Warriors of Poseidon 06 - Atlantis Betrayed

Declan. “If your sister is going, I’m definitely going. And I didn’t say I was taking the Siren out from under you, Princess. I’ll buy it from you.”
    “Oh, no,” she protested. “You cannot attend this function with me, not after this afternoon. I’ll never hear the end of this. Also, buy it with what? Have a spare few million euros lying around?”
    “I’m going,” he said, implacable.
    “Did you happen to bring your tuxedo with you from Atlantis? That’s the only way you’ll get into that ball. Very snooty,” Declan said.
    Christophe’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open in an expression of sheer horror. “A tuxedo? That might be a deal breaker.”
    She put the image of how fabulous he’d look in a tuxedo firmly out of her mind and shrugged. “Guess you’re not going, then.”
    “A tuxedo it is,” he said, lips curling away from his teeth. “I have things to do now, which apparently include finding a tuxedo. When should I be back?”
    Hopkins checked his watch. “Ten past never?”
    “Keep it up, funny man.”
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    Fiona sighed. She really, desperately needed that headache medicine now. “Half past seven should do it,” she said.
    “Fine. Leave the tuxedo to me,” Hopkins said. “If you’re really going to allow this outlaw to accompany you, I’ll be sure he looks at least somewhat presentable.”
    Christophe just laughed. “Three hours? That’s enough.” He nodded and turned to leave but stopped at the door, whirled around, and strode back across the floor to where she still stood near the wall. He put his hands on her shoulders and stared intently down at her, his eyes glowing again.
    “Don’t worry, Princess. We’ll figure this out.” Before she could respond, or stop him, he bent and pressed a brief, hard kiss against her mouth and left the room. He was gone before she could form a coherent response.
    Hopkins cleared his throat. Loudly. “Shall we plan on an Atlantean wedding, then?”

Chapter 16
    Three hours later, Christophe stared in disbelief at himself in the mirror of a lavish guest room decorated in dark greens and golds and paintings of fox hunts. Very traditional, proper British. He felt like a warrior trapped in a teapot.
    “I look like a buffoon.”
    Hopkins sighed. “You look impeccable. You are a buffoon. There’s a difference.” He held out a scrap of black cloth. “I presume you don’t know how to tie this, either?”
    Christophe glared at him. “Been a little busy. Slaying vampires. Fighting rogue shifters. Saving your puny asses over and over again.”
    “Please refrain from commenting on the state of my buttocks,” Hopkins said, making short work of the tie. “Also, you have never once saved me or mine from anything.”
    “Not yours, specifically. Human asses, generally.” Christophe checked out his reflection again. He looked worse.
    “I think this tie might be choking me,” he said, tugging at it with a finger.
    “Yes, I’m sure Lady Fiona will enjoy listening to you complain all evening. Do let me know how that goes.” Hopkins left the room, closing the door with a polite but firm click.
    “May as well get this over with,” Christophe told his reflection. “Nice monkey suit.”
    He left the room and headed down the hall and then down the winding staircase to the front foyer, figuring Fiona wouldn’t go straight to the garage. He spent a few minutes on the way down checking out the paintings of people who were probably Fiona’s ancestors and wondered if the blank, empty space on the wall had been for the dastardly grandfather she kept talking about.
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    A ping at the edge of his consciousness signaled Denal trying to contact him. He reluctantly opened the mental doorway.
    I haven’t found out much. Humans don’t know anything, and the shifters aren’t talking. Alaric specifically forbade me to go to any vampire hangouts without you, something about safety in numbers, and they’re not up for the day anyway. Spring sunshine. Where do you want me to meet you?
    Christophe laughed out loud at the “safety in numbers” comment. Alaric, like most of the rest of them, still treated Denal like a youngling, and undoubtedly didn’t want him anywhere near any vampires. It wasn’t fair—the warrior was sworn to Poseidon like the rest of them and had slain more than his share of vampires.
    Not his