Wild Hearts in Atlantis Page 8

  Then, louder, she repeated her offer. “What fun is an enthralled mistress, shifter or no? Wouldn’t I pretty much just lie there?”

  She ignored Bastien’s roar of protest, didn’t allow herself to even glance at him. “Let him go, and I promise to play all the dirty games you like, vampire.”

  Staring straight at him, eyes open and alert, she thrust waves of peace and calm at Organos with everything she had. Futile, perhaps, but she had to try. Something in her head snapped at the force of it, and she felt blood trickle from one nostril.

  Organos never even blinked. He stepped back a pace from Bastien, clearly wary only of the fallen warrior and not of anything she had done, then flicked a considering look her way. “You will play my games regardless of your volition, whore. What makes you think I do not prefer it to be while you are in thrall to my whim? I know of your so-called gift,” he sneered. “Even should you wish it, you would be unable to defy me. And such trifles do not work against my kind.”

  Hopelessness and terror threatened to overwhelm her. A life of mindless zombie-like servitude to a vampire loomed worse than death and, for a moment, her courage deserted her. As she tried to force words past the lump of pure horror lodged in her throat, she felt the first whispers of calm smooth out the edges of her fear, as her gift made its appearance.

  No! Not now! I cannot afford calm! What I need is rage!

  She clenched her hands into fists, driving her fingernails into her palms until they bled, fighting with every ounce of her will against her gift. Against her curse.

  Prayed to the goddess of all shape-shifters for a boon.

  For a miracle.

  Bastien made some slight movement, nearly imperceptible, but Organos hissed and turned his focus to him, losing interest in her. She was beneath his notice, and she knew it.

  Not quite a shape-shifter. Not quite human. Not quite good enough for anything. Where was her miracle?

  THEY ALWAYS CALL UPON ME WHEN IN NEED OF A MIRACLE, THE DESCENDANTS OF MY SEED, DO THEY NOT?

  The voice in her head was bored and mocking, but some glimmer of warmth and amusement swirled through her mind with it.

  Who are you, and what are you doing in my head? She glanced down at Bastien, but his gaze was locked on Organos. And it wasn’t Bastien’s voice. No, it was someone more…more…

  YES. MORE. AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE. I AM POSEIDON, GREAT-GRANDDAUGHTER CROSSED WITH BEAST.

  Kat tried to think, but it was too much. Organos was going to kill Bastien any moment, and somebody was hijacking her brain. Some…some…

  Oh. My. God. Are you—

  YES. I AM YOUR GOD AND THE GOD OF ALL ATLANTEANS. I AM POSEIDON, RULER OF THE SEA. AND YOU ARE OF MINE AND YOUR COURAGE INTERESTS ME. LET US SEE HOW YOU DO WITHOUT THE IMPEDIMENT OF YOUR GIFT.

  The voice—the presence—withdrew, but something in Kat snapped. Organos wouldn’t lay a single claw on Bastien. No more would she put up with this worthless half-life.

  No more! Rage, clean and icy pure, shot through her in a torrent of fire and roaring fury. The cat within her, so long imprisoned by her human side’s unnatural calm, bellowed its defiance.

  Kat clenched her teeth against making any audible sound as she watched Organos slowly raise the sword again, taking his sweet time about it, toying with Bastien before he murdered him.

  But the panther inside Kat had no patience left in it. It crashed its way through her, cracking bones and contorting flesh as it leaped for its prey. In mid-leap, a feat so difficult that only the most powerful shifters could accomplish it, Kat changed fully from human to cat, lunging for the vampire’s bared neck.

  Even as she flew through the air, claws extended, she saw Bastien launch himself at Organos. She raised one mighty paw in the air, glorying at the freedom and power of this new body, and smashed her paw down on the vampire’s neck, ripping his head nearly off of his body.

  Even as she fell, rolling, to the ground, she saw Bastien plunge his dagger into Organos’s heart. She screamed a feral cry of rage and triumph, shooting up to a crouch in front of the vampire, ready to rend and tear.

  Bastien threw himself on her and pushed her back, as Organos dissolved into a flood of acidic slime. She snarled at him, but retracted her claws, retaining her sense of who she was.

