Seaborne (23 page)
Authors: Katherine Irons
Tags: #Romance, #Paranormal, #Fantasy, #Chick-Lit, #Mythology
Shielding his eyes, Morgan looked around. The low-ceilinged corridor was empty other than himself and his two escorts. “Have my brothers been released?” His voice sounded husky after so long without speaking. His throat was dry and he felt weak from lack of food.
The first guard, a hulking creature with a scarred face and three fingers on his right hand, instead of the usual four, gave Morgan a shove and motioned with his chin for him to move along.
Morgan stiffened. “Careful, Ulryk,” he said, reading the name tag on his uniform collar. “As far as I know, I’m still a prince of Atlantis.” Neither of the guards carried weapons other than thick staffs, but they were capable of beating him to death with them if the notion took them.
The yellow eyes narrowed. “Go. Prince,” he spat in badly accented Atlantean, which was garrulous for a Turklin, before striding off down the passageway toward a lighted archway.
Morgan followed, taking in the locked doors on either side and wondering how many prisoners were held here. He’d never had much to do with this prison, being more familiar with the larger and less confining one in Atlantis. As they passed, he could hear mumbling and an occasional moan, and he vowed that once he was able, he’d make it his affair to examine the system and see if all who were held here deserved it.
Now, all he could think of was getting to Claire and asking her to be his wife. He hoped that she’d forgive him for staying away, but he wasn’t certain he was prepared to tell her exactly why he couldn’t come. She was tenderhearted, and the thought of his coral imprisonment might terrify her so that she would refuse to accept his proposal. He refused to consider the consequences if she chose to remain earthbound.
His gut clenched. No, Claire would agree. She loved him as much as he loved her. She’d want to be with him in his world. There was no other option for them. And once his father came to know her, he would realize how special she was. He might never inherit the throne with Claire as his wife, but he would retain his title of prince and she would be a princess. Their children would carry no taint of her human blood. They would be as royally born as he.
Had he been taken this way when he’d entered the prison? He didn’t think so. The coral walls grew closer on either side of the tunnel and the ceiling lower. They were deep beneath the surface of the sea. He could tell by the pressure against his skin and the stagnant water. Here the doors to the cells stood open and the spaces inside were empty. “Where are you taking me?” he demanded. “I’ve served my sentence. I’m entitled to have my weapons returned to me and to be set free.”
When neither Turklin answered, Morgan stopped and looked up at the second guard. His wrinkled face appeared impassive; he didn’t seem particularly on edge as he might have been if a trap lay ahead. “Have you seen my brothers? Are they all right?”
Again, no answer.
Morgan’s head throbbed and he felt sick to his stomach. When a prisoner was locked in coral for more than forty-eight hours, drugs were administered to put him into a semi-coma. Otherwise, the lack of fresh saltwater, the constant pressure, and the force of the tides might cause an Atlantean to sicken and die. But the drugs had left him groggy. Each step was like wading through molten lava.
Had the Turklins carried swords or even a trident, Morgan might have attempted seizing a weapon from them. Unarmed, he was no match for them. He had trained with a club as a youth, but as powerful as he was, he knew better than to take on two Turklin guards single-handed. At least, Morgan thought he knew better, but as they wound through the labyrinth, going ever deeper, he began to wonder if he’d made the wrong decision.
Just as he was about to throw caution to the winds, turn and rip the club from the guard behind him, they climbed a flight of narrow stairs and moved into a busy corridor crowded with both Atlantean soldiers and civilians going about their daily routines. Ulyrk stopped before a wide porthole opening in the wall and motioned for Morgan to go in.
To his relief, Morgan recognized the waiting room. He’d passed through this area on his way into the prison. Along the walls were stations where uniformed prison staff filled out records, checked identification, and directed visitors and incoming and outgoing prisoners to various destinations.
The first person Morgan saw was Alexandros standing near a door at the far side of the chamber. Morgan shouted his brother’s name, and Alex’s worried expression turned to one of joy.
