by Alyssa Day
He glided to the center of the cavern and floated onto a red velvet-covered platform. “The world shall know the name of Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus again.”
The listener kept his face expressionless, which was somewhat of a feat, under the circumstances. Right. Perhaps Hollywood would be a better goal, considering your flair for drama. “But did the world ever know that name? Or was it the name the soldiers gave you as a child that you wish to hear again? Blaring from countless television screens, ringing in the streets?”
He paused, jaws clenching in spite of his desire to remain impassive, before continuing. “Isn’t Caligula the name you wish to make famous again?”
The most feared and despised emperor in Roman history smiled, his long fangs flashing. “And if it is? It is no less than my birthright.” He turned his gaze to the listener, who still stood, shadowed, near the cavern wall. “You know, of course, that I do not trust you, Drakos.”
Caligula’s newest general finally met the gaze of his newfound…master. “As well you should not. My first words of advice to you would be this: never trust anyone.”
High Prince Conlan’s palace, Atlantis
“I don’t like it,” Justice said, pacing the marble floor of Conlan’s war chamber. Ven watched as the warrior, his sword sheathed on his back as always, measured the length of the room with long strides. Justice had been pacing, nonstop, for the dozen or so minutes since they’d started assembling.
After meeting privately with Ven, Conlan had called his warriors for a council to discuss the threat from Caligula, the increasing vamp activity in the Seattle region, and whatever in the nine hells Erin Connors had done to Ven.
Ven blew out a breath. To say he was frustrated didn’t begin to cover it. He didn’t move, though, from his stance leaning against the wall across from the chamber’s main door. Between any possible threat and his brother, as was his duty and right as the King’s Vengeance. Not that Conlan couldn’t take care of himself. Ven glanced at his older brother, heir to the throne. Conlan looked so much like him, if maybe an inch or so shorter. The prince sat in his usual seat at the large round wooden table, leaning back in his chair, watching the room but saying nothing.
Ven finally replied to Justice’s rhetorical comment, just to shave some edge off the tension in the room. “You don’t like anything, Justice. Care to elaborate?”
Justice stopped pacing and whirled to face Ven, that waist-length blue braid of his flying as he turned. “Do not mock my concerns, Lord Vengeance. You know full well my instincts have saved your royal ass on more than one occasion.”
It was the simple truth, so Ven couldn’t find it in him to be annoyed. “Your point? It’s not like all the ass-saving over the centuries hasn’t been reciprocated.” He looked around the chamber at the others of Conlan’s elite guard, the Seven, who’d shared more battles with him than he could count.
Brennan, emotionless as ever, unable to feel since the curse. He and Alexios had made it back to Atlantis just a short while before Ven. Alexios, grim, unsmiling. Something had died within the warrior when Anubisa had held him captive. These days he only ever smiled when he was killing something. Ven still didn’t know how far Alexios had come from the feral state in which they’d found him; the vampire goddess had had a master’s touch when it came to torture.
Damn, but it was great that she was dead.
Christophe, eyes gleaming with barely leashed power. The most unstable of them all, perhaps. Standing next to him, Denal, youngest in age, but a warrior who had died and come back to life due to Riley’s mortal sacrifice. His two hundred and twenty–odd years weighed more heavily on the youngling than it ever had before.
And their missing colleague—Bastien—still in Florida forming an alliance with the shape-shifters. Forming his own alliance by way of the soul-meld with a werepanther he’d fallen in love with, if Denal’s stories could be taken seriously. Ven was in “believe it when I see it mode” on that one.
Alexios spoke up, jolting Ven from his reverie. “Do we really want to waste our time comparing notches on our swords, Lord Justice?” He stood near the window, the scarred side of his face turned toward the wall and away from their view.
Conlan held up a hand, and Justice stopped before snapping out whatever reply had caused his muscles to tense up like that. The warrior was as bad as Christophe. Justice had a chip on his shoulder so big that somebody was bound to want to knock it off one of these days. Probably sooner rather than later. Ven hoped to be around to see it.
