January in Atlantis

by Alyssa Day

  JANUARY IN ATLANTIS

  A Poseidon’s Warriors paranormal romance

  Alyssa Day

  Contents

  Atlantis

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Thank you!

  Excerpt: Christmas in Atlantis by Alyssa Day

  Christmas in Atlantis

  Books by Alyssa

  About the Author

  Atlantis

  After eleven thousand years beneath the seas, the lost continent is lost no more. Atlantis has risen from beneath the ocean and is now openly taking part in human affairs. But the creatures who formerly hid in the darkness have come out into the open, too. Vampires, shapeshifters, the Fae, and more are now part of daily life on Earth . . . not always to humanity’s benefit.

  The fabled group known as Poseidon’s Warriors must therefore continue their sworn task of protecting humankind, and a new group of fighters will vow to become the king’s elite vanguard: The Twelve.

  Earth—and Atlantis—may never be the same.

  Prologue

  Bruce’s Cave, Ireland

  Flynn twirled the sword in his right hand and the dagger in his left and sauntered toward the three dragons blocking the entrance to the cave. Just outside the entrance, the waves crashed and thundered into the rocks, but at the moment, water was not really concerning Flynn.

  Then again, water never did.

  “Boys, boys, boys. I’m not planning to tell anyone about your lair, or your treasure, or even that unfortunate tendency you have to dress up in pink skirts and dance in the moonlight.”

  The largest of the three, a good twenty feet tall from toes to the top of his crested skull, reared back and roared, and the cave itself seemed to shake. Anyone who has ever heard a dragon roar would be amazed that Flynn wasn’t flat on the ground, trembling in his boots.

  Flynn was from Atlantis, though. He wasn’t the trembling kind.

  Still, maybe not the best idea to taunt three of Clan Fury’s most powerful warriors. They were lethal in human form and like this—in their natural shape—they were Death itself.

  Nobody had ever accused Flynn of having a lot of best ideas, though.

  “How about you come on down from your flying lizard forms, so we can have this out like men? Or just move aside and let me go, and we’ll call it quits. I don’t even want a share of your treasure, even though I helped you . . . let’s just say collect, shall we? . . . some of it.”

  The largest and fiercest of the bunch, the one who once had been Flynn’s best friend in the world, shot a bolt of searing dragon fire straight down the cave at him. It should have incinerated him.

  Would have incinerated him, if he’d still been standing there.

  Flynn, though, had been goading the dragons into precisely this response. By the time the smoke in the cave cleared, he was travelling in mist form down the coast of Ireland.

  He’d had his fun. It was time to go home.

  January was as good a month as any to return to Atlantis.

  1

  Atlantis, the war room

  Conlan, high king of all Atlantis, leaned back in his chair and blew out a long breath. Then he hurled a red rubber ball at the other man in the room. “You are a giant pain in my ass, do you know that?”

  Denal caught the ball without ever looking at it and stared back at his king with flat eyes and an expressionless face. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Conlan came up out of his chair. “Damn it, Denal. You were one of my Seven. My most trusted elite guard, and my friends. You’re also like a kid brother to me, and now you’re going to ‘Your Majesty’ me? I’ll kick your ass, my friend.”

  In the old days, Denal would have cracked a joke, or at least a smile. In the very old days, back before Conlan had even met Riley, now his queen, Denal would have all but fallen over himself to please his then-prince.

  Now, he simply stared back at Conlan out of those empty, cold, dark-blue eyes.

  “Do you want Prince Aidan’s ball back, Sire?”

  Conlan rolled his eyes but held up his hand to catch the ball. If he didn’t have it ready when his son woke up from his nap, there would be trouble. Funny how being high king of an entire continent—albeit a relatively small one—didn’t save a guy from his wife’s wrath over a missing favorite toy. He grinned at the thought but then turned his attention back to the problem in front of him.

  “Are you ever going to find your sense of humor?”

  “Doubtful,” Denal said flatly, leaning back against a faded tapestry and folding his arms over his chest.

  The door slammed open and an icy wind blew into the room, followed by a man wearing an even icier countenance.

  “Babies,” Alaric, former high priest and most powerful mage ever to use magic in Atlantis, said with a slight baring of his teeth. “I do not understand the fascination. Prince he may be, but his chief talent at this age appears to be producing copious amounts of drool.”

  Conlan started laughing. Since Alaric was married to Quinn, Queen Riley’s sister, Alaric was forced to spend a lot of time with his nephew. Who was, of course, the most brilliant baby in the history of the world.

  He said as much to Alaric, who groaned.

  “Certainly, the child is a prodigy among prodigies. Just this afternoon, he moved his bowels in such a manner as to cause rhapsodies to all involved, evidently.” Alaric shuddered.

  “There were people involved in his bowel movements?” Conlan shook his head. “No. Forget it. I don’t want to know. We’re here to talk to Denal.”

  “Imagine my joy,” Denal drawled, eyes narrowing.

  Alaric pulled out a chair. “Sit. This might take a while. I need to explain what’s happening.”

