The Mage Tales Prequels, Books 0-II: (An Urban Fantasy Thriller Collection)

by Ilana Waters

  “Oh, come on!” Abigail wiped her bleeding cheek with her bleeding hand. “He can turn himself into birds?”

  But these were no ordinary birds. Their claws and beaks were hard as metal and worse than razors. They had already broken through several planks in the crate. Wooden splinters gathering at their feet reminded Titus that, soon, there’d be nothing left of Abigail, or him—vampire or no.

  “He’s not turning himself into birds.” Titus peeked between the broken planks, nearly getting his nose ripped off. The birds that weren’t attacking the crate were going round and round it in a circle, diving and rising. The force of it trapped them in a beastly tornado. “Just distilling part of his magic to give them form.”

  “What?” Abigail yelled. It was hard to hear anything above the din of shrieking and cawing.

  “They’re not real birds!” he shouted.

  “They seem real enough to me. Ouch!” A beak came down through the wood, slicing Abigail’s shoulder through her blouse.

  Titus shook his head. “They’re part of a spell.” Another beak threatened to take out his left eye. Titus shoved the beak out of the crate, feeling a stinging pain where it cut his palm. He groaned. “You just had to know what Cunningham was up to, didn’t you? You had to press our luck.”

  “It’s not my fault,” Abigail snapped. “I didn’t ask to be in a goddamn Alfred Hitchcock movie.”

  Titus gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. He tried to concentrate, searching for a way into the magic.

  Powers of air, powers of earth . . . But the spell was solid. There were no holes for him to slip through. He knew no counterspell—he’d never seen this particular hex before. And he couldn’t kill Gregson directly, because the second he tried, he’d be mauled to death by magical avian missiles.

  His opponent was more powerful than he’d imagined.

  Titus swore. He had no idea what to do. I am going to die, he thought. After all this time, I am actually going to die. He hadn’t really believed it was possible, but apparently, the fates deemed otherwise. The worst part was, he was taking Abigail with him.

  She was tugging at the arm of his shirt now, mouthing something. But even his vampire ears failed to make it out. The screeching birds around them drowned out everything.

  “What?” He leaned closer, but there was a bevy of claws and beaks between them, pushing and shoving their way into the crate. In a few seconds, they would breach it.

  She tugged harder, pointing to the birds and gesturing urgently. Titus could only search her eyes in frustrated confusion. Lipreading had never been his forte.

  Whatever she’s trying to say, he realized, they will be the last words she ever speaks.

  The birds were pushing through. One in the middle of the lid was almost inside, its deadly beak pointed straight at Abigail’s jugular. She looked at it wide-eyed, made one last, desperate attempt to scream a word at Titus.

  All of a sudden, it flashed into his mind. An image from Abigail—so real and vivid—he could have reached out and touched it. It punched a hole through whatever block was on her mind and found a way into his. He still had no idea what words she’d been trying to say, but that didn’t matter now. Titus knew what he had to do.

  He narrowed his eyes at the crate’s lid, now a ceiling of fatal bird parts. He concentrated hard. There was a shift in the magical balance in the room. Abigail shivered. She felt it, too.

  Normally, Titus held a portion of magic in reserve, in case of an emergency. Oh, hell, he thought. If this isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is. He put every ounce of energy and strength into the spell.

  Powers of fire . . . come . . . to . . . me . . . now!

  The lid exploded into the air. At the same time, Titus jumped up and splayed his arms out with a heavy, triumphant grunt. The sides of the crate fell away and hit the floor with a bang, taking out a slew of birds with them. The lid turned into a ball of fire, which engulfed most of the other birds. Their hideous shrieks split the air. Titus and Abigail covered their heads with their hands to shield themselves from the burned, brown bodies plummeting to the ground. Many birds never touched the flames; they just spontaneously combusted.

  Marvelous. When Gregson’s magic was concentrated inside him, Titus couldn’t get to it. He was a fool to diffuse it in the form of birds, he thought smugly.

