for treason.

  I could flip a coin…

  Conlan stepped in close to Ven, invading the nine hells out of what Ven liked to call his personal space. "I did not ask for your judgment upon my actions. I merely described a possible threat to our warriors. If more humans have the capacity to incapacitate us with emotional telepathy—"

  He didn't mention that he'd left out a hell of a lot in the telling. There was no threat to Atlantean security regarding his fierce attraction to her.

  Admit it, attraction is a tame word. Try overwhelming, ball-breaking lust.

  He blew out a breath. Even princes were allowed some privacy, right?

  Ven shook his head in disgust, then resumed pacing and cursing. Conlan tuned him out after he heard something about "spawn of a dung beetle" in early Portugese and turned to Alaric, who had remained uncharacteristically silent during Conlan's explanation of the evening's events.

  Alaric speaking was dangerous enough.

  Alaric silent was deadly.

  The priest stared at him, unblinking, seeming almost inhuman in his stillness. If ever a man had seemed unsuited to the priesthood, Conlan would have named Alaric. Matching Conlan in height, Alaric's heavily muscled form suited the lethal menace in his eyes.

  No schoolboy would ever seek him out to tell tales of childish mischief in the confessional, for certain. And yet it was rumored that more than one woman, seduced by Alaric's dark beauty, had harbored hopes of convincing the dark priest to… bend… his vow of celibacy.

  Conlan nearly laughed at the thought. It was well known that Poseidon would strip the powers from a priest who breached his celibacy vow. Power was Alaric's only mistress; no female could come between him and his quest for ever more of it.