Warriors of Poseidon 03 - Atlantis Unleashed

the enemies of the humans, though. Too many times he‟d been called upon to work with the warriors. Too many times he‟d healed and healed until his powers were exhausted, and then been forced to watch warriors and humans die horribly.
    It was never enough, never enough. He‟d given up all for power, and even the power was never enough.
    The power rushed through him as if called by its naming or drawn by his fury. Both power and fury needed an outlet. He channeled water and threw it in a series of intricate arrow shapes against the fence that circled the cemetery, out of pure frustration. After the first blast smashed a section of fence into splinters, he forced himself to calm enough to curb the power.
    The next barrage drove a century‟s worth of dirt and grime off the wooden boards that remained standing.
    None of it made him feel any better. Still he could not find Quinn; the faint shimmer he‟d sensed of her emotions that had led him here had vanished again. She and her sister Riley were aknasha’an —emotional empaths. As such, not only could they read the emotions of others but they had the ability to project their own emotions in a way other humans—and even other Atlanteans—had long since been unable to do. He‟d been able to reach out to Quinn, no matter the distance, ever since the moment he‟d first met her and saved her life.
    The connection to Quinn had only cost him a small price: pieces of his blackened heart and chunks of his desiccated soul. She didn‟t even know she‟d claimed them, emotional empath or no.
    Her ability was a Gift thought lost in the waters of ancient time, but then again, many such Gifts were returning to prominence during these dark and deadly days. The world seemed caught on the cusp of a change so huge and hideous that it might rival the Cataclysm that had sent Atlantis to the bottom of the ocean. Every act taken and every decision made swung the pendulum toward the light or dark side of the future.
    If only Poseidon would give them a clear path to follow. The gods, however, were never so straightforward. Except in matters that he, Poseidon‟s high priest, could wish would be colored more in shades of gray than strictly black and white. Such as the vow of celibacy and promise never to wed he‟d sworn to the elders when they‟d invested him with the high priesthood.
    He‟d vowed to live his entire existence starkly, bleakly alone, in exchange for the chance at limitless power and access to a god. But the favoritism of the sea god offered cold comfort, and power for its own sake no longer held any appeal. His past, present, and future rolled in an unending coil of solitude. No hope of warmth or comfort.
    No hope of Quinn.
    To break the vow would mean the diminishment of his powers; no longer could he lead the Temple or serve as counsel to the high prince. No longer could he protect Atlantis when it was on the brink of its ascension back into the world of the landwalkers.
    Now that his people needed him most, he could never abandon them, no matter the personal cost. The choice was clear: he could have Quinn, or he could keep his world intact. Not much of a choice, in any event, when she‟d made it clear she would never have him.
    The rebel leader and the priest. It sounded like the punch line to a very bad joke. A match made in the lowest of the nine hells, yet never to be a match at all. The gods must have laughed the day they had fashioned Quinn to be the woman for whom his soul had always yearned. They must still be laughing now.
    But none of that mattered. Quinn was simply another rebel warrior, an ally in the fight to save humanity from the rogue vampires and shape-shifters who wanted to turn them into sheep to be herded and devoured. Another ally. She could be nothing more and nothing less.
    And if only he could convince himself of that, perhaps his heart would cease slowly and torturously dying inside his chest.
    He took a deep breath, finally rematerializing into his corporeal form. This reverie gained him nothing; obsessing on what could not be changed never did. He merely needed to find Quinn—find them all—and ensure that they were safe. He‟d gained no sense of Denal during the long night, either, and he should have been easily able to track the warrior‟s thoughts on the shared Atlantean thought path.
    But there was nothing. It was as if they had vanished from existence. Not that he would have been able to find Jack. Were-tigers had brains far