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two of his silver throwing stars shot through the air so fast that even Alexios‟s Atlantean vision barely caught a glimpse of it.
    One after the other, the stars drove into the vampire‟s neck with such force that the first sliced halfway through and the second completed the job. Alexios stared, caught between shock and fury, as the only hope they had for finding Justice dissolved into a sizzling pool of acidic vampire slime that burned through the carpet to the concrete floor.
    He whirled to face Brennan. “What in the nine hells were you thinking? We needed to get him to talk, not to—”
    The words shriveled in his mouth at the expression on Brennan‟s face. The calm serenity of centuries was nowhere to be seen. Brennan‟s eyes burned like molten silver and his face contorted as his entire body shook with what could only be rage.
    Rage. In Brennan, who was cursed to feel no emotion at all.
    Christophe‟s low whistle startled Alexios out of his trance. “What the hells? Brennan?
    Centuries of no emotion, and you pick now to go bat shit on us?”
    Alexios couldn‟t even speak. It was as if up were suddenly down. As if fish flew and birds swam. Brennan, in a rage. The shock of it swallowed lucid thought.
    Brennan evidently had enough words for them all. A torrent of bitterness—harsh words made lyrical by the cadence of the ancient Atlantean tongue—poured from between the warrior‟s bared teeth. Brennan‟s eyes flashed that eerie metallic silver color as he spoke, but it wasn‟t until Alexios saw the blood dripping from Brennan‟s clenched fists that he realized the warrior still held the deadly sharp throwing stars in his hands.
    Brennan seemed not even to notice the blood or the pain, because he kept ranting in low, hoarse tones, now turning in a slow circle to sweep the room and the cowering humans with his gaze. The haunting refrain spilled from his lips; still in ancient Atlantean, but of course Alexios understood every word. It was, after all, their native tongue.
    “Kill them. Kill them all.
    “Kill them now .”

Chapter 5
    October 1776,
    the former British colonies in North America
    Justice stood, silently watching, until the trail of dust kicked up by the horse‟s hooves had long since settled back onto the rocky ground. The last rays of the setting sun shimmered over the faint path like a benediction, Nature herself approving of the rider‟s news.
    Independence.
    Since early July, evidently, when these foolhardy and insanely courageous humans had declared themselves free from British rule. Free from the oppressions of a distant monarchy.
    Free to wrestle their existence from a land filled with both known and unknown dangers. Of course, then they‟d go too far and try to conquer those who had resided in these lands long before the newcomers had landed from distant shores.
    The pattern never changed. Battle and conquest. Triumph or surrender. Peace an illusory fantasy dreamed by a madman.
    “We knew it was coming,” Ven said, walking up beside him. “Damned if I don‟t like these colonists. All guts and grit. But the locals may have a word or two to say. Especially the Illini chief. He‟s a good man, a temperate man, but he won‟t be backed into a corner without a fight.”
    Justice sighed. “You‟re not wrong. I wish it could be different.” Then he turned to confront the unlikely sight of a prince of Atlantis wearing a coonskin hat. “Guts and grits?”
    Ven snorted. “Grit, not grits. Try to keep up.” He liked to fit in with the local populace; now he was masquerading as a fur trapper. Justice grinned, remembering Ven‟s disappointment that nobody in Rome wore togas these days.
    “Grit: another word for courage. Many of these men would make good warriors, should they decide to oppose the shifters and vampires.”
    “Grit or no, a gun and a bellyful of beans won‟t help them in a fight with that nest of vamps,”
    Justice replied. “And no, I still won‟t wear a hat made out