by Alyssa Day
Atlantis Rising
( Warriors of Poseidon - 1 )
Alyssa Day
Eleven thousand years ago, before the seas swallowed the Atlanteans, Poseidon assigned a few chosen warriors to act as sentinels for humans in the new world. There was only one rule—desiring them was forbidden. But rules were made to be broken...
When she calls... Riley Dawson is more than a dedicated Virginia Beach social worker. She's blessed with a mind link that only Atlanteans have been able to access for thousands of years. Being an "empath" may explain her wistful connection to the roiling waves of the ocean, the sanctuary it provides, and the sexual urges that seem to emanate from fathoms below...
He will come. Conlan, the High Prince of Atlantis, has surfaced on a mission to retrieve Poseidon's stolen trident. Yet something else has possessed Conlan: the intimate emotions—and desires—of a human. Irresistibly drawn to the uncanny beauty, Conlan soon shares more than his mind. But in the midst of a battle to reclaim Poseidon's power, how long can a forbidden love last between two different souls from two different worlds?
Atlantis Rising
(The first book in the Warriors of Poseidon series)
Alyssa Day
To the best editor in the world, Cindy Hwang,
who lets me try new things
and always roots for my success.
A good editor is worth her weight in gold—
Cindy is worth her weight in diamonds.
To LCDR Judd,
for more reasons than I will ever have words.
And to Michelle Cunnah,
who saves my life
at the eleventh hour
on every single book.
Ackowledgments
Thanks, always, to Steve Axelrod, who makes me laugh, makes great deals for me, and says nice things when I make my once-a-book "aarghhh" phone call.
To my wonderful friends Christine, Cheryl, Kathy, and Val of the Starfish Club for encouragement, and to all my incredible friends who listen, are patient, and offer wonderful advice: Lani Diane Rich, Michelle Cunnah, Barbara Ferrer, Eileen Rendahl, Whitney Gaskell, Beth Kendrick, Cindy Holby, and Marianne Mancusi. To Megan Emish, for the Warriors of Poseidon symbol. To my terrific Web people, Deb and Tara at RomanceDesigns.com, who should have been thanked earlier.
To Suz Brockmann, Ed Gaffney, Eric Ruben, Virginia Kantra, and Cathy Mann, who are brilliant and generous, and to the folks at the Into the Storm weekend for sharing their enthusiasm with me and listening to the first-ever reading from this book.
Jenny Crusie and the Cherries, who are funny, cranky, and amazing in exactly the right proportions.
And always, of course, to my children, who ate a little too much pizza and watched a little too much TV during the last two weeks of this book, but never once complained. You're the best.
In this island, Atlantis, arose a great and marvelous might of kings… But in later time, after there had been exceeding great earthquakes and floods, there fell one day and night of destruction; and the warriors… were swallowed up by the earth, and in like manner did the island Atlantis sink beneath the sea and vanish away.
—Plato, Timaeus, dated at approximately 600 B.C.
One can hardly doubt that significant shifts of the earth's crust have taken place repeatedly…
—Albert Einstein, in correspondence to Charles Hapgood,
May 8,1953
Prologue
Capital City of Atlantis, 9600 b.c.
It was the time before the Cataclysm, forced upon Atlanteans by the greed of humanity. In Poseidon's Temple, in the soul of the seven isles of Atlantis, a group of warriors met with the sea god's high priest. He divided them into seven groups of seven and assigned each a sacred duty and an object of power—a magic-imbued gemstone. Some were to sink to the bottom of the world, shielded from prying eyes and envious lusts by the waters that nurtured them. Others were to join the lands of humans at assigned locations—all high grounds that would protect the lineage in the event of severe flooding.
All would wait. And watch. And protect.
And serve as first warning on the eve of humanity's destruction.
Then, and only then, Atlantis would rise.
For they were the Warriors of Poseidon, and the mark of the Trident they bore served as witness to their sacred duty to safeguard mankind.
