by Ilana Waters
Chapter 16
Sadly, it wasn’t going to take much time for me to arrange for the letters. I had done them in advance, you see. In my line of work, a mage never knows when a day might be his last.
Perhaps you’re wondering why Titus didn’t attempt a similar communication with those most dear to him. It might be that such a gesture is too sentimental for his taste, or it might be because Titus doesn’t have many friends or associates that I know of. Technically, I am his closest relative. I wonder what that feels like . . . being the last of your kind. Not pleasant, I imagine.
I only just remembered to put my glasses back on before I entered the PIA; I never wore them when I wasn’t there. No sooner had I done so than I saw Philip standing before the front desk. The lights behind it were dark, which meant Marcello had gone home for the evening. Philip seemed to be packing up as well, putting some papers in a briefcase only a true anal-retentive would carry. He was looking particularly fresh this evening in his crisply ironed suit. His shoes had been shined; there wasn’t a hair out of place.
“What happened to you?” he asked when he saw me. He barely made an attempt to conceal a smile. “You look like hell.”
“Oh, do shut up!” I started marching past him, then stopped. “What are you doing here so late, anyway?” I asked.
“What are you doing here?” he countered. I struggled to find an answer, but Philip’s ego made it unnecessary.
“Seems you’re not the only one who can burn the midnight oil, are you?” he said. “Some of us have no issue showing the PIA we can work just as hard, and accomplish just as much.”
I might have just battled a witch to find a vampire, but if there was one thing I couldn’t handle right now, it was a snarky Philip Grant. I took a deep breath to try and calm myself.
“That’s wonderful, Philip,” I said. “Truly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s somewhere I have to be.”
“Oh? Where?” Philip folded his arms across his chest.
“A little place called ‘anywhere but here,’ ” I snapped. And with that, I brushed past him on my way to the stairs. Not bumping his shoulder, exactly, but moving so fast that he had to step aside to let me pass. I ignored the angry curses that followed and went to retrieve my letters. I stored them in the locked drawer of a desk the PIA let me use. I figured it was safer than keeping them at the hotel.
As I walked down a hall on the second floor, I passed one of the small reading rooms. A single lamp was on, and when I peeked inside, I saw Arthur putting away some books.
“Joshua!” he exclaimed. He was on a ladder halfway up a bookcase, and turned his head to look at me before going back to shelving. “What a nice surprise. I was just finishing up here. Philip was keen on getting some extra work in to . . . well, you know. To prove himself, or something. Anyway, he asked me to help.” Arthur pulled back his shirt cuff and looked at his watch. “Ah! Will you look at the time? I don’t know about you lads, but I’m getting a bit old to be so up late.” He yawned. “Maybe I should retire. Perhaps paranormal investigation is a young man’s game.”
“Heh-heh.” I gave a weak laugh and rested my hand on the door frame, trying to smile. “I’m sure as soon as you’ve had a good night’s rest, you’ll be ready to start again tomorrow.” Of course, I may not see you tomorrow—or ever again—but best not to think of that.
“I hope so,” Arthur said, getting off the ladder and moving it over several feet. Still absorbed in his books, he examined the titles in another stack on the table. “Just a few more of these to shelve, and I’ll be going shortly. What brings you here so late, anyway?”
“Oh, I . . . had to leave some notes for Marcello,” I said. It was half-true, anyway.
“Well, get some rest after this as well, will you?”
“Will do, Arthur,” I replied. “Thank you. And, ah, good night.” I started out of the room when Arthur turned and looked at me—closely this time.
“Steady on—what happened to you?” He walked over, squinting. “Is that blood on your shirt? And why is your face all bruised and scraped?”
“Oh, ah, bloody nose,” I explained. “Walked into a door.”
“Really?” Arthur scratched his head. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Er, it happened in the middle of the night—when I got up to use the loo.” This had to stop; I sounded like an idiot.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Arthur said warily. “Joshua, are you feeling all right? How long has it been since you’ve done the laundry?” He looked me up and down. “Your suit looks like you’ve been buried alive.”
