Authors: Katherine Irons
Waterborne (26 page)
Caddoc continued to howl as the distraught messenger fled the apartments, obviously eager to distance himself from his rightful sovereign. Caddoc didn’t need to see Iorgos’ face to read the contempt there ... the pity.
Caddoc dropped onto a settee, stunned by the realization that his last chance to become Poseidon had died with his uncle and his cousins. All but two of the rebels had been slain, and they had run for their lives. Iorgos’ older brother Zotikos had escaped with him, only to be attacked, stung to death, and eaten by jellyfish a few leagues from Lemoria.
How had it gone wrong? Why had the fates turned against him? Iorgos’ words burned into Caddoc’s brain. They had been foiled at every turn. Poseidon had been shot and was badly wounded but still lived, as did his infant son, Perseus. Orion had survived the ambush at the archery range and had assumed control of the throne. So far as Caddoc knew, his most hated enemy Alexandros was still very much alive and well.
They’d come so close to victory to lose all in a single afternoon.
There would be no crown, no throne, no accolades for Caddoc. He would never hold the reins of power, never command the armies or the bevies of nubile and beautiful women who waited to serve the king. He would never go home again, never walk the halls of the palace or drink in the majesty of the city. So long as he lived, he would be an outcast, a supplicant, a whore for ’Enakai and any man or woman she wished to lend him to.
All his life, his mother had promised that he would be high king. If he would only do as she said, she would see that he had his reward, the prize that should have been his from the day of his birth. He, not Morgan or Orion or Alexandros, he was Poseidon’s firstborn son. But his mother had lied to him. None of what was promised had ever come.
His father and his brothers had never loved or respected him. And despite her many pleas to the contrary, his mother had never loved him either. All he had ever been to Halimeda was a willing tool, the means to the throne that she could never gain on her own.
Caddoc buried his face in his hands. Empty eye sockets could weep only blood, and a tongue-less mouth could not utter a shattering scream. Anger and regret boiled in his brain. He wished that ’Enakai had taken his ears, as well. If he had lost the sense of hearing he wouldn’t have known that all was lost, that his entire life had been for nothing ... that for him there was no hope, only endless days and nights of ridicule and degradation.
He sunk to the floor and curled into a fetal position, utterly alone and desolate, without reason to live. Soon, if she hadn’t already heard, ’Enakai would learn of the failure of the plot to put him on the throne of Atlantis. Iorgos would eagerly spread the word, anxious to win patronage from the high queen.
’Enakai had no mercy. Caddoc knew all too well. She would taunt him, stripping him of whatever pride remained in his ruined body. He, Prince Caddoc, would become the laughingstock of the Lemorian court. Servants would scorn to wait on him, and the guards would whisper behind his back and make crude gestures that he could no longer see.
Had he the nerve, he would fall on his own sword, but he knew he was made of weaker stuff. Killing others was easier, but to pierce his own body impossible. Suicide wasn’t an option. All he could do was commit some act so terrible that ’Enakai would order his execution. Even being thrown into the lava flow would be a gentler passage than living for thousands of years as a joke.
But if he was to die, why not die in a manner that would cause his name to go down in history? ’Enakai had insulted and abused him. She had dared to treat a prince of Atlantis as she might the meanest slave. And that contempt would be her undoing. If his life was over, why not bring down the throne of Lemoria as his final act?
’Enakai would summon him to her bed tonight. She would not miss the opportunity to belittle him. She would demand his service, and he would give it in a manner that she least expected. The thought heartened him and put steel in his spine. He rose from the floor, arranged his garments, and rang for his body slaves and his barber.
Tonight, he would go to ’Enakai’s chambers garbed as a prince, his body oiled and scraped, his scales shining. He would charm her and whip her lust to an aching hunger. The high queen liked it rough. He would give her rough. Caddoc smiled, feeling better than he’d felt in weeks, perhaps months. Tomorrow the bards would write songs of him, of the last bold deed of Prince Caddoc, and for eons his name would be remembered.