  Not panther, but woman. Dual-natured, but human still.

  He stared into her eyes, and she wondered what he saw. Wondered if his budding feelings for her would turn to disgust, now that she was truly one of the race his kind had fought for millennia.

  He reached up to cup her face in his hands, bent his forehead to briefly touch hers. “I am forever in debt for your attempted sacrifice and your courage, my lady.”

  He stood, a coiled spring of power. “Yet if you ever put yourself in danger again, I will lock you up and never let you out,” he said roughly. “My heart died in my chest at the thought of any harm coming to you.”

  She snarled again, then stalked her way around him, reveling in the feel of her new body. Her new power. But a glance at him stopped her in her tracks. The passion that shone in his eyes—the love—speared her with its intensity. The cat relinquished its hold, and the woman returned.

  Muscles and bone reshaped themselves, but Kat knew the feel of it now. Knew she could shift again, and was glad.

  She rose, proudly nude, her clothes shredded by the shift, to stand in front of him. He smiled that slow, dangerous smile of his and swept her up to cradle her in his arms. “You are mine, little shifter. And no enemy will ever take you from me.”

  She put her arms around his neck and smiled. “Goes both ways, Atlantean. You’re mine, too.” Then her smile faded. “But we’ve got a lot of problems to face. We must tell Ethan about Fallon and arrange for her funeral.” Her voice broke. “And Nicky’s.”

  Bastien’s head suddenly snapped up, and he released her and unsheathed his daggers. “Show yourself,” he shouted to the darker shadows at the edge of the lawn.

  An enormous panther hurled itself toward them, shifting as it ran, and then Ethan stood before them, fully dressed.

  I have to learn that, she thought absently, suddenly aware of her nudity. Bastien ripped his shirt from his body and handed it to her. As she drew it over her head, the hem falling nearly to her knees, she heard the unspeakably weary voice of her pride alpha.

  “You don’t need to tell me anything. I’m here,” Ethan said, looking down at the body of his dead mate. “I wish I could feel nothing for this death, considering how cheaply she purchased it for herself and her traitorous acts.”

  “Death is never to be taken lightly, and you cared for this woman,” Bastien replied, pulling Kat close. “I am sorry for your loss. She was, perhaps, misled.”

  “My people intercepted yours in their search for ‘the evidence, part two,’ as your warrior called it,” Ethan continued. “Together, they found several newly formed vampires willing to sell Organos out in hopes our people would let them live. Your intelligence was correct. We have the names of the practitioners in the black coven who helped him, as well.”

  “Did they?” Kat asked.

  “Did they what?”

  “Let the vampires live.”

  Death itself gleamed in Ethan’s feral eyes. “No, they did not. Neither will we suffer the witches to live.”

  Bastien raised an eyebrow. “Quoting the Bible?”

  “Our form of religion does not differ so much from Christianity, Atlantean,” Ethan said. “I would welcome the opportunity to discuss your ideology with your priest some day.”

  “As I am sure he would, with you. In more peaceful times.”

  Kat shivered. “That’s what we need to pray for, all of us. More peaceful times.”

  Bastien wrapped his arms around her. “Pray and fight. Whatever Poseidon and your own gods require.”

  The sound of an approaching vehicle grew closer. “That will be my people. I will call a council to discuss these matters. But you may be sure that we will be on your side i
n the coming war, Bastien.”

  “A war that we will win, Ethan. Strong allies and the side of justice must prevail.”

  The men clasped arms, and then Ethan looked down at Kat. “I see that you have made your choice, my Kat who is my Kat no more.”

  “I was never your Kat, Ethan. You made your choice, as I’ve made mine,” she said. “I, too, am sorry for your loss. No matter what she was or did, she didn’t deserve this. I’m glad we killed Organos to avenge her.”

  Bastien made a grumbling sound. “You were indeed formidable as a panther.”

  Ethan’s eyes flared with interest. “This, too, is something I want to see and hear about. But another time.” He bent to lift Fallon’s broken body into his arms, as the headlights flashed in the driveway.

