The Age of Mages: Book I of the Mage Tales (11 page)

“Ah, yes, well.” I scratched the back of my neck. “It was nowhere nearly as pleasant as that.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Titus said, in a voice that didn’t sound sorry at all. “So, has anything else changed in Roma since I left?”

Since he left.
The last time Titus had been in Rome was two thousand years ago. I thought of the traffic lights, car horns, mopeds, and radios. Scantily clad women, and tourists and citizens on cell phones. People of every shade and costume roaming the teeming metropolis.

“Not at all,” I replied.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Very good,” Titus finally said. “When do you report to the PIA there?” he asked.

“First thing in the morning.” The PIA’s office in Rome didn’t open until nine, and although I probably could have used my powers to sneak in and begin researching right away, I decided to wait. I’d introduce myself properly first; after that, who would look twice at an eager young man working early in the morning, or late into the night?

“Right then,” he said. “And remember—let me know the minute you find out anything.”

“I will,” I replied.
So you can get your hands on my mother or the crystal, whichever matters most to you.

***

With nothing to do until the following morning, I wandered the streets, thinking. What was the city like in my father’s day? I wondered. Traffic jams had long ago replaced the clip-clop of hooves, the groaning of iron chariot wheels. Though there were still glorious fountains, and public squares called
palazzos
, not to mention the graffiti.

The Romans were well known for their poetry, drama, and epigrams. Often using satire and obscene language to make a point, my ancestors carved and wrote such words wherever the public could view them. As I passed the modern equivalent, I wondered if the hoodlums who graced this wall with their artwork were aware they were upholding a centuries-old tradition. Doubtful.

Still, it was a lovely evening for a stroll. It’s true Rome is crowded and touristy, but not so much at night. It was almost easy to believe I really was here on holiday, or maybe a native Italian with business in the city. No one knew what evil might lie beneath these very streets, or whether my own flesh and blood might be a victim of it.

I walked by a restaurant where a large family was having dinner. They were all smiles and laughter, and I couldn’t help but feel envious. My parents would never have been able to share a meal together without a fight breaking out. And my father certainly wouldn’t be able to eat anything served.

I pushed such thoughts from my mind and tried to enjoy the walk instead. Rome certainly was a city of contradictions. For instance, modern sculpture stood side by side with statues of ancient gods and goddesses. I’m sure by now you can guess which I was more interested in.

Not unlike my Roman ancestors, witches worship various pantheons. In fact, some deities, like Hecate and Aradia, are specific to witches. However, ancient Rome didn’t tolerate other religions well, to say the least. I mean, they fed Christians to lions on a regular basis, so accepting witches was out of the question. I imagine that made my father feel like an outcast wherever he went. I had no idea what his present religious convictions were, or indeed, if he believed in anything. I’m fairly certain his expressions involving gods and fate were just a force of habit.

Still, the monuments were fascinating to look at. There were statues, reliefs, looming churches. Made of marble, some had once been proud and smooth, but were now grayish-brown and pockmarked. Please don’t misunderstand me; they were still majestic. But rather the way an overused ball gown is majestic: luxurious and regal, but showing its age. They say that in ancient times, the columns and statuary of Rome were painted. I’ll bet Abigail would have loved that. She was always fond of bright colors.

Eventually, I came to the oldest triumphal arch in Rome: the Arch of Titus. Not my father’s, but the emperor of the same name; it commemorates Rome’s victory in yet another battle. Staring at the sand-colored stone high above me, I wondered about the outcome of my own expedition. I hoped that it would yield the answers I sought, but most of all, that it would lead to my mother.

Chapter 10

The PIA satellite office was located not far from the British Council building, and just a few blocks from the Hassler Hotel. At Rome’s PIA office, the Italian nameplate outside the door translated roughly to “For the ladies and gentlemen of Rome. Members must provide identification.” Well, I was a gentleman of Rome, was I not? I walked in and made myself at home.

The building’s setup was similar to the PIA’s London branch, with conference rooms, libraries, et cetera. The style was more Italianate than English, but that was to be expected. And here, our bored receptionist was male.

With my flair for linguistics, they assigned me some work translating ancient documents. Fortunately, what they thought took me hours was actually accomplished in much less time. I have magical genes to thank for this; you can imagine my mother’s delight when she had me tested and discovered my IQ was off the charts. But I can’t really take credit for that. It was partly the result of witch blood, and most witches’ intelligence cannot be measured by mortal instruments. But taking notes for your own research looks an awful lot like translating, so it was perfect.

At least, it would have been if I’d been able to find anything. But two weeks of discreetly searching through dusty tomes and record halls hadn’t yielded many answers. I did see a few things about my mother—when she became a witch, various powers, places she’d lived. Obviously, nothing I didn’t already know.

Perhaps it was somewhat for my own ego that I wanted to see more—she was
my
mother, after all. But the lack of information frustrated more than just my ego. Because she’d flown mostly under the radar for years, there were no details on her relation to the crystal, how she acquired it, or who else might want it. And true to Titus’s word, there was no mention of me or my mysterious birth anywhere. My parents had indeed done an excellent job of keeping me hidden—at least from mortal eyes.

I did, however, find out several things about Callix Ferox. Examples of his cruelty and viciousness are far too graphic to divulge here, gentle reader. And I didn’t have any real reason to believe what the alley vampire said was true: that he would “rise again,” that he had some sort of mission to accomplish. What really mattered was that I couldn’t find any evidence he ever left Rome.

In an odd way, it gave me hope that he was still here, or that the people who took my mother believed he was. It meant I was looking in the right place. But so far, even the most powerful locating spells Titus and I cast had been ineffective. Whoever took her was likely using a cloak—an enchantment used to keep hidden things, well,
hidden
. And a damn fine one at that.