“Heh-heh,” I laughed feebly again. Arthur had no idea how close he’d come to the truth. “Just a bit of gardening,” I explained.
“At your hotel?”
“I was helping a friend garden. A friend who doesn’t live at the hotel.”
“Really?” Arthur’s eyebrows knitted together. “Who does gardening at this hour?”
“Look, Arthur, I’d love to stay here and chat, but I am in a bit of a rush. It’s late and all, as you said.” Arthur wasn’t a fool; I could tell he was growing suspicious. Of course, I doubted he knew the whole truth, but he certainly knew I wasn’t telling it.
“All right, Joshua,” he said, “but just remember: I’m here if you need help. Really. Anything.” He placed a hand on my shoulder.
Feeling horribly guilty about deceiving Arthur, I thanked him and walked quickly to retrieve the letters. I wrote a brief note to Marcello to hand out certain ones and mail others if I didn’t show up at the PIA by the end of the week. When I came back down the hall, Arthur was sweeping up pieces of a teacup on the floor.
“Would you believe it?” he said to me. “The day nearly done, and just now I knock it over. That was my favorite cup, too.”
“Shame, that,” I said absentmindedly. I glanced down over the balustrade to the lobby. I looked around, but didn’t see Philip. Good. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with the little twit on my way out.
“If you’re looking for Philip,” Arthur called, “he’s gone for the night. You’re relieved, I can tell.”
“What?” I turned around. “Oh, that. It’s just . . . I . . .”
Arthur chuckled. “It’s all right,” he said. “Philip’s not to everyone’s taste. Oh, bloody hell!” He pressed his palm to his forehead. “I forgot the dustpan.” He leaned the broom against the door and went back, presumably, to the utility closet.
I stepped inside and took one last glance around the room, then knelt down and looked at the broken teacup. It wasn’t that bad—nothing that even a novice mage couldn’t repair. I raised my palm; the pieces lifted in the air, and I deposited them on the table. Stroking the broken rim with my thumb, I sent a bit of mending magic across it. Sentimental, perhaps, but it was the least I could do for Arthur after all he’d done for me. When he saw it looking like new, I could just tell him I’d had some glue in my pocket or something.
I leaned over the table and waved my hand above the teacup. The fragments melded, and no one would ever have guessed it was shattered mere moments ago. I stood back up and smiled, satisfied.
Then the teacup collapsed into separate pieces again.
What in hell? My jaw dropped and I stared at Arthur’s cup, now ruined for the second time. I knew there was nothing amiss about the magic I’d done. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Something felt very wrong.
All was eerily silent for several seconds as my eyes darted around the room. Suddenly, a long-unused fireplace in the corner sprang to life, sending flames leaping upward. Only the iron grate in front kept the inferno from bursting forth and setting everything ablaze.
I jumped back in surprise, knocking what was left of the teacup off the table. I knew I hadn’t caused the fire. What the devil was going on? The floor beneath me started to rumble, and a small glass chandelier above started to shake. Several books wriggled loose from the shelves and fell to the floor.
/> “I find it hard to believe there’s a fire-starting earthquake in the middle of London,” I called to no one in particular. “Why not save us all some trouble and show yourself?”
By way of reply, a book came flying off a shelf across from me and scratched my cheek—hard. Then another, heavier one came from the opposite direction and smashed into my shoulder. I cried out in pain and clutched my arm. Then all the books started flying and whizzing across the room, attacking me. I covered my head with my hands and searched with my mind for the source of the magic.
“We warned you, Joshua,” said a familiar voice. I peered out from between my arms and saw Lord Ashdown’s face within the fireplace’s flames. “This is your last chance. Stop the investigation or there will be consequences.”
The High Council. Bloody well figures. I suppose if they could sneak into the PIA’s basement, they could magic their way into one of the rooms. Perhaps, if I asked nicely, I could get them to turn Philip into a donkey.