Whether they liked it or not.
Chapter 1
Hell is empty
And all the Devils are here.
—William Shakespeare, The Tempest
Capital City of Atlantis, Present Day
Conlan waved a hand in front of the portal and briefly wondered whether its magic would even recognize a warrior who hadn't passed through its gateway for more than seven years.
Seven years, three weeks, and eleven days, to be precise.
As he waited, up to his chest in the healing water, death taunted him—flickering at the edges of his vision, shimmering in the deep blue ocean currents surrounding him, pulsing in the scarlet blood that dripped steadily from his side and leg. He laughed without humor, propping himself up with a hand on his knee.
"If that bitch-vamp Anubisa couldn't break me, I'm sure as hell not giving up now," he snarled to the empty darkness surrounding him.
Iridescent aqua lights flashed as if in response to his defiance, and the portal widened for him. Two men—two warriors—stood at guard, widened eyes and parted lips mirroring identical expressions of shock as they stared through the transparent membrane of the portal. He shouldered his way through the portal's opening, which enlarged to fit whatever or whoever it deemed worthy of passage.
"Prince Conlan! You're alive," one said.
"Mostly," he replied, then stepped into Atlantis. He drank in the first sight in more than seven years of his beloved homeland, lungs expanding to taste the freshness of sea-filtered air. In the middle distance, the gold-veined white marble pillars fronting Poseidon's Temple glowed with the reflected hues of artificial sunset. Conlan's breath caught in his throat at the sight of it.
A sight he'd been sure he'd never experience again.
Especially when she'd laughingly proposed taking his eyes.
"A high prince with no vision. What a delicious metaphor for the loss of your philosopher-king father, young princeling. Why don't you beg?"
She'd strolled around him, flicking the silver-barb-tipped whip almost leisurely at him, as he stood, helpless, in chains made for creatures borne of deeper hells. Extending one delicate finger, she'd touched the droplets of blood that sprang up so eagerly in the wake of her whip.
Then she'd brought her finger to her mouth, smiling.
"But you will beg. Just like your father begged when I sliced the flesh off of your mother as she yet lived," she'd purred, evil mixed with a hideous lust in her eyes.
He'd roared his hatred and defiance for hours.
Days.
He'd even wept, driven to madness from the pain, on seven separate occasions.
Once during each year of his imprisonment.
But he'd never begged.
"But she will," he said, voice hoarse with the effort of remaining upright. "She will beg, before I'm done with her."
"Highness?" The guards rushed forward to assist him, yelling out for aid. He whipped his head up, teeth bared, growling like the animal he'd become. They both stopped, midstep. Frozen in place.
Unsure how to react to royalty gone feral.
Conlan staggered forward, determined to take the first steps onto his native soil without aid.
"We must inform Alaric immediately," said the older, more experienced warrior of the two. Marcus. Marius, maybe? Conlan focused, certain he must know the man.
It was important that he r
emember things. Yes, Marcus.
"You're bleeding, Highness."
"Mostly," he repeated, stumbling forward another step. Then the world spiraled down to black.
Ven stood in the observation chamber, looking down on the hall of healing below, where Poseidon's high priest, clearly exhausted, labored over Ven's brother. It took one hell of a lot to drain the energy out of Alaric. He was rumored to be the most powerful high priest who had ever served the sea god.
Not that warriors knew much about the difference between one priest and another. Or, usually, gave much of a shit. Except, right now, he cared about that distinction.
A lot.
Ven clenched the railing, fingers digging into the soft wood, as he thought about what exactly Anubisa must have done to Conlan. He knew what she'd done to Alexios. One of Conlan's most trusted guards, the Seven, Alexios had spent two years under Anubisa's tender ministrations. Hers and those of her evil apostates of Algolagnia, who drew their only sexual pleasure from pain and torture.
Then she'd left him—naked and near death—to die. In a pile of pig shit on Crete. The vamp goddess of death was big on symbolism. Maybe something she'd inherited from her father-husband, Chaos. And that was seriously twisted right there.