  “You assume I care what’s happening.”

  "Sit down," Alaric snarled. "I understand your anger –"

  "I don't give a damn what you understand," Denal snarled right back, coming up off the wall he’d been leaning against. "Nobody left you in the Fae lands, did they?"

  Alaric shook his head. "I said I understand. I didn't say I cared, even the slightest bit. You swore your service to your king, did you not? Many have died in that service. So you lost a little time. Now you need to grow up. We’ve got a job for you, and Conlan is still your king, isn't he? Or are you surrendering your Atlantis citizenship?"

  Conlan felt the question like a punch in his gut. If Denal agreed – if he said he didn't even want to be a citizen of Atlantis anymore, not one of Poseidon's Warriors—the loss would be the same as if somebody ripped off one of Conlan's arms.

  Denal's face turned white under his tan. "I didn't – I don't mean that. You know I would never mean that. I won't give up on my country or my king, even if they both gave up on me."

  "I'm sorry," Conlan said simply. He couldn't believe it, but he didn't think he’d ever said it to the warrior before.

  "You're right. We left you in the Fae lands longer than you ever should've been left there. The time – well, you know about the time. The years you were in their world were only a matter of weeks here. But we never should have lost you to them in the first place.”

  “I'm sorry," he repeated. "You deserved better."

  Denal met his gaze, and Conlan saw something like shock in the man's face for an instant before he smoothed it back to the expressionless mask he'd chosen to wear for so long. Denal started to speak but then stopped. He stood there for a moment, nodded to himself, and then pulled out a chair and sat.

  "A
ll right. Tell me about this problem, and what you need from me."

  It wasn’t acceptance, Conlan knew, but it was close enough for now. "The world wasn't ready for Atlantis to suddenly appear. No matter what they say, no matter all the political fawning and folderol that have gone on, I think there are many, many nations whose leaders would've preferred we stay sunken beneath the sea.”

  “They liked us better as a mythical lost continent than as an actual found continent," Alaric interjected.

  "Even more so since they found out about Poseidon's Warriors and our sworn duty to protect humanity," Conlan added.

  "Especially once they found out some of the ways we've gone about it," Denal put in, his eyes narrowing. "Evidently we're supposed to follow their rules when we fight murderous vampires or demons on their lands."

  "Give me three warriors and a week, and I'll teach them all what we think about their rules," Alaric said darkly, and the temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees.

  "Calm down before you turn my ass into an ice cube," Conlan said. "Let's try it my way for a while. And if you give me any crap about turning into a politician, I'm gonna order you executed."

  "Can you do that?" Denal's eyes widened.

  "He can try," Alaric said, calling to his magic, which sparked in his hand. Then he started ostentatiously juggling tiny balls of sheer silvery power from finger to finger.

  Conlan rolled his eyes. "Okay, children, back to the matter at hand. I've agreed to take part in an international task force looking into some of the rings of paranormal crime going on all over the world. Riley has agreed to be on the international board of Save All The Children Now, since her social work background will be very helpful there." He leaned back in his chair and started tossing Aidan's ball from hand to hand. "We're starting with the United States, since Riley and Quinn know it best and Quinn, having been a rebel leader for all North America for several years, can help coordinate. She’ll be meeting with some head guy at the Paranormal Operations division of its FBI—they call it P-Ops—and we’re also talking to Interpol and Scotland Yard in Europe. Since my original Seven, other than Ven and you, Denal, are scattered all over the world, we’ve got eyes on the ground when we need them. But for now, we need more immediate help. We need soldiers –warriors."

  Alaric pointed at Denal. "We need you. Most of our people are already organized by location. You're going to lead a new team and work cooperatively with some of these human crime-fighting organizations."

  Denal's mouth fell open in the most honest reaction Conlan had seen from him yet today. "I'm going to lead – what do you mean, a new team? You’re naming a new Seven?"

  Conlan traded a glance with Alaric and then shook his head. "I wish I could. You have no idea how much I wish I could,” he said fervently. “But I’m stuck playing king for a while, now that they know about us. It’s your team. You name them.”

  “This time, I don't think seven will be enough,” Alaric said, frowning. “We're going to need different missions going on in different places, coordinating with different law enforcement organizations. Why don’t we start with twelve and go from there?"

  “Twelve?” Conlan thought about it. Liked it. “Sure. Denal's Dozen. What could go wrong?"

  Denal shoved his chair back from the table and stood up. "I guess we’re about to find out."

  He turned and strode out of the room, never once looking back.

  Conlan blew out a breath and threw the ball into the wall, hard, caught it on the rebound, and threw it again. “I’m not cut out for politics. My sword hand is itching to get out there with Denal and form this new team.”

  "He troubles me," Alaric finally replied, still staring at the empty doorway. "I don't know if he's stable enough for this responsibility."

  "You said that about me once, remember? After I'd escaped from the vampire goddess and years of torture at her delicate hand, may she burn in the nine hells forever." Conlan drummed his fingers on the table. "The problem is, you were right, then, and you might be right, now. I wasn't stable. Far, far from it. But I put on a good front until my duty—and Riley—pulled me out of the darkness. All we can do now is watch him. Let him take the reins and see what he does. He'll either manage it or he won't, and we’ll figure it out then."