“You are leaving us no choice, young man.” Sasha Cronin’s voice rang out, her face appearing behind the grate, same as Ashdown’s. Books continued to fly at me, though I managed to hold off some of them with air magic. Small glass objects—candlesticks and figurines—were falling to the floor and breaking.
“If Mr. Blackline wasn’t enough to convince you,” continued Cronin, “we shall have to finish the job ourselves.” On the last syllable, one of the fire logs bumped itself out of the grate and shot across the floor, shooting sparks everywhere.
Good God—they’re going to burn the whole place down! Whether it was on purpose or accidentally, I didn’t know, but it made no difference. I dashed forward and stomped on the log as hard as I could. Luckily, it was old and quickly disintegrated under my shoe, leaving only a hissing, smoldering pile of burned wood. The room kept shaking and the books kept flying. I took a deep breath, summoned all my magic, and threw my arms out to the sides.
“ENOUGH!” I shouted.
The books stopped in midair and fell to the floor. The rumbling quieted down, then stopped. Ashdown and Cronin’s faces appeared and disappeared in the firelight, finally appearing again, but a little more transparent.
“Now you both listen to me, and you listen closely,” I said. I glared at the fireplace, chest heaving. In my hand, I clutched the last book that tried to have a go at me. “I am the son of the great Titus Aurelius. I am going to find my mother, the woman held prisoner by followers of Callix Ferox. And nothing—nothing—the bloody High Council of Witches does is going to stop me. Is that clear?”
The flame faces of Ashdown and Cronin glanced at each other, then looked back at me.
“I said, Is. That. Clear?”
Cronin’s face faded into the darkness, taking her portion of the flames with her. Ashdown’s section died down too, but I could still see the outline of his rigid features as he stared back at me.
“So be it,” he said, his voice low and hard as stone. “There is still time for you to change your mind, Joshua. But if not, we’ll be seeing you again shortly—rest assured.” And with that, the flames flared up one last time and disappeared. I gave a cry of rage and threw my book at Ashdown’s face, but it was too late. He was gone. The book hit the grate and fell. Only curling wisps of smoke and a lingering, acrid smell indicated there’d been anything in the hearth at all.
I continued glaring at the fireplace, as if that would bring Ashdown back so I could attack him in earnest. Finally, I straightened my jacket and gave my lapels a sharp tug. It was time to leave.
“Just like a bully to run off after getting in the last word,” I said, shaking my head.
“I don’t believe it,” I heard a terrified voice whisper behind me. “It’s true!”
Oh shit. I didn’t know how long someone had been standing there, but it would be just my luck if they’d seen all the destructive magic and overheard me and the Council. I squeezed my eyes shut. I thought Philip had gone. Why on earth had he come upstairs? Slowly, I turned around.
“Philip,” I started, “I want you to listen to me very carefu—”
But when I looked up, it wasn’t Philip at all. It was Arthur, dustpan in hand.
“Arthur?” Oh, this was bad. Very, very bad. I mean, Philip seeing me would have been serious enough. Now, Arthur was gazing—slack-jawed—around the room, which looked like a tornado had ripped through it. And the poor man had everything perfectly shelved only moments before.
“Philip was right,” he whispered, dropping the dustpan. Then, his voice grew louder. “He said he suspected something, but I didn’t believe him. Who are you?” he demanded. “Why are you really here?”
“Now look, Arthur.” I walked towards him, but Arthur grabbed the broom that was leaning on the door. Holding it in front of him, he gave me a sharp jab in the shoulder. I cried out and stepped back.
“There’s no need for that,” I said, trying to stay calm. “This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to walk out of here and pretend you didn’t see or hear anything. In fact, you didn’t, did you? You’re going to return to the PIA tomorrow morning having absolutely no idea how the room got this way.”
I could feel waves of magic pass through my mind to Arthur’s; gentle, soothing waves. For a few seconds, Arthur got glassy-eyed, and I relaxed a little. But then he shook his head rapidly from side to side.
“No!” His grip on the broom tightened. “I know what you’re trying to do, and I won’t stand for it! Do you hear me?” He made a jab for my chest with the broom handle, but I managed to step to the side just in time. Dammit—he was one quick old man.
