by Ilana Waters
The book went on to say, “The crystal is most often referred to by its old Wiccan name.” My apologies, reader, but I cannot relate that to you here. Some secrets are meant to be kept, after all. I can tell you that its English equivalent is “opener of doors.” Intriguing, yes, but not terribly helpful. Rather left one with more questions than answers. I turned the page, only to find a treatise on amethysts on the other side. A page between the last one I’d read and the start of the treatise had been ripped out.
“What? No! DAMMIT!” I flipped back and forth frantically through the pages, but found no other mention of the crystal. I searched the rest of that section of the library high and low, to no avail. I had no idea who’d taken the missing page; it could have been done yesterday or decades ago. The result was the same: crucial information was missing.
“The opener of doors . . . bloody useful that is,” I muttered as I made books fly through the air and into their proper places. Still, at least I knew a bit more about it than I had before.
I let out another yawn. I’d had three espressos that night and I was still exhausted. This usually didn’t happen to my sort, but my fruitless search was taking its toll. It was time to go back to the hotel and start fresh tomorrow.
I was just walking out of the lobby when I heard the distinctive sound of a door closing behind me. I whirled around, but there was no one there. That wasn’t surprising; there wasn’t supposed to be anyone there. For the past two weeks, I’d been the last PIA member to leave the building each evening. Other members thought I was either ridiculously dedicated to my work, a brownnoser, or both.
But I knew I hadn’t imagined the door closing. I may not have a vampire’s senses, but I’m not a fool. Although it was an old building, this section wasn’t particularly drafty, so a door wouldn’t just shut on its own. And the only door behind me led to the basement. I’d never been down there; I was told it held nothing but storage and a boiler room, neither of which would interest a PIA member late at night. If a person was in the basement now, it meant someone was doing something they weren’t supposed to.
What did I do? Why, what any self-respecting mage with no forethought would do. I opened the basement door and went down into the dark.
Chapter 11
It was easy enough to light the way with a little magic. Although I knew it would draw attention to me if the basement turned out to contain a threat, I had no choice. My vampire father may be able to see in such dimness, but my eyesight is no better than an ordinary mortal’s.
There was nothing particularly threatening as I descended the steps, my ball of light a few feet ahead of me. Boxes, pipes, rusty file cabinets, and the usual chill that underground rooms have. I did a quick sweep of the boiler room, but there was no one there. For all intents and purposes, it seemed like an ordinary basement.
It’s just that it was awfully . . . small. For a building that took up half a city block, shouldn’t the basement be bigger? I directed the ball of light from corner to corner, until I found a small archway on one side. Well, I was already here, wasn’t I? Might as well keep going.
I walked through the arch slowly, unsure of what I’d find. Concrete floors and piped ceilings gave way to stonework all around me. This must be a much older part of the basement. I brushed my hand along one wall, soon feeling cold metal bars beneath my fingers.
Bars? I held the light closer. To my left was what looked like a small jail cell carved into the side of the room. Floor-to-ceiling bars and an old lock were all that held prisoners inside. There was a long bench made out of rock that ran from end to end. Morbidly, I looked for bones or other detritus that might indicate someone had been there recently. But aside from a bucket in one corner, the cell was swept clean.
Why on earth would the PIA have a jail? Or was it the PIA’s at all? Perhaps the owners of the building had used it for another purpose before the PIA acquired it—something that would necessitate a place to keep prisoners. But if not, it was certainly a side of the PIA I hadn’t anticipated. Perhaps this wasn’t an ordinary basement after all. Not that a mere jail cell could hold the likes of me—or most supernaturals, for that matter.
I walked on and found another surprise: a wine cellar. With its cathedral ceiling and Gothic, crisscrossed arches, it was more like a wine vault. Barrels stood all along the walls, and above them, honeycombed recesses for wine. There were very few bottles, but the barrels could be full for all I knew. For a moment, I mused that I’d wandered into Rome’s oldest liquor store. I doubted the PIA used this for their own personal wine collection. The place was dusty and cobwebbed; it didn’t look like anyone had been here for years.
My ball of light flashed on and off a few times. I looked around for a light switch, and was surprised when I actually found one, though I doubted it was up to code. All flipping the switch did was turn on a cheap set of lights strung along the ceiling’s perimeter. Then I saw them.
There must have been six—no, seven—witches standing before me. With my dying magic light, I hadn’t been able to see them lurking in the shadows. The men wore dark suits, and the women had on long black dresses. Many people think witches always dress in black, which isn’t true. But when we do, I assure you it has nothing to do evil, Satanism, and all that. It’s simply because we are trying to blend in with those around us. That way, a witch could be among any of you, and you’d never even know.
How did I know they were witches? Oh, come now—you think I don’t recognize my own kind when I see them? Well, mostly my kind, me being a mage and all. I felt a few tendrils of magic trying to worm their way into my head. Instantly, I put up a shield, which here means a small magical wall to prevent others from getting through.
