Heart of Atlantis wop-8

by Alyssa Day

  He lifted her into the air until they were at eye level to each other, and the slow smile that spread across his face was nothing but pure masculine satisfaction. “World-bending?”

  “Yeah, don’t let it go to your head,” she muttered. “And put me down.”

  He lowered her to her feet and then kissed her again, hard and fast, before turning toward the bellowing sound of one seriously outraged Atlantean prince.

  “World-bending,” he repeated. “Those may be the best two words I’ve heard in five hundred years.”

  With that, he strode out of the room, leaving her to follow on still-shaky legs. She consoled herself for her weakness with the excellent view of his very fine ass.

  Jack, still in tiger form, slouched into the corridor and head-butted her, grumbling some kind of cat complaint.

  “Eye candy,” she told the tiger formerly known as her best friend and co–rebel leader. “Pure eye candy, in the form of an absolutely delicious backside, wasted on a man who doesn’t even realize he’s beautiful. Stupid Atlantean.”

  He snarled, and she decided to take it for agreement.

  Ven rounded the corner, saw them, and belted out a string of what she was sure were the choicest Atlantean swear words. “Finally,” he said, breaking into English. “Where in the nine hells have you been?”

  Then he glanced behind Alaric at Quinn, and stopped short. “Oh. Ah, yeah. You two were . . . uh . . .”

  “No, we were not,” Alaric snapped. “Though not for want of trying, not that it’s any of your damn business.”

  Quinn felt her face flush with heat, but she clamped her mouth shut against the retort trying to bubble up.

  Ven’s mouth fell open. “Did you just say— But you— Ah, okay. I don’t have time to go all Oprah with you. We’ve got a big problem.”

  “When do we not?” Alaric sliced a hand through the air. “What is it, already?”

  “We’re too late to retrieve Poseidon’s Pride. Some lunatic who calls himself Ptolemy Reborn has taken it, Alaric.”

  “That’s impossible. No human, even a powerful wizard, would have the magic to be able to touch that gem,” Alaric said.

  “What about a vampire?” Quinn asked. “Or shape-shifter? Their magic is different from yours. Maybe—”

  “Impossible,” Alaric repeated. “Only an extremely powerful Atlantean could touch the tourmaline. It’s the crown jewel, so to speak, of Poseidon’s Trident.”

  “That’s just it,” Ven said, his face grim. “Old Ptolemy is claiming to be the king of Atlantis.”

  Alaric’s face hardened, and his eyes flashed so hot that Quinn was surprised that twin laser beams of emerald light didn’t incinerate Ven where he stood. “He claims what?”

  “Ooh, boy, Conlan and Riley do not need to deal with this,” Quinn said, her own anger rising at the thought of more trouble for her sister, who’d almost died at the hands of vampires and then nearly lost her baby during a particularly difficult pregnancy and childbirth.

  Riley would be queen of Atlantis, but at what cost? Quinn glanced at Alaric and wondered if she could ever be as brave as her sister and risk everything for love. A hot wave of shame washed over her, leaving bitterness and bile in its wake. Not that Alaric could ever love her, when he knew what she’d done. What she’d become.

  Ven threw his hands in the air in disgust. “Are we going to stand here and talk about it, or do you want to come back with me and see the impostor son of a bitch?”

  “He’s here?” Alaric’s energy spheres were already swirling into shape in the air surrounding him when Ven shook his head impatiently.

  “No, he’s having a press conference, believe it or not. Old Ptolemy is a media whore apparently.”

  They swiftly followed Ven down a few turns and twists, to find Archelaus already watching the news conference on television when they arrived in his chambers. Quinn knew from a quick study of his body language that the news was all bad.

  “He’s speaking in front of the United Nations building in New York, and he’s claiming to be descended from Atlantean royalty. It’s not good. He just told the reporters that Atlantis exists, claimed to have any number of witnesses who have met High Prince Conlan or, as Ptolemy calls him, ‘the pretender to the throne,’ and said that Atlantis is positioned to rise to the surface of the ocean any day now.”

