Warriors of Poseidon 01 - Atlantis Rising

around and shoved past the EMT, careful to walk around the personnel crouched on the floor taking pictures.
     
    "Hey, Dawson. Where do you think you're going?" The detective she'd spoken with earlier—Ramsey? Ramirez?—pulled on a fresh set of gloves, the lines in his face deepening as his gaze traveled to her face. "You look like shit. You should go with them to the ER."
     
    Riley didn't stop; only slowed down a little. "I'm going to be sick. I've got to go get cleaned up and get some rest." She glanced back over her shoulder at him. "I'll call you as soon as I do."
     
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    He opened his mouth, probably to protest, but she was beyond caring. What were they going to do, arrest her? They knew who she was and, if only by rep, that her word was good.
     
    He nodded, resigned. Sympathy and something she didn't want to define warmed his expression. Pity? He should save his pity for Dina and her baby. They'd need it. She was just doing her job.
     
    This time she did laugh, even though it came out sounding… wrong. Yeah, doing her job. She was screwing up her job on a royal level.
     
    Another day, another dead body. That made eight murder scenes this year.
     
    He nodded. "All right. You've told us enough for now, anyway. Call me in the morning.
    You've got my card."
     
    She fingered the card she'd shoved in her pocket and headed for the door. The morning. She'd call him in the morning. Now she had to get to the water. To the beach.
    Her sanctuary. She felt the power and peace of the ocean calling her.
     
    She needed to feel the caress of the waves, and she'd be fine.
     
    Conlan stood alone in the dark, eyes closed, senses unfurled to seek out the presence of anyone nearby.
     
    Friend or enemy.
     
    Hell, he almost preferred an enemy. He was solidly in the mood to kick somebody's ass.
    He bared his teeth in what passed for a smile. Then his eyes snapped open.
     
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    Because the door holding the emotion out of his mind had smashed open again. He staggered, fought to remain standing under the barrage of anguish. All he could do was try to ride it out and pray his brother or Alaric arrived soon. He closed his eyes again.
    Fought for focus. Turned to the portion of his training not conducted with swords and daggers.
     
    Compartmentalize. A Warrior of Poseidon cannot countenance emotion. The price of arrogance is your life, Conlan.
     
    He could almost hear Archelaus whispering in his head. Use all of your senses. Never rely on your mind, alone. To underestimate your enemy's potential to create illusion means death.
     
    He focused, strained. Achieved detachment. His mind analyzed the problem of his own duality; emotionless calculation studied raging grief.
     
    The evidence supports no internal cause. Seek the external.
     
    So, then. It was outside of him. Somebody—or some thing—broadcasted grief powerfully enough to shove through his mental defenses.
     
    The enemy he'd been wishing for, maybe. It was sure as hell no friend. No Atlantean could send emotions to another. "Well, they say be careful what you wish for, right?" he muttered to himself, muscles straining with the effort of managing the flood of anguish.
     
    He spared a thought for the source. Somebody, somewhere, was suffering all nine hells'
    worth of hurt.
     
    Riley trudged away from her old Honda, parked carelessly across a couple of spaces in the deserted parking lot, heading toward the beach. Not many beachgoers at this hour on a chilly October night.
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    The smell of sea air and salt water reached her, and she took a deep breath, a tendril of calm threading its fragile way through her. Her stomach growled a reminder that it had been more than fourteen hours since she'd eaten. Almost without thinking, she reached into the pocket of her jacket for one of the protein bars she usually carried around.
     
    Regular meals were unpredictable in her line of work.
     
    She started to peel a corner of the wrapper off the bar, and it hit her: Morris would never eat anything again.
     
    The thought smashed into her, doubling her over. What was the magic number? How many times would she have to watch somebody die before she could be blasé about it?
     
    And what the hell kind of person was she that she even wanted to?
     
    Forcing herself to straighten up, she glanced at her