by Robyn DeHart
The package tucked in his shirt was coated with some waxy material that Max assumed made it water-resistant. He reached inside and pulled out the folded material, then slowly, reverently, opened it.
It was beautiful—unlike any map he’d ever seen—the rings of Atlantis, alternating water and land. Hand drawn and hand colored, the water channels seemed as if they’d be wet to the touch, and the mountain ridges sharp beneath his finger. Poseidon’s palace shone brightly from the center ring of land.
Max folded the map back and slipped it into the pouch at his side. He had done it. He had proven the existence of the lost continent of Atlantis.
Chapter One
London, January 1888
Spencer Cole turned the pistol over in his hand, the gleaming metal shimmering beneath the moonlight. Tonight could go one of two ways, and he was prepared for either. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers. A carriage rumbled down the street, so he pressed himself against the outer wall of the townhome.
The cloying sweet smell of jasmine permeated the air. Damn garden was full of the stuff. He hated jasmine. With one finger, he plucked a delicate white bloom, dropped it to the dirt, and ground it beneath his boot.
His greatcoat hugged his shoulders and helped to keep him shrouded in the near darkness. Earlier he’d changed clothes and removed his bright white shirt in favor of something darker—a muddy brown to better blend with the night.
He considered the task at hand. This officer had been more challenging to find. Initially Spencer had been told the man was in Africa, so Spencer had decided to wait until the officer returned to London. Then two weeks ago, he had intercepted a message that stated otherwise. If the note was to be believed, the man sat upstairs now.
The first target had lived alone and was known for drinking, on duty or off. He’d been loud and boisterous and disliked by plenty. Spencer had not even bothered offering him a choice. Killing him had been easy. Too easy. He’d been passed out from too much drink, and it had taken nothing more than a lit match to the curtains for the entire townhome to go up in flames. Worthless bastard.
Spencer had been unable to leave a message with that body. He’d allowed his temper to get the better of him, letting his own personal bias distract him from his task. But it was crucial that people knew of his purpose, his destiny.
So with the second, he’d been more precise and taken more time. First he’d offered the man a deal; a chance to be a part of something important. The fool had declined. Spencer had used a blade then, slicing the man from ear to ear until his blood had poured out and his head had nearly been severed. It had been exceptionally messy. Without a fire, he’d been able to leave his first message with specific instructions to print said message in the Times. Spencer had no way of knowing whether the guardians he sought read any of London’s newspapers, but Londoners did. And printing such notes would breed their fear. Spencer loved that. Certainly Scotland Yard was on alert now, and the townspeople would follow shortly.
Which led him to number three. Spencer eyed the lit window above his head. This officer had a family, a mistress, and too many friends to count. And many accommodations from her majesty. The officer had much to lose. Perhaps all of those reasons would persuade him to accept Spencer’s generous offer. If not…
Spencer spat.
After discovering this man was in fact in London, Spencer had begun to track his movements, watching him as a hunter studies his prey. He’d done the same with all of the officers he was targeting.
Spending two weeks in this sweet-smelling garden, watching and waiting, had seriously tried Spencer’s patience. But tonight was the night. Tonight the target was alone. His wife and two daughters had gone out to the theater followed by a late-night ball and would be gone for hours yet. Inside the house, the older man sat, unaware of his part in a much bigger plan.
There were far more officers available than Spencer needed, so he’d carefully chosen his targets. Seven lives to signify the seven rings of Atlantis. They would fall by his hand or join him and fall from grace. Either way, they would begin the prophecy, leading his army. He looked down at the ring on his right hand, the one that led him directly to the elixir. This was his destiny, and it mattered not who got hurt in the process. A prophecy older than anything here in London, this was bigger than even he.
A clock somewhere in the distance chimed the eleventh hour. It was time.
He made his way to the French doors that led from the garden into a parlor. With considerable force, he was able to break the lock and open the door. The room was dark and uninhabited, but enough light from the hall scattered onto the floor, preventing him from walking into any of the furniture. The ripe scent of furniture polish tickled his nose.
He knew that General Lancer’s study occupied the first floor, so he crept out of the parlor and down the hall. A scullery maid stepped into the hall, and her eyes widened as she saw him. She opened her mouth to scream just as he grabbed her by the throat. He pulled her close to him. Her large brown eyes teared up as she stared at him.
“Do not scream,” he said. “If you scream, I’ll be forced to kill you. Understand?”
She nodded fervently.
Of course, he would kill her regardless. However, he preferred to do so quietly as to not alert his true target to his presence. Quickly he withdrew the knife he kept secured to his boot and shoved the blade into her throat. Her scream was caught as the knife went through, and the hissing sound of air oozed from the wound. She fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, her brown gaze frozen with fear.
She’d given him no option. It was better for him to make his way through the house undetected.
Step by step, he crept through the hallway, peering into the rooms flanking the corridor. He nearly walked in on a couple of servants pressed up against a large buffet in a darkened dining room, but their muted sounds of passion covered the slight squeak of the door.
