by Ilana Waters
“Nice work there before, with the waitress,” I said dryly, wiping my hands on the towel the attendant handed me.
“What? Oh yeah—which one?” The louse grinned and blew a puff of smoke—not quite in my face, but not far enough away, either. “Eh, doesn’t matter. I try to get as much tail as I can. I make it a little game, you know? How much can I grab and how hard before they get away. And that’s just what happens outside the bedroom, if you know what I mean.” The louse chuckled.
A quick scan of his meager mind, and I knew the closest Larry came to having sex in months was visiting pornography websites. The stench of his cigar was even more revolting in such an enclosed space. I covered my mouth and tried not to choke.
“That’s . . . that’s great,” I coughed. I slipped a twenty out of my pocket and pressed it into the attendant’s palm. “Could you give us a minute?” Wordlessly, the attendant left the room.
“But you know, there’s one trick you can use to get women to do anything you want.” I swallowed and rubbed my throat, which was already starting to burn. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
“Really?” Larry leaned forward, grinning widely.
“Oh yes,” I said. “One trick that never fails to have them eating out of the palm of your hand.”
“Well, what is it? Don’t hold back, son. Lay that shit on me!” he laughed, releasing a pungent wave that was half cigar smoke, half foul breath.
“The number one way to win over girls is . . .” I bent my head closer to his, trying not to inhale.
“Is . . .?” He put his face inches from mine, just where I wanted it.
“Is . . .” Before Larry could release the next cloudful of nicotine, I grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed his face on the counter.
“Is don’t act like a jackass!” I snapped. Larry’s hands clutched his face and he dropped his cigar, which rolled a little ways into a small puddle and fizzled out. When he tried to stand, blood dripped down his chin. I dropped the towel I’d been using into the laundry bin and went to the door.
“My nose!” he cried. “You broke my nose!”
I had? This had gone better than expected.
“Never mind that. It may not be cheating at cards,” I called over his groans of pain, “but you really ought to treat the ladies more gently.” I gave a little smile and left.
What? Oh, come now. I know I’ve given the impression I’m not terribly violent, but there’s a time and place for everything, after all.
And I am Titus Aurelius’s son.
Chapter 6
It’s one of the first trips to the library that I can remember. I don’t know how old I am, but the library card is nearly as big as my hand. I look down at the laminated piece of plastic covering my entire palm. It has my name on it. My very own library card!
From somewhere above comes my mother’s voice.
“Don’t lose it now, baby, you hear? Or do you want me to keep it for you?”
“No, I want to keep it. It’s mine!” I clutch the card to my chest as if someone is going to snatch it away from me.
My mother laughs, a sound like someone trying to catch their breath. I look up at her. She isn’t that tall, but she’s a giant to me. With curly, dark brown hair and matching eyes, her scent is a blend of wisteria and hyacinth. She smells like childhood and summer wind. And a little bit like soil—wild, like nature itself.
“C’mon—the kids’ section is over here.” She takes my hand, but I pull away.
“No, I want to go where the big books are.” I point to where the grown-ups are reading in their individual cubbies. My mother knows what I mean.
She laughs again. “Maybe later . . . when you’re all grown up.”
I don’t remember who won the battle that day. Probably her, but the memory is soon overtaken by a different, much darker one.
I am older now, no longer a child. It’s late at night, the house quiet. The only sound is my mother humming in the next room as she packs her supplies for tomorrow’s work, the way she always does. I am lying in my bed, turning through different stations on the radio, when I feel a strange rush of wind outside. I don’t mean hear it, the way mortals do, but feel it in my mage bones. An uncomfortable sensation prickles at the back of my neck. I turn off the radio and sit up. Suddenly, all I hear are my mother’s screams, then the sound of shattering glass.
