Neophyte / Adept (44 page)

I settled on a snow pea and arugula salad.

Determined to have my share of la dolce vita, I ordered also
a
rosso
, red wine; and for the main
course––I looked down the handwritten Italian menu: words like
gnocchi
,
ragù
, and
antipasto
jumped out at me––I ordered the lip-smackingly-good-sounding
semolina dumplings, with a side of porcini mushrooms, and dipping sauce. “Very
eclectic,” complimented my waiter, a werewolf, before pulling a face. I was too
busy admiring Lia and Gaven to notice. They were sitting in the pavilion, at a
raised table. I recognized Cyno, of course, and her husband, Jim, sitting with
them, along with the Overstreets. Ballard was nowhere to be found.

Jim and Cyno had known Risky.

Somehow it felt like Risky was here with us, even though I
knew that Risky was dead; that Risky and the Rookmaakers was a linked phrase,
and I should learn it––every in and out, and subtle intricacy of
their existences, which had been
connected
.

I took a sip of red wine and plopped a mushroom in my mouth.
It wasn’t so much the toast, which was causing me uneasiness, but the need to
progress; like when I used to dream I had forgotten to do my homework, at
school, and Mistress Genevieve would whack me. My appetite was nil. Instead I
had more rosso.
Hic.

If all of these other people had managed to cross the border
into Italy, how had the Hunter been denied...? With charms and spells?

Maybe Lia had helped.

Did she know any?

She had charmed Gaven,
all right...

I realized there were no vampires present––that
the invitation extended to wizards and anthropomorphs only. Why?

I thought of Lennox, and if he would have been invited?

The vampires were at
the Gathering too
, I whined privately to myself.

I had not hallucinated Lennox in a while. Perhaps more wine.

I motioned to a waiter who poured me another glass of vino.
It tasted excellent.

Gemma was in her own happy world, humming to herself while
she ate. Table talk ranged from the God and Goddess Wicca to Lupercus and The
One. I heard the words nox, sangoma, quadrangle, and sneezeweed. Apparently
that last one was for a Mark that was underdeveloped. That person was said to
have sneezeweed for an arm.
The Adept
stay that way forever.
Next was handfasting. “I thought that was
interesting how they did their wedding vows,” said a witch from an enclave in
Bern. “Never quite heard it put that way before. How did it go?”

A wizard said, “‘As long as love lasts,’ Miraphora, dear,
became, ‘so long as our powers hold.’ And ‘till death do us part,’ ‘till my
spirit leave me...’”

“Yes, that. Strange, if you ask me. They should bring back
telltown marriages, or at least publish the bans; any sort of wishy-washiness,
and I start looking for divorce lawyers. Hands in pockets should be your own,
Artemis, don’t you agree?”

“Eat your soup, Miraphora. They look
happy––don’t jinx that.”

“He’s a werewolf,” she said. “You know what that
means
, Artemis? Half-Lighters. It should
be kept separate. My own Mistress, Goodiefeeder, always said so. ‘Magic’s
magic,’ she would say, ‘and there’s just no getting around
that
.’ The cubs will have craft. You know full well, Wiccans and
werewolves shouldn’t mix... It’s barking mad. Shh... let’s hear what they have
to say...”

“With pleasure.” It was clear he desired a different seating
arrangement. Gemma looked surprised when she heard words coming out of
speakers, and saw a microphone being passed around. “Goody!” she said.

“Is she not quite all there?” Miraphora whispered to me. But
I didn’t answer her. The toasts were about to begin.

Paolo, Gaven’s best man, was first. “I always like these,”
said Miraphora, “especially when they’re raunchy.” She consumed her rosso
double-quick and became all ears––straining for anything to condemn
or ridicule. I questioned if anyone had actually invited her.

As for Paolo, who had lost the race, Ballard said something
to me very interesting––after we had finished and he was proclaimed
the victor. He was talking about life, and how it’s a long race. “Not
everyone’s made themselves known yet,” said Ballard. “Some people start out
strong while others fade away. It’s like life. You don’t know until it’s over,
who won or lost. That’s why––that’s why I’ve been developing the
idea of BSB.”

