Heart of Atlantis

Chapter 17

Outside City Hall, New York

Quinn stood on the sidewalk in City Hall Park, staring up at the grand limestone façade of the beautiful building, and considered her options. She’d been thinking subtle: steal her way into the building and find Ptolemy; confront him privately. See what he had in mind for Atlantis. For Poseidon’s Pride.

For her.

No dice, though. The public hadn’t been allowed into City Hall since a horde of drunken wolf-shifters had eaten all the tour guides one day a few years back, or so her laminated map said.

She was running out of choices, and Atlantis was running out of time.

Well, as Jack always said, the best defense was a good offense. She squared her shoulders and swallowed the lump of pain and regret that formed in her throat at the thought of him. Later. She could think about Jack later. For now, she’d walk right up to the front door and show them her best credential.

Her face.

The guard just inside the door didn’t look up. She was seated at an old wooden table that may have dated from as far back as the building itself and was oddly incongruous next to the modern doorway-shaped metal detector. “Next.”

Quinn was doing enough looking up for both of them, though. The soaring rotunda and magnificent staircase that winged to each side transported her to a world of nineteenth-century New York aristocracy, glittering with sparkling jewels and even more sparkling conversation. Oddly enough, it reminded her a little of the Atlantean palace, if not on nearly as grand a scale.

“Next,” the guard said again, louder. The woman was built like a warrior: sturdy muscle packed into a small, stout body. Her tightly curled gray hair was cut close to her head, and her face, like Quinn’s, was devoid of makeup. Quinn might have smiled, recognizing a kindred spirit, under other circumstances.

“I’m Quinn Dawson.”

“Key card.”

“I’m Quinn Dawson,” she repeated slowly. “Ptolemy is looking for me.”

“I don’t care if you’re Elvis, you’re not getting in here without a . . . Oh. My. God,” the woman said, finally looking up at Quinn. “You’re her? The rebel leader?”

Quinn drew a deep breath and admitted it. Out loud. “Yes.”

The sturdy woman practically hurled herself out of her chair and around the metal detector to grab Quinn in a crushing embrace. “My Johnny wouldn’t be alive without you people. You got him out of a gang before he could make the ultimate bad decision and go vampire. I can’t thank you enough, young lady.”

Quinn was finding it hard to breathe by the time the woman finally released her—a combination of overpowering emotion, boiling up from the woman’s genuine gratitude, and the sheer force of her hug—but she did take ruthless advantage of the moment to edge around, instead of through, the metal detector.

“I’m so happy to hear that, Ms. Rutkowsky,” she said, reading the guard’s name tag. “I really do need to see Ptolemy as quickly as possible, if you could . . .”

“I’ll take you right up there myself. Personally,” the flustered woman promised. “Frank! Get over here and watch the door.”

So within minutes of entering the building, Quinn found herself in a stately, elegant conference room, staring down the length of an enormous, shiny table at the man she’d seen so recently on television, destroying her life. She ignored the seat he gestured for her to take.

“I’m Quinn Dawson. I hear you want to meet me.”

Ptolemy was even more imposing in person. He exuded a dark, menacing charisma, like most of the best con men, vampires, and criminals. He was a thug dressed up like a politician, but he remained just unpolished enough for anyone meeting him to know that here was a man who would do his own dirty work, and—what’s worse—he’d enjoy it. She scanned for his emotions, but what she found was so alien she had no way to read it. It was twisted and oily and viciously gleeful, like nothing she’d ever encountered before, and suddenly she had to work hard not to show that she’d noticed.

Right now he was smiling at her like she was Santa and the Easter Bunny all wrapped up in one pint-sized package, and the reek of his perverted glee, which wafted across the room, made her nauseous. He headed down the room toward her, arms outstretched, and she backed away, circling to the other side of the table.

“Surely the renowned and feared leader of all North American rebels isn’t afraid of me,” he said, smiling a snake-oil smile.

“I’m afraid of everything until I kill it,” she said flatly. “That’s what keeps me alive. So what is it you want with me?”

She studied him as he stilled, watching her with the hooded expression of a cobra preparing to strike. The smile never left his face, though.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, ignoring her question.

“You have something that belongs to a friend of mine.”

He glanced at a small wooden box sitting on one end of the table. “Oh, did the big, bad Atlanteans send a weak, little human to do their dirty work?”

“I thought I was feared and renowned. Make up your mind.” She scanned the room for possible exits, threats, or allies. The windows were thick glass that was way too strong for her to break; the second door led to other offices, not the hallway; and not a single soul had dared to step into the room since she got there.

“It’s almost eight, Ptolemy. Don’t you have a press conference to get to? I won’t delay you. Just give me the gem, and I’ll be on my way.” Bluffing wouldn’t work with him, but it was second nature for her to at least try, and it worked as a good stalling technique while she figured out her plan of attack.

“I do, now that you mention it,” he said, his dark eyes measuring her. Finding her wanting. “You need new clothes. I can hardly present my future consort to the world dressed in rags.”

