by Abigail Owen
She hesitated, and then put her hand out, fingers splayed like the most slender and delicate of starfish, until she touched his chest. Then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed Dare’s cheek. “I’ll see you soon, I hope.”
Oh, no. Cheek kisses were not happening. He placed the bags on the ground, wrapped one arm around her, and kissed her. A single, quick, but very deliberate kiss. “Count on it.”
She blinked and then drew a shaky breath, looking a little dazed, and he felt a smug smile quirking at the edges of his lips. He might not deserve her love, but he’d be damned if he’d settle for only her friendship.
Fergus, who’d been very carefully looking anywhere but at them, then took Lyric’s arm. “Shall we go, my lady?”
“Lyric, please,” she said, still sounding bemused.
Dare smiled and watched her walk off with Fergus. He’d just go find out about Seranth and what in the hells was up with his ship—
Suddenly Poseidon’s voice smashed into Dare’s mind with the force of a massive hammer, laying waste to his too-recently healed head.
DO NOT WASTE YOUR TIME COMING TO FIND SERANTH. I HAVE DISSOLVED YOUR BOND, AND NOW SHE IS FREE TO FIND A CAPTAIN WHO ISN’T A SELFISH ASS.
When his head stopped ringing, Dare realized he’d fallen to his knees, almost knocked unconscious by the sea god’s wrath. He stood up, brushed off his pants, and nodded once, sharply. “You can stick your Trident up your ass. The pointy end. I’m getting Seranth and my ship back, whether you like it or not.”
The sea god roared at him, but Dare didn’t give a damn. He’d defied worse odds.
But when he started walking, and then running, toward the docks and his ship, a little voice in his mind laughed at him. He snarled at it.
A little denial never hurt anybody.
6
So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
-- The Gift of the Magi, O. Henry (1917)
She was in Atlantis.
She was in Atlantis.
Lyric kept wanting to pinch herself or giggle like a little girl. She'd spent the past year practicing all the ways she could invite Dare to stay in St. Augustine with her for Christmas, and he'd scooped her completely by inviting her to Atlantis. And here she was.
In Atlantis.
She laughed with the sheer joy of it and felt Fergus pause next to her. He made an inquisitive noise, and she smiled.
"It's like a dream, isn't it? I mean, I know you’ve probably lived here all your life, but to us—to me—Atlantis was a myth or a legend. The lost city. Almost certainly fictional. And now, to be here, to actually be here in person is just amazing." She felt like she was babbling, but she didn't mind that much. She figured it was a pretty normal human reaction to stepping into the center of a fairytale.
"Yes, ma'am. Although I admit I feel a little bit that way about your place." He had a rich, kind-sounding voice, and she could hear the sincerity in it.
"Florida?” She thought about it. “I mean, St. Augustine is the most beautiful city in the U.S., if I do say so myself, but I doubt it can compare to Atlantis. Plus, you have water on all sides. We only have it on the one."
He laughed. "No, ma'am, not Florida. Earth. Topside. Most of us have never been anywhere but Atlantis our entire lives."
She mentally smacked her forehead. Of course. Atlantis had been protected by a magical dome far beneath the ocean for a little more than eleven thousand years, before some super-magical high priest had managed to make the city rise to the surface.
She'd listen to a special about it on 60 Minutes. And she’d heard that People magazine had put cover photos of the king and queen on almost every issue for months after Atlantis appeared. There had been a huge hubbub of excitement all over social media, Meredith told her, about the king of Atlantis choosing an American bride.
"Well, you're invited to visit me anytime,” she told Fergus, “And please call me Lyric. Ma’am makes me feel old.”
It didn't, really. And he hadn't asked a single thing about her blindness, which was unusual and refreshing in a new acquaintance. She could feel the tense muscles in her neck and shoulders begin to relax, and she took a long, deep breath and then slowly exhaled.
