by Ilana Waters
“All right, Abigail.” Arthur sipped his tea. “I trust you. You’ve never lead us astray before.”
“Except all those times you did,” Richard snorted.
Arthur nudged him in the ribs again, but harder. “We should’ve listened to you the whole while,” he said to Abigail. “And to think, it was Eleanor who was lying. Always Eleanor.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand. “I still can scarcely believe it.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Arthur.” Abigail folded a paper napkin until it resembled a tiny sailboat. “She bamboozled a lot of people, and for a long time.” Richard nodded.
Arthur’s face went gray. “I’ll never forgive myself for placing you in harm’s path, Abigail. I feel like such a fool. Guess I should stick to my dusty old books instead of trying to do fieldwork.”
“Nonsense.” Abigail placed her sailboat napkin in the center of the table. “Besides, I wanted to tell you what was going on all along. I really did. I’m so sorry, Arthur.”
“Stop right there.” Arthur shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I say!” Richard blinked at him. “Nothing to apologize for?” Arthur gave him a look. Richard made another face. Then he glanced around. Abigail could see his mind taking in all the mundane, ordinary things in the café. The laughing couples, the arguing friends. The clinking of teacups and plates. Servers bustling from table to table.
Yes, she thought, her sense of relief as keen as Richard’s. Despite the insanity of the past few days, the world is still turning. Everything’s humming along as it should. Richard gave her a tiny smile and sighed.
“What he said, Abigail.” Richard lifted his chin to Arthur, and his cup to her. “What he said.”
***
From a window, Titus watched Abigail walk up the front steps, handbag slung over her shoulder, spring in her step.
Not as fatigued as she was before, even after performing all that magic. Her strength is growing.
The sun was setting in the distance, and Titus dared not venture too close to the window, lest he step into its fading light. He shook his head. He never could’ve imagined this scene a few days ago, when he stood with Abigail on the deck of the ship after it went dark. After they finally succeeded in destroying Cunningham.
“Well, that’s that,” he’d said, after the last of the bodies had been disposed of, and the ship had been sunk.
“No, it’s not,” Abigail had said. “We still have to get Arthur and Richard back to the PIA.”
“We can put them in a cab when they wake up.”
“What about the girls?” Abigail motioned to the shipping container. “We can’t just leave them here. They’re under our protection, now.”
“Under our protect—where on earth are we going to house them all?” Titus held out both arms. “We may run into more than a few questions if we try to book them at local hotels.”
Abigail grinned. “I have just the place.”
From his kitchen, Titus could hear pots and pans banging as the mortals they rescued prepared a meal. Titus sighed as he went to open the door for Abigail. This is how you end up with a house full of strange women and their offspring. But no sooner did Abigail cross the threshold than she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him hard.
Not the most terrible fate, I suppose, he conceded.
“I just got off the phone with the embassy,” he said when she finished. “They’ll have someone here to start processing the ladies by morning.”
“Titus, you are the best.” She kissed him again, then took his hand and led him to the drawing room.
“I know,” he said simply. “Anyway, the embassy representative said they’d be here about nine a.m. In the meantime, the girls are making use of those supplies you got them.” There was a loud bang from down the hall, and a Slavic curse. “After a fashion,” Titus muttered.
“Oh, good.” Abigail hung her purse over the arm of one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. “And the doctor stopped by while you were asleep. Most of the girls are fine. Two have bronchitis, but it’s being treated. But I never would’ve been able to arrange for them to go back home without you. Thank God you knew the right officials to bribe.”
Titus shrugged. “Bribe, threaten . . . words are so versatile, don’t you think?” Abigail blew a puff of air out her mouth, and a curl shot up from her forehead. “Seems like my days of evildoing came in handy after all,” he said, sitting down in one of the chairs.
“I’m sure you can take a break from them for a while.” Abigail sat in his lap. “I mean, were you really going to join with Cunningham when she propositioned you?” Her brow furrowed. “Maybe that was her plan all along.”
“Considering the enthusiasm with which she tried to kill me,” Titus remarked drily, “I doubt it. But there will be other traffickers, you know, both mortal and supernatural. There will always be other villains. You can’t possibly vanquish them all.”
“We managed to pick off a few, at least.” She stroked his chest. “And you got to play Jupiter for a while, with the lightning bolts. Oh!” She snapped her fingers. “Almost forgot to tell you: you’ll be happy to know Arthur and Richard are doing well.”
“Thrilled beyond measure,” Titus murmured. Abigail ignored him and relayed the conversation at the café.
“So, they’re going to pretend you never existed at the PIA. And I am supposed to pretend to never have met them, should our paths cross again?” Titus asked.
“That’s the gist of it.”
Titus clucked his tongue. “You should’ve let me adjust their minds. It would’ve been much easier.”
“I think we can trust them, Titus. They did just save our lives. Besides, a few of my other ideas have panned out lately, including a very crucial one with a net. Speaking of which,” she titled her head, “aren’t you going to thank me for saving your life? Again?”
