Heart of Atlantis

“We Atlanteans have long been on a mission to protect humanity. Our goal has been, and always will be, to work with you to secure your lives and safety against the vampire menace that threatens to destroy you. To that end, I must speak with this woman. If any of you know how to contact her, please have her call me at the Plaza Hotel. It is quite literally a matter of life and death.”

He slowly turned the paper around, and revealed that it was actually an eight-by-ten-inch photograph.

Of Quinn.

Alaric swore so viciously in a mixture of English and Atlantean that even Quinn, who was well accustomed to being surrounded by people who used colorful language, flinched.

“This is Quinn Dawson, the leader of the North American rebel alliance. I understand that by revealing her secret identity on national and international TV, I have placed her in extreme danger.”

The camera zeroed its focus in on the photograph, which was grainy in the blurry picture but unmistakably Quinn.

“My cover is blown,” she said numbly. “I’m a dead woman.”

Alaric’s face was a study in icy rage. “No, mi amara. It is he who is a dead man.”

“Call me, Quinn Dawson,” Ptolemy continued. “Together, we will take back the planet. Human and Atlantean together. This I swear.”

The reporters, all swooning over the double scoop, shouted questions so fast and furiously that they were unintelligible, but the man simply bowed and held up his right hand with the enormous gemstone in it, and a flash of sickly orange-red light enveloped him. When the light was gone, so was he.

“A cheap trick,” Ven said dismissively. “Any five-dollar magician can do that.”

“But a five-dollar magician could not touch Poseidon’s Pride, let alone wield it,” Alaric said slowly. “If that truly is the missing gem, there is something to this man’s claim, at least of being Atlantean, perhaps.”

Quinn started laughing, and it was high and wild. “Well. Think they’re hiring at McDonald’s? Because that, my friends, just put me out of a job.”

Alaric stared at her in disbelief. “Out of a job? Are you insane? What he did, mi amara, was to paint a giant target on your forehead. Every faction in the vampire conspiracy, every rogue shape-shifter, and even the many humans you’ve crossed over the years—they will all be after you. I will have to kill every one of them after I kill Ptolemy.”

“I’ll be right there to help,” Ven said.

Jack, who’d been so silent Alaric had almost forgotten about him, roared so loudly the walls seemed to vibrate with the sound.

“That’s too many to kill, you idiots,” Quinn said wearily. “I may as well stay here and start a flying monkey ranch. Life as I knew it is over. Will you teach me how to speak Japanese, Archelaus?”

Alaric made a horrible snarling noise, deep in his throat, so primal that it rivaled Jack at his tiger worst. He raised his hands and hurled an intense whiplash of power so massive that the entire room flashed as bright and hot as if they huddled inside a lightning bolt, praying for the storm to end. The television shattered into a thousand pieces, as did the table beneath it, the chair next to it, and a significant part of the cavern wall.

The world itself seemed to hold its breath in the aftermath of the violence, until finally Alaric’s voice broke the silence.

“Remember what I said, Quinn,” Alaric said calmly. He turned those deadly eyes on her, but she forced herself not to flinch. “I will kill them all.”

Chapter 5

Alaric watched Quinn follow Archelaus out of the room. She’d grown quieter and quieter while they argued over what to do next, and then she’d finally said she was going to find some food.

“Not much else to do, now that I’m unemployed,” she’d said, contorting her face in what she may have intended to be a smile, but which came out as a death’s head grimace.

Jack followed, her silent, deadly shadow. Alaric realized yet again that in another world—another timeline— she could have loved Jack and, perhaps, been happy. The realization added yet another layer of tarnish to the rusted remains of his conscience, but did not in the least tempt him to give her up.

At least Alaric had stopped casually plotting ways to kill Jack whenever he thought of Jack with Quinn. That was progress, of a sort.

“That is one scary expression on your face, my friend,” Ven said. The prince folded his arms over his chest. “Do I even want to know what’s on your mind?”

“Your wants are of no concern to me. My mind is my own. I leave now to confront this fake Ptolemy. Once he’s dead, and I retrieve the gem, our problems will diminish.”

Ven shook his head. “Not by much. The world still knows that Quinn is a rebel leader. That bell can’t be unrung. She’s done being safe—or, for that matter, going undercover—forever. And we should check in with Conlan and the rest of the Seven and find out if they even know what’s going on. It’s not like they get CNN in Atlantis.”

“Fine. You check in. I’m going to New York.” Alaric called to the portal, belatedly wondering if it would even answer, if Noriko truly was the portal spirit or presence who had directed its magic.

A shimmering oval of light answered his question, but before entering he stopped and addressed it, feeling a fool.

“You. Spirit of the portal. Can you speak in that form?”

Silence was his only answer, which was no answer at all.

“Fine. Take me to the Plaza Hotel in New York,” he commanded, as he stepped into the swirling magic.

As the vortex took him, Ven followed.

“Somebody needs to save your ass,” the prince said.

“Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

“Call me that again, and I’ll kick your ass instead.”

The portal deposited them in what appeared to be a garden or park, in a stand of trees. The rich scent of plants, flowers, and trees, with an underlying touch of metal and machine, infused the night air, and stars twinkled overhead.

“Night here, day in Japan. The time zone change is messing with my brain,” Ven said.

“Where are we?” Alaric demanded.

“This is Central Park. See that overgrown mansion of a building? That’s the Plaza. Finest hotel in New York.” Ven grinned. “I met this brunette in the Champagne Bar once—”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to tell Erin all about that.” Alaric had even less patience than usual with the prince’s banter. Quinn’s life was in danger. Rage thrummed through his bones and his blood like the war cry of ancient tribal drums.

A look of pure horror crossed Ven’s face. “You wouldn’t do that. Erin knows she’s the only woman for me. I was just— Never mind. Let’s find this Ptolemy.”

Alaric headed out of the trees and toward the hotel, not caring whether Ven followed or not. This bastard of a pretender had put Quinn in danger.

Ptolemy had to die.

“Did you tell Quinn you were leaving?”

“She won’t even notice I’m gone before I return with the news of Ptolemy’s defeat,” Alaric said grimly, acknowledging, if only to himself, how quickly he’d been forced to break his vow never to leave her. But her life itself was at stake—he’d had no choice.

The portals to the nine hells were built with good intentions, too, or so the old stories went. Good intent or avid self-interest? At times the barrier between the two was as thin as a coward’s resolve.

Ven caught up with him, whistling under his breath. “Mistake. Big mistake.”

Probably. Every step Alaric took with Quinn was a mistake. But he had many long years to work on doing better. For now he’d do what he did best—battle his enemies.