If he wasn’t the one doing the knocking. Maybe he’d go two-for-one with Justice and Christophe, just to burn off a little tension.
“I don’t like it either,” Conlan said, voice even. “Ven is my brother and, for some strange reason, my future queen seems to have developed a certain sisterly fondness for him.”
Denal laughed. “She’s so sweet she likes everyone, my liege. She even likes Christophe.”
Christophe mock-growled at the younger warrior and reached out to smack him on the back of the head, but Denal ducked, grinning.
Conlan’s lips quirked in a semblance of a smile, but his face remained grim. “Regardless of the reasons, Riley would prefer that Ven remain in Atlantis to be near while she…faces these difficulties. However, she is a warrior at heart and realizes that we must continue our mission to protect humanity. We who are the Warriors of Poseidon can do no less.”
An icy chill shivered through the room, and most of the warriors standing around the table involuntarily stepped back a pace. After nearly three centuries as high priest, Alaric’s signature entrance was unmistakable to them all. He carried the power of Poseidon with him even when formless as air, invisible as a breath. Brennan, who had been leaning on the chair next to Conlan’s at the table, bowed slightly and moved away from it toward his own seat.
Alaric shimmered into shape in the space between heartbeats—one moment a cool chill threatened a whisper of mortality down Ven’s spine, the next Alaric stood before them, hands fisted on the emerald-inlaid hilts of his daggers. He was dressed all in black, as always, like some kind of Atlantean angel of death.
The high priest scanned the room, as if he weighed and measured the caliber of the men within it in mere seconds. His gaze rested last—and longest—on Ven. “Your witch is a gem singer,” he pronounced, before gracefully dropping into his seat.
Of course, he was the symbol of Poseidon’s magic made flesh, or so the tradition went, Ven thought with grim amusement.
If he wanted to rip my heart out of my chest while it was still beating, he’d probably do that gracefully, too.
The image of the Lord High Vampire Barrabas’s death in that very manner at Anubisa’s delicate hand surfaced in his memory for a cringe-inducing second, but he shoved it out of his mind.
Suddenly, Alaric’s words sank in past Ven’s reminiscing. “What? I thought gem singers were a myth. And whatever in the nine hells she is, she’s not my witch.”
“A myth? Like the aknasha’an?” Alaric asked, voice dry.
“Whoa, Temple Rat, did you just make a funny?” Ven’s eyebrows raised. He hadn’t heard even a hint of the priest’s trademark dry-as-the-Dead-Sea humor since before Alaric had first met Riley’s sister, Quinn.
“I find no humor in the fact that ancient myths are walking off the pages of our scrolls,” Alaric returned, his eyes glowing emerald green and warning of his irritation. “First Riley and Quinn are discovered. Both aknasha’an. Emotional empaths straight out of legends lost in the waters of time. Now Ven describes a human witch who resonates with the lyrical power of a gem singer. Who knows what may be next?”
“My vote is for the Tooth Fairy,” Ven drawled. “Maybe riding a unicorn.”
“What’s a tooth faery?” Denal asked, brows drawn together, looking much like the boy who’d so often driven Ven to distraction with his endless questions.
Ven snorted, but before he could explain—okay, mock—Brennan finally spoke. “If the w
oman—”
“Erin,” Ven cut in, unaccountably annoyed. “Her name is Erin Connors. Not ‘the woman,’ not ‘the witch,’ but Erin. She’s beautiful, and she’s brave enough to volunteer to ally with us to go after Caligula, so she at least deserves the use of her name.” He kicked at the floor with the toe of his boot. “Anyway, we don’t know if she’s a gem singer for sure. Hells, it was probably her iPod I heard.”
Brennan continued as if he’d never been interrupted. “If Erin Connors is truly a gem singer, and her song strikes harmony in Ven, perhaps I should be the one to ally with the Seattle magical contingent. I am somewhat of a student of the ancient myths and prophecies. They state that the resonance of a gemstone sounds in the emotion of the singer.” He looked around the room and then zeroed his focus in on Ven. “And apparently in the one with the ability to soul-meld with the gem singer.”