BSB was this thing he had started going on about.

Bigger. Silenter.
Badassesser.

“It all goes back to Locke,” he said, “and his opinion about
the new Head Wolf being
chosen
,
instead of winning a race.”

When he said it like that I thought about Wiccans being chosen––it
didn’t seem fair.

“So why shouldn’t Gaven
nominate
Paolo, do you see what I mean?” said Ballard. “Only, because Gaven didn’t, it
must’ve meant he saw something in Paolo he didn’t like. Leastways that’s what
Locke said. There is that sense that Paolo was passed over. That Gaven saw him
as an inferior werewolf. A stigma which has carried forward––even
though the election never took place.”

I think I understood what Ballard meant, finally. Letting me
race was like the opposite of that. Gaven had shown faith in me. House
Rookmaaker was bonded more to the Sons and Daughters of Romulus now because of
it. I hated that the Sons and Daughters of Romulus were losing Gaven. Locke’s power
was also subtly reinforced by the fact that he could
smear
people. And if you didn’t agree with him, he could bend your
words.

Was being on the Quirinal lifelong? He didn’t seem to have
any term limits, whereas the winner of the race was for twelve months only.
Politics, Halsey.

One thing Gaven had, and Ballard did also, was they looked
so much more the part. Superficial, maybe. But wanting to follow somebody, you
needed something in them to admire. Why not looks? There was no such
admirableness in me or Locke.

Thought: If Rome was a two-headed monster, could it be a
three? Had it been? With House Rookmaaker?

Paolo tapped his knife to the crystal goblet before him and
the talk died down. A strange winging in my insides. Nerves galore.

“I have known Gaven and Lia all my life,” he began. “We
played together as small children. So I know why Gaven started shaving his
hair. It was because of Lia. Usually it’s the opposite. The boy pulls the
girl’s hair, and because of that, she doesn’t like him anymore. Well Lia would
pull his hair, and Gaven––five years older––would sulk,
and have a cry, and she would get the horsey chair––which is what
she was after. Instead of alienating him, however, Lia’s attentions made Gaven
fall in love with her. I have never seen two people who are more in love. He
gets her, and she gets him. They click. I just hope their offspring take after
the mom.”

Paolo made an off-color joke, which had Miraphora nodding
her approval.

“Gaven did find his cool, though, eventually. It just took
twenty years, right, Gav? Seriously though, I wish you guys a lifetime of love.
Here’s to the bride and groom!”

Gaven’s parents were chuckling; Mr. Rosen laughed uneasily,
but Cyno mollified him with a pat on the hand. Paolo sat down and poured
himself a drink.

Ballard took the mic. “Well, sis... You’ve just married a
man who’s grey-haired in his early thirties. You’re not some kind of succubus,
are you? Don’t answer that. I love you and I am glad you’re out of my house.” I
ended up drinking every toast. “To you and Gaven,” said Ballard.

“Just love each other, I guess,” I said, when it was my
turn. It was almost time to farewell them.

Gemma and I noticed each other. She flashed me a dazzling
smile. “Halsey––blessed be!” she said. Which I returned with a
flash of my own Wiccan W.

Lia and Gaven were making their way out to the lawn, where
the moonlight was darkening, and the music was playing.

Someone was making a list of all the trees the party makers
had imported. It was a moment before I realized who it was. Fanishwar Harcort.
“That’s firethorn, and, oh, look, a Prague viburnum! Who would think that in
the Trnava, they would be given a run for their money? That’s the Slovak Rome,
dear. I see some yesterday-today-and-tomorrow, fleshy-flowered
hearts-a-burstin’. The G is silent. That’s possumhaw. And ninebark. Woof,
woof...!” She did it all nine times. “Woof, woof, woof!”

I made my way through the assemblage (“...bloodroot and
heliotropes,” following behind me), lost in an infinity of stars and meteor
showers; there were some whoops that the fireworks show was about to begin
again, but really it was just the heavens conspiring to bless Lia’s wedding to
Gaven––when I heard a peculiar voice behind me, so unusual I had to
stop to listen.

