Desire Me (2 page)

There in the water drifted a decaying body. Nearly down to the bones, the corpse wore clothes that were shredded and hung
like an ill-fitted suit. It swayed back and forth in a macabre dance of death. Through the abdomen of the man was a wooden
spike. Then Max noticed several other similar spikes of different sizes and heights scattered around the wooden pedestal.

If Max had jumped, or fallen, into the water, that could be him now, skewered on a pole, waiting to bleed to death.

He stood up straight. “Interesting.”

Without a bridge from this ledge, how was he supposed to get to the map without skewering himself on the spikes? He looked
around, scanning his surroundings for any material he might be able to use. Nothing.

The sound of water falling drew his attention to the crevice he’d crawled out of. Water spilled out of it, draining into the
lake below. He watched as the dead body continued to undulate in the dark liquid.

Therein lay Max’s answer. The only way to get to that pedestal without impaling himself was to allow the lake to fill up until
it reached the platform. Waiting that long, though, would significantly decrease his odds of getting back out of the cave
alive.

There didn’t appear to be another way. It came down to two choices: walk away from the map and therefore any proof of the
lost continent, or risk his life in hopes of creating fact out of fiction. He inhaled slowly and straightened his shoulders.
If there was one truth about Maxwell Barrett—it was that he was relentless in his search.

He would get that map today or he would die trying.

Max had left his pocket watch on the shore when he swam to the cave’s opening so he had no true measure of time. However,
nearly two feet of empty space stretched from the top of the water to the pedestal. So he guessed it would take close to thirty
minutes for the lake to fill. He was a strong swimmer. He would have enough time, and he would make it out of here alive.

No spikes pierced the water immediately below him. Slowly he lowered himself from the ledge into the pool, the cold ocean
water chilling him instantly. He trod water trying, in vain, to acclimate himself to the frigid water. Just a little more
depth in the pool, and he could make his move.

He ignored the temperature and swam toward the pedestal. Water was now pouring over the ledge more rapidly. The surge of water
pulled the dead man into the murky depths, but he bubbled back to the surface after a moment. A handful of spikes still breached
the surface, but the water had swallowed most of them. He did his best to navigate around them. He accidentally kicked one
with the tip of his boot, then swam right into another one. A sharp tip scraped across his shin, tearing through his trousers
and cutting his leg. Age had done nothing to dull the danger of the wooden spikes.

With considerable concentration, he made his way to the center pole that held up the wooden platform. There was enough water
in the pool now that he could heave himself up to reach the pedestal. Gazing down upon his treasure at last, shivering slightly
in the cold, he held his breath, not quite believing his eyes. Upon closer inspection, Max could see that the container in
the center was a glass tube. He tried to pry it off, twist it, pull it—anything
to remove it from its resting place—but it
would not budge.

He’d come too far to give up now. With a swift movement, he slammed his fist into the side of the glass, and it shattered.
He retrieved the leather package, tucked it inside his shirt, and then jumped into the water, ignoring the cuts on his hand.
He came within an inch of hitting another spike. There was no time to be relieved, though; the water surged around him and
soon the path he’d taken here would be completely submerged.

Quickly he climbed back onto the ledge and made his way back to the thin crevice he’d followed to the pool. The elevated water
hit him just below his waist as he slid back the way he’d come, though this time with no lantern to guide him. He’d left it
behind when he’d jumped into the pool, and there’d been no time to retrieve it.

Water lapped at his belt. Panic pulled at him with bony fingers of dread. He pushed the fear aside and moved forward, but
his pace was sluggish as he fought against the water’s current. Eventually, though, he made it out of the tight crevice and
back into the main part of the cave, just as the water reached his shoulders.

A wave crashed against the opening to the cave, and a moment later, as water surged in past him, he nearly lost his footing.
He sucked in a huge breath as the water surrounded and consumed him.

Max swam.

Against the current and with the waves slamming into him, he swam with every ounce of strength he had. His lungs burned and
screamed for air as he fought the water. Salt stung his eyes as he searched for light at the surface.

Finally he breached the surface and gasped for breath.

Yes, he could have given up and let death take him in that cave, but then he’d be as nameless as the corpse back in that lake.
Finding this map would put his name on the lips of everyone in England.

He allowed the waves to rock into him as he floated and concentrated on breathing. A minute later, he was swimming again;
this time to the rocks that climbed up to the shoreline above.

The cliff bit into his hand as he struggled up to the land. His damp clothes weighed him down, and the exertion from the swim
had wearied his legs, but still he kept pulling himself upward. Ten minutes or so later, he stood at the top, his breathing
labored and his heart pounding. He was exhausted, but exhilarated as well. He might very well have just changed history.

The package tucked in his shirt was coated with some waxy material that Max assumed made it water-resistant. He reached inside
and pulled out the folded material, then slowly, reverently, opened it.

It was beautiful—unlike any map he’d ever seen—the rings of Atlantis, alternating water and land. Hand drawn and hand colored,
the water channels seemed as if they’d be wet to the touch, and the mountain ridges sharp beneath his finger. Poseidon’s palace
shone brightly from the center ring of land.

Max folded the map back and slipped it into the pouch at his side. He had done it. He had proven the existence of the lost
continent of Atlantis.

London, January 1888

S
pencer Cole turned the pistol over in his hand, the gleaming metal shimmering beneath the moonlight. Tonight could go one
of two ways, and he was prepared for either. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers. A carriage rumbled down
the street, so he pressed himself against the outer wall of the townhome.

