Heart Of Atlantis

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.
    Kill them all.
    He stared up at the luxe hotel, wishing he could see through the walls. But he had the next best ability—he could sense Atlantean magic. And, like it or not, at least that much of the pretender’s claim must be true, unless there were another Atlantean inside the building wielding control over the elements. He could feel the pounding pulse of incredibly strong power coming from one of the upper floors of the building.
    “He’s experimenting with Poseidon’s Pride,” he told Ven from between clenched teeth, as every fiber of his being protested the very thought of it.
    “I can feel it. Or at least feel something. The hair on my arms is trying to climb off my skin. Quinn nailed it, though. It feels wrong,” Ven said.
    “His magic isn’t pure. It certainly isn’t ancient,” Alaric said, closing his eyes to concentrate more intently. “It’s tainted with something that feels oily and perverted.”
    “Perverted magic? What does that even mean?”
    Alaric opened his eyes and scanned the busy street they’d approached. “Most magic comes from a wholesome place. Water, earth, air, and even fire, which, though forbidden to Atlanteans, is pure and untainted. This . . . this is something different. Twisted. Demonic, perhaps.”
    Ven whistled. “I have no desire to run into another demon. One per half a millennium is plenty for me.”
    “Demon or no, he dies tonight.”
    “So you keep saying, but don’t you think we should get him to answer a few questions first?”
    A group of pedestrians approached, weaving drunkenly and singing. Alaric flashed them a single look, and they abruptly turned and started walking very quickly in the opposite direction.
    “Humans annoy me,” he growled.
    “Not all humans,” Ven said, making Alaric want to blast the prince with an energy sphere right there on the street.
    “Almost all humans,” he amended, instead. “Yes, you may be right. If he is drawing on demonic magic, I’d like to know how an Atlantean or Atlantean descendant with that kind of power escaped our attention all this time. You know I’ve scanned for any of our line with magic every time we come to the surface.”
    “Less talk, more action?” Ven suggested.
    Alaric scowled, and a woman who’d been tentatively approaching them, holding out a camera, screamed and ran across the street, barely escaping being hit by a car.
    “That, my friend, is one terrifying face,” Ven said.
    “Less talk, more action,” Alaric replied.
    Together, the two Atlanteans crossed the street to the Plaza Hotel, where one pretender to the Atlantean throne was going to die a long, slow, horrible death.

    Japan
    Quinn sat at the deserted table, her untouched plate in front of her, and stared into space, arms clutched around her waist, trying to contain the empty hole that used to be her insides. She’d known the day might come; she’d crossed too many powerful people for it to be otherwise. But she hadn’t expected it to come so soon, and in spite of what she’d said about being tired, there was no part of her that was ready to give up the fight.
    “Now I might have no choice,” she told Jack, who kept right on snoring at her side.
    Damn tigers were worse than house cats. All he did in this form was sleep. Although he was probably going to need to eat again soon, and she hoped that didn’t present a problem. Tigers ate a