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

by Ilana Waters

  Why is it only me? I tried to figure out a way to get back into the street without getting burned. Why does Sol Invictus, the sun god, suddenly hate me so? If he exists, and I am still a witch of fire, shouldn’t we be brothers, he and I?

  I lifted my eyes to the heavens. As if by way of answer, Sol Invictus, or some force, whisked the sun behind a sheath of black clouds again. I exhaled. I was safe—but not for long. Now, I not only had to escape Pompeii, but I had to do it while remaining under her rain of fire, which provided the only cover from the sun.

  I could fly away. There seemed no reason to hide what I was any longer by concealing my powers. Hell, soon, there might not be anyone left to conceal them from. But fly where? Devastation poured down in every direction. Who knew where it ended, or if it ended? For the first time, I realized the destruction might extend beyond Pompeii. I supposed I could always pick a direction and follow it, in the hopes that Vesuvius’s wrath wouldn’t find me. But that led me right back to the problem of the sun. Until nightfall, there was no escaping that.

  It’s impossible, I thought. I’m completely trapped. If I remain in Pompeii, I die. If I try to leave Pompeii . . . I die. Had I indeed offended the goddess Carna, and this was my punishment? I cursed myself for mocking her.

  I couldn’t go back to Sabine’s house—it would soon drown in ash, like everything else. I needed to get underground somewhere, in a cave, or under something heavy, like stone, that would not yield to Vesuvius.

  The tombs. The cities of the dead lining the roads to Pompeii. That was where I needed to go. Ironic, that a burial chamber might be my only chance at survival. With my newfound speed, even falling ash wouldn’t be enough to stop me. I might be able to make it to the tombs in time.

  Which is exactly what I did.

  Chapter 8

  I ignored the disbelieving cries and pointing fingers as I rose in the air and above the city. They were soon swallowed up by the cacophony, anyway. I dodged large, fiery pieces of still-falling debris. I hardly had time to marvel at the speed with which I reached the tombs. Fresh flames struck my head and shoulders, reminding me of the sun’s assault on them. But the pain was not as bad as it had been. It seemed my healing powers had been well and truly revived by the contents of the chalice. Perhaps they were even stronger than before.

  I wasted no time in finding the closest house-like tomb. Better get used to it, Titus, I thought. If this ash doesn’t stop falling, you may be buried there for all eternity. I’d lost count of how many times I’d passed these final resting places on my way in and out of the city. I’m sure many other citizens had as well. We’d grown so accustomed to them that they appeared ordinary, commonplace. Now, they seemed portentous. As if Pompeii’s dead had been warning us all along that we were on the road to joining them. I hastily ducked inside.

  Urns were tucked into crevices on all sides, jars of the dead dotting the walls. Must be a family tomb, I thought. But then, my eyes fell on a welcome sight. A sarcophagus—its presence, no doubt, evidence of the owner’s forward-thinking approach to funerals. Burial was becoming more common these days than cremation. Relief sculpture on the sides of the sarcophagus told the story of the man’s life: an equestrian who’d amassed a small fortune and a large number of children. Now, he lay in wait for his loved ones to complete the rituals that would keep him alive in the spirit world. In addition to a proper burial, this was the only way Romans believed immortality of the soul could be achieved: by having one’s family partake in one of the designated days to remember the dead.

  A family that, thanks to Vesuvius, will never come.

  But there was no time for sentimentality. I could see sunlight streaming in from the empty door frame. I gave a sharp nod at the sarcophagus.

  That will shield me, I thought as I rotated the lid partway off, once again marveling at how effortless it was. I evicted the occupant: a hideous-smelling old fellow, as embalming was not yet something we had in common with the Aegyptians. Stifling my disgust at the stench, I took the man’s place and pulled the lid back over myself. Just as I thought, the sun was completely shut out. None of its rays—now messengers of death—could find me.