“––piccan
wotentials––hic––wotential
piccans––potential wiccans. There are two of them here, so I
hear––”

“What about Lia?”

“Who? My cousin? She doesn’t count,” said the voice.
Hic.

I crept closer.

“Who are
you
,
anyway?” she continued, in her bossy voice. There was a musicality to it.

“Me? I’m nobody.”

I peeked from behind the Prague viburnum.

Emma Skarborough took another sip from her champagne flute.
I would recognize her anywhere. “‘To Lia––For helping me out of
paper bags; and for showing me that they
were
paper bags.’ Preposterous toast. Who thanks their wife during a wedding? Silly
boy.”

“So you don’t think their love will last?”

“How can it? She’s a witch. He’s nothing. Not anymore. I
give it six months. Especially with this predator out there.
Grigori.
You know what
they
are.”

“No. Tell me.”

“That was Rasputin’s name. Grigori Rasputin. He was one of
them too. Hairy face.” She pulled her hand down over her chin, indicating a
beard.

“But what
are
Grigori?”

“Hunters, dear. Holed up in Prague, somewhere. Very
dangerous. Their roots aren’t in lycanthropy, although that is a common
misconception. It’s in witchcraft their power lies. The Grigori used to be
right there with the
watchers
and the
protettori––Until
he
came...”

“But him I want to know about. I’ve been reading about him,”
said Vittoria.

“I can’t think where,” said Skarborough. “That’s forbidden.
Something happened to Lenoir. What was his first name again? Oh right.
Mercaccio.”

“So Lenoir
was
a
man?”

“Yes, he was a man. A wizard, in point of fact. The worst.
This is something not even the Lenoir like to admit.

“But––”

“Magic
split
,
remember, dear? You’ve seen the symbols. You know what they mean.Vittoria was
hanging on her every word. Her long, corvus-colored hair, slicked down, like
two sheer waterfalls, highlighting heavily-mascaraed eyes.

“You to your corner,
we to ours.
To Paris––the vampire; and to Rome––the
wolves... my dear
famiglia
; but to
Prague,” said Emma, “magic kept. And the old war was ended. But not before He
changed everything. Oh yes, He changed it all. Some of us think it is just a
timeout, a respite, if you will, a rest between perils; and that this
THING
is the first sign of... darker
days...

“Indeed,
the
Dark
Order is rising again... in Prague; or is very nearly risen. Avoid that place!
AVOID IT! I say. For those who do not stay away must get sucked up in it. And
the Last War––will be the beginning––of the
middle––of the end. I need a refresher.”

Vittoria was left standing there; I hid behind the viburnum
before she could see me. Grigori––Rasputin––a
man
called Lenoir?

Before Skarborough left, she said, “It’s apt, don’t you
think? Lenoir’s name being Italian––the first one. There’ll be a
second. Oh yes. There will be.”

“But what about this One?” said Vittoria. “The Chosen
One––wait––come back––”

“It was foretold. It’s that simple,” said Skarborough, who
suddenly realized she had found an attentive audience. “They call her The One
and have a private name for her––such names being tremendously
powerful, and susceptible to
dark
magic. But you need a Mark. And
you
don’t seem to have one––unless you’re keeping it hidden from me.
You’re not, are you?”

“But what they? Who calls her The One?”

“My drink; I need my drink.”

“And who are the
protettori
?”
Vittoria called after her.

Tipsy, Emma wobbled away. I left. Ballard found me wandering
on my own. I think I was in a daze. What was going on? One thing was certain. I
knew now what Vittoria had been up to,
and
what she was after. She was trying to find out more about
‘this One’
, and the secrets to being the Wiccan Prime Mover. Which
is what I should’ve been doing.

But she couldn’t be, could she? I mean, that was the one
thing that was given, not earned? Oneness. No matter how hard you wanted it, it
couldn’t just be taken, could it?

Or could it?

Gaven and Lia were about to head off. It was about that
Ballard wished to speak with me.