  Ven shook his head. “We knew we couldn’t keep the secret forever, not with the way we run around protecting humanity, kicking vampire ass, and generally making a nuisance of ourselves with the big, bad, and uglies that go bump in the dark.”

  “But this isn’t anything expected, is it?” Quinn asked. “Is it possible he really is who he claims he is? I mean, he is holding your jewel in his hand, isn’t he?”

  “It must be a fake,” Alaric said. He stared at the television screen so hard she was surprised the heat in his eyes didn’t burn a hole in the screen. “Can you make the device speak louder?”

  “Turn up the volume,” Ven said.

  “As I said,” Alaric snapped.

  Quinn shook her head at the two of them.

  Archelaus pressed a button on the remote and the voice of the wannabe Atlantean king filled the room.

  “I have documented proof that I am the direct lineal descendant of Alexander the Great, conquerer and Atlantean, and I will take my rightful place upon the throne as soon as Atlantis rises from its watery grave,” he intoned.

  Ven snorted. “Watery grave? Seriously?”

  Quinn was stuck on a different part of the man’s statement. “Alexander the Great was Atlantean?”

  Alaric shrugged. “Narcissist. Lust for power. Amazing while it lasted, though.”

  Quinn studied the man standing at the bank of microphones. He definitely looked regal. He was tall and imposing, with a TV politician kind of look to him. All toothpaste-commercial teeth and good hair. Even a tan, whether real or spray-on. But under the made-for-prime-time charisma, she could just see the jagged edges of something with real teeth. Something that would chew up enemies and vomit up their remains before calmly flossing.

  She shuddered. “There’s power there. Dark power. I’ve seen enough wrong in the past decade to recognize it. He’s just . . . not right.”

  Alaric slanted a measuring glance at her. “I tend to agree, even without the added incentive of his ludicrous claim.”

  “He does kind of look like you,” she pointed out. “The collective you. Atlanteans. Same dark hair, same height and bone structure, but with an added layer of smarm. Are you sure there’s no chance he could be a descendant, like he claims?”

  “Impossible to tell from here,” Alaric said.

  Reporters surrounding the man shouted questions at him, but he stood calmly in the center of the firestorm of attention, smiling slightly as if he were mildly amused. Finally, he held up his hands, and the questions slowly died down as the reporters began to fall silent in order to hear what else he would say.

  “I will answer all of your questions eventually, but what I have to say now is of the most urgent nature.” He drew a sheet of paper out of a large envelope and held it tightly, making eye contact with each reporter in turn.

  “We Atlanteans have long been on a mission to protect humanity. Our goal has been, and always will be, to work with you to secure your lives and safety against the vampire menace that threatens to destroy you. To that end, I must speak with this woman. If any of you know how to contact her, please have her call me at the Plaza Hotel. It is quite literally a matter of life and death.”

  He slowly turned the paper around, and revealed that it was actually an eight-by-ten-inch photograph.

  Of Quinn.

  Alaric swore so viciously in a mixture of English and Atlantean that even Quinn, who was well accustomed to being surrounded by people who used colorful language, flinched.

  “This is Quinn Dawson, the leader of the North American rebel alliance. I understand that by revealing her secret identity on national and international TV, I
have placed her in extreme danger.”

  The camera zeroed its focus in on the photograph, which was grainy in the blurry picture but unmistakably Quinn.

  “My cover is blown,” she said numbly. “I’m a dead woman.”

  Alaric’s face was a study in icy rage. “No, mi amara. It is he who is a dead man.”

  “Call me, Quinn Dawson,” Ptolemy continued. “Together, we will take back the planet. Human and Atlantean together. This I swear.”

  The reporters, all swooning over the double scoop, shouted questions so fast and furiously that they were unintelligible, but the man simply bowed and held up his right hand with the enormous gemstone in it, and a flash of sickly orange-red light enveloped him. When the light was gone, so was he.

  “A cheap trick,” Ven said dismissively. “Any five-dollar magician can do that.”

