Neophyte / Adept (46 page)

It appeared like moonlight, under the trees, glowing
soulfully there on the extreme edge of my vision. The four paws of the grey
wolf standing resolutely. My orchid woke up and began twisting towards
it––reaching for the wolf.

It dipped its head to me, as if smelling. Ballard turned
gently in his sleep. “Can’t stop now! I
will
be Risky!” he said, incoherently

Ballard sat up and the grey wolf vanished.

Sound returned to the forest floor. I hadn’t heard it
coming; I hadn’t heard it leaving. It was almost like the grey wolf hadn’t been
here at all; and, looking to the place where it had stood, I thought I might
have hallucinated it, entirely. Instead of hunting me, it had been like the
grey wolf was standing guard
over
me.

* * *

We had come across a path, in the woods, and were riding it,
Ballard with his compass in one hand, and his map in the other. Something about
the total lack of anything––it made you want to get there; we spoke
very little. Stromovka was everywhere.
The
place of trees.

Still––all day I couldn’t stop thinking about
the grey wolf; for some reason, now that I knew what it was, I couldn’t tell
Ballard, who continued to be on edge. I couldn’t think why?

Our motorcycles zipped up and down the hills, following the
trail. Somebody had been here. I supposed it was like Faith, and that
eventually we would all get to wherever we were headed. Small comfort, given
there was no ending in sight.

“I can’t take it anymore!” said Ballard. He swatted at his
head.
“Seeing
things. I’m tired of
it! And the trees!”

For fourteen hours, we alternately rode and walked the
forest floor. The last chugs of the Gambalunga sputtered and died. The gas was
gone. In Ballard’s motorcycle as well.

He crumpled, and then picked himself up. We put our heads
down, walking our bikes two more hours, silently in the dark.

“I’m spent. I can’t go anymore,” he said.

A fire was kindled; we ate our frugal supper. Night, rich
and thick, clotted our eyesight. The taste of beans was little more than a
reprieve from starvation, there in Stromovka. We began finally to despair.

“I’m dying,” said Ballard. “It’s over.”

When, suddenly, my eyes popped open. The tingling in my
fingertips was back––like premonition. I held a trinity of stars in
my fingertips, one for each digit. The last thing I had seen was the moonlit grey
wolf, which seemed to rush out at me, from my dreams, before fading away. But
now my eyes were wide open, and there was something else out there.

“Ballard... Ballard... Ballard...” I repeated in the dark. I
felt myself calling to him three times. It was like I was all alone.

I looked at the flickering flames of the fire, the tongues
of which had been allowed to fade during the night. The sky was a dull leaden
color, like lead in pencil. When I realized: sky! We were on the edge of an
opening. “Ballard!” I shouted. Nobody answered. At least not who I thought
would answer...

He
appeared. He
appeared so suddenly and silently, at first I didn’t recognize him. His eyes
were like electronic diamonds, shining from the dark––like a snake
uncoiling itself, preparing to strike. He slithered from the trees.

My Mark was blinding me with its sterling light.
Is that what this is?
I thought...
A warning sign?

The hunter stood at the edge of the forest, sniffing as the
grey wolf had done; instead of protecting me, however, the intent of the hunter
could not be denied. He had come there to kill me. Ballard as well.
Ballard....
I thought.

“Your friend, where is he?” he said. His voice hissed and
rasped like it hadn’t been used in a long time.

I looked and saw his mark. He showed it off brazenly to me.
Tribal, like twisting thorns. No Virtue was ever shaped like that. What
was
he?

“I-I don’t know where he is,” I said. “He’s gone. He left.”
I gulped, appreciating the truth of my words.

I couldn’t keep the note of hysteria out of my voice; I was
all alone. Still, there was no reason Ballard should die with me. If I was
going to depart this life, it would be just me going. But where was Ballard,
and what was he doing?