More screaming. The dash down the hallway seems to take forever, like I’m moving through quicksand. I run into the next room, ready to hurl magic at the first enemy I see. But the room is empty. Furniture is overturned, my mother’s supplies are all over the floor. The wall of windows opposite the door is completely smashed. I run to them, panting, heart pounding. I look at the ground below, but the only things I see are shards of glass and part of the window frame. I look to the sky, but there’s nothing except clear, dark blue, broken only by stars. I feel the protection spell on the house knitting itself back together. I didn’t even realize it was temporarily torn away.
My mother is gone.
***
When I arrived in London, my fatigue from the journey was not as bad as one might expect. Witches need very little sleep—only about four hours a night, and mages are similar. The surfeit of energy made me a little more optimistic. How difficult could this be? After all, St. Joshua is the saint of intelligence and spying, so perhaps this task would come naturally to me. Not that I have a great affinity for saints, being half-Jewish and all.
Either way, it was lovely to be back in England. Despite the overcast skies, I found it familiar and comforting. There were umbrellas over people’s heads and wellies on their feet. Bright red double-decker buses careened down the streets, though if one chose to walk, one could easily inhale the heavenly aroma of curry takeaway. Big Ben continued to chime every hour, and the gray Thames wound its way through the city, just as they’d done for centuries.
Since both my hotel and the PIA headquarters were located in Mayfair, I took a cab there. It was one of those classic black London taxis, complete with a Cockney-accented driver. He turned around, placing an arm on the back of the front seat.
“Where to, guv’nah?” he asked.
I smiled and shook my head. I always seemed to end up in situations straight out of novels.
“The Athenaeum Hotel on Piccadilly, if you please,” I replied.
“Right, then.” And off we went.
While there are no tube stations in Mayfair itself, there are several on the perimeter. However, the PIA headquarters were only a few blocks away, so after dropping off my things, I elected to walk there despite the gloomy weather. I passed by a cafe with jazz music streaming out of it. For a moment, I envisioned the whole scene as a black-and-white movie, the kind my mother and I would sometimes watch. Abigail could be nostalgic that way (and to be honest, so could I). But she also introduced me to things like Broadway musicals and Monty Python. Homes with my mother were filled with the sounds of Sondheim on the stereo and British comedians on the television. It was a bizarre, magical way to grow up.
And it was magic in danger of disappearing again—possibly forever—unless I could make the PIA think I belonged there. I had an appointment with one Arthur Hartwood at ten o’clock, and I hoped I’d taken enough precautions to fool him. Earlier that morning, I’d added a few accessories to emulate a scholarly look: polished shoes, a waistcoat, and a pair of glasses. They had clear lenses, since I didn’t need them to see, but I was the only one who knew that. Hopefully, all this made me appear an ordinary knowledge-seeker, nothing more. Completely harmless.
It wasn’t long before I reached the right building. It was five or six stories and made of red brick, with dormer windows on the roof and a turret on one end. It was a nice enough piece of architecture, but certainly nothing that screamed “we investigate magical creatures.” I walked up the front steps to an enormous oak door.
I looked down at the paper in my hand. This was definitely the address
. But all the door said was “PIA—Members Only.” I tried the door handle, but it was locked. I looked around, but there was no knocker or bell. Finally, I saw a small intercom on my left, and pressed the button.
A female voice crackled through the static. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here for my appointment with Mr. Hartwood.” There was a long pause, and I wasn’t sure if the woman had heard me, or if she simply forgot I was there. I was just about to press the intercom button again when I heard a loud buzzing, and the door clicked open.
The lobby was straight out of a 1940s hotel. All its floors were visible the way you would see in a shopping mall, with a long railing running the length and width of the building. There was even a cage elevator with a scissor gate across it. Although everything seemed to be in decent shape, it looked like no one had redecorated for decades.
I walked up to the front desk; behind it sat a young woman flipping through a magazine. She wore very practical-looking clothing: a button-down shirt and cardigan. I was glad to see this, because it meant I was on the right track with my own costume. Next to her was a brass service bell—perhaps this building had originally been a hotel—but she gave me a look that said, “Don’t you dare use it.”
