Atlantis Betrayed Read online

  “He’s right,” she snapped. “I do know better. And I don’t know you at all, but I . . . we . . . oh. What a—”

  “Great night? Best you’ve ever had?” Christophe suggested.

  “Mistake,” she said firmly, yanking the quilt out of his hands and wrapping it around herself as she jumped out of bed. Then she paused, a rueful expression crossing her face. “Although, yes, it was rather great, wasn’t it?”

  A wave of triumph swept through Christophe and on the heels of that, a more confusing and unexpected emotion. Relief? Gratitude?

  “I’ve got to go to the book signing, partner,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. She seemed almost shy, which was a little shocking after her wildness the night before. “You’re welcome to stay here or go wherever you nefarious criminal types go during the day.”

  “Oh, I’m with you, ninja,” he said, jumping out of bed and stretching. She stared at him, her eyes widening when she noticed his erection, which hadn’t been the least bit discouraged by the butler’s interruption. Waking up with an armful of beautiful woman apparently made his cock very happy and Christophe wasn’t embarrassed to show her what she did to him.

  She hastily lifted her gaze, her cheeks flaming even hotter. “Well, get dressed. And—and put that thing away.”

  He laughed as she fled into the bathroom, trying and failing to remember the last time he’d woken up in such a wonderful mood. Oh, yes, this day was going to just get better and better.

  London, Charing Cross Children’s Books, three hours later

  Christophe looked around and wondered if the third level of the nine hells resembled a children’s bookshop. Tiny humans in every shape, color, and size ran, walked, crawled, laughed, cried, and shrieked their way through every inch of the place until the walls themselves reverberated with the noise.

  He considered pulling his daggers and discovering if he could scare them into shutting up. Bad enough he’d had to put up with the scowls and glares from that punk chauffeur on the drive over. The boy had a bad case of first love for his boss. Fiona had been too distracted to notice the killing looks Sean kept shooting Christophe, who’d considered, then discarded, the notion of dumping the youngling in the middle of the Thames River just to teach him a lesson.

  Now that they were finally here, in the middle of all this chaos, Fiona was at least outwardly calm and happy, smiling peacefully as she talked to the shop owner over in the corner, next to a table with what looked like hundreds of books piled on it. The noise faded a little from the forefront of his mind as he drank in the sight of her. She was every inch Lady Fiona today in a soft dress the pale blue of the sky at noon on a clear day. She wore heels with a ribbon thing at the backs, and her pale hair was worn down in silken waves that framed her beautiful face.

  His mind stuttered at the sight of her—all rosy cheeks, flushed with pleasure, and huge blue sparkling eyes. Memories of her passion the night before swept through him and he had to focus every ounce of his concentration to keep his cock from swelling in response. Not appropriate here.

  But later, when he got her alone, oh, then he’d strip her bare in the sunlight and see how her beauty shone in the daylight as compared to her moonlit perfection. He’d—

  “Help me with this?” Declan’s voice interrupted Christophe’s erotic thoughts about the boy’s sister and an unexpected niggle of guilt twinged him. Not exactly respectful to think that kind of thought in front of her little brother.

  “Help you with what?” His voice came out brusquer than he’d intended.

  Declan shot him a curious glance but only pointed to the folding chairs. Together with some of the bookstore staff, they set up the chairs for the parents and tossed around more of the beanbag chairs for the children as Fiona prepared to give her talk. Christophe looked up to find her smiling at him, and he shot her a grin of purely wicked intent. She blushed a hot pink color, which pleased him so much he caught himself whistling like a fool.

  The owner stood up near the table and clapped her hands. She must have had some magic herself, because the overwhelming din quickly settled down into a dull roar and then quieted to almost a hush.

  “Thank you all so much for coming out today to hear our favorite guest author. I know she needs no introduction, so without further ado, here is Lady Fiona Campbell, England’s beloved author and illustrator, to talk about her book, The Forest Fairies.”