“Morgan!” Alex crossed the room and threw his arms around him. “You’re safe. I feared—”
“Where’s Orion?” Morgan hugged him tightly. Alexandros was wearing his bow, sword, and knives, so he’d obviously been set free. He was pale and thinner than when they had last parted three weeks ago, but other than the worried expression in his eyes, he seemed well. “Is there some holdup with his release?”
Alex drew him aside. “No, there’s no holdup. They’ll call your name in a moment. Processing is immediate.” He turned toward the Turklin guards. “Your job is complete,” he said. “My brother will be free in minutes. I’d advise you to go about your business.”
Ulryk’s mouth quivered as though he was about to speak, but his companion tapped his shoulder and spoke to him in their crude language. Ulryk scowled, threw Morgan a hard look, then left the reception area with the other guard.
A clerk called Morgan to his station, and shortly afterwards, Morgan was duly marked on the underside of his left forearm with a release stamp, and handed the weapons and personal belongings that had been taken from him when he was arrested. As he strapped on his sword, he glanced around. Still no sign of Orion. “What’s taking so long with Orion?” he asked Alex. “Why do you think—”
“I’ll explain everything,” Alexandros said. “First, let’s get out of this hole.” He led the way swiftly through several more hallways, through a guard station where a quick showing of their release stamps passed them through barred gates, through two more ports, and out into the open sea.
Morgan paused and let the clean water run through his gills. He took a deep breath and felt the fog clear away in his head. “You seem no worse for the experience,” he said, glancing back at the prison complex. Little showed above the sea floor, and what was there would have been easily overlooked if he hadn’t know what to look for. But he didn’t understand why they hadn’t waited for Alex’s twin. He looked at his brother for an answer. “Why didn’t—”
Alex gripped his arm. “When they opened Orion’s cell, he was unconscious. The antidote produced no results. When they couldn’t wake him, they called a prison healer. I spoke to him after he’d treated Orion. The man seemed honest enough, but who can tell? He couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, but he seemed to think Orion would wake on his own in a few days. My guess is that someone administered too strong a dose when he was locked away.”
“Where is he?” Anger flared in Morgan’s chest, and he threw Alex’s hand off. “Why are we leaving without seeing him? We should be with—”
“Easy, easy.” Alex moved to block him. “Do you think I’d walk away and leave him there? I saw him myself and insisted they take him back to Atlantis for healing.”
A bad feeling washed over Morgan. “Who took him?”
“It’s all right. Palace guard. All Atlanteans. He’s in good hands. Heron was in command of the detail. Orion’s vital signs were strong, but I think he was still in coma. The temple physicians know what they’re doing. I told Heron to send word to Poseidon and to Lady Athena. They’ll put him right.”
“All the same. We should follow them and make certain no harm comes to him. I’d intended to go directly to Claire, but—”
“That’s the thing.” Alex grimaced. “Sorry, big brother, but you’ll have to make a change of plans. I have orders from our father to go to Crete at once to bring Mother and the children home. Morwena and your little changling are with them.”
“He’s not sending an escort?”
“He is. We have twenty of the elite guard waiting a few leagues from here. But I need you. Orion was supposed to accompany me, but …”
“Mother has her own guards. How many does she need to—”
Alex shrugged. “I could go and fetch them alone, but Melqart’s shades have been hunting in the area. There are seven confirmed kills. I’d feel better if I had you at my back.”
Morgan nodded. Claire would have to wait a few days longer. “Of course, I’ll come,” he said. “So Poseidon’s forgiven her and wants her home.”
“I suppose. I imagine he just wanted her out of the city during the trial. Maybe he thought she’d break us out of jail.”
“She might have,” Morgan agreed, only half in jest. “Zeus knows she’s capable of it. She can be a terror when it comes to protecting her children. Including us.”
“I didn’t forget to try what you asked about your woman,” Alex said, hovering in the water only an arm’s length away. “I tried to get a message to her.”
“Did you succeed? Do you think she heard you?”
“It’s difficult to tell. Humans aren’t very developed when it comes to receiving psychic messages. I’m afraid I might have done more harm than good.”
“How could that be?”
“I think she was frightened.”
“Still,” Morgan said, more to convince himself than Alex, “she might have heard you and understood.” He didn’t want to think of Claire being alone and afraid. Not going to her troubled him, but the safety of his stepmother and the little ones came first.