“Ah, here to see Arthur Hartwood?” I repeated.
“You said you had an appointment?” She flipped through a datebook on the counter.
“That’s right.” A quick scan of her mind said she wasn’t going to be more helpful than she absolutely had to be. I suppose I could have forced her to be more accommodating—after all, some supernaturals can control mortal thoughts, not just read them.
But as with all our powers, one had to be careful. Jedi mind tricks may work in a pinch, but use them too often, and mortals will start to notice a pattern. If everyone begins acting or feeling strangely around a particular person, it won’t take long for them to realize it and start taking defensive action. Also, some mortal thoughts cannot be controlled, just as they cannot be read. Finally, controlling mortal thoughts takes a lot of effort, which is why most witch and mage workings are accomplished through spells. And by the way, most of us have long evolved past wands, so please don’t expect to see them here.
“Hartwood . . . Hartwood . . .” The girl’s eyes scanned the datebook.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
She looked up at me briefly and blinked. “Of course I do,” she replied, as though I were an idiot. “Everyone knows Mr. Hartwood. He’s been at the PIA so long, he’s practically an institution. But it’s been years since he’s gone out in the field.” She went back to the datebook. “I’m just trying to find his appointments.”
I sighed. Doing research in the PIA might take a while. Did they even have computers?
“Ah, here it is.” She kept her finger on one spot in the book and used the other to dial a rotary phone beside her. Holding the receiver in the crook of her neck, she closed the datebook and drummed her fingernails on the counter.
“Hello—yes, are you available?” she asked. “Your ten o’clock is here. All right, I will.” She turned to me.
“Mr. Hartwood will see you now.”
Chapter 7
After being given directions to the second floor, I decided to use the wide staircase in the center of the lobby instead of taking my chances with the elevator. There didn’t seem to be many other members around, although I did pass a few severe-looking men and women in the halls. However, the quiet atmosphere gave me an opportunity to peek behind a few doors.
What? I was at the PIA to spy, was I not?
If this had been a pleasure excursion, or if I’d had more time, I would have been delighted with what I found. There were enormous libraries, full of scrolls and old-fashioned books—some dating back as far as the 1400s, I was certain. Conference rooms held large wooden tables surrounded by chairs. There were a few locked doors as well, marked “Senior Members Only.” Of course, it would have been nothing to pick the lock—magically or no. Still, better to follow protocol and not arouse suspicion. If the information I needed was in there, it was only a matter of time till I acquired it.
After quite a few twists and turns down long, thickly carpeted halls, I arrived at Mr. Hartwood’s office and knocked on the door.
“Come in!” I heard a voice call. “I mean, come in if you can.”
I began pushing the door open, only to find it stopped halfway and wouldn’t budge further. I tried shifting my weight against it, but no luck. I didn’t want to break what was on the other side (possibly Mr. Hartwood), and since my slender frame had more than enough room to enter, that’s what I did.
A brief glance behind the door told me large crates of books had prevented it from opening. In fact, every surface in the tiny office was covered with books—on shelves, on the floor, and inside a mini-fridge I assumed was broken. The air in the office had an old but not disagreeable scent. There were a desk and chair at the back, the former covered with yet more books, but also foreign-looking bric-a-brac. Small Buddhas were lined up on the side, and African shaman masks hung on the wall. In one corner, I even thought I saw a replica of a crossbow. It looked like a cozy, if crowded, place to work.
“Sorry about the mess.” A tall, elderly man descended from a ladder leaning against one of the bookcases. He wore a collared shirt with a serviceable sweater vest over it. In the vest’s pocket was a pair of reading glasses. With his stark white hair and gravelly voice, I placed the man in his seventies.
“Mr. Hartwood? I’m Joshua Alderman. We spoke on the phone?”
