Heart Of Atlantis Page 5

  “Ridiculous concept,” Alaric said dryly. “Of course Atlanteans built it. The Elders at the time sent our people to all corners of the earth to perpetuate our race before Atlantis descended beneath the seas at the time of the Cataclysm. Certainly many of them would have built temples.”

  “Atlantean magic,” Quinn said, finding it easy to imagine, given what she knew of their powers. “Serai could probably move a boulder without smudging her lip gloss.”

  Alaric shrugged. On him, even a shrug looked elegant. “Serai is an eleven-thousand-year-old Atlantean princess. Her magic is more powerful than mine in some ways.”

  “Not many ways,” Ven said. “Not in battle ways.”

  Alaric’s eyes glowed a hot green. “No. But that vampire she’s in love with isn’t likely to let her anywhere near a battle again.”

  “Daniel knows better than to try to tell Serai to do anything,” Ven said. “She turned into a saber-toothed tiger, dude.”

  “Never, ever call me dude.”

  Quinn sighed. “So the point is . . .” She made a “move along” gesture with her hand.

  “The point is that nobody but Alaric can touch that gemstone without dying horribly. So far, seven people associated with the dig have spontaneously combusted.” Ven shuddered. “Bad way to go.”

  “So Alaric must go retrieve it,” Archelaus said.

  “I’m going nowhere,” Alaric said. He leaned against the rock face on the side of the mountain and almost casually drew Quinn back against him, wrapping his arms around her waist. She felt his breath in her hair as she stared out at the clouds, and for a moment she tried to pretend they were the kind of people who could go sightseeing together.

  The kind of people who could say no. No to duty. No to honor.

  It didn’t work.

  She let herself lean against his powerfully muscled chest for just a few seconds longer, and then she forced herself to move away, trying to ignore the pain that pierced her chest. Even a rebel leader could fall in love, after all. It’s just that nobody could ever know.

  Ever.

  Not even Alaric.

  “Christophe can go. Or even Serai. They both wield sufficient magic,” he said grimly. “It doesn’t always have to be me. Look what Serai did with the Emperor. She’s an expert in retrieving lost gems.”

  Jack snarled at him and bared his fangs again.

  “I agree with the tiger, Temple Rat,” Ven said. “It’s not like you don’t have reason to be fed up, but we need you, and it’s your duty.”

  “To the nine hells with duty,” Alaric growled. He raised his arms and shouted up to the sky. “Did you hear that, Poseidon? I’m done with you.”

  An explosive boom of thunder cracked through the sky, shaking the ground under their feet.

  Quinn mentioned the fact she’d just been considering. “Mount Fuji is a volcano.”

  “It is,” Archelaus agreed. “But it’s dormant.”

  “Sure, that’s what they all say, just before the lava starts spewing,” Quinn muttered. “Let’s not make the nice sea god angry.”

  Ven shoved his hands in his pockets and stared silently out at the panoramic vista, until she elbowed him.

  “Hey, I’m not arguing,” Ven said. “Cataclysm? Doom of the gods? Atlantis sinking beneath the ocean? Any of that ring a bell? I never laugh in the face of potential disaster.”

  Alaric’s look of disbelief was priceless. “You always laugh in the face of potential disaster.”

  “Always,” Quinn agreed.

  “Oh. Right.” Ven shrugged, grinning. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

  “Regardless of all that, I think your answer is clear, youngling,” Archelaus said to Alaric. “You may be done with Poseidon, but he’s not done with you.”

  Alaric’s stare was a nearly tangible thing, burning into Quinn with the heat of living flame—strange, that, since fire was the one element forbidden to Atlanteans. But the high priest had his own form of wild magic, she knew. One that whispered to her of silken seductions in the middle of the night, during the fractured hours of sleep when she found herself consumed by impossible dreams of a dangerous warrior.

