Atlantis Betrayed

Chapter 17

The British Museum

“Are you noticing a theme, here?” Christophe scanned the Great Court as they entered. “Our relationship is built on museums.”

“We have a relationship?”

He was quick with a wolfish grin. “Oh, sweetheart. Are we ever having a relationship.”

“We need to talk about that diamond.”

“That was business. It has nothing to do with us.”

“There’s an us?”

He didn’t answer, at least not in words, and she decided to ignore the implications of his wicked smile and take refuge in lecturing him about their surroundings. “The Great Court is the largest covered public square in Europe, with approximately two acres of space. It was designed by Lord Foster—well, redesigned, really—just in the late nineties and opened by the Queen just after the turn of the century.”

“Turn of the millennium,” he pointed out.

“Well, yes, that, too. You’ll notice the ceiling—”

“Oh, yes. I couldn’t miss that ceiling.” He whistled, staring up at the glass-and-steel canopy.

“They constructed it out of more than three thousand panes of glass and, like snowflakes, no two are alike.” She smiled. “I absolutely love it. I feel a sort of peace in this light, airy space.”

He surprised her by putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. “That’s great news. If you like this, you’re going to love the Great Dome of Atlantis.”

Fiona started to snap out a retort, but the pleasure on his face as he looked up and around at the wonderful space stopped her. Maybe there really was an Atlantis. Maybe he really was from there. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that they were all scoffing at the idea of vampires, and now there were certain to be some in attendance here tonight. Nothing, it seemed, was impossible anymore.

Not even Plato’s mythical lost continent.

“Is it just a city? Or a whole continent?” she whispered, and he jerked his gaze down to stare at her in surprise.

“You believe me?”

“Maybe. Maybe a little.” She laughed. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“If you—” He paused and his eyes narrowed. “Who’s the dandy on his way over here? He’s staring at you like you’re on the dessert menu.”

“As did you, earlier,” she pointed out.

“That doesn’t mean any other man can do it,” he growled.

“Lord Nicklesby,” she called out. “What a delight to see you here.”

“Fiona, my dear,” he said, taking her hands in an overly effusive handshake. Now that she thought about it, Christophe was right. Nicklesby was a bit of a dandy. He had more gel in his hair than she did. “I was rather unpleasantly surprised to see you on the telly this afternoon. Bit of a strange situation, hmm?”

“Are you calling me strange?” Christophe’s smile was all the more deadly for its veneer of politeness.

Nicklesby blinked. She’d bet he hadn’t had much experience with Christophe’s form of directness. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“Certainly not, certainly not,” Nicklesby blustered. “Just—ah, well. Quite right. I see Foster’s new partner—vampire, don’t you know. I’ll just go over and say hello. Lovely to see you.”

Before she could say anything, he was gone, practically jogging in his haste to be away from them. She finally released the laugh she’d been holding in.

“How do you do that? Make me laugh when my world is turned upside down?”

“When better?”

He flagged down a passing server with a tray of champagne. “When does the ale come through?”

The man shook his head. “Sorry, sir. I’m fond of a pint myself, but this is strictly a champagne kind of event.”

Christophe pulled out a crumpled handful of euros. “This purple one is for you if you find me a pint. Find one for yourself, too.”

The waiter’s eyes grew huge. “Sir, I can tell you’re not familiar with our currency. That’s five hundred euros. I can’t accept that.”

Christophe grinned. “I like an honest man. Take it, and see what you can do.” He tossed the bill on the waiter’s tray and turned to Fiona. “Would you like a glass of champagne?”

She took a flute off the tray. “No, but I think I’m going to need a glass of champagne. Let’s just put it that way.”

She drained the glass in three swallows, and the server traded her empty glass for another and then took off, presumably in search of ale.

“Who is this delicious hunk of man, where have you been hiding him, and does he have a brother?” The voice was instantly familiar, and Fiona whirled around, delighted.

“Maeve! I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Maeve, dressed in a scarlet gown that set off her dark-haired beauty to perfection, tossed her head. “Saving whales is my life, don’t you know? Or is it dolphins? What marine life are we saving tonight? And, I repeat, who is this lovely man?”

Beside Fiona, Christophe stiffened and his eyes flared a hot green for a split second before he bowed to Maeve.

“This is Christophe,” Fiona said, not sure what to do about the no-last-name thing.

“I am delighted you brought your new man, Fee. Now where have you been hiding him?”

“He’s not my new man,” she said. “He’s more my—”

“Her partner,” Christophe said.

“Yes. Yes, my partner,” she said, grasping the suggestion.

“And her lover,” he said, ruining everything.

Maeve made an O with her perfectly red, shiny lips. “Oh, he is a rogue, isn’t he? Lucky, lucky Fee. Shall we go and have a girly chat? I’ll bring her right back, I promise.”

With that, she pulled Fiona off, tightly holding her arm, leaving Christophe staring after them.

“Maeve, slow down. What on earth are you dragging me across the floor for? For Saint George’s sake, this had better be good.”

Maeve glanced back at Christophe, now a good twenty feet behind them. “Your boy toy there isn’t human. Did you know that?”

Christophe carefully unclenched his hands, firmly suppressing his instinctive reaction to fight to protect his woman. They were in the middle of a very public place, surrounded by other humans. Fiona would be perfectly safe talking to her friend, at least for a few minutes, even though Maeve was not human.

Maeve was Unseelie Court Fae.

Powerful, too. Her magic had the feel of ice and darkness. It reminded him of someone he’d met before. Someone he hadn’t liked much. It was right there, on the edge of his brain, if he could only think of it. He felt someone approaching him from behind and whirled, hand under his jacket on his dagger.

