The Age of Mages: Book I of the Mage Tales (12 page)

What did
I
do? Why, what any self-respecting mage with no forethought would do. I opened the basement door and went down into the dark.

Chapter 11

It was easy enough to light the way with a little magic. Although I knew it would draw attention to me if the basement turned out to contain a threat, I had no choice. My vampire father may be able to see in such dimness, but my eyesight is no better than an ordinary mortal’s.

There was nothing particularly threatening as I descended the steps, my ball of light a few feet ahead of me. Boxes, pipes, rusty file cabinets, and the usual chill that underground rooms have. I did a quick sweep of the boiler room, but there was no one there. For all intents and purposes, it seemed like an ordinary basement.

It’s just that it was awfully . . . small. For a building that took up half a city block, shouldn’t the basement be bigger? I directed the ball of light from corner to corner, until I found a small archway on one side. Well, I was already here, wasn’t I? Might as well keep going.

I walked through the arch slowly, unsure of what I’d find. Concrete floors and piped ceilings gave way to stonework all around me. This must be a much older part of the basement. I brushed my hand along one wall, soon feeling cold metal bars beneath my fingers.

Bars? I held the light closer. To my left was what looked like a small jail cell carved into the side of the room. Floor-to-ceiling bars and an old lock were all that held prisoners inside. There was a long bench made out of rock that ran from end to end. Morbidly, I looked for bones or other detritus that might indicate someone had been there recently. But aside from a bucket in one corner, the cell was swept clean.

Why on earth would the PIA have a jail? Or was it the PIA’s at all? Perhaps the owners of the building had used it for another purpose before the PIA acquired it—something that would necessitate a place to keep prisoners. But if not, it was certainly a side of the PIA I hadn’t anticipated. Perhaps this wasn’t an ordinary basement after all. Not that a mere jail cell could hold the likes of me—or most supernaturals, for that matter.

I walked on and found another surprise: a wine cellar. With its cathedral ceiling and Gothic, crisscrossed arches, it was more like a wine
vault
. Barrels stood all along the walls, and above them, honeycombed recesses for wine. There were very few bottles, but the barrels could be full for all I knew. For a moment, I mused that I’d wandered into Rome’s oldest liquor store. I doubted the PIA used this for their own personal wine collection. The place was dusty and cobwebbed; it didn’t look like anyone had been here for years.

My ball of light flashed on and off a few times. I looked around for a light switch, and was surprised when I actually found one, though I doubted it was up to code. All flipping the switch did was turn on a cheap set of lights strung along the ceiling’s perimeter. Then I saw them.

There must have been six—no, seven—witches standing before me. With my dying magic light, I hadn’t been able to see them lurking in the shadows. The men wore dark suits, and the women had on long black dresses. Many people think witches always dress in black, which isn’t true. But when we do, I assure you it has nothing to do evil, Satanism, and all that. It’s simply because we are trying to blend in with those around us. That way, a witch could be among any of you, and you’d never even know.

How did
I
know they were witches? Oh, come now—you think I don’t recognize my own kind when I see them? Well, mostly my kind, me being a mage and all. I felt a few tendrils of magic trying to worm their way into my head. Instantly, I put up a shield, which here means a small magical wall to prevent others from getting through.

Oh no, we’re not having any of
that.
If you want to know my thoughts, you’re going to have to ask
.
Nicely
. I sent out a few of my own feelers, as it were, dangling over the other witches.

Almost instantly, it was as if a bolt of lightning hit my skull. I cried out and grabbed the sides of my head. The force of the spell sent me back against the wall, knocking the air out of my lungs, but at least I was still on my feet.

“What the hell was that for?” I asked. “You can try to read
my
thoughts, but I do the same and you almost blow my brains out?” I cringed and rubbed my temples.

“Quite a lot of cheek you have there,” said one of the witches. He stepped forward, and I saw a man in his mid-fifties or early sixties with silver hair. Of course, he could have been much older, and just elected to stop the clock when he looked that age. The same could be said of any of the other members as well. “Thinking you can invade our privacy,” he snorted.

“Me?” I walked a few steps forward and straightened my jacket. I probably should’ve been more apprehensive, but I was far too irritated. And my head still stung. “You’re the one who tried to invade first. Why didn’t you just ask what I was thinking? Or better yet, tell me what you’re all doing down here, invading the
PIA’s
privacy. Or am I to believe you’re part of a coven that regularly meets in basements?”

Wait a minute. This wasn’t just part of
any
coven. Scanning the witches’ faces, I realized I recognized a few of them from the papers. There were several high-powered lawyers, a corrupt politician or two. No, I will
not
name them here. But the power suits, the prominent social positions . . . these weren’t just your run-of-the-mill witches.

These were members of the High Council.

Not the entire High Council, of course. As I mentioned earlier, it’s a set of thirteen. But at least half of them were standing in front of me. The question was
why
?

“I think it’s quite obvious who we are,” one woman replied smoothly. She was a few years younger than the man who spoke before, her brown hair pulled back in a French twist. “To that end, we trust that going forward, you will show us the proper respect.”

I folded my arms. “The proper respect . . . and what would that be, exactly? Besides, don’t you have important board meetings to attend, or stockholders to report to or something? I assume that’s all you do these days, unless I’m mistaken and you’re still busy practicing the Old Ways.”

Begging your pardon, reader; perhaps I should have explained this earlier. The Old Ways are what the witches of long ago used to practice. Despite our place in history as purveyors of hexes and worshippers of the devil, true witchcraft is quite different. It’s about being close to nature, working in harmony with her cycles, and yes—helping mortals through magical means. But I fear that in the modern world’s quest for money, status, and power, many of those lessons have been forgotten. Except by people like my mother, of course.