“His motorcycle is still here,” said the hunter shrewdly. He
threw his neck back and sniffed the air; I could hear the powerful inhalations
of breath. “I cannot descry his scent. I have been tracking you
four
days––since Italy, when
you foolishly crossed from the protection of Rome, all the way to
me––time enough to lock him down. My Master will be most pleased.”
He smiled maliciously. The glint in his eye was nothing next to his teeth:
sharp points which sparkled in the gloom.

I saw his beautiful, angelic face, before it turned
menacing. Tentatively, I tried reading his mind.

“That does not work on me, she-witch,” he hissed, his voice
metallic. “I am Grigori. The last of my kind––as... are... you...”

“W-What do you want?” I said. “Why are you trying to hurt
me?”

“Trying?” He shook his head. “As if you could stop me,” he
said.

“You said we were alike. I thought Witch- and
Wizard-Shifters couldn’t
be
,” I said.

“There hasn’t been one in over a hundred years, I admit.
Surely you have heard of Rhea Silva. She was a powerful witch, before I killed
her.”

He stepped into the small clearing. “Now––about
us
...” he said.

I could just see a sickle of the moon, overhead.

“Why are you after me? Why can I see you in my dreams? If
you’re not
dead
, then why were those
two gravediggers trying to bury you?” I said.

Must keep him talking.

“My master told me you were special,” he said. “At
least––
potentially
...”

“What does that even mean?”

“Halsey, get away from him.”

Ballard was back––he stepped under the tree. I
was still in my sleeping bag. I managed to get out of it, while he stepped between
us. Even though Ballard had undergone a growth spurt, he was nowhere near the
size of the Grigori, who was seven feet tall and bristling with rage.

“Things have changed, Rayven,” said Ballard. “Tell your
master, he had his chance. It’s over now.”

“He has magic, Ballard. Be careful,” I said.

I put my boots on while they talked. Next, I fetched my
walking stick. At least I had a weapon.

The hunter shifted his footing.

I knew from premonition what came next, but it seemed
impossible. His eyes were on me; I knew that look; I had seen it before. What
had Ballard called him?
Rayven?
Why
were he and Marek so interested in me? Who was I?
I’m nobody
, I thought.

As if on cue, the aether in my arm began throbbing
painfully. It
wanted
to fight.

“You may not fear me,” said Ballard, talking fast, “but you
are
in danger.”

Rayven smiled, showing his teeth. I heard shouting in the
distance. Voices drawing near. Ballard looked at the hunter. “Last chance,” he
said.

It happened.

The hunter crept forward in a stalking motion, the fingers
of his forehand like claws––pointing them at me. “The witch is
mine
,” he said.

“Don’t worry, Halls,” Ballard said to me. I stood
motionless, unable to prevent it from happening.

A spell erupted, hitting the tree trunk next to me, which
exploded.
“Vargr noctum....”

The hunter was reloading. He pointed his Wiccan Mark at
Ballard.

Ballard howled. There was a sound like lightning. The ground
exploded. It rocked me where I stood.

Ballard was no longer there. He had been replaced by a huge,
husky, electric-white werewolf.

Ballard bared his fangs and shot at the hunter, who fired
his mark. The massive animal dodged the ineffectual magic, latching his teeth
onto Rayven.

I heard a quick succession of lightning
strikes––one, two, three... there in the distance, the voices
drawing closer.

Rayven stumbled backwards, wounded––his eyes
briefly flashing my way. Anger and disappointment were etched on his face. “So
be it,” he said.

He pointed his mark at me.

I heard the words, without understanding them.

It happened in slow-motion.

A huge
womp
as the
spectrum-visible flash of light erupted my way.

The spell connected with Ballard squarely in his chest. He
had thrown himself between us. Ballard fell in a heap.

The Hunter backed away, pointing his finger at me. “Remembr,”
he said. A trail of ribbon-like tendrils left his fingertips and crawled
through the air––connecting with me. “Soon,” he said. I had a
momentary impossible fantasy.
No. It
couldn’t be....

Rayven turned and was gone.

All thoughts turned to Ballard. I raced to him, there at the
edge of the forest. There was a huge, sickly-looking gash down his left side.
His pristine white fur matted in blood. His muzzle had been cut.

