Conlan noted the reference to their family connection in the cynical corner of his mind that calculated the niceties of Atlantean politics. Alaric never spoke a single word that didn’t carry at least two meanings. Often polemic, at times pedagogical. Never purposeless.
Conlan accepted the dagger and turned it over in his hands, then flipped it back to its owner. “If you failed in your appointed role,
priest
, Poseidon’s justice would be the one kicking your ass. You’ve no need of mine.”
Alaric shook his black hair behind his shoulders, eyes narrowing at the emphasis on his title. Then he nodded once and slid the dagger into its emerald-jeweled sheath. “As you say. We face other problems,
prince.
You have finally returned, only hours after the vehicle of your ascension is lost.”
“Tell me,” Conlan said, fury scalding the shreds of his self-control.
“Reisen. He killed two of my acolytes.” Alaric spat the words out, clenching his fists. “Conlan, he took it. He took the Trident. He’s gone above. If the undead get their hands on it . . .”
Alaric’s words trailed off. Both of them knew the cost of misused power. Poseidon’s former high priest lay rotting in the black abyss of the temple oubliette for overstepping his powers.
Poseidon served deadly reminders to those who betrayed him.
Conlan inhaled sharply, the hairs on his arms standing up in response to the nearly invisible currents of elemental energy Alaric crackled through the room. For his power to leak out like that, the priest must be damn near the edge of his self-control. Or else seven years had seen one hell of a surge in his power.
Conlan didn’t know which option should concern him more.
Their friendship had weathered the strain of the demands of politics and power. Conlan trusted Alaric with his life. Didn’t he?
It was enough to split a man’s skull open.
Clenching the sheets in his fists, he fought for composure. For some semblance of royal countenance to overlay the ragged insanity threatening to eat through his mind.
Through his gut.
To his soul.
His heart was long since gone. Shattered at the end of a whip, while forced to hear silken words whispering of the atrocities they’d heaped upon his lady mother.
Anubisa and her apostates of Algolagnia. They’d murdered his mother an inch at a time, and they’d enjoyed it. Worse, they’d
gotten off
on it. A deep shudder wracked through him, remembering how Anubisa had pleasured herself to orgasm in front of him while she told him stories of torturing his parents.
Again and again and again.
Anubisa was going to die.
They were
all
going to die.
“Conlan?” Alaric’s voice almost physically wrenched him out of his memories of death and blood. Alaric. He’d said
hours
later . . .
“Hours? And here I am,” Conlan said, remembering. “She let me go. She knew, Alaric. She
knew
.”
His final day. His final hour.
“Oh, princeling, you have brought me such pleasure,” she murmured in his ear. Then she slid down his naked body and delicately licked at the sweat, the blood, and the other, thicker fluids that pooled to drip down his thighs. “But I think you must needs return to your people. You have a delightful surprise waiting for you. And, in your current state, you’re no longer any fun.”
Standing up, she’d waved one of her attendants over. “Twelve of my personal guard. Twelve, you understand? Don’t be fooled by this temporary weakness. The brat prince of Atlantis has . . . hidden strengths.” She’d run a finger down his cock, laughing as he’d tried to flinch away from her.
Then she’d flicked her gaze back to her attendant. “Throw him out.”
Still naked, long, curling hair matted with his blood, she’d stalked toward the doorway of the cell that had served as his prison for seven years. Then she’d stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder. “Your bloodline amuses me, princeling. Tell your brother that I come for him next.”
He’d cursed, then, finding his voice again. Called her names that he hadn’t even known he knew. Until her guards came, and one of them demonstrated that he’d taken offense by way of a club to Conlan’s head.
He shook off the image in his head. He was free of Anubisa’s hell.
He would
never
be free of the memories.
He might never be entirely sane again.
But he was Conlan of Atlantis, and he had returned. His people wanted a king, not a broken failure of a prince.
Glancing across at Alaric, he saw the concern reflected on the priest’s face. Maybe even Alaric wanted a king, too.
Enough of the self-indulgence of
dreams
of vengeance—and on to the
reality.
