Warriors of Poseidon 01 - Atlantis Rising

defiance up at him. "You look like a serial killer, buddy. But whoever you are, unless you really can help Conlan, you'll have to come through me to get to him."
     
    A collective gasp went up from the others, all six, no, all seven of them—she'd almost missed the one lying on the ground, blood dripping from his head as he raised it to look at her.
     
    "She seeks to protect him where we have failed," he gritted out, wiping blood out of his eyes with one hand. "And we, sworn to his service."
     
    Another one of them who looked an awful lot like Conlan nodded his head, face grim, then barked out a laugh. "She sure pegged you, Temple Rat."
     
    Laughing Guy dropped to a crouch on one knee before her, smile fading to somberness, and bowed his head. "Your courage is unknown to us in humans, lady.
    You offered yourself to protect my brother. But you must let our healer help him."
     
    She clutched at her head, trying to keep it from cracking open, shocked into silence as she recognized the source of the driving pain. It was him. The one kneeling in front of her.
     
    No, not exactly. She looked at them all, wonder drowning out fear. It was all of them.
    Their emotions. Their rage and pain.
     
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    Riley reached out one hand to the huge man who claimed to be Conlan's brother, gently touched his arm, and then flinched back. "Pain," she whispered. "Fear for your brother.
    Fury and vengeance… who is Terminus! ..."
     
    As the man's eyes widened, mirroring her own shock, she scanned the rest of the group. Colors, too many colors, pain, the percussion, the drums of their fury pounding in her brain.
     
    Pounding in her heart.
     
    Pounding in her soul.
     
    Too much. Too much. Toomuchtoomuchtoomuch—
     
    She smiled her best, most professional "Hello, I'm your new social worker" smile and primly clasped her hands together. "I've had enough now, thank you," she whispered.
     
    Then she closed her eyes and, for the second time that night—the second time in her entire life—she slipped into unconsciousness.
     
    But she heard him—Conlan's brother—as she fell down the dark well of silence into the black. She heard the shock in his voice.
     
    "She read me, Alaric. My emotions. And she may have been thought-mining me. She was reading us all."
     
    Barrabas lifted his head, hissing. Drakos raised his gaze from the maps on the table of Barrabas's private chamber. "My lord? What is it?"
     
    "It's Terminus," Barrabas snarled, smashing the lamp off the table and to the floor. "He is dead."
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    "But—"
     
    "Permanently dead. His connection to me snapped. I felt his violence and rage, as a master vampire will feel all of his bloodline." It was an unsubtle reminder. Drakos was not of Barrabas's bloodline, and so Barrabas always faced a twinge of doubt about him.
     
    "Something—something new, Drakos. We're facing something new, and whatever it is—whoever it is—has the power to manipulate the elements."
     
    Drakos turned his head to regard the steel vault door built into the wall. "Is it Anubisa?
    Are you still convinced that she seeks a return to Ragnarok?"
     
    "The Doom of the Gods. Maybe. She is daughter-wife to Chaos. What else would she seek? She feeds not on blood, but on terror and despair."
     
    As I would if only I could, and more and more as the years pass.
     
    Drakos interrupted his master's thoughts. "Is it time to consult the scrolls?"
     
    Staring at his most brilliant general, Barrabas pondered for a moment. Is he loyal? Can I trust him? Or, does it matter? If he helps me discover the answers I need, he can meet with an accident easily enough.
     
    Barrabas crossed to the vault. "I think, perhaps, that it is."

Chapter 11
    Conlan's nerve endings burned, pain searing through his body. He came awake with a roar, clutching the throat of the figure in front of him. "Death to the apostates of Algolagnia!"
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    And looked into Alaric's pitying eyes.
     
    He released his viselike grip on the priest's throat, looking away. Pity was the one thing he'd never stand for—not now, not ever.
     
    He needed—he needed—
     
    "Riley?" he asked, voice hoarse. The healing process always burned the body, left the throat sore as if parched. Glancing down at his torn and bloodied shirt and the smooth, unbroken skin where he'd last seen a sword