It had taken Alaric nearly six months to retrieve the warrior's memories. That half year had included two cycles of purification in the Temple to cleanse his soul.
Ven didn't want to think it—fucking hated to think it—but sometimes he wondered if Alexios had ever come all the way back from whatever black pit of hell she'd dragged him into.
Still, Alaric had okayed him. Alexios was back as one of the Seven. It was a matter of honor that Ven trust him.
The Seven served as the most trusted guard to the high prince of all Atlantis. Even when he was gone; presumed dead.
They also led and coordinated the teams of warriors who patrolled the surface lands of the earth. Watching over the damn humans, who'd let themselves be herded like—what did the bloodsuckers call them? Sheep?
While Ven and all of the Warriors of Poseidon had to keep to the shadows. Out of sight. Incog-fucking-nito. Defending the landwalkers from the badasses among the bloodsuckers, the furry monsters, and all the shit that went bump in the night. And, frankly, the badasses seemed to be in the majority in those particular species most of the time.
And they'd done a damn fine job the past eleven thousand years, give or take. Until the day about ten years ago when the freaks that inhabited the night decided to come out of the coffin. First the vamps, then the shape-shifters. The job of Poseidon's warriors got about fifty kajillion times harder when that happened.
For whatever reason, Anubisa hadn't bothered to let her people—her vamp society—in on the secret of Atlantis. But Ven knew that could change any minute. If anybody knew about the capriciousness of gods and goddesses, it was an Atlantean.
Doomed to the bottom of the sea at Poseidon's whim.
Not that he'd ever complain about it. Out loud, at least.
Still, it was tough to defend humans when the big, bad, and ugly roamed freely, and the Atlanteans had to stick to the shadows. But Ven had argued the point in the Council until his face turned blue, and then he'd finally given up. The Elders didn't want anybody to know about Atlantis, and until Conlan ascended to the throne, nobody could go against their edict.
Ven looked down at his brother again, barely registering the soothing tones of the harps and flutes being played by temple maidens in the alcoves surrounding his brother. The music was supposed to aid in healing.
Ven laughed. Yeah, except Conlan hated that light, fluffy Debussy shit. When he ascended to the throne, he'd probably ask for Bruce Springsteen or U2 to play at his coronation.
If. If Conlan ascended to the throne.
He didn't even want to think about what would happen if Conlan had gone bad. Because guess who was second in line? Yeah. Ven would go from being King's Vengeance to high prince in a royal godsdamned minute, and there was no fucking way he was cut out to lead anything.
He looked down at his brother again, lying so still. Conlan had grown up like royalty, honor and duty and all that happy shit ingrained in his soul. But Ven had grown up pure street fighter. There was a big, ugly part of his soul. The part that had withered and died when he'd been with his mother at the end, before she died. When she'd begged him to save himself. Keep his brother safe.
He'd promised her, sobbing, as she died.
Great fucking job he'd done of keeping his word.
The wood snapped under his clenched fists.
"Tough wood to break with your bare hands," observed a dry voice.
Ven didn't look up at the priest, instead pulling splinters out of his torn and bleeding palms. "Yeah, they don't make these railings like they used to," he muttered.
Alaric walked—more like glided; the man was spooky—up to stand next to him. "I can heal that if you like," he offered, tone dispassionate.
"I think you've done enough healing for one day, don't you?"
Alaric said nothing, merely looked down over the railing at his sleeping prince.
Ven studied Alaric as the priest watched Conlan. Alaric and Conlan had grown up running around the kingdom like the hellions they were, tearing up the streets and fields with their games and pranks. Rarely reined in by their indulgent parents or a community respectful of the royal heir and his cousin.
Later making their way through the taverns and the barmaids with the same verve and boyish charm.