  “Another time,” Kat echoed sadly. She and Bastien stood watching as Ethan drove off with his dead mate’s body. Then she turned to face her own mate, as she now knew him to be.

  “I heard your sea god in my head,” she told him, smiling a little. “He seems to think I’m his long-lost great-granddaughter or something.”

  Bastien’s eyes widened in wonder. “Poseidon spoke to you?”

  “Yes, and I think he did more than that. I think he helped me break through my gift to bring my panther out.”

  “He does always admire courage, Poseidon,” Bastien admitted. “But now, we have much to do.”

  “First off, I need to get dressed,” she pointed out.

  He laughed and swept her into his arms. “That would not be my first choice, lovely one.”

  “Bastien, we need to sit in on that council,” she said, although she wished she could spend the next week hiding out in her bedroom with him.

  “And Prince Conlan must learn of these matters,” Bastien added, walking toward the house with her in his arms.

  “We have to break this mind-thrall thing, and keep my people safe from it. Oh, and you need to get over your ‘I’m the warrior, you hide in the bedroom’ issues.”

  He growled, then pressed a kiss to her lips as he went through the door, kicking it shut behind them. “I’ll ignore that for now. We need to hammer out an alliance between your people and Atlantis, so your rogue shifters stop preying on humans.”

  She sighed, rested her head on his shoulder. “This is no ‘I hate my potential mother-in-law’ petty problem between us, Bastien. Our problems might be—”

  He kissed her again, thoroughly this time. By the time he raised his head, they were both trembling. “Our problems are the world’s problems, mi amara. Even as we solve them, so do we secure the future of all of our races.”

  She smiled, daring to hope. “Together?”

  Her warrior tightened his arms around her. “Together.”

  Read on for a sneak peek at Alyssa Day’s

  next Warriors of Poseidon novel

  HEART OF ATLANTIS

  Coming from Berkley Sensation in December 2012!

  A hidden cave inside of Mount Fuji, Japan

  The portal opened and Alaric, warrior and high priest of Atlantis, stepped through, followed by a shell-shocked rebel leader and a five-hundred-pound tiger shape-shifter who might have permanently lost his humanity.

  “Oh, Alaric,” said the ancient man who stood waiting for them, sighing and shaking his head. “You do get into the most fascinating trouble.”

  “Interesting you should say that, Archelaus,” Alaric said. “I need a place to hide for a time, while Quinn tries to help Jack remember that he’s human, too, and not just a tiger.”

  Quinn barely glanced at him, her eyes dull with pain and exhaustion, but she never let go of his hand. It was more physical contact than he’d allowed himself to have with her in a very long time.

  Archelaus took them all in with his sharp gaze. The old man, long since retired as mentor to the Atlantean warrior training academy, never missed anything.

  “And Atlantis? Are the Seven Isles still in jeopardy?”

  “Aren’t they always?” Alaric sliced a hand through the air in dismissal of the topic. “We need a place to rest. Food. A refuge—we need to hide a tiger.”

  Archelaus pointed at something behind them. “Who is that?”

  Alaric whirled around, shocked to see a stranger—a delicate, dark-haired woman—step out of the portal.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, pushing Quinn behind him. None but Atlanteans could call the portal, and this woman clearly was not Atlantean, but of Asian descent.

  She blinked in apparent confusion. “Konnichiwa,” she began, offering a basic greeting in Japanese, but then she continued in ancient Atlantean as she slowly collapsed until she lay curled up on the ground next to the tiger, who ignored her completely. “I am the spirit of the portal, and I am this woman, who came to Mount Fuji to die.”

  “You came here to die. We came here to force Jack to live,” Quinn said, and then she started laughing; a terrible, almost hysterical laugh. “Lucky we have Poseidon’s high priest with us, isn’t it?”

  Alaric stared down at Quinn and fought the tidal wave of unfamiliar, unwanted emotion threatening to swamp him. “Yes. I will do what I can for him, as I promised.”

  Archelaus sighed again. “You have amazingly bad timing, my friend.”