I let out a dry laugh. This must be similar to the frustration Titus felt as a witch raised among mortals. Imagine having no access to knowledge of who you or your people truly were. It would have been quite a shock to realize how different he was, and just plain dangerous to practice and hone his skills in secret.

I once asked my father, “What’s the difference between a witch and a mage?”

“Not a great deal,” Titus had replied. “Witches tend to be more powerful. The offspring of mortals and witches are sometimes called mages, if they have any magical ability.” Titus snorted. “Essentially, a mage is a slightly lesser witch.”

That, my friends, is the truth. I am indeed less powerful than the offspring of ordinary witches, since Abigail wasn’t fully a witch when she had me. You see, there are two ways to become a witch: to be born of two parents with witch blood, as Titus was, or the learned way. The latter is a bit more complicated, with a year and a day of study, a three-day fast . . . I won’t bore you with the details.

What? You didn’t think I was going to come right out and
tell
you how to become a witch, did you? Believe me—it’s a lot more trouble than it seems.

Anyway, that was the route my mother took, but her studies weren’t complete when I was born. You might say she was betwixt the mortal world and the Wiccan one. The result is that I am something of a half-breed, though I’d rather you didn’t use such a vulgar term to describe me. You seem far too well-mannered for that.

In case you’re wondering, the answer is no: I didn’t inherit any vampire powers from my father. Genetics doesn’t really work that way, and even though we are supernatural creatures, we are still beholden to the laws of nature. Being a witch alters your DNA; being a vampire doesn’t.

It’s like when you learn in biology class that if you cut off a mouse’s tail, its children still won’t be born without tails. I always thought it was a gruesome way to explain the subject, but there you have it.

What I did “inherit” is a sense of comfort around vampires. Since I grew up with one frequently in my presence, they no longer hold the power to terrify me. And yes, vampires can be terrifying to witches who are young, inexperienced, or simply seeing one for the first time. I’m also immune to the hypnotic sway they can have upon mortals.

Of course, there is the question of how I was able to inherit anything at all. I was not supposed to be born, you see.

What you’ve heard in most stories is true: vampires cannot create life. Male, female, it makes no difference. Oh, they can enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, mind you, but no conventional offspring will result. How do
witches
have families, you ask? In the usual way. And if you’re not familiar with that, my friend, this is really neither the time nor the place for such discussion. Your parents should have had a little chat with you on that subject long ago.

So the fact that I do exist and am talking to you . . . no one quite knows how that happened. Certainly not my parents. I suppose it remains a story for another time, and one I cannot tell, since it is a mystery even to me. But I can say that as a “half-breed” and mystical-born child, I am usually treated with suspicion and derision by other magical beings. Almost as if I were a demon, or responsible for being born the wrong way.

But enough of this self-indulgent prattle; surely you’d rather hear about my investigation.

I was in the main reading room late one night, when everyone else had gone home. Still hoping for a breakthrough, a book on crystals lay open before me, and I traced my fingers down familiar lines of text.

“Crystals . . . microscopic arrangements of atoms . . . in metaphysics are a way to focus energy, increase power for spells, et cetera.” I yawned. Nothing I couldn’t have told you about crystals. Hell, I probably could have written this book.

“However, there is one crystal, roughly three inches in length and one inch in diameter, that merits special mention,” I read. “Completely clear and fashioned from quartz . . .” The hairs on the back of my neck pricked up. This was starting to sound familiar.

I read on, but there was nothing about my mother’s fairy tale of the witch-queen, or the crystal coming from another dimension. There was hardly anything about the crystal in
this
dimension. I saw a few paragraphs on people who’d owned it over the years, but things got fuzzy when it came to the latter half of the twentieth century. There were several mentions of it and Rome, so that gave me hope I was in the right place. But what was it that made this crystal so special? Why was it different than all others?

The book went on to say, “The crystal is most often referred to by its old Wiccan name.” My apologies, reader, but I cannot relate that to you here. Some secrets are meant to be kept, after all. I can tell you that its English equivalent is “opener of doors.” Intriguing, yes, but not terribly helpful. Rather left one with more questions than answers. I turned the page, only to find a treatise on amethysts on the other side. A page between the last one I’d read and the start of the treatise had been ripped out.

“What? No! DAMMIT!” I flipped back and forth frantically through the pages, but found no other mention of the crystal. I searched the rest of that section of the library high and low, to no avail. I had no idea who’d taken the missing page; it could have been done yesterday or decades ago. The result was the same: crucial information was missing.

“The opener of doors . . . bloody useful that is,” I muttered as I made books fly through the air and into their proper places. Still, at least I knew a bit more about it than I had before.

I let out another yawn. I’d had
three
espressos that night and I was still exhausted. This usually didn’t happen to my sort, but my fruitless search was taking its toll. It was time to go back to the hotel and start fresh tomorrow.

I was just walking out of the lobby when I heard the distinctive sound of a door closing behind me. I whirled around, but there was no one there. That wasn’t surprising; there wasn’t
supposed
to be anyone there. For the past two weeks, I’d been the last PIA member to leave the building each evening. Other members thought I was either ridiculously dedicated to my work, a brownnoser, or both.

But I knew I hadn’t imagined the door closing. I may not have a vampire’s senses, but I’m not a fool. Although it was an old building, this section wasn’t particularly drafty, so a door wouldn’t just shut on its own. And the only door behind me led to the basement. I’d never been down there; I was told it held nothing but storage and a boiler room, neither of which would interest a PIA member late at night. If a person was in the basement now, it meant someone was doing something they weren’t supposed to.