Oh no, we’re not having any of that. If you want to know my thoughts, you’re going to have to ask. Nicely. I sent out a few of my own feelers, as it were, dangling over the other witches.
Almost instantly, it was as if a bolt of lightning hit my skull. I cried out and grabbed the sides of my head. The force of the spell sent me back against the wall, knocking the air out of my lungs, but at least I was still on my feet.
“What the hell was that for?” I asked. “You can try to read my thoughts, but I do the same and you almost blow my brains out?” I cringed and rubbed my temples.
“Quite a lot of cheek you have there,” said one of the witches. He stepped forward, and I saw a man in his mid-fifties or early sixties with silver hair. Of course, he could have been much older, and just elected to stop the clock when he looked that age. The same could be said of any of the other members as well. “Thinking you can invade our privacy,” he snorted.
“Me?” I walked a few steps forward and straightened my jacket. I probably should’ve been more apprehensive, but I was far too irritated. And my head still stung. “You’re the one who tried to invade first. Why didn’t you just ask what I was thinking? Or better yet, tell me what you’re all doing down here, invading the PIA’s privacy. Or am I to believe you’re part of a coven that regularly meets in basements?”
Wait a minute. This wasn’t just part of any coven. Scanning the witches’ faces, I realized I recognized a few of them from the papers. There were several high-powered lawyers, a corrupt politician or two. No, I will not name them here. But the power suits, the prominent social positions . . . these weren’t just your run-of-the-mill witches.
These were members of the High Council.
Not the entire High Council, of course. As I mentioned earlier, it’s a set of thirteen. But at least half of them were standing in front of me. The question was why?
“I think it’s quite obvious who we are,” one woman replied smoothly. She was a few years younger than the man who spoke before, her brown hair pulled back in a French twist. “To that end, we trust that going forward, you will show us the proper respect.”
I folded my arms. “The proper respect . . . and what would that be, exactly? Besides, don’t you have important board meetings to attend,
or stockholders to report to or something? I assume that’s all you do these days, unless I’m mistaken and you’re still busy practicing the Old Ways.”
Begging your pardon, reader; perhaps I should have explained this earlier. The Old Ways are what the witches of long ago used to practice. Despite our place in history as purveyors of hexes and worshippers of the devil, true witchcraft is quite different. It’s about being close to nature, working in harmony with her cycles, and yes—helping mortals through magical means. But I fear that in the modern world’s quest for money, status, and power, many of those lessons have been forgotten. Except by people like my mother, of course.
A younger man stepped forward, slicking back his dark hair. Something about his haughtiness reminded me of Philip, although this man was trimmer, his face more angular. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “there are many important matters that we could be attending to at any given moment. We’ve come quite a ways since the days of little hearth witches like your mother. Which is why I hope you’ll appreciate our taking the time to meet with you like this.”
I felt anger burn inside my chest. It just went to show how little they really understood Abigail—not that there was anything wrong with smaller magics, like hearth witchery.
“What about my mother?” I growled. “What do you know about her?”
“It shouldn’t really come as a surprise.” It was the older man who spoke again. “All these goings-on with you, your father, the PIA. They’ve sent whispers and rumblings throughout the supernatural world. We know all about the crystal, your mother, Ferox, et cetera. Though I must admit, Mr. Alderman,” he looked at his fingernails, “all those years ago, when I first heard there was a child of a vampire in the world, I didn’t believe it.” The others grimaced, as if they didn’t want to believe it either.
“Well, one doesn’t like to brag,” I said. Figured they would see me as something of a blight. To them, I probably shouldn’t exist in the first place. “And although you seem to know who I am, you haven’t told me any of your names yet,” I added. Not that I haven’t already guessed a few.
“Then permit us to do so now,” said the older man. “I am Lord Henry Ashdown. My colleagues are Sasha Cronin,” he motioned to the woman who’d spoken before, “and Luther Blackline.” The smug young man with the dark hair smiled at me.
I waited a few seconds, but Lord Ashdown did not say anything more. “That’s all?” I asked. “Surely the rest of you have names as well.”
“That’s all you need to know for now,” replied Ashdown.
“I see.” I nodded. “Too afraid to come here in broad daylight and introduce yourselves to the PIA? I’m sure they would love to meet you.”
“Meet them?” Cronin said, and indignant noises rippled through the rest of the Council. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s bad enough they have files on us here that contain gods-know-what.”
What’s that? Ah, yes—I thought you might be wondering how supernatural creatures deal with mortals who know about us, like those at the PIA. No, we don’t forbid others of our kind to divulge their true nature to mortals, nor do we generally kill anyone who knows too much. Surely you can see how such a rule would be unnecessary. Most mortals who go around screaming about vampires, witches, et cetera being real are promptly admitted to asylums. I suppose you could say the problem has a way of working itself out.
Of course, that wouldn’t stop an individual vampire, witch, or other creature from removing a mortal who knew too much about them personally. I didn’t really care to think what my father’s history was in that respect. But since the PIA keeps such information to themselves—heavily guarded from other mortals, in fact—the threat they present is minimal. Still, Ashdown had a point. It was disconcerting to think a large agency might be following you, watching your every move.