There was nothing of boyishness about the priest now. He wore the power of his office like a shield of armor. Invisible, but unmistakable. The sharp planes of his face and the hawklike asceticism of his nose reminded all who confronted him that here was a man of faith, stripped to muscle and bone by the demands of his service.
The demands of power. If the faintly glowing green eyes hadn't already warned them away, that is.
High priest, dark phantom, instrument of Poseidon's power.
Scary son of a bitch.
"No, there is not a helluva lot of boyish charm left in any of us, is there, Alaric?"
Alaric lifted one eyebrow, but gave no other sign of surprise at the comment. "You want to know if he has been compromised," he said, face gray and used-looking. After a dozen or so hours of healing, it was pretty impressive that he could even stand upright.
"After Alexios—" Ven began, then stopped, unable to go on. If Anubisa had compromised his brother's soul, then the royal family really was doomed. She would have made good, finally, on a five-thousand-year-old promise.
Because Ven would walk into the gates of hell itself to shove his daggers up her bloodsucking ass. And he was honest enough to know he'd never come out of that confrontation alive.
Alaric drew a deep breath. "He is whole."
Ven's entire body sagged in a relief so fierce his vision literally went funky; he blinked away little gray spots that floated in front of his eyes. "Thank Poseidon!"
Alaric remained silent, which raised Ven's suspicion. Just a tiny doubt. "Alaric? Is there something you're not telling me? Is it simply coincidence that he gets back here just a few hours after Reisen blasted his way into the Temple and ripped off the Trident?"
The priest clenched his jaw, but said nothing for another minute. He finally spoke. "As to Reisen, I cannot tell. He is yet impossible to scry. For Conlan—"
Alaric hesitated, then seemed to reach a decision, nodding. "The prince is whole. Somehow, in spite of seven years of torture, he is whole. She was unable to compromise his mind or capture his soul to her use. But—"
Ven grasped Alaric's arm in a steel grip. "But? But what?"
Alaric said nothing, merely looked down at Ven's hand clenched around his arm. The knowledge that Alaric could incinerate Ven's hand with a single surge of elemental power lay between them.
Right at that moment, Ven didn't give a rat's ass.
But he sighed and released Alaric's arm. "But what? He's my brother. I have a ri
ght to know."
Nodding imperceptibly, Alaric glanced back down at Conlan's still form. "But simply because she was unable to suborn his soul to her own use does not mean that Conlan retained full possession. No one can survive that duration of torture with his soul intact."
He looked up at Ven, gaze flat. Dead. Promising destruction. Ven saw his own need to kick some vampire ass reflected in the priest's eyes.
"Conlan has returned to us, Ven. But we may not know for a long time exactly how much of him returned."
Ven bared his teeth in a fierce parody of a smile. "We'll figure it out. My brother is the strongest warrior I've ever known. And Anubisa is gonna find out exactly what it means that I am the King's Vengeance."
He grasped the handles of his daggers, eyes gleaming. "I'm gonna shoot me some vengeance right up her puckered ass."
Alaric's eyes shone for an instant with a glittering green light so bright that Ven had to squint against it. "Oh, yes. She will learn. And I will gladly assist you with that lesson."
As the two walked out of the observation chamber, Alaric looked back at the railing that Ven had crushed, then at Ven. "Poseidon has some vengeance of his own to offer."
Ven nodded, silently swearing the second formal vow of his life. If it takes my death to do it, Anubisa will be destroyed. Glory be to Poseidon.
The bitch is going down.
"Interesting timing."
Conlan tensed, fingers twitching to reach for the hundredth—thousandth—time for the sword that Anubisa had stolen from him. Then the familiarity of the voice penetrated the lethargy of the healing process.
"Alaric," he said, relaxing back down against the pillows.
Poseidon's high priest stared down at him, the suggestion of a smile quirking up the side of his mouth. "It's a little tiresome to be right all of the time. Welcome back, Conlan. Long vacation?"
Conlan sat up on the healers' marble-and-gold table, stretching, staring at flesh knitted whole. Bones unbroken and reset.
