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 staring down at 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 was I doing here? And where was here?
“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.
What would it take for him to drop the act?
Wilde had stopped wearing the cloak when I’d introduced him to the others.
Over the course of the quest, he’d mostly abandoned the evil mage act.
He’d stopped looming in shadows, appearing and disappearing just to see if he could make me jump.
Yet when he’d fought the librarian, he’d scared me more than the old man’s theatrics.
“You have delivered one champion to me already, but three remain out of my reach.”
Our walk never led anywhere. The hallway stretched endlessly ahead. The twisted throne loomed behind. The paintings on the wall repeated every few feet.
“How is Angelica?” I asked, keeping my tone casual. “Did she put up a fight?”
The old man’s lips pursed. “She is contained. The orcs are dealing with her now.”
I froze.
The old man continued walking, but my arm looped through his stopped him and he stumbled, losing his footing and kicking the air for a moment before he settled down. Huffing in annoyance, he glared at me and demanded, “What is the matter?”
“You promised not to hurt any of them.” I hadn’t been concerned about Angelica because of his promise, and because everyone would end up in the lair eventually. If he was using this extra time to hurt her …
“She’s fine. A little bruised, particularly her ego, but she will keep her life and all her limbs.” His eyes narrowed in consideration. “Though … perhaps chopping off her hair would knock her down a peg or two.”
My hand tightened reflexively on his arm until he flinched.
I forced my fingers to loosen, the anger to seep from my expression.
A haircut wouldn’t kill Angelica. Knowing her, she’d find some way to spin it in her favor, bragging about how being bald showed off the perfect shape of her head.
As long as the old man kept his torture to petty bullying, everyone would survive to see the end.
We began walking again. “Where is she now?”
“In the dungeons, of course. Where else would I put her?”
“A spare room?” I suggested weakly. “The lair must have dozens of them.”
“Those are guest rooms, not prisoner rooms. I cannot stash my hostages in a room with a queen-sized bed and feathered mattress! They would lose all respect for me! The Council of Evil would question the suitability of my accommodations! My commitment to evil!” He sighed heavily.
“Believe me, Treasure, it would all lead to much more trouble than a good old-fashioned dungeon. I even installed mossy stones for a classic aesthetic.” Under his breath he added, “Not that she noticed the renovations.”
I probably couldn’t convince him to move Angelica, which meant everyone else would be imprisoned in the dungeons as well. How long would they be there? A few weeks? Months? Years?
I’d been to my dad’s magic tower. Although it was his private retreat, he’d let me spend afternoons with him, reading the books in his library. The perfect place to spend the lazy hours of an afternoon.
That’s how I’d pictured the royal champions imprisoned—perhaps in a bleaker, darker aesthetic, with no option to leave—but still somewhere comfortable.
Not locked in a dungeon.
My stomach dropped and bile burned my throat. Was my plan really the best way to save everyone? Maybe he wouldn’t torture the champions, but what if they got sick? Would he bring a doctor to see them or leave them to suffer?
I didn’t know how to convince him to treat them better, or if trying would only make him suspect my motives. I needed the ‘Lord of Grimnight’ to conquer the Desolated Lands, but it wouldn’t mean anything if the others withered away in the dungeons.
Once the Kingdom Defense Spell fell, it didn’t matter whether the royal champions stayed here or returned home. Ideally, they’d be within reach, the ‘easy choice’, but I’d help them escape if that was our only option.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to focus on one step at a time. “I need some information to ensure this plan works.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What information?”
“I need to know what the anchor is for the curse. To hide it from the champions.” Wilde had hinted that it was important for my mission but hadn’t told me where to look.
“Oh, that.” The old man waved his hand dismissively. “It’s safe, don’t worry.”
“But what is it?”
Bright blue eyes stared at me for a long moment. “I think it’s time you woke up.”
“Wait!” I reached toward him, if I could hold onto him, maybe I could hold onto the dream. As darkness surrounded me, my hand closed on a fistful of fabric.
“Do you always wake up thrashing about?” Wilde mumbled in a sleepy voice.
