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

by Ilana Waters

  “I don’t know, but ‘snack’ wasn’t the first thing that came to mind.” I suppose that’s what Miles meant when he said there’d be no roses left on that bush by the end of the year. I looked around the gym. “Hell, maybe I should take it up. These last few weeks have made the word ‘stress’ develop a whole new meaning.”

  It was the day after the Cerridwen incident, but I was no less aggravated than I had been the night before. I was tired of being accused of things. Ironically, it made me want to do some actual damage. I hoped my fencing partner wasn’t looking for someone to go easy on him, because I wasn’t in the mood.

  Our footsteps echoed as we walked across the gym’s wooden floors toward Pen, Imogen, Suyin, and a few others. Miles and I grabbed a pair of masks that hung in rows along the walls, then selected a weapon lined up below them in brackets. Today, we were training with foils, but there were also épées and sabres fastened to the walls a few yards away. For those of you unfamiliar with fencing, foils are a thin, light blade, often weighing less than a pound.

  I could feel the suspicion of the other students upon me as we tested our weapon tips, making sure the safety buttons were tightly fastened. Pity this wasn’t real fencing. No, there wouldn’t be any stabbing or slicing during this class. Which was disappointing, since I was rather in the mood for it.

  People spoke in hushed tones around me, glancing in my direction, then glancing away. I didn’t bother telling Miles and the rest about my clandestine investigation last night. One, it hadn’t revealed anything useful. Two, if they knew I broke Equinox’s rules by skulking around, it might make them seem like accomplices, or put them in greater danger.

  Then there was the fact that I’d nearly been caught, which was just plain embarrassing.

  Two Year Nines saw I was beside them, and quickly moved away. Miles caught my eye and looked down. Then we—along with Pen and the others—took our place in line before class began.

  “This whole thing with Cerridwen is ridiculous,” I muttered. “I think they should just do a truth spell on the whole bloody school. Then, we’d see who the guilty party is easily enough.”

  “Josh, you know full well the parents would have a fit,” Pen said. She looked at Imogen. “You remember how Grimsby’s mother went on and on about it last year? ‘Truth spells in school are the corporal punishment of the Wiccan educational world,’ ” she said in a shrill voice. “That’s why she transferred Grimsby to Equinox from Hallowsbrook. They thought he cheated on his GCSE’s, and the mere talk of doing a truth spell was enough to make her scream ‘Council!’ ”

  Miles snorted. “Grimsby got transferred because he really did cheat, and Hallowsbrook was two steps away from proving it. And no Council member gives a hoot about a cheater getting expelled.”

  “Maybe,” said Imogen. “But if you think Hallowsbrook parents make a fuss over truth spells, just see what Equinox’s would do if Specs tried to implement them.”

  Imogen had a point. Although the simplest of truth spells would reveal the Mabon massacre culprit, they did constitute the forcible reading of a student’s mind. An invasion of privacy. A punitive measure that would be seen as too harsh for the majority of students on whom it was imposed. Students who were innocent. For the briefest of moments, I regretted we didn’t live in my father’s time, when painful spells were the commonest measures used to keep witches in line.

  “You do believe me, don’t you?” I turned to Miles and the others. “That I didn’t do it? Didn’t smash in Cerridwen?” Everyone looked at each other, but before they could answer, Mrs. Greggers clapped her hands to get the class’s attention.

  “All right, we’re almost ready to begin,” she called. “Now, instead of doing bouts simultaneously, they’ll be only one at a time. This will help the less-experienced fencers learn the nuances. I trust you six formers will be on your best behavior, and show true sportsmanship. I’ll be serving as referee, so let’s have some good and fair matches, all right? I’ll be calling students two at a time for their bout. Edwards and Singh—you’re up first.”

  Two Year Tens stepped onto one of the forty-foot strips, or boxes, outlined on the floor. The other students watched with some interest, but I’d seen all this before. We resembled eighteenth-century gentlemen—even the girls—in our slim white trousers, tight-fitted to the knee. Together with our metal vests (lamés), sneakers, long-sleeved shirts, and knee-high socks, it looked like Voltaire, a medieval knight, and a rugby team had a baby.

