Authors: Alyssa Day

Atlantis Betrayed (5 page)

BOOK: Atlantis Betrayed

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Better.

“Yes, go. But have a care. If Telios approaches you, be sure to emphasize how important that sword is to me, but make no mention of the jewel on its hilt. I’d steal it myself if William’s witch hadn’t ensorcelled it to destroy any Fae who touched it when not freely given.” He laughed. “William the Conqueror, indeed. How did they never wonder how he became such a conqueror? A powerful witch on his side for all those years, and none suspected.”

“You knew,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but what care did I have for human affairs at that time? There were more than enough of them and the vampires still hid in the dark. Now, things are different. I want that gem. A perfect aquamarine, or so I hear.”

She bit her lip but said nothing. Probably thinking about her next bed partner. Useless female. He made a go-away gesture with his hand and she all but ran off down the path toward the palace.

“The Siren and Lady Fiona. I’ll have them both. Quite lovely prizes for one who seeks to rule both courts, don’t you think?” he asked the empty air.

Only the trees heard his laughter.

Chapter 4

Damn crumbly centuries-old stone.

Christophe had known as soon as the coalesced mist of his magic-held shape displaced the tiny shards of stone that the shifters patrolling beneath the window would hear it. What he hadn’t expected was how fast they could make it up to the third floor. He found himself hovering in the center of the room, wondering how in the nine hells the guards were going to miss a miniature rain cloud floating in the middle of a storage room that was basically an overgrown broom closet.

England was famous for its rain, but this was ridiculous. Time to bail and try again another night, maybe. It’s what a
reasonable
man would do. The thought was enough to jolt him into motion.

“Reasonable, my ass,” he said under his breath as he transformed back into his body, a fierce grin spreading across his face. “May as well be dead as reasonable.”

Booted feet pounded down the hallway and he could hear the sound of doors opening one by one, sequentially. They’d reach him soon. He scanned the room for something—anything—and found it in the least likely, humblest of objects.

Seconds later, the door swung open and one of the shifters stepped into the room, not even breathing hard. “Storage room looks clear.”

This one smelled like wolf. Angry wolf. Hopefully he wouldn’t start pissing on the walls to mark his territory. Christophe wished he could see what the guard was doing, but curiosity wasn’t worth risking his disguise.

Footsteps rang out, crossing the floor toward him, and Christophe tensed, holding his magical form and crushing his every maddening instinct that screamed at him to call to power and
attack
. The footsteps paused, no more than a handful of inches from him, and then passed by. The muffled sound of the wolf shifting boxes and shoving the heavy wooden table by the window to one side preceded a loud crash. The guard let loose with a blistering string of profanity so creative and descriptive that even Christophe had to admire the man’s resourcefulness.

More footsteps. A different voice, as a second guard arrived at the doorway.

“Find anything?”

“No. I knocked the damn box of copy paper on my foot.”

The new guard laughed. Not much sympathy there. “Did he hurt his wee footsie?”

“Shut up, you moron. It’s the same foot I broke last week and it’s still a trifle tender, even after shifting five different times.” The first guard walked past Christophe again, this time with the definite suggestion of a limp. “There’s nothing in here anyway. Must have been a bird after all. We need to get the cleaning crew to do a better job, by the way. Why is this bucket sitting here full of water? Should we dump it out?”

“I’m not dumping it out. Not my job. And maybe it was a bird, or maybe it was a vamp,” the other said darkly. “Or who knows what else? I’ll feel a lot better when we get those magic detectors up and running.”

“Right. You count on that. Sure, and the witches are going to figure out a way to detect all of the hundreds of different kinds of magic. In your dreams.”

Christophe heard the faint squeak of hinges that were just on the cusp of needing to be oiled, and as the door shut, the second guard put in the final word.

“I heard the prime minister herself say that there’s not a form of magic on this earth that the new detectors won’t catch.”

Christophe rose up in one silvery ribbon of water from the bucket in which he’d hidden and promptly changed back into the shape of a very amused Atlantean warrior.

Exactly. Not
on
this earth. Bet your witches aren’t ready for magic that comes from under its oceans.

Now, let’s have a look at that sword.

He took a deep breath and cleansed himself of the last traces of plastic and the faint bitter tang of cleaning fluid, shaking his hands to fling the droplets of water from his skin. He’d held mist shape too long this night, and it was tiring—a drain of magical resources—on the best of nights. Nights that did
not
involve hiding in buckets. But it would make for a good story, and surely Ven or one of the other warriors would stand him a mug of ale for the laugh.

