Atlantis Rising Read online

  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 landwalkers 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 coming 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 shouts.

  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.

  As if reading his prince’s mind, Alaric bared his teeth in a cold pretense of a smile. “I agree with Conlan.”

  “Look, I—what?” The agreement threw him off.

  “You heard me,” Alaric returned, face expressionless. “You want to follow this human to her home to ensure her safety. You demand we transport her to Atlantis as your . . . guest. I agree with you.”

  Ven exploded. “Great. Now I have two of you out of your freaking minds. I’d have expected better of you, Temple Rat.”

  Alaric’s gaze shifted smoothly to Ven, and something whispering of deadly danger shimmered in his eyes. “I am high priest to the sea god now, Lord Vengeance. It is time we put away childish . . . endearments.”

  Conlan shifted to stand between the two men. The last thing he needed was his two most trusted advisors bashing each other’s brains out. “Calm down, Ven. You’ve gotta be a role model for my warriors, right?”

&nbs
p; Ven snorted. “I am a role model in all things that matter. But standing emotionless and icy in the face of seriously deep trouble is not my style. I’m more a ‘take names and kick ass’ kind of guy.”

  He paused for a moment, slamming his daggers back in their sheaths. “And agreeing that we take a human to Atlantis? Especially now, when the Trident is in the hands of the enemy? I repeat, you’re both out of your fucking minds.”

  Shaking his head, Ven nonetheless stepped back and away, sweeping an arm out as if to urge Alaric to continue.

  Alaric shrugged. “Knowledge is power. The human has powers that are unknown to us. If she truly can convey emotion over the mind path, then she must be studied and analyzed for the source of that ability.”

  Ven started to interrupt, but Alaric held up a hand. “Not to mention the potential enormity of a weapon with the power to bring a warrior of such strength and mental shielding as Conlan to his knees,” he said, his tone clinically dispassionate.

  Conlan made a growling sound low in his throat, surprising himself and, from the looks of it, everyone around him. “You would dissect Riley in a laboratory, if you believed that was the only way to understand her gifts, wouldn’t you?”

  Alaric raised one eyebrow. “Riley? You know her name?”

  Fury rising, Conlan clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, fighting to regain enough composure to speak. “You. Will. Not. Touch. Her,” he gritted out.

  Alaric immediately held his hands out, palms facing down, as if to show that he intended no harm. He lapsed back into formal speak, perhaps realizing the threat from Conlan. “I sense a disturbance in the elements surrounding us, and yet you showed no outward sign until now. As I am unlike your human, and cannot sense emotions, you must explain your reaction to my words.”

  Conlan forced his hands to unclench and took cleansing breaths. “I don’t even know if I can explain. Or, if I could, that I would want to.”

  He shook his head, trying to clear it. His mind involuntarily reached out to touch Riley’s restlessly sleeping consciousness. That simple touch calmed him a little.

  Just enough to piss him off. What the hell was going on?

  “I need time to understand it, myself,” he admitted.

  Ven broke in. “Alaric, surely you must see that our most important job is to retrieve the Trident, not play babysitter to some human female. I like humans myself, Conlan, and have enjoyed many a happy hour with them.”

  Conlan’s brother flashed a wolfish grin. “Hell, sometimes with two of ’em at a time. I’ve even defended thousands of them from the vamps and the damn shape-shifters over the centuries. But you don’t see me going around staking out their houses.”

  Someone barked out a laugh. Conlan’s gaze whipped down the line of his warriors. Bastien. Of course. He was too damn big to be afraid of anything. Even the wrath of two Atlantean princes.

  Damn. He had to admire the sheer balls of the man.

  Conlan turned back to Ven, nodded. “You’re right. But this one is different. She may have the ability to be used as a weapon against me—against any of us—and how can that be good?”

  The part of his brain where duty gave way to need shouted out at him. And I want her. I will have her.

  Duty be damned.

  “Agreed,” Alaric replied, startling Conlan. But of course Alaric was responding to his words, not his thoughts.

  Or so Conlan hoped. If the priest had mastered thought-mining, the politics of Atlantis were headed for a big pile of reeking whale shit.

  Alaric’s gaze never flickered. “She could distract us at a critical point and cost us the object of our quest. We contain the female, and then we retrieve the Trident. It is the wisest course of action, as you say, Conlan. It is also true that I need time and a quiet place in which to scry for its location.”

  Ven grumbled a little then rolled his eyes. “Well, when you put it that way . . . Let’s do this thing.”

  He jerked his head toward the left, and Bastien, Denal, and the rest ranged themselves around Conlan, Alaric, and Ven. Black coats billowing out behind them, nine of the deadliest predators ever to travel the earth and its oceans shimmered into watery mist and headed for a tiny house holding a sleeping human female.

  And once I see her again, I’ll realize that this insane attraction was a momentary thing. We’ll secure her for later study, and then we’ll retrieve the Trident.

  Nothing has changed.

  Except Conlan’s years of training in self-awareness mocked him.

  Fool. Everything has changed.