  I felt a new weariness come over my body, and I closed my eyes. This was different from the previous lead-heavy sensations, when I lay dying on Sabine’s chalice room floor. The effects of the blood must be wearing off, I thought. Despite my attempts to hide from ash, from fire, from sun, I was certain death had arrived to claim me once and for all. But I didn’t feel any pain.

  At least it will be quiet and quick, I thought, as I sank into blackness.

  ***

  It was not.

  Death did not come to claim me that day, though at times, I wish it had. I opened my eyes.

  At first, loud, harsh sounds assaulted my ears. It was like different musical instruments being played out of tune by the tone-deaf. I squeezed my eyes shut. I tried to cover my ears with my hands, only to realize they were flat at my sides. I was still in the narrow sarcophagus. My heart started to pound.

  I have to get out of here. I heaved the sarcophagus lid off. Someone might be coming for me. It sounded like an army, but of course, I would’ve been the only one to lead that charge out of Pompeii. Could it be fanatical mortals? Is the destruction of Pompeii over, and they tracked down the black magic demon they saw flying out of the city?

  I sat up quickly and looked around. There was no army, nor any mortals, in the room. The sound was outside. I looked toward the exit. No sunlight streamed through. Instead, ash was pooled on the floor around the door. Was it Vesuvius, snaking her way in, still trying to find me?

  What time is it? I wondered as I got out of the sarcophagus. One peek outside the tomb gave the answer. Although a black cloud of smoke covered most of the sky, in the distance, I could still see the sun slinking beneath the horizon. I’d slept until nightfall.

  My tomb was higher than the others, but ash still took up one-third of the bottom of the door frame. I had to duck the top in order to get outside. There, I stood on a small mountain of ash. I looked around, but could only see the second level and the tops of some of the smaller tombs. Ash covered the rest.

  I saw all this in near-total darkness.

  My eyes, I marveled as I rubbed them. They’re that good. I could see every part of the tombs that would otherwise be invisible to me: Latin inscriptions over the doors, the tiniest swirls of acanthus leaves in the Corinthian columns. The sounds I’d been hearing got louder, but they weren’t coming from an army, or mortal vigilantes. They were the sounds of Pompeii, burning and crackling in the distance. Low rumblings that were as loud to me as the footsteps of a thousand soldiers. Little snaps and pops like someone snapping their fingers right next to my ears. After so many hours of silence through sleep, my new hearing had come back to me as a shock.

  Well, this is going to take some getting used to, I thought. It became clear that the effects of the blood were not wearing off.

  All around me was the stench of burned things, though the gas was not quite as strong as it had been. The ash and stones were falling lighter, now—more like strong rain. By the time they came down, there were no longer pieces of debris to burn. I found that, beyond a minor annoyance, they didn’t bother me anymore.

  There was no rush to leave, now. I was in no danger from the falling Vesuvian sky. The sun would not be up for hours. I don’t know why, but for some reason, I found myself flying back to the edge of Pompeii.

  I rose to see my city. But there was nothing left.

  The destruction was over, all right. Everyone and everything was gone. Even Vesuvius had lost a piece of herself: the top of the volcano had been blown clean off, as if she’d been decapitated. As I gazed out over Pompeii, I saw nothing but a desert of ash, with black smoke billowing from it. A large house tilted to the right and collapsed, as if a child, tired of his toys, had pushed over a building made of blocks. There were no more human or animal sounds, nor any heartbeats
now. Or, if there were, they were too muffled under ash for me to hear, to feel. There was just my own. It was the only one I wished would stop.

  For a few fleeting moments, I thought the gods were punishing me. For what, I could not fathom. Violence? Pride? The fact that I was a witch? But I had always been thus—at least that last one. And, if there were gods, it must have been they who ordained it. Why would the divine create something only to curse it? Why build up a monument, or a triumphal arch, only to watch it fall to ruin? And why take down an entire city—both the guilty and the innocent alike—just to punish one man? Even I didn’t think I merited that.

  I looked on, incredulous, for hours, but I could not get my bearings. I couldn’t tell where the amphitheater had been, nor the baths, nor even Sabine’s house. Ordinarily, I’d have been able to find them blindfolded. Not even the trees were left. Only Vesuvius, squatting like a smug toad on the horizon.