“No!” Ven pushed away from the wall. “No,” he continued, forcing himself to calm. “Conlan gave me this job, and I mean to see it through. Yeah, it’s true that you have no surface emotions, Brennan. Ever since that damn curse, I mean. But remember that Quinn found something buried way deep down within you. If Erin really is a gem singer, and this resonance crap is even real, then it stands to reason that she’d crack right through that barrier of yours.”
He turned to face Conlan and Alaric. “I’m doing it, Conlan. If anybody is forming any kind of alliance with Erin and her coven, it’s damn well going to be me.”
“It appears the King’s Vengeance has made his decision,” Conlan said, a trace of sarcasm underscoring the words. “In any event, I need Brennan to deal with a report of an emotional incubus who is murdering people in New York.”
“More myths walking off pages,” Alaric said.
“Possibly not even true,” Conlan said. “But if it is, Brennan is in a unique position to battle such a creature.”
“Fine, whatever. Can we get back to Erin and what in the hells a gem singer is? How do I deal with her?” Ven said, turning his back on Conlan and Alaric and staring down at his folded arms. Maybe Justice had a good idea with the pacing. He either had to burn off some stress or hit somebody. Not the greatest time for his sparring partner Bastien to be shacked up with a werepanther.
Alaric nodded. “A gem singer is one whose soul resonates with the spirit of the stones of the earth. Some records indicate it was primarily a talent of the elvenfolk among the Fae.”
“Great. Now Erin is related to the Tooth Fairy,” Ven growled, looking up.
“Let us discuss Caligula,” Alaric said. “Perhaps he seeks to consolidate Barrabas’s power to himself. We knew political movement would be made in the vampire hierarchy, however loosely structured it may be.”
“Is there even a hierarchy anymore?” Christophe replied. “Now that their goddess is gone, does that make them all turn renegade? We may not have done anybody any favors by killing her. Did she at least keep them in line?”
Alexios stepped forward, clenching and unclenching his hands. “Do not doubt that Conlan and Riley did the world a favor, as you put it, by killing that evil obscenity Anubisa,” he said, the strain to remain calm evident in his roughened voice. “At the very least, they did me a service that I can never repay.”
Conlan stood and bowed to his warrior. “Alexios, if there were any debt, it was mine to you for putting your life in her hands in order to search for me. Never doubt that I remember this every day of my life.”
Silence reverberated in the room, stretched tautly between the two of them—both who had known torture beyond description at Anubisa’s hands.
Finally, Brennan broke the silence. “I do not believe in coincidences. If Caligula is operating in that area, it is almost certain that he is behind the drastic increase in newly turned vampires.”
“Why? Why would he do that? You can’t control new vamps for the first year or two, so what does it serve him?” Justice asked. “Although that’s assuming a vamp needs a reason to cause trouble, which is probably stupid to begin with.”
Ven nodded. “I agree with all of that. No coincidence, vamps cause trouble for no reason, and Justice is stupid.” He grinned at Justice as he said it.
Denal and Christophe laughed, breaking the tension, but Justice didn’t seem to be amused. He glared at Ven. “Laugh it up, Ven Helsing. Sounds like your little gem singer got to you.” He laughed. “Hey, if it’s a problem, I’ll be glad to take over for you. Sounds like she’s quite a woman.”
Ven had joked with Justice about women for more than two centuries, but suddenly, with that one sentence, something changed. Someone changed.
Ven changed.
“Don’t even think about it,” he growled, all traces of amusement gone from his voice. “Stay away from Erin.”