  He had always worn his duty and honor like a shield, one that matched her own shield of shame, remorse, and regret. Between the two of them lay a vast chasm of dark and bloody acts sacrificed at the altar of good intention. Not even a world-bending kind of passion could bridge that canyon, regardless of what Alaric, in his temporary insanity, might believe.

  “Poseidon,” Alaric said slowly, catching Quinn’s gaze with his own, “is no longer my priority. Both he and you will come to believe me soon enough.”

  The pressure—of the moment, of the day, even of the decade—built up inside her until her lungs seemed unable to push air into and out of her body. Pain—physical, emotional, even spiritual—swept through her, burning its way through determination and resolve. Quinn finally did the one thing she hadn’t done in a very long time. She ran from danger, instead of facing it. She turned and strode back into the cave, blindly seeking refuge from the man who’d just staked his claim on her future. At her side, the man who’d been so essential a part of her past stalked down the corridor on all fours, leaving his humanity further and further behind with each swish of his silken tiger’s tail.

  Future and past were both too much to contemplate for Quinn’s exhausted mind, so she focused on the present. She found an empty room with beds in it, and she collapsed onto the nearest one, silently apologizing to the bed’s owner for the tears she could no longer contain.

  She’d solve it after she slept. All of it.

  Before exhaustion pulled her under, she thought she saw an Alaric-shaped shadow appear in her doorway, but when she tried to stir, a gentle glow of silvery blue light surrounded her and she found herself drifting further into sleep.

  Jack snarled and then began to snore, a low, rumbling noise, and she thought she heard Alaric’s laughter.

  “You may be sure, mi amara, that we will discuss this habit you have of allowing another man into your bed.”

  Her lips almost curved into a smile, and then the world curled around her into the warmth and safety of darkness.

  Chapter 4

  Quinn woke up from a dream of walking through fire toward a dragon with glowing emerald eyes, and found herself alone on a bed in a room she didn’t recognize. She automatically checked her knives and guns; all were in place, so she took her first full breath since opening her eyes.

  “Always the warrior first.”

  She snapped her head toward the darkest corner of the room, where Alaric leaned against the wall, blending in with the shadows as if the darkness within him had become tangible while she slept.

  “Interesting comment, coming from the warrior priest,” she countered. “Which comes first with you?”

  “You come first with me,” he said harshly, as if he despised her for it. Or hated that she’d asked; that he’d been forced to voice taboo desires. An Atlantean priest sworn to celibacy wanted a rebel sworn to redemption. All of his gods must be laughing.

  “Always you, since the moment I first lay my hands on you to heal that bullet wound. Since I fell inside your soul. Don’t you know that by now, Quinn?”

  She caught her breath at the stark pain in his voice, but steeled herself against it. Warriors and rebels had no business falling prey to emotion.

  “You can’t protect me from the monsters, Alaric,” she said quietly.

  His laughter was dark and somehow terrifying, even to Quinn, who lived her life pretending to fear nothing.

  “Protect you? I would drown the entire world for you, and laugh as every single living being on it died. I’m the monster, Quinn. Better you find a way to protect yourself from me, because I am the high priest of blood and battle, and the lord of death and destruction. I will never, ever let you go.”

  Before she could begin to form a response to that, he was across the room and yanking her up off the cot and into his arms. �
��Never, do you hear me? I will give up my friends, my country, my duty, and even my honor—but never you.”

  He swallowed her protest with his lips, as he captured her mouth in a searing kiss that devoured her, claimed her, branded her as his. She felt herself falling, melting, burning, and she had no chance to deny him or even her own feelings. The walls between them shattered and—for one glorious moment—they stood together, locked in a tempest of need and want and a far more powerful emotion.

  One she didn’t dare name.

  She tangled her hands in his silky hair and kissed him back with every ounce of longing she’d been suppressing for so very long, and the feel of rightness—of home—that unfurled within her was so intense that she almost didn’t hear the shouting.

  Almost. But so many years of training couldn’t be denied for the illusory dream of a moment. Not to mention that Jack had shown up and was snarling and baring his teeth at Alaric. She spared a moment’s embarrassment that he’d seen her kiss Alaric but dismissed it as the unimportant detail it was.

