Head: aching

Body: lying on cold stone

Mood: Pretty damn mad

Lucas stared up at the screaming woman and winced. "Can you maybe take it down a notch?”

Her mouth snapped shut and the horrible noise stopped, thank the gods. He rolled over and up to his feet and scanned the room as he slowly backed away from the human female who shared his cage. She might be small and loud, but deadly things frequently came in small, loud packages with humans, he'd found. Like guns and grenades.

She was quite likely to have a gun concealed in her jacket. After all, they were in Florida.

"Stay over there,” she said, narrowing her eyes. They were beautiful eyes, a luminous golden-brown, but they were also flashing an angry "I'd like to kill you” message at him.

Lucas winced and reached up to feel the lump on the back of his head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If he'd taken two minutes to check that every shifter was all the way dead, he wouldn't be trapped in a cage with an aching head and an achingly beautiful, loud, and potentially dangerous woman.

The building was empty, but not abandoned. Large bins filled with ice were arranged around the huge room, and the smell of fresh fish permeated the air.

"Why are you in here?" He was pretty sure she wouldn't tell him the truth, since humans rarely told the truth. But the way she lied to him would give him some valuable clues as to what the hell was going on.

"I'm a prisoner, pretty much the same as you," she said.

"How long have you been here? Who put you in here? Where is here?" He reached out for the bars, wondering if he'd be able to simply bend them out of his way. Not all metal was created equal, and some he could bend with superior Atlantean strength.

"No!”

He froze.

"The bars have an electric charge running through them,” she said in a calmer voice. "You shouldn't touch them.”

Lucas blinked. Maybe he had a concussion from that lump on his head, because he should have noticed that. Now that he scanned the bars, he could see blue sparks snapping in the corner.

"Thanks. I appreciate the warning,” he told her, but she bit her lip and didn't respond, leaving him to wonder if she regretted giving him the caution. Smart choice, if so. After all, she was trapped in here with a warrior she knew nothing about.

He looked at her again—really looked at her this time—and almost whistled. She was beautiful. Curvy, lush body in a yellow-and-white dress that was short enough to show off tanned legs. White jacket that might be hiding a weapon. Orange shoes that told him she probably had a sense of humor. Burnished red-brown hair surrounded her face in a riot of curls and told him she was maybe a little bit wild. Those glowing golden eyes and a sprinkle of the cinnamon-colored marks the humans called freckles.

To his Atlantean sensibilities, she was exotic. To his male sensibilities, she was sexy as hell.

"What? Why are you staring at me?" She raised her chin and glared defiance at her, but she also folded her arms across her chest in a way that told him she was scared, and that gave him an unexpected twinge of remorse.

"I'm sorry. I'm just thinking," he said quietly, trying not to frighten her further. Instead, he tried to send out a call for help on the Atlantean mental communication pathway, which he should have done the moment he woke up, but his brain was so damn fuzzy.

Lucas? Griffin? Jake? Denal?

Silence. Not one of them answered. He tried again, with the same result, and then sent out a general call to all of Atlantis. At least some of the guards must be tuned in; the night shift at the docks, or the palace guard, surely.

Silence.

"This is not good,” he muttered.

"No shit, Sherlock,” the woman said, rolling her eyes.

"Lucas.”

"What?”

"My name is Lucas, not Sherlock,” he told her patiently, wondering who would name their kid Sherlock. Although most Atlantean names were rather … ornate, so who was he to cast stones?

She sighed. "Yes, I know your name isn't Sherlock. It means—”

He was instantly suspicious again. "How did you know that? Know what my name isn't, I mean?”

Huge golden eyes blinked at him. "Because nobody's name is Sherlock. Except the actual Sherlock…you know what? Never mind. Why are we even talking about this? I need to get out of here.”

"Good idea. Watch this and be amazed, human,” he told her.

He called to his magic, so he could transform into his mist shape, which would blow her tiny human mind. He called...and nothing answered. No mist, no magic.

Nothing. At. All.