  “Timing has nothing to do with need,” Alaric snapped, finally out of patience with the day, the situation, and the centuries of standing alone as priest to a capricious god.

  “Timing has everything to do with danger,” the older man returned calmly, as he draped his sweater over the unconscious woman who’d claimed to be what she couldn’t possibly be. “The vampire goddess Anubisa is back from her sojourn in the land of Chaos, and this time she swears to destroy Atlantis and every member of the Atlantean royal family. You have never been more needed by your people in your entire life, I would imagine.”

  “I am needed here,” Alaric said, staring at Quinn. “Atlantis can burn in the nine hells for all I care. I have sacrificed enough to Poseidon. My days as high priest are done.”

  * * *

  Quinn collapsed onto a low bench against one wall of the room or cave or wherever they’d ended up. Strange that she’d spent more time in caves since becoming the leader of the North American human rebel contingent than she’d ever dreamed possible. Straight from caves in Sedona, where she’d battled vampires and evil bankers, to Japan. A wave of grief and exhaustion, fought back and repressed for far too long, swept through her and threatened to drown her in futility and despair.

  Jack. Her comrade; her partner in the rebellion. Her friend. She could finally admit she loved him with some small part of her stony, blackened heart, although it wasn’t the kind of love he might want. She loved him like a brother; the one she’d never had and had never known she wanted. Her big, scary, wounded warrior of a brother, who just happened to shift into a quarter ton of tiger sometimes. They’d fought together for years—years of trying to fight back the tide of darkness after the vampires announced to the world that they were real and then promptly proceeded to try to take it over. No matter how hard they pretended otherwise, vampires viewed humans as sheep for the slaughter. Unfortunately, most people were easily fooled or else too apathetic to care that the town’s new mayor or sheriff just happened to be a bloodsucker making a power grab.

  Easy enough to make people disappear from behind the authority of a badge. Even the FBI’s P-Ops division had discovered that, when they’d found traitors in their midst. The president fired the director of Paranormal Operations and half of his staff when that inconvenient truth had surfaced.

  Quinn sighed, fully aware that her brain was jumping from thought to thought in a futile effort to quit thinking about Jack. If they couldn’t help him…but they would. Alaric would. She refused to question her unshakable belief in Alaric or even to peer more closely at the reasons for it. She didn’t have time to get involved with any man—and certainly not with a man who was bound by both sworn oath and magic to Poseidon. The sea god himself, swimming out of the page of leg
ends and into the middle of her pain-wracked, screwed-up life.

  She stared at the floor, unable to muster even a spark of interest as Alaric conferred with the older man. Archelaus. Although older might not apply. Just because the man looked to be at least a century old, appearances were deceiving with Atlanteans. A casual glance would put Alaric in his early thirties or even late twenties, until the one doing the glancing looked into the dark caverns of those emerald-green eyes.

  Ancient eyes. Centuries of brutal knowledge, blood, and death had passed before them—those eyes which were always faintly glowing with the overspill of magical power he couldn’t quite contain. He was at least five hundred years old. Strong enough to be the most powerful high priest Atlantis had ever known, or so some said.

  Differences of opinion on that subject had been emerging, however. Politics. Like she gave a flying crap about politics. Bottom line: he didn’t look like a man who’d lived half a thousand years…until you looked into his eyes.

  He was nearly six and a half feet of pure, primal warrior. His black hair had grown past his shoulders; it had been a few inches shorter when she’d first met him. Not much time for haircuts when a man was saving the world, probably.

  She laughed to herself. He’d saved her life and broken her heart. Strange that healing one bullet wound could accomplish all of that.

  She closed her eyes but could still see his face, as if it had imprinted on her mind with the strength of a hammer into molten brass. A face too strong—too male—to be called beautiful, but too perfect to be called anything else. All hard lines and sculpted angles. The face of a man who commanded absolute obedience, unqualified respect, and…something else. Something he’d never wanted.

  Terror.

  Vampires and rogue shape-shifters alike were terrified of the rumors and the reality. Quinn had heard men call him the high priest of death—but they never called him that to his face, or even very loudly. That, by itself, was no bad thing in a warrior priest, to be feared by his enemies.