Releasing stress for the universe to take care of, as Meredith would say. Thinking of Meredith made her realize how much her friend would love this place. If only Meredith were here, she could describe what everything looked like. Lyric didn't quite feel comfortable enough to ask Dare to serve as Seeing Eye person just yet, and certainly not Fergus. She sighed, but then forced the momentary trickle of discomfort away.
She was in Atlantis. No negativity of any sort today.
They turned a corner and Fergus took a few steps and then stopped. “Would you like for me to describe what our surroundings as we walk, Miss? A tour, so to speak?”
Happiness sang through her. A personal tour of Atlantis with a guide who knew it well. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
He cleared his throat. “Ah…will it be relevant to describe colors?”
It was a very sensitive and perceptive question. She knew colors since she hadn’t been blind since birth, but of course he’d had no way of knowing that. She found herself blinking rapidly as a flood of warmth swept through her, but she smiled her biggest smile. “Thank you. Yes, please.”
"This is the throne room," Fergus said beside her. He cleared his throat. "The room is flanked with white marble columns, in which veins of an Atlantean metal called orichalcum—almost exactly the color of your eyes, Miss—are inset into designs of dolphins leaping and a bunch of Nereids laughing at their mermaid play.”
“Nereids? I don’t know that, but it sounds Greek and vaguely familiar,” she said, racking her brain for the reference but coming up empty.
“The Nereids were sea nymphs and friends of Poseidon, beautiful and kind. They often helped humans,” he told her.
Light dawned. “Oh, right. I know them now. They helped Jason and the Argonauts, right?”
Fergus made a tsking sound. “The Argonauts. Humph.”
She waited, but he seemed disinclined to say anything further, so she switched topics. “And that amazing scent? What flower is that?” She inhaled deeply, wanting to walk across the entire continent, simply smelling everything.
“Ah. That’s the lava-tulips. They’re green and blue, and they smell like ambrosia,” Fergus told her. “They’re my favorites. And then the throne is set up high on that dais—"
"It sounds amazing and a little intimidating," she said, and then she paused, hearing voices and laughter just before she heard the footsteps coming toward her.
"That's why we never hang out here," said a deep male voice. "It makes me itch."
Lyric heard female laughter from the person standing next to the man who’d spoken.
"Ven, cut it out. You’ll make our guest feel like we're all barbarians."
Lyric turned toward them and smiled. "What? I was promised barbarians. Where are the barbarians?"
“Hello. I’m Erin. I’m married to the barbarian,” the woman said fondly.
"I’m Ven, and I can tell I'm gonna like you a lot," Ven said, laughter in his voice.
"Fergus, we're going to steal this lovely lady and take her to lunch, if that's all right with her," Erin said. "If that's okay with you, Lyric?"
> Lyric didn't hesitate for a single second. "That sounds awesome. I admit I hadn’t thought of food in all the excitement, but now that you brought it up, I realize I'm starving. I'm Lyric Fielding—wait. You just called me Lyric. So I guess you know who I am."
Maybe Atlantis was more like home than she could have imagined. Gossip traveled here at the speed of light, too.
"I’ll just take your bags to your room, Miss Fielding," Fergus said. "Queen Riley has put her in the top floor suite in the east wing, Princess."
"Princess?" Lyric suddenly felt like a fish out of water; no Atlantean pun intended. Or that she was waking up in a Disney movie. There was royalty everywhere she turned. If somebody asked her to kiss a frog, she was out of there.
"Just Erin, Fergus. Please, don't make me turn you into a toad." There was the sound of real affection in Erin’s voice, and Fergus chuckled.
"Right. Erin. And I learned long ago not to call Lord Vengeance 'Your Highness,’ or, as he repeatedly proclaimed, he’d kick my ass."
“Lord Vengeance?” Lyric was getting confused.
“Ven is technically the Lord Vengeance to his brother the king,” Erin said. “Not just a big lovable goofball.”
Of course he was. Now she had a queen, a princess, and a prince who was also a lord. It would have been a great poker hand. For a painter who’d been raised by a tour bus guide, it was heady stuff.
