by Ilana Waters
Contents
Title Page
Free Book
Copyright
When Darkness Falls
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Blood and Magic
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Mage Lessons
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Don't Forget Your Free Book
Afterword
The Mage Tales' Reading Order
About the Author
Acknowledgments
The Mage Tales Prequels
Books 0-II
by
Ilana Waters
Free Book
Before you start the Mage Tales Prequels, Books 0-II, be sure to grab your FREE BOOK! Here’s a little about it:
Oh dear. I think I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a fix again.
It’s been a tough couple of months for Joshua, a mage. After battling vampires, despots, and demons, he heads to Chicago for some downtime, maybe even a little romance. Unfortunately, fate has other plans.
Joshua and his would-be lover are kidnapped by two vampires and threatened with death. The vampires agree to spare them, but only if Joshua helps find an ancient statue . . . by dawn. But he and his kidnappers aren’t alone in their search. Three other vampires want the statue as well, and not only do they kill those who get in their way, they enjoy the killing.
It seems this mage just can’t stay out of trouble, even for one night.
All in a Night’s Work (novella) is Book 3.5 of the Mage Tales, but can easily be enjoyed as a stand-alone story.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please see contact information on the publisher’s website (listed below).
The Mage Tales Prequels, Books 0-II
ilanawaters.com
Copyright © 2019 Ilana Beth Waters. All rights reserved.
Cover illustration copyright © 2019 Ilana Beth Waters
Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design
Editing by Marcia Trahan
(Book 0 of the Mage Tales Prequels)
A bloodthirsty general. A witch with a secret.
And a cataclysmic force that threatens to destroy them both.
From USA Today bestselling author Ilana Waters:
Rome, AD 79. Pompeii is burning. But out of the ashes, what will arise—hero or monster?
My name is Titus Aurelius, and I do not want to tell you this story.
But a certain mage I am acquainted with feels otherwise. He insists there is some merit to my tale, though I doubt anyone is ready to bear the weight of it. To hear how I came to be both witch and vampire. How nothing in my life turned out quite as I expected. I did not intend to have a son. I did not intend to fall in love.
I did not intend to die.
(When Darkness Falls is a novella of approximately 33,000 words)
Chapter 1
“Darkness fell. Not the dark of a moonless or cloudy night, but as if the lamp had been put out in a closed room. You could hear the shrieks of women, the wailing of infants, and the shouting of men; some were calling their parents, others their children or their wives, trying to recognize them by their voices. People bewailed their own fate or that of their relatives, and there were some who prayed for death in their terror of dying. Many besought the aid of the gods, but still more imagined there were no gods left, and that the universe was plunged into eternal darkness for evermore.” —Pliny the Younger, in a letter describing the destruction of Pompeii
***
My name is Titus Aurelius, and there is one thing I must make absolutely clear, “dear reader”:
I do not want to tell you this story.
However, my son, the misguided, do-gooding mage they call Joshua, feels otherwise. He contends there is some merit to my tale, that I should put it down for posterity. That others might learn from it. I have to wonder if he insists on this as a way of finally getting me to tell the truth about my life. My past. Things that have happened.
Things I have done.
Personally, I find this memoir notion idiotic, tedious, and more than a bit self-indulgent. But, I’ve discovered that when one produces children, one has little say in one’s own life. And, though I did not intend to fall into the habit of addressing you so familiarly as “dear reader,” the way my son does, you can see I’ve done it already, damn him. Oh, well. Quo fata trahunt retrahuntque sequamur. “Let us go wherever the erring fates may lead.”
In fact, many unintentional things have happened in my life. Nothing really turned out as I expected. But I suppose I am no different than common mortals in that regard. I did not intend to have a son. I did not intend to fall in love, and certainly not more than once.
I did not intend to die.
***
Rome is dying, and so am I.
Not right away, of course. It took several decades, or even centuries, depending on whom you ask. And before Rome was dying, Pompeii was burning. The smells of charred buildings and charred flesh. Smoke that stung your eyes and throat closed. Like descending into hell itself. And my ears filled with the screaming. So much screaming . . .
To say “I remember it like it was yesterday” is at once a tired cliché and the absolute truth. No, more than absolute. I don’t remember it like it was yesterday. It was yesterday. It is today. It will be with me tomorrow. It is less an isolated event, and more an ever-living nightmare.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Pompeii’s destruction occurred twenty or so years after I met the person I thought was the only other witch in the world.