“Please, Arthur,” I implored, holding my hands up. “You’re overreacting. I’m not dangerous.” At least not to you.
“Titus Aurelius’s son?” he exclaimed. “Of course you’re dangerous! But wait—that’s impossible.” I could see the confusion on his face, the way he was trying to work things out in his mind. “Titus was—or is—a vampire. They can’t have children.” He looked at me with a combination of bewilderment and alarm. “What kind of devil creature are you, anyway?”
I pursed my lips. “The kind who goes around doing drive-by room-trashings,” I said. “Honestly, Arthur—will you listen to yourself?” He took a few steps back into the hall, still clutching the broom. I followed him, trying to avoid being hit.
“And Arthur, if I am the son of Titus Aurelius, do you really think you could defeat me with a broom?” I waved my hand, and the broom flew from his grip, hit the wall, and clattered to the floor. Arthur looked desperately to the left and right.
“I’ll . . . I’ll scream,” he said, without much conviction.
“Awfully girlish of you, isn’t it?” I said. “Besides, Philip’s gone. There’s no one to hear you.”
“I can’t believe this,” Arthur said. “I liked you. I trusted you.” His face crumpled in anguish.
“And that trust was not misplaced.” I tried to reason with him. “I haven’t harmed you or anyone at the PIA. I certainly never planned to.”
“Really? Then why did you destroy one of our reading rooms?” Arthur asked.
I could feel muscles tightening in my neck and jaw. “That wasn’t me! It was the High Council. They came here—sort of—to try and dissuade me from finding my mother.” I saw the look on Arthur’s face and answered his unspoken question. “Don’t worry,” I said. “They’re gone now. They just thought I was using her as an excuse to . . . to do something that might usurp their position.” I figured it was close enough to the truth, and the only thing the Council really cared about anyway.
Arthur narrowed his eyes at me, his entire body tense. “Are you?”
“Of course not!”
“How can I be certain about that?” Arthur demanded. “After all, you lied to us,” he said. “To me.” I opened my mouth to protest, and made the mistake of extending my palm towards him.
Arthur must have assumed this meant an attack was imminent, because he reflexively pu
nched me in the stomach. My face contorted in pain and I doubled over. Arthur started to run down the hall, but I forced myself to stand and quickly caught up to him before he reached the stairs. Catching him by one shoulder, I spun him around and forced him to face me.
“Well, what would you have done?” I exploded. “If your mother was missing, possibly dead? If all manner of immortals and nosy mortals were trying to stop you from finding her? Eh?” Unable to control myself any longer, I grabbed his upper arms and shook him—hard. “What would you have done, Arthur?”
After I was done shouting at and shaking him, Arthur looked truly terrified. I can only imagine how this must seem to him. Here he was, an old man, alone with a magical creature he was sure would hurt him—or worse. I regretted blowing up as soon as it happened, but I couldn’t take it back. And just then—blast it—my cell phone rang. I took it out and looked at the screen.
It was Titus.
Chapter 17
Needless to say, I had to take the call, but I couldn’t let Arthur get away.
“Ah, I’m truly sorry about this,” I said. And with that, I used my telekinesis to open the door of the utility closet. It made a bang as it hit the wall, and I whirled the air around Arthur, forcing him inside. Then I locked the door and leaned against it.
“Let me out!” shouted Arthur. “You can’t do this to me!”
I answered the call with one hand, and put the other over my ear to hear Titus above Arthur’s yelling.
“Where are you?” Titus barked. “What’s taking so long?”
“Um, I’ve run into a bit of a snag,” I started to say. I put my hand to my stomach where Arthur punched me. Who knew he could pack such a wallop?
“Let me out! You sodding bastard—let me out of here!” Arthur continued pounding on the door.
“What do you mean?” Titus asked, his voice tinny on the cell phone. “What kind of snag? And what is that banging I hear?”
“You remember how I told you about Arthur Hartwood? Manager of the PIA’s London branch?”
