Atlantis Rising

droplets of blood that sprang up so eagerly in the wake of her whip.

Then she'd brought her finger to her mouth, smiling.

'But you will beg. Just like your father begged when I sliced the flesh off of your mother as she yet lived,' she'd purred, evil mixed with a hideous lust in her eyes.

He'd roared his hatred and defiance for hours.

Days.

He'd even wept, driven to madness from the pain, on seven separate occasions.

Once during each year of his imprisonment.

But he'd never begged.

'But she will,' he said, voice hoarse with the effort of remaining upright. 'She will beg, before I'm done with her.'

'Highness?' The guards rushed forward to assist him, yelling out for aid. He whipped his head up, teeth bared, growling like the animal he'd become. They both stopped, midstep. Frozen in place.

Unsure how to react to royalty gone feral.

Conlan staggered forward, determined to take the first steps onto his native soil without aid.

'We must inform Alaric immediately,' said the older, more experienced warrior of the two. Marcus. Marius, maybe? Conlan focused, certain he must know the man.

It was important that he remember things. Yes, Marcus.

'You're bleeding, Highness.'

'Mostly,' he repeated, stumbling forward another step. Then the world spiraled down to black.

Ven stood in the observation chamber, looking down on the hall of healing below, where Poseidon's high priest, clearly exhausted, labored over Ven's brother. It took one hell of a lot to drain the energy out of Alaric. He was rumored to be the most powerful high priest who had ever served the sea god.

Not that warriors knew much about the difference between one priest and another. Or, usually, gave much of a shit. Except, right now, he cared about that distinction.

A lot.

Ven clenched the railing, fingers digging into the soft wood, as he thought about what exactly Anubisa must have done to Conlan. He knew what she'd done to Alexios. One of Conlan's most trusted guards, the Seven, Alexios had spent two years under Anubisa's tender ministrations. Hers and those of her evil apostates of Algolagnia, who drew their only sexual pleasure from pain and torture.

Then she'd left him—naked and near death—to die. In a pile of pig shit on Crete. The vamp goddess of death was big on symbolism. Maybe something she'd inherited from her father-husband, Chaos. And that was seriously twisted right there.

It had taken Alaric nearly six months to retrieve the warrior's memories. That half year had included two cycles of purification in the Temple to cleanse his soul.

Ven didn't want to think it—fucking hated to think it—but sometimes he wondered if Alexios had ever come all the way back from whatever black pit of hell she'd dragged him into.

Still, Alaric had okayed him. Alexios was back as one of the Seven. It was a matter of honor that Ven trust him.

The Seven served as the most trusted guard to the high prince of all Atlantis. Even when he was gone; presumed dead.

They also led and coordinated the teams of warriors who patrolled the surface lands of the earth. Watching over the damn humans, who'd let themselves be herded like—what did the bloodsuckers call them? Sheep?

While Ven and all of the Warriors of Poseidon had to keep to the shadows. Out of sight. Incog-fucking-nito. Defending the landwalkers from the badasses among the bloodsuckers, the furry monsters, and all the shit that went bump in the night. And, frankly, the badasses seemed to be in the majority in those particular species most of the time.

And they'd done a damn fine job the past eleven thousand years, give or take. Until the day about ten years ago when the freaks that inhabited the night decided to come out of the coffin. First the vamps, then the shape- shifters. The job of Poseidon's warriors got about fifty kajillion times harder when that happened.

For whatever reason, Anubisa hadn't bothered to let her people—her vamp society—in on the secret of Atlantis. But Ven knew that could change any minute. If anybody knew about the capriciousness of gods and goddesses, it was an Atlantean.

Doomed to the bottom of the sea at Poseidon's whim.

Not that he'd ever complain about it. Out loud, at least.

Still, it was tough to defend humans when the big, bad, and ugly roamed freely, and the Atlanteans had to stick to the shadows. But Ven had argued the point in the Council until his face turned blue, and then he'd finally given up. The Elders didn't want anybody to know about Atlantis, and until Conlan ascended to the throne, nobody could go against their edict.

Ven looked down at his brother again, barely registering the soothing tones of the harps and flutes being played by temple maidens in the alcoves surrounding his brother. The music was supposed to aid in healing.

Ven laughed. Yeah, except Conlan hated that light, fluffy Debussy shit. When he ascended to the throne, he'd probably ask for Bruce Springsteen or U2 to play at his coronation.

If. If Conlan ascended to the throne.

He didn't even want to think about what would happen if Conlan had gone bad. Because guess who was second in line? Yeah. Ven would go from being King's Vengeance to high prince in a royal godsdamned minute, and there was no fucking way he was cut out to lead anything.

He looked down at his brother again, lying so still. Conlan had grown up like royalty, honor and duty and all that happy shit ingrained in his soul. But Ven had grown up pure street fighter. There was a big, ugly part of his soul. The part that had withered and died when he'd been with his mother at the end, before she died. When she'd begged him to save himself. Keep his brother safe.

He'd promised her, sobbing, as she died.

Great fucking job he'd done of keeping his word.

The wood snapped under his clenched fists.

'Tough wood to break with your bare hands,' observed a dry voice.

Ven didn't look up at the priest, instead pulling splinters out of his torn and bleeding palms. 'Yeah, they don't make these railings like they used to,' he muttered.

Alaric walked—more like glided; the man was spooky—up to stand next to him. 'I can heal that if you like,' he offered, tone dispassionate.

'I think you've done enough healing for one day, don't you?'

Alaric said nothing, merely looked down over the railing at his sleeping prince.

Ven studied Alaric as the priest watched Conlan. Alaric and Conlan had grown up running around the kingdom like the hellions they were, tearing up the streets and fields with their games and pranks. Rarely reined in by their indulgent parents or a community respectful of the royal heir and his cousin.

Later making their way through the taverns and the barmaids with the same verve and boyish charm.

There was nothing of boyishness about the priest now. He wore the power of his office like a shield of armor. Invisible, but unmistakable. The sharp planes of his face and the hawklike asceticism of his nose reminded all who confronted him that here was a man of faith, stripped to muscle and bone by the demands of his service.

The demands of power. If the faintly glowing green eyes hadn't already warned them away, that is.

High priest, dark phantom, instrument of Poseidon's power.

Scary son of a bitch.

'No, there is not a helluva lot of boyish charm left in any of us, is there, Alaric?'

Alaric lifted one eyebrow, but gave no other sign of surprise at the comment. 'You want to know if he has been compromised,' he said, face gray and used-looking. After a dozen or so hours of healing, it was pretty impressive that he could even stand upright.

'After Alexios—' Ven began, then stopped, unable to go on. If Anubisa had compromised his brother's soul,