“We’re not boys causing mischief at the running of the bulls festival anymore, are we?” Conlan said, a shadow of remembered freedom crossing his mind. A time before the demands of being his father’s son. Before the demands on Alaric as Poseidon’s anointed.
Alaric tilted his head, expression wary, and then he slowly shook his head. “Not for many long years, Conlan.”
“Too long,” Conlan replied. “Far too long.” He swung his legs off the healing table and rose to stand.
“Childhood may be outgrown, but loyalty never will be. You are my prince, but—more than that—you are my friend. Never doubt it,” Alaric said.
Conlan read the truth in Alaric’s eyes and felt better for it. He held out his hand and they clasped arms, an unspoken renewal of friendship that maybe both of them needed.
Then he stretched, pleased to find his body in working order again. He’d need every ounce of energy. “So both my ascension and my matrimonial obligations to a long-dead virgin are delayed,” he said drily. “I find myself unable to summon much concern about the latter.”
“Not dead. Merely sleeping, awaiting your need. It is your destiny,” Alaric reminded him.
As if he needed reminding. As if he hadn’t had that particular duty drummed into his head for hundreds of years. Love didn’t figure into the breeding patterns of the Warriors of Poseidon; most especially not into those of royalty.
He scowled at the whimsy.
Love.
A myth to coddle children, at best. “I’m out of here. I’m going after that bastard Reisen. I will retrieve the Trident, Priest. And justice will be meted out to the House of Mycenae.”
Alaric grinned at him, giving Conlan a glimpse of the boy he’d once been. “
We
leave now. Ven is preparing for the journey. So much for the welcome-home processional.”
Conlan tried to return the smile, but his mouth had lost its memory of how to smile, after so many years of grimacing in agony. Years of howling out his rage and despair.
Alaric raised one eyebrow, his mouth flattening into a grim line. “That’s an . . .
interesting
. . . expression. You’ll have to tell me one day exactly what they did to you.”
“No,” Conlan answered. “I won’t.”
Chapter 2
Virginia Beach
“Dina, think about your baby.” Riley Dawson crouched down next to the room’s single window, hands loose and open at her sides.
Nonthreatening, nonthreatening, nonthreatening.
Riley forced her facial muscles to relax into an expression of calm, as she watched her massively pregnant sixteen-year-old client jam the lethal end of the very large and very ugly pistol farther down the unconscious man’s throat. His skin was pasty white, but she could see his chest move in shallow breaths.
He’s not dead. Let’s keep him that way, Riley.
“I’m thinking about my baby, Riley. Stay out of it! No way my baby is gonna grow up with a skanky alley cat like this for a daddy.” Dina’s gaze darted around the room, skittered off Riley’s face, then back to Morris, lying still and pale on the edge of the bed.
Riley could see that his chest was moving. He was still breathing, in spite of the force of the gun crashing into the back of his skull that she’d witnessed as she’d walked in the open door for her monthly visit. But she’d been in enough rooms crowded with the noises of EMT personnel and the smell of death to know that a life could end in an instant. And Dina’s hand was trembling on that gun.
“Dina, listen to me. I’m sorry you found Morris with another girl. He made a terrible mistake. I’m sure he’s very sorry about it. But you have to think about your baby. She needs you, Dina. If you hurt him, you’ll go to jail, and then who will raise your baby? You know your mother can’t do it.” A cramping pain burned through Riley’s leg muscles, protesting at squatting on the floor for so long. She shifted a little, careful not to make any sudden or abrupt movements.
Dina barked out a laugh that sounded rusty from disuse. “That crack ho? She ain’t no mother. She ain’t getting near my baby.”
“That’s right. You know you’re the best person in the world to take care of your baby. Have you thought of a name for her yet?”
Keep them talking. Distract them with more pleasant topics; ones with which they feel a personal connection.
The voice of the lecturer from one of Riley’s hundreds of hours of training pounded in her head.
Right. Pleasant topics, when she’s got a gun jammed down his cheating throat. And how about the fact that I’m going to pee my pants any minute? The manuals never mentioned that little fact.
