Read Online The Age of Mages: Book I of the Mage Tales by Ilana Waters - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ilana Waters
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memory is soon overtaken by a different, much darker one.
I am older now, no longer a child. It’s late at night, the house quiet. The only sound is my mother humming in the next room as she packs her supplies for tomorrow’s work, the way she always does. I am lying in my bed, turning through different stations on the radio, when I feel a strange rush of wind outside. I don’t mean hear it, the way mortals do, but feel it in my mage bones. An uncomfortable sensation prickles at the back of my neck. I turn off the radio and sit up. Suddenly, all I hear are my mother’s screams, then the sound of shattering glass.
More screaming. The dash down the hallway seems to take forever, like I’m moving through quicksand. I run into the next room, ready to hurl magic at the first enemy I see. But the room is empty. Furniture is overturned, my mother’s supplies are all over the floor. The wall of windows opposite the door is completely smashed. I run to them, panting, heart pounding. I look at the ground below, but the only things I see are shards of glass and part of the window frame. I look to the sky, but there’s nothing except clear, dark blue, broken only by stars. I feel the protection spell on the house knitting itself back together. I didn’t even realize it was temporarily torn away.
My mother is gone.
***
When I arrived in London, my fatigue from the journey was not as bad as one might expect. Witches need very little sleep—only about four hours a night, and mages are similar. The surfeit of energy made me a little more optimistic. How difficult could this be? After all, St. Joshua is the saint of intelligence and spying, so perhaps this task would come naturally to me. Not that I have a great affinity for saints, being half-Jewish and all.
Either way, it was lovely to be back in England. Despite the overcast skies, I found it familiar and comforting. There were umbrellas over people’s heads and wellies on their feet. Bright red double-decker buses careened down the streets, though if one chose to walk, one could easily inhale the heavenly aroma of curry takeaway. Big Ben continued to chime every hour, and the gray Thames wound its way through the city, just as they’d done for centuries.
Since both my hotel and the PIA headquarters were located in Mayfair, I took a cab there. It was one of those classic black London taxis, complete with a Cockney-accented driver. He turned around, placing an arm on the back of the front seat.
“Where to, guv’nah?” he asked.
I smiled and shook my head. I always seemed to end up in situations straight out of novels.
“The Athenaeum Hotel on Piccadilly, if you please,” I replied.
“Right, then.” And off we went.
While there are no tube stations in Mayfair itself, there are several on the perimeter. However, the PIA headquarters were only a few blocks away, so after dropping off my things, I elected to walk there despite the gloomy weather. I passed by a cafe with jazz music streaming out of it. For a moment, I envisioned the whole scene as a black-and-white movie, the kind my mother and I would sometimes watch. Abigail could be nostalgic that way (and to be honest, so could I). But she also introduced me to things like Broadway musicals and Monty Python. Homes with my mother were filled with the sounds of Sondheim on the stereo and British comedians on the television. It was a bizarre, magical way to grow up.
And it was magic in danger of disappearing again—possibly forever—unless I could make the PIA think I belonged there. I had an appointment with one Arthur Hartwood at ten o’clock, and I hoped I’d taken enough precautions to fool him. Earlier that morning, I’d added a few accessories to emulate a scholarly look: polished shoes, a waistcoat, and a pair of glasses. They had clear lenses, since I didn’t need them to see, but I was the only one who knew that. Hopefully, all this made me appear an ordinary knowledge-seeker, nothing more.
I am older now, no longer a child. It’s late at night, the house quiet. The only sound is my mother humming in the next room as she packs her supplies for tomorrow’s work, the way she always does. I am lying in my bed, turning through different stations on the radio, when I feel a strange rush of wind outside. I don’t mean hear it, the way mortals do, but feel it in my mage bones. An uncomfortable sensation prickles at the back of my neck. I turn off the radio and sit up. Suddenly, all I hear are my mother’s screams, then the sound of shattering glass.
More screaming. The dash down the hallway seems to take forever, like I’m moving through quicksand. I run into the next room, ready to hurl magic at the first enemy I see. But the room is empty. Furniture is overturned, my mother’s supplies are all over the floor. The wall of windows opposite the door is completely smashed. I run to them, panting, heart pounding. I look at the ground below, but the only things I see are shards of glass and part of the window frame. I look to the sky, but there’s nothing except clear, dark blue, broken only by stars. I feel the protection spell on the house knitting itself back together. I didn’t even realize it was temporarily torn away.
My mother is gone.
***
When I arrived in London, my fatigue from the journey was not as bad as one might expect. Witches need very little sleep—only about four hours a night, and mages are similar. The surfeit of energy made me a little more optimistic. How difficult could this be? After all, St. Joshua is the saint of intelligence and spying, so perhaps this task would come naturally to me. Not that I have a great affinity for saints, being half-Jewish and all.
Either way, it was lovely to be back in England. Despite the overcast skies, I found it familiar and comforting. There were umbrellas over people’s heads and wellies on their feet. Bright red double-decker buses careened down the streets, though if one chose to walk, one could easily inhale the heavenly aroma of curry takeaway. Big Ben continued to chime every hour, and the gray Thames wound its way through the city, just as they’d done for centuries.
Since both my hotel and the PIA headquarters were located in Mayfair, I took a cab there. It was one of those classic black London taxis, complete with a Cockney-accented driver. He turned around, placing an arm on the back of the front seat.
“Where to, guv’nah?” he asked.
I smiled and shook my head. I always seemed to end up in situations straight out of novels.
“The Athenaeum Hotel on Piccadilly, if you please,” I replied.
“Right, then.” And off we went.
While there are no tube stations in Mayfair itself, there are several on the perimeter. However, the PIA headquarters were only a few blocks away, so after dropping off my things, I elected to walk there despite the gloomy weather. I passed by a cafe with jazz music streaming out of it. For a moment, I envisioned the whole scene as a black-and-white movie, the kind my mother and I would sometimes watch. Abigail could be nostalgic that way (and to be honest, so could I). But she also introduced me to things like Broadway musicals and Monty Python. Homes with my mother were filled with the sounds of Sondheim on the stereo and British comedians on the television. It was a bizarre, magical way to grow up.
And it was magic in danger of disappearing again—possibly forever—unless I could make the PIA think I belonged there. I had an appointment with one Arthur Hartwood at ten o’clock, and I hoped I’d taken enough precautions to fool him. Earlier that morning, I’d added a few accessories to emulate a scholarly look: polished shoes, a waistcoat, and a pair of glasses. They had clear lenses, since I didn’t need them to see, but I was the only one who knew that. Hopefully, all this made me appear an ordinary knowledge-seeker, nothing more.
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