though it was impossible, he felt the pain of it dig into his chest.
Impossible or not, the carving connected them. He shouted out some wordless noise of longing or loss or loneliness, and through whatever magic or hallucination that swirled between them, she heard him.
Just for an instant, she gasped and blinked those beautiful eyes and seemed to stare straight at him.
Then as the vision or mirage of her vanished and he was plunged back into the darkness but not into the despair, he realized one undeniable truth.
She was his .
Or she was a figment of his imagination. Suspended alone in the unending dark, Justice began to laugh.
Chapter 4
Rowes Wharf, Boston
Alexios stared up at the enormous brick-and-granite-clad building that gleamed like new money and old arrogance in the moonlight. He whistled, a low, piercing sound of disbelief, and turned to Brennan. âAre you kidding me? This is the HQ? Whatever happened to the good old days when the Apostates of Algolagnia skulked around in abandoned warehouses and damp, leaky basements?â
Alexios almost laughed at himself, although nothing about the situation was funny. They were just having a normal conversation between a couple of guys.
If the guys happened to be centuries-old Atlantean warriors whoâd called to their power over water to ride air currents rich with the sharp tang of seawater and diesel fuel that mixed over Boston Harbor.
Christophe shot up through the air to join them, his Firefly T-shirt and faded jeans contrasting vividly with the dark clothing Alexios, Brennan, and the rest of the Seven routinely wore on missions outside of Atlantis. High Prince Conlanâs elite guard and fighting force wasnât really supposed to look like Goth college kids playing rebel, after all.
As if heâd heard the thought, Christophe turned the full force of his gaze on Alexios, who suddenly realized that the clothes meant nothing. The weight of power, barely leashed, that glowed in Christopheâs eyes made the question of his attire irrelevantâthe warrior was a killer as icy as the oceanâs most isolated depths.
It wasnât really the time to ponder Christopheâs morality, conscience, or lack of either, though. They needed to find Justice, before all hope that he was still alive vanished under the harsh reality of passing time.
âLetâs check it out,â Alexios called out quietly. Shimmering to mist, the three rose farther into the air until they hovered thirty or so feet over the icy winter waters of Boston Harbor.
Poseidonâs warriors, preparing to play Peeping Tom.
The thought sickened Alexios, especially given what they might see from the members of a cult that experienced pleasure through pain. No matter, though. Heâd give his life to find Lord Justice. They all would. Tracking down a few sick perverts for information seemed a small price to pay.
âEven if the venue seems so unlikely,â he added out loud.
âCatch up, already,â Christophe said, sneering. âAnubisaâs twisted cult owns the lives and rotted souls of members with big bucks and bigger connections. The humans call this complex of buildings the âGateway to Boston.â What better way for Anubisaâs acolytes to stake their claim to the rest of the new world?â
â Stake their claim. I get it. Vamp-worshipping cult. Stake. Funny man,â Alexios said, not in the least bit amused. âWhere are they?â
Brennan cleared his throat, as if stretching rusted vocal cords. Lately the warrior had been prone to longer and longer periods of silence. Alexios wondered, not for the first time, if the centuries of having no emotion were finally wearing Brennan down. âWhen Quinn sent word to Atlantis, she indicated that the cult held its rites in a penthouse suite of the Boston Harbor Hotel, which is contained within this building.â He pointed to a section of the multistoried arch that spanned a