I put my hands on him, completely powerless to prevent what
was happening. He was covered in blood. I heard howls behind me. I could feel
others arriving.

Ballard breathed in and out. Something in his eyes. I felt
somehow connected to him, as if either he or his wolf were trying to
communicate with me. It was like a poorly-tuned radio station, or current
passing through a faulty electrical switch, in out, in out. I heard him say my
name.

“Halsey?” he whispered to me...

Only,
the Ballard Wolf
had still not shifted back; I was talking to his Animal.

Chapter 8
– The Hollow

Magic was in Ballard’s wound. A curse. I could see it
spreading through his limbs. Hadn’t I
known
what was out there, and I hadn’t said anything. By not including Ballard, I had
allowed this to happen. If my parents were here they would be so ashamed.

“Patience!” said a voice behind me.

I turned and Asher was stepping into the clearing. He was
wearing his spotted leather pants and matching indigo vest. A symbol dangled on
a chain from his neck. It looked like a fang with a swirl inside of it.

“Dobry den
, Halsey
Rookmaaker,” he said to me.

“Please! You have to help him!” I said. I didn’t have time
to fathom how Asher could be here. “I’m...
not
Adept! I don’t know what to do!” I said.

He bent his head over Ballard, tying his dreadlocks behind
him with a purple rubber band, and began feeling at the fringes of Ballard’s
wound, probing with his fingertips.

The ground was rumbling with more cyanthropes. I could hear
them changing into dogs. Someone was barking orders. I kept hearing the word
koruna
, I later learned was Czech for
crown
. Then I remembered, Asher was one
of the Celeres, bodyguard to the Magister Equitum himself. The Werewolf King.
Is this where they lived? The Stromovka must be their home
range––Central Bohemia, the region surrounding Prague.

As if in answer, I heard more explosions; one of the men
transformed right in front of me, but I was still too dazed to really notice.

“He needs a doctor,” Asher said. “That
foul
! Do you know what he did? Never mind.... There is not much
time.”

The light in Ballard’s eyes was fading fast.

“I cannot stop the bleeding,” said Asher. “It is... too
late...”

It was everywhere, in the mud, all over us. Tears began
streaking down my face.

Ballard, you can’t
leave me. You can’t...
I didn’t know what to do.

A storm was raging through me, a reckless
storm––if I didn’t do something––something soon....

“I will give you some time,” said Asher.

“That’s it? You can’t just quit,” I said, indignant, but
Asher repeated his line:

“It is... too late, Halsey Rookmaaker.”

The werewolves were running through the Stromovka, searching
for Rayven, who would not be caught––I realized that now. Rayven
had a plan for me––to kill me, if he could. Some other voice had
kicked in. Some other me. First things first, I needed to stop the bleeding.
The only way how was to cauterize the wound.

I looked at the Spellcaster’s Mark running down the length
of my arm, and thought,
fire
?

Stormr hamrinum could do it quickly, but it could also get
quickly out of hand. The fire spell consumed everything in its path. Could
intent and forcefulness change its intensity? At least if I messed up,
Ballard’s pain would be short-lived.

My fingertips sparked. As if, either they knew what to do,
or Mistress Genevieve’s recklessness was taking hold of me. I put my hands on
his wound, the blood seeping from between my fingers, and as carefully as I
could, said the magic words.

Warmth spread from my fingertips. Magic warmth. Where my
hand moved, I could feel the bleeding begin to let up; the magical energy was
draining from me, however. Could I die, if it got too low? It made me
lightheaded; yet giddy, because the tissue around Ballard’s wound was knitting
itself of its own accord. Then I remembered:
Magic healing
. Werewolves had accelerated recuperative properties.
Good thing too. Silly Ballard. He had just jumped devil-may-care in front of
Rayven––to protect me.

Asher looked on, wide-eyed.

“I didn’t know you could actually
do
magic,” he said.

Neither did I. I could see Ballard breathing again; it was
ragged at first, and he was going to have a scar, but still.... I broke the
connection, wiping the sweat off my brow, smearing Ballard’s blood on my
forehead.

