Alyssa Day: Atlantis Rising

As Riley fought the blackness, the hand in her hair loosened. Morris's face changed in a caricature of slow motion from a grimace of violent hate to one of surprise. They both looked at the scarlet stain blossoming, blooming, spreading over his shirt. Even as Riley touched a questing finger to the dark stickiness that splattered her face, the room went black.

Conlan opened the portal, focusing on the East Coast of the United States. Virginia, to be precise. Ven had been "collecting intel," according to Alaric.

Translation: beating information out of scumbags for miles in every direction. His brother always had favored the direct approach.

Now Ven was calling the rest of the Seven to him to accompany Conlan to the surface. Except Conlan was in no mood to wait. Not even for his brother. Maybe especially not for his brother. If he saw even a glimmer of pity in Ven's eyes, he'd—

Well. Forget that. Focus on the portal.

Seven years of disuse, and the magic was rusty. Or the portal, temperamental on a good day, was playing with him, Conlan discovered, as he stepped through into water.

Lots of water.

Luckily he'd instinctively heaved in a deep breath before plunging through the shimmering opening. There was another lesson learned the hard way: the portal had its own power, independent of the Atlanteans who had first harnessed it more than eleven thousand years ago.

They ought to hang a "User Beware" sign on the capricious thing. He kicked off and headed for the surface, judging he was about ten meters deep from the looks of the shallow-water flora and fauna that shimmered in the diluted moonlight.

But distances could be tricky in the sea.

And then, there was the problem of where the hell the shore might be. He wouldn't be the first to end up treading water in the middle of the ocean.

The portal's idea of a practical joke. If portals had emotion, this one was packing a vindictive sense of humor.

As he broke the surface and sucked in a lungful of air, an almost-tangible force smashed into him. Agony sliced through his head, then shut off as if by a switch. A bitter taste seared his mouth; a sourness like lemon soaked in brine. •

Another wave of pain crashed through him, knocking him off balance. He nearly sank below the waves again, barely noticing the sands of the shores nearby.

He shook his head from side to side, trying to escape the fire inside of his head. He barked out a laugh. He'd had a lot of practice with pain, just lately. Think, damn you .

Crazed thoughts swirled in his bruised brain. If an Atlantean prince's head cracks wide open in the ocean, does it make a sound ?

He almost laughed again, but snorted water up his nose instead. Choking and coughing, he finally forced his limbs to cooperate and headed for the shore, eventually realizing he could touch bottom and walk.

His training kicked in, keeping him upright and coherent. Analyze. Reason. Use logic .

A third wave of pain seared through him, driving him to his knees, face caught under the breaking waves. He fought his way back to standing, plunged forward toward the shore.

Vamp mind powers? Doesn't feel like it. They could trap your mind, but not project pain like this. Could it be Reisen? Did the Trident give him some kind of mental power we don't know about?

His boots hit dry sand, and he collapsed, stumbling onto his knees. He sent a mind call out to Ven.

Needed help.

But it wasn't Ven's familiar patterns that answered his call. Instead, a tiny pinprick of awareness deep in his mind sparked, sputtered like a candle in a back draft, and then focused.

An image of beauty sheared by pain. A woman with sun-colored hair.

Something slammed shut in his mind, and the woman and the pain vanished. Almost as if a mental door had closed.

And Conlan wasn't the one who'd shut it.

Riley blinked at the EMT who was peering into her eyes while his fingers measured out her pulse. She looked away from him and scanned the room, knowing she looked as bleary-eyed as she felt.

He repeated his sentence, slower this time, as if she might not have understood him the first time. "You need to go to the ER and get checked out."

She started to shake her head no , but stopped as the movement shot bolts of pain through her skull. "I don't want to go to the ER. It was just a punch."

She brushed his hand off his arm and stood up on unsteady legs, which probably proved his point, but what the hell. "I've had worse. I need to go for a walk. I need air."

She'd already talked to the detective in charge of what was now a murder scene. Her part of it was done. And now the room was closing in on her.

It had been such a surprise to her at first, how many people show up at a murder scene. So many official types convened in a confluence of the mundane—photo taking, fingerprinting, tape measuring.

The profanity of death, obscured by the details of modern police work. It seemed wrong, somehow, as it always did.

She'd seen too much of it. Should have been a secretary, like her baby sister. Quinn never had to face despair. Or fists. Or blood on her clothes.

It was hell on the dry-cleaning bill.

The EMT stepped back and turned off the penlight he'd been shining in her eyes. "I don't think you have a concussion, but you're going to have a helluva shiner. You really should come and get checked out by the doc."

Riley's belly twisted, empty and nauseous. She moved away from him, tuning him out, and scanned the room again. The cheap apartment. The chaos left in the wake of violence.

The stench of death—blood and the body's release of wastes. It had surprised her at her first death scene, that release. The final indignity. A soiled corpse left for the impersonal attentions of the morgue.

Riley heard the moaning sound, low in her throat, and choked it off. She was tougher now. Hardened to it.

Immune to any emotion.

That's what she told herself, at least. Until she saw the bear.

Propped up in the corner of the room, next to a bassinet, a giant teddy bear wearing a pink bow grinned foolishly out at the room, unmoved by the drama that had played out before it.

That damn pink bow sent her over the edge.

"I have to get out of here. Please, just get out of my way. Please." She whirled around and shoved past the EMT, careful to walk around the personnel crouched on the floor taking pictures.

"Hey, Dawson. Where do you think you're going?" The detective she'd spoken with earlier— Ramsey? Ramirez ?—pulled on a fresh set of gloves, the lines in his face deepening as his gaze traveled to her face. "You look like shit. You should go with them to the ER."

Riley didn't stop; only slowed down a little. "I'm going to be sick. I've got to go get cleaned up and get some rest." She glanced back over her shoulder at him. "I'll call you as soon as I do."

He opened his mouth, probably to protest, but she was beyond caring. What were they going to do, arrest her? They knew who she was and, if only by rep, that her word was good.

He nodded, resigned. Sympathy and something she didn't want to define warmed his expression. Pity ? He should save his pity for Dina and her baby. They'd need it. She was just doing her job.

This time she did laugh, even though it came out sounding… wrong . Yeah, doing her job. She was screwing up her job on a royal level.

Another day, another dead body. That made eight murder scenes this year.

He nodded. "All right. You've told us enough for now, anyway. Call me in the morning. You've got my card."

She fingered the card she'd shoved in her pocket and headed for the door. The morning. She'd call him in the morning. Now she had to get to the water. To the beach. Her sanctuary. She felt the power and peace of the ocean calling her.