Atlantis Unleashed (34 page)

Holy Ghost Cemetery, St. Louis

Alaric had long since lost any tenuous grasp he'd had on his temper. After an entire night of searching the city for any sign of Quinn, Jack, and Denal, he'd finally caught a faint glimmer of conscious thought from Quinn's very interesting mind, only to track it here to this place of death, a few short hours past dawn, and then lose it again almost as soon as he'd arrived.

He floated as mist above the grave markers; so many of them dated in early 1849. Some illness, then. Probably another cholera epidemic. He remembered doing what he could for the humans of that time with Atlantean medicines and healing. Some of them had thought him the angel of death, come to carry them away.

He'd laughed at the idea then, but it was true that too many times he
had
delivered death. He'd always confined the killing to the enemies of the humans, though. Too many times he'd been called upon to work with the warriors. Too many times he'd healed and healed until his powers were exhausted, and then been forced to watch warriors and humans die horribly.

It was never enough, never enough. He'd given up all for power, and even the power was never enough.

The power rushed through him as if called by its naming or drawn by his fury. Both power and fury needed an outlet. He channeled water and threw it in a series of intricate arrow shapes against the fence that circled the cemetery, out of pure frustration. After the first blast smashed a section of fence into splinters, he forced himself to calm enough to curb the power. The next barrage drove a century's worth of dirt and grime off the wooden boards that remained standing.

None of it made him feel any better. Still he could not find Quinn; the faint shimmer he'd sensed of her emotions that had led him here had vanished again. She and her sister Riley were
aknasha'an
—emotional empaths. As such, not only could they read the emotions of others but they had the ability to project their own emotions in a way other humans—and even other Atlanteans—had long since been unable to do. He'd been able to reach out to Quinn, no matter the distance, ever since the moment he'd first met her and saved her life.

The connection to Quinn had only cost him a small price: pieces of his blackened heart and chunks of his desiccated soul. She didn't even know she'd claimed them, emotional empath or no.

Her ability was a Gift thought lost in the waters of ancient time, but then again, many such Gifts were returning to prominence during these dark and deadly days. The world seemed caught on the cusp of a change so huge and hideous that it might rival the Cataclysm that had sent Atlantis to the bottom of the ocean. Every act taken and every decision made swung the pendulum toward the light or dark side of the future.

If only Poseidon would give them a clear path to follow. The gods, however, were never so straightforward. Except in matters that he, Poseidon's high priest, could wish would be colored more in shades of gray than strictly black and white. Such as the vow of celibacy and promise never to wed he'd sworn to the elders when they'd invested him with the high priesthood.

He'd vowed to live his entire existence starkly, bleakly alone, in exchange for the chance at limitless power and access to a god. But the favoritism of the sea god offered cold comfort, and power for its own sake no longer held any appeal. His past, present, and future rolled in an unending coil of solitude. No hope of warmth or comfort.

No hope of Quinn.

To break the vow would mean the diminishment of his powers; no longer could he lead the Temple or serve as counsel to the high prince. No longer could he protect Atlantis when it was on the brink of its ascension back into the world of the landwalkers.

Now that his people needed him most, he could never abandon them, no matter the personal cost. The choice was clear: he could have Quinn, or he could keep his world intact. Not much of a choice, in any event, when she'd made it clear she would never have him.

The rebel leader and the priest. It sounded like the punch line to a very bad joke. A match made in the lowest of the nine hells, yet never to be a match at all. The gods must have laughed the day they had fashioned Quinn to be the woman for whom his soul had always yearned. They must still be laughing now.

But none of that mattered. Quinn was simply another rebel warrior, an ally in the fight to save humanity from the rogue vampires and shape-shifters who wanted to turn them into sheep to be herded and devoured. Another ally. She could be nothing more and nothing less.

And if only he could convince himself of that, perhaps his heart would cease slowly and torturously dying inside his chest.

He took a deep breath, finally rematerializing into his corporeal form. This reverie gained him nothing; obsessing on what could not be changed never did. He merely needed to find Quinn—find them all—and ensure that they were safe. He'd gained no sense of Denal during the long night, either, and he should have been easily able to track the warrior's thoughts on the shared Atlantean thought path.

But there was nothing. It was as if they had vanished from existence. Not that he would have been able to find Jack. Were-tigers had brains far too animalistic for an Atlantean to track. Jack preferred it that way, ally or no. A red haze crossed his vision at the thought of Jack. Quinn's partner had deeper feelings for her than he admitted, and the thought of the two of them, always together, sliced through Alaric like a razor's edge through flesh.

Before he could destroy any more of the innocent fence, a shimmer of emotion not his own—anger mixed with pain—glanced a featherlight touch at the edge of his consciousness. The unique colors entwined in the emotional resonance told him the source instantly. It was Quinn. She was alive. The deep twilight, silvery gray, and wine red of her emotional aura were unique colors among those of any humans he'd ever encountered.

Relief, longing, and a joy so pure it burned seared through his veins. She was alive.

Quinn was
alive
.

And now he knew exactly where she was.

He drew power to him and blasted the door off of a stone mausoleum, shattering the heavy door into shards of shattered wood and the padlock into twisted bits of melted metal. She was alive, and no door or lock ever made would keep him from her, with all respect to the Denham family who'd carved their name into the lintel.

Not even bothering to transform into mist, he strode through the open doorway to the crypt, unsurprised to see a dark opening at the back. Crossing the stone floor, he offered a brief nod of respect to the long-dead inhabitants. At the opening, he found a steep wooden staircase that circled its way down into the dark.

Of course the vampires would have a home base in tunnels under a graveyard. Vampires were nothing if not predictably clichéd.

Alaric bared his teeth in a fierce approximation of a smile and headed down the stairs. He could feel Quinn, and she was down there. Neither dead bodies, nor vampires, nor the risen demons of the nine hells themselves would keep him from her.

She was an ally. She was his heart made flesh. She was his woman in some alternate reality where his own future was not bleak despair, solitude, and a lonely death.

He projected his thoughts to her along their unique mental connection.
Quinn, I come for you. Are you injured?

Her thoughts came back to him, strong and holding not a hint of fear, but perhaps something of vulnerability. His warrior woman.

Are you injured?
He sent the demand more urgently as he picked up his pace and started running at a blurring rate of speed. Her answer, when it came a few moments later, pushed him to run even faster, calling power as he ran.

Straight ahead, Alaric saw the barricaded wooden door at the end of the tunnel. He called even more power and smashed through the door with approximately the speed and force of a tropical typhoon. Shattered boards imploded inward, and one had the impossible fortune to land dead center in the heart of one of the guardian vampires.

One down, only a dozen or so to go.

He scanned the layout of the room while still on the move and didn't stop until he had swept Quinn up from the floor where she was sitting, holding one arm at an awkward angle. He shot across the dark and dank room and gently lowered her slight body, which seemed to weigh almost nothing, until she stood with her back to the wall, as he called a shield of water to block her from any danger.

Whirling around to face the room, he noted Denal and Jack's positions. Jack was in human form, unconscious or dead, on the ground in a corner. Denal lay in a crumpled heap near Jack, but Alaric could at least sense Denal's life force, strong and steady.

Ten vamps crouched in varying stages of threat, fear, or obeisance, all oriented toward one very fashionably dressed vampire who leaned against a very old coffin in the center of the room.

“I find myself wounded that you did not invite me to your party, Quinn,” Alaric said dryly, never taking his eyes off the vampires. “Furthermore, we will discuss the meaning of ‘not injured' later.”

Quinn laughed, although he could hear the edge of pain in it. Her arm was definitely broken, but he had no time to heal it just yet. “Hey, you know me. Always a party girl.”

The foppish vamp raised one eyebrow, then deliberately yawned and adjusted his French cuffs. “You must be another of the famed Atlantean warriors. Really, is Poseidon so weak that he chooses the likes of you? Not to mention that you send a little girl to do your dirty work.”

Quinn tried to break free of the water shield protecting her, but it was designed as much to keep her in as to keep others out. Alaric knew her that well, at least.

“I'll little girl your
ass
, you—”

“Quinn,” Alaric said quietly. “His aim is to ignite your temper. Perhaps you might allow me the chance to assist you this one time?”

“Fine, but you seem to be making a habit of it,” she shot back. “We can discuss that later, too. Be my guest.”

The vampire threw back his head and laughed. “Having trouble keeping your humans in line, are you? You Atlanteans must be desperate.” He gestured toward Jack. “Working with shape-shifters, too, I see. This one stinks of the jungle, so I'm guessing he's no wolf, although we didn't give him time to demonstrate his . . . furry side.”

Alaric called power and negligently bounced an energy sphere in his right palm, smiling as the vampires other than the leader cringed away from him. “You'd be another of Anubisa's minions? One wonders if she has a warehouse somewhere.”

“Stupid Vampires R Us,” Quinn said, snickering.

“I am Vonos, and I am the Primator,” the vampire said, his fangs lengthening as he seemed to lose a little bit of his deliberate calm.

“Oh, yes. Another minion to replace Barrabas, after we . . . vetoed his political career,” Alaric replied, rolling the energy sphere around in his fingers.

Vonos abruptly stood to his full height and lifted a leather-wrapped package that had evidently been on the coffin behind him. Holding it in the palm of one hand, he pulled the cord that tied the top of the package together and the edge of the leather wrappings fell open just a little.

“I find that now I'm bored with this conversation,” Vonos said.

Before Alaric could react, Vonos aimed the top opening of the package toward the semicircle of vampires surrounding him. “You disobeyed us, and now you'll die. I've always favored a scorched-earth policy myself.”

A blinding yellow light burst from the package with the intensity of a sun flare, and Alaric threw up an energy shield around Jack and Denal and widened the water shield protecting Quinn to include himself. With the speed of light, the searing radiance struck all of the vampires other than Vonos. Any vampire in the path of the light exploded into sizzling drops of acid which rained down all throughout the room. Luckily, the shields surrounding Quinn and the Atlanteans held firm and they were untouched.

Vonos whistled and then rewrapped the package and calmly surveyed the destruction. “For once, the rumors were not exaggerated. This gem can never fall into the wrong hands, now can it? I'd say it's so hard to get good help these days, but I do so hate clichés. Lovely to meet you, Atlantean. I look forward to our next encounter. Oh, and thanks for the little toy. This group has kept it secret from our goddess for hundreds of years, which is fairly annoying, but what can you do?”

He flashed a fang-filled smile of pure triumph at Alaric and held out the package as if to taunt him. “I believe your kind call it the Vampire's Bane? Fitting, isn't it?”

With that, the vampire lifted his arms in the air, still holding tightly to the package, and vanished.

A jolt of pure electricity raced through Alaric. If that were truly the fabled yellow diamond known as the Vampire's Bane, then it was one of the missing gems of the Trident. Conlan must know of this immediately.

Behind Alaric, Quinn stumbled and fell against his back, and all thoughts of strategy and gems and magic fled. In an instant, he had her in his arms again, cradling her against him, careful not to jostle her injured arm. He called power and sent the force of the healing blue-green energy into and through her until her bone was mended and every bruise and scrape on her body, no matter how minor, was repaired.

She opened her eyes as he withdrew the healing power from her. “That seems to be another habit of yours. I get broken, and you fix it. You're ruining my reputation as a tough rebel leader,” she murmured.