It was small vengeance for all he had suffered, but it would be better than letting the bitch live to enjoy his misery.
CHAPTER 26
A
nuata jumped through the portal with Remi in her arms and Zita strapped to her back. The passage through the seraphim had been relatively easy, considering that she carried two children with her and had to assist each with breathing. Dewi was just behind her with Julita and Pilar.
nuata jumped through the portal with Remi in her arms and Zita strapped to her back. The passage through the seraphim had been relatively easy, considering that she carried two children with her and had to assist each with breathing. Dewi was just behind her with Julita and Pilar.
Bleddyn had been the first to enter, but she saw no sign of him. She hoped that he hadn’t taken a wrong passage. The chutes were tricky, and the corridors winding and narrow. This Pacific seraphim was one of the oldest surviving, and coming this way was risky. But she and Dewi had talked it over with Bleddyn and decided that it was the wisest course. The longer the children were under water without transformation, the more dangerous it was for them. She wouldn’t think of what would happen if the Atlanteans refused to accept the children. They must.
“Are you all right?” she asked Zita. In answer, the tiny girl patted Anuata’s neck, and the sensation caused a wave of tremendous emotion. Above anything, Anuata had to protect these little ones. They could never return to the world of land-walkers. The very idea was repugnant.
Remi smiled up at her, and Anuata leaned over and brushed her cheek against the top of his head. It plagued her that she hadn’t broken the neck of the man with the gun when she’d thrown him into the land-travel machine. She could have done it easily, without Ree’s knowledge. Anuata knew many ways to cause death to her enemies, some lingering and painful. Leaving the cowardly woman alive to work more wickedness troubled Anuata as well. Both Ree and her prince Alexandros were too soft.
Those who would mistreat an innocent child deserved no mercy. It gave Anuata some consolation that all must be judged by Vassu when they passed from this life to the next. She, Anuata, had been a soldier for centuries, and she had committed many acts of which she could not boast, but she had never harmed a humanoid child, a whale calf, or a dolphin.
She had no fear that in the weighing of her many sins against her acts of kindness and courage, the Supreme Being would see fit to pardon her weakness. Surely, He, in his infinite wisdom, would smile at her imperfections, and give her another opportunity to be reborn rather than casting her into dark oblivion.
From the first, Anuata had found herself drawn to these two smallest and weakest children. The knowledge that they had been bought and sold as sexual slaves for the pleasure and profit of evil men like Varenkov ignited a raging fire in her breast to protect and care for them.
Zita’s large hazel eyes and round little face reminded Anuata of her own baby sister, and as for Remi ... Anuata felt her single eye grow teary. Precious Remi ... She’d begun to think of him as her Remi.
And why shouldn’t they be mine, both of them?
Too long had she swam the oceans alone. Was a Lemorian any less worthy than an Atlantean to parent Remi and Zita?
And why shouldn’t they be mine, both of them?
Too long had she swam the oceans alone. Was a Lemorian any less worthy than an Atlantean to parent Remi and Zita?
At first the children had been frightened of her size, her scars, and missing eye. Now they ran to her, climbed into her lap, and traced her tattoos with curious fingers. Remi shyly referred to her as
’Ama,
and both kids insisted on sleeping curled against her, one on either side.
’Ama,
and both kids insisted on sleeping curled against her, one on either side.
That hadn’t pleased Dewi, who preferred more adult sleeping arrangements, but Anuata had soon straightened him out. These little ones had seen enough. As much as she enjoyed sharing pleasures of the flesh with Dewi, there would be no sex between them until the children were safe in Atlantis. And if Dewi wanted to remain on her good side, he would concentrate on taking care of his charges, Julita and Pilar.
