Warriors of Poseidon 06 - Atlantis Betrayed

Chapter 1
    Present day; London, England
    Jack the Ripper must have been a vampire.
    Christophe sat on the tiny ledge underneath the minute hand on Big Ben’s western face—twenty-five past midnight—thinking random thoughts and surveying the moonlight-drenched city that had always been like a second home to him. It was a perch custom-designed for philosophical reflection, with its view of the resilient heart of London spread out before him like one of old King George’s feasts.
    The clock tower was arguably London’s most recognizable landmark. Perching on it, nearly three hundred feet off the ground, Christophe felt spurred to an unfamiliar longing to peer into the blood-drenched darkness of England’s past. Not so long ago, these modern sophisticates had fought war after war over territory, possessions, and how to worship which god. War bred its own evil shadow; reflected its black soul onto even the innocent. Or were there any innocent? Ever? Were all the so-called pure simply on an earlier stage of the descent into wickedness, hatred, and vice?
    Christophe laughed out loud, startling a nearby pigeon into raising its head. “Sorry, buddy,” he told the bright-eyed bird. “Something about this damn place sends my mind to strange places every time I’m here. Jack the Ripper. The Scarlet Ninja, although at least he doesn’t hurt anybody. What a town.”
    He shook his head. “Of course, now I’m talking to a bird, so clearly I’m also insane.”
    He leaned back against the familiar gilt lettering, “DOM-INE SALVAM FAC REGINAM NOSTRAM
    VICTORIAM PRIMAM,” and wondered if Queen Victoria the First had been honored to have each of Big Ben’s four giant clock faces proclaim that her people called out to their god to keep her safe.
    Another, far more bitter, laugh escaped him at the idea that Poseidon would ever worry about keeping him safe. Centuries of fighting had taught Christophe the bloody and painful lesson that the sea god didn’t care much about keeping his Atlantean warriors anything but honed for battle. Throwing them to the wolves and the other shape-shifters, sure. Using them as cannon fodder against the vampires, no problem. Eleven thousand years after the original pact, the current members of the elite Atlantean fighting force were still fulfilling their sacred duty to protect humanity.
    Humanity should protect its own damn self.
    Not that it could, or had ever been able to, against the dark and ugly that crawled out of the night. Since the monsters had revealed themselves—more than a decade ago—to be more than the fictional fodder of nightmares and bad movies, the stupid humans had done more and more to offer themselves up on the proverbial silver platter, like the sheep the vamps called them. Christophe had suggested a few times that the warriors change their mission from protecting humans to rounding them up, stuffing apples in their mouths, and then jamming sticks up their asses.
    Human-kabobs. Simple, easy, and everybody goes home happy.
    The high prince wasn’t exactly down with the idea. Christophe “wasn’t a team player.” “Had a chip on his shoulder.” Insert psychobabble here. Conlan’s new human wife had the prince by the balls, and Princess Riley the former social worker was all about kindness and understanding.
    Atlantis Betrayed – Warriors of Poseidon 06
    Page 3 of 188
    Which sucked.
    Christophe would have preferred that Conlan just haul off and punch him in the face, like the prince used to do in the old days when somebody pissed him off. It would have been far less painful.
    “Less painful than smelling your stench, for example,” he said to the vampire who was silently floating up the side of the tower, trying to surprise him. Probably thinking he’d found a midnight snack of the liquid variety.
    “Interesting place to hang out, mate.” The vamp levitated up until he was eye level with Christophe.
    “Got a death wish?”
    Christophe scanned the vamp, his gaze raking it from spiky purple hair to steel-toed boots. He blamed London’s punk rock scene. Bunch of lame-ass wannabes who were still trying to re-create the days of the Sex Pistols.
    Like this bloodsucker.
    Christophe put a hand on the hilt of a dagger but didn’t bother to draw it. “You threatening me?”
    The vamp shrugged. “Just pointing out that you’re pretty far up for a breakable human.”
    Christophe bared his teeth in what passed for a smile with him these days, and the vamp flinched