The cloying sweet smell of jasmine permeated the air. Damn garden was full of the stuff. He hated jasmine. With one finger,
he plucked a delicate white bloom, dropped it to the dirt, and ground it beneath his boot.

His greatcoat hugged his shoulders and helped to keep him shrouded in the near darkness. Earlier he’d changed clothes and
removed his bright white shirt in favor of something darker—a muddy brown to better blend with the night.

He considered the task at hand. This officer had been more challenging to find. Initially Spencer had been told the man was
in Africa, so Spencer had decided to wait until the officer returned to London. Then two weeks ago, he had intercepted a message
that stated otherwise. If the note was to be believed, the man sat upstairs now.

The first target had lived alone and was known for drinking, on duty or off. He’d been loud and boisterous and disliked by
plenty. Spencer had not even bothered offering him a choice. Killing him had been easy. Too easy. He’d been passed out from
too much drink, and it had taken nothing more than a lit match to the curtains for the entire townhome to go up in flames.
Worthless bastard.

Spencer had been unable to leave a message with that body. He’d allowed his temper to get the better of him, letting his own
personal bias distract him from his task. But it was crucial that people knew of his purpose, his destiny.

So with the second, he’d been more precise and taken more time. First he’d offered the man a deal; a chance to be a part of
something important. The fool had declined. Spencer had used a blade then, slicing the man from ear to ear until his blood
had poured out and his head had nearly been severed. It had been exceptionally messy. Without a fire, he’d been able to leave
his first message with specific instructions to print said message in the
Times
. Spencer had no way of knowing whether the guardians he sought read any of London’s newspapers, but Londoners did. And printing
such notes would breed their fear. Spencer loved that. Certainly Scotland Yard was on alert now, and the townspeople would
follow shortly.

Which led him to number three. Spencer eyed the lit
window above his head. This officer had a family, a mistress, and too
many friends to count. And many accommodations from her majesty. The officer had much to lose. Perhaps all of those reasons
would persuade him to accept Spencer’s generous offer. If not…

Spencer spat.

After discovering this man was in fact in London, Spencer had begun to track his movements, watching him as a hunter studies
his prey. He’d done the same with all of the officers he was targeting.

Spending two weeks in this sweet-smelling garden, watching and waiting, had seriously tried Spencer’s patience. But tonight
was the night. Tonight the target was alone. His wife and two daughters had gone out to the theater followed by a late-night
ball and would be gone for hours yet. Inside the house, the older man sat, unaware of his part in a much bigger plan.

There were far more officers available than Spencer needed, so he’d carefully chosen his targets. Seven lives to signify the
seven rings of Atlantis. They would fall by his hand or join him and fall from grace. Either way, they would begin the prophecy,
leading his army. He looked down at the ring on his right hand, the one that led him directly to the elixir. This was his
destiny, and it mattered not who got hurt in the process. A prophecy older than anything here in London, this was bigger than
even he.

A clock somewhere in the distance chimed the eleventh hour. It was time.

He made his way to the French doors that led from the garden into a parlor. With considerable force, he was able to break
the lock and open the door. The room was dark and uninhabited, but enough light from the hall scattered onto the floor, preventing
him from walking into any of
the furniture. The ripe scent of furniture polish tickled his nose.

He knew that General Lancer’s study occupied the first floor, so he crept out of the parlor and down the hall. A scullery
maid stepped into the hall, and her eyes widened as she saw him. She opened her mouth to scream just as he grabbed her by
the throat. He pulled her close to him. Her large brown eyes teared up as she stared at him.

“Do not scream,” he said. “If you scream, I’ll be forced to kill you. Understand?”

She nodded fervently.

Of course, he would kill her regardless. However, he preferred to do so quietly as to not alert his true target to his presence.
Quickly he withdrew the knife he kept secured to his boot and shoved the blade into her throat. Her scream was caught as the
knife went through, and the hissing sound of air oozed from the wound. She fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, her brown
gaze frozen with fear.

She’d given him no option. It was better for him to make his way through the house undetected.

Step by step, he crept through the hallway, peering into the rooms flanking the corridor. He nearly walked in on a couple
of servants pressed up against a large buffet in a darkened dining room, but their muted sounds of passion covered the slight
squeak of the door.

Finally he found the correct room. A soft glow filtered beneath the doorjamb, and as he pushed the door open, he came face
to face with the man he sought.

The older man sat behind his desk, white shirt open, no cravat, with books and journals piled on the desktop.

“Who the devil are you?” he asked. He came to his feet.

“It matters not who I am,” Spencer said evenly. “Sit down.”

“I will do no such thing.” His hair, though white, was still full and wavy, and his eyes still sparked with intelligence.
“Wait a moment”—those eyes narrowed—“I do know you. What do you want?”

Spencer could not deny the slight thrill that shot through him. He reveled in being recognized. But that was not his purpose
tonight. He deliberately slowed his breathing.

“I have a proposition for you,” he said evenly.

The man’s nostrils flared. “Did she send you?”

“A great war is coming,” Spencer said, ignoring the man’s question. “England is not prepared.”

“We have the greatest military in the world,” the man sputtered. Deep lines creased his already wrinkled forehead. “You have
some nerve.”

He wouldn’t be one of the select, Spencer could see that, but he had a duty to fulfill. Slowly, he withdrew the tiny vial.
“I have the solution here. One tiny drop and you would become cleverer, stronger, more alert. The best general you could be.”
Spencer nearly rolled his eyes. Were it up to him, he would simply dispose of all of them and start fresh with men of his
own choosing. But his specific instructions were to invite them to join his cause first, and should they decline, only then
could he kill them.