Warriors of Poseidon 03 - Atlantis Unleashed

watch them.
    As he had, in long ago, far more innocent days.
    No landwalker would have seen that fish. So none could have carved it. Whoever she was, she held his carving. As he watched her cry, alone and silent, a single, crystalline tear dropped onto the carving she still held to her lips. Somehow, even though it was impossible, he felt the pain of it dig into his chest.
    Impossible or not, the carving connected them. He shouted out some wordless noise of longing or loss or loneliness, and through whatever magic or hallucination that swirled between them, she heard him.
    Just for an instant, she gasped and blinked those beautiful eyes and seemed to stare straight at him.
    Then as the vision or mirage of her vanished and he was plunged back into the darkness but not into the despair, he realized one undeniable truth.
    She was his .
    Or she was a figment of his imagination. Suspended alone in the unending dark, Justice began to laugh.

Chapter 4
    Rowes Wharf, Boston
    Alexios stared up at the enormous brick-and-granite-clad building that gleamed like new money and old arrogance in the moonlight. He whistled, a low, piercing sound of disbelief, and turned to Brennan. “Are you kidding me? This is the HQ? Whatever happened to the good old days when the Apostates of Algolagnia skulked around in abandoned warehouses and damp, leaky basements?”
    Alexios almost laughed at himself, although nothing about the situation was funny. They were just having a normal conversation between a couple of guys.
    If the guys happened to be centuries-old Atlantean warriors who‟d called to their power over water to ride air currents rich with the sharp tang of seawater and diesel fuel that mixed over Boston Harbor.
    Christophe shot up through the air to join them, his Firefly T-shirt and faded jeans contrasting vividly with the dark clothing Alexios, Brennan, and the rest of the Seven routinely wore on missions outside of Atlantis. High Prince Conlan‟s elite guard and fighting force wasn‟t really supposed to look like Goth college kids playing rebel, after all.
    As if he‟d heard the thought, Christophe turned the full force of his gaze on Alexios, who suddenly realized that the clothes meant nothing. The weight of power, barely leashed, that glowed in Christophe‟s eyes made the question of his attire irrelevant—the warrior was a killer as icy as the ocean‟s most isolated depths.
    It wasn‟t really the time to ponder Christophe‟s morality, conscience, or lack of either, though. They needed to find Justice, before all hope that he was still alive vanished under the harsh reality of passing time.
    “Let‟s check it out,” Alexios called out quietly. Shimmering to mist, the three rose farther into the air until they hovered thirty or so feet over the icy winter waters of Boston Harbor.
    Poseidon‟s warriors, preparing to play Peeping Tom.
    The thought sickened Alexios, especially given what they might see from the members of a cult that experienced pleasure through pain. No matter, though. He‟d give his life to find Lord Justice. They all would. Tracking down a few sick perverts for information seemed a small price to pay.
    “Even if the venue seems so unlikely,” he added out loud.
    “Catch up, already,” Christophe said, sneering. “Anubisa‟s twisted cult owns the lives and rotted souls of members with big bucks and bigger connections. The humans call this complex of buildings the „Gateway to Boston.‟ What better way for Anubisa‟s acolytes to stake their claim to the rest of the new world?”
    “ Stake their claim. I get it. Vamp-worshipping cult. Stake. Funny man,” Alexios said, not in the least bit amused. “Where are they?”
    Brennan cleared his throat, as if stretching rusted vocal cords. Lately the warrior had been prone to longer and longer periods of silence. Alexios wondered, not for the first time, if the centuries of having no emotion were finally wearing Brennan down. “When Quinn sent word to Atlantis, she indicated that the cult held its rites in a penthouse suite of the Boston Harbor Hotel, which is contained within this building.” He pointed to a section of the multistoried arch that spanned a large area.
    Alexios narrowed his eyes. “Freaking luxury hotel to play their sick games in. What‟s next?
    The White House? Maybe the Lincoln bedroom?”
    “Abraham Lincoln would have been sickened by the weakling who holds his office today,”
    Brennan said, his utterly calm voice giving