Finally he found the correct room. A soft glow filtered beneath the doorjamb, and as he pushed the door open, he came face to face with the man he sought.
The older man sat behind his desk, white shirt open, no cravat, with books and journals piled on the desktop.
“Who the devil are you?” he asked. He came to his feet.
“It matters not who I am,” Spencer said evenly. “Sit down.”
“I will do no such thing.” His hair, though white, was still full and wavy, and his eyes still sparked with intelligence. “Wait a moment”—those eyes narrowed—“I do know you. What do you want?”
Spencer could not deny the slight thrill that shot through him. He reveled in being recognized. But that was not his purpose tonight. He deliberately slowed his breathing.
“I have a proposition for you,” he said evenly.
The man’s nostrils flared. “Did she send you?”
“A great war is coming,” Spencer said, ignoring the man’s question. “England is not prepared.”
“We have the greatest military in the world,” the man sputtered. Deep lines creased his already wrinkled forehead. “You have some nerve.”
He wouldn’t be one of the select, Spencer could see that, but he had a duty to fulfill. Slowly, he withdrew the tiny vial. “I have the solution here. One tiny drop and you would become cleverer, stronger, more alert. The best general you could be.” Spencer nearly rolled his eyes. Were it up to him, he would simply dispose of all of them and start fresh with men of his own choosing. But his specific instructions were to invite them to join his cause first, and should they decline, only then could he kill them.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but I can assure you, I take great offense. I am already the best general I can be or most any other man could be.” He braced both arms on his desk. “I think it is time you should leave. Tomorrow I shall send up a report of this event. Intruding into my home, insulting me, and then offering me some sort of magical potion that is probably nothing more than opium. I won’t have it,” he growled.
Spencer allowed the man to rant; in truth he found the whole display rather entertaining. Especially in light of what was shortly to come.
“If that is the case, then I’m afraid your skills are no longer needed,” he told him. With one swift movement, he withdrew the pistol from his waistband. “I believe I told you to sit down.”
Resignation showed clearly in the target’s face, and he slowly lowered himself into his chair. Despite the years the general had spent in the upper reaches of the military, his battle instincts had not dulled. He had the sense to know when he faced a superior opponent.
“I have plenty of money,” Lancer said. “And I can have my wife’s jewels brought down to you. Whatever you want, I can provide.” He held out his hand. “Here, I accept your offer. I’ll take the vial.”
Briefly Spencer considered the general’s offer. His military skills could prove useful, but it was too late now. The man’s loyalty would always be in question. Pity.
“If only it were that simple,” Spencer told the man. “I’m certain I could use a man of your stature and skills. But you should have accepted my offer when you had the chance.” He swiped a decorative cushion from the chair behind him, then walked to the desk and aimed the gun directly at the man. “But it was not to be.”
“All I have to do is call, and I’ll have a room full of men coming to my aid,” Lancer warned, though the deep swallow suggested more fear than threat.
If that were true, the man would already have called for assistance. Spencer stepped around the desk to stand behind the man. He slid the pistol against the thick, white hair. “Go ahead.” Spencer shrugged. “Call for help if you must, but then I will be forced to kill them as well. I would prefer not to do that.”
“Did she send you?” His voice wavered. Then he shook his head as if answering his own question. “Surely not.”
Enough playing. As much as he enjoyed the torment for his own personal enjoyment, he had a task to accomplish. “No more talking,” he whispered. Then he placed the cushion between the pistol and the man’s temple and pulled the trigger.
Only four more to go.
Sabine Tobias turned over in bed and stared at the dark ceiling above her. She hadn’t been sleeping well since they moved to London seven months before. After living in a country village for the first twenty-four years of her life, she hadn’t yet grown accustomed to the sounds of the city. Tonight she would have sworn she’d heard something or rather someone rustling down below her window. Inhaling, she held her breath and attuned her ears, listening. There, she heard it again. Perhaps merely the wind, or an alley cat, but there was definitely a noise.
Her ears seemed to pick up every stray sound. It was probably nothing, but what if it was more? A thief, perhaps. Or a murderer? Sweat beaded down the center of her back. Her stomach roiled with nerves.
She swung her legs to the floor and padded out of her tiny room and into the hallway. There she nearly ran into her eldest aunt, Lydia.
“Did you hear it, too?” the older woman asked.
“I did,” Sabine whispered.
“I think someone is outside.” Lydia held her candle out in front of her as she walked to the staircase, her pale yellow nightdress billowing behind her.
They hadn’t even gotten halfway down the stairs before her other two aunts left their rooms, and together they all crept to the first floor to investigate. Lydia stopped at the base of the stairs.
“The noise,” Lydia whispered. “It’s inside now.”
Sabine’s heart seized with panic. Slowly the four of them tiptoed into the storeroom at the back of their little shop. There, sitting at a small table, was a man. It was an intruder!
“I’m sorry to wake you,” the man said, his voice wispy and full of breath.
“Madigan?” Lydia asked. She rushed forward.
Relief washed over Sabine so quickly she nearly fell over. At least her aunts knew this intruder.
