Atlantis Rising

by Alyssa Day

  Except maybe having no emotions wasn’t a curse, but a blessing.

  Conlan wasn’t entirely sure. Especially with his mind continually trying to reach out to Riley, who still lay unresponsive.

  Alexios ducked his head, a new habit. Then he defiantly raised it and shook his hair away from his face. The terrible scarring caught the glow of the lamps; the light shadowing twisted ridges and valleys of flesh.

  Conlan remembered how Alexios, with his dark blue eyes and long mane of brown and gold hair, had always been forced to fight off the women. His eyes returned to the scarred left side of the warrior’s face. Would a woman be repelled by it or drawn to the pain haunting his eyes?

  It wasn’t a question Conlan would have thought to ask. Not before—not now—but for the awareness of Riley sheltered in his mind.

  Conlan met Alexios’s gaze. “Never be ashamed of scars you earned defending me from Anubisa and her plague of vampire guards, my brother.”

  Alexios made a sound, nearly a growl, low in his throat. “Scars earned failing to defend you, you mean, my lord. As we failed to protect you again, tonight.”

  A small sound, abruptly cut off, swung Conlan’s attention around to the far corner of the large room, where he saw Denal half sitting, half reclining against the back of another couch.

  “Denal, are you healed?” Conlan asked, striding over to talk to the youngest of his guard.

  Denal grimaced. “I am healed. Tired, but healed. Except for my heart, my prince. My heart is desolate for having failed you.”

  Placing his hand over his heart, Denal looked up at Conlan. “Please take my life now.”

  Conlan blinked. “Do what?”

  Ven snorted, standing just to the right and behind Conlan. “He’s read too many old scrolls. Plus, this is his first trip topside.”

  Ven dropped into an easy crouch beside the younger man. “Dude, you’ve got to haul your vocab into the twenty-first century.”

  “Dude,” the warrior bit off. “However you phrase it, the truth remains the same. I was nearest to Conlan when that vampire attacked him. I should have taken the blade.”

  Conlan reached out to lay his hand gently on Denal’s head for an instant. “However, from Ven’s account, you were battling three vampires on your own, including another one who’d tried to gut me, right? And you took an axe to the side of your head?”

  Denal dropped his eyes, but nodded. “It was only the flat end of the axe, my lord.”

  Bastien interrupted, his low voice a rumble. “Yeah, at least it was his head. Nothing important in there to damage. We’re golden.”

  Conlan felt the laughter rising in him at Bastien’s familiar teasing, but knew Denal was far too earnest to understand that his prince wasn’t laughing at him. He bit back his humor and turned a serious face to his youngest warrior. “Thank Poseidon that it was the flat end of the axe, or your head would be split in two. And enough with the ‘my lord’ and ‘my prince’ stuff. Call me Conlan.”

  He turned in time to see Justice snort and roll his eyes. “Do you have something to say to me, Justice?”

  The warrior pushed himself away from the wall, uncoiling like a leopard preparing to strike. Strange that he’d always reminded Conlan of a jungle animal. Even with the blue hair.

  “Conlan, prince, whatever we call you, the fact remains—you still haven’t told us what happened to you. What Anubisa did to you.”

  Justice flicked his gaze down and then back up Conlan’s body, his expression only the slightest fraction away from being a grave insult. “We don’t know that you haven’t been . . . compromised. Do we?”

  As one, Ven and Christophe headed for Justice. “I’m going to kick your ass for that, blue boy,” Ven snarled.

  Christophe said nothing, just raised a hand, scowling. A shimmering ball of energy coalesced in his palm.

  Conlan held up a hand to stop the confrontation. “Enough!” he commanded. “Leave him alone. He has a point.”

  Alaric’s voice sounded from the doorway. “He would have a point, if I hadn’t been the one who healed you. Both now and before.”

  Stalking into the room, Alaric came to a halt in the middle. “Do any of you doubt Poseidon’s powers?”

  Not even Justice dared blasphemy. As one, seven heads shook from side to side.

  No doubt here.

