Free The Age of Mages: Book I of the Mage Tales by Ilana Waters

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