  The room erupted into whistles and applause, and Fiona’s cheeks pinked up again, which fascinated Christophe so much he nearly tripped over one of the younglings near the back of the crowd, where he stood. The tiny girl looked up at him, all big eyes and pigtails, and he tried not to grimace. She scooted nearer to her mum, though, as if she’d seen inside him to the scary monster within. That was one thing about kids, they were perceptive.

  He’d known the couple who’d adopted him were zealots past the point of insanity, but nobody in that backward hamlet listened to a four-year-old child. At least not until he’d started crying for his parents and for Atlantis, and his budding magic talent had displayed itself.

  Then they’d listened.

  “Mister, are you okay?” The small voice caught his attention and snapped him out of dark thoughts. “You look sad.”

  It was another small girl, this one brave enough to approach the scary man. Before he could answer, she reached out with one tiny hand and patted his arm. “When I’m sad, I read one of Lady Fiona’s books and it makes me feel better. Just listen to her read and I bet you feel better, too.”

  He blinked and stared down at her in utter astonishment. No child had dared approach him in centuries. He’d even wondered sometimes if when Atlantean parents warned children of the things that go bump in the night, they pointed to him as a fearsome example. Now this tiny girl whose curly-haired head barely reached his waist was comforting him.

  Any moment, a seahorse would sprout wings and fly through the room.

  She smiled up at him, her two front teeth missing, and something in his heart, long unused and rusty, lurched a little. “I think you’re right,” he told her, but then her mother was there, grabbing the girl’s hand and snatching her away.

  “So sorry if she bothered you,” the woman said, but Christophe saw the suspicion in her eyes. She probably thought he was a predator, here to snack on the children.

  “No bother at all.”

  Declan stepped up next to him and grinned at the woman and little girl. “Declan Campbell, Fiona’s brother. I see you’ve met our friend, Christophe.”

  The woman’s suspicion melted away in a genuine smile. “No, but Lily did. She’s never known a stranger she doesn’t make into a friend in a heartbeat.”

  “A dangerous trait in a child,” Christophe said harshly. “Not all who smile are friends.”

  Her smile faltered and she took a step back. “Of course. Quite right.” As she hurried away with her child, Declan shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced up at Christophe, who had a few inches on him.

  “Making friends wherever you go, I see.”

  Christophe glared at the boy. “Anyone who calls another friend too easily is a fool.”

  Declan shrugged, not intimidated in the least. “And anybody who doesn’t is alone. Which is worse?”

  Christophe opened his mouth to answer and then decided to ignore the impertinent boy. He turned his attention to Fiona, who was well into her reading. She told the story of a Gille Dubh, a lonely and lost dark-haired lad who played and danced in the forest, clothed in moss and leaves, luring unwary children to come and play. Unfortunately, once they danced with the Gille Dubh, they were stolen away to the land of the Fae, to play and dance for years and years and years, until their parents and everyone they’d ever known were long dead.

  It was a grim tale, the truth behind her made-up story, and only too real. Christophe had no love for the Fae, who played games with humans as easily as though with chess pieces on their carved marble boards. But in Fiona’s version, the lad—a spi
rit, no longer a living child—fell in love with a bonny lass who enticed him back into the sunshine of the fields, which released him from the spell of the Fae, and he became a real boy again.

  As in so many modern fairy tales, the children in the tale all lived happily ever after. If only life outside of books were as happy or predictable.

  “We need to help now,” Declan said, and Christophe realized that everyone was clapping and standing up from their seats. “They’ll ask questions and then queue up to get their books signed.”

  “What do we do?” Christophe asked, bemused that this lad was confident enough in his new partner to order him around like an old friend. Hopkins would have been pointing a gun at him, undoubtedly.

  “We ask for names, entertain the kids in the line, that sort of thing.”

  Christophe folded his arms across his chest. “Do I look like the sort of man who would stand around entertaining children?”

