Atlantis Betrayed
(The eighth book in the Warriors of Poseidon series)
(2010)
A novel by
Alyssa Day
This book is for Eileen Rendahl, who gave me laughter and love and a winery tour when the stress monster was crushing me. I couldn’t have survived this move to Japan without you.
And to Michelle Cunnah, who packed up her notebook and pencils, investigated the Tower of London for me, and even asked one of the Beefeaters how to steal the jewels and make a quick getaway. Now that’s friendship!
And, always, to Judd. Marrying you is the best thing I’ve ever done—here’s to our new adventure.
Acknowledgments
Books are like pancakes. They’re okay alone, but only truly spectacular when covered with butter, syrup, berries, and whipped cream. So this book is for the folks who are the strawberries: Cindy Hwang—calm, brilliant, and insightful—who quite probably leaps tall buildings in her spare time; Leslie Gelbman, Leis Pederson, and everybody at Berkley for working so hard for me and my books; Shelley Kay, who made my website so very cool; and finally, the funny and fabulous werearmadillos—Barb, Cindy, Eileen, Marianne, Michelle, and Serena. You’re all rock stars.
And a big thank-you to reader Arantza Cazalis Ruano, for the werewolf pub name The Melting Moon, to Judd for the vampire club name Daybreak, and to all my friends on Twitter and Facebook who help me out with odd research questions in the middle of the night. How did insomniac authors ever survive without you?
Dear Readers,
I hope you’ll love Christophe and Fiona’s story as much as I loved writing it, and as always, thank you from the bottom of my heart for spending some time with me and the Warriors of Poseidon.
As usual, a few apologies for taking liberties with the real world: First to the Yeoman Warders who protect the Crown Jewels. It is highly unlikely that any of that honorable group, founded in 1485, were actually shape-shifters. Also, Vanquish, the sword William the Conqueror first wielded and that figures so prominently in this book, is entirely a creation of my slightly twisted mind. It sounds like a sword old William would have carried, though, doesn’t it?
Hugs,
Alyssa
The Warrior’s Creed
We will wait. And watch. And protect.
And serve as first warning on the eve of humanity’s destruction.
Then, and only then, Atlantis will rise.
For we are the Warriors of Poseidon, and the mark of the Trident we bear serves as witness to our sacred duty to safeguard mankind.
Chapter 1
Present day; London, England
Jack the Ripper must have been a vampire.
Christophe sat on the tiny ledge underneath the minute hand on Big Ben’s western face—twenty-five past midnight—thinking random thoughts and surveying the moonlight-drenched city that had always been like a second home to him. It was a perch custom-designed for philosophical reflection, with its view of the resilient heart of London spread out before him like one of old King George’s feasts.
The clock tower was arguably London’s most recognizable landmark. Perching on it, nearly three hundred feet off the ground, Christophe felt spurred to an unfamiliar longing to peer into the blood-drenched darkness of England’s past. Not so long ago, these modern sophisticates had fought war after war over territory, possessions, and how to worship which god. War bred its own evil shadow; reflected its black soul onto even the innocent. Or were there any innocent? Ever? Were all the so-called pure simply on an earlier stage of the descent into wickedness, hatred, and vice?
Christophe laughed out loud, startling a nearby pigeon into raising its head. “Sorry, buddy,” he told the bright-eyed bird. “Something about this damn place sends my mind to strange places every time I’m here. Jack the Ripper. The Scarlet Ninja, although at least he doesn’t hurt anybody. What a town.”
He shook his head. “Of course, now I’m talking to a bird, so clearly I’m also insane.”
He leaned back against the familiar gilt lettering, “DOM-INE SALVAM FAC REGINAM NOSTRAM VICTORIAM PRIMAM,” and wondered if Queen Victoria the First had been honored to have each of Big Ben’s four giant clock faces proclaim that her people called out to their god to keep her safe.
Another, far more bitter, laugh escaped him at the idea that Poseidon would ever worry about keeping him safe. Centuries of fighting had taught Christophe the bloody and painful lesson that the sea god didn’t care much about keeping his Atlantean warriors anything but honed for battle. Throwing them to the wolves and the other shape-shifters, sure. Using them as cannon fodder against the vampires, no problem. Eleven thousand years after the original pact, the current members of the elite Atlantean fighting force were still fulfilling their sacred duty to protect humanity.
Humanity should protect its own damn self.
Not that it could, or had ever been able to, against the dark and ugly that crawled out of the night. Since the monsters had revealed themselves—more than a decade ago—to be more than the fictional fodder of nightmares and bad movies, the stupid humans had done more and more to offer themselves up on the proverbial silver platter, like the sheep the vamps called them. Christophe had suggested a few times that the warriors change their mission from protecting humans to rounding them up, stuffing apples in their mouths, and then jamming sticks up their asses.
Human-kabobs. Simple, easy, and everybody goes home happy.
The high prince wasn’t exactly down with the idea. Christophe “wasn’t a team player.” “Had a chip on his shoulder.” Insert psychobabble here. Conlan’s new human wife had the prince by the balls, and Princess Riley the former social worker was all about kindness and understanding.
Which sucked.
Christophe would have preferred that Conlan just haul off and punch him in the face, like the prince used to do in the old days when somebody pissed him off. It would have been far less painful.
“Less painful than smelling your stench, for example,” he said to the vampire who was silently floating up the side of the tower, trying to surprise him. Probably thinking he’d found a midnight snack of the liquid variety.
“Interesting place to hang out, mate.” The vamp levitated up until he was eye level with Christophe. “Got a death wish?”
Christophe scanned the vamp, his gaze raking it from spiky purple hair to steel-toed boots. He blamed London’s punk rock scene. Bunch of lame-ass wannabes who were still trying to re-create the days of the Sex Pistols.
Like this bloodsucker.
Christophe put a hand on the hilt of a dagger but didn’t bother to draw it. “You threatening me?”
The vamp shrugged. “Just pointing out that you’re pretty far up for a breakable human.”
Christophe bared his teeth in what passed for a smile with him these days, and the vamp flinched a little. “Not human. Not breakable.”
Holding his hands up in a placating gesture, Punk Boy floated back and away from him. “Got no beef with you. Just surprised to see somebody in my spot.”
“You’re Queen Victoria, then?”
The vampire laughed and, surprisingly, seemed to be genuinely amused. “Know your Latin, do you?”
It was Christophe’s turn to shrug. “I get by.” But then an inconvenient twinge of duty nagged at him, and he sighed. “You planning to kill any humanity tonight?”
“Any humanity?” The vamp floated a little closer, but carefully still out of reach, his pierced eyebrows drawing together as he studied Christophe. “What are you talking about?”