“So I assume you took it upon yourselves to magic your way in and draw me to a secluded spot?” I asked. “Why? If you already knew of my investigation, then you also know it doesn’t concern you.”
“Of course it does,” snapped Ashdown. “We want you to cease it immediately.”
I set my jaw. “And why would I do that?”
“You know why,” he said.
“No, I don’t.” This was like the conversation with the alley vampire. Why did people keep insisting I knew things I didn’t?
“If you refuse our request,” Cronin said, “or continue playing the fool, we have other ways of convincing you.”
I let out a short laugh. “You’ve given me no logical reason to acquiesce, and as for playing the fool, I am certainly not—”
I saw Cronin flick her wrist, and a zap similar to the one I felt before hit me, this time in the chest. I clutched at my ribs and doubled over.
What the hell? There’d been no need for that. Wasn’t the Council capable of having a conversation without flinging painful spells every few minutes? But if they wanted a fight, that was fine by me. I was angry enough to show them two could play at this game.
I stood up and flexed my fingers at my sides until I could feel them crackling with magic. With all the force I could manage, I threw a ball of it straight into the center of the Council.
They leaped to either side, while the magic went straight back into the wall. It left a large hole, charred and smoking around the edges. Before I could attempt another throw, I felt a rush of wind knock me off my feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a furious Lord Ashdown lifting both his hands, and my entire body crashed into the ceiling.
Oh dear. Well, you can imagine how much that hurt. It’s a miracle he didn’t break my skull; but he did manage to smash my fake glasses. I’d forgotten how violent—and excruciating—witch fights could be. Sometimes it was even worse than fighting vampires. But they really ought to know better than to challenge the son of a two-thousand-year-old general.
I grabbed a handful of loose stones from the ceiling and sent them sailing in Ashdown’s direction. I also changed their shape, so they were now dozens of tiny stone daggers headed straight for him. Ashdown’s hands flew to his face, but I got in a couple of nicks. Too bad he was more powerful than I, and healed almost instantly. Still, it felt good . . . in a petty sort of way.
With Ashdown otherwise occupied, his concentration broke, and I dropped from the ceiling—hard. I got up as quickly as I could, but apparently the Council wasn’t done with me. Cronin’s face twisted into an ugly sneer as she and several others lifted their hands and murmured a spell. I heard the sound of rushing water, but I didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. There was a noise like a small explosion, and water shot down from the ceiling. I only just managed to jump out of the way. Otherwise, the jet stream would surely have hit me.
They used water magic to burst a pipe? But why? The answer became clear all too soon as water began pooling around my feet. It rose to my thighs, my chest, soaking me, getting colder, colder. They were going to freeze me in a block of ice.
Well, it was a good thing my father’s primary element is fire. I’m air myself, but I daresay I’m better with fire than most, having learned it from Titus. Witches and mages can control elements other than their own, of course; it just takes more effort. A snarl rose deep in my throat, and I quickly spread heat through my upper body. With a cry that would’ve made the Hulk proud, I pushed magic out of my arms and fingers, sending chunks of ice careening towards the Council. Too quickly, they threw a shield together. The ice smashed against it and fell, harmlessly, to the floor.
Dammit. Seven against one. There was no way I was going to win this. They’d already inflicted various injuries, making my back hurt, my front hurt, and my head hurt. Still, they started it. As I had in the alley, I looked around frantically for some sort of weapon. The heat of my magic had melted the ice, so a good part of the floor was now covered in water, with some still trickling down from the ceiling. I heard snapping sounds on the water’s surface, and something wriggled towards me, like a snake.
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br /> It was worse than a snake. I felt a burning strand of magic work its way up my leg, then my torso, and my arms. Before I could prevent it, my wrists clamped together and I was pulled into the air, dangling as if suspended by an invisible rope. My feet were barely touching the ground. I twisted, turned, and grunted, but could not break free. I looked up to see the Council members standing together again.
“Well done, Blackline,” said Ashdown. The arrogant little bastard was smiling at me, but I had to hand it to him—it was some pretty good magic. Still, I’d have relished the opportunity to smack that smile off his face.
“Perhaps now you will be more amenable and listen to reason,” Ashdown said. “There’s no cause for this to go any further.”
“I don’t know about you,” I hissed, “but I didn’t come all this way just to give up.” I was referring to the investigation of my mother’s disappearance, of course, but I could easily have meant our fight. I gnashed my teeth, pulling this way and that on the spell. The string of lights around the room flickered.
“It’s possible all your travails are for naught,” Cronin said, her voice like barbed wire. “Or that they have consequences you cannot foresee.”
“That’s for me to decide.” I gasped for breath, trying to summon every ounce of magic I had to escape. My wrists chafed against the spell, rubbing some of the skin off. The lights flickered again, faster this time. The Council began looking above and around them. “And I don’t know about you,” I added, “but when I set my mind to something, I usually get it.” A barrel of wine in one corner of the room exploded into a ball of flame.