  The ball of fire catapulted to the ceiling and blasted through, leaving a gaping hole with flaming edges. Below, flash fires broke out all around them. It took Titus a moment to realize Gregson was screaming.

  He and Abigail turned to see Gregson’s entire body in a mantle of flames, even though he’d been nowhere near the ball of fire, or the birds. He turned around and around in a frenzied, animal panic before finally falling to the floor, limbs twitching and jerking violently. Then he was still, and the magical fire consumed his clothes, his flesh, his bones.

  Beller stared at Gregson’s body and slowly backed away. His eyes darted to the front door, and he ran for it. His boot touched down in a puddle of paint thinner with a soft splash. At the same moment, a spark from the fire that was once Gregson hit the puddle. Beller went up like a torch. He barely had time to scream before the flames claimed his wide-open mouth, roaring in horror and pain.

  “Yes!” Titus threw his fist in the air and turned to Abigail, beaming. “Did you see that?” He didn’t specify their victory over the deadly birds, Gregson, or Beller; he meant all three. “Amazing, wasn’t it?” Abigail replied with several coughs that left her doubled over.

  Damn. The fire was eating up all the air in the room. He forgot how much mortals needed to breathe. And he would’ve liked a few more moments of relief from the earsplitting caws. But the silence was eaten away by the thunderous sound of fire.

  His eyes scanned the rear of the warehouse, now a wall of flames. Just as Gregson’s birds were no ordinary birds, this was no ordinary fire. Burning an air witch was like burning pure oxygen.

  Titus groaned. He should have foreseen how the air witch’s demise would provide too much fuel for the fire.

  But what choice did we have? he asked himself. It was risk a fire, or suffer death by demon sparrows. He turned toward Abigail, who was also looking around frantically for an escape. Burned feathers were everywhere. The air was so hot, it was like walking through a tub of scalding water. Titus could taste ash in his mouth.

  Maybe we can escape through the front door. The warehouse answered by shooting a ten-foot ball of fire in their direction, accompanied by a heavy boom. Abigail jumped. That would the truck’s gas tank, Titus thought. He ducked as part of a rafter tumbled down, one red-hot end nearly splitting his skull. More pieces of the ceiling followed, claimed by the fire. Titus and Abigail dodged falling pipes and ductwork as they hunted for a way out.

  Talk about out of the frying pan. Titus cursed himself. Should’ve stuck with the birds.

  There was an inferno around them on all sides. The rim of the hole in the ceiling was also in flames. There’d be no escaping that way. At the very least, their clothing would catch fire if they tried to go through it, and their flesh would follow suit. And now the roof was ablaze; Titus could hear it rumbling above. When he inhaled, it was the sharp scent of smoke.

  “Can’t you just put this out?” Abigail coughed, motioning with her hand. “You’re a fire witch, remember?”

  “Yes, but I used up all my magic on that damn fireball—the one you wanted me to make.” Titus stood in front to protect her from . . . Protect her from what? Our enemy has us surrounded. There’s no place to hide. He tried lifting himself a few feet in the air. Nothing. “Hang it all; I can’t even fly. I have to wait till my magic replenishes.” Titus stood back-to-back with Abigail as the flames formed ever-tightening circles around them. He had never felt so useless in his life.

  “How long will that take?” Abigail’s voice was fearful, her clothing soaked with perspiration.

  “Longer than we have, I’m afraid,” he said g
rimly. The roaring of the flames was like some unholy beast snarling, threatening to devour them. For once, it was a beast he could not tame.

  He raised his eyes one last time to the patch of cloudy sky above. Titus didn’t consider himself a praying man, so petitioning a deity for help wasn’t in the cards. But it was maddening. To be able to see freedom: so close, they could taste it, but still out of reach. It seemed Abigail had the same idea, because she also looked up and raised her arms.

  “That won’t work, Gail—er, Abigail.” Titus turned his head to one side to look at her. “Even if we could get up there—”

  But Abigail wasn’t listening. Her eyes were closed, and she was mumbling something. Her skin glistened with sweat, curls matted against her forehead. Though Titus’s heart was beating rapidly, a sort of numb calm came over him. There was nothing left to do but accept the inevitable.