He did not disappear, he didn't turn into mist, he didn't amaze or astonish the woman, except by his stupidity. Because Atlantean magic didn't work when the Atlantean trying to use it was surrounded by electrically charged metal. Neither did Atlantean mental communications.

Electricity was bad news; very bad news. Electricity was one of the few forces on or below the earth that had the power to interfere with Atlantean magic.

He was a complete idiot.

Damn.

He blew out a breath. "This is really not good."

The woman, however, was having a great time.

"Oh, boy. I'm so amazed,” she said, waving her hands in the air and dramatically widening her eyes. "Woot! Amazed. So, so amazed.”

"Don't test my patience,” he growled, suddenly having even less of that commodity than usual.

The amusement faded from her face and she stepped back a pace, putting as much distance as possible between them. He didn't know if she even realized she'd done it, but, clearly, he was intimidating her, maybe even scaring her. Not necessarily a bad thing—usually humans responded to fear--but perhaps not the best way to get information now, either.

On the other hand, he'd never been accused of being charming, so perhaps intimidation was his only card to play.

He glanced at her again; at her eyes glowing wide and frightened in the dim light, and suddenly all thoughts of intimidation faded away. So. He wasn't charming. He could at least try for reasonable.

He blew out a breath. "Let's start with the easy one. Where are we? Or were you unconscious when you got stuck in here too?”

"We're inside a fish market in Green Cove Springs, Florida."

"Strange that nobody ever noticed the cage with iron and silver bars built into their floor," he said dryly. "Or are there bigger, scarier fish off the coast of Florida than I've ever heard of, so big that they need a cage?”

"You should know about scary fish,” she said, defiance clear in her stance. "You're the one from Atlantis.”

She said it like it was her trump card; as if he hadn't known he was Atlantean.

He laughed. "Yeah. Not a lot of fish inside the dome when we were underwater and none on Atlantis now unless they're in aquariums.”

She tilted her head, and he realized she was trying to get a peek at the side of his neck, so then it was his turn to roll his eyes.

"No. We don't have gills, and we're not mer-people. Damn, do all you people live your lives believing everyone you meet stepped out of the pages of a comic book? Please. I'd kick Aquaman's ass.”

The corners of her lips quirked up, and he realized she was fighting a smile. Good. Maybe she was letting her guard down. Time for the strip search.

Strip search? Where in the nine hells had that come from?

Gods. Suddenly, he had the mind of a horny adolescent. But, damn, she was pretty. Her eyes were so expressive, and she had such a seductive mouth with sensual lips that were made for him to...

What was happening to him? He was trapped in a fucking cage, and he was lusting after a strange woman? Poseidon was going to kick his ass, forget Aquaman.

"All right, talk. Who put us here? What's your name? Are the fish guys the ones who captured us?"

She clenched her fists and scowled in what he was pretty sure was an honest expression of real anger. "No. That was the shifters. My name is Rhiannon. The shifters put us both here. Now quit ordering me around and tell me who you are."

He took a step toward her, slow and careful. Nothing to cause her to pull the gun she might have in her pocket. Time to throw her off-balance.

"I'm Lucas. Yes, from Atlantis. Currently way too busy to be stuck here. You have beautiful eyes. I'm going to have to search you for weapons.” He took another step.

She blushed, and he tried not to be delighted by the rosy pink flush warming her cheeks, but he couldn't help himself. How long had it been since he'd seen a woman blush?

"Okay, oh, well, thank you—wait. What? Like hell you are!” She backed away from him so fast that her feet must have gotten tangled, because she tripped and fell backward.

He shot across the floor in a blur of speed and barely managed to catch her before she landed on the electrified bars, then he whipped around and strode to the center of the cage before releasing her.

She turned wide eyes up to him. "That was…well. Thanks.”

"You're welcome. And I'm sorry.” He quickly patted down her jacket to be sure there was no knife or gun concealed in her pockets, debated what might be strapped to her thighs, and somewhat regretfully decided he couldn't take a chance.

"No, I don't have a gun,” she snapped.

