by Alyssa Day
“Anubisa?”
Barely, just barely, Barrabas contained the shudder. “She has been . . . unavailable as of late. Not that she ever tells us anything of what she knows.”
“Still, if we defy her—” Drakos clenched his jaw.
“Enough,” Barrabas roared. “Do as I say.”
“As you command, so it will be done,” Drakos responded, averting his gaze and bowing low. “I will lead them.”
“No. I need you here,” Barrabas said. “Send another. Send Terminus.”
Drakos raised one eyebrow, but otherwise his face was entirely unreadable. Unsurprising for a more than nine-hundred-year-old vampire, but inconvenient nonetheless.
Barrabas stood up in a movement of pure blurred speed that might have terrified the chained Iowan, if one of the women hadn’t just sliced through his jugular.
“Good politicians are so hard to find these days,” Barrabas observed. “They all lack a certain endurance.”
Stepping around the spray of blood and inhaling the thick, coppery smell with pleasure, Barrabas waved a hand to his general. “I have a more important task for you, my second. I need another telepath. I was, perhaps, oversolicitous in my affections with my last one.”
He thought back to the lump of inanimate flesh he’d left on the floor of his bedchamber, with more than a little regret.
Drakos spoke emotionlessly. “Telepaths are few and far between, my lord, and growing ever more difficult to locate. I had hoped this one would—”
Barrabas cut him off. “You question me, Drakos?”
Though he had been unusually hard on telepaths this past year. His lusts for blood and flesh were rising, not abating, as he grew older and stronger, and something about hearing his victim’s tormented thoughts through the telepathic link was unbearably succulent.
If only empaths still existed. To actually feel the sheep’s pain as he inflicted it . . . he shuddered in simple ecstasy at the thought.
No other had survived as long as he—there was none Barrabas could ask to learn if he would face even more ravenous hungers as more time passed. Perhaps he was destined to become more of an animal than the shape-shifters he planned to destroy.
Shaking off his black thoughts, he led Drakos out of the chamber, glancing back at his women, who were frantically lapping at the congressional fountain of blood. “And get my secretary. I have a new proposal to make in regard to that last bill that got filibustered. I think the rest of the Congress may find it more . . . palatable . . . now.”
He stopped at the door and jerked his head toward the remains of his most determined opponents on the Hill. “Then get someone to take out the trash.”
Chapter 8
Conlan inhaled a deep breath, sure that Riley’s scent lingered in the air surrounding him. He could taste her in his mouth—her warmth and sweetness. Still feel the imprint of her silken skin on his hands, on his hardened and aching body. He could still sense the emotions she was broadcasting so loudly.
Everything in him demanded that he go after her. Need bordering on obsession swamped him, but centuries of training rose to override his instincts. He must face and analyze the threat. He’d never experienced anything like that wave of weakness. It had passed in minutes, but who knew if it could come back?
Also, what the hells had caused it? Was it from sharing her emotions?
By Poseidon’s balls, it was like nothing he’d ever heard about in all of the histories of his people. Nothing he’d ever been warned against.
He needed to identify the cause of the weakness, so that he could prevent it. Defeat it. As Alaric loved to proclaim, knowledge is power.
He reached out for his brother on their shared mind path.
Ven?
The voice came immediately in his head, ringing with fury and—better hidden but still evident—concern. Nearly there, my brother.
The duty ingrained in him after so many years battled to regain control of his mind. His duty was to recover the Trident. Finally ascend to the throne that he’d avoided thinking about for the past two centuries. Lead his people.
A future king didn’t abandon his duty to follow a woman.
He laughed, humorless. Yeah, duty. Because just what Atlantis needs sitting on the throne after my father’s half millennium of perfect rule is a fucked-up head case who couldn’t even escape from a vamp.
His jaw tightened, and he paced circles in the sand. Not that Riley—or any woman—deserved to be burdened with him, either.
His thoughts flashed to Anubisa. What if pain had ruined him? What if sex for him would now always be tainted, twisted?
Wrong?
What did he have to offer any woman? He must be rational.
Right. Except rationality was fucking impossible. His body tightened further, painfully, just at the thought of Riley’s hair slipping through his hands like the finest Atlantean silk. She hadn’t felt wrong. Nothing about her, about them together, had felt anything but right.
Too right. How could it be so right to hold a woman he’d just met?
A human?
Closing his eyes, Conlan breathed slowly in through his nose and called on the discipline of his training to dampen his raging need. He was high prince, and he knew his duty.
Yeah, well, screw duty. Ven has five minutes, and then I’m going after her. I’m going to make sure she’s safe before I go recover the Trident.
A swirling fountain of water shot up into the air, carrying Alaric to the sand. Dramatic as always.
The priest’s midnight-black hair swirled around his shoulders, reminding Conlan of the stories told about him. Alaric as the dark guardian of Poseidon’s rages. The people invoked the high priest’s name to terrify children into minding their parents.
Conlan scowled, for the first time wondering how Alaric felt about being made into the stuff of nightmares. The glimmer of sympathy vanished, though, when the priest started laughing.
“My patience is damn near at an end, so laugh at your own risk,” he snarled, feeling like a fool, trying for dignity when he’d recently been sprawled in the dirt.
Knowing that Alaric knew it.
Alaric grinned at him. “You don’t appreciate my fun, Conlan? I spend so little time on land, I deserve to enjoy it, don’t I?” He strode forward and held out a hand. Wearing form-fitting black pants and a black silk shirt nearly identical to Conlan’s own, Alaric could have been his twin.
His evil twin.
Still, Conlan didn’t have time for childish sulking. He grasped the outstretched hand, knowing Alaric would read him more easily through touch.
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.