  Alaric smiled that terrifying smile of his—the one that kept even the greediest Atlantean lord kicking in his full tithe to Poseidon’s Temple. “As you should not. The healing process is not simply physical. I see inside of the true intentions and darkest memories of the one being healed.”

  His gaze shot to Conlan. “Our prince is not corrupted, though any of the rest of you would have been. He is stronger than even he knows.”

  Conlan broke his gaze away. The idea of Alaric sharing his memories of torture and fire wasn’t exactly comforting.

  “Damaged goods.”

  “Warped beyond redemption.”

  Anubisa was the queen of lies, and yet maybe there was the edge of truth in what she’d told him so many times.

  Alaric continued. “Left to Anubisa’s delicate touch, most of you would have broken. Conlan came back to us whole. Stronger than he was before. Do not question his rule in front of me again, Lord Justice.”

  Justice bowed his head. Either he agreed, or he was biding his time for challenge.

  Conlan decided to worry about the latter at another time.

  Alaric almost casually waved one hand, and the energy ball still glowing in Christophe’s hand winked out. The warrior snatched his hand to his mouth, hissing.

  “Don’t play with power in front of me, little boy,” Alaric said to him. “You refused the strictures of the Temple.”

  Christophe, a good two centuries past being a boy, little or otherwise, stepped toward Alaric. Defiance outlined every inch of the tightened cords of muscle in his neck and throat.

  “Poseidon’s power isn’t limited to those of you who let the Temple cut your balls off, priest. The power of calling water and the other elements is free to those of us who dare.”

  Alaric’s eyes gleamed so brightly it was as if a piercing green searchlight flashed over Christophe’s face. “I don’t think you want to have a discussion about balls with one who faced the Rite of Oblivion and lived. There are no eunuchs in my temple, little boy.”

  Christophe didn’t back down. “Yeah, well, the rite of acceptance as a Warrior of Poseidon is no solstice picnic. Perhaps you ought to remember that, old man.”

  Conlan stepped between the two of them, even though Christophe had shown enough sense to step the hell back. “That’s enough. We need to focus on the Trident, as you keep reminding me, Alaric. Not settle old scores—or start new ones—right here in front of the hockey table.”

  He turned to Christophe. “And not all elements, Christophe. You know that fire is forbidden to the Warriors of Poseidon—to all Atlanteans.”

  Bastien slammed the air hockey puck into its goal with a flourish. “Yeah, nobody would be stupid enough to play with fire, my pr—er, Conlan. We’re golden. Why don’t you and Alaric get some rest so we can get an early start in the morning? We have some Mycenaean ass to kick.”

  Alaric nodded. “I admit to needing rest after performing two healings. That poison took more than a little effort to disperse.”

  Conlan noticed for the first time that Alaric’s face was almost gray and cursed under his breath. A ruler should be aware of the health and needs of all of his subjects. Even those who were strongest.

  Yeah, well, I suck at being a ruler. No argument there.

  “Rest,” he ordered. “I’ll be in with Riley. Ven, set up shifts to watch. You can—”

  Ven rolled his eyes. “I know what to do, Conlan. This isn’t my first day on the job.”

  Conlan inclined his head, returning to formal speak to underscore his demand. “I cede the task to the King’s Vengeance. All of you—remember your early training and shield your emotions.”


  There was no other way to say it but baldly. “Riley is aknasha.”

  He heard the indrawn breaths, saw Alaric’s eyes narrow, and waited.

  Brennan spoke for the first time since Conlan had walked into the room. “That would explain her reaction after the battle. If she needs guarding, perhaps I would be the appropriate choice, since I have no emotions with which to overwhelm her senses,” he said in his quiet voice. “It would make my curse bear some merit, for once.”

  Conlan narrowed his eyes, searching the warrior’s face for signs of bitterness, but there was only the patient calm with which Brennan always faced the world. A curl of anger stirred in his gut at the idea of Brennan—of any male—spending time with Riley.

  All righty, then. I need to get a fucking grip.

  “Thanks, Brennan. We will discuss our plans in the morning, but I appreciate your offer,” he said, inclining his head toward his emotionless warrior.

  Then he turned toward Ven. “I need some rest, to complete the healing. Give me until dawn, unless there’s some new crisis.”

