Warriors of Poseidon 01 - Atlantis Rising

nine-hundred-year-old vampire, but inconvenient nonetheless.
     
    Barrabas stood up in a movement of pure blurred speed that might have terrified the chained Iowan, if one of the women hadn't just sliced through his jugular.
     
    "Good politicians are so hard to find these days," Barrabas observed. "They all lack a certain endurance."
     
    Stepping around the spray of blood and inhaling the thick, coppery smell with pleasure, Barrabas waved a hand to his general. "I have a more important task for you, my second. I need another telepath. I was, perhaps, over solicitous in my affections with my last one."
     
    He thought back to the lump of inanimate flesh he'd left on the floor of his bedchamber, with more than a little regret.
     
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    Drakos spoke emotionlessly. "Telepaths are few and far between, my lord, and growing ever more difficult to locate. I had hoped this one would—"
     
    Barrabas cut him off. "You question me, Drakos?"
     
    Though he had been unusually hard on telepaths this past year. His lusts for blood and flesh were rising, not abating, as he grew older and stronger, and something about hearing his victim's tormented thoughts through the telepathic link was unbearably succulent.
     
    If only empaths still existed. To actually feel the sheep's pain as he inflicted it… he shuddered in simple ecstasy at the thought.
     
    No other had survived as long as he—there was none Barrabas could ask to learn if he would face even more ravenous hungers as more time passed. Perhaps he was destined to become more of an animal than the shapeshifters he planned to destroy.
     
    Shaking off his black thoughts, he led Drakos out of the chamber, glancing back at his women, who were frantically lapping at the congressional fountain of blood. "And get my secretary. I have a new proposal to make in regard to that last bill that got filibustered. I think the rest of the Congress may find it more… palatable… now."
     
    He stopped at the door and jerked his head toward the remains of his most determined opponents on the Hill. "Then get someone to take out the trash."

Chapter 8
    Conlan inhaled a deep breath, sure that Riley's scent lingered in the air surrounding him. He could taste her in his mouth—her warmth and sweetness. Still feel the imprint of her silken skin on his hands, on his hardened and aching body. He could still sense the emotions she was broadcasting so loudly.
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    Everything in him demanded that he go after her. Need bordering on obsession swamped him, but centuries of training rose to override his instincts. He must face and analyze the threat. He'd never experienced anything like that wave of weakness. It had passed in minutes, but who knew if it could come back?
     
    Also, what the hells had caused it? Was it from sharing her emotions?
     
    By Poseidon's balls, it was like nothing he'd ever heard about in all of the histories of his people. Nothing he'd ever been warned against.
     
    He needed to identify the cause of the weakness, so that he could prevent it. Defeat it.
    As Alaric loved to proclaim, knowledge is power.
     
    He reached out for his brother on their shared mind path.
     
    Ven?
     
    The voice came immediately in his head, ringing with fury and—better hidden but still evident—concern. Nearly there, my brother.
     
    The duty ingrained in him after so many years battled to regain control of his mind. His duty was to recover the Trident. Finally ascend to the throne that he'd avoided thinking about for the past two centuries. Lead his people.
     
    A future king didn't abandon his duty to follow a woman.
     
    He laughed, humorless. Yeah, duty. Because just what Atlantis needs sitting on the throne after my father's half millennium of perfect rule is a fucked-up head case who couldn't even escape from a vamp.
     
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    His jaw tightened, and he paced circles in the sand. Not that Riley—or any woman—deserved to be burdened with him, either.
     
    His thoughts flashed to Anubisa. What if pain had ruined him? What if sex for him would now always be tainted, twisted?
     
    Wrong?
     
    What did he have to offer any woman? He must be rational.
     
    Right. Except rationality was fucking impossible. His body tightened further, painfully, just at the thought of Riley's hair slipping through his hands like the finest