Page 35 of The Prince of Hidden Shadows
Smirking, Nathan takes matters into his own hands, as if he owns the place. Dropping the backpack at his feet, clad in Chucks. Without a word, he moves to the Chesterfield and opens the tube, unrolling a dozen canvases that he deposits on the small coffee table. I grab one, then another, and a third. They’re all reproductions ofHidden Shadows; it must have taken him hours to paint these. Studying the muted colors and the indistinct figure in the center—which shifts more the longer I stare—I gawk. Even to my experienced eye, they’re identical to the original. How on earth is this possible?
“You feel it, huh?” Nathan’s voice stays low and conspiratorial.
“You…” I hesitate. “You did this?” My shoulders unwind, tension draining from me as awe takes over. His execution stirs something in me—the same pull I get whenever I stand in front of the original at the Princedelphia Metropolitan Museum—something restless and unspoken. This Nathan guy somehow captured the essence of the infamous painting without ever seeing it in person.
For more reasons than I can count, this cannot be.
Throat parched, I shoot a puzzled glance at Zagreus, who watches me with a poised confidence that borders on infuriating. I can’t bring myself to hate Nathan. I put on my poker face, struggling to conceal how impressed I am—and it shows—and will my hammering heart to slow the fuck down.
“From my understanding, Théodore, this,” Nathan taps the image, “is your ticket out. These are my first replicas… They were just for practice, so they’re far from perfect.” My trained eye will require more time with them because, from where I stand, the work is exceptional. “Trust me, after I visit the museum, I’ll get to work. Once I’m done, no one will be able to tell the original from its counterfeit.”
Zagreus gives an approving nod.
I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that two people have now insisted I should trust them—when I haven’t heard from the one person I do trust in far too long. I remind myself to text Noé as soon as we’re done here. We’re used to the distance, and silence never means forgetting. But I miss him. If I’m being honest, I haven’t had the guts to reach out—too afraid he’ll ask questions I’m nowhere near ready to answer. Questions about what I feel for the man standing across from me. A man? No, but close enough to fool my instincts.
He's a Greek god, for fuck’s sake.
I suck in a shaky breath, not convinced I fathom the full scope of what he is. I always loved mythology, but I missed out on plenty about the Underworld… and Zagreus’s infamous father.
Oblivious to the war going on inside me, Zagreus tosses me a reassuring grin. “Welcome to the team.”
I’m not sure whether to laugh or throw a tantrum, but one thing’s for sure—I'm in way over my head.
The salty tangof the ocean breeze mingles with the subtle scent of blooming flowers as we saunter down the narrow, cobbled streets toward the museum. June is right around the corner, and the late morning fog has burned off, leaving a crisp, sunlit afternoon in its wake. The gulls overhead squawk, drifting in wide arcs above the rooftops.
Zagreus strides ahead, hands buried in the pockets of his impeccable, outdated jacket, and I half expect Sonny Crockett’s sidekick—Ricardo Tubbs—to appear beside us any minute; another one of Zagreus’s favorite characters he managed to introduce me to through a handful of reruns, even though he favors Crockett’s style.
Pretending I’m not ogling the curves of his sumptuous ass, hinted beneath the linen of his pants, a teasingly appreciative smile creeps onto my face.
Who would have guessed a Greek god would introduce me to the unique ambiance of that 80s show?
I can’t help grunting my frustration at the long jackets of the era, hiding more than I’d like.
Nathan ambles behind, pausing every so often to admire the ivy-covered facades of the old buildings. I’m in the middle, nursingmy post-shift coffee, its warmth seeping through the paper cup and into my palms.
“This city’s so pretty,” Nathan remarks, stopping to inspect a wrought iron lamppost with intricate scrollwork. “Less boisterous than Provincetown, for sure. Have you ever been there?” I shake my head, sipping my coffee. “Maybe Zagreus can take you there this summer.”
I have no clue what the future holds for us. Is there even an us? First and foremost, I need to complete my assignment and fly back to Monaco.
Zagreus glances back over his shoulder. “Soon enough, we’ll see what’s in the cards for us.”
This isn’t the place to get into it, so I steer the conversation to France. Turns out Nathan’s been there before, and even speaks the language. Can he be any more annoying?
Before long, the streets open onto a wide, tree-lined avenue, and at last, the grand limestone façade of the coastal Princedelphia Metropolitan Museum looms ahead. Its tall windows glint in the sunlight, banners advertising the latest exhibition—“Echoes of Forgotten Kingdoms”—fluttering in the breeze.
Inside, the museum is cool and hushed, the gentle sound of footsteps and whispered conversations echoing beneath the vaulted ceilings. Nathan slows to scan the polished marble floors, the intricate molding, and the rich tapestries hanging in the main hall.
We weave throughout the exhibition, passing glass cases filled with gilded goblets, ceremonial daggers, and ancient scrolls. He halts often, his gaze roving over each artifact as if mere proximity could uncover its secrets.
At last, we reachthepainting. It’s displayed in a shadowed alcove, set apart from the other pieces, its centuries-old provenance and rumored divine origin, and recent resurfacing lending it a palpable gravity. The canvas is modest in size—twice theMona Lisa—but commands attention just as forcefully.
“Damn,” Nathan breathes, stepping closer.
Hidden Shadowsis a storm of dark, brooding blues and grays and splashes of scarlet, the brushstrokes chaotic and raw. At its center, a lone figure stands on the shore of a roiling river, their face turned toward a dim, golden light breaking through the clouds. The image is both despondent and defiant, as if the figure refuses to surrender to the encroaching darkness.
“It’s haunted,” Nathan whispers, half to himself. “But… it’s holding out… for hope?” He declares, focusing on Zagreus. “Amazing job.”
The mighty Greek god drops his gaze at the compliment. Crossing his arms, he offers a faint nod without revealing much. “Fits the theme of the exhibition. The rise and fall of empires. Finding light in the rubble.”
