Alyssa Day: Atlantis Rising

To the best editor in the world, Cindy Hwang,

who lets me try new things

and always roots for my success.

A good editor is worth her weight in gold —

Cindy is worth her weight in diamonds.

To LCDR Judd,

for more reasons than I will ever have words.

And to Michelle Cunnah,

who saves my life

at the eleventh hour

on every single book.

Thanks, always, to Steve Axelrod, who makes me laugh, makes great deals for me, and says nice things when I make my once-a-book "aarghhh" phone call.

To my wonderful friends Christine, Cheryl, Kathy, and Val of the Starfish Club for encouragement, and to all my incredible friends who listen, are patient, and offer wonderful advice: Lani Diane Rich, Michelle Cunnah, Barbara Ferrer, Eileen Rendahl, Whitney Gaskell, Beth Kendrick, Cindy Holby, and Marianne Mancusi. To Megan Emish, for the Warriors of Poseidon symbol. To my terrific Web people, Deb and Tara at RomanceDesigns.com, who should have been thanked earlier.

To Suz Brockmann, Ed Gaffney, Eric Ruben, Virginia Kantra, and Cathy Mann, who are brilliant and generous, and to the folks at the Into the Storm weekend for sharing their enthusiasm with me and listening to the first-ever reading from this book.

Jenny Crusie and the Cherries, who are funny, cranky, and amazing in exactly the right proportions.

And always , of course, to my children, who ate a little too much pizza and watched a little too much TV during the last two weeks of this book, but never once complained. You're the best .

In this island, Atlantis, arose a great and marvelous might of kings… But in later time, after there had been exceeding great earthquakes and floods, there fell one day and night of destruction; and the warriors… were swallowed up by the earth, and in like manner did the island Atlantis sink beneath the sea and vanish away.

—Plato, Timaeus , dated at approximately 600 B.C.

One can hardly doubt that significant shifts of the earth's crust have taken place repeatedly…

—Albert Einstein, in correspondence to Charles Hapgood,

May 8,1953

Capital City of Atlantis, 9600 b.c.

It was the time before the Cataclysm, forced upon Atlanteans by the greed of humanity. In Poseidon's Temple, in the soul of the seven isles of Atlantis, a group of warriors met with the sea god's high priest. He divided them into seven groups of seven and assigned each a sacred duty and an object of power—a magic-imbued gemstone. Some were to sink to the bottom of the world, shielded from prying eyes and envious lusts by the waters that nurtured them. Others were to join the lands of humans at assigned locations—all high grounds that would protect the lineage in the event of severe flooding.

All would wait. And watch. And protect.

And serve as first warning on the eve of humanity's destruction.

Then, and only then, Atlantis would rise.

For they were the Warriors of Poseidon, and the mark of the Trident they bore served as witness to their sacred duty to safeguard mankind.

Whether they liked it or not.

Capital City of Atlantis, Present Day

Conlan waved a hand in front of the portal and briefly wondered whether its magic would even recognize a warrior who hadn't passed through its gateway for more than seven years.

Seven years, three weeks, and eleven days, to be precise.

As he waited, up to his chest in the healing water, death taunted him—flickering at the edges of his vision, shimmering in the deep blue ocean currents surrounding him, pulsing in the scarlet blood that dripped steadily from his side and leg. He laughed without humor, propping himself up with a hand on his knee.

"If that bitch-vamp Anubisa couldn't break me, I'm sure as hell not giving up now," he snarled to the empty darkness surrounding him.

Iridescent aqua lights flashed as if in response to his defiance, and the portal widened for him. Two men—two warriors —stood at guard, widened eyes and parted lips mirroring identical expressions of shock as they stared through the transparent membrane of the portal. He shouldered his way through the portal's opening, which enlarged to fit whatever or whoever it deemed worthy of passage.

"Prince Conlan! You're alive," one said.

"Mostly," he replied, then stepped into Atlantis. He drank in the first sight in more than seven years of his beloved homeland, lungs expanding to taste the freshness of sea-filtered air. In the middle distance, the gold-veined white marble pillars fronting Poseidon's Temple glowed with the reflected hues of artificial sunset. Conlan's breath caught in his throat at the sight of it.

A sight he'd been sure he'd never experience again.

Especially when she'd laughingly proposed taking his eyes.

"A high prince with no vision. What a delicious metaphor for the loss of your philosopher-king father, young princeling. Why don't you beg?"

She'd strolled around him, flicking the silver-barb-tipped whip almost leisurely at him, as he stood, helpless, in chains made for creatures borne of deeper hells. Extending one delicate finger, she'd touched the droplets of blood that sprang up so eagerly in the wake of her whip.

Then she'd brought her finger to her mouth, smiling.

" But you will beg. Just like your father begged when I sliced the flesh off of your mother as she yet lived," she'd purred, evil mixed with a hideous lust in her eyes .

He'd roared his hatred and defiance for hours.

Days.

He'd even wept, driven to madness from the pain, on seven separate occasions.

Once during each year of his imprisonment.

But he'd never begged .

"But she will," he said, voice hoarse with the effort of remaining upright. "She will beg, before I'm done with her."

"Highness?" The guards rushed forward to assist him, yelling out for aid. He whipped his head up, teeth bared, growling like the animal he'd become. They both stopped, midstep. Frozen in place.

Unsure how to react to royalty gone feral.

Conlan staggered forward, determined to take the first steps onto his native soil without aid.

"We must inform Alaric immediately," said the older, more experienced warrior of the two. Marcus. Marius, maybe ? Conlan focused, certain he must know the man.

It was important that he remember things. Yes, Marcus .

"You're bleeding, Highness."

"Mostly," he repeated, stumbling forward another step. Then the world spiraled down to black.

Ven stood in the observation chamber, looking down on the hall of healing below, where Poseidon's high priest, clearly exhausted, labored over Ven's brother. It took one hell of a lot to drain the energy out of Alaric. He was rumored to be the most powerful high priest who had ever served the sea god.

Not that warriors knew much about the difference between one priest and another. Or, usually, gave much of a shit. Except, right now, he cared about that distinction.

A lot.

Ven clenched the railing, fingers digging into the soft wood, as he thought about what exactly Anubisa must have done to Conlan. He knew what she'd done to Alexios. One of Conlan's most trusted guards, the Seven, Alexios had spent two years under Anubisa's tender ministrations. Hers and those of her evil apostates of Algolagnia, who drew their only sexual pleasure from pain and torture.