Of course, I didn’t know I was a witch at the time
. I didn’t even know the word witch. The closest thing we had to it in ancient Rome was malefica, or perhaps incantatrix. And the rumors I heard—about such sorcerers bewitching crops, or causing a mother’s milk to dry up—didn’t come close to describing what I felt. What I could do. Like heal almost instantly from any injury. Rarely incur illness. Raise myself in the air without lever or pulley. Move objects with my mind.
But it was more than that. At times, I swore I could feel trees talk, hear the whispers of the mountains on the wind. When I was alone, there was a faint, distant humming that ran through me, underneath me. Like a secret river made of blood and dreams and fire song, coursing through my veins, through everything, forever and ever, in realms I could neither see nor fathom.
Then, it would vanish as quickly as it appeared, and I’d convince myself I’d imagined it.
But one learns quickly that, when one is different, the difference must be hidden—fast. History is full of all manner of frenzied mobs willing to descend on anyone they deem responsible for their ills. And mortals are all too happy to assign such responsibility to anything unfamiliar to them. I swore to myself I would suffer no such fate.
I don’t know the exact year I was born. My most educated guess would put it somewhere around AD 35 or so. This was past the time of Caesar, Virgil, and Ovid. Mark Antony had been defeated. Now was the age of Pliny the Elder, of Seneca. I was a sallow, wide-eyed child with hair that matched my overall pallor. Thin and gangly, I had to work hard to put on muscle, but don’t you dare tell my son that.
And unlike Joshua, who spent decades searching for his mother, I never met mine. There was, however, a blonde, hollow-eyed slave woman who lived next door at the home of a senator. That might have been her. She was probably from some northern province. Tall and slim, she would look at me from time to time with great sadness in her eyes. Then, one day, she was gone. Sold off or killed by her owner—our neighbor—for some trifle. Or perhaps she escaped, or was murdered. I never did find out. I heard a rumor my father was a senator; perhaps he was her master. Or he could have been an entirely different senator, at his colleague’s house for a visit. What difference does it make? He never bothered to give me his name—first or last.
But I am not one of those maudlin fools who weep over their terrible childhoods. There was never one to weep over. I was born a slave in Rome; it is that simple. Most slaves’ lives are terrible. At some point, I assume I was sold next door, or handed off there to pay some debt. The first difference I noticed between me and other children was I did not have a bulla, the gold medallion worn about the neck, meant to protect the young of Rome. Free children around me played with marbles, nuts, dolls, and balls. Or, if they were wealthy enough, they rode in toy chariots pulled by goats.
I was not so lucky. As a slave child, my pastimes consisted of doing everything from disposing of human waste to cleaning boots to serving food. Beatings occurred regularly, and for the slightest infraction. Sometimes, they occurred for no infraction. And it wasn’t just the master who dispensed these punishments. Older boy slaves wouldn’t hesitate to cuff an ear or bloody a nose if one so much as looked sideways at them.
But, as soon as I was able, I put a stop to such nonsense. Opponents would oft find themselves naked in the courtyard at first light for all the house to see, with no recollection of how they got there. Or pots and pans would mysterious fall from high kitchen shelves onto their delicate, waiting skulls. A sinister smile was all it took to show them what happened to those who crossed me. But I always dispensed justice in a way that couldn’t be proven, that would sound insane if they tried to accuse me. I had no desire to incite those pesky human mobs I mentioned earlier. And, of course, those who attacked me also soon learned I could dish out a blow even more easily than I could take one.
No, since I had no bulla, I had to be my own defender. Hell, the only thing around my neck was a chain with a metal tag bearing my owner’s name. No one offered slaves protection. No one cared if a slave got maimed, fell sick, or died. Unless they were especially valuable.
After a while, I found out just how valuable I was to become. For the most part, I kept this a secret from my owners. I learned I was stronger than those around me. Not as strong as a gladiator, but powerful nonetheless. I only needed about four hours of sleep a night to be at my best. I could turn myself invisible, and read and control certain peoples’ thoughts.
Over time, deft use of such skills ensured I wasn’t treated too poorly. I’d use them to turn the lash away from myself, or similar things. Another slave would mysteriously get the blame for a meat pie I stole. Yet, I never used my powers to run away. This was, firstly, because the life I was born into was the only one I knew. Certainly, I could have used invisibility to slip my captors’ grasp. But then what? Where would I go? I had no real home, no family. A slave’s bed was as good as any . . . not that we had real beds.