For all his protests that caring for children was a woman’s job, Dewi was kind and gentle to Julita and Pilar, though not fatherly so much as acting the part of a protective older brother. She watched him laughing with them, calming their fears, and insuring their breathing, even as they slept. With each passing rise of the moon, Anuata’s respect for Dewi grew, and she found herself watching him and wondering if there might be something more than sex between them. He might be boastful and an Atlantean, but his strength of character and bravery more than made up for his flamboyant ways and his lack of tattoos.
Anuata waited, watching the portal, and conscious of the time that had passed since she, Remi, and Zita had exited. Where were the others? Then, to her relief, Bleddyn and Mayuni burst through the opening, safe and sound. Mayuni was smiling, so the passage must not have been too rough for her. But where was Dewi?
Anuata glanced at Bleddyn. “Did you see them? He was just behind me at the last major intersection. He should have come out before you.” She’d been the one who’d insisted that they take this seraphim rather than swim the great distance. If anything happened to Dewi and the girls, she would never forgive herself.
Bleddyn shook his head, and Anuata, although he answered with bravado, read worry in his eyes. “He’ll be all right,” Bleddyn assured her. “Dewi is smart and tough, none bolder. He—”
With a pop, the portal opened and Dewi flew through the entrance. He stumbled, fell to one knee, but recovered his balance. His head bore a nasty scrape from left eyebrow to chin and his arm bled from a deep gash. Normally calm Julita clung to his back, her eyes huge and frightened. Pilar, clutched tightly in his arms, was bruised and weeping.
“What happened?” Anuata cried, taking the sobbing girl from him. “Are you hurt, child?”
Dewi grinned. “We got caught in the current and struck a wall. The rope that held Pilar broke and she was swept away. I nearly lost her, but Julita caught sight of her shirt. We had to fight our way upstream until we reached her. She’d had the sense to grab an underwater ledge and hold on. If she’d let go, she would have ended in the worm’s stomach chamber. She may be a little battered, but she’ll be fine.”
Dewi unstrapped the rope that bound Julita to his back and lowered her to the sand bottom. She lunged through the water to Pilar and hugged her tightly. Both girls were laughing and weeping at the same time.
“You lost Pilar in that madness and went back for her? Against the current?” Anuata shook her head. She doubted that she would have had the strength or the audacity to attempt such a feat—let alone survive it.
Dewi grinned wider. “I may be a small man but I’m a stubborn one.”
“No. I was wrong. You are not a small man,” Anuata declared. “You are a hero, the greatest warrior I have ever had the pride to know.” And she flung her arms around him, pounded his back, and kissed him so thoroughly that Bleddyn and the children shrieked with laughter.
Nigel crushed the cheap cell phone under his boot heel and threw the broken pieces into the darkened Arno River. A cold rain lashed his bare head, beat against his face, and soaked his suit jacket. He should have worn a raincoat or at least brought an umbrella on such a foul night, but he hated unnecessary layers of clothing, and the wind had the damndest habit of turning his umbrellas inside out.
The pain in his burned hand nagged at him. He dug in his pants’ pocket for the bottle of painkillers, popped two in his mouth, and swallowed. The bandaged hand was stiff, and the physicians had warned that a great number of nerves and several tendons had been destroyed, and he might never regain full motion. Regardless of the gloomy prediction, Nigel knew his hand, despite the agony he suffered, would eventually heal.
It was no wonder they were ignorant. His was a special ability, one that even the best surgeons were unaware existed. Nigel had never met another or read of another human who shared his capacity for regeneration of destroyed skin, muscle, and bone, not even among his gifted classmates at the institute.
He’d been born with a physical makeup that enhanced healing in his own body. That had become apparent when, as a seven-year-old, he’d fallen from a third-story window and shattered his left hip, wrist, and elbow. The doctors hadn’t expected his bones to knit properly, but within three months, he had completely recovered. His story had been a news sensation around the world for a few weeks, and had brought him to the attention of the organization. That advantage, the super-human ability to heal himself, thankfully, he’d retained.