  I should tell her I’m sorry, he thought. Sorry for dragging her into this, even though it really was partly her fault. Sorry for making her short life even shorter. Titus felt a heaviness in his chest as the flames drew closer. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, all he could see was fire-breathing orange. The heat was unbearable. He was surprised a mortal could be conscious after inhaling all that smoke.

  “Abigail,” he started, “I—”

  But even now, she wasn’t listening. Just mumbling more urgently, arms still raised, fingertips nearly touching fire.

  It was just as well. Let her pray, if it comforts her, though it will do little more than that. Titus closed his eyes and prepared to die.

  Then the rain came.

  Chapter 7

  Come to think of it, the fireball idea worked beautifully, Titus thought. Except for the part where it trapped us in an inferno. And the rain. Why had he not kept enough magic in reserve to make it rain? Titus could have kicked himself. Outdone by a slightly magical mortal. Though he’d been under a great deal of stress, of course, courtesy of that same mortal. It was obviously beginning to affect his mental faculties. Yes, that’s the reason, he told himself firmly. It has to be.

  All these thoughts were tumbling around in his mind when he woke in an abandoned factory. He neither heard nor saw any other forms of life besides Abigail—not even through the walls. He was lying in a bed of rags that smelled strongly of shoe polish. Blacked-out windows lay opposite. The events of the previous evening were coming back to him now.

  The woman made it rain. Abigail . . . she made it rain.

  It didn’t start as ordinary rain did, with little patters and taps. No, this rain came down like a glass sheet of water through the hole in the warehouse ceiling. Titus had to grab Abigail and pull her to one side to prevent it impaling her. He set her down where, an instant earlier, flames had made passage impossible. There had been thunder, of course, and lightning. For a moment, Titus had a notion the lightning might strike the roof.

  The rain rushed in like a tidal wave. Abigail’s purse fell off her shoulder and washed away before she could catch it. She and Titus swam to the steps to get to higher ground. They stood at the top of the staircase, watching as the water greedily ate up the fire. Titus could see parts of the room that were nothing more than a yellow-orange haze before. What was an invitation to certain death became a warehouse once again.

  Some of the flames glowed, then sputtered out. Everything was black and incinerated, like a dead, forgotten garden. The room sizzled with complaint, the harsh smell of burned things filling their nostrils. As the waters subsided, steam and smoke rose, like a forest of thin, wavering trees. Abigail coughed, waving her hand back and forth in front of her. She and Titus sloshed through the dense gray haze.

  The water, though receding, was still up to Titus’s ankles, and nearly up to Abigail’s knees. Wordlessly, Titus plucked Abigail out of the indoor ocean and carried her as he walked.

  “I’m fine,” she protested. “Stop making me out to be all damsel-in-distressy.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You are far too slow.” Also, this water is filthy and filled with all manner of sharps. It would be ridiculous if she rescued them from fire, only to be killed by preventable injury or infection. He strode through the lake of floating garbage until they got outside what was now a shell of a warehouse.

  I didn’t help her because I care for her. Titus sat up now on his makeshift rag bed. Across the way, Abigail was sleeping on a similar one. I just may still need her at some point, that’s all.

  And she didn’t faint—or die—from the smoke, he thought. No doubt due to her growing powers. He surveyed the room. Faded posters dotted the walls. They said things like, “Shellman’s shoes are the very best!” and “Defective pairs here,” with an arrow pointing to what must once have been a receptacle. Titus got up and glanced at Abigail, who was still asleep. He recalled how it felt to hold her in his arms last night. How the rain made her blouse truly see-through, her wet hair seem longer.

  He wouldn’t deny his pulse had quickened a bit, and he’d felt a thrill run through his limbs. Of course, he’d held her several times like that already, but those were only lightning-quick attempts to save her life. Last night, however, their heads had been so close as Titus waded through the black water to safety.