Chapter 7
– Grey Wolf

Everyone met to farewell Gaven and Lia, pelting them with
rice and last wishes. “May you have many happy new moons together,” they said.

Ballard, meanwhile, dragged me back to my viburnum. A tall
and beautiful tree, it was overshadowed by only one other in this story.

I tried shushing him but he was adamant. “What... is it,
Ballard?” I said. I managed to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom, as they
departed the reception, on their new matching motorcycles.
Good luck, you two
, I whispered. Miraphora’s jinx would have no
lasting repercussions, I hoped. Only Ballard was antsy, and he started pacing,
always a danger sign.

I had other things to worry about: Like the fact Vittoria
was becoming fledged faster than I was. Somehow I didn’t think the Wiccan Prime
Mover would have any difficulties passing from neophyte to adept.

As for male Wiccans, and especially wizards my own age, I
had never really met any of them. If I opened House Rookmaaker, I would
probably be training with some of them. Which would be an awkward situation. A
Mistress––
me
––but
without any formal education... Instructing all of them.

First, Ballard’s problems... I would worry about my own when
I got there.

“You wanted?” I said.

“Guess who I just spoke with?” he said. He seemed elated
about it.

“Who?” I asked.

“My sister,” said Ballard. “Guess what she just said?”

“What?”

“She and Gaven are
not
going on their honeymoon!”

Ballard fought with some inner struggle. The burning rush
had come over my Mark again. It felt like it was on fire. Maybe that was
my
proclivity? I stifled the gasp, which
longed to escape from my lips, biting back the pain.

“Well, that’s just––I mean–– So?” I
said.

“So. Now I can go with you, silly!”

“You couldn’t have before?” I asked.

“Rome,” he said, “cannot be free of my bloodline. It’s very
complicated.”

“What about your mother and father? Or, I know, Sándor and
Septimus?”

“My parents are leaving––they’re headed back to
Greece. As for the twins–– We
could
use them,” said Ballard, “but they don’t like to get involved.
‘We’re arcane scholars. Tell us when there’s
a fight––then we’ll be ready...’”

“But I thought they couldn’t shift?” I said.

“Their prowess lies elsewhere,” said Ballard. “How long do
you think we’ll be gone, anyway, when we leave?”

We could go tomorrow, today, this very minute, I told him.
And then I could rescue Selwyn.

“It’ll be two weeks, at least,” I said.

His face fell. “So long?”

“Ballard... Are you sure you really want to go with me?
Prague’ll be dangerous.”

It hit me that I might be leading my friend into danger.

“You can stay behind, if you want. But I
have
to know,” I said. Which was
perfectly true.

I had seen Ballard bend steel––leap to humanly
impossible heights. But where we were going, the other side had powers as well.
I understood now that there was an Other Side. That otherkin cultures
encompassed more than just Rome. There were the Grigori, for one
thing––to speak nothing of the Benandanti.

I didn’t realize how cold it was. Ripples of heat came off
Ballard.

Mistress Genevieve’s words came back to me, about
recklessness.

“Tomorrow... we’ll leave tomorrow...” I said.

But it would mean planning, leaving people behind.

“How will we get there?” said Ballard.

“Our motorcycles, obviously.”

He nodded, folding his arms. He was my protettore, my
protector, my defender. I seemed to foresee great danger lying ahead for us,
hope, hope. But we could overcome that, could we not? “I
am
just a Neophyte,” I said, practically to myself.

“You’ll have me,” said Ballard. “I’ll protect you.”

“Maybe you’re like
my
Risky,” I said.

There was the sense that the evening was ended. I and
Ballard were leaving––we were going to find whatever there was to
find.

I played a kind of game, there in my head, making a list of
all the things I wanted to find out. Foremost was the Rookmaakers: Who had
killed them, and why? Then about Risky, and what his deal had been; and, okay,
if it meant learning magic, so be it. Anything to make me a better spellcaster.
Given the dreams I was having, the fact Ravenseal had tried to grab me, I was
being dragged into a world far older than I could possibly imagine. There were
new names coming up. Ballard was right. The players had not all made themselves
known yet. There were others out there. And whether they were like me or not,
whether they liked me or not, there was something I had to do––and
Ballard had to do. Risky had set us a mission. We were bound to it as the
werewolves were to Rome.