  With a last narrow-eyed glance at Justice, Conlan left the room. Heading for Riley, who was sending out flutters of awakening consciousness.

  As he walked down the hallway, he heard Bastien. “Ven, what’s the deal with this Riley? An emotional empath after so many thousands of years? What the hell is going on?”

  Conlan shook his head, pulled by an almost magnetic compulsion toward her room. I wish I knew.

  Chapter 12

  Alaric waited until he heard Conlan’s footsteps reach Riley’s room, then turned to face the Seven. “We need to discuss this human—this potential aknasha—and what we shall do about her.”

  Ven leaned back against a well-stocked bookcase. “You planning to hold this discussion behind my brother’s back?”

  His voice was calm. The look in his eyes was not. “Skirting perilously close to treason, my man.”

  “He may not be receptive to reason right now,” Alaric returned. “He’s not exactly acting rationally about her. Did any of you notice that he never questioned the presence of those vampires?”

  Justice turned from the window to cast a sardonic look at Alaric. “Yet, somehow, when I mentioned that he might not be rational, you jumped down my throat.”

  Alaric shook his head once, dismissive. “This is not a question of whether or not Anubisa compromised him. I told you that she had not, and I stand by my pronouncement. However, his actions in regard to this human female are not entirely logical.”

  Alexios made a noise in his throat, just short of a growl. “You, of all people, would deny him a distraction from his nightmares? From the torment that no doubt haunts him, day and night?”

  Alaric wondered whether Alexios was talking about Conlan’s torment or his own. Wondered if Alexios knew, himself.

  Then dismissed the question as irrelevant.

  “I would deny him nothing, especially not the vehicle of his ascension. However, every hour that Reisen holds the Trident, Conlan is one hour closer to losing the throne of Atlantis.”

  Slamming his game piece down on the table, Bastien clenched his hands into fists, enormous arm muscles bunching. “I will reach down into Reisen’s throat and rip his kidneys out. I will slice his balls off and use them for earrings. I will personally turn every warrior in the House of Mycenae into a eunuch.”

  Ven pulled one of his daggers out of its sheath and examined the blade. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll have a little help with that, my friend. And, speaking of vamps, what the hell was that about? We’ve encountered enough of them on our patrols, but we try never to leave witnesses. Why are we suddenly getting attacked by a group of bloodsuckers?”

  He stopped, the blood draining out of his face, the lines bracketing his mouth whitening. “Anubisa. She’s finally broken the curse that kept her from telling the vamps about us, hasn’t she?”

  Ven slammed his dagger back into its sheath. “We’re fucking doomed.”

  Brennan, unruffled as ever, stood utterly still. “But were the vampires after us, or is the female the target? That was Terminus leading the pack. He is one of Barrabas’s most trusted generals. What use would Barrabas have for Riley? Does he recognize her empathic powers?”

  He put his hands together in front of him, steepling his fingers. “We have hunted Barrabas for more than two thousand years, with no success, and the humans elect him to their government. Senator Barnes. You must admit, the irony is delicious.”

  Justice smashed his fist into the back of the couch. “You’ve got a fucked-up sense of delicious, warrior. All that means to me is that he’s more visible these days. The better for me to find him, catch him, and cut his ugly head from his ugly damned body.”

  Brennan moved his head a fraction of an inch and pinned Alaric with his gaze, ignoring Justice entirely. “Further, the question remains, Alaric. Do you yet lack the energy to scry for the Trident?”

  Closing his eyes, Alaric sent his senses reaching out into the night. But the energy required to remove the poison from Conlan’s bloodstream had drained his resources. He felt nothing—not even the slightest resonance from the Trident.

  And the loss of it was like a gaping wound in his soul.

  My duty. Mine as high priest to safeguard the sea god’s Trident.

  My failure.

  He opened his eyes, feeling the weight of everyone’s gaze upon him. “I must rest. I can feel nothing of the Trident’s power. Reisen and his warriors are certainly shielding themselves from me, but I should be able to sense the location of the Trident when I have recovered from the healing.”

