Warriors of Poseidon 02 - Atlantis Awakening

called. Ven knew that Alaric, Poseidon's high priest, had certain concerns about Christophe's untrained channeling of power.
     
    Yeah. And Alaric isn't the only one with… concerns.
     
    He watched the younger warrior until Christophe's boots rested solidly on the pavement.
    "I thought you were still in Atlantis? Is there news? Is it Riley—"
     
    Christophe held up a hand. "No, no. As far as I know, Riley's fine. Or at least no worse off than she was before. It's about you, actually. Conlan wants you to go to a meeting with a rep from the main coven in this region. The Seattle Lights or something."
     
    "The Seattle Circle of Light," Brennan said, a hint of censure in his voice. "Perhaps, Christophe, if you are honored with carrying messages from the high prince of Atlantis to his brother the Lord Vengeance, you might trouble to remember the correct phrasing."
     
    Christophe's face darkened. The warrior had never been one to take criticism of any kind well. Ven studied him and made a mental note. Christophe might be in need of some serious ass kicking.
     
    But that was a thought for a later time.
     
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    "What meeting? Where and when?" Ven asked, resigned. Conlan had been on an alliance-forming kick lately, especially since his new soon-to-be-wife's sister just happened to be one of the leaders of the human forces rebelling against vampire and shape-shifter control. "I need to get cleaned up, maybe pop a couple of stitches in my neck, and get a serious drunk on to wipe the taste of vamp breath out of my mouth." He shuddered. "Nasty."
     
    "It's going to have to wait," Christophe said, with a shade less attitude. "The meeting is supposed to happen now."
     
    Ven let loose with a string of words that called into question the parentage of every witch, wizard, and sorcerer in the Pacific Northwest, then hung his head, resigned.
    "Fine, bring it on. But, first, anybody got any iodine?"

Chapter 2
    Seattle, The Pink Pig Pub
     
    Ven wanted to smash something. Bad. Preferably the face of the jerk he was supposed to meet forty-five minutes ago. Bad enough he had to postpone his planned evening festivities to meet a wizard, but his neck was aching and he had the feeling that the bandage Brennan had slapped on it wasn't really doing the job.
     
    His lip curled as he scanned the place, trying to avoid compulsively checking the time again. Dirt and bottle caps warred for space in every corner. Stale beer and the miasma of ancient cigarette smoke hung in the air in a foul cloud. Even all these years after the "no smoking in public places" laws went into effect, joints like this still reeked of the cancer sticks.
     
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    He scanned the losers slouching on the cracked red vinyl barstools of the dive where the coven rep had insisted they meet. Professional drinkers, all. Professional losers.
    Although who else hung out in a place like this at midnight on a Tuesday?
     
    Well, losers, except for one highly pissed-off Atlantean warrior. He thought back to Alexios calling him "your Highness" and scowled. He didn't like the title, even in jest.
    Prince Ven, yeah, right. However much he didn't like the idea, he was stuck being second in line to the throne, at least until Conlan and Riley started popping out babies.
    Which had better be soon, because no way did Ven ever want that little obligation. King of the Seven Isles of Atlantis.
     
    He shuddered, downed his beer at the thought. Nope. He was much better as head of the warrior training academy. The King's Vengeance, whose sworn duty it was to protect his brother the king. Taking names and kicking the ass of any vamp or shape-shifter who decided to snack on humans.
     
    He glanced up at the cracked face of the Budweiser clock on the wall. Maybe he'd just kick some magical ass. Specifically, the asshole he was supposed to be meeting to discuss a Magicals-Atlantean alliance. The asshole who was now fifty-two minutes late.
     
    The squeak of the hinges on the door alerted him, and he looked up into the mirror behind the bar, his gaze trained on the person walking in.
     
    His eyes widened, and then narrowed in appreciation. If he had to waste time waiting for the jerk Quinn had sent, at least now he had something worth looking at. He whirled around on his stool so he was facing her. All curves and attitude in a small package, the blonde came striding into the