Atlantis Betrayed (8 page)

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Authors: Alyssa Day

BOOK: Atlantis Betrayed
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Telios had expected the guards to discover him every step of the way: through the employee entrance, down the twisting corridors, and even while they stood, exposed, as the shifter punched in the code that opened the security door to the Jewel House. Naturally, since he was prepared for every contingency of attack, none happened. Now they stood guard, his two minions, as he admired the lovely jewels on display.
Not as many as he’d expected, to be sure. Perhaps the queen and her offspring were prancing around somewhere at some state dinner, all bejeweled and crowned. Did they even do that anymore? It was so hard to keep track of current traditions as the decades passed, faster and faster. The closest he’d come to a spark of interest in years had been when that American author came to London to try to discover his real identity. She’d failed, of course—they all failed. But then again, that had been before they knew vampires existed. Perhaps now was the time to unleash his alter ego again.
Whitechapel and its residents had missed him for far too long.
A sound from the hallway interrupted his reveries of flesh and blood and death, and he crossed to the case that held his prize. Vanquish, sparkling like a whore who’d robbed a jeweler. Gaudy and over adorned. The question crossed his mind yet again—why did the Fae want this particular sword so very, very much?
Voices in the hallway sounded, closer, and he had no time for questions. He pulled on his favorite leather gloves, punched a hole in the glass, and removed the sword with both hands. Even through the gloves, a tingle of power zapped him with an almost electrical shock, but it wasn’t his left hand that felt the jolt. It was his right—the hand that held Vanquish’s hilt.
The jewel on that hilt glowed with the fierce blue of the ocean dazzled by sunlight. He’d never seen a more beautiful gem, but it wasn’t only the beauty that captured his interest. This aquamarine was magical, somehow. No wonder the Fae wanted it. Perhaps Telios would keep it for himself for a while and try to discover its secrets. Always better to know the things that others tried to hide. Especially the nasty secrets of Unseelie Fae.
The voices changed, from conversational to aggressive, and he realized his presence had been discovered. By the time he whirled around to face them, his two enthralled guards were fighting like madmen to keep their colleagues from entering the room. Three lay dead or dying on the floor already. Telios knew he could take on the remaining five by himself if he had to do so, but there was no need.
“Guard me as I leave,” he commanded, and his two guards immediately fell back to protect him.
But they were protecting him from no one. The other guards weren’t attacking. They weren’t rushing his two guards or even trying to attack Telios. Every single one of them had turned, backs to Telios, weapons held in the air at a readiness position.
Telios tried to understand this new trick. How was this strategy supposed to work? Before he could puzzle out even a possible answer, all seven guards—the two he’d enthralled and the five others—spoke as one.
“We guard you as you leave, Master.”
Telios’s mouth fell open and his fangs retracted involuntarily from pure shock. He stared around the room at the guards. Each face held the same expressionless blankness. The same readiness to serve him. The gem in the hilt of the sword pulsed once in his hand, flaring a brighter blue than before, and he slowly bent his head to look at it.
“It’s you, isn’t it, my beautiful bit of rock?” He whispered the words, almost not daring to believe them. “No wonder the Fae prince wants you so very badly. The sword was a distraction. What he really wants is you and your power.”
He raised his head and felt the triumphant grin spread across his face, stretching long-unused facial muscles. It had been a very long time since he’d had reason to smile. “Let’s all dance,” he told the guards, and he laughed his very rusty laugh as they waltzed all the way to the door.
Chapter 7
Fiona finished changing into her jeans and shirt, toweled off her damp hair, and pressed the button to lower the privacy glass so she could talk to Sean.
“I’m still not sure hiring you was such a good idea,” she said, uncapping a bottle of water and taking a long drink as they prowled through the dark and light of London at night. “I don’t know how much good ‘getaway driver’ is going to do you on your résumé. Not to mention the unfortunate and very real possibility of prison.”
He grinned at her in the rearview mirror, still looking far too young to even be allowed to drive, let alone be the chauffeur of a hardened criminal like herself. “Funny, that. Just sent out fifty résumés yesterday and I’ve had forty-nine job offers already. Evidently getaway drivers are in high demand these days.”
The grin faded and his eyes narrowed as he swerved around a badly parked car. “Stick your arse end out in the street, and you’ll lose it, Mr. Volvo,” he muttered.
“Forty-nine offers, hmm? Does that mean you’re leaving me to fend for myself?” Fiona rested her head against the back of the seat, suddenly utterly fatigued.
“Not quite yet, Lady Fiona. I was really holding out for that fiftieth outfit.” He smoothly rounded a corner and glanced back at her. “Get some rest, why don’t you?”
She aimed her sternest glare at the back of his head. “Call me Lady Fiona again and you’re fired, my young friend.”
“Whatever you say, Lady Fiona.”
She growled at him, but he just chuckled and switched on the music, something light and classical that one wouldn’t expect a twenty-two-year-old man—boy, really—to enjoy. Although it was true that he had never quite had the chance to be a boy. Not with the way he’d grown up. She’d stepped into the middle of a beating that day, seven years ago, and come out the other side with a broken arm and a fifteen-year-old boy who wouldn’t be parted from her, no matter how many times the authorities had tried to find him a suitable home.