“He is not ready to ‘give up his ghost,’ then,” said Asher.
“Perhaps you
are
the One.”

Asher looked at me with penetrating fire-opal
eyes––somehow warmth and respect mingling there.... Two of his men
appeared who updated him on the search for Rayven.

“He is gone––the trace is
muddled––we picked up that other scent as well––whoever
they are, they’re
crafty
.”

Asher nodded. He directed them to take up Ballard’s body.
“We will follow behind. Laurinaitis, if you could, please take some of your men
and set the perimeter. Perhaps one or
both
will show themselves tonight, and wander into our traps.”

Asher grabbed Ballard’s motorcycle and I followed after him.

* * *

As we walked, I brought him up to speed on everything that
had happened in the last few days, including the grey wolf.

“Rayven said that I was different, Asher, the last of my
kind, that he was too. He couldn’t mean I’m Grigori, could he? I mean, am I?
The Sons and Daughters of Romulus don’t have magic, do they? And this Grigori
did
, somehow.”

“He both is and is not Grigori.... Slow down, tell me about
the grey wolf; for I do not know of it....” said Asher.

“It felt familiar. As though I had
seen
it before, but couldn’t remember where. I
thought––well, I thought I might be one of them, a daughter of
Romulus. Instead it’s like I’m becoming––
Rayven
–– It’s like he’s a shape shifter, but a wizard
as well––and I might be too...
potentially
...”

“Have you ever experienced ‘the Calling’?” said Asher. “It’s
what happens to a young shape shifter, before they turn. At birth... a tutelary
spirit watches over them. This grey may be your spirit-animal. Good rule of
thumb––or fingers, in your case: Don’t discount the possibilities.
Everything may be important or nothing at all.

The twilight under the trees made the day night. I still had
Ballard’s blood on me. I didn’t think it would ever wash out. In the back of my
mind was the knowledge I had failed him. I kept remembering Ballard fighting
the Grigori, dueling Rayven. Now I got a sense of him as a fighter opposing the
Dark Side. We all were. Rayven must be one of them. A member of the Dark Order,
an enemy. I felt the handlebars of my Gambalunga, thinking,
Risky, what have I done to your nephew?

I was filthy, starved; I needed a change of clothing.
Compared to Ballard, however....

I noticed my feet traveling downwards, my stride increasing.
A bowl full of some ethereal moonlight spread before me. It was a moment before
I realized it was midday, time ceased to matter in Stromovka. I felt my
Wiccanness awaken under the canopy of trees. No earthly place I had been to was
like this Hollow. A tributary of the Vltava trickled through it, the small
twisting stream full of leaping, silver fish, before it reached the river that
ran through the heart of old Prague, plunging through the Districts of Magic,
the places I needed to go.

As I passed through the Stromovka it seemed to disappear behind
me, swallowed in the tangles of Moonfire, concealed in the elder trees. It was
Golden Hour––the time of day when the mysteries of the world seemed
at their ripest, proof time moved differently here.

Could it be?
Had
the Dioscuri meant for me to find Stromovka? They were Seers, after all. The
oldest kind. Perhaps they saw me coming here
looking for Them––Find Them.

ENOUGH. The word exploded through my head.
I
will make my own Destiny.
ME.
I refused to live thinking
otherwise. I put my hoodie up.

“Something is bothering you. What is it?” said Asher.

“Magic, my own especially. Of what kind is it, who gave it
to me, and how will I develop it? Becoming Adept really. But now this
thing’s
out there, what makes me think I
can become Adept at all? Those kinds of things. And then there’s Fledged... and
who knows what that’ll be. Nothing’s easy anymore, is it? For if I am magic,
shouldn’t I be able to manifest, to invoke? To banish, transmute, do away with,
alter... levitate, entrap... part? To imbue, see things, project, shield, ward,
demystify? Shouldn’t I? I am without any of the things you would expect from
one with my supposed gifts. My curse, therefore, is to know what I don’t know;
or, rather, to know what I am capable of, without knowing what I am capable of;
to know what has escaped me and will not come back––

“My parents, and Risky...” I said.