Quinn’s knees tried to buckle, and ice snaked down her spine. She grabbed the back of the chair in front of her to steady herself and then she pulled out one of her guns and pointed it at him. “What exactly did you say?”

“I said you need new clothes,” he said calmly, completely ignoring the gun. “Did I offend you? I haven’t even mentioned the hair or makeup yet.”

“Consort. You said consort,” she said, clenching her jaw shut to keep her from chattering. Not again. Not another one. She couldn’t be trapped that way again.

He laughed, and tendrils of terror swept through the air around her, enticing her to give in. To surrender to the roiling fear and madness he gave off like dark emanations from his twisted soul. She’d never been so afraid in her life.

Which, of course, only pissed her off.

“In your dreams, buster. Now, give me the gem before I turn you into a girl.” She very deliberately pointed the gun at his crotch.

He laughed. Not the usual reaction a man had when confronted with the loss of the family jewels.

“I think your gun won’t work,” he said, and she flinched and cried out as the metal flashed to searing hot. She dropped it, fast, and watched in horror as her Glock melted into a puddle of shiny liquid metal, ate a hole through the table, and pooled on the floor.

“If you have any knives or more guns on you, I’ll give you a moment before I melt them, too,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to suffer any burns in inconvenient places.”

The knives and her backup gun were seared to molten heat so quickly that she rushed to remove them and tossed them on the table before her clothes caught on fire.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she challenged him.

“Oh, no, I have much more,” he said, taunting her. “You’ll discover just how much when I impregnate you with the new heir to Atlantis.”

Reality tilted on its axis for a moment as her brain tried to process what he’d said, and her skin tried to crawl off her bones and run away from the overwhelming revulsion and terror of his words.

No. Not again.

She almost hadn’t survived the last time.

Alaric followed Faust out of the building into the dirty gray street, and the immediate problem became apparent. The children.

Alaric pointed to two women on the other side of the street who were dressed in the law enforcement uniform of the city. “They will care for the children.”

Faust shook his head. “No. No way. They’ll put them in foster homes. I take care of them, man.”

Alaric raised one eyebrow, but didn’t state the obvious again. They were out of time for debate. “Then point me toward City Hall and remove yourselves from this place.”

Faust gave him quick directions, and then he and the children disappeared around a corner so fast it was as if they’d never been there at all. Alaric watched them go and then headed off toward City Hall, transforming into mist to travel so he could avoid any more nasty surprises. He spared a moment to wonder why the portal would send him to Faust, but then dismissed it as unimportant to the mission at hand as he sped past broken and boarded-up windows of abandoned and decrepit buildings.

Quinn, Quinn, Quinn, Quinn. Her name beat though his mind like a command.

She could be anywhere in the world—probably was so far from him he’d never find her—but his senses automatically scanned for her in a wide pattern to try to catch any hint of her presence. Just as he did, a wave of Quinn’s emotion—pure, unadulterated terror—slammed into him so hard it sent him crashing down through the air, out of his mist form, and smashed him into a parked car.

She was here in New York. Here. He struggled to climb out of the dent his body had made in the hood of the car, and another blast of her emotion knocked him down again. Wherever she was, she was so scared she could hardly think. A renewed flare of white-hot power surged through him, and he shot into the air again, ignoring the crowd of humans that had formed around the car. Whoever had scared Quinn was about to learn exactly what the high priest of Atlantis was capable of—and it was going to be a very, very painful lesson.

He followed Quinn’s fear and rage across the city to find, to his utter lack of surprise, that it was coming from City Hall. The coincidences were just piling up, and none of them were good. He didn’t bother to knock, just headed straight for the window closest to where he could sense Quinn and arrowed straight for it, planning to smash it open on the way.

Instead, he crashed into an invisible shield of magic and bounced back through the air. The force of his collision with the shield pushed him out of his mist shape again and smashed him down to the ground. He lay there for a minute or so, shaking his head at the offers of hands up or any other help, simply trying to force air back into his abused body and snarling at the humans until they all gave up and left him alone. Ptolemy’s press conference was bigger news than a man falling from midair, evidently. As he climbed to his feet, a sharp ache alerted him to the presence of at least one cracked or broken rib.

“This day just keeps getting better and better,” he growled, and a woman standing nearby pulled her child closer to her.

He almost laughed. Even the humans he’d spent hundreds of years protecting thought he was a monster. So be it. He’d be monster enough for any of them.

He spared a moment and the smallest touch of energy to heal his ribs so he’d be ready to fight, and headed for the stairs to the ornate building, but a truck with antennas bristling all over it drove up and parked, blocking his way.

“Move, man, don’t get in the way of the TV crew,” somebody said, and shoved him.

If he’d had the energy to spare, Alaric would have blasted the fool with an energy sphere just on the principle of the thing. Luckily for the human, Quinn’s welfare was far more important than minor annoyances, so today he got to live. Alaric took another few steps before he realized he had yet another big problem. The magical wards shielding the building were far too powerful for him to take down without draining himself of the reserves he needed to continue to shield Atlantis. He’d either have to trust Quinn to take care of herself for a little while, or sacrifice all of his people to save her.

Today was turning out to be his day for bad fucking options.