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

a few years. Not that I imagine it’ll be a problem.”
    “Oh, I’m older than I look.” By about six or seven years, in fact . This is something I probably should have told you earlier, dear reader. You see, I managed to stop aging at twenty-five, but only with great difficulty. Stopping the clock is an ability most witches and mages have—harder for me, since I’m not as powerful as some. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to continue it indefinitely.
    Or perhaps I really will be immortal, but that comes with its own hazards. Many elect to let the clock keep ticking, as it were, for various reasons. After that, the only way to change one’s appearance is through glamour. Some witches simply choose to die, like ancient vampires, because they cannot bear the weight of their unending years. Many of my father’s generation ended their lives early, and even those nowhere near his age. Would Titus be next, unable to endure a life full of disappointments—including his son? Half of me almost wished he’d go away for good, and half was terrified at the very prospect.
    “Well, looking older can come in handy too,” Arthur chuckled. “Getting more respect and all that. At least if the senior members are anything to go by.”
    “Are you a senior member, Arthur?” I asked.
    “Who, me?” Arthur put down my file. “Goodness, no. I just manage the London branch, that’s all. But I don’t know if I’d want to be a senior member anyway. It’s a lot of responsibility—lots more than management.”
    “I see.” I didn’t know how long this little interview was going to take, but clearly it was part of the PIA’s getting-to-know-you process. That, or Arthur was especially friendly. I rose from the chair and went to examine a framed paragraph in Latin on the wall.
    “May I?” I pointed to the frame.
    “By all means,” said Arthur.
    I peered at the small script. “It’s the PIA’s mission statement,” I said.
    “Right you are.” Arthur placed his reading glasses back in his pocket and stood next to me. “Several of us were pleased to learn how many languages you know. Latin, Italian, Hebrew—”
    “Hebrew was from my mother. I also know a great deal of Yiddish, not that it will likely be useful here.” Why on earth did I say that?
    Arthur waggled a finger at me. “You never know which of your talents may or may not be useful.”
    “I confess,” I said, “when I first heard of your organization, I thought the concept sounded awfully familiar. Aren’t there a great many such observer agencies in film and literature?”
    “There may be many imitators, but I assure you,” Arthur replied, “there is only one PIA. We’ve been in operation since, well, since the beginning of time. Although it’s gone through many names and incarnations, there has never not been some form of the PIA.”
    I picked up a rosewood carving of a bonsai tree on a nearby shelf. “Beautiful,” I commented to Arthur, who smiled. “And one is forbidden to become directly involved in any supernatural goings-on, yes?”
    “Exactly right,” said Arthur. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. You seem just the sort of young man who’d stay away from the wrong things. Our motto is ‘Close, but not too close.’ ”
    “Interesting.” I nodded. “I like it.” Vague, fearful, and threatening all at the same time . “But what do they think we do in this building? I mean, the mort—”
    I could kick myself. I nearly said mortals .
    “—ah, those who aren’t members of the PIA, that is. Who don’t know about us?” I placed the rosewood carving back on the shelf.
    Arthur looked to the left and right, as if outsiders were already here, spying on us.
    “We tell everyone it’s a private library and club,” he said in a low voice, leaning his head close to mine. “Same story in every branch, all over the world. If we’re in London, it’s a sort of English cultural society—very exclusive. If we’re in Prague,