  Declan blinked. “Actually, I don’t know what you look like. You don’t seem to exist in any database, civilian or governmental, so I’m guessing Fae. Hopkins has a bit of a talent for reading minds, actually more like reading intent, and he said you believed you’d never harm us, and, well, you rather look a bit like an action film star, but this is what we do, you wanted to be here, soooo . . .”

  It took Christophe a moment to work his way through all that. Hopkins could read people, could he? Obviously not in any degree of specificity or the questions that morning would have been a great deal more intense. As to entertaining children? “Absolutely not. I’ll be out front, looking for danger, protecting our flank, and that sort of action film star thing.”

  “Whatever, dude. Gotta get busy.” Declan strolled off, turning on his not inconsiderable charm, leaving Christophe blinking at the idea that a human man—barely a man, practically a child himself—had just called him dude and Christophe hadn’t stabbed him for it. Something was very, very wrong.

  Maybe the sex had made him soft.

  He grabbed one of the books on his way to the front of the store, where he could breathe since the crowd was all centered around Fiona. As he casually opened the book and started flipping through the pages, he slowed, and then returned to the first page to begin the story. Examining each illustration, he realized that Fiona had a true gift. The soft watercolors made her paintings come so alive that he half expected the fairy to dance right off the page. Her imaginative retelling of the tale kept the slightest undercurrent of danger, but the bright, cheerful language and happy ending guaranteed both small children and parents alike would be content to share this book, over and over, at bedtime, with no fear that it might cause nightmares of being stolen by the Fae.

  Not that only the Fae stole children. Sometimes humans stole children after the Fae finished murdering their parents in front of them.

  He gritted his teeth against the memories that he’d thought safely buried in the dark recesses of his mind so many long years ago. Perhaps being around all these children was doing it. Whatever the cause, he needed it to stop. He needed to focus. Steal the Siren, forget about his worthless childhood, and conquer his obsession with the Scarlet Ninja.

  Easy.

  No problem at all.

  The voice that spoke up behind him was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. “Christophe, we’ve got a problem.”

  Chapter 13

  Christophe swung around to find Denal standing behind him. The younger warrior was trying to act casual and doing a terrible job of it. In his black clothing, the bones in his face standing out starkly, Denal was as out of place in the children’s bookshop as Christophe himself. Looking around, though, Christophe noticed several of the mothers—and a couple of the fathers—giving the two of them more than friendly looks. The Atlantean gene pool working its magic. Christophe scowled, and most of them quickly found something else to do.

  “What are you doing here? How did you find me? And what problem?”

  Denal grinned. “One question at a time. I’m here because Prince Conlan sent me. I found you because I could feel your presence on the Atlantean mental pathway, even though you weren’t answering me, and the problem is something we probably shouldn’t discuss in public.”

  Denal glanced around curiously. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “Browsing,” Christophe said dryly. “This fairy book is great. Fast-paced, lots of suspense. Later I might go for ice cream.”

  He grabbed Denal’s arm and steered him out of the path of the doorway as the crowd began to filter out, signed books clutched in tiny fingers. “Look, it’s a long story and I’ll have to tell you later. Now you have to leave. Meet me tonight. I’ll contact you. In the meantime, go play tourist and find out anything you can about the Scarlet Ninja.”

  Denal looked like he might protest, but Christophe outranked him, so he finally nodded and left the store. Christophe turned and found Fiona staring at him, her lovely eyes narrowed. Probably suspicious, now that she’d caught him conspiring. Of course, she thought he was a criminal, which was almost funny, coming from the Scarlet Ninja, but there were criminals and then there were criminals. He had a feeling she didn’t place him in the high-minded category.

  But she’d slept with him, so maybe . . . maybe nothing. Maybe she slept with all the criminals she met. A sheet of red-hot rage blurred his vision for a few seconds, and when it passed he stood stock-still, in shock.

  Was that jealousy?

  Jealousy?

