Atlantis Betrayed (18 page)
Authors: Alyssa Day
He lifted an eyebrow, and those wickedly gorgeous green eyes of his began to glow. “Magic bubbles is actually pretty close. We have a magic portal.”
Hopkins rolled his eyes. “A magic portal. Of course you do. And probably a yellow submarine, too. I’ve had enough of this, Lady Fiona. I still suggest we throw the man out and take our chances. After all, if he discloses your identity, we can happily tell the authorities about his little expedition to the Jewel House, can’t we?”
“Hopkins! You rolled your eyes,” Declan said, grinning. “The nation will surely fail at any moment.”
“I can call the portal and we’ll all take a step through to Atlantis,” Christophe gritted out. “Bunch of cynics.”
“I believe you,” Declan said.
“You believe in forest fairies, too,” Fiona pointed out.
“And Saint Nicholas, until you were at least thirteen,” Hopkins added.
“Hey, a sense of wonder is not a bad thing,” Declan said, blushing.
Christophe closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and raised his hands in the air again. Fiona caught her breath, in equal parts worry and anticipation. What would he conjure up this time?
They all leaned forward, waiting . . . waiting.
And, finally, after two long minutes—nothing happened.
Christophe opened his eyes and blew out a breath, then muttered a long string of words in a language Fiona had never heard, though it had a bit of the fluidity and musicality of Italian. Maybe Italian crossed with Greek, on second thought.
From the tone of his voice and the way he glared viciously at the empty space in front of him, she had the feeling she didn’t want to know the translation.
“Magic portal out of service?” she suggested sweetly. “Down for repairs?”
“Water damage, maybe,” Declan said, breaking into a fresh peal of laughter, in spite of what had happened to him the last time.
“The portal can be capricious,” Christophe snapped. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like opening.”
“The door has feelings,” Hopkins said slowly before turning to Fiona. “Lady Fiona, I fear we should call the home for madmen. Unfortunate that Bedlam closed. He’d have fit in quite well there.”
She ignored Hopkins’s jibes and studied Christophe’s face. The frustration there was too real to be feigned. Either that or he was the best actor she’d ever seen. It was up to her to make the decision and stand by it.
“Look, let’s leave it for now,” she finally said. “You’re either from Atlantis or you’re up to something so secret you can’t tell us about it. For whatever reason, I’ve decided to trust you, at least until you prove me wrong. Tonight you and I go pub-hopping in the low places to find out what we can, and Declan will use his computer magic to find out what the word is on the Internet.”
She shot a warning glare at her brother when he looked like he might argue. “I need you on this, Dec. Nobody else has the skills you do.”
“I’ll put out word in my own network. Discreetly, of course,” Hopkins said.
“You still haven’t told me why you were after that particular sword,” Christophe said.
Fiona shrugged. “I generally select an object that has no right to be where it is. An objet d’art with shaky provenance, where the owner either stole it personally or bought stolen merchandise, for example. Those owners are usually reluctant to get the police involved, and of course there are no insurance investigators involved, since the companies won’t insure stolen art.”
“Makes it easier to fence, too,” Declan added.
She groaned. “I’m winning big sister of the year, aren’t I? Introducing my baby brother to the world of stolen art before he’s had his first real girlfriend.”
“Hey, there was Nora,” he protested, blushing fiercely.
“You were twelve. Anyway, to continue, this time was different. Word was put out through one of my usual fences that a buyer was interested in Vanquish. This buyer is supposed to be some oil hotshot, too, because my five favorite words were spoken.”
Christophe tilted his head. “Free pints at the pub?”
“Money is not an object.”
He laughed. “Women. Who can understand them?”
Hopkins nodded until he caught her glaring at him, and then he pretended to brush a speck off his spotless coat.
“This doesn’t make any sense, and I hate coincidences,” Fiona said, all but smacking herself in the head for her own stupidity. “Suddenly some rich oil guy wants Vanquish? At the exact same time you show up wanting it and someone else wants it enough to kill for? What don’t we know about this stupid sword? I think we should make a point to find out what my contacts know about this mysterious buyer. I didn’t ask enough questions this time, since so many programs need money so urgently. Maybe the buyer is counting on that?”
“I agree, we need to find out exactly who this buyer is and why he or she wants the sword so much. But I need the Siren. Just the Siren. You can have Vanquish,” Christophe said, suddenly serious.
“What good does that do me? The value of the sword will drop considerably without it. I’ve got several new . . . ah, new dresses to buy,” she finished lamely; suddenly unwilling to admit the truth and have him think she was playing the philanthropy card.
“New dresses. Right. I wasn’t born yesterday, Princess,” he said, stalking across the room toward her until he had her backed into the wall. “I know all about your Robin Hood tendencies. Which charities were supposed to benefit from this heist?”
“Ironically enough, we are saving the whales, though that’s with my own money,” she whispered, her heart pounding from his nearness. His masculine scent teased her senses, and she suddenly wanted to lean in and press her lips to his neck.
A black-sleeved arm inserted itself between them, rather ungently pushing Christophe away from her. “AIDS, children with autism, shelters for battered women, the homeless, a literacy group, and single mothers are on the list this time, to be precise,” Hopkins said. “In point of fact, you have a charity engagement tonight. For the whales, I believe.”
“Maybe Christophe should go. Some of his relatives might be there,” Declan said, his voice strangled to hold in the laughter.
Christophe took a step back, the heat in his eyes and his sexy smile reminding her of all the things he’d done to her the night before. Definitely not thoughts she wanted to have right then.
“Try to remember I can kill you with both hands tied behind my back, kid,” he told 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.”
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?”
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.
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 worry.
Change of plans. I want you here at Fiona’s house. Hells, more like a mansion, really. Anyway, I want you to come keep her little brother company while we go out to some charity event.
Denal’s amusement came through loud and clear.
Charity event? Really? Did you have to dress up?
Just get here, already.
Christophe projected his location on the connection and then leaned against a wall, arms folded, waiting. Women were never on time, anyway; he probably had time to take a nap if he could find a comfortable sofa nearby.
Christophe projected his location on the connection and then leaned against a wall, arms folded, waiting. Women were never on time, anyway; he probably had time to take a nap if he could find a comfortable sofa nearby.
The faint sound of an indrawn breath interrupted his mental musings, and he looked up to see Fiona posed on the landing of the staircase, looking like the princess he’d named her. Or a goddess.
Aphrodite had nothing on her.
The bodice of the shimmering green gown hugged her curves like a lover, and the bottom floated around her legs like the whisper of a dream. A single, square-cut emerald hung suspended on a silver chain between her perfect breasts, and smaller gems hung from her delicate ears. Her silken hair was pulled up and back into a style that had been popular in Atlantis thousands of years ago according to the mosaics in the palace garden pools. Popular with goddesses, too, if one believed the paintings and sculptures that graced the palace.
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