His second talent, the ability to move inanimate objects from a distance—using only the power of his mind—had surfaced soon after he’d been enrolled in the institute. He’d quickly become a star pupil, singled out for advanced training and special recognition by his instructors. At his peak, if conditions were right, he’d been able to manipulate the actions of humans and animals.
No more. That skill had vanished with his innocence, he supposed. In the last few years, the most he could manage were mere parlor tricks: the turn of a card or a doorknob, sliding a knife off a table, or rattling cupboard doors. Fortunately, he’d continued to hone his skills in his career field, so that he had no need for psychic ability. It was one talent he’d excelled at, outshining even Ree O’Connor with all her special abilities.
But that knowledge gave him small satisfaction. He’d screwed up on Samoa, let Ree get the best of him in a situation where he had every advantage. She should have been dead within seconds of their meeting, but he’d hesitated. He’d been surprised to find that Ree, of all people, was the one tailing him, and even more astounded to see her armed with a sword and dressed like an actor from the Hollywood flick
Achilles.
Achilles.
He supposed that somewhere, buried deep inside his brain, he still held some measure of affection for her. And that weakness had shifted the advantage from him to her and nearly gotten him killed.
He’d underestimated her. Ree had changed since they’d known each other so well. Her powers had increased tenfold, while his gift, sadly, had become almost dormant. When he’d graduated from the institute, some years before Ree, he’d been one of most promising candidates that the organization had trained in years. No one expected her to ever match his legendary knack for killing.
As for his temporary setback with the burned hand, other than the constant pain and annoyance, it wouldn’t prove too much of a difficulty. As he’d explained to Varenkov, he was ambidextrous, as deft with his left hand as his right. He was still a deadly marksman with firearm, crossbow, or throwing knife. He was as capable of wielding a garrote or planting a car bomb as he had been before the accident.
From Paris, immediately after he’d been discharged from the hospital, he’d put in a call to a Chinese associate of Varenkov’s in Hong Kong, informing him of a problem in Samoa. Valuable merchandise destined for Wong’s international auction had been waylaid by an undercover agent, working for the American CIA, who went by the name of Ree O’Connor.
Ree, of all people, would enjoy the humor in that. CIA? Ludicrous, but Wong couldn’t know that, and blaming the CIA for any frig-up was one of Varenkov’s favorite ploys.
In addition, Nigel had informed Wong that this same CIA operative was responsible for the execution of Phirun, the independent transporter. He hadn’t bothered to mention Phirun’s Polynesian woman who’d died with him. The fact that two of Varenkov’s employees had actually done the deed after he and the Russian had flown out to Paris wasn’t relevant. What was important was that the Chinese mafia would mark Ree for extermination.
Tonight, here in Italy, Nigel had hedged his bets by contacting an informant in Dublin, Dermot Brady, who sometimes provided assistance to the organization. Nigel introduced himself as a mutual friend, and told him that one of the organization’s rogue operatives had surfaced in Pago Pago working for Grigori Varenkov. Brady was aware of the price on O’Connor’s head and seemed delighted to get the tip.
“Three’s the charm,” Nigel murmured under his breath as he started back to his hotel. If Varenkov’s men didn’t get her, either the Chinese mafia or the organization would make certain that Ree never got in his way again. If his hand didn’t hurt so much, he might be a little regretful. He and Ree had had some good times. But all things must end, he thought. And the sooner Ree O’Connor was dead, the easier he’d sleep at night.
The storms at Cape Horn were worse than Alex had ever experienced. Normally, beneath the waves, in the depths of the sea, surface weather mattered little, but this was different. If he couldn’t get Ree to the healers in Atlantis soon, he feared for her survival. He’d had to take her ashore again yesterday, and the length of time that she could breathe on land was growing shorter. Any delay could be fatal, and he wasn’t strong enough to swim and carry her in these tides.
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