  “But a five-dollar magician could not touch Poseidon’s Pride, let alone wield it,” Alaric said slowly. “If that truly is the missing gem, there is something to this man’s claim, at least of being Atlantean, perhaps.”

  Quinn started laughing, and it was high and wild. “Well. Think they’re hiring at McDonald’s? Because that, my friends, just put me out of a job.”

  Alaric stared at her in disbelief. “Out of a job? Are you insane? What he did, mi amara, was to paint a giant target on your forehead. Every faction in the vampire conspiracy, every rogue shape-shifter, and even the many humans you’ve crossed over the years—they will all be after you. I will have to kill every one of them after I kill Ptolemy.”

  “I’ll be right there to help,” Ven said.

  Jack, who’d been so silent Alaric had almost forgotten about him, roared so loudly the walls seemed to vibrate with the sound.

  “That’s too many to kill, you idiots,” Quinn said wearily. “I may as well stay here and start a flying monkey ranch. Life as I knew it is over. Will you teach me how to speak Japanese, Archelaus?”

  Alaric made a horrible snarling noise, deep in his throat, so primal that it rivaled Jack at his tiger worst. He raised his hands and hurled an intense whiplash of power so massive that the entire room flashed as bright and hot as if they huddled inside a lightning bolt, praying for the storm to end. The television shattered into a thousand pieces, as did the table beneath it, the chair next to it, and a significant part of the cavern wall.

  The world itself seemed to hold its breath in the aftermath of the violence, until finally Alaric’s voice broke the silence.

  “Remember what I said, Quinn,” Alaric said calmly. He turned those deadly eyes on her, but she forced herself not to flinch. “I will kill them all.”

  Chapter 5

  Alaric watched Quinn follow Archelaus out of the room. She’d grown quieter and quieter while they argued over what to do next, and then she’d finally said she was going to find some food.

  “Not much else to do, now that I’m unemployed,” she’d said, contorting her face in what she may have intended to be a smile, but which came out as a death’s head grimace.

  Jack followed, her silent, deadly shadow. Alaric realized yet again that in another world—another timeline—she could have loved Jack and, perhaps, been happy. The realization added yet another layer of tarnish to the rusted remains of his conscience, but did not in the least tempt him to give her up.

  At least Alaric had stopped casually plotting ways to kill Jack whenever he thought of Jack with Quinn. That was progress, of a sort.

  “That is one scary expression on your face, my friend,” Ven said. The prince folded his arms over his chest. “Do I even want to know what’s on your mind?”

  “Your wants are of no concern to me. My mind is my own. I leave now to confront this fake Ptolemy. Once he’s dead, and I retrieve the gem, our problems will diminish.”

  Ven shook his head. “Not by much. The world still knows that Quinn is a rebel leader. That bell can’t be unrung. She’s done being safe—or, for that matter, going undercover—forever. And we should check in with Conlan and the rest of the Seven and find out if they even know what’s going on. It’s not like they get CNN in Atlantis.”

  “Fine. You check in. I’m going to New York.” Alaric called to the portal, belatedly wondering if it would even answer, if Noriko truly was the portal spirit or presence who had directed its magic.

  A shimmering oval of light answered his question, but before entering he stopped and addressed it, feeling a fool.

  “You. Spirit of the portal. Can you speak in that form?”

  Silence was his only answer, which was no answer at all.

  “Fine. Take me to the Plaza Hotel in New York,” he commanded, as he stepped into the swirling magic.

  As the vortex took him, Ven followed.

  “Somebody needs to save your ass,” the prince said.

  “Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

  “Call me that again, and I’ll kick your ass instead.”

  The portal deposited them in what appeared to be a garden or park, in a stand of trees. The rich scent of plants, flowers, and trees, with an underlying touch of metal and machine, infused the night air, and stars twinkled overhead.

  “Night here, day in Japan. The time zone change is messing with my brain,” Ven said.

  “Where are we?” Alaric demanded.