“ ’Tis me,” he said.
“You scared the devil out of us,” Agnes said. Her fading red hair hung loose in a braid down her back. It flipped over her shoulder as she chastised the man.
He shook his head, then coughed. “I don’t have much time. I’ve come to warn the child.”
Lydia placed her candle on the table, then lowered herself into the chair next to him. “Calliope,” she said to her youngest sister. “Let us get some more light in here.”
Soft light spread through the room as Sabine helped Calliope light the wall sconces. They hadn’t yet been able to afford the new electric lights, but the old lamps shone brightly.
Madigan, as Lydia had called him, crouched in the wooden chair, looking pale and in pain. At the first complete sight of him, Sabine’s aunts gasped.
“What has happened to you?” Agnes asked, moving closer to him.
Calliope withdrew a bottle of homemade liquor from behind a cabinet and poured him a glass. “You don’t look well, old friend.”
All three of her aunts knew this man and yet she had never seen him, nor heard them speak of him. And she had lived with them her entire life. Even when her parents were alive, her aunts had always been there. Sabine knew he was not from their village, of that she was certain. Nor had she seen him here in London, and they had been here with their little shop for nearly a year.
He drank the whiskey, then nodded toward Sabine. “Come here, all of you.”
It was on her tongue to give him a tart reply, because she did not know this man, but Lydia shook her head. “Sabine, now is not the time,” she said.
Sabine nodded, then drew closer and sat in the chair Lydia had abandoned. Agnes sat next to her, and Calliope hovered with her bottle of whiskey.
Madigan was a tall man and nearly as broad. His thick, dark curly hair and full beard covered much of his face, but could not disguise his kind brown eyes.
“I have much to tell you in very little time,” he said in a gravelly voice, then coughed again. He winced in pain.
“May I get you anything?” Sabine asked. “We are healers of sorts. Calliope”—she turned to her aunt—“could you fetch my kit? It’s right behind you on that shelf.”
He reached a hand out and stilled Calliope. “There is nothing any of you can do to help me.” He took a ragged breath. “I came to warn the guardian.”
Sabine’s stomach twisted. They had never, not once, revealed the identity of the guardian outside their village. She eyed her aunts, trying to gauge their reaction, but their expressions revealed nothing. She turned back to the man.
“There are three of us,” he said. He shifted in his seat and his face contorted with another wave of internal pain. He fell into a coughing fit.
“Us,” he had said. So this was one of the other guardians. She, of course, knew of the existence of the other two guardians, the Seer and the Sage. But as each of the three guardians lived separately in their own villages, she had never met either of them. They kept to their own, as it were. She knew only that they were both men.
Historically all of the guardians had been men. Until her mother, then Agnes. And her aunts believed Sabine would be next. Though Sabine knew that would not be the case. If she were meant to be guardian, she would have been selected when her mother died. She used to argue that point with her aunts, but her protests had fallen on deaf ears, so now she didn’t bother.
It had been a shock to all of her people when her mother had been born. Every Atlantean family up until then had always had at least one male child. Never before had an Atlantean fathered a female first and then three subsequent females. So when Sabine’s grandfather had passed, the people had no choice but to accept her mother as the first female guardian. And the ancient ceremony had confirmed that choice. They had all believed she would fail, and when she did, they had mocked her name.
“But very soon,” Madigan continued once his coughing eased, “only two will remain.” He placed a warm hand on Sabine’s shoulder. “The prophecy has begun,” he said.
&n
bsp; “Phinneas warned us months ago,” Agnes said quietly.
Madigan nodded. “Yes, Phinneas saw the signs sometime last year. Warning signs, but this—” He looked up at them, his eyes filled with such sorrow. “It has started. The Chosen One has arrived.”
“Are you certain?” Calliope asked.
Sabine knew that Agnes had received a warning, but she’d never known from whom. This must mean Phinneas was the Seer, which meant Madigan was the Sage. The warning was why they had moved here to London, why they had opened this little shop in Piccadilly.
“The prophecy,” Sabine repeated. She’d been warned of the prophecy her entire life. What Atlantean hadn’t heard tell of it? Though none had ever seen it, at least none that she knew. Perhaps this Phinneas knew the specifics, though everyone knew that the prophecy had been torn from the Seer’s book.
All Sabine knew was there would be a battle and the guardians would protect the elixir from the Chosen One.
Agnes was in danger.
Fear took root in Sabine’s stomach. She took a steadying breath. She refused to get distracted by anxiety. She would not make the same mistakes her mother had. Sabine had every intention of redeeming her family name by preventing the prophecy from being fulfilled.
When she and her aunts had received that warning those months ago, they’d developed a plan.
“We’ve prepared ourselves as best we could,” she spoke up. “ ’Tis why we moved to London. We are on alert, but certainly we should not live in fear.” She said it aloud to remind herself, to squelch the remnants of fear tingling inside her.
Madigan smiled. “She is a brave one.”
“Yes,” Agnes agreed.
“Tell me about this scheme of yours, child,” Madigan said.
