Warriors of Poseidon 06 - Atlantis Betrayed

like that. She’s my friend. You hurt her and you will answer to me.” Her voice was quiet as she said it, but somehow deadly. For just an instant, a chill of apprehension slid over him, but then he came to his senses. She was so far below him in the hierarchy of power as to be entirely unimportant.
    “You aren’t threatening me, are you, little sister?” He strode over to her, crossing the distance between them with slow, deliberate intent. “Never forget who holds the power of Feransel. I could crush you with a thought.”
    She paled again but said nothing. Just bowed her head.
    “Permission to return to my rooms, Lord Feransel?” This time, her voice held nothing but submission and a tinge of bitterness.
    Better.
    “Yes, go. But have a care. If Telios approaches you, be sure to emphasize how important that sword is to me, but make no mention of the jewel on its hilt. I’d steal it myself if William’s witch hadn’t ensorcelled it to destroy any Fae who touched it when not freely given.” He laughed. “William the Conqueror, indeed. How did they never wonder how he became such a conqueror? A powerful witch on his side for all those years, and none suspected.”
    “You knew,” she pointed out.
    “Yes, but what care did I have for human affairs at that time? There were more than enough of them and the vampires still hid in the dark. Now, things are different. I want that gem. A perfect aquamarine, or so I hear.”
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    She bit her lip but said nothing. Probably thinking about her next bed partner. Useless female. He made a go-away gesture with his hand and she all but ran off down the path toward the palace.
    “The Siren and Lady Fiona. I’ll have them both. Quite lovely prizes for one who seeks to rule both courts, don’t you think?” he asked the empty air.
    Only the trees heard his laughter.

Chapter 4
    Damn crumbly centuries-old stone.
    Christophe had known as soon as the coalesced mist of his magic-held shape displaced the tiny shards of stone that the shifters patrolling beneath the window would hear it. What he hadn’t expected was how fast they could make it up to the third floor. He found himself hovering in the center of the room, wondering how in the nine hells the guards were going to miss a miniature rain cloud floating in the middle of a storage room that was basically an overgrown broom closet.
    England was famous for its rain, but this was ridiculous. Time to bail and try again another night, maybe.
    It’s what a reasonable man would do. The thought was enough to jolt him into motion.
    “Reasonable, my ass,” he said under his breath as he transformed back into his body, a fierce grin spreading across his face. “May as well be dead as reasonable.”
    Booted feet pounded down the hallway and he could hear the sound of doors opening one by one, sequentially. They’d reach him soon. He scanned the room for something—anything—and found it in the least likely, humblest of objects.
    Seconds later, the door swung open and one of the shifters stepped into the room, not even breathing hard. “Storage room looks clear.”
    This one smelled like wolf. Angry wolf. Hopefully he wouldn’t start pissing on the walls to mark his territory. Christophe wished he could see what the guard was doing, but curiosity wasn’t worth risking his disguise.
    Footsteps rang out, crossing the floor toward him, and Christophe tensed, holding his magical form and crushing his every maddening instinct that screamed at him to call to power and attack. The footsteps paused, no more than a handful of inches from him, and then passed by. The muffled sound of the wolf shifting boxes and shoving the heavy wooden table by the window to one side preceded a loud crash.
    The guard let loose with a blistering string of profanity so creative and descriptive that even Christophe had to admire the man’s resourcefulness.
    More footsteps. A different voice, as a second guard arrived at the doorway.
    “Find anything?”
    “No. I knocked the damn box of copy paper on my foot.”
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    The new guard laughed. Not much sympathy there. “Did he hurt his wee footsie?”
    “Shut up, you moron. It’s the same foot I broke last week and it’s still a trifle tender, even after shifting five different times.” The first guard walked past Christophe again, this time with the definite suggestion of a limp.