  Not possible. Not once in his centuries of existence had he felt such a stupid, worthless emotion. Jealousy was for fools and suckers, and he was neither. She could have sex with anybody she wanted—and he’d kill any man who touched her.

  The force of the threat—no, the sure certainty—in his mind rocked him back on his heels. She was dangerous. She was setting him off-balance in the worst way and causing him some sort of insane mental illness. Jealousy. Thoughts of brutal, bloody murder for any man who dared to touch her.

  He needed to get away from her. Now. Get the Siren and get out of London and never have anything to do with any ninjas for the rest of his life.

  “Christophe?” She called his name from the table where she still stood, chatting with a few customers. “Do you have a moment?”

  It was now or never. He was closer to the door than to her. He needed to get the hells away from her in case this madness or magic she’d infected him with could somehow become permanent if he stayed near her any longer.

  Now or never.

  No.

  Every fiber of his being rebelled against the idea. He was Christophe of Atlantis, more magically powerful than any in the Seven Isles except for—possibly—the high priest. He could handle one problematic female whose only real magic was bending light—well, unless he counted the enchanting effect of her enormous blue eyes. He took a last, long, rueful glance at the door and then started toward her, wondering if, somewhere, the gods were laughing.

  The bell tinkling as the door opened was his only warning before a woman rushed past him into the store, crashing into him so hard he spun halfway around and had automatically started to reach for his daggers, when he realized the elderly, if rather stout, woman posed no obvious threat. He caught her as she teetered and almost fell.

  “He’s done it,” she blurted out, gasping for breath, her face red. “The Scarlet Ninja’s gone and robbed the Tower of London.”

  Christophe released her. Fiona stumbled to a halt in the middle of the shop, staring at the woman as if she had three heads.

  “What? Are you sure?” Fiona said.

  Christophe caught her gaze almost before the words were out of her mouth, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly. She didn’t want to be remembered by anyone in this crowd for asking about the Scarlet Ninja.

  On the other hand, what normal person wouldn’t? He followed up. “Where did you hear that?”

  The woman put her hand over her heart and struck a pose, thrilled to be the center of attention for such dramatic n
ews. “It’s in the papers. Not only that, but he stole old William the Conqueror’s sword, what was called Vanquish, don’t you know, and he killed three guards to do it.”

  Every person in the room burst out into excited and shocked babbling as Christophe, with as much courtesy as he could muster, cleared a path to Fiona. She simply stood, an island of quiet in the noise, the blood draining from her face. “It’s not true,” she whispered when he reached her. “You know it’s not true.”

  “I know. I also know we need to find out what is true.” He took her hand, almost without realizing it, as a sudden and unexpected need to protect her from this and any danger rose hot and deadly inside him. “Somebody has raised the stakes. We need to find out who and where, and then we’ll get it back.”

  Her lips quirked a little in an almost-smile that just as quickly faded. “Oh, that’s all, is it? Glad I have you around to point out how easy this all is. But that’s not the only problem here.”

  The woman who’d brought the news wasn’t done. “BBC called him Scarlet Ninja the Bloody and said Scotland Yard is making this a top priority.”

  The words “Scarlet Ninja the Bloody” swept through the room, increasing the excited chatter tenfold in intensity, and Fiona turned even more pale. Christophe scanned the room for a quick way out, and Declan, entering from the back door and looking around the room in surprise, gave him an answer.

  “I think this subject is not quite appropriate for the children,” Christophe said to the shop owner as she approached.

  “Quite right. Quite right.” She clapped her hands. “Now, everyone, let’s leave the dreadful crime gossip outside the store, shall we? Lady Fiona must be on her way. Shall we give her a warm thank-you?”

  “Thank you, Lady Fiona,” the children dutifully intoned, and even some of the parents chimed in.

  “You’re welcome. I’ve loved being here,” Fiona replied, gracious and poised even in the face of what Christophe knew to be severe distress. His admiration of her went up a few notches. She’d make a damn fine warrior, cool under pressure.