Dina smiled a little. “I’m going to call her Paris. Like that city in France? With the tower? It’s so beautiful. We learned about it in school. I’m gonna take her there someday. Paris Marguerite, after Grandmama.”
“That’s a beautiful name, Dina. Paris Marguerite. Now please give me the gun. You don’t want Paris Marguerite to grow up without her mommy, do you?” Riley slowly straightened up off the floor, ignoring the screaming muscles in her thighs. She stretched her hand out, palm upward.
“Please give me the gun. I’ll help you. We’ll figure this out together. Please give me the gun, so Paris Marguerite grows up with her mommy to take care of her.” She held her breath as Dina wavered, looking back and forth from Riley to Morris.
A man’s life balanced on the wavering edge of a teenager’s indecision. Nope. That hadn’t been in the damn manual, either.
Dina took a huge, shuddering breath, and her shoulders slumped a little. She yanked the gun out of Morris’s mouth and held it out toward Riley. Riley felt the breath she’d been holding for the past half hour seep out of her lungs.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, I can’t—
Morris’s eyes snapped open. He burst up off the bed, blood running down his face from his mouth, and slammed a fist into Dina’s jaw. “You hit me over the head, bitch? You pull a gun on
me
? I’ll show
you
who pulls a gun on Morris.”
As Dina fell to the ground from the force of the blow, Morris aimed a kick at her belly. Riley launched herself out of the corner and toward them, screaming, “No, no! Morris, no! Don’t hurt her! Don’t hurt your baby!”
The room kaleidoscoped into a fractured image of movement and cacophony of sound. Almost in slow motion, Riley saw the kick land with full force against the side of Dina’s huge belly. She heard Dina screaming, Morris screaming, someone else screaming—was that
her
?
She jumped him, not caring that he had to outweigh her by a hundred pounds. “No, no,
no
. Don’t hurt her. You have to stop. Morris, you have to stop—”
Morris yanked a handful of her hair viciously, snapping her head back. “Nobody tells me what to do. Especially not some worthless social worker.”
He raised his fist.
Move. Gotta move.
She yanked her head to the left, just as his huge fist slammed into the side of her face.
Just enough. Maybe. Please God, don’t let my neck be broken. Room going black. Fight, Riley. Fight to stay conscious.
Fist coming again. “No, please . . .”
But he ignored her, face twisted with rage beyond hearing, beyond reason. His fist exploded again, except it wasn’t his fist.
It wasn’t her face.
Thunder? Is it thunder? So black . . .
As Riley fought the blackness, the hand in her hair loosened. Morris’s face changed in a caricature of slow motion from a grimace of violent hate to one of surprise. They both looked at the scarlet stain blossoming, blooming, spreading over his shirt. Even as Riley touched a questing finger to the dark stickiness that splattered her face, the room went black.
Conlan opened the portal, focusing on the East Coast of the United States. Virginia, to be precise. Ven had been “collecting intel,” according to Alaric.
Translation: beating information out of scumbags for miles in every direction. His brother always had favored the direct approach.
Now Ven was calling the rest of the Seven to him to accompany Conlan to the surface. Except Conlan was in no mood to wait. Not even for his brother. Maybe especially not for his brother. If he saw even a glimmer of pity in Ven’s eyes, he’d—
Well. Forget that. Focus on the portal.
Seven years of disuse, and the magic was rusty. Or the portal, temperamental on a good day, was playing with him, Conlan discovered, as he stepped through into water.
Lots of water.
Luckily he’d instinctively heaved in a deep breath before plunging through the shimmering opening. There was another lesson learned the hard way: the portal had its own power, independent of the Atlanteans who had first harnessed it more than eleven thousand years ago.
They ought to hang a “User Beware” sign on the capricious thing. He kicked off and headed for the surface, judging he was about ten meters deep from the looks of the shallow-water flora and fauna that shimmered in the diluted moonlight.
But distances could be tricky in the sea.
And then, there was the problem of where the hell the shore might be. He wouldn’t be the first to end up treading water in the middle of the ocean.