“Atlantis. Of course,” Hopkins said. “Know many mermaids, do you?”
“Mermaids don’t exist. I’d hoped that I could get a little trust on faith, but evidently I haven’t earned it yet,” Christophe said. “So here goes.”
He called to power, reveling in the burning sensation as it flowed eagerly to his command. Towering sweeps of power, its intensity increasing every time he called to it these days. So much power that he almost feared that one day it would consume him.
Maybe one day it would. But not this day.
He formed twin spheres of blue-green energy in his palms and held them up in the air before sending them flying around the room, dipping and floating around and over Fiona, her brother, and Hopkins.
“My tie with Poseidon, as a warrior sworn to his oath, is one source of my magic. Water is our element to call.”
“Sure it is,” Declan said, grinning. “Cool magic trick. Do you—” His laughter muffled the next words, but he finally managed to get them out. “Do you ride whales down to Atlantis?”
Christophe glared at the youngling and contemplated how angry Fiona would be if he hoisted her little brother out the window and left him dangling by a ribbon of water. He decided against it based on the way she was already clenching her fists at her side.
A simpler demonstration, then.
A flick of his fingers sent the energy spheres whirling to two corners of the room. Then he called to water, the purest form of his magic, and it, too, responded willingly. He channeled the silvery streams of water to form a vortex around his body starting at the carpet and working its way up to the elaborately painted ceiling. He threw his head back and concentrated, though it was a simple enough working. He wanted this to be perfect—she was watching.
Why it mattered so much, he wasn’t sure. He just knew that it did. He formed twin streams of water into perfectly symmetrical spears and hurled them directly at Declan. Hopkins jumped up, no doubt going for his gun, and Fiona cried out. Declan had no time to do anything but gasp before the streams spiraled into starfish shapes directly in front of him and, one after the other, splashed into the boy, thoroughly drenching him.
“No,” Christophe said over Declan’s sputtering. “We do not ride whales, either.”
Fiona fell back into her chair, torn between warring impulses to laugh or yell at Christophe. Those spears had been terrifyingly real, but how many times had she wished for a bucket of water to drench her joker of a brother? The smile threatening to break free of the tight clamp she had on her lips faded, though, when she realized all that water was soaking her sofa, table, and the surrounding area. Even Hopkins hadn’t escaped entirely, and he looked about to murder Christophe at any moment.
“Fabulous. You’ve got a store of parlor tricks, and you’ve drenched my furnishings. Does any of your magic show include picking up the bill for the cleaning?” She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him, which made not the slightest dent in that cocky grin of his.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, raising his hands in the air again. She tried not to notice the sculpted muscles in his forearms beneath his rolled-up sleeves, but she was only human, after all.
Which, as he seemed to be trying to tell them, he might not be. Which was brilliant. She’d only just been hoping for more complications in her life.
Christophe gestured and a warm breeze swept through the room, flowing softly over Fiona before moving on. As she watched, the water soaking Declan and his surroundings simply disappeared. It didn’t dry, leaving her brother rumpled and wrinkled. No, it was just gone as if had never been there.
Which, perhaps, it hadn’t been.
“Sweet!” Declan yelled, patting himself and the pillows thoroughly. “Dry as a bone. That was awesome. Can you teach me that?”
Fiona ignored him. “Illusion?” She’d no sooner said the word than Hopkins was shaking his head.
“Definitely not. That water was real. A fine trick, and quite powerful,” he said, frowning at Christophe. “But still no proof of this fantastic tale of the lost continent.”
“It was never lost. We just hid it,” Christophe told him.
“Of course,” Fiona said, throwing her own hands up in the air. Sadly, that didn’t cause any wild magical incident or she would have made them all disappear. She needed a nap and a headache tablet, not necessarily in that order. “You hid it. So how did you get here? Submersible? Dolphins? Magic bubbles?”
He lifted an eyebrow, and those wickedly gorgeous green eyes of his began to glow. “Magic bubbles is actually pretty close. We have a magic portal.”
Hopkins rolled his eyes. “A magic portal. Of course you do. And probably a yellow submarine, too. I’ve had enough of this, Lady Fiona. I still suggest we throw the man out and take our chances. After all, if he discloses your identity, we can happily tell the authorities about his little expedition to the Jewel House, can’t we?”
“Hopkins! You rolled your eyes,” Declan said, grinning. “The nation will surely fail at any moment.”
“I can call the portal and we’ll all take a step through to Atlantis,” Christophe gritted out. “Bunch of cynics.”
“I believe you,” Declan said.
“You believe in forest fairies, too,” Fiona pointed out.
“And Saint Nicholas, until you were at least thirteen,” Hopkins added.
“Hey, a sense of wonder is not a bad thing,” Declan said, blushing.
Christophe closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and raised his hands in the air again. Fiona caught her breath, in equal parts worry and anticipation. What would he conjure up this time?
They all leaned forward, waiting . . . waiting.
And, finally, after two long minutes—nothing happened.
Christophe opened his eyes and blew out a breath, then muttered a long string of words in a language Fiona had never heard, though it had a bit of the fluidity and musicality of Italian. Maybe Italian crossed with Greek, on second thought.
From the tone of his voice and the way he glared viciously at the empty space in front of him, she had the feeling she didn’t want to know the translation.
“Magic portal out of service?” she suggested sweetly. “Down for repairs?”
“Water damage, maybe,” Declan said, breaking into a fresh peal of laughter, in spite of what had happened to him the last time.
“The portal can be capricious,” Christophe snapped. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like opening.”
“The door has feelings,” Hopkins said slowly before turning to Fiona. “Lady Fiona, I fear we should call the home for madmen. Unfortunate that Bedlam closed. He’d have fit in quite well there.”
She ignored Hopkins’s jibes and studied Christophe’s face. The frustration there was too real to be feigned. Either that or he was the best actor she’d ever seen. It was up to her to make the decision and stand by it.
“Look, let’s leave it for now,” she finally said. “You’re either from Atlantis or you’re up to something so secret you can’t tell us about it. For whatever reason, I’ve decided to trust you, at least until you prove me wrong. Tonight you and I go pub-hopping in the low places to find out what we can, and Declan will use his computer magic to find out what the word is on the Internet.”
She shot a warning glare at her brother when he looked like he might argue. “I need you on this, Dec. Nobody else has the skills you do.”
“I’ll put out word in my own network. Discreetly, of course,” Hopkins said.
“You still haven’t told me why you were after that particular sword,” Christophe said.
Fiona shrugged. “I generally select an object that has no right to be where it is. An objet d’art with shaky provenance, where the owner either stole it personally or bought stolen merchandise, for example. Those owners are usually reluctant to get the police involved, and of course there are no insurance investigators involved, since the companies won’t insure stolen art.”
“Makes it easier to fence, too,” Declan added.
She groaned. “I’m winning big sister of the year, aren’t I? Introducing my baby brother to the world of stolen art before he’s had his first real girlfriend.”
“Hey, there was Nora,” he protested, blushing fiercely.
“You were twelve. Anyway, to continue, this time was different. Word was put out through one of my usual