“Won’t Locke and the others be upset you’re leaving them?” I
asked. “You are still Il Gatto, after all.”

“What good is being Head Wolf,” said Ballard, “if you can’t
act like it?”

I was worried that leaving Rome would cause him undo
problems.

It was only then I noticed Vittoria staring at me across the
way. It gave me the heebie-jeebies.

“What is Vittoria doing here, Ballard?” I said.

“I invited her. Why? She’s actually quite nice, you know.”

I, at least, had hidden, while I eavesdropped on her. She
gave me the Wiccan W, which in Vittoria’s mind meant something else.

“No reason,” I said.

Did she know I was going to Prague? I suddenly found myself
fighting the tingling sensation in my fingertips. Did I want to
duel
Vittoria? I huffed and Ballard
dropped it.

You just don’t like
that she’s special and you’re not
, I told myself, viciously.

Sándor and Septimus walked by, engaged in an argument about
Gaelic symbology, “It’s under your nose,” said Septimus.

“It’s not.”

“It is, little brother,
and
over your head.” (Sándor being noticeably shorter than his sibling.) When I
looked for Vittoria, she had gone.

“I’ll meet you tomorrow. Okay? At your place...” I said to
Ballard.

He got all dreamy-eyed:
“My
place,” he said.

“And then we’re leaving Rome,” I said.

As for Vittoria, if she wanted me, she knew where to find
me.

* * *

Still images flashed across my dreams that night of the
Master House, then various shots of different alleyways. A pair of watchful,
dark eyes were following me... Vittoria’s, but worse...

It
was out there,
waiting for us. To what, attack me? I was foolishly rushing toward the Hunter.

What other option did I have? I needed to carry on with what
I had started, namely the continuation of my magical education, because as much
as I wanted to know, Ballard
needed
to know.

What
had
Risky
meant for us to find out?

I could hear Ballard now: “I’m different. I know I am.”
Only, he thought it was a problem, whereas I was inclined to think more along
the lines of its having been
meant
to
be.

After all, he was the youngest Head Wolf in history, one of
the Four. His skills were definitely meant to protect me. But from what?

He should be awesome, shouldn’t he? BSB. Bigger. Silenter.
Badassesser. He had shown early. Why? And why did he seem so superior to any
other werewolf I had ever known, including Gaven?

I could hear Ballard now: “I’m not badass. I’m not special.”

It didn’t make sense; but when had anything? The only reason
I had decided to go was because the werewolf had said the vampire and
she
were headed to Prague. Not Ballard
and she. The vampire and she. This thing was obviously hunting
somebody––but not me.

I slept late. Even though Ballard and I were rested, it
meant, unfortunately, that we were on a night schedule. “I don’t want to get
lost,” I said. We were at his place.

That was anther thing... My time in the EU was up. I would
have to go back to the United States real soon. It had been ninety days...
Twice that––
three times
...
My visa had run out... What if we got stopped?

Ballard told me not to worry about it. “We’ll fix that,
eventually,” he said, referring to my visa. “Something good about connections:
As Head Wolf, I have some. Until then, we’ll take the Back Way.”

He winked at me. We were getting ready to depart.

What was this Back Way, and how did we find it? He showed me
the map.

“I had it laminated,” he said, pulling it out, “in case it
rains.” On it was our route. The map showed a zigzagging line, through Italy,
and then over the Alps, through wild country. It was only then we started
making our way East, through Austria, Slovakia, and the Czech Republic. A giant
golden star showed Prague. I got goosebumps just looking at it.

“Where’s your stuff?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “I want to go light,” I said, but he shook his
head.

“That’ll never do,” he said.

He explained to me about the wild and how being prepared was
our only option. It was like the old Ballard, illustrating, diagramming... If
the Wolves ever got in a fight, at least they’d be prepared.