  These were seeding bouts, so only five touches—where a weapon makes contact with the target—were needed to win. Each bout is supposed to last for three minutes, at least according to the hourglass floating near Greggers. However, a bout’s true time often exceeded that, because the clock stops and starts with every call, defense, and halt.

  This is going to take forever. I buried my head in my hand.

  Ordinarily, there would be a long wire attached from the back of the fencer to a scoring machine. But this was Equinox, after all. As with ordinary clocks, we had little need for electronic scoring methods. Whenever a target was hit, the number simply appeared in the air on the scoring fencer’s side of the strip. In foil fencing, the lamé is the only valid surface you can strike. I sighed and shifted my weight from foot to foot as pair after pair was called. Contrary to popular belief, fencing as a sport isn’t particularly aggressive or bloody. You don’t necessarily have to be stronger than your opponent. You can outthink them, and often, you must. And though descended from dueling, fencing now is more akin to a stylized art form.

  Of course, that’s not how I was trained in it. I was more experienced with arming swords and broadswords, but my skill with a foil was passable as well. I hadn’t really seen the point of learning to swordfight in a century that had long-range explosives. Then again, Titus had also insisted on teaching me archery, which was equally archaic.

  There was one student Greggers kept calling over to demonstrate moves with, or to bout with the winning fencer. He had yet to take off his mask, and was easily besting all the others. I would’ve thought he was a professional fencer, except his fencing uniform had Equinox’s crest on the upper right shoulder, just like the rest of us. He was definitely a student.

  “Wonder why that one’s in the class at all.” I jutted my chin at the figure as he effortlessly beat another opponent. “Unless it’s just to make the rest of us look bad.” Miles snickered, and the girls gave each other knowing looks.

  “That’s McKay,” Pen said, as if that explained everything.

  “Wicca Fencing Champion five years running,” Suyin added.

  “Really bucking for that sixth year, aren’t you?” I called to McKay. He put one hand on his hip and stared at me. Another of his bruised and exhausted opponents limped back in line, collapsing on a bench. Then McKay walked over.

  “Now you’ve done it,” Miles whispered.

  “I assume you’re referring to the Wicca Fencing Championships,” McKay said. One hand was still on his hip; the other dangled the foil. “Rest assured, I should be able to come out on top with no trouble.” His voice was different than I expected. Like there was a musical lilt to it. “Of course, it’s so hard to find fencers at one’s own level. Don’t you agree?”

  “McKay!” Greggers called. “You can’t just walk off. We’re not finished. What the devil do you think—”

  Another pompous git. Exactly what I need. Well, I wasn’t in the mood for this nonsense today, and I saw no reason to hide it. “Oh, absolutely,” I replied with a withering gaze. “One does tire so easily of amateurs.”

  “Joshua . . .” Miles hissed. Pen tugged at my sleeve, but I shook her away.

  “And you can do better?” McKay sounded amused. “Better than anyone else here?”

  I stepped closer. “Let’s just say that none of the opponents I’ve had are still standing.” Of course, practicing with Titus doesn’t count.

  “McKay.” Greggers’s voice said she was d
one being patient.

  “Well, I’d hate to exclude myself from their esteemed ranks.” McKay whipped the foil around till the tip was inches from my face. “Choose your weapon,” he said.

  I looked at the foil tip, then back at McKay. “May I choose sarcasm?”

  “McKay!” Greggers was practically screaming. “How many times do I have to tell you, no weapons in the face? Especially when a person’s not wearing their mask.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Greggers.” McKay dropped the foil back to his side, sounding incredibly remorseful. “I just got so excited. This young man here—what did you say your name was?”

  “Joshua Alderman,” I said between gritted teeth. The school pariah. He knew damn well who I was.

  “Right, sorry. Silly me. Mr. Alderman promised he could beat me. All but pinkie swore. Can’t I have a bout with him? I keep winning all the time, and it’s so boring. Pleeeaaase?” He tilted his head at Greggers.

  She heaved a deep sigh. “Oh, all right.”