  I saw the swaying skeletons of buildings, listened to the wind blowing ash around, the creaking and crumbling as the last of the city lay down to die. The heat rising off Pompeii was like the world’s largest sacrificial fire. And now, with my hunter’s eyes, I could see every aspect in excruciating detail. Just one more “power” the gods had sent to torment me.

  It was almost dawn by the time I saw another column of smoke pour forth from Vesuvius. It seemed Vesuvius wasn’t finished destroying Pompeii. For the love of all gods, I thought, how much worse can this get? But I should have known better than to ask them that question.

  The smoke came in enormous waves that started rolling over the city. I felt their heat long before the waves got anywhere near me. Centuries later, scientists would call this a “pyroclastic flow”—a fast-moving current of hot ash and gas. Its temperature was said to reach over 750 degrees Fahrenheit. It would’ve instantly killed anyone remaining. I knew I had to get out of there.

  But dawn was approaching. I could see the sun peeking over the horizon. I began to feel dizzy and weak. It wasn’t until the sun’s rays crept over my feet that I realized they were burning. I cried out in pain and swore.

  Fate be damned, it’s happening again. I was beginning to understand: daylight was my murderer. I would not be able to tolerate even the smallest amount for a thousand years, and even then, only after I’d fed well. It occurred to me that being in the sun yesterday, after I drank from the chalice, was only possible because Vesuvius’s smoke blotted out most of the light.

  I had nowhere else to go; with dawn approaching, and the heat wave threatening, I flew as fast as I could back to the tombs.

  Gods, I begged, please let it offer the same protection from the heat as it did from the sun. I could feel my heels and legs growing warm, as if Vesuvius was some monstrous beast snorting just behind me. My heart was pounding, but I didn’t dare look behind me as the wind whipped through what was left of my tunic. Maybe the deadly heat won’t reach the tombs. But I knew that was wishful thinking.

  I flew toward the tomb’s entrance so fast, I had to catch myself on the door frame with both hands to keep from going past it. I glanced up just in time to see the waves engulfing the city. They rose up, as tall as Vesuvius herself, and swallowed all that remained of Pompeii.

  I leaped into the sarcophagus and pulled the lid back over me. I did feel a wave of heat roll past—the first of six of these pyroclastic flows your mortal scientists described. But Pompeii must have sated their appetite. Although uncomfortable by the time they reached the tombs, they did not kill me. After that, all I heard through the sarcophagus walls was the sound of lonely winds blowing.

  The dizzy, weak sensation grew more pronounced. It turned into the same sinking feeling I’d had that morning when I first lay down in the sarcophagus. Now, I understood. This was the vampires’ warning to take cover, the signal that daylight was near. It is what all blood drinkers experience at dawn.

  Had Sabine been right to fear demon goddesses? Perhaps the legends indeed had it wrong. Perhaps Carna didn’t protect others from the strix. Perhaps she was the strix, the evil, blood-drinking bird. Was I a male strix, a demon god, now? I hadn’t noticed myself turning into some kind of owl. So why was I only able to come out at night?

  Sabine’s voice danced in my mind. She who opens things that have been closed, and closes things that have been opened. What doorway to hell had I unwittingly unleashed?

  I didn’t answer the question that morning. It wasn’t long before I was sound asleep in the sarcophagus, well past when the last of the heat waves ravished Pompeii. By the time I rose the next evening, there was a little more ash in front of the doorway, but not much. Debris had finally stopped falling from the sky. For the first time in days, I didn’t smell lethal gas. However, a burned stench still permeated the air. I stepped outside the tomb.

  The radiance from the moon and stars was nearly blinding, a night almost as bright as day. I could easily see that the surrounding grass, trees, and other vegetation had been roasted alive, the countryside leveled and charred black.

  How ironic, I thought. Roman law demands that no one be buried inside the city’s walls. Now, the entire city is a tomb.