Denal’s sharp gasp sounded a warning, causing Ven to unsheathe his daggers in one smooth motion and whirl around to face the threat. But the chamber door remained firmly closed, and the only things remotely threatening in the room were the shocked expressions on the faces of Denal, Alexios, and Christophe. Ven took in their widened eyes as his own narrowed. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”
As Conlan and Alaric shot up out of their chairs in unison, Denal strode around the table until he faced Ven again. “Your eyes. They’re…they’re glowing,” he said, awe infusing his words. “There’s a weird blue-green flame in the middle. It’s like—”
“It’s the flame of Poseidon,” Brennan said. “Since one can only suppose that you do not seek to achieve the soul-meld with one of us, it appears that the gem singer has affected you even more than you know.”
Ven clenched his eyes shut to block their view. Douse the flame.
Hoped it would work. Somehow knew it wouldn’t.
“Ven?” Conlan’s voice rang out, still calm, but resonating with royal command. “Is there something else you meant to tell me about Erin Connors?”
Ven muttered a few of his favorite curses in ancient Atlantean, then decided to try to play it casual. “Well, now that you mention it…”
Headquarters, the Seattle Circle of Light
Erin stood in the center of the circle, trying to control the trembling in her knees. She’d never been called to a special midnight gathering of the coven high priestesses before and didn’t know what to expect. The candlelit room, lined with sturdy wooden bookcases and heavy midnight blue silk draperies, contained an air of solemnity underscored by the absolute cessation of her power from the moment she’d stepped through the doorway. The room must be shielded by the most powerful of wards; Erin couldn’t hear even a glimmer of the song of the large geodes that rested on the bookcases. The gems on her fingers lay dark and still as well.
The rumors of Silencing she’d heard, growing up as a witch, swirled up through her memories to press against her mind. Unfortunately, the rumors had brought along their buddies: Terror and Despair. Twice in one evening she’d been blocked from her powers. She made a promise to herself: it wasn’t going to happen again. She straightened her shoulders and took a step toward the massive table at one end of the midnight blue draped room. “I am here to report an incident, am I not?”
Gennae looked up from the papers she’d been arranging at her place at the center of the table, her icy features, nearly as pale as the white robes they all three wore, were arranged in an expression of mild surprise. “Did we ask you to speak?”
“No, but I—”
“That will be quite enough, Erin,” said Lillian, her fall of short gray hair swinging around her square jaw as she nodded for emphasis. “You will speak when asked to do so.”
Berenice, the third and final witch at the table, pushed her dark hair away from her face and stared at Erin for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her silky voice held nothing but contempt. “Perhaps Erin feels she does not need to heed coven law, now that she is so adept at channeling the Wilding?”
Erin narrowed her eyes and tried not to glare at Berenice, in spite of the taunt. That’s what she
wants me to do. Blow up and show them all that I’m unstable. Not going to happen.
“We’re going to talk about my use of the Wilding, instead of the attack?” She didn’t bother to hide the disbelief in her voice.
They merely stared back at her, not speaking. So she did the only thing she could think to do. She answered the question. “I am well aware of coven law and follow it faithfully. As you all know, I have been working very hard to control the Wilding Magic. The force of it this evening took me entirely by surprise.” Erin clenched her hands tightly together behind her back, but kept her face smooth.
“Not hard enough, clearly,” Berenice sneered. “We felt it clear across town at our dinner meeting.”
Gennae held up a hand. “I would hear no more of this. You especially, Berenice, know the Wilding chooses its wielders. If a witch could choose to channel such dark magic, only the ones with the most corrupted hearts would make that choice. And the dangers inherent in the Wilding are too great to be left in the hands of one with evil intent.”
She turned to face Berenice. “Although done with the best of intentions, your own attempt to call the Wilding a decade ago nearly destroyed the entire city of Seattle.”
Berenice’s face flushed a deep red. “I will not defend or discuss that decision again, all these years later. When vampires and shape-shifters made their existence known, I felt I had the opportunity to destroy them before they could gain overt power.”
Lillian murmured a sound of agreement. “And you were right to forecast the threat, Berenice. Now the vampires have their own house of Congress, and the Primus holds more power than the House and the Senate combined. With the shape-shifters controlling much of the mainstream media, the power structure of the world is forever tipped in their favor.”