The second reason I stayed was because my powers were something I only gained knowledge of through the years—not all at once. By the time I realized their extent, Fate had stepped in. My life began to change for me. One night, after bragging about how valuable I was, my master lost me in a drunken game of dice. My new owner—a weapons instructor in the army—was quick to recognize my potential, my intelligence. My fighting prowess. And Rome always needed soldiers.
That was because Rome had always been at war. At least, for as long as I or anyone could recall. Not in the modern, literal sense where one country declares war on another. But Rome was in continual need of expansion, or defense from an attack. Battle-readiness was its constant state, and there seemed no end to the killing. The advantage of this was that soldiers enjoyed a very high status throughout the empire. They would never turn into the limb-lost tramps you see on street corners today, begging for the refuse of a country they helped to save. On the contrary, our veterans were given bonuses and often, a plot of land after an honorable discharge.
Learning to fight with actual weapons now, instead of just my fists, was no hardship. I excelled in all manner of combat with ease. I was a master archer long before some idiot would go running through the woods, calling himself Robin of Loxley. At first, my master used me as a sparring partner for new recruits—until I started beating them all. After that, he was hard-pressed to find a reason to keep me from enlisting, especially when, as I said, Rome always needed soldiers. Additionally, the cost of one slave was a pittance compared to the prestige that came from training and honing such a fine fighter. And thus, I was freed.
But it wouldn’t do to have an ignoramus out there in the world, representing you. Oh, no. My master quickly caught me up on reading and writing Latin and Greek. I was also taught philosophy, history, geography, mathematics, music, astronomy, and rhetoric. I impressed my benefactor by excelling in these subjects as easily as I did in mortal combat. At the time, I was unaware that my magical blood was responsible for this gift of superior intelligence. I’ve since learned that it is common among our kind.
After that, my former master gave me the necessary recommendation, and I was posted to a century, or unit of one hundred men. There, our training continued. We used double-weight shields to give us strength. We attacked six-foot-high wooden stakes. I learned to throw a javelin, swim, and ride a horse. I worked a catapult and battering ram. Here, I incurred more wounds than I ever had previously. At times, it was difficult to conceal their rapid healing. But a little mind magic here, an illusion or two there, and I managed. My reputation for resilience and fortitude increased. Three times a month, we marched eighteen miles wearing our full kit. A soldier learns not to complain.
Although the preparations were grueling, I was unused to a comfortable life, so it made no difference to me. Hell, I was fourteen before I even had a blanket to sleep under. I was sixteen before I tasted meat. I never thought of deserting the army. One of the penalties, after all, was crucifixion. Being beaten with sticks—sometimes, to death—was also a common punishment. Besides, I enjoyed my wor
k. Rome paid her soldiers well, though they had to spend much of their time away from home. Since I never had a home, that caveat meant little.
I worked my way up from the equivalent of a modern-day army private to a centurion, or captain. From there, it was a bloody—yet easy—road to lieutenant, and finally to imperator, or general. I say it was easy, because for the most part, the blood spilled was not mine. Then, as far as the military went, the only person who outranked me was the emperor. But I had designs in that area as well.
In those days, one had to be a patrician in order to qualify for the title of emperor. I was, at best, a freedman: a former slave who’d earned his emancipation. However, the reigning emperor had the power to promote men into the patrician class. And the emperor was all too happy to grant me this request after I won a particularly gory campaign against the insurgent Iceni tribe. In ancient Rome, nothing was more important to an emperor than expanding his empire. To be the ruler of all he surveyed and more was to be a god. So, there was no one more valuable—more revered—than a capable general.
When I was born, the name my master gave me was Aurelius. As was common in those days, when I was freed, I took the first name of my emancipator, which was Titus. But even as I did so, I swore to outdo him in both name and deed. I was the Titus history would remember.
And so I set out to be the most tremendous general of my age. And that meant causing pain. Pleasure, we forget. But pain . . . pain is burned into our memories, branded on our minds lest we fail to heed its warning. Just like Pompeii is branded on mine.
I didn’t make my men march three times a month; I made them march six. If any man turned on his brothers, I had them beat him to death. I didn’t just threaten to crucify deserters; I told them their families would meet the same fate while they watched. Strangely enough, in all my decades as general, not one of my recruits abandoned his post.