So her home had become his home, and the child of a murderer and a whore became the ward of a thief. In her more self-aware moments, she wasn’t that sure it was a step up. But the truth was that she needed the help—help she could trust—and the reward was far too great for far too many for her to retire the Scarlet Ninja just yet.
Even though now she was in danger. She’d been seen.
Her thoughts returned to the man from the Tower. She hadn’t had the time to ask him how he’d gotten past security, not that he would have answered her anyway. But he knew she was a woman; a Scottish woman. He knew and he had absolutely no reason to protect her identity. She’d shot him with drugs and left him for the Guard.
She’d
shot
the man.
Shot him and kissed him
, her conscience whispered. Bloody hell. She’d shot the one witness who could ruin everything. She was absolutely mad.
“
Should have killed him
,” the ghost of her grandfather whispered in her mind, but she shut him down, hard. She’d retire the Scarlet Ninja and go to work cleaning toilets before she’d become anything like
him
.
The soothing music and the exhaustion pulled at her, helping to repress the worry for just a few minutes, and brooding turned to dozing until the car smoothly pulled to a stop and she realized they’d arrived safely in her garage. Sean was out of the car and opening her door before she could do it herself, another gallantry she’d tried to talk him out of many times. He took his chauffeur’s role seriously, though, and wouldn’t be dissuaded.
“We’re safe home,” he announced, grasping her arm and helping her out of the car as if she were a ninety-year-old woman with a bad case of the gout.
She bit back the impatient retort that sprang to her lips. It wasn’t Sean’s fault that she’d botched the job. A simple reconnaissance. “How dangerous can it be?” she’d said to Hopkins. Flippant and carefree.
Foolish
.
How dangerous could it be? She was ruined. That was how dangerous.
“If you’re all right, then, I’ll say good night,” Sean said. He lived in a lovely little apartment over the garage. Hopkins had overseen the decorating himself, though he’d never admit it.
“Fine, thanks. You get some sleep.” She put a hand on his arm as he started to walk away. “Sean? You’re a wonderful help to me. I know I don’t tell you that often enough. Thank you.”
His pale face slowly flushed to a glowing pink under the dusting of freckles on his cheeks. “You don’t, I mean, I just, we—”
Hopkins’s dry voice sounded from the doorway to the laundry. “He means to say ‘you’re welcome,’ don’t you, Sean?”
“Exactly!” Sean said a shade too loudly. “Just off to bed now. To sleep, that is. Just sleeping. In bed.”
Fiona watched, fascinated, as Sean’s face turned a peculiar shade of plum-purple before he made a bizarre squeaking sound and practically ran for the stairs to his apartment.
When the door had closed behind him, she gathered her bag, closed the car door, and turned to Hopkins. “What on earth was that about?”
“That young man has believed since he was fifteen years old that the stars and moon shine for you alone. Didn’t you realize that all of his puppy adoration and hero worship would almost certainly turn into something a bit more personal?”
She blinked, trying to force her tired mind to put some sense into his words. “He—oh. Oh, no. He has a crush? On me? I’m far too old for him.”
“Oh, yes, all of five whole years. You’re ancient. And yes, a crush, as you say. Unrequited love. Quite an astonishingly fierce case. But don’t fret, it will pass. In fact, perhaps sooner rather than later, considering how lovely the housekeeper’s niece is,” Hopkins said, stepping forward to take her bag.
Fiona decided she’d had enough to deal with for one night and chose to put this latest problem aside. Far aside. Perhaps for the next ten years or so, or at least the next few months, until Sean grew out of it or switched his affections to the housekeeper’s niece.
“Nice pajamas,” she said, managing a grin. He still wore his perfectly creased jacket, shirt, and trousers. “Do you sleep in that outfit?”
A shadow crossed his face, probably at her pathetic attempt to force a bit of lightness into her voice. “Well, then? How did it really go?”
“It could have been better,” she admitted. “We have a bit of a problem.”
Hopkins narrowed his eyes, but she just shook her head. “Upstairs. When we’re in my office.”
“I see. That big of a problem,” was all he said, before leading the way into the house.
“Oh, my dear Hopkins. You have no idea.” As she followed him through the house and up the wide staircase to her second-floor office, she wanted to laugh but clamped her lips shut against it. She was afraid if she started, the edge of wildness racing through her would come out in hysteria, and one thing a lady must never do was succumb to hysteria. Her grandfather had told her that often enough, generally while brandishing his cane through the air and terrifying the servants. Odd that he’d never addressed the issue of a lady going to prison for the rest of her life. That lecture might have come in handy right about now.
As she trudged up the stairs, her thoughts returned to the mystery man. Whatever he was up to, she hoped—quite illogically—that he was safe.
“We’re going to have to put something in that space, you know.” Hopkins indicated the empty space on the wall where her grandfather’s portrait had claimed pride of ownership on the landing.
When she was a little girl, she’d always thought the eyes in the painting followed her around. Frankly, it had felt like that now that she was an adult, as well. That’s why she’d finally asked that it be taken down, ostensibly for cleaning. It felt wrong to tell her staff that a painting “creeped her out,” as Declan would say. Not very ladylike. It sat in the attic now, draped, where her grandfather’s dead, painted eyes couldn’t glare down at them all anymore. As far as she was concerned, it could stay there forever.
“Something with tiny kittens and butterflies, perhaps, and a motivational slogan such as ‘Hang in there, pussycat,’ ” Hopkins continued, his voice drier than ever.
She laughed and stumbled, almost missing the step. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Just checking in to see if you were listening. We do need to hang something, though. The bare space is too dramatic and invites questions. Perhaps another deceased family member with a slightly less dour countenance?”

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