  “Fucking hell,” Miles said under his breath. He, Pen, and the others took a step back.

  “But after that,” Greggers continued, “we’ve still got half a class for you to help with. What can I say?” She slapped McKay on the shoulder. “That’s what you get for being the best.”

  “A burden I must bear,” McKay said mournfully, walking toward the strip. I could have chosen an épée or sabre for this bout, and asked McKay to do the same, but I already had the foil in my hand.

  You may have been doing a right job before, I thought to him, but fair warning: you won’t be able to keep up with me. I wasn’t bragging, mind you, dear reader. Simply stating a fact.

  We’ll see, McKay thought back. Something in his tone told me he was smiling.

  I stood facing McKay on the strip’s en garde lines, about twelve feet apart. The strip itself is about four feet wide. Step too far to the left, right, or back of the strip during the bout, and you’re penalized. But I wasn’t worried. This was bound to be over quickly.

  “En garde!” said Greggers. As I eyed McKay, and we assumed a fighting stance, I realized how little I knew about him. Our fencing uniforms didn’t include house ties; there were no colors to tell me which element he was. I almost hoped he was fire. When I beat him, it would be very satisfying to imagine I was actually trouncing Victor.

  “Ready?” Greggers called. Any chatter among the students was quickly hushed. All eyes were on McKay and me.

  “FENCE!” Greggers cried.

  After watching each other carefully and taking a few steps, we both lunged at the same time, but scored no hits. A few more lunges, parries, ripostes, counter ripostes . . . it wasn’t as easy to beat McKay as I first thought. We watched each other carefully again. Advance, retreat, advance. We went up and down on the balls of our feet. A few grunts, the clinking and clanging of foils. The high-pitched, ringing sound they made when they struck one another.

  I watched for tells—like in poker—that he was about to lunge. Tensing up, extending his weapon too soon . . . but there were none. To complicate matters, he knew better than to keep lunging from the same position, such as sixte or octave. He kept switching it up, so I never knew when an attack was coming.

  My father would love this bloke, I thought.

  I decided a little trickery was in order. I dropped my rear hand sharply, as if I were about to lunge. The idea was to make McKay engage the false move, then lunge. But he didn’t fall for it. Instead he extended; I parried, he pulled his blade away. I extended again, but he parried and riposted with a triumphant “Ha!”

  “Halt!” called Greggers. The hourglass’s sand froze midair, and a point appeared in the air on McKay’s side of the strip.

  An absence de fer. I can’t believe I fell for that. It was a common tactic. Often, beginning fencers are at a loss when a blade is pulled out of the highline. But I wasn’t a beginner. I was glad my father wasn’t here to see this.

  Sand from the hourglass resumed falling. I tried a different approach. Distracting McKay with some fancy footwork, I lunged and managed to strike his lamé.

  “Halt!” Greggers called again, and a point appeared on my side of the strip.

  Yes! I wanted to throw my fist in the air. But McKay didn’t seem put off. In fact, his own footwork was rather impressive. He slid over the floor as if he were gliding on air. Something about the way he moved was familiar, but I was sure I’d never met McKay before. And after he gained two more points in a series of remises, I was beginning to regret introducing myself this way.

  “Are you planning on doing anything productive while we’re here?” McKay asked in a playful voice. “Like surrender?”

  “You must be speaking another language, because I have no idea what that word means,” I retorted. The son of Titus Aurelius does not surrender, even if Titus himself is absent.

  With all the gear one wears in fencing, and all the moving about, one is often slick with sweat after only a few minutes. But McKay didn’t lift his mask for a moment, not even to wipe his brow between hits. We jabbed and feinted and lunged at each other. I scored a few more points.

  “You’ve been wearing that mask since before I came in here,” I said, eyes searching for a way to score. “Aren’t you hot under there?”

  McKay didn’t respond, but executed a series of moves that left me nowhere to go. I had to step off the mat, and in doing so, awarded McKay a point. Our faces were almost touching as he leaned over me. I stared into his mask, a dark crisscross of dense mesh.

  You’re pretty hot yourself, he thought.