“Please call me Arthur.” He shook my hand warmly and motioned to a chair in front of his desk. “You’re American, aren’t you? Don’t they do everything on a first-name basis over there?” Realizing the chair was covered in books, he hastily moved them to his desk, and I sat down.
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Anyway, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Oh, no trouble at all,” he said. “Sorry for the delay. I was just on the phone with my old friend, Strom.”
“Was there a delay? I hadn’t noticed.”
“You’re too kind.” Arthur smiled. “So pleased to meet you. Tea?” Sure enough, a small china pot and cups sat on a shorter bookshelf to the left.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I actually just had breakfast.”
“Want to get right down to business, then, do you?” Arthur rubbed his hands together and looked around for a place to sit. When he realized there wasn’t one—the chair behind the desk was nearly toppling over with books—he cleared a space on the edge of the desk and leaned against it.
“Yes, well, typically, we don’t admit applicants to the PIA quite so soon. However, I understand you agreed to defer your salary for several years, and in addition made a sizable . . . donation that helped speed things up quite a bit. But I hope you don’t think that means you won’t have to work your way up in the organization.” Arthur folded his arms and gave me what must have been a stern gaze by his standards. “There’s quite a lot of grunt work, as they say, before you get anywhere near being a senior member.”
“Of course,” I said smoothly. “I understand.” Anything small and relatively useless I can do to keep you off my back while I undertake my actual investigation. As for becoming a senior member, Arthur didn’t need to know that I couldn’t care less.
“You don’t seem all that disappointed,” he said, furrowing his brow. “Most novices are raring to go. Can’t wait to get out into the field and all.”
Blast. I should have put up more of a fight; I did want my presence there to seem realistic.
“It’s just . . . I assumed as much,” I said. “From what I know of the PIA and all.”
Arthur nodded. “Glad to hear you’ve done your research. Not that it’s easy to get background information on a society like ours. Still, researching is a necessary skill for all members—especially delving into things others might not want found out.”
You have no idea.
Arthur picked up a manila folder on his desk, which he miraculously managed to find beneath all the books. He pulled his glasses out of his pocket and put them on, then began flipping through the folder. I could see my name jutting out from the label.
“So, where did you grow up, if you don’t mind my asking?”
My eyes wandered around the room. “Oh, here and there.”
“I know you came here from the States, but something about you sounds British,” he pondered. “Were your parents from England? Just curious.”
Too curious. Of course, if I had my way, the PIA would know absolutely nothing about me or where I came from. But I couldn’t expect to get out of all social niceties. “I spent several years in London growing up,” I replied. “So . . .”
“Ah! This must be like coming home, then.” Arthur nodded vigorously. “Splendid. Still, must be lovely to live over there. I’ve always wanted to go to California. I hear the weather there is fantastic.” He placed some papers behind others in the file.
“Oh, it is,” I agreed. I didn’t want to explain to Arthur that I didn’t stay in one location so much as floated around. I did keep an old house where Abigail and I had lived in upstate New York, but I couldn’t bear to stay there. Too many memories. Around every corner I kept expecting to see her face, hear her voice calling down the hall. Even the scent of the furniture polish she used was too much, drifting as it did from the cracks in oak and pine. Then there were the terrible memories from the night she disappeared.
I blamed myself that she was taken at all, though I still didn’t quite understand how it happened. There had been nothing to suggest it was anything other than an ordinary evening, which would lead to another ordinary day, at least for us.
You see, Abigail was a midwife—a fairly unusual occupation in the modern age. Then again, she was an unusual person. All floppy hats, wide-legged pants, and loose blouses. Mind you, by the time I was born, it was well past the sixties and seventies. But apparently no one bothered to tell my mother, because she seemed to enjoy being partly hippie. Not that she would have ever given up her laptop and gourmet coffee, of course. It was from her I learned growing and healing magic, which was a nice counterbalance to Titus’s more violent tutelage.
