Page 22 of The Prince and His Stolen Throne
Brutus rubbed his hands together and practiced his evil laugh. “Muahaha. Muahaha. Muahaha.” After the third attempt, he paused to listen to the acoustics. “No, no, this won’t do at all. I want to make their hearts quiver and their minds scatter in panic. Right now, it’s simply …”
“Loud?” an imp shouted. Although the lord had stopped practicing, its little green hands still covered its ears.
“Yes, exactly. But how to fix it … perhaps I could raise the ceiling higher?”
“You know how to do that?” the imp asked, sounding more skeptical than impressed.
Brutus grabbed the ends of his cloak and raised them ominously, spreading it behind him in batlike wings. “Do you question my greatness, fool?!”
The imp sighed and recited faithfully, “No, Your Dark Excellency.”
An ever-gracious master, Brutus nodded his forgiveness. In all fairness, he knew nothing about magical construction and could no more change the height of the ceiling than he could create a door out of thin air.
Brutus had not designed the building he inhabited in the Grimnight Forest. He wasn’t even the mage who had first transformed it into an evil lair. The original Lord of Grimnight had died without an apprentice to inherit the title. No one even knew of his untimely demise until Brutus stumbled upon the lair seven years ago, discovered the skeleton half-stuck in a toilet, and deduced what had happened. Ever since then, he had taken the title, lair, and the old lord’s fortune for his own.
Stealing another evil mage’s title was not unheard of, but usually the thief had a more active role in their victim’s defeat. If anyone learned that the old Lord of Grimnight had died alone, rather than by Brutus’ own hand, no one would acknowledge him as a proper evil mage. So, he did the most logical thing: pretended to be the original Lord of Grimnight. With no one to challenge Brutus’ claim, it was an easy lie to maintain.
As Brutus mulled over the acoustic dilemma, the double doors behind him creaked open. The sound echoed dramatically through the grand room much to Brutus’ annoyance, since he should be the most dramatic person present. He whirled around to snap at whoever had spoiled his mood, only to see another black-cloaked figure.
Why did so many apprentices mimic their masters? Brutus had done it to his master, and now it was his turn to suffer the indignity.
“Back already?” he asked, feigning calm when he wanted to stamp his foot and demand his apprentice immediately remove that cloak. “Did you deliver the message?”
“I did, Master.”
The respectful address soothed Brutus’ bruised nerves. “What did he say?”
“Nothing important.” The apprentice swept forward, their cloak billowing behind them in a nonexistent wind. “He’s an interesting choice for an undercover agent.” They stopped next to the imp and offered it a small brown bag.
The imp squealed in glee and snatched the bag from their hands, immediately ripping it open. Colorful candies sprayed through the air and scattered onto the floor. The imp began eating handfuls from the bag, slowly rising into the air and rotating with glee. Soon, they’d emptied the bag and began eating the floor-candies while hanging upside down.
Brutus scoffed in disgust. “Don’t spoil it! Look at the mess it’s made!”
“I’m sorry, Master.” The apprentice crouched to pick up the stray pieces of candy, dropping them into the imp’s waiting mouth.
Brutus was already sick of looking at his apprentice. When they’d first sought a master five years ago, the idea of having his own apprentice so excited Brutus that he hadn’t considered any of the downsides. Namely, when their skills surpassed their master’s. Or when the minions liked the apprentice better.
“Well?” Brutus demanded. “Did you have anything else to report?”
“No, although I did have a question.”
He waved his hand impatiently.
“Why did you choose Treasure for this mission?”
“Why? Did he say something? Did he do something?” The geas should prevent the boy from betraying him, yet Brutus couldn’t help gnawing his lip in worry. He’d invested so much into this plot—years of planning, a small fortune in renovations to the lair, classes in rhetoric to polish his villainous monologue. This would be his first plot grand enough to earn arealevil title and the respect of his peers. He hated relying on one boy to see it through, even if it was his own flesh and blood.
“He seems … willful.”
“Gets that from his mother,” Brutus muttered. “That’s why you need to keep an eye on him. In case he gets into trouble—or causes it.” It was a perfectly reasonable task to assign an apprentice. It would also keep them out of his hair for a while, so Brutus could take a break from teaching them magic. He’d run out of lesson plans two years ago and had been improvising ever since.
“As you command, Master.”
Brutus waved them off. “Do everything necessary to keep him in line and the quest on track.”
Hours after his apprentice disappeared, Brutus wondered if he’d given them too much free reign.
Chapter Eight