  “This is Central Park. See that overgrown mansion of a building? That’s the Plaza. Finest hotel in New York.” Ven grinned. “I met this brunette in the Champagne Bar once—”

  “Yes, I’ll be sure to tell Erin all about that.” Alaric had even less patience than usual with the prince’s banter. Quinn’s life was in danger. Rage thrummed through his bones and his blood like the war cry of ancient tribal drums.

  A look of pure horror crossed Ven’s face. “You wouldn’t do that. Erin knows she’s the only woman for me. I was just— Never mind. Let’s find this Ptolemy.”

  Alaric headed out of the trees and toward the hotel, not caring whether Ven followed or not. This bastard of a pretender had put Quinn in danger.

  Ptolemy had to die.

  “Did you tell Quinn you were leaving?”

  “She won’t even notice I’m gone before I return with the news of Ptolemy’s defeat,” Alaric said grimly, acknowledging, if only to himself, how quickly he’d been forced to break his vow never to leave her. But her life itself was at stake—he’d had no choice.

  The portals to the nine hells were built with good intentions, too, or so the old stories went. Good intent or avid self-interest? At times the barrier between the two was as thin as a coward’s resolve.

  Ven caught up with him, whistling under his breath. “Mistake. Big mistake.”

  Probably. Every step Alaric took with Quinn was a mistake. But he had many long years to work on doing better. For now he’d do what he did best—battle his enemies.

  Kill them all.

  He stared up at the luxe hotel, wishing he could see through the walls. But he had the next best ability—he could sense Atlantean magic. And, like it or not, at least that much of the pretender’s claim must be true, unless there were another Atlantean inside the building wielding control over the elements. He could feel the pounding pulse of incredibly strong power coming from one of the upper floors of the building.

  “He’s experimenting with Poseidon’s Pride,” he told Ven from between clenched teeth, as every fiber of his being protested the very thought of it.

  “I can feel it. Or at least feel something. The hair on my arms is trying to climb off my skin. Quinn nailed it, though. It feels wrong,” Ven said.

  “His magic isn’t pure. It certainly isn’t ancient,” Alaric said, closing his eyes to concentrate more intently. “It’s tainted with something that feels oily and perverted.”

  “Perverted magic? What does that even mean?”

  Alaric opened his eyes and scanned the busy street they’d approached. “Most magic comes from a wholesome place. Water, earth, air, and even fire, which, though forbidden to Atlanteans, is pure and untainted. T
his . . . this is something different. Twisted. Demonic, perhaps.”

  Ven whistled. “I have no desire to run into another demon. One per half a millennium is plenty for me.”

  “Demon or no, he dies tonight.”

  “So you keep saying, but don’t you think we should get him to answer a few questions first?”

  A group of pedestrians approached, weaving drunkenly and singing. Alaric flashed them a single look, and they abruptly turned and started walking very quickly in the opposite direction.

  “Humans annoy me,” he growled.

  “Not all humans,” Ven said, making Alaric want to blast the prince with an energy sphere right there on the street.

  “Almost all humans,” he amended, instead. “Yes, you may be right. If he is drawing on demonic magic, I’d like to know how an Atlantean or Atlantean descendant with that kind of power escaped our attention all this time. You know I’ve scanned for any of our line with magic every time we come to the surface.”

  “Less talk, more action?” Ven suggested.

  Alaric scowled, and a woman who’d been tentatively approaching them, holding out a camera, screamed and ran across the street, barely escaping being hit by a car.

  “That, my friend, is one terrifying face,” Ven said.

  “Less talk, more action,” Alaric replied.

  Together, the two Atlanteans crossed the street to the Plaza Hotel, where one pretender to the Atlantean throne was going to die a long, slow, horrible death.

  * * *

  Japan

  Quinn sat at the deserted table, her untouched plate in front of her, and stared into space, arms clutched around her waist, trying to contain the empty hole that used to be her insides. She’d known the day might come; she’d crossed too many powerful people for it to be otherwise. But she hadn’t expected it to come so soon, and in spite of what she’d said about being tired, there was no part of her that was ready to give up the fight.

  “Now I might have no choice,” she told Jack, who kept right on snoring at her side.