“As soon as you return the favor.” He tightened his grip on her waist. “I saved yours, too, if you recall. Though I thought we weren’t keeping score anymore.” His hand lingered on her thigh.
“I can think of more fun ways to express my gratitude than with words,” she whispered in his ear.
A smile spread across Titus’s face. “We’ll call it even, then. We should go away for a while. Perhaps take a cruise.”
“You really want to get on another ship after what just happened?” Abigail asked.
“I promise this one will have only willing passengers. Yes, I’m ready for some true relaxation.” He stroked her cheek. “For the first time in millennia, Londinium actually turned out to be a little too exciting.”
“You’ll have to come back here eventually.” Abigail tugged a loose string on his collar. “There’s that favor you owe Nicander.”
Titus groaned. “I’d almost forgotten about that.”
“I wonder what it will be.”
“Let’s cross that London bridge when we get to it.” He leaned his lips toward Abigail’s, then stopped. “Damn. I meant to tell you about this.” Titus drew a folded paper from his breast pocket. “It came for us while you were at the café.” He unfolded the paper. It floated in the air before them as golden sparks rose from the elegant cursive writing. As Abigail read, she could hear Ashdown’s heavy voice intoning.
“To Mr. Titus Aurelius and Ms. Abigail Silver:
“It has come to the High Council’s attention that, despite our official recommendations, your interference in the affairs of one Eleanor Cunningham and her supernatural associates has been noted. Specifically, there is the matter in which one full-blooded witch was destroyed, possibly concurrent to said interference.”
Abigail drew a sharp breath.
“However,” Ashdown’s voice droned, “as it is likely the aforementioned witch came dangerously close to breaking the masquerade via her enterprise with Ms. Cunningham, the Council is willing to overlook your disregard of its recommendations. Once. Please be advised that s
hould such instances occur in the future, this governing body may be forced to take further action.” The last two words burned red as they were spoken.
“Warmest regards, Henry Ashdown.”
“Warmest regards?” Abigail repeated as the letter crumpled itself and vanished. “So nice to know they’re thinking of us.”
“Well, you know they’ve never thought very highly of me.” Titus lay back in the chair. Abigail rested her head on his chest. “I meant what said before, Abigail. I’m not an ordinary man. As you can see,” he motioned to the air where the letter had been, “complications abound. There is no taking a vacation from life as a vampire—or from loving one. As the English say, ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’ ”
She placed one hand on the back of his neck and pulled his lips to hers. “English, sminglish,” she said, ending the kiss before he was ready. “Good thing you fell in love with a Yank. Where I come from, we do things whole hog. I don’t know what your family situation was before, but you have one now, Titus. You have me.”
Titus smiled, looking into her deep brown eyes, listening to the song of her blood and magic. “Well, for the second time in my life, I underestimated a woman. It is a mistake I shall not make again.”
“Does that mean you’re going to help me become a better witch, or what?” Abigail took his chin in her hand. “When do I get to see all those secret books on magic I know you must have? When does my year-and-a-day study start? And is there any way I can skip that three-day fast thing?” She wrinkled her nose.
Titus laughed. “There will be plenty of time for all that later. We just got over almost dying. A lot. I have a whole laundry list of things I want to do first.” Now it was his turn to whisper in her ear, her turn to smile knowingly. They kissed again. They’d been so busy over the last few days looking after a gaggle of distraught women and children. They’d barely had a moment alone to themselves. But soon, Titus promised himself, and her. Very soon.
He supposed it wouldn’t kill him to use his powers for good, at least for a little while. If it makes her happy. The look of bliss on her face when she spotted that baby in its carriage. When she saw he returned to help her fight on the docks. When they finally defeated Cunningham. To never see that look again would be like the lights going out in the whole world.
She was brave and loyal, almost to a fault. She was willing to die for people she barely knew. He supposed there were worse companions.
Still, loving a woman makes a man weak, Titus chided himself as they embraced. And yet, with Abigail, he felt the opposite of weak. He felt powerful beyond measure. He couldn’t deny they were stronger together than apart.
Why had he felt the inexplicable desire to protect her? Why hadn’t she feared him, as others of her kind had? Did her intuition tell her they were “meant to be”? As their two mouths blended into one, Titus gave up trying to figure it out.
Call it love at first sight, he thought to himself. Not that he believed in such things. But it was as good an explanation as any. Ever since he met Abigail Silver, nothing made sense. He had a feeling it never would again.
And he didn’t care at all.
THE END
(Book II of the Mage Tales Prequels)
From USA Today bestselling author Ilana Waters:
A supernatural boarding school. A missing potion. A ghostly figure. A mage who might one day save the world . . . if he can survive.
My father lied. This wasn’t high school. This was hell.
Still grieved over his witch mother’s disappearance, Joshua the mage is shipped off to a paranormal boarding school by his cold vampire father. Mistrusted as a supernatural freak, all Joshua wants to do is lay low until graduation. But when vandalism, thefts, and other crimes start plaguing the school, all fingers point to him. And when one crime takes a turn for the deadly, it’s up to Joshua to clear his name. If he doesn’t, he risks more than expulsion.