“Your pint, sir.” The man was beaming. “And two more, besides, back in the kitchen. Plus one for me.”

Christophe took the pint. “You are an exceptionally fine human being,” he said with feeling.

The server, not realizing how literally Christophe had meant the expression, grinned. “Thanks. I still want you to take some change, though.”

Christophe drank a long draft of the fine ale and then shook his head. “Not a chance. You earned it.”

“Never thought I’d enjoy one of these events,” the man said. “I’ll be around. Let me know when you’re ready for another.”

“If I can get away with it, I’ll be out of here by the time I finish this one,” Christophe muttered.

“Lucky bloke.” With a deep sigh, the server was off to foist more of the champagne on other guests.

Christophe returned his gaze to where Fiona was talking to Maeve, and nearly choked on his ale. She was gone. They were both gone. If that damn Fae harmed a hair on her head, he was going to murder her, peace treaty or no. He slammed his half-empty mug down on a table and set off to find her, walking fast.

A man swung into his path, moving so quickly that Christophe nearly ran him down. Only Atlantean reflexes saved them both.

“My apologies,” the man said smoothly, extending a hand. “Gideon Fairsby.”

“Lord Fairsby?” Christophe said slowly, recognizing him from the press conference. He did not want to shake the man’s hand, but it would have drawn notice not to do so, especially since they were obviously the center of attention for quite a few groups of partygoers.

He focused on masking his own magic, but the faint, tell-tale giveaway of Fae magic stripped away his attempt.

“As I thought,” Fairsby said. “What are you?”

“A friend of the whales,” Christophe said, waving a hand at the crowd. “Aren’t we all?”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Fairsby replied in a measured tone. “I know you’re not human, but you’re not Fae, either. What are you? Not a shifter, to be sure.”

“Obtuse. Isn’t that a triangle? How can a person be a triangle?” Christophe smiled in mock sympathy. “Too many glasses of that champagne, I bet. Right, old chap?”

The Fae’s eyes flared a hot, molten gold and the monster inside him showed through Fairsby’s affable mask. “I saw you at the press conference,” he said, suddenly changing the subject. “Why? What is your interest in Vanquish?”

“In what? Aston Martin had a press conference? That Vanquish is a sweet car,” Christophe said, beginning to enjoy tying the Fae’s guts into knots.

“Not the car, the sword, as you well know. Let me give you a little warning, fool. Stay out of matters that are none of your concern, and leave Fae matters to Fae hands. Do you understand me?”

Christophe glanced around and, seeing that nobody was within hearing distance, leaned in toward Fairsby, smiling as if offering friendly advice. Which, in a way, he was. “If any Fae hands so much as touch Lady Fiona Campbell or anyone she cares about, I will come for you first. I will rip out your lungs and feed your kidneys to the hounds of the nine hells. Do you understand me?”

Fairsby’s eyes iced over, but he laughed. “I have been threatened by far better than you.”

“Yeah,” Christophe said. “I get that a lot. But usually only once.”

Maeve’s tinkling bell of a voice broke in before Fairsby could reply. “Boys, boys, boys, what are you talking about?” She put her hand on Fairsby’s arm. “Is my dear cousin giving you a boring lecture on British crime, Christophe?”

“Cousin?” He studied them both. He was fair to her dark, but yes, he could see a slight resemblance, and it was true their power felt similar. Of course, with the Fae, anyone born to the same Court could claim kin right. Cousin, aunt, uncle, whatever. The Fae couldn’t lie, but they could stretch the truth out of all recognition.

“Where is Fiona? If you’ve harmed her—”

He sensed her before he heard her, coming from the opposite direction than that from which Maeve had approached. The quality of the light actually changed for him—became brighter.

He frowned. If he was having thoughts about Fiona making the world a brighter place, he’d better go see Alaric and get his brain checked out. Maybe it was a tumor.

He crossed the ten paces between them in three strides and caught her arm. “Please do not go off on your own again until we get this situation resolved. I do not wish to worry for your safety.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling. “You were worried for me? That’s—”

“Unbearably sweet.” Fairsby’s dry voice interrupted. He’d followed Christophe. Maeve was right behind him.

“I see you met Lord Fairsby,” Fiona said.

“We chatted for a moment,” Fairsby said. “On a matter of little importance.”

“It seemed quite important from a distance,” Maeve said, staring avidly at Christophe. “Everyone was watching, too. I’ve warned you about that, you bad thing.” She playfully swatted at Fairsby’s arm, but he only tightened his lips instead of crushing her, so Christophe figured the two Unseelie had some sort of friendship going.

As much as the Fae could have friends. Mostly they only had rivals for power, cutthroat enemies, or former enemies they’d graciously decided to ignore. The occasional ally. Not really known for friendship.

Maeve pouted her red, red lips. “Don’t keep secrets. It’s so boring.”

“No secrets here. Everything is out in the open,” Christophe said. “Fiona and I are planning to dance. If either of you come near her, I will remove your immortal heads from your immortal bodies, which will be an extremely unpleasant way to spend eternity. Say hi to Rhys na Garanwyn for me, won’t you? If you ever happen to socialize with Seelie Court Fae. Tell him he still owes me from our last poker game.”

He inclined his head to them and, betting they wouldn’t kill him in the middle of the museum, put an arm around Fiona’s shoulders and turned his back on them, grinning at the hissing sound of rage coming from Fairsby.

“Shall we dance?”