Heart Of Atlantis

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.

Chapter 18
    Quinn stared at herself in the mirror. Ptolemy had handed her a red dress and heels and the choice to either wear them or watch him tear the head off one of the office workers. Like so much in her life lately, it wasn’t really much of a choice.
    Now the image looking back at her in the mirror was a caricature of herself. Pale, with styled hair and skillfully applied makeup that seemed to float above the surface of her face. The TV people had done it. She didn’t even know how to put on eyeliner, let alone all the other goop. One overly zealous woman had tried to spray her with perfume, but Quinn’s expression had stopped
that
in its tracks, at least.
    She looked like a little porcelain doll, they’d told her. As if that were a
good
thing. Didn’t they understand that porcelain was fragile and easily shattered?
    The door opened on silent hinges, and Ptolemy walked into the ladies’ room. Quinn didn’t bother to act surprised. She could already tell the man was a control freak.
    “You’re as beautiful as I knew you would be, underneath that scruff and grime,” he said, and she suddenly,
desperately
, wanted her guns.
    “You’re a bullying piece of shit who needs to be put down like a rabid dog,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Who are you, and what is this about?”
    “I’m not going to fill you in on all my plans just yet. I’m not some comic book villain with a need to impress,” he said, walking closer.
    The stench of evil nearly suffocated her as he drew near, and she started choking on the intangible emotion that nobody else would be able to perceive. “What
are
you? The only thing I can think of is demon, but it’s not exactly that, either. Unseelie Court Fae?”
    He sneered. “As if I’d associate with them. No, my darling queen-to-be, you have never encountered anyone like me. Or, rather, you’ve encountered many like my dear, dead mother, but my father? No. He was in a class by himself.”
    He bowed and motioned to the door. “Shall we do this? We have a press conference to give.”
    She headed for the door, bracing her shoulders against attack from behind, but he only sniffed her hair as she passed. She didn’t manage to contain her shiver of revulsion, and he started laughing. His laughter was rich and deep as it surrounded her—invaded her—tasting like burning acid in the back of her throat. She fought her gag reflex. She
would not
let them see her be weak.
    At the end of the hall, a man wearing headphones ushered them into another large room, and this one was set up for the press conference. Huge cameras, large, square light boxes on poles, and more wires and electrical apparatuses than she’d ever seen in one place fought for space. Two men she pegged immediately as vampires stood at the back of the room, near the podium, and another she thought was human hovered ten feet or so away from them. A flurry of people with press passes hanging around their necks swarmed everywhere, and Quinn’s fingers itched for her knives.
    She took a small step toward the door, but Ptolemy grabbed her arm. He shook his head slowly, mocking her, and she wrenched her arm away from him and tried not to vomit. Whatever dark magic he had, the sensation of it had intensified a hundredfold when he touched her, even through the sleeve of her dress. If he ever touched her