Claire would have to understand that he had duties to his family. At least he didn’t have to worry that she was in any danger. When he did get to Seaborne, she’d be there waiting for him. They would be together, and he would spend the rest of his life showing her the wonders of his world.
CHAPTER 23
J
ustin sat at a booth in the back corner of a bar in Brooklyn, nursing a beer and nibbling stale pretzels. It was a Wednesday night, and relatively quiet in the establishment. Montana Mike’s was a single public room, long and narrow, with paneled pine walls and dark floors. Only half the tables were full, and other than one loudmouth in a ball cap who was well on his way to being stewed, they seemed a quiet crowd.
ustin sat at a booth in the back corner of a bar in Brooklyn, nursing a beer and nibbling stale pretzels. It was a Wednesday night, and relatively quiet in the establishment. Montana Mike’s was a single public room, long and narrow, with paneled pine walls and dark floors. Only half the tables were full, and other than one loudmouth in a ball cap who was well on his way to being stewed, they seemed a quiet crowd.
Justin glanced at his watch and wished he’d picked up something at a used clothing store to wear tonight. He’d deliberately dressed down, but his docksiders, Yankees’ tee, and khaki slacks made him stand out in this haven of scuffed sneakers, blue jeans, and Dickies work shirts. Not wanting to miss his contact, he’d arrived ten minutes early. It was now after eleven, and he’d been sitting here for an hour and a half. He was about to call it quits when a uniformed police officer came through the door, spoke to the bartender, and walked back toward Justin’s booth.
He had the sudden urge to void his bowels. He hadn’t done anything wrong yet. How could anyone know … ? To his surprise, the cop smiled and slid into the bench across from him. Justin felt sick.
“How’s it going, Bill? How’s the wife and kids?” the cop asked. He waved and the bartender pulled a beer for him. “Got any nachos to go with that? I like the spicy sauce.”
“Excuse me,” Justin said. “I was just going to use the men’s room.” He stood up, and his knees felt like rubber. There was a short hall with bathroom doors on either side that he’d checked out when he’d first arrived. The only way to whatever lay beyond the bar and presumably a back entrance appeared to be through a curtained doorway behind the cash register. Justin might not be able to escape, but he was going to relieve himself in the proper receptacle, not in this booth.
“Take your time,” the cop said. “Just as long as you don’t have a gun stashed in the john.”
Justin stared at him.
The policeman laughed. “
The Godfather
? The first one. Didn’t you see that movie?”
The Godfather
? The first one. Didn’t you see that movie?”
Justin shook his head. “I’m not much for theater.”
By the time he reached the toilet, Justin was shaking so badly he could hardly get his pants down in time. A foul slime rose in his throat, and he felt even more like throwing up, but he couldn’t move off the seat. Which would be worse? Shit in his khakis or vomit on his docksiders? Hiring professional help to solve his problem had been a bad idea from the first.
After he was finished, thankfully without soiling himself, Justin took a long time washing his hands with the foamy pink soap. He thought about simply walking out, walking past the officer, and out of the bar. Maybe if he was lucky, he could get to the street … lose him. Maybe—
The doorknob rattled.
“Occupied.” Justin grabbed for a paper towel and found the receptacle empty.
There was a clunk and the bathroom door burst open. The cop stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Hands dripping water, Justin backed up against the sink. The single dirty bulb swayed on a wire over his head, but there was enough light for the man to see his face—to identify him in a lineup.
“There must be some mistake,” Justin began. “I just—”
The cop folded his arms and leaned back against the door. He was a hatchet-faced man in his mid-forties, tall and muscular, but not beefy. It was difficult to see his face under the police cap, but his body language told Justin that he was fit and tougher than a city employee ought to be. “I don’t have all night, Dr. Morgan. And I don’t like wasting my time.”
Justin swallowed, not sure of what to say.
“I understand that you might be nervous, but you requested our service.”
Justin’s mouth was dry. He tried to speak, but he was too frightened, so he simply nodded. Another of his patients with a dubious background had made the connection. Justin had assumed that he must be getting a cut of the money. He said the nonrefundable fee would be fifty thousand, twenty-five up front, and another twenty-five when the contract was fulfilled.