  Alaric nodded sharply, then rose and headed toward the door. Just at the doorway, he stopped and turned to look at Conlan. "If he fails, there could be enormous international repercussions. You understand this, correct?"

  "If he fails, I won’t particularly give a damn about the international repercussions," Conlan said quietly. “We’ll be in far worse trouble than that.”

  2

  For the first time in his entire life, Flynn entered Atlantis by way of a ship. To be fair, it was the first time he’d ever actually entered Atlantis. He’d been born there, he’d grown up, and then he’d left and never returned. Now, he had to come by ship. The portal hadn’t answered his call, not that he’d been all that surprised. He was sure High Priest Alaric the Holy Board Stuck Up His Ass-ness had tuned the portal’s magic to keep riff raff like him out. So here he was, the prodigal child, coming home by boat. To Atlantis, now proudly in the world again; on the surface of the ocean instead of beneath it.

  It was a spectacular sight.

  The marble and crystal spires of the palace rose high over the magnificent structure, and the human tourists beside him on the deck oohed and aahed in appreciation. He ignored snatches of chatter about the handsome king and the American queen and focused on his home, suddenly feeling a sharp ache of homesickness that surprised him. He hadn’t expected to miss Atlantis as much as he had, and by now he thought he’d gotten past it.

  But she was beautiful. Even an Atlantean who’d run away from home had to admit that.

  From this approach, the palace was the centerpiece of it all. He knew from playing there as a child that the palace was surrounded by magnificent gardens, filled with flowers that smelled like the inside of a dream. Nowhere else in the world had he encountered flowers with such sweet scents.

  After the flowers, the garden’s second set of jewels was its fountains, with sculptures that put anything Rome had to offer to shame. Atlanteans had always created art on a much grander scale than elsewhere in the world, perhaps because Atlantis had never had rivals to fear for thousands of years. His ancestors been advanced in every way—in technology and the arts, in learning and scholarship. Atlantis had been a paradise for men and women of learning and culture until, as always happened to paradise, someone stronger grew greedy enough to want to possess it and strong enough to try.

  They’d tried to fight, those early Atlanteans, but Atlantis had always prized learning over warfare and art over battle. Her trained soldiers had been laughably few and, when they’d been in immediate danger of being overrun by the soldiers packed onto the ships bearing down on them, the high priest at the time and all of his acolytes had worked the greatest magic in the history of the world.

  They’d enclosed the entire continent and all her people in a magical dome and taken her down—far, far down—beneath the sea.

  Only a few years ago, after eleven thousand years of being lost to the annals of time, then-prince Conlan and his brother, Lord Vengeance, had worked with Alaric to find a way to bring Atlantis back into the world. It had been almost too late, though. The dome’s magic had been failing, or so Flynn had heard.

  But here it was again. Atlantis. Unimaginable beauty. The white sand beaches where he’d played with his friends, spending hours watching the sea creatures outside the dome. Sometimes the sea creatures had looked back at him. The gloriously green trees that even now, in January, would be heavy with fresh fruit. The soldiers . . .

  The soldiers?

  He looked again. Yes. The soldiers. They were checking people in through some kind of bureaucratic process. My, how things had changed. He shrugged. He was an Atlantean citizen, after all. There wouldn’t be any problem.

  There was a problem.


  Nobody knew who he was.

  He leaned against the damn sign, where they’d told him to stand, and scowled.

  non-Atlantean visitors please wait here

  What a joke.

  “Look. It’s easy enough for me to prove it. Find one of my brothers. I hear Liam is one of Poseidon’s Warriors now, and Dare might be in port with the Luna.” He glared at the sign and considered shaping water into a club and bashing the damn thing into little sign-shaped pieces.

  Instead, he blew out a long-suffering sigh and tried again. “Flynn. I’m Flynn. Somebody must remember me. It’s only been ten years or so.”

  “Maybe Marcus?” one of the guards said, scratching his head and then putting his hat back on. The blue and gold braid on the new Atlantean guard uniform was a bit much, if anybody asked Flynn, but sadly, so far nobody had.

  The head-scratching guard pointed. “There he is now.”

  An older man who looked familiar to Flynn was headed down the path from the direction of the palace. The man walked in that ground-eating pace of an old soldier. He’d probably been one of Poseidon’s Warriors for a long time. Yes. It was definitely Marcus. He’d had little patience for Flynn and Dare’s pranks back when they were kids. Suddenly Flynn wasn’t all that sure he wanted to be recognized, at least not by Marcus, who was clearly still the captain of the guard.

  Marcus’s sharp gaze studied Flynn as he reached him, and a hint of recognition crossed his face. Surprise was there, judging by the way the man’s eyes widened.

  But recognition, too.

  He stopped in front of Flynn. "I'll be damned. Dare and Liam's brother. Flynn. We thought you were dead."