  The nerve, I thought to myself, struggling to get back up. Who does McKay think he is? Probably just trying to flummox and intimidate me. Well, that wasn’t going to work. I was trained by an ancient Roman general who’d murdered scores of men, and this bloke was still kicking my ass. The score was 4-4. It was time to turn the tables.

  I executed a beautiful passata sotto, which is particularly tricky. The move involves evading the other fencer’s attack by dropping beneath their weapon. When your opponent tries to lean over you, you straighten your arm and try to score a hit. I did, and with that, won the bout.

  “Halt! Five points to Alderman. Good job, all.” Greggers clapped her hands, and Miles and the others cheered and whooped. I stood on the strip for a moment, panting. I did it. I beat McKay. But instead of being triumphant, I actually felt surprised.

  Apparently, McKay felt the same way. “Oh, that was too easy. I practically let him win,” he said. “One more round.” He turned to face me. “Épée, this time.”

  Greggers shook her head. “That’s enough, you two. You’ve had your turn.”

  “Just another few minutes, Mrs. G? Do be a dear. Think what an educational experience it will be for the young ones.” McKay held his arm out toward the line of students. Greggers gave a heavy sigh. “One more bout, McKay, and that’s it.” No one asked how I felt about the matter, but there seemed no good reason to refuse. McKay and I switched out our swords.

  Besides, if I beat him once, I can do it again. The scoring numbers on either side of the strip vanished and were replaced with zeros.

  “En garde . . . ready . . . fence!” Greggers called. The hourglass turned over, and sand started to drain down again.

  Although épée fencing has fewer rules than foil, it places even more importance on strategy. The blades are stiffer and thicker as well. Anywhere on the body is a valid target—not just the lamé. Unfortunately, you also have to use more force than you do with foils to register a hit, which means a lot of bruising. And McKay wasn’t holding back.

  Clang! Our swords rang out as they hit one another again and again.

  “Ha!” He landed a hit.

  Oomph! I grunted as McKay’s body fell into mine. I quickly recovered, but was running out of steam. Sweat dripped down the sides of my face and out my mask. I could see the same on McKay. My thighs, backside, and arms were burning. I vaguely remember Greggers c
alling “halt” a few times, but don’t remember if we did. The scoring numbers kept wavering and changing in the air, but neither McKay nor I bothered to look at them.

  We stopped fencing like mortals, and started fencing like witches. When I was knocked to my back on the ground, I used air magic to spin myself in a circle. McKay lunged, but the tip of his sword caught the floor while I flew back up. The crowd gasped.

  “Oy, that’s too advanced,” Greggers shouted. “The Year Nines are going to be completely lost. Halt. McKay, Alderman, I said, halt!”

  McKay stumbled back when I flew up, but turned it into a backward flip that landed him right in front of me. A few more jabs, and I managed to point my weapon straight at his mask.

  “Steady on,” McKay panted. “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not? You did it to me before.”

  “That was different,” McKay said. “It was prior to the match. Here, it’s against the rules. It’s unsportsmanlike.”

  I laughed. “My dear boy, real-life fighting has no rules. There is no honor. You’re not playing for points. It’s kill or be killed. You’re not going to look very sporting when you’re lying on the ground dead.”

  I thought McKay would make another amused retort. Instead, his voice was fiercer. Determined.

  “Fine,” he said. “If that’s how you want to play it.” Without his so much as turning his head, the épée in McKay’s hand flew to the wall and clattered to the floor. In its place, a sabre—the heaviest and thickest of the blades—flew into his hand. My eyes bulged beneath my mask, and I had no choice but to call a sabre into my hand as well. I’d barely done so when McKay launched his first attack.

  Into the air.

  That was when McKay started using moves one sees less in fencing matches and more in real swordfights. One lunge came like a lightning strike, catching me in the center of the chest.

  For the love of God, is he really trying to kill me?

  I was thrown back, but managed to flip over, hovering in the air only an instant before I charged at McKay. He sidestepped me at the last second, running up a wall and bringing his weapon down on me. I could’ve sworn I felt my spine crack.