A younger man stepped forward, slicking back his dark hair. Something about his haughtiness reminded me of Philip, although this man was trimmer, his face more angular. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “there are many important matters that we could be attending to at any given moment. We’ve come quite a ways since the days of little hearth witches like your mother. Which is why I hope you’ll appreciate our taking the time to meet with you like this.”

I felt anger burn inside my chest. It just went to show how little they really understood Abigail—not that there was anything wrong with smaller magics, like hearth witchery.

“What about my mother?” I growled. “What do you know about her?”

“It shouldn’t really come as a surprise.” It was the older man who spoke again. “All these goings-on with you, your father, the PIA. They’ve sent whispers and rumblings throughout the supernatural world. We know all about the crystal, your mother, Ferox, et cetera. Though I must admit, Mr. Alderman,” he looked at his fingernails, “all those years ago, when I first heard there was a child of a
vampire
in the world, I didn’t believe it.” The others grimaced, as if they didn’t want to believe it either.

“Well, one doesn’t like to brag,” I said. Figured they would see me as something of a blight. To them, I probably shouldn’t exist in the first place. “And although you seem to know who I am, you haven’t told me any of
your
names yet,” I added.
Not that I haven’t already guessed a few.

“Then permit us to do so now,” said the older man. “I am Lord Henry Ashdown. My colleagues are Sasha Cronin,” he motioned to the woman who’d spoken before, “and Luther Blackline.” The smug young man with the dark hair smiled at me.

I waited a few seconds, but Lord Ashdown did not say anything more. “That’s all?” I asked. “Surely the rest of you have names as well.”

“That’s all you need to know for now,” replied Ashdown.

“I see.” I nodded. “Too afraid to come here in broad daylight and introduce yourselves to the PIA? I’m sure they would
love
to meet you.”

“Meet them?” Cronin said, and indignant noises rippled through the rest of the Council. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s bad enough they have files on us here that contain gods-know-what.”

What’s that? Ah, yes—I thought you might be wondering how supernatural creatures deal with mortals who know about us, like those at the PIA. No, we don’t forbid others of our kind to divulge their true nature to mortals, nor do we generally kill anyone who knows too much. Surely you can see how such a rule would be unnecessary. Most mortals who go around screaming about vampires, witches, et cetera being real are promptly admitted to asylums. I suppose you could say the problem has a way of working itself out.

Of course, that wouldn’t stop an individual vampire, witch, or other creature from removing a mortal who knew too much about them
personally
. I didn’t really care to think what my father’s history was in that respect. But since the PIA keeps such information to themselves—heavily guarded from other mortals, in fact—the threat they present is minimal. Still, Ashdown had a point. It was disconcerting to think a large agency might be following you, watching your every move.

“So I assume you took it upon yourselves to magic your way in and draw me to a secluded spot?” I asked. “Why? If you already knew of my investigation, then you also know it doesn’t concern you.”

“Of course it does,” snapped Ashdown. “We want you to cease it immediately.”

I set my jaw. “And why would I do that?”

“You know why,” he said.

“No, I
don’t
.” This was like the conversation with the alley vampire. Why did people keep insisting I knew things I didn’t?

“If you refuse our request,” Cronin said, “or continue playing the fool, we have other ways of convincing you.”

I let out a short laugh. “You’ve given me no logical reason to acquiesce, and as for playing the fool, I am certainly not—”

I saw Cronin flick her wrist, and a zap similar to the one I felt before hit me, this time in the chest. I clutched at my ribs and doubled over.

What the
hell
? There’d been no need for that. Wasn’t the Council capable of having a conversation without flinging painful spells every few minutes? But if they wanted a fight, that was fine by me. I was angry enough to show them two could play at this game.

I stood up and flexed my fingers at my sides until I could feel them crackling with magic. With all the force I could manage, I threw a ball of it straight into the center of the Council.

They leaped to either side, while the magic went straight back into the wall. It left a large hole, charred and smoking around the edges. Before I could attempt another throw, I felt a rush of wind knock me off my feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a furious Lord Ashdown lifting both his hands, and my entire body crashed into the ceiling.

Oh dear. Well, you can imagine how much
that
hurt. It’s a miracle he didn’t break my skull; but he did manage to smash my fake glasses. I’d forgotten how violent—and excruciating—witch fights could be. Sometimes it was even worse than fighting vampires. But they really ought to know better than to challenge the son of a two-thousand-year-old general.

I grabbed a handful of loose stones from the ceiling and sent them sailing in Ashdown’s direction. I also changed their shape, so they were now dozens of tiny stone daggers headed straight for him. Ashdown’s hands flew to his face, but I got in a couple of nicks. Too bad he was more powerful than I, and healed almost instantly. Still, it felt good . . . in a petty sort of way.

With Ashdown otherwise occupied, his concentration broke, and I dropped from the ceiling—hard. I got up as quickly as I could, but apparently the Council wasn’t done with me. Cronin’s face twisted into an ugly sneer as she and several others lifted their hands and murmured a spell. I heard the sound of rushing water, but I didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. There was a noise like a small explosion, and water shot down from the ceiling. I only just managed to jump out of the way. Otherwise, the jet stream would surely have hit me.

They used water magic to burst a pipe?
But why?
The answer became clear all too soon as water began pooling around my feet. It rose to my thighs, my chest, soaking me, getting colder, colder. They were going to freeze me in a block of ice.