Warriors of Poseidon 03 - Atlantis Unleashed

yourself in such a manner?”
    Fury rode the hardened planes and angles of his face, and for an instant he looked like an avenging god himself. She refused to be intimidated, however.
    Much.
    “We don‟t have a better option; you said so yourself. You don‟t know how you got us here, and you don‟t know how to get us out. We have to try something, Justice. I‟m a scientist, and I explore different avenues, different hypotheses, until I find one that fits.”
    Feeling a little like she was following a lion into his lair, she leaned forward and touched his arm. “It might not be so bad. As long as I meditate and prepare, my visions are usually not as intense as these most recent ones were.”
    “It. Might. Not. Be. So. Bad,” he bit off from between clenched teeth. “Really.”
    With a blur of preternatural speed, he grabbed her shoulders and yanked her across the figurine-and-gem-covered cloth and into his arms. “I forbid it,” he said, ice still coating every syllable. “I will go to battle against the other half of my own soul before I will let you take this chance with your health or your life.”
    He rested his head on top of hers and embraced her so tightly that she almost couldn‟t breathe.
    She was about to protest when she realized he was trembling against her. The internal battle he was waging must be one hell of a fight, and the worst part was that she didn‟t know how to help him.
    There was only one thing she could think of, and it was the simplest. She slipped her arms around his waist, and she hugged him back. A violent shudder shook his body and he eased up the slightest bit on the death grip he had on her ribs.
    They sat, unmoving and silent, for several minutes, and then he raised his head. “I know what I have to do. I must make a bargain with a demon and hope we don‟t all end up in hell.”

Chapter 23
    Atlantis, the palace
    After a long, hot shower and a change of clothes, Alexios headed down the immense tapestry-lined corridor to report in to Conlan. The intricate weaving and brilliant hues of Atlantean history—scenes woven over the course of thousands of years—barely registered as he headed for the war room.
    The war room. Its walls had listened in, silent and without judgment, on the plans of Atlanteans for more than eleven thousand years.
    Alexios wondered if walls could laugh.
    Plans, plots, never-ending meetings to discuss never-ending wars. They were all merely chess pieces in a game played by gods, and even the strongest of the Warriors of Poseidon rarely rose higher than pawn.
    That pawns were the most frequently sacrificed had crossed his mind a time or two.
    Finally arriving, he stopped short, surprised to see guards posted at the door. Conlan—or, more likely, Ven—must be wary of treachery that could reach into the palace itself. It was unthinkable, and yet the presence of the guards demonstrated that someone had been thinking exactly that.
    “Lord Alexios,” the elder, a battle-hardened veteran, said. “Prince Conlan and Lord Vengeance await you inside.”
    The other pulled the heavy door open, and Alexios entered the room, glancing up at the walls as he did so. Silent wit nesses, he mocked himself. Plaster and marble and wooden beams, shaped by tools into something of function.
    Much like himself.
    Shaking his head to disrupt his grim thoughts, Alexios looked around. Conlan and Ven leaned over the long, scarred, wooden table in the center of the room, poring over maps. Ven moved to one side, sliding his finger down a map and muttering something, then glanced up and acknowledged Alexios with a nod.
    As Alexios crossed the room, he got his second surprise. The human woman Tiernan Butler, clad in jeans and a white shirt, her dark hair pulled back from her face, stood between the two brothers. Judging by the expressions on their faces, whatever they were discussing wasn‟t good.
    Conlan and Ven wore simple clothing: dark shirts and pants similar to his own. Nothing in their attire shouted out the fact that they were royalty. The high prince, soon to be king, of Atlantis and his younger brother, next in line to the throne, never traded upon their heritage to put themselves above others. Even so, royalty and the aura of unflinching command radiated from them, a silent herald of their birthright.
    The birthright—at least by half—of one other. One gone missing, yet again.
    “News of Justice?”
    Conlan shook his head. “None. And no contact with Alaric,