The lamp beside the bed lit itself, washing the inn’s room in warm orange light. Wilde peered at me with one annoyed eye under a curtain of white hair.
I stared at him dumbly, then looked down at my hand. The fabric I’d grabbed was the front of his shirt. One of his hands lay curled near my chest and his fingers twitched with a desire for payback.
“Sorry.” I released the shirt and smoothed out the wrinkles.
“Bad dream?”
I opened my mouth to tell him about his master—my father’s—visit, but what came out was, “I’m sorry the others were kind of jackasses to you.” Goddamn geas.
Confusion furrowed Wilde’s brow. He pulled his hand away from me and sat up. He raised one knee to rest his chin on while he looked down at me. The bundled sheets separating us were only a few inches thick, but the barrier suddenly felt a mile wide. “Did you think their words hurt my feelings?”
Laying down made me feel vulnerable, so I sat up as well and leaned against the headboard. “I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Trey.”
I flinched, hating that he had changed how he addressed me just because of Maximus’ comments.
Usually, when people called me ‘Treasure’, it reminded me of the way my old man said it, like I was something to be coveted and owned.
Wilde said my name like I was the only ‘Treasure’ that existed, and the word had no other definition.
“I know I’m a fair actor, but do I have to remind you that I am actually evil?
Implying I have bad intentions isn’t an insult, it’s an annoyingly astute observation.
” He placed his hand over mine and gently rubbed his thumb back and forth.
The soft gesture certainly didn’t feel evil.
“I thought you were too, because you work for the master.”
Shit, he really has no idea that I’m his master’s son.
“I’m going to be an evil mage one day—soon, if all goes as planned.”
I sat quietly for a moment, then whispered, “Why does it have to be an evil mage?”
“Because it’s the only way to get what I want.”
I looked deep into his mirror eyes, trying to understand. “What’s so important?”
His black eyes usually reflected the world, but now all I could see was a dark desire.
He raised my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss first to my palm, then in a feather-light trail down my arm.
My pulse raced faster with every caress, and I wondered if he could count each beat.
His trail led him to my neck, the sensitive corner of my jaw.
Without needing a command, I slowly lay back on the bed, head rolling to expose my throat to him.
If he was a beast, he could have ripped it open.
As if he had the same tempting thought, his tongue peeked out, followed by his teeth.
He bit down firmly, startling a cry from me, and sucked hard.
It was an odd sensation, painful but not entirely unpleasant. Marking his territory.
I should have protested. Pushed him away. Brought us back to the important discussion he’d derailed. All I could do was close my eyes and bite my lip to suppress an embarrassing moan.
He grasped the back of my knee and spread my legs so he could position himself between them. It was harder to resist his orders when he didn’t give them verbally—not that I had any mind to fight him now. His erection pressed against me as he thrust his hips forward, a promise and a threat.
One of my hands gripped the sheets, the other the back of his head, pulling on his hair. I couldn’t decide if I wanted him to bite me harder or let me go. When he finally pulled his mouth away from my neck, it ached from his absence.
He pressed his wet mouth to mine and whispered, “Everything.”
It sounded like an answer, but I’d long forgotten the question.
He captured my lips in another kiss, stealing away the last of my rationality with a skilled tongue. The sheets ripped under my hand, and I released him, searching for something more solid to hold onto as his thrusting hips picked up speed, like he was fucking me with our clothes still on.
Suddenly, his mouth pulled away and his weight disappeared from on top of me. My leg dropped like a deadweight onto the bed.
Eyes squeezed too tightly shut to open, my hands gripped the bedposts, practically welded to the frame. I shifted my hips, seeking him but finding only empty air.
He wouldn’t …
I forced my eyes open and turned my head to the side, the only movement I could manage with the rest of me still waiting to climax. The room was empty. Even his things were gone.
It took my dazed mind a moment to come to terms with the fact that he had really left.
And the bastard had absolutely chosen his timing on purpose.
He couldn’t have found a less agonizing way to prove he was evil?!