“Did you bring the cashier’s check?”
Y … yes. I did.”
“Good. Now, let’s go back to the booth, have a drink, and complete our transaction before people start to think we’re having our own private party back here.”
“All right.” Justin felt lightheaded. “Yes.” He wondered if this was a real cop or a disguise. He wanted to ask, but thought the better of it.
“No need to be afraid of me,” the man said. “I’m not in the wet end of the business. I simply handle transactions.”
“Dis … discretely, I hope,” Justin managed. His patient had sworn no one would know his name. Obviously, he’d lied, the perverted, little, foot-sniffing prick.
“I can assure you that so long as you hold up your end of the bargain, you’ll never be linked to the operation. And neither will I.”
“What … what assurance do I have that … that the matter will be …”
The big man flashed a wide smile, but Justin guessed that the smile didn’t extend to his eyes. It was the kind of smile a grifter might give a mark, just before he took him for the big score.
“We’re in business to satisfy our customers. If we cheat you, you never come to us with a problem again. The people that I work for aren’t common criminals, Dr. Morgan. They have standards. I could give you references… .”
He chuckled, and Justin realized that he was making a joke.
“Of course, if I told you who our satisfied customers were, we would have to kill you.” He stepped back and opened the door. “After you,
Bill
.”
Bill
.”
Somehow, Justin forced his legs to carry him back down the hall. A plate of nachos and two fresh beers stood on the table. He slid into the booth, keeping his head down, his face in the shadows. If this was a trap, if the cop was going to place him under arrest as soon as he passed over the check, there was nothing that he could do about it.
The man sipped at his beer, then wiped foam off his upper lip. “Have some of that salsa,” he suggested. “Hot as hell but the best in Brooklyn. Andy makes it himself. Fresh Italian tomatoes and peppers. Some kind of Georgia onions.”
Justin kept his hands in his lap. If he raised them over the table, he’d be unable to hide his trembling. “You want … ”
“I want nothing. I’m going to give you an address. Mail the folder with the photograph of the subject, his name, and physical description along with the check to a Mr. Peter O’Conner at that address. Once the contract is fulfilled, you’ll receive a bill for dental work from Tri-State Dental Care. The second cashier’s check goes in the mail within twenty-four hours. So long as you don’t mention us and we receive the money, we won’t come to your apartment in the middle of the night and blow your brains out. Am I making myself clear?”
“Perfectly.” Justin shuffled his right foot back and forth on the floor. There was something sticky stuck to the bottom of his sole. Likely chewing gum. Justin hated gum chewers and their foul habit of throwing their discarded gum on the ground.
“Don’t think that you could move to another city or country to evade paying. We are an international organization with contacts that would surprise you.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” His voice sounded high-pitched and he lowered it an octave. “My practice and home are here in New York. “But … the details. Where and when?”
“You’ll receive instructions and a phone number. At the proper time, all you have to do is call that number and order a Philly cheesesteak. We hope you’re intelligent enough to use a phone that can’t be traced.”
“Yes,” Justin agreed. “Yes, of course.”
“Excellent.” He reached for a tortilla chip. “Now try this salsa. I promise you won’t be sorry.”
Poseidon was sick. He was often under the weather on mornings after he indulged in an orgy of sex and strong spirits. His age was beginning to show, Halimeda thought. Although his prowess in the bedchamber hadn’t slackened, it would only be a matter of time before he’d be unable to satisfy her and she’d need a new partner.
A pity that Alexandros wouldn’t be available. She fancied him; she had since he’d first begin to grow into the equipment that was the pride of Atlantis. He proved such a disappointment over the years, rudely rebuffing her advances. Why her stepsons disapproved of her, she couldn’t imagine. It was their loss. She could be very, very good to those in her favor.
The king leaned over the edge of the bed and groaned. “I think I’m dying,” he muttered. “The wine had too much spice.”
“You had too much wine,” she said. “You’ll feel better after you eat something. I’ve ordered a Chilean kelp broth with shrimp and minced clams. You know the kelp is only at its best every three years. And those strange fruits you like so much. The ones from Ceylon.”