"Then you're really going to hate me for this,” he said ruefully. In one quick motion, he yanked the hem of her skirt up with one hand and whirled her around with the other so that she did a quick half-turn and he could very clearly see that she had no gun or any other weapon--unless you counted what the tiny scrap of white lace covering her feminine delights was doing to his libido. He gave himself a mental smack on the head.

Focus, Lucas.

"How dare you?” she shouted, yanking out of his grasp.

"I'm sorry, but—”

"But nothing, Buster. Sorry this!” She punched him in the stomach with what was probably all her strength. It was a respectable blow, too. He didn't doubt that a human would be on the floor or at least doubled over and gasping for breath.

For Lucas, it was a feather-light tap that bounced off the muscles of his abdomen, but he almost felt guilty about it. After all, she'd really put some backbone into it.

"Hey,” he said, patting her arm. "Good one.”

Her eyes lit up with twin flames that he was pretty sure meant she was plotting his impending slow and ugly death. "Good one? You condescending jerk!”

"Condescending jerk is my middle name.” He grinned and dodged when she tried to punch him again. "Okay, enough with the violence. Are you prejudiced against Atlanteans? Or are you this mean to everybody when you're trapped in a cage?”

She sighed, all the anger seeming to evaporate with her exhalation of breath, and then she slumped down to sit cross-legged on the floor. "I don't know what kind of life you live, Lucas, but I've never been trapped in a cage before.”

Oddly enough—or not so oddly, considering—he actually had. Twice.

What did the humans say? Third time was a charm?

"Look—” she began, but then the sound of loud, male voices reached them.

When the two men sauntered into the room, Lucas didn't recognize either, but he knew they were shifters.

"About time,” he called out, making an elaborate show of stretching his arms. "It was getting dull in here. Is this when the torture starts?”

The bigger one, who had to be a bear shifter with all that hair and those thick brows on a low forehead, let loose with a nasty laugh. "You guessed it!”

Rhiannon walked up to stand next to Lucas. She'd turned pale beneath her tan. "Yardley, please let me out now. Please. I need to get home to Stevie before she gets scared. Please.”

The bear—Yardley, then—scowled at her. "Your kid is fine with Viola. Shut up, Rhi.”

"But, please! I don't understand any of this. Why do you—”

Before she could finish her sentence, the other man pulled a rectangular black object out of his pocket and shot Lucas and Rhiannon an evil grin. "Stand back from the gate,” he commanded.

"Plusick. Please. Please let me out of here.” Rhiannon's voice broke, and something deep in Lucas's chest twisted.

He didn't know why, but he suddenly wanted to protect this woman. To help her get to her daughter. To act like the hero he'd never been.

What a joke.

"You too, Water Boy,” Yardley taunted. "Get back from the gate, or else.”

"Or else what?” Lucas thought it was a reasonable question, even for low-rent villains like these two. "Or else you'll hurt me, or else you'll steal my motorcycle, or else—”

"You have a bike? What kind?” The other one, Plusick, asked, a dim light of interest brightening his piggy little eyes. Pig shifter? Did those even exist?

Yardley thumped him on the back of the head. "Shut up, you moron, and be ready. I'm going to unlock the cage.”

Plusick took position at the side of the gate, and Yardley turned the key in the shiny lock that, in Lucas's mind, was the only thing standing between him and freedom. The minute Yardley opened the gate, Lucas rushed him, reaching by habit for the daggers that wouldn't answer in an electric cage. Almost simultaneously, his still-fuzzy brain finally identified the rectangular object.

Just before fifty thousand volts of electricity smashed into him.

For the second time in an hour, he felt his head slam into the hard, cold, concrete floor. His arms and legs twitched uncontrollably as the fiery pain from the Taser seared through his body and his vision tunneled down to a kaleidoscoping swirl of lights. He roared with pain and rage, but his poor, battered head shouted Enough, already at him when the noise reverberated through his skull. His mind tried to sink into unconsciousness, desperate to escape from the blistering pain, and he welcomed it.

Time to go bye-bye. He could take a bit of a break from the day, right here on the concrete...maybe check out, just for a little while. His bruised and beat-up body, his probably-concussed brain--both were on board for that plan.

But then Rhiannon screamed.