“I brought my backpack,” I said helpfully, holding it up and
showing him.

In it were things like my diary, and the red marker Selwyn
had given to me; I also brought my diploma from St. Martley’s. Those were my
true credentials, proof that I belonged in the Magic world!

If they rejected Ballard, I could vouch for him. Hadn’t he
said something about potentially being magic? But then thoughts of vampire
hunters crept into my imagination, and I put myself on guard.

Be reckless, not dumb,
Halsey....

Ballard gathered and augmented my pack. He put things like
cans of food, and even a can of engine oil, in it. I looked at
his
pack, and saw how massive it was. I
tried lifting it, but it made a strange clinking noise when I lifted it;
besides, it was way too heavy for me. Tethered to the outside was his
moonflask; it glugged with some unknown liquid. When he was done, my pack
looked almost like his. “There!” he said. “Now, if we die in the wild, at least
it will take a while!”

Next, he showed me my Gambalunga––I had a
grattachecca while he explained.

Ballard had rigged up a new system of onboard flips and
switches––mechanical magic––for it.

“This is your booster,” he said, indicating the tank fitted
under the seat; it said NOS on it (nitrous oxide systems). “For emergency use
only,” he said.

I gulped.

“We may run into things while we’re out there,” said
Ballard, “so I want you prepared. This is the Jesus bolt. Because if it breaks,
you see Jesus.” He smiled. “So don’t wipe out.” It was the race all over.

I nodded my head. “I’m ready,” I said.

“I do love having a purpose. I told you the blue moon would
ride again,” he said. I sat waiting on my motorcycle while he got on his. The
last rays of the sun were going down. My pack felt heavy; but it would get
lighter as we went. I watched him heft his own onto his back, and then he shut
and locked the garage door.

“Thank you, Ballard,” I said. “For everything. You get
points.”

“I always wanted to score with you.”

A sign, which read GONE FISHING, hung on the door. Ballard’s
motorcycle sank with the weight of him. It groaned unnaturally. We started our
engines.

I was to follow him out of Rome. It was an amazing moment
for me, to know that I had started this alone, and that now I had Ballard, and
together we were going to the Districts of Magic. I wondered what it would be
like. The whole flight to Prague was one big check-it-out thing. What if I
didn’t like what I saw? It would not be easy, but then, that was the point,
wasn’t it? Just hearing the engines, I got the sense the Past was around the
corner. Maybe if I looked for it hard enough, it would reveal itself to me,
including certain secrets I wished to find out.

The previous volumes of my Diary were preamble to the
adventures to come.

Ballard flipped his visor down and gave me the thumbs-up. I
returned the gesture. We lifted our feet and headed down the vicolo, into the
smog and monuments, leaving Trastevere behind us.

I felt like one of those dogs––exiled, in a way.
Like Ballard and I were being booted from our home range. I didn’t know when I
would be back.
Could be never
, I told
myself. I had given my landlady four months’ rent. She literally cackled in my
face.

“I am going. I may not be back.”

“Stupid ragazza,” she said. Like she knew something I did
not. It made me feel uncertain about everything.

But that was over, now. All of it was. Ballard and I were
going. We were leaving Rome.

* * *

We drove that night past Vatican City, and onto the
autoroute, which took us out of Rome. I supposed things were different between
Ballard and me now. Always before our objective had been to see
What if
... What if there
were
vampires out there? What if there
were werewolves? What if witches and wizards really existed and I was one of
them? Well, we had our answers now. It was the truth which eluded us.

We stopped to top off our fuel tanks before we put some
miles behind us.

Ballard told me about the benandanti (“Witch-fighting
werewolves,” he called them), who used to battle evildoers, in order to protect
their crops. “They were called the Hounds of God... Those Who Do
Good
.”

“Are
they still
around?” I said.

I was wondering about my landlady. She seemed to be one.
Or
Grigori.

Ballard shrugged. “Werewolf, witch, and vampire myths are
wherever you go. In the Philippines the
Aswang
are all three. The Benandanti are no different... They were thought to
originate in Venice...”