  She changed it.

  But even with his discipline, his training, and his dagger-sharp logic all brought to bear on the issue, he didn’t know which she he meant.

  Chapter 10

  Riley looked at the clock again, for the third time in an hour. She’d slept for what? Maybe twenty minutes? After leaving two practically incoherent voice mail messages on Quinn’s cell phone, that is.

  She rolled over and sat up. Not really surprising that she wasn’t sailing through fluffy dreamland, considering. Her thoughts flashed to Dina and the baby, then to Morris. She shuddered as the delayed reaction finally hit her.

  “That could have been me. He was trying to kill me,” she whispered, then clasped her arms around her knees and rocked back and forth. A shudder worked its way down her body till she sat trembling, tears sliding down her cheeks.

  “And he wasn’t the only one. Those men tonight—if he hadn’t been there . . .”

  Conlan.

  Just thinking his name conjured his face in her mind. Elegant, aristocratic cheekbones. A strong jaw. Lips that must have been sculpted by the most artistic of angels.

  A frisson of heat curled through her abdomen. That kiss. That was . . . something.

  Oh, get over yourself, Riley. Angels, sheesh. It’s not like you haven’t seen beautiful men before.

  “Nobody like him,” she whispered to the darkness of her bedroom. “Never any like him. Never anybody who could step inside my mind.”

  Except Quinn. She and her sister had always been able to share an almost telepathic form of communication. They’d never thought much of it; everybody knew about twin speak. Ten months apart was close enough to be almost twins.

  But never with anybody else. Never a stranger. Never an incredibly gorgeous man who had saved her life—or at the very least, saved her from a hideous assault.

  Conlan.

  Then a voice, gentle but insistent, inside of her mind.

  Yes, I am here.

  Then came his concern, sharp and ferocious. Do you need me? Are you in danger?

  She held a hand up, almost as if she could touch the colorful emotions swirling inside of her. Not her emotions.

  His.

  “Since it’s a dream, I may as well answer you. Because this has to be a dream, doesn’t it? Just a little PTSD to round off my day.” Riley scrubbed tears off her face.

  Yeah. That had to be it. None of it had really happened. Nobody could cause the ocean to act like that. Not even vamps.

  What is PTSD? And why are you lying to yourself? You know I’m real, aknasha. You hear me in your mind. You feel my emotions, although I have no idea how that is even possible.

  Riley laughed. She couldn’t help it. His voice was like cool ocean waves caressing her nerve endings and soothing jagged edges.

  And spiking her calm to excitement in ten seconds flat.

  How was that even possible?

  “Okay, Mr. Figment of My Imagination. What the hell. I’ll go with it. PTSD means post-traumatic stress disorder. Which is what I’ve got going on after Morris nearly shot me to death.”

  She laughed again. “One hell of a case, from the looks of it. I mean, no pink elephants for me. I have to conjure up a drop-dead gorgeous man who can share his thoughts and emotions with me.”

  She stood up and headed for the bathroom. “I’ve gotta have some drugs somewhere. Maybe just a small Valium?”

  Then the fire
again, as his emotions darkened. Someone shot at you?

  Low, dangerous. A different kind of shiver caressed her at the stark male command in his voice.

  Not that she was the type to go all tingly over some hunky alpha male. “I’m fine. He’s dead, so get over your ‘I’m the law’ thing.”

  But his voice came again, freezing her in her tracks, something smug and purely masculine in the words.

  You think I’m gorgeous, hmm?

  Riley rolled her eyes. Evidently, even in Hallucination Land men had enormous egos. She wondered idly what else about him was enormous, then caught herself when her face got hot. Don’t go there, Riley.

  Perhaps I am simply a figment of your imagination, he said, shades of reasonableness and amusement tinging his words in her mind. Perhaps you should not look out your window.

  “What?” She ran to the window and yanked her blinds up, staring wildly down at her tiny garden. Four, no five, men stood below, standing in a loose ring around Conlan. She noticed that they were all the size of Conlan, and all dressed in black, before she wrenched her attention to the figure standing alone in the midst of them.

  Looking up at her.

  “Oh, holy crap, it’s you,” she whispered, placing her palms on the window, trapped in his gaze.

  Yes, it is definitely me. If I’m only a figment of your imagination, can the figment say that I’d really appreciate it if you’d . . . rethink . . . your clothing before you show up in front of my men?

  His voice in her mind took on a husky tone. Not that I don’t appreciate your choice of nightwear.

  Glancing down at herself, Riley’s cheeks burned. She wore only an old and worn green tank top—that had Smart Girls Rock traced on it in faded gold thread—over a pair of lacy underwear.

  A rather teensy pair of underwear.

  Face flaming, she backed away from the window, uncertain of whether to be afraid, embarrassed, or excited that he was real.

  Real and standing outside of her house.

  She settled on a combination of all three, her breathing suddenly shallow and fast. But she’d seen inside his heart, his memories, even his soul, somehow, and there had been honor and integrity—no hint of serial-killer tendencies.