He pushed his focus deep within, calling to the power that waited, tantalizing, always ready to seduce him. Formed the link in his mind that gave up the very atoms of his body to the universe; traded for the water magic that belonged uniquely to Poseidon and his people.

Soaring through the room, he performed a celebratory twirl of silvery liquid power before dispersing enough to slide smoothly under the door. The hallway was empty, the guards gone searching birds or ghosts or shadows. He followed the hall to the stairs and, careful to stay in the dark shadows masking the ceiling, he descended to the ground floor right over the heads of the guards pounding up, presumably to join their colleagues in a futile search.

Radios crackled with “all clear” and “headed for the roof access” messages, and as Christophe passed overhead, the headset of the guard directly beneath him sizzled with a loud crackling sound.

The man snapped out a guttural curse. “Damn radios. This one just shorted out in my ear.”

Christophe increased his pace. If he was already shorting out the electronics, stealing the actual sword might be a problem. He snapped an even tighter leash on his control. Atlantean magic and electricity didn’t get along, and he didn’t want to send the place into lockdown because the security system suddenly crashed.

One of the shifter guards paused and cast a sharp glance up at the ceiling, his keen gaze examining the area directly where Christophe passed overhead in the shadows. There was absolutely nothing to be seen, even to shifter eyes, since his form was so dispersed among the shadows, but the man’s instincts were good. Shifter instincts generally were. It was a good enough reason to have at least a few of them on Atlantis’s side.

Gaining the ground floor, he turned the corner and headed for the Treasury. Tonight was just for scouting. He wanted a look at the sword when there were no crowds, no moving walkways. He’d come back another night to take it.

No rush, after all. The quicker he achieved this goal, the quicker he’d be forced to return to Atlantis. More missions to the surface for vampire slaying. Cut off their heads, stake them in the hearts, jump back to avoid goop on the boots as they turned to nasty acidic slime. Same old same old.

He wanted something different. A challenge.
Excitement
.

Rounding the final corner, he stopped moving, dispersing his mist form even more, and hovered as close to the ceiling’s shadows as possible. The five guards clustered in front of the open security door to the Treasury spoke in low tones, but their body language didn’t display any particular tension.

One of the guards, a shifter whose enormous arm muscles strained the seams of his uniform shirt, made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Probably a bird taking off and displacing a few pebbles. Certainly there’s nothing in here.”

Another one, a human, tapped his fingers restlessly against the wall. “As soon as Lefty gets out here, we’ll lock up tight and resume regular rounds.”

The others nodded and made varying noises of assent.

Christophe, still hidden in mist form, automatically cataloged the guards in his memory, but a whisper of unease shivered through him that had nothing to do with the handful of Tower Guards. Something—
someone
—was playing with magic, and he or she was doing so in this very room. Very near the door. In fact, not six paces away from where the guards clustered around the door to the Treasury.

The biting chill of magic broadcasting from the corner tasted nothing like the sea and salt of Atlantean power. No, this was of the earth. The tang of freshly turned garden soil and the faint scent of ripe apples in the fall. An earth witch? Seelie Fae?

How strong, he couldn’t tell. The faint ripples were as subtle as his own, which meant either a practitioner with very little power to project or one with enough power to be able to hide it from both Christophe and the shifters, who normally had some sensitivity to magic. It definitely wasn’t one of the guards. The light and shadows around that crowd broke normally, following accepted laws of physics.

But in the corner the shadows were . . . different. Just a whisper of a touch of difference, nothing that would alarm even the keenest non-magical observer, but to Christophe it was a beacon. A flare at sea from a drowning ship.

A sixth guard appeared in the doorway from the Treasury and nodded once, sharply. “All clear.”

“Thanks, Lefty. Better safe than sorry,” one of the older guards said, probably a familiar refrain from him, considering the carefully averted rolled eyes of a couple of the others.

As the guards began to disperse, heading in different directions, Lefty carefully slid an innocuous-looking information plaque on the wall to the left, revealing a digital keypad. He rapidly pressed buttons in a long sequence of numbers, pausing twice, either as part of the sequence or to think of what came next, and the security door began slowly to close. Christophe, soaring silently and quickly, traveled across the ceiling and into the room with seconds to spare before the door closed behind him with a muffled clanging sound. Several clicking noises sounded directly beneath and in front of where he hung, suspended, startling him, and he turned his attention downward.

Toward the . . .
ninja
.

Which startled him enough that he released his mist form, plummeted down from the ceiling, and landed on his ass. “What in the nine hells—”

The figure in scarlet whirled around and Christophe was treated to two more surprises: the shiny, deadly looking gun and the lovely curve of scarlet-covered breasts and hips.

The Scarlet Ninja was a woman—and she was armed.