  Yes, so close, our faces almost touching. His eyes had met Abigail’s, but when he finally set her down, they both looked away. After that, the sky began to lighten. Titus knew he had to get indoors. Abigail was exhausted, and insisted on going with him. Titus was exhausted, too, and gave in without arguing.

  He continued studying Abigail now. Her blouse and jeans were still damp, as were his shirt and trousers. The rain had cleansed their bodies, but their clothes were stained and torn. We must procure new garments, and quickly, Titus thought. Rain did not wash out blood, and there was more than enough on his person to attract attention. Like his, much of her clothing was dotted with brown feathers.

  Gently, Titus lifted one of Abigail’s hands. There were scratches on her palms, wrists, and forearms where she shielded herself from the birds. Then there was the cut on her shoulder, the one where a bird beak sliced her. Yet, all were faint, as if she’d merely been scraped by twigs.

  Her powers are definitely increasing.

  He surveyed his own injuries. Even without witch magic to heal them, the vampire in him had taken care of the majority. His head and stomach weren’t even sore from all those punches. He rubbed the back of his skull. He could feel where Johnny had smashed the vase over it, but only just. Abigail began to stir. She squeezed her eyes open and shut, then sat up.

  “Hey, you’re awake.” Her voice was heavy with sleep. “What time is it?” The question ended in a yawn as she stretched out her arms.

  “Well, since I awoke not long before you did, we know it’s the beginning of the night.” He walked slowly from one end of the room to the other, picking feathers off himself. “Vampires do not arise at any other time.”

  “Wow, we slept the whole day?” Abigail ran her hands over her face.

  “Don’t worry,” Titus said. “I won’t tell your boss.” He continued pacing the floor.

  “Ha ha.” Abigail rubbed sleep from her eyes and pulled feathers off her clothes. “Man, I could really go for some breakfast. Or a toothbrush. Can’t believe the whole day went by already.”

  Titus stopped walking mid-stride and turned to her sharply. “Why on earth would you willingly stay with a sleeping vampire for such a length of time? For any length of time?”

  “Well, like you, I was also sleeping.”

  “Even more dangerous. What was to stop me from waking up and drinking all your bloo—”

  “Don’t you guys have that death-like coma you go into when the sun rises?” She raised one eyebrow. “Don’t think you can go fooling me, Titus.”

  Titus pursed his lips. “I see you’ve done your research. Yes, the death-like state you describe is true. But it’s more like an extreme form of fatigue. One that can be overcome if the vampire is old enoug
h, like myself. Others with strong wills can also withstand it for a short while. Besides, I couldn’t leave you. You . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You . . . rather saved my life.” He coughed and looked away. “Back there. With the rain and the storm and everything.” The last few words came out in a mumble.

  Abigail grinned. “You weren’t so bad yourself, kid.” She examined her reflection in a large silver pipe, and smoothed her hair. “I don’t suppose they’ll come after us.”

  “Who? There’s no one left. We killed them all, remember?”

  “I know, but maybe they have friends, associates . . . fellow lowlifes and murderers . . .” Abigail turned away from the pipe, forehead creased with worry.

  “If they did, those people would have to find out what happened to their comrades, who did it, and where we are. All of which will take time, assuming they succeed.” Titus moved his finger back and forth, and a bare light bulb over their heads swayed right and left. He vaguely remembered using his magic to turn on the electricity before the sun rose. “No, I’m certain we’re quite safe here. I told you last night: I know this place. It’s sort of like a vampire crash pad. Been abandoned for years. Our kind come here sometimes when they stay out too late and realize the sun’s about to destroy them.”

  “Hey, why don’t I look worse?” Abigail was staring at her hands and arms in sudden realization. She prodded the almost-healed cut on her shoulder. “I could’ve sworn this needed stitches last night . . .”

  Titus stopped moving the light bulb. “It’s your powers.”

  “My powers?”

  “Is there an echo in here?” he said impatiently. “Yes, your magical powers. Witches heal much faster than mortals. Or didn’t you already know?”