Warriors of Poseidon 03 - Atlantis Unleashed

his eyes from the cuts on his forehead. Must reach her. She was real. She was reality.
    She was his reality, and if he could only claim her, he would be healed.

Chapter 12
    Keely‟s heart thundered in rhythm with the pounding feet of the madman racing toward her through the twisted landscape that looked like it had come from a cheap graphic novel. He was gaining ground, and he was coming for her. It was in his eyes, swirling in the madness of colors that couldn‟t exist. Blue, green, and silver kaleidoscoped in his eyes until she felt dizzy—almost hypnotized—and had to tear her gaze away.
    Still, in spite of the madness that twisted his features, there was something. Something so familiar . . .
    Ice shivered down her spine. This had definitely not been in the program that she‟d carefully constructed in her mind in the five or six whole minutes she‟d had before she‟d actually stepped foot in Atlantis. She‟d envisioned ruined temples, maybe a few really, really old people wandering around as caretakers. A sort of archaeological dig in progress, in other words.
    Instead, she‟d walked into the middle of an ancient battleground come to life. Complete with magic, madness, and mayhem, not to go all alliterative or anything.
    One of the warriors—Vengeance—turned and yelled something at her, and Keely rocked back a step on her heels, only to realize that he wasn‟t yelling at her at all. A short curvy blonde, dressed in jeans and a simple top, was running up behind her.
    Vengeance leapt toward the woman, a truly terrifying scowl on his face. “Not a good time, Erin,” he snarled. “I want you safely back at the palace. Now. You can take these two with you.”
    Instead of being the slightest bit intimidated, however, the woman laughed. “Alaric sent word that he might need me,” she said. “And when has that he-man routine of yours ever worked with me, anyway?”
    Vengeance turned the weight of his wrath toward the men surrounding the distorted portal.
    “Alaric, what in the nine hells are you doing involving Erin in this?”
    The man who turned toward them and responded was one of the most frightening men Keely had ever seen in her life. He was definitely all man—like the others, he had that same alpha-male sexual magnetism. The force of his allure pretty much rocketed off the charts, in fact.
    But this one was different.
    Where Conlan had given the impression of royal command, and Ven was all rough-and-ready warrior, something in this one‟s eerie green glowing eyes and the harsh lines of his face spoke of dark deeds whispered in shadowed alleys. This one would draw blood before you even knew you‟d been cut, and he‟d enjoy doing it.
    Keely shivered, suddenly more terrified than she‟d ever been in her life.
    “Do not challenge my judgment on this, Lord Vengeance,” the man, presumably Alaric, said.
    “If we are to have any chance to save Justice from the Void, it lies with Erin and her mastery of the Wilding.”
    Ven stopped, mid-snarl, and tilted his head. “You really think that can work? Every time she tries to channel the Wilding in Atlantis, the results are, to say the least, unexpected. I‟d hate for her to manage to pull nothing but his blue-haired corpse through.”
    The humor drained from Erin‟s face as though an unseen hand had scrubbed it away. “Don‟t mock me, Ven. If I can do anything—anything at all—to bring your brother home, after what he did for me . . . for us . . . I will do it.”
    As Ven and Erin continued to argue, Keely found herself inexplicably drawn back toward the portal. Toward the sight of the madman still pounding toward her. He was screaming something, screaming and screaming, but she couldn‟t hear what it was. The mirror was silent. But somehow, suddenly, she realized what it was.
    She knew who he was.
    What had Ven said? “ His blue-haired corpse. ” Blue. Hair.
    It was him. It was the warrior from her visions. She closed her eyes as her hand involuntarily rose to grasp the wooden carving she wore like a talisman. It couldn‟t be. The fish was probably more than two centuries old. It was impossible.
    And yet . . . and yet. Here she stood, in Atlantis.
    She opened her eyes and immediately locked gazes with him again, inexplicably drawn to him with the sure pull of the moon tide. This time, she was sure.
    It was him. Her warrior. And he was screaming her name.
    Terror thrilled through her so intensely that she felt weakened by it, and a