  Flying monkeys, attacking vampires, Atlantean portals come to life? Check.

  One kiss? Not such a huge deal in the scale of things. She almost involuntarily raised her fingers to her swollen lips, though. Alaric’s eyes darkened as he watched, and he bent down as if to kiss her again.

  “Alaric, get your priestly ass out here, or I’ll kick it for you,” Ven roared from somewhere in the maze of caves and corridors. “We have an emergency.”

  Alaric tightened his arms around her for a moment, but then he sighed and leaned his forehead against hers. “When is it ever not an emergency?”

  “It never stops for people like us,” she told him. “You know it, and I know it. World-bending kisses don’t change reality.”

  He lifted her into the air until they were at eye level to each other, and the slow smile that spread across his face was nothing but pure masculine satisfaction. “World-bending?”

  “Yeah, don’t let it go to your head,” she muttered. “And put me down.”

  He lowered her to her feet and then kissed her again, hard and fast, before turning toward the bellowing sound of one seriously outraged Atlantean prince.

  “World-bending,” he repeated. “Those may be the best two words I’ve heard in five hundred years.”

  With that, he strode out of the room, leaving her to follow on still-shaky legs. She consoled herself for her weakness with the excellent view of his very fine ass.

  Jack, still in tiger form, slouched into the corridor and head-butted her, grumbling some kind of cat complaint.

  “Eye candy,” she told the tiger formerly known as her best friend and co–rebel leader. “Pure eye candy, in the form of an absolutely delicious backside, wasted on a man who doesn’t even realize he’s beautiful. Stupid Atlantean.”

  He snarled, and she decided to take it for agreement.

  Ven rounded the corner, saw them, and belted out a string of what she was sure were the choicest Atlantean swear words. “Finally,” he said, breaking into English. “Where in the nine hells have you been?”

  Then he glanced behind Alaric at Quinn, and stopped short. “Oh. Ah, yeah. You two were . . . uh . . .”

  “No, we were not,” Alaric snapped. “Though not for want of trying, not that it’s any of your damn business.”

  Quinn felt her face flush with heat, but she clamped her mouth shut against the retort trying to bubble up.

  Ven’s mouth fell open. “Did you just say— But you— Ah, okay. I don’t have time to go all Oprah with you. We’ve got a big problem.”

  “When do we not?” Alaric sliced a hand through the air. “What is it, already?”

  “We’re too late to retrieve Poseidon’s Pride. Some lunatic who calls himself Ptolemy Reborn has taken it, Alaric.”

  “That’s impossible. No human, even a powerful wizard, would have the magic to be able to touch that gem,” Alaric said.

  “What about a vampire?” Quinn asked. “Or shape-shifter? Their magic is different from yours. Maybe—”

  “Impossible,” Alaric repeated. “Only an extremely powerful Atlantean could touch the tourmaline. It’s the crown jewel, so to speak, of Poseidon’s Trident.”

  “That’s just it,” Ven said, his face grim. “Old Ptolemy is claiming to be the king of Atlantis.”

  Alaric’s face hardened, and his eyes flashed so hot that Quinn was surprised that twin laser beams of emerald light didn’t incinerate Ven where he stood. “He claims what?”

  “Ooh, boy, Conlan and Riley do not need to deal with this,” Quinn said, her own anger rising at the thought of more trouble for her sister, who’d almost died at the hands of vampires and then nearly lost her baby during a particularly difficult pregnancy and childbirth.

  Riley would be queen of Atlantis, but at what cost? Quinn glanced at Alaric and wondered if she could ever be as brave as her sister and risk everything for love. A hot wave of shame washed over her, leaving bitterness and bile in its wake. Not that Alaric could ever love her, when he knew what she’d done. What she’d become.

  Ven threw his hands in the air in disgust. “Are we going to stand here and talk about it, or do you want to come back with me and see the impostor son of a bitch?”

  “He’s here?” Alaric’s energy spheres were already swirling into shape in the air surrounding him when Ven shook his head impatiently.

  “No, he’s having a press conference, believe it or not. Old Ptolemy is a media whore apparently.”

  They swiftly followed Ven down a few turns and twists, to find Archelaus already watching the news conference on television when they arrived in his chambers. Quinn knew from a quick study of his body language that the news was all bad.

  “He’s speaking in front of the United Nations building in New York, and he’s claiming to be descended from Atlantean royalty. It’s not good. He just told the reporters that Atlantis exists, claimed to have any number of witnesses who have met High Prince Conlan or, as Ptolemy calls him, ‘the pretender to the throne,’ and said that Atlantis is positioned to rise to the surface of the ocean any day now.”

  Ven shook his head. “We knew we couldn’t keep the secret forever, not with the way we run around protecting humanity, kicking vampire ass, and generally making a nuisance of ourselves with the big, bad, and uglies that go bump in the dark.”

  “But this isn’t anything expected, is it?” Quinn asked. “Is it possible he really is who he claims he is? I mean, he is holding your jewel in his hand, isn’t he?”

  “It must be a fake,” Alaric said. He stared at the television screen so hard she was surprised the heat in his eyes didn’t burn a hole in the screen. “Can you make the device speak louder?”

  “Turn up the volume,” Ven said.

  “As I said,” Alaric snapped.

  Quinn shook her head at the two of them.

  Archelaus pressed a button on the remote and the voice of the wannabe Atlantean king filled the room.

  “I have documented proof that I am the direct lineal descendant of Alexander the Great, conquerer and Atlantean, and I will take my rightful place upon the throne as soon as Atlantis rises from its watery grave,” he intoned.

  Ven snorted. “Watery grave? Seriously?”

  Quinn was stuck on a different part of the man’s statement. “Alexander the Great was Atlantean?”

  Alaric shrugged. “Narcissist. Lust for power. Amazing while it lasted, though.”

  Quinn studied the man standing at the bank of microphones. He definitely looked regal. He was tall and imposing, with a TV politician kind of look to him. All toothpaste-commercial teeth and good hair. Even a tan, whether real or spray-on. But under the made-for-prime-time charisma, she could just see the jagged edges of something with real teeth. Something that would chew up enemies and vomit up their remains before calmly flossing.

  She shuddered. “There’s power there. Dark power. I’ve seen enough wrong in the past decade to recognize it. He’s just . . . not right.
”

  Alaric slanted a measuring glance at her. “I tend to agree, even without the added incentive of his ludicrous claim.”

  “He does kind of look like you,” she pointed out. “The collective you. Atlanteans. Same dark hair, same height and bone structure, but with an added layer of smarm. Are you sure there’s no chance he could be a descendant, like he claims?”

  “Impossible to tell from here,” Alaric said.

  Reporters surrounding the man shouted questions at him, but he stood calmly in the center of the firestorm of attention, smiling slightly as if he were mildly amused. Finally, he held up his hands, and the questions slowly died down as the reporters began to fall silent in order to hear what else he would say.

  “I will answer all of your questions eventually, but what I have to say now is of the most urgent nature.” He drew a sheet of paper out of a large envelope and held it tightly, making eye contact with each reporter in turn.

  “We Atlanteans have long been on a mission to protect humanity. Our goal has been, and always will be, to work with you to secure your lives and safety against the vampire menace that threatens to destroy you. To that end, I must speak with this woman. If any of you know how to contact her, please have her call me at the Plaza Hotel. It is quite literally a matter of life and death.”

  He slowly turned the paper around, and revealed that it was actually an eight-by-ten-inch photograph.

  Of Quinn.

  Alaric swore so viciously in a mixture of English and Atlantean that even Quinn, who was well accustomed to being surrounded by people who used colorful language, flinched.

  “This is Quinn Dawson, the leader of the North American rebel alliance. I understand that by revealing her secret identity on national and international TV, I have placed her in extreme danger.”