  I caught the man’s scent before I saw him, or heard his cart clattering down the road. I caught his scent even before that of his oxen, which were groaning as he tugged their harnesses, unable to go further for the ash blocking the road. The cart was full of jugs and other vessels, carefully packed so as not to be jostled on their journey. The man was a merchant, most likely, from a place where news of Vesuvius had not yet spread. He was headed toward the city, but quickly saw that he would never make it.

  His eyes bulged, and his jaw hung open. Without taking his eyes off ruined Pompeii, he leaped out of the cart. He was a portly man who reminded me of Egnatius, except younger, and with more intelligent eyes. He wore a straw hat against the late-day sun, probably forgetting to remove it when the moon rose. It was a humid evening; the air had the consistency of soup. Yet I was cool and dry as a dog bone. Still staring at what was left of the city, the man removed his hat and wiped perspiration from his forehead. Again, the scent—a metallic perfume—floated in front of me. I inhaled.

  Blood. That was what I smelled. I could hear the man’s heartbeat; steady, at first, then faster, more erratic. I felt that strong, familiar tugging at my chest, the way I did when I first drank from the chalice. The pain wasn’t as bad now as it had been then. Yet, I knew, somehow, there was only one way to stop it.

  The man looked at me in disbelief. What must he make of this tall, pale man in a tattered toga, whose eyes are brighter than normal, veins bluer than they should be? He looked to the city. He narrowed his eyes and looked at me again.

  “Where is everyone?” he demanded. “I am Memmius, of—oh, never mind. Who are you? What happened here?” I stared at him in the strangest way, and did not answer. He took me by the shoulders and shook me. “For the love of the gods, man,” he shouted, “tell me what happened!”

  I paused before answering. “Death,” I said simply. Then, I grabbed the man and sank my teeth into his throat.

  Now, I knew what the fangs were for.

  I let my hunger take over. Instinct did the rest. The man struggled, but he proved no match for my strength. He was as weak as an infant in my arms. Killing someone in such an intimate way was nothing new to me. In those days, battles frequently consisted of men murdering each other at close range. We did not have the luxury of a few feet of distance your modern pistols offer. No, the longest weapon you might have in your hand was a spear; more often, it was a sword. I lost count of the times I looked into a man’s eyes and saw death take hold. Death that I had put there.

  No, killing was nothing new. What was new was the profound pleasure I took in it. Before, if I killed a man, I lived, and he didn’t. It was as simple as that. Yes, there was a certain exaltation in it, the thrill of victory. But now, I lived because he didn’t. The rapture was immeasurable. Every night after was like the first night I became a va
mpire, an equal exchange of my blood for his. Or hers. A life for a life. I could feel their strength flowing into me. This new bliss made me forget about Pompeii, about how it ended. About my grief over Sabine. About everything.

  My dead lover’s words floated on the breeze next to my ear as I drank. From the goddess Carna can spring forth new life or total destruction. It seemed Sabine had planted the seeds of both in me.

  When I was finished, I let the man’s body fall into the ash. Blood was smeared over my lips and chin, dripping onto my tunic. The oxen bellowed in fear and tried to back away, still attached to the cart. But they weren’t that much harder to kill than the man, and I feasted on their blood as well. Little did I know at the time that I was hungrier than most newborns, not having fed for days. The beasts’ blood was nowhere near as luscious as a mortal’s, but it was strong, as oxen are. It would serve.

  I left the man and his animals lying there, on the road to Pompeii. With so much death in the city itself, those who found them would hardly think twice about a few more corpses. Nor were they likely to care about the man’s pallor, or the two strange wounds at the victims’ throats. No, the secret of what I was remained safe, especially since I left the area so quickly. Let those who came back and found them think it was a sacrifice, the work of an angry god, or a demon.

  With Pompeii devoured the way it had been, they might not be wrong.

  ***

  When most mortals are turned into vampires, they revel in their extraordinary powers. They rejoice in the strength, the speed . . . the ecstasy of the kill. But despite my newfound abilities and bloodlust, I felt no small aspect of my power had been stolen.