Fergus, still at Lyric’s side, cleared his throat. “The lovable goofball is one of Atlantis’s fiercest warriors, as you well know, Princess.”
"If only everyone else were as smart as you, Fergus," Ven said ruefully.
"Thank you, Fergus," Lyric said. "Would you like to join us for lunch, too?"
"Why, that's very nice of you to ask. But I have a busy afternoon in front of me, and a lunch date with a beautiful girl I’ll be late for if I don't hurry," Fergus told her, patting her arm.
"How is that granddaughter of yours, Fergus?" Ven laughed. "You can tell she definitely gets her looks from her grandmother."
"Ah, yes. Princely humor,” Fergus said with amusement. “Did I mention how lucky we all are that you were born second?"
Lyric gasped, but nobody heard her in the burst of laughter that followed, and she realized they must all have been joking with each other. This didn't sound at all like any kind of royal/servant relationship she'd ever read about.
She had to admit, she really liked it.
Her stomach picked that embarrassing moment to growl quite loudly, and she clapped her hand over it and felt herself blushing. "Oh my gosh. I'm really sorry."
"My stomach feels the same way,” Ven told her. “May I take your arm?"
She nodded, and he gently took her hand and put it on his arm. "Food, Erin. Onward."
They ate at a table on a small terrace that Ven told her overlooked the garden, but she could have guessed that from the gentle breeze that lifted her hair off her neck and carried the delicate aroma of Atlantean flowers.
Oh, and the food. It was one of the most delicious lunches Lyric could ever remember eating. The main course was a spicy white fish wrapped in pastry, and there were so many vegetables and fruits to choose from that she was too full to eat another bite long before the dishes stopped coming. She drank a glass of a light, fruity wine
“All of this is from our own gardens, and of course we have a fleet of people very happy to be able to fish again,” Ven said.
“Sounds amazing,” she said honestly. “I feel like I could happily be a gardener in Atlantis for a while. It must be like a dream to live here and tend these plants. And the colors. Oh. The colors must be miraculous.”
She took another sip of wine and then laughed. “Of course, I could be totally wrong. Atlantean flowers could all be uniformly gray.”
“Nope. We have all the colors you have in your flowers, and a few more, I think. You’d have to talk to people who know more about it than me, but I can arrange something if you’d like,” Ven said.
Before Lyric could reply, Erin, who’d become increasingly quiet during lunch, cleared her throat. “So. Lyric. When did you first realize you’re a gem singer?”
Lyric dropped her spoon out of suddenly nerveless fingers. “A—a what?”
“My wife is a witch, yes, but she’s also a gem singer,” Ven said gently. “A person whose soul’s magic resonates with the spirit of the stones of the Earth. Some records indicate it was primarily a talent of the elvenfolk among the Fae, but it was well known in ancient Atlantis.”
He laughed. “Hey, and welcome to the family. The last recording of a gem singer in Fae history was before the Cataclysm that sank Atlantis. You also may be part Atlantean.”
Lyric drew in a shaky breath but said nothing. Her voice didn’t seem to be working anymore. She might be Atlantean? She’d known something was up with the magic and the stones, of course she’d known, although she’d tried not to think too hard about exactly what. But Atlantean?
This was a down-the-rabbit-hole moment, if she’d ever had one. A shiver that had nothing to do with being cold snaked down her spine, but then she dazedly realized Erin was telling her something.
“…and clearly your magic—your art—resonates with gems. My magic is also greatly magnified through their use. So I recognized you, of course. Like calls to like. When did you first realize?” Erin’s voice was kind but also implacable, as if she meant to find out everything, even and maybe especially Lyric’s secrets to which she had no right, fellow ‘gem singer’ or not.
But witch or not, princess or not, Erin had never tangled with Lyric Fielding before.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Lyric said brightly. “I never sing, except in church. Speaking of which, I hear you’re planning your first Christmas here this year. I have a stellar recipe for a mean gingerbread cookie, if you’re interested.”
