Atlantis Unmasked (2 page)

Alexios made a strangled snorting sound. “Dishy Alaric. Now there's something I bet he's never heard in his nearly five hundred years. Alaric, the dishy high priest of Poseidon's Temple.” In spite of the rich, dark amusement in his voice, he never once quit scanning every inch of the deserted street as they raced through it. Always on guard. Always alert.

A warrior in every facet of his being.

Grace slanted a glance at him. Six feet and a few inches of pure primitive male, all hard lines and curved muscle. He'd fought like an avenging angel back at HQ when their strategy meeting had been viciously destroyed by the wave of vampires and shifters crashing through doors and windows in a multipronged attack. She'd loosed arrow after arrow, each one finding its target, but Alexios and his sword and daggers were everywhere at once, stabbing, slicing, and slashing. All the while, his expression had remained utterly calm and controlled. Even as he'd circled around her, ripping heads from vamps and . . .

A realization seared through the memory. Always around
her
. He'd fought in a perimeter around her, leaving her room to shoot her bow, but never straying far from her side. Anger started a slow burn.

“Were you protecting me in that fight?” she asked, slowly and carefully, trying to keep the lid on her temper. Not good to accuse and attack the fierce warrior ally unless it was true. “Because you know that I don't need protecting. I've been doing this for a long—”

Michelle made a loud shushing noise. “Oh, let's not get our knickers in a twist. So, Alexios. You don't look a day over thirty. But if Alaric is nearly five hundred years old, how about you?”

Alexios's dark gaze touched Grace's face for an instant, hot, predatory, tangible as a caress, before returning to vigilance. She wondered if his eyes were blue or black or one of the many shades of jewellike green, but couldn't tell in the dark vehicle. Atlantean eyes were like mood rings. Unfortunately, they didn't give out the handy decoder chart.

“How about me, what?” he finally answered Michelle.

“How many centuries?”

“A little more than four. Grace, watch that hole in the road.”

She swerved to miss the pothole and began to slow for the end of the road and the busy intersection it dumped into. “You're more than four hundred years old? Really?” Okay, maybe a man
that
old had a few preconceived notions about fragile females that could be forgiven.

“Well, you look lovely for your age,” Michelle called out. “He's maybe a little old for you, Grace, though. You've only just turned twenty-five, after all.”

Heat burned through Grace's cheeks. “What? Michelle, I—”

Before she could stammer out any convincing denials, on the order of, “No, I wasn't casting Alexios in my own personal fantasy,” the man himself pointed his gun directly at her head.

She slammed on the brakes, too stunned to react coherently. Alexios and the Atlanteans were
allies
to the rebel cause; they wouldn't . . .

“On the left, Grace. Get down!”

Instinctively, she obeyed the tone of command in his voice and ducked, covering her head with her arms. The explosion of sound and glass tore through the Jeep a split second later, and Michelle screamed.

Over Grace's head, Alexios unloaded the Glock she'd loaned him when he'd realized his daggers and sword wouldn't be of much use in a moving vehicle. He spat forth a stream of words that absolutely had to be Atlantean cursing; she'd fought with warriors for enough years to recognize the cadence. If the Ice King of Calm was swearing, it had to be bad.

The realization brought her to a snap decision of her own. Grace wrenched the parking brake up, released her seat belt, and threw herself underneath his arms in a twisting half turn toward the backseat. Alexios slammed his hard chest down on her back, though, capturing her in a contorted embrace.

“No. If you lift your head, the attacker on the roof of that building is going to shoot you,” he breathed in her ear.

“I need to get to Michelle. Now.”

“I will not lose you,” he said as he slowly pulled away. The words were so quiet that she nearly missed them. She snapped her head to the left and found his face a breath away from her own. Fury rode the high cheekbones and hard angles of his face. “I'm going out there,” he said. “When I give the signal, you put this vehicle in gear and get the hells out of here.”

He dropped the empty gun on the floorboard and pulled his daggers out of their sheaths. The movement was fluid and oddly slowed by stress-skewed perception, almost encapsulated in a bubble of time. She noticed the hairs on his tanned and muscled forearms were burnished gold, and she even had time to think it an odd observation to make before dying.

Then, in a move that made her wonder if somehow she'd gotten a head injury in the crash, Alexios simply disappeared. It wasn't sudden. It took maybe three or four seconds. But his body dissolved into a shimmering cascade of sparkling mist, and utterly transparent and nearly without shape, he soared through the open window beside her, leaving Grace with her mouth open in wonder and tiny water drops caught in her eyelashes.

“Oh dear. I think I may have died,” Michelle said, moaning. “Either I just saw Alexios turn into an angel, or you and he are going to have some seriously interesting sex.”

Stifling her ready retort, Grace resumed her crawl into the backseat to help Michelle, careful to keep her own head down. There was blood everywhere; the gunshot had smashed through the window next to Michelle and hit her shoulder. Glass glittered in her short dark hair, and shallow scratches bled on her forehead and cheeks.

“How bad?”

Michelle tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace. “I won't be wearing any sleeveless dresses for a while.”

Grace's eyes burned. If she lost her best friend . . . “Damnit, Michelle, quit with that British stiff-upper-lip crap. How bad?”

In the pale glow reflected from the streetlamp, Michelle's face was whiter than a St. Louis blizzard. “Maybe a little bad. It's just below my shoulder, but I'm starting to have a hard time breathing, and—” As if on cue, Michelle's sentence trailed off into a horrible wheezing gasp.

