Warriors of Poseidon 01 - Atlantis Rising

starving. Hopefully, one of these bottomless pits saved us a muffin or two."
     
    She gaped up at him, mouth opening to speak. But he shook his head and, surprisingly, she went along with him and remained silent.
     
    As they started to walk across the room toward the low coffee table covered with food, he heard Alaric's voice behind him. "No, I don't want out of the job, you idi—my prince, I'm trying to do my job, which includes reclaiming the Trident, so you can ascend to the throne."
     
    Conlan had never heard such anguish in the priest's voice. With a hand under her elbow, he urged Riley toward Ven. Then he turned to face Alaric. "The fault is not yours.
    If anything, it's my fault because I wasn't there to protect the Temple."
     
    Bastien slammed his coffee mug down on a table. "The fault is mine. I had many friends among the House of Mycenae. The gods know I should have suspected their plan."
     
    Justice laughed. "Yeah, it's everybody's fault. It's nobody's fault. Does it really fucking matter? While we sit around here eating toast and assigning blame, Reisen gets farther and farther away."
     
    Conlan held up a hand. "Enough. Justice is right. Alaric, have you been able to scry for the Trident?"
     
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    "No. I get flashes, and then it's gone. Almost as if they've discovered some magic shielding for it. Or the Trident hides itself from a failed priest."
     
    Ven spoke up, voice heavy. "Then we're doomed. We can search the old-fashioned way, but he could be a thousand miles or more away by now, in any direction."
     
    "He's got a band of warriors with him," Christophe ventured. "Unless they've split up. It would be tough to hide ten or more warriors traveling together."
     
    Conlan took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "Then we will also divide to follow them. Alaric, is there any way you can magnify the scrying?"
     
    Before Alaric could respond, Riley interrupted. "By any chance, are you talking about a bunch of guys who give off the same emotional vibe as you all do, except with a lot of 'rah, rah, quest, quest' crap thrown in?"
     
    Nine heads whipped around to face her. She blinked, then continued, gaze turned inward. "If yes, they can't be more than twenty miles from here. I've had to work hard to shield from their emotions for the past half hour or so. I thought it was some kind of feedback loop from all of you, but I'm figuring out how to sort and separate, and they're definitely different."
     
    She closed her eyes, and Conlan could feel her concentration.
     
    Then she jumped up from the couch, nearly dropping her muffin on Ven's head. "And we need to get going. Because they're heading out to attack some shapeshifters.
    Now."
     
    Ven jerked his head toward the door, and the Warriors strode out of the room behind him, leaving Conlan and Riley arguing over somebody named Ramirez. It was almost funny, the way Conlan was suddenly worried about the feelings of a human female. If Atlantis Rising – Warriors of Poseidon 01
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    that's what soul-melding did to a man, thank Poseidon that it had never happened to him. He liked his women brainless and forgettable, and he had the feeling Lady Sunshine was neither of those things.
     
    Not his problem. At least, not yet. If she caused a problem, well, he'd take care of it.
    That was his job, right?
     
    He reached the entryway closet and threw open the door. Reaching in between a few of the jackets and coats, he grasped the hanging rod with one hand, and twisted it three-quarters of the way forward, and then a half-turn back.
     
    There was a click and a whirring sound, and the rod—coats and all—retracted into the opening made by a panel that slid open on the right side of the closet. A second panel, in the back of the closet, opened noiselessly to a small room filled with a lot of shiny toys.
     
    "That's a sweet arsenal, Ven," said Christophe, crowding close behind him. "What have you got in there?"
     
    Ven flicked on a light switch, and spotlights shone on the contents of the room. "Let me give you a tour, my man," he said, moving past a rack of submachine guns to lift down a shotgun exclusively designed for him.
     
    "This baby is a Franchi SPAS-12. A combat shotgun designed with loving care by the Italians, who are brilliant with cars, guns, and any kind of exquisite machinery. And it's specially modified to hold these."
     
    He held up a bullet-shaped glass vial, filled