Erin blew out a breath. “Okay. I get it. None of my business. But if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”
The kindness in her voice made Lyric feel a little guilty, but not guilty enough to share the most private secret in her life. Maybe sometime she could open up to the princess—and she’d surely love to have some answers--but not just yet.
An icy wind swept across the table, and she shivered. “It’s suddenly quite cold, isn’t it? I should have brought a sweater.”
“No need. That’s just Alaric,” Ven said. “Hey, bro. How’s it hanging?”
A deep voice that sounded like an avalanche spoke next. “I’ll ignore you as usual, Ven. Why is there a gem-singing artist at your table?”
“Lunch,” Erin said sweetly. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s a meal civilized people eat between breakfast and dinner. Even former high priests must eat lunch.”
“Sometimes there’s second breakfast,” Ven pointed out.
“Only if you’re a hobbit,” Lyric added, and then couldn’t believe she’d spoken up with the scary, demanding guy looming over her, blocking what little bit of the sun she could sense.
Alaric bent down closer to her—she could tell because the cold sensation of magic he’d brought with him intensified, sharpening almost to the point of pain—and took her chin in his hand, moving her head around as if she were an interesting specimen.
Of course, to him she might be.
She swallowed hard, but then yanked her face out of his grasp. “I beg your pardon.”
“Most do,” he said dryly. “It never helps them, though. Have you tried magic— either from the witches or from a healer—to heal your eyes?"
Lyric clenched her hands into fists in her lap so as not to punch him in the face. That probably would cause an international incident. Or her impending demise. But she was a little tired and a lot overwhelmed, and she wished Dare would show up. She was too much of an introvert to really enjoy extended periods of time with large groups of people she didn't know. And this— this was a very personal question.
Apparently, however, there were no barriers to what Atlanteans felt they could ask
one lone human woman.
She put a little steel in her voice and answered him. "Please step back. You are invading my personal space. Yes. I've consulted with witches and other types of magical healers. It's not possible for my eyes to be saved. There was too much damage."
“Alaric might be able to help you,” Erin said quietly. “He has more magic than anyone I’ve ever known or heard about.”
“I am magic,” Alaric said flatly. It wasn’t even arrogance; that’s what was so terrifying. It was a simple statement of fact to him, she was sure.
“Hate to admit it, but he’s telling the truth,” Ven put in. “He has more magic than any high priest in the history of Atlantis, which is to say more magic than anyone in the history of the world. If he says he can fix you, he can.”
And there it was.
It took Lyric a long time to hit tilt, but when she did, it was an explosive blast. And right now she was pulling out the matches and lighting the TNT.
She gripped the wooden arms of her chair so tightly she wouldn’t have been surprised to hear them crack. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. Mr. Magic. I do not need to be fixed. Blindness is not a defect. It's simply another state of being. Kind of like the state of being where you exist in a higher plane of arrogant assholishness and presume to know whom you should go around fixing."
There was a long silence, and then Ven whistled. "She's got us there, man. I think she just handed me my head."
“And you deserved it,” his wife said coldly. “I think all of us have tried to strong-arm our guest enough today. She probably hates us, and we’d deserve it. Damn. I’m just as bad as they are. I’m sorry, Lyric.”
"Nobody thinks you're defective, Lyric," Ven said quietly. "We may be big, strong warriors, but we bumble around like orangutans on caffeine sometimes. But we meant well, so please don't take offense."
Lyric blew out a long breath, sudden exhaustion overcoming her anger. There was suddenly just too much—too much sensation, too much new sensory input, too much unfamiliarity and presumption. It all combined to drop on her shoulders and mind with a heavy weight. "I'm sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m a guest here, and that was unspeakably rude of me. Thank you for your concern, Ven, Erin. Alaric. I'm sorry to be prickly about it. I just get awfully tired of that particular point of view."