“And I know. And I hate it. I hate myself for allowing this
to happen to me. But I don’t even know who I am, so even my hate’s misguided.
In short, I am lost, Asher, and I’m beginning to think, I may never be found.
What do you think about all of this?”

“That you shall. You shall be found, Miss Rookmaaker. I do
promise you that,” he said.

I looked at him, skeptically.

“Now, now,” said Asher. “Don’t be like that. Don’t be
sullen. Very few people, magical or otherwise, have the wherewithal to find the
answers that they seek; you should be glad that you do. I have seen it in your
face. In the way you’ve lost yourself here in the Stromovka. Biding your time,
figuring things out....”

I could not honestly say that I had been doing any of that.
More, just randomly seeking out information. I told Asher, who sighed. It
reminded me of the old times. He turned every ounce of his cat-eye cunning upon
me.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said, “if you should solve
this mystery. Which is the mystery of your life. Open your eyes. Everything may
be important, or nothing at all.
Don’t
discount the possibilities.”

“You know, sometimes you are spectacularly awesome,” I said.

A flash, and we were standing in his village. Just bang.

“That
is what
happens when you unburden your mind,” he said. He raised his arms before him,
as if inviting me to take it all in.

I began to hear the murmur of voices; until now, they had
been concealed behind shadows and the figures of trees. Looking up from the
Hollow, I could see a flash of sky––it was nighttime already. The
stars were peeking through. The small intrusion a reminder things were not as
they appeared outside or within the Prague forest.

In a sense, the Stromovka was like a resting place, a
respite, of sorts, from the outside world––where I could figure out
my dreams.

Sparkling lights twinkled in the trees. Rosemary and juniper
sprung from simple stone columns, concealed in the undergrowth. There were vines
and creepers, a whole alien world. It swallowed me whole.

“Welcome!” said Asher. “To the home of the Benandanti!”

Dark eyes peered at Asher and I as we passed. They looked
scared. Like something was happening. It was absolutely necessary I get Ballard
back. I didn’t work without him.

“We must present ourselves,” said Asher, “to the Magister
Equitum. At which point, the burden of what to do next will be decided. A lot
has happened, since last we met.”

I watched as a little girl ran up to me and said
“Uvítat.”
She had striations of purple
and green and gold, in her skin, and
other
exotic colorations. “Is she...?”

“An eclectic,” said Asher, who watched her run away. “Her
name is Sienna.”

She was extraordinary. When I looked again, she was gone.
But then her eyes poked out and I saw Sienna peeping at me.
Just extraordinary.
It was like she was
a chameleon....

I was suddenly nervous. Ballard should be here, I thought. I
was runner-up. I couldn’t parlay with the Magister Equitum. No way! It was
overstepping my bounds.

* * *

A
domov
was
prepared for me. It was a bungalow in the trees. It had a round window and
sparkle lights. But also a bed, wardrobe, and writing desk. I could peek
through the window as I wrote in my diary. The domov moved with the movement of
the trees; it was very high up.

Asher was anxious to make me feel at home. After all... I
would be staying with the Benandanti for a long time. “At least until Rayven’s
caught,” he said.

The Magister Equitum agreed.

When I asked him how long that might be, Asher replied, “Who
can say? We haven’t caught him yet.”

As for the domov, these were the lights I had seen in the
trees. The effect was like magic. The arrangement had its perks, but also one
rather large drawback.

Selwyn.

Even now, he must be with those––those
things
––there in Prague. The
M.E. said we were very near to it.

There wasn’t a thing about it I could do. My orders were to
stay put. Rayven seemed beyond fledged––
invincible
––whereas I–– I couldn’t stop
thinking about the spell he had done. If I should wander, and be caught.... If
Rayven should catch me....

I fetched out my diary and found the page I was looking for.
A part of me realized how backwards this was. Trial and error wasn’t exactly
the best protocol for learning how to duel. Was it going to take my death to figure
out which spells could kill you? I was suddenly thrust into the real world and
I was unprepared for it.