  Further considering, Alaric finally shook his head. “I have no idea what to think about this attack. But know this: if Reisen has somehow allied himself with the undead, Poseidon’s vengeance will be vicious beyond the meaning of the word.”

  From the couch, where he huddled on one side, Denal laughed bitterly, then pounded his fist against his leg. “Vamps, Reisen. A human who shows more courage than I. I’m utterly useless. First, I failed to protect my prince, and then I allow our priest to waste his energy healing my worthless head.”

  Justice leaned forward and smacked Denal in the side of his now-healed head. “Yeah. Good job on your first mission, Junior.”

  Denal leapt off the couch at Justice, but Alaric had endured enough of them both. Almost negligently, he waved one hand, causing Denal to hang mid-leap, frozen in the air.

  Justice whistled, but stepped back from Denal. “Nice trick, man. Can you teach me how to do that?”

  Alaric’s view of the room shimmered to emerald green, and he knew the limits of his self-control had finally been breached.

  Brennan stepped forward. “The sea god’s power is shining fiercely from your eyes in warning, high priest. Perhaps I may intervene and escort you to your rest?”

  Christophe grinned. “Yeah, catch a chill wave, dude. Don’t go all ‘power of the gods’ on us.”

  Brennan’s lack of any emotion, combined with Christophe’s irreverence, returned a measure of calm to Alaric. The green glow receded from his vision. He stared at each of the Warriors in turn, and each bowed to him.

  All but Ven, who simply quirked a smile. “Yeah, yeah, you’re the big bad—you’re the dark bogeyman. But we still haven’t figured out what we’re going to do about this female. Plus, Barrabas is going to get his panties in a serious twist once he finds out we sliced and diced his general.”

  Alaric released Denal, who thumped to the floor.

  “We’ll take the female to Atlantis, to the Temple. We will study her and find out if she truly is aknasha. Moreover, we will research the ancient scrolls for talk of the soul-meld,” Alaric replied, suddenly touched by the icy fingers of fear.

  “The what?” Bastien asked, brows drawing together.

  Alaric studied them, weighing how much to disclose. If Conlan had found soul-melding—last written of more than ten thousand years ago—with a human, Atlantean tradition would be rocked to
its very foundation.

  Everything would change.

  Everything.

  He fought off the premonition, squared his shoulders. “It is nothing to worry about at this juncture. As to the vamps, we will continue to defeat them, as we have done for millennia.”

  He paused, then slowly nodded his head. “And the female? If she poses any threat to Conlan, we will kill her.”

  Riley woke from an uneasy sleep in which harsh-faced men with glowing eyes tried to murder her. She twisted to look at her alarm clock to see how long she’d managed to rest this time. Except her alarm clock wasn’t on her nightstand.

  Come to think of it, that wasn’t her nightstand.

  She jerked up, suddenly entirely awake, and wrestled with the quilt that pinned her to the bed.

  Not her quilt. Not her bed.

  Where the hell am I?

  When the door started to open, she let out a little cry and rolled off the bed, quilt and all, immediately raising her head to stare across the bed at the intruder.

  “It’s you,” she gasped, as Conlan filled the doorway. Every muscled inch of him, standing there in nothing but his pants and his unbuttoned shirt. She couldn’t help it; she stared. The man was pure muscle from the vicious-looking scar at his throat, to his chest, all the way to his chiseled abdomen, and further down to his . . .

  She jerked her gaze back to his face, her cheeks burning, and tried for a little “I wasn’t checking you out” bravado. “This stalking thing has got to stop.”

  His lips quirked in a half smile, then his face arranged itself back into seriousness. “I’m here to offer my thanks, my lady.”

  Completely aware of how ridiculous she looked, sitting on the floor trapped in a quilt, Riley tried for dignity. “What’s with the Camelot speech? One minute you sound normal, and the next you sound like Sir Lancelot or something.”

  She pushed her hair back away from her face, wondering just how bad she looked. Not that this was exactly the time to go all girly, but she was feeling a little insecure in front of Adonis or whoever the hell he was.

  He laughed a little, and the sound of it stilled her whirling thoughts—stole inside her, wrapping itself around empty spaces.