Neophyte
Page 59
I booted up my laptop, typing my request into the search engine. It was still counting back from IX, the Roman-numeral web site.
When I had thought the grey wolf was Risky, I thought he was protecting me–– But if he was Rayven’s Lare... It created a whole new sort of problem for me.
I opened a second window, doing a quick search for Lares––
There were different types. The Lar Familiaris was a family spirit––A Guardian. What had Mistress Genevieve said? “Your Mother and Father––rest their souls––elected me your Guardian.”
I reread the letter.
I already had a Lare. A guardian, in a way. Mistress Genevieve. I had been in Rome, now, thirteen months, time enough to figure out certain answers were not necessarily here.
Let’s look at what you know, Halsey. Parents murdered––raised overseas––
You’re eighteen–– According to Mistress Genevieve, that is the year, apparently, We Come Into our Powers... (“Magnetism pulls us back to the beginning. You to yours is a powerful tug.”)
What if she’s right? If so, Rome would be my beginning... St. Martley’s my middle, and now... Was this the end?
A psychopath and his henchman were after me... Until I knew why, I’d be stuck in shadows, locked in a mystery.
Risky was the lar familiaris of Ballard’s family, not mine––enos Lases iuvate––their paterfamilias. It was his job to protect their secrets...
Somehow, Risky had managed to safeguard not only the truth, but us ever finding out about it––
I scribbled a long and detailed note to Ballard, which took me most of the night, before finally ripping it out of my Diary. I continued adding P.S.’s, crafting it, until it was perfect––or as nearly perfect as I could make it. After all, it was imperative Ballard not flip out, when he read it, which is exactly what he’d do, if I messed it up. I had been looking at the web page for hours, when it occurred to me: The sitemaker’s name was listed at the bottom of the page––the webmaster’s name.
I scribbled it down, feeling like I had my first lead.
I wrote another letter, addressing it to Manon, basically apologizing for leaving her in the lurch.
Vittoria was still up––I could hear her moving about; it was a shame there weren’t more spots at House Rookmaaker. But Vittoria was like me––a wanderer, eclectic. “Besides,” I wrote, adding another postscript, “subpar magic––even ordinary magic––isn’t enough anymore, Ballard, not really.” If I was going to walk the Dark Path, I had to become Adept, Fledged, Beyond Fledged... Everything was packed. Laptop, my books...
Volume IV would either be a doorstop or a dead end. Still, I couldn’t help thinking I had come up short. My time in Rome was ending, perhaps forever; a plan was forming.
Dressing, I gathered my things.
I left my room and crept into the hallway.... Downstairs, past my landlady. She twitched in her sleep.
Sándor and Septimus let me into their shop.
“Now, remember: wait until I’m out of Rome,” I said, “then you can tell him. All right?”
They nodded. They seemed to take for granted my leaving. I handed them the page I had ripped from my Diary, to give to Ballard.
“When the moment is right,” I said.
One good thing: Now that Skarborough was on the case, she would keep Ballard informed of my hunt for the Dark Order.
“How will you get past the Riders?” asked Septimus.
I shrugged. “Magic––maybe. I dunno,” I said.
I threw my leg over my Gambalunga. Part of me felt like a coward, like I was running away; the other part, that I was running towards something.
Could my visions, like those of Lenoir, change? In the recurrent vision I had of Ballard, where he led the army, he stood alone. I was not there.
Unless what I saw was a chimera, the war was going to happen. Battle lines would be drawn.
I was a neophyte, unfledged. To figure out the hints which had been dropped my way, I would need to find real magic. The Dioscuri had set me a mission, after all, to find them––whoever they were––so that’s what I’d do.
As for House Rookmaaker, somehow I didn’t think my parents’ bequest lay simply in the stone and mortar of a long-dead House. Rather, I had a role to fulfill. And, if I had to walk the Dark Path... so be it.
A crossroads was before me––a choice. The Perseid meteor shower flashed across my vision, overhead; I waved good-bye to the S’s, weaving my way through Rome. A list was forming in my head of the things I would need to do, and the places I should go; a list of impossible complexity, which I memorized there and then.
Paris... Find the website... Find the webmaster––Look into Them...
Numbly, not really thinking about it, I headed onto the A1 autoroute, away from Rome.
Whether or not I made it was beyond the point. Whereas before, I had been in the dