Warriors of Poseidon 06 - Atlantis Betrayed

it—interfering with sovereign possessions and so forth—but just taking the Siren from the sword’s jeweled hilt seemed like a waste of opportunity.
    Not that he had much need for what rumor claimed was a ceremonial-only, badly balanced sword. His own, left in Atlantis this trip, was utilitarian, simple, and deadly; undecorated except for the single emerald on its pommel. A line from an old nursery tale flitted through his mind, though perhaps in a different form than he’d heard as a child.
    The better to fight evil with, my dear.
    But, after all, why not? Calculating the ways and means of how he might remove the entire sword from one of the most fortified locations in the world made for an amusing way to pass the time. An endeavor that didn’t bore him.
    Passing over the main gate and the long-unused moat, he floated over the bridge where millions of tourists crossed into the Tower grounds every year. He could have taken the easy route and made his way in as a tourist during the day, except first, he didn’t like crowds of smelly humans, and second, when had he ever done things the easy way? Not to mention that asking himself rhetorical questions was probably one of the unpaved steps on the road to insanity. Not far up from talking to pigeons.
    The pale yellow brick glowed in the night air, resonating with the quiet dignity of walls that had stood sentinel, indifferent and stoic, as the tempests of humans had ebbed and flowed over the centuries. If walls could talk, as the old saying went, these would offer a history lesson on power—or a cautionary tale for those in search of it.
    Atlantis Betrayed – Warriors of Poseidon 06
    Page 7 of 188
    Somewhat like the ancient tales of Atlantis herself.
    Floating over the spot where the Duke of Wellington’s statue had been before somebody decided to banish it to the Royal Arsenal at Woolwich—ha, the fleeting nature of fame, Duke, old boy—he examined the exterior windows of the Waterloo Barracks, opposite to the scaffolding and white stone of the White Tower. A flicker of light glinted off a gargoyle as it . . . moved.
    Damn. Either imagination or adrenaline was working overtime, because Christophe was sure that the gargoyle had moved an inch or two. He approached it, still suspended as mist, only to find exactly what he should have expected: there was no way the gargoyle had moved since somebody put its butt-ugly self there in the first place.
    He must be having hallucinations.
    It was adrenaline. The excitement of doing something different for a change, instead of the same old same old. He’d had enough of killing vampires and smiting shape-shifters to last a lifetime. And Atlantis was no better. It was getting crowded in the palace, with all of his fellow warriors finding women. Not temporary women, either. No, these were keeper women, the long-term, asphyxiate-a-guy kind of women.
    No, thank you. Not for him. He was going to steal the Siren, the enormous aquamarine that graced Vanquish’s hilt, and take it back to Atlantis so it could be reattached to Poseidon’s Trident, where it belonged. Hand that sucker straight over to Alaric. Or better yet, instead of to the high priest in person, to one of his minions, so there would be no repeat of Alaric’s most recent lecture: Why Christophe Was Wasting His Magical Abilities by Refusing to Join the Priesthood, Part 784.
    He didn’t want to be a priest. He wanted some fun. Like this job. It was a heist, pure and simple. Fun.
    The jewels were housed on the first floor, with nobody but the Tower Guard, various electronic devices, and the Yeomen Warders to protect them. Of the three, only the Yeomen Warders concerned him at all.
    The shape-shifters in that group were rumored to be pretty damn tough, and no few of them claimed to be descended from the shape-shifters who’d been among the original Warders back in 1485.
    Of course, back then, shifters weren’t roaming around in broad daylight, with everybody knowing who and what they were. Vamps, either, for that matter, but the past decade-plus had brought big changes to the world.
    Mostly for the worse.
    The Tower Guard was part of the Queen’s Guard, according to the handy tour guide a tourist had conveniently left on a bench for Christophe to find. They didn’t live in the Tower, but the Warders still did, unfortunately. If only everybody trusted their electronics these days. Atlantean magic wreaked holy hells on electricity.
    The thought of powerful