“It must have punctured your lung, oh, dear Lord and goddess help us, we've got to get out of here,” Grace said, offering up prayers to Diana and to the Christian god. She snatched her bow and half-empty quiver from the back and pulled herself into the driver's seat, fitting arrow to bow with an ease born of long practice. She took aim through her open window and waited to deliver silver-tipped death.

She was a descendant of Diana, and her aim was always true.

“I'm going to get you to the hospital,” she promised, scanning the area for Alexios or the attackers.

A dark shadow somersaulted through the air toward the Jeep, and she tracked it without thought, acting purely on instinct and natural talent.

“Didn't you have enough back at HQ, you bastards?” she screamed. “A dozen dead shifters and at least a half dozen dead vamps isn't enough? I'll kill every single one of you if she dies.”

The shadow moved almost faster than her eye could follow until it materialized into a coalescing shimmer in the pool of light cast by the streetlamp. She eased the pressure of her fingers on the arrow.

Vamps didn't travel as mist. It was Alexios, transformed back into himself.

He bared his teeth and the expression on his face was so utterly feral—so inhumanly predatory—that Grace caught her breath, ice skating down her spine.

“Go. Now,” he ordered. “I'll be right above you. Get her to the hospital. Now.”

“You got them?”

“They won't hurt anyone else,” he said. “Now go!”

Michelle's harsh wheezing fired Grace's urgency to do just that. She slammed the Jeep back into gear and, tires squealing, pulled out into the street and away from the remains of whatever had attacked them in the alley.

“Hang on, baby, hang on, please, please, Michelle, hang on,” she pleaded in a constant demand and prayer, as she sped the remaining couple of miles to the hospital. Above the Jeep, matching her pace exactly, a soaring cloud of sparkling darkness watched over them.

She bumped over the curb at the entrance to the emergency room parking lot and pulled the Jeep right up to the door, ignoring signs and the shouts from the ambulance personnel standing around the large double doors. Grace leapt out, shouting for help, and raced around to open the back passenger door. Michelle slumped out into her arms, eyes wide and staring, and Grace instinctively screamed, so loud and long her throat burned, for the one person she needed more than she'd ever needed anyone.

“Alexios!”

“I am here.” He lifted Michelle out of Grace's arms and began running for the ER doors. Emergency personnel met him with a gurney. He gently lowered Michelle onto it and backed away as hospital personnel rushed Michelle inside, already snapping out competent-sounding medical speak.

Head lowered, Alexios returned to Grace and lifted her into his arms, holding her to him so tightly she almost felt—
almost
, for a fraction of a second—
safe
.

She saw one of her team approaching from the outside waiting area, and she put her hands flat on Alexios's chest to brace herself and push him away. For an instant, his eyes flared such a hot green that she wondered his gaze didn't burn the skin from her face. But then he slowly, inch by inch, lowered her to the ground and released her, almost as if he, too, were reluctant to break the contact.

“I can move the Jeep, Grace,” Spike said. He'd been wounded by the first wave of shifters in the door, but the bandages wrapping both of his arms and the side of his face clearly hadn't slowed him down. “Everybody is already getting treatment. Most all of us are going to be fine. We'll hear about Hawk after surgery.”

She nodded, glad to hear it but too drained to comment.

Spike's eyes narrowed, and he shot a suspicious look at Alexios. “We thought that dark-haired guy healed Michelle.”

“So he did,” Alexios replied, his jaw clenching around the words. “We were ambushed.”

Spike was instantly on the balls of his feet, hands hovering near his jacket, underneath which Grace knew he carried at least three guns and several knives. “How many? Do you want us to go after them?”

“They're taken care of,” Grace said.

Alexios nodded. “There were only four.” Any other man would have been boasting, Alexios merely stated facts.

A flash of respect crossed Spike's face. Grace wasn't the only one who'd seen Alexios in action. She thought maybe Alexios wouldn't want her to mention the mist thing, though. That had been new. Maybe it was meant to be secret.

“Thanks for moving the car. We'll be . . . we'll be inside.” She glanced up at Alexios, who started to put an arm around her, then hesitated, as if afraid of being rebuffed. She leaned into him, too tired and afraid for Michelle to force herself to stand alone, yet again.

Just this once, she would lean on someone else. Just this once.

Alexios looked around the crowded waiting room, remembering the countless times he or another of his fellow warriors had needed to be healed. Unlike the healing chambers in Atlantis, which were an oasis of serenity—all fresh air and sunlight, soft, silken cushions, and masses of flowers from the palace gardens—this room where desperate and injured humans waited smelled of sweat, blood, antiseptic, and despair.

Grace huddled in an orange plastic chair, strangely diminished without her many weapons strapped to her body. He stood across the room from her, leaning against a battered vending machine, and tried to think of a time he'd seen her without them but came up empty. The bow, knives, and guns were part of her, oddly dissonant to her beauty and her name.

Grace. It suited her. She was grace in motion, in and out of battle. Except now, when she hunched in that ugly chair, arms wrapped around her knees, waiting for the bleakest kind of bad news.

After they'd removed their visible weapons, he'd helped her into the ER, trying not to wonder why something deep in his chest ached at the feel of her in his arms. Then she'd pulled away from him and collapsed into that chair, and she hadn't moved since. Alexios had wasted a good ten minutes convincing various hospital personnel that he didn't need to be treated for a head wound, after they'd caught sight of the apparently alarming amount of blood that remained in his hair and on the side of his face. He'd finally snarled something along the lines of “it's not my blood,” and they'd backed off, all wary apprehension with a healthy dose of fear mixed in. Ever since then, he'd waited. And waited.