He groaned again, sat up, and dragged his fingers through his beard. Blond hairs were tangled in it, and he picked them out and tossed them on the floor. “My sons are released from prison today,” he said. “I suppose I’ll have to receive them.”
She didn’t answer. With luck, he wouldn’t have to. Timing was everything. She’d waited so long for this moment. She’d hidden the tiny vessel containing the powerful poison in the anteroom off the king’s bedroom. When she’d freshened herself up this morning, it had been a simple thing to retrieve it and slip it into a fold of her morning robe.
Several gentlemen of the bedchamber came to dress the king and see to his toilet. He waved them away, insisting that he was capable of dressing himself. And when they reminded him that he was receiving ambassadors from the water kingdom beneath Japan, he replied that the visitors could await his pleasure. Duly chastised, the noblemen made hasty exits. Few wished to challenge Poseidon when he was in such a mood.
A mermaid carried in the tropical fruit and two bowls of the exquisite and rare soup. The identical porringers were Phoenician, fashioned of beaten gold in the form of high-prowed ships, no larger than one of Poseidon’s fists. They and crates of other precious dinnerware had been salvaged not long ago from a sunken ship in the Mediterranean. Halimeda loved the bowls. Once the king was no more, she’d insist that no one but her be permitted to dine from them.
The girl put the soup on the table and looked helplessly at Poseidon.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he demanded.
Halimeda smiled at him. “Will you come to the table, my lord, or would you prefer that I bring breakfast to—”
Grumbling, he joined her at the table. “Where is my wine cup? Am I to sup without wine?”
“By the bed, sire,” Halimeda answered. “Shall I fetch it for you?” Muttering under his breath, he went to get the goblet, and as soon as his back was turned, she sprinkled the deadly poison over his bowl of soup. The kelp broth was a deep green, and the dried flakes amber. She lifted a silver spoon and stirred once, making the addition invisible.
Poseidon returned, held out his goblet for her to fill it from the jug, and sat across the table from her. He reached for his spoon, fumbled, and dropped it. It bounced off the rim of the table onto the floor. He swore.
“I’ll get it, husband.” Quickly, Halimeda rose and stooped to recover the spoon. It had fallen under the table. “Here.” She held it out to him. “No worse for wear.”
“Do you expect me to eat from that?”
She sighed. “Take my spoon then. I haven’t touched it.” She returned to her chair, lowered her head, and took a spoonful of the broth. “Delicious,” she proclaimed.
“It had better be.” Cautiously, he sampled a small amount, smiled, and then began to eat with enthusiasm. Halimeda’s appetite had fled, but she continued to partake of her own portion
Poseidon ignored her comment. “You were right. This is delicious. I feel better already.” He reached for a piece of fruit. “A pity we can’t have this often.”
When Morgan and Alexandros reached the meeting place, there was no sign of the promised escort. Nothing moved in the area but a school of small gray fish. “I don’t like this,” Morgan said. “Are you certain this was the spot?”
“That’s the information I was given.” Alex rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I don’t like it either.”
“It could be a mix-up. It took awhile for us to be released. Maybe they came early, didn’t see us, and went on to the palace.”
“Wait.” Alex motioned for him to stay still and swam thirty yards toward an underwater outcrop of rocks.
Morgan couldn’t see what had caught his brother’s attention, but he waited until he returned. “What?”
“A turtle. An old one, shy, but I was able to communicate with him. He said that no Atlanteans had passed through here. He hasn’t moved from his spot in …” Alex shook his head. “A long time. His kind do nothing in a hurry. He’s seen sharks, jellyfish, baitfish, but no palace guards. There’s a wormhole not far from here. I think we’d better take it.”
Morgan agreed. Scattered across the floors of the oceans were portals that led beneath the earth. Once these passages, known as “wormholes,” had been the digestive tracts of enormous wormlike creatures. As the earth’s atmosphere changed, the seraphim had evolved into something even more alien. They no longer moved or reproduced, but their dormant bodies were used by Atlanteans as highspeed transportation.
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