Page 93 of The Prince and His Stolen Throne
Wilde shrugged. “I assumed it was information you already knew, since you’d embarked on a quest to break a curse.”
“I thought we would defeat the Lord of Grimnight to break the curse,” Fitz replied, taking back the conversational reins. “If he’s the anchor, that’s still true. If he’snot, then the curse won’t break until we find whateveris.” He flipped to the beginning of his notes. “I’ve compiled a list of common anchors—”
Maximus placed his hand over Fitz’s, halting his search. “What do you want,Will?” He emphasized the fake name, reminding me of my slip-up in front of the librarian.
Wilde arched an eyebrow. “I want Treasure’s mission to succeed.”
Mymission, not myquest. Was he trying to hint that I needed to find the anchor before the others and protect it from them?
A muscle flickered in Maximus’ clenched jaw. “Trey. He prefers to be calledTrey. If you were a good boyfriend, you would know that.”
My brow furrowed at Maximus’ reaction. Since I’d met him, he’d been quiet, polite, and helpful. Yet he’d treated Wilde with hostility from the beginning. Maybe he had good instincts and had sniffed out the hints of evil in Wilde’s calm, cool demeanor. “He can call me Treasure, it’s fine.”
“It’snotfine. Names areimportantand he’s not respectingyours.”
Fitz raised his book, eyes wide and plaintive. “Can you let him answer my questions before you chase him off again?”
Maximus crossed his arms and slumped in the chair.
“Thank you.” Fitz turned back to Wilde and asked, “How do we identify the anchor?”
Wilde answered easily, like he hadn’t just been subjected to Maximus’ criticism. “Look where the curse first began.”
“City hall?”
Wilde nodded.
I couldn’t tell if this was the honest answer, or if he was once again guiding us toward his master’s trap.
“Alright,” Fitz said, snapping his book shut. “In the morning we’ll enter city hall, find the anchor, and destroy it.”
It sounded so easy when the list only consisted of three steps.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I stood in the middle of a grand hall. The edges of the room were blurry and indistinct, obscured by shadow. Before me a black-cloaked figure sat on a throne of snarled roots and twisted branches. A spotlight illuminated them like they were the main character of a play about to give a soliloquy.
Or a villain about to give a monologue.
“Treasure,” the dark, sibilant whisper snaked toward me, wrapping around my throat like a heavy iron collar. “It has been too long since we last spoke.”
I squinted up at the cloaked figure. “Old Man?”
A beat of silence followed as my old man tried to hold onto the air of dark mystique. It disappeared the moment he spoke. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?” he groused as he got to his feet. The cloak fluttered behind him in a valiant attempt to increase his intimidating presence. “I am your father. I want you to acknowledge that for once.”
I stared at him in confusion. Then realized I was staringdownat him. I hadn’t seen him in person since I was nine, and talking to him through the mirror never showed me his true height. I was used to looking Brendon and Rick in the eye. I never expected that the top of the old man’s head would only come up to my nose.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, searching the shadows for signs of the other champions. Wait. What wasIdoing here? And where washere?
“I wanted to speak with you, man to man, father to son. No mirrors, no messengers, just the two of us.” He reached up to give my shoulder a paternal squeeze.
“That’s a lot easier if you take off the cloak.”
He sighed deeply. “You have no sense for showmanship. Ah well, for once, that might be useful.” He lowered the hood, allowing the fabric to settle around his neck. His blond curls were slicked back with so much hair gel that they glistened in the spotlight. “Come, let us discuss your progress.”
He looped his arm through mine and dragged me down the hall. As we walked, the spotlight preceded us, lighting our way. Walls manifested from the shadows, covered with grotesque paintings. Light shone off the yellow eyes of a hungry, slavering wolf. Glistened on the bones of dancing skeletons.
“I know you’re close,” he whispered. The sibilant hiss persisted.