He risks paying the ultimate penalty.
(Mage Lessons is a full-length novel)
Chapter 1
Why, hello, dear reader. Long time, no see. Always glad to have you back. We’ve been through so much together now. Multiple kidnappings, vampiric despots, body bag bombs, vengeful assassins, demons, et cetera. This time, I thought we’d mix it up a bit. Enter a world a bit more sensible and orderly—at least in appearance. Take a trip back in time with me, won’t you? Where, you ask? Why, to where all good stories seem to start these days.
High school.
***
My father lied. This wasn’t high school. At least, not the kind this half-Yankee would recognize.
Oh, it seemed like an ordinary British boarding school, sure enough. There was the usual start-of-term hubbub. Parents admonishing the children they dropped off. Old students greeting friends, comparing class and house assignments, schedules in hand. Newcomers looking up at the school’s facade in awe and trepidation. And with good reason: Equinox Academy was the premier independent school in the UK for those thirteen to eighteen. The equivalent of a private school in America, “Equin”—as it was known to students and staff—was beyond exclusive. Numerous heads of state, international diplomats, business magnates, military leaders, and high-ranking nobility were often furious when their offspring were turned down for admission. But that was where the similarity with mortal academics ended.
Can’t very well advertise it’s a school open only to witches—and those with comparable magical blood. I stuffed my earbuds back into my ears, ready to crank up The Clash—or maybe some Sex Pistols—at full blast. My music player’s battery was dead, but I stared it at, willing it to recharge in midair. One nice thing about a place like this? Unlike mortal society, witches had no need to disguise their powers.
What? No, they’re all called witches. Yes, even the male ones. And if you go looking for broomsticks here, dear reader, the only place you’ll find them is the janitor’s closet. Wands, did you say? Good lord, you really are in the wrong place, aren’t you?
The messenger bag I wore crosswise thumped against my thigh. I’d left home in such a hurry, the rest of my luggage was being mailed later. With no family here to see me off, I made my way across the great front lawn on my own. You could feel the change, the shift in the air from the mundane world to the magical one. Despite the nervousness about the start of term, the frantic busyness, there was a palpable sense of relief. Parents and students were smiling, telekinetically passing around pamphlets, stray clothing, last-minute suitcases. They no longer had to hide here. I wished I could say the same for myself.
I know what you must be thinking. That, despite my father dumping me here, I’ll be among my own kind for once. Indeed, I’d never been around so many supernaturals at one time before. But you’ll soon see why it brought me little comfort. At least I was in the sixth form. That’s the last two years of formal education in the UK, if you’re reading this across the pond. I was seventeen, and in Year Eleven. So, in a little less than two years, I’d be done with this place. If I stayed.
My black lace-up army boots crunched over every dry leaf in their path. The autumn air was always so crisp and fresh after the heat of summer. It made the season one of new beginnings—even more so to me than spring. But not this year. This year, she was still gone. It made the days just seem like a slow, endless march toward inevitable winter.
I passed a large statue of Cerridwen, the Wiccan goddess of knowledge, among her other aspects. She looked regal, yet austere, stirring her cauldron while gazing onto the moors with gray, stone eyes. Yes, witches sometimes use cauldrons, but they’re mainly symbolic. To be honest, I wouldn’t have minded terribly trading places with her, even if it did mean standing frozen on Equinox’s lawn.
I popped the collar of my black leather duster and pressed my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose. I tried to avoid making eye contact, keeping my head down and my shoulders hunched. But even so, it’s hard not to stand out if you’re nearly six feet tall and thin as a rail. I co
uld feel the other students—and even a few parents—staring at me, their magic on the periphery of my thoughts, trying to feel their way in.
As if I’m too stupid to put up a shield. I could tell they already had theirs up, although it wouldn’t be too much trouble for me to dismantle the weaker ones. They probably think mages are idiots who let other supernaturals read their thoughts whenever they like. The air was filled with whispers, and a few indiscreet individuals even pointed at me.
Maybe it’s my clothes. In addition to the duster and boots, I was the only one here in tight, dark jeans and a T-shirt. Even though the term didn’t officially begin until tomorrow, most of the other students were already in uniform. Many of those who didn’t have on the full ensemble still wore Equinox’s navy blazer, emblazoned with its crest: a yellow circle with a horizontal line running through it. The only real variation was in the color of the tie stripes. Some were red and orange, others yellow and white, and still more in tones of brown, green, blue, and violet.
Uniforms. That was another thing I’d have to get used to. I’d been enrolled so quickly, I hadn’t had a chance to buy one in advance. I was sure the school would rectify that soon enough. My military father said it would instill discipline. My American mother would’ve said it instilled fascism. But neither was here to say anything. And one might never speak again.
No, my clothes weren’t the cause of the stares and murmurs. They must’ve caught wind of who I was. I supposed it was only a matter of time. I tried to ignore the low voices around me, but it wasn’t easy.