Atlantis Awakening (2 page)

The Pink Pig Pub, Seattle

Ven wanted to smash something. Bad. Preferably the face of the jerk he was supposed to meet forty-five minutes ago. Bad enough he had to postpone his planned evening festivities to meet a wizard, but his neck was aching and he had the feeling that the bandage Brennan had slapped on it wasn't really doing the job.

His lip curled as he scanned the place, trying to avoid compulsively checking the time again. Dirt and bottle caps warred for space in every corner. Stale beer and the miasma of ancient cigarette smoke hung in the air in a foul cloud. Even all these years after the “no smoking in public places” laws went into effect, joints like this still reeked of the cancer sticks.

He scanned the losers slouching on the cracked red vinyl barstools of the dive where the coven rep had insisted they meet. Professional drinkers, all. Professional losers. Although who else hung out in a place like this at midnight on a Tuesday?

Well, losers, except for one highly pissed-off Atlantean warrior. He thought back to Alexios calling him “Your Highness” and scowled. He didn't like the title, even in jest. Prince Ven, yeah, right. However much he didn't like the idea, he was stuck being second in line to the throne, at least until Conlan and Riley started popping out babies. Which had better be soon, because no way did Ven ever want
that
little obligation. King of the Seven Isles of Atlantis.

He shuddered, downed his beer at the thought. Nope. He was much better as head of the warrior training academy. The King's Vengeance, whose sworn duty it was to protect his brother the king. Taking names and kicking the ass of any vamp or shape-shifter who decided to snack on humans.

He glanced up at the cracked face of the Budweiser clock on the wall. Maybe he'd just kick some magical ass. Specifically, the asshole he was supposed to be meeting to discuss a Magickals-Atlantean alliance. The asshole who was now fifty-two minutes late.

The squeak of the hinges on the door alerted him, and he looked up into the mirror behind the bar, his gaze trained on the person walking in.

His eyes widened, and then narrowed in appreciation. If he had to waste time waiting for the jerk Quinn had sent, at least now he had something worth looking at. He whirled around on his stool so he was facing her. All curves and attitude in a small package, the blonde came striding into the place as if she owned it.

High-heeled leather boots worn under snug jeans, rounded hips he'd love to get his hands on, and a tight-fitting black leather jacket. Oh, yeah. She was exactly his type of woman.

And he must have been dreaming, because she walked right past the lowlife scum who were drooling at the sight of her and stopped in front of him.

Ven was used to the reactions of human women to him. Hell, after several centuries, he knew that they considered him attractive. Not a lot of six-foot, seven-inch muscled warrior types running around with
human
DNA these days.

This one flicked her icy-blue gaze down, then up him, and curled her lips back a little. He'd looked at steaming piles of peacock shit on the palace grounds with more enthusiasm.

“So,” she drawled, disgust dripping from her voice. “
You're
the pride of Atlantis?”

She stalked around him and leaned back on the vacant barstool on his left, glancing his way again. Then she rolled her freaking eyes.

Ven had seen and heard way more than enough. He rose to his full height, which gave him more than a foot on her, and stared down his nose. “You're late.”

Okay,
that
was lame. Sadly, it was all he could think of, considering his brain cells had gone south at the sight of the creamy cleavage nestled in the gap between the lapels of her jacket and some lacy thing she wore underneath it.

For some reason, he wanted to lick it.

And her.

“Oh, boy, you're just trouble with a capital—”

“Make that a capital W, warrior,” she said. “And you can sit down now and leave your Intimidation 101 tactics for somebody who is impressed with them.”

He sat down, feeling like a damn fool, gaping at her. “Capital
W
? How did you—”

She smiled slowly, sensual lips curving over a gorgeous set of teeth. God, even her
teeth
turned him on. Suddenly he was a horny fucking dentist.

He shifted on the stool, hoping she hadn't noticed the sudden tightness in his jeans.

“Capital W is for
witch
, warrior,” she said. “Welcome to the revolution.”

 

Erin Connors cast a very minor look-away spell, and the drunks in the room found the contents of their glasses more interesting than the two people seated on the barstools. She drew in a long, slow breath, trying to fill her suddenly empty lungs. Quinn had never told her that Atlantean warriors looked like Greek gods come to life and had the capacity to suck the oxygen right out of a room. Except had Greek gods looked like predators who ate witches for lunch? This one sure did. He was pure alpha male warrior, and every feminine instinct in her body was begging her to flee—or to climb into his lap.

Alerted by the sudden heat encircling her fingers and the melodies whispering through her mind, she glanced down at the three rings of power she wore on each hand and saw them start to glow and pulse with heat and light.

Not now, not now
, she thought and focused all her concentration on locking down the magic. She was in enough trouble with the coven without allowing the Wilding Magic to escape during her first meeting with the man. And she needed them both—the coven and the Atlanteans. She needed them
all
.

After the gemstones in her rings subsided back to inert lumps of mineral and their singing faded, she finally dared to meet his gaze, pulling the cloak of toughness back around herself like a shield.

She'd decided the only way to earn the respect of a warrior was to become a warrior herself. Tough to do when she was all alone, twenty-six years old, and the only Magickal in a three-state area who believed in her quest. She drew in a deep breath and prepared to channel somebody kickass. “So, do I call you Ven? Mr. Vengeance? Your Highness?”

He raised one eyebrow, wincing a little at the unexpected echo of his earlier thoughts. “Your Highness? Quinn's been messing with you. I'm just Ven. Or you can start calling me
sweetheart
now and save time later.”

His teasing was double-edged, and she had a feeling the edge was honed steel. But the humor touched the Erin who'd once known how to laugh. All
this
Erin could summon was a nod. “Don't flatter yourself, Atlantean. Your charms aren't quite as impressive as you may have been led to believe. Or are the women in Atlantis fairly desperate? You have kind of an Alaska thing going on there? The odds are good, but the goods are odd?”

It was sheer bravado. There was nothing odd about this man; he was pure, potent male. The wavy, too-long black hair that framed sculpted cheekbones. Eyes as dark as the promise of revenge. A wall of muscled chest that strained the black T-shirt he wore under that leather coat. Not to mention the faded jeans covering huge muscled thighs. Her mouth suddenly got a little dry.

Yeah, nothing odd here.

He narrowed his eyes, but seemed more speculative than annoyed. “You think my goods are odd, witch? I'd be glad—”

“Not here!” She quickly scanned the room, but none of the drunks appeared to be paying them the slightest bit of attention. The dive bar was way too low class for the vampires or their spies, or so she hoped. People had died for making smaller mistakes. “That word still summons up genetic memories of burnings and stakes for far too many non-Magickals,” she murmured.

He stood up off the barstool, a fluid motion that made her think of a caged panther and brought him way too close to her. The large opals gracing her two ring fingers began singing—a low, urgent call. Thank the Goddess that he couldn't hear them. “Let's get out of here, then,” he said.

Ven held out a hand as if to assist her, then paused and tilted his head. “Do you hear that? What's that music?”

Erin felt the blood literally drain out of her face. Maybe she'd thanked the Goddess too soon.

Poseidon's Temple, Atlantis

Alaric, high priest to Poseidon, leaned against a slender marble column and folded his arms across his chest, studying the warrior who paced back and forth across the Temple rotunda before him. “What exactly is it that you're worried about, Conlan?”

The high prince of Atlantis shot Alaric an irritated glare. “I'm not worried, Alaric. Princes don't worry. Kings don't worry, either, and you keep reminding me we must go through with the Rite of Ascension and coronation within the next thirty days, or risk breaking some sacred tradition or other.” Conlan snorted and resumed pacing.

“Then what is it that you are
not
worried about that has you pacing across Poseidon's Temple like a rat scurrying to escape a drowning ship, my prince who is almost king?” Alaric returned, voice mild. “And sacred traditions are sacred for a reason, but of course you know that.”

Conlan halted again, turned to face Alaric, and shoved his hand through his hair. Alaric caught a fleeting glimpse of his boyhood friend in the gesture, and gathered his patience.

A troubled prince was of much concern to the high priest. A troubled friend was of much concern to the man.

“Tell me.”

“It's Riley,” Conlan said, his anguish clear in the deepened lines around his mouth and eyes. “The midwives say the pregnancy is not going well. She is so sick, every day, all day long. Instead of growing large and healthy with the child, she is wasting away before my eyes.”

Alaric straightened. “And the human doctor?”

Conlan shook his head, face grim. “Nothing. They say the baby is fine, and that Riley will get over it. It's a ‘phase.' Morning sickness, they call it, which is a damned stupid name—she's sick all day long. But Riley is
aknasha
—and as an emotional empath she can read the truth behind their placating words. The baby is in danger.” He took a deep breath. “We need you, Alaric. You are the most powerful healer of any.”

Alaric called for power, felt the elements instantly respond, and knew by the heat in his eyes that they were glowing bright green with the force of his channeling. Sent out a mental plea to Poseidon. Received the same response he'd gotten every other time he'd asked, even begged, for the power to help Riley.

Silence.

“Poseidon has never granted his priests the power of healing in any part of pregnancy or childbearing, Conlan. You know this. The midwives of the Nereid Temple are the only ones who may intercede in these matters.”

“To the nine hells with that! They can do nothing. You're more powerful than any high priest Atlantis has ever known—even the Council knows it. Break the rules, Alaric.” Conlan stopped, as if realizing his voice had risen nearly to a shout, then continued, more quietly. Bleak. “Do it for me.”

Alaric clenched his hands into fists, pulled power from the air around them, and hurled a ball of blue-green electricity across the room. It smashed into the wall, leaving a smoking, charred hole in the marble that was exactly the shape of the hole that anguish and frustration had burned into his gut. “Don't you think I would if I could, Conlan? For you—my friend? For your woman and unborn child? For the future king, queen, and heir to the throne? I don't give a good gods-damn about the rules. I just don't have the power.”

Conlan's entire body slumped, and his despair buffeted Alaric in almost palpable cyclone-force waves. “Then we have no options. There is nothing we can do.”

Alaric pushed the words past lips gone suddenly numb. “Have you—did you contact…” He couldn't say her name. Berated himself for the coward he was.

Settled for the pronoun. “Her?”

Conlan nodded. “Yeah, we got a message out to Quinn, we think. At least we got word to that weretiger colleague of hers, Jack, that Riley needed her sister. Who knows when she'll get it, though. Last I heard, the rebel alliance was looking into a new vampire threat on the West Coast, and Quinn always has to be in the thick of any—”

The prince stopped midsentence, closed his eyes, and groaned. “I'm sorry, Alaric. I wasn't thinking. I'm sure she's fine. You know Quinn, she's a fighter.”

Alaric cut him off, proud beyond reason that he'd controlled the trembling in his hands almost as soon as it had started. “No, my prince, I do not know Quinn. And I never will. Which is as it must be, decreed by Poseidon's laws and by reality.” The harshness in his voice couldn't be helped. “We both know she deserves far better than me.”

With that, he took two running steps and leapt into the air, dissolving into mist as he did, and escaped out of the high window of the Temple. Escaped from Conlan's pain and fear for his woman and child. Escaped from his own dark, soul-destroying hunger for a woman he could never have.

But even in the form of shimmering mist, he couldn't escape Conlan's final words, murmured though they were. “There is no such person, old friend.”

Seattle

Erin pulled into the driveway of the old Victorian home that served as headquarters of the Seattle Circle of Light coven and glanced into her rearview mirror. The sleek black Jaguar Ven drove purred its way into the drive behind her, blocking off any chance of escape. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel for an instant.
Trapped
.

“Not that I want to escape,” she whispered to the empty car. “This is my chance to build an alliance with someone with the power to help me. Help
us
.”

Her car door opened as she unbuckled her seat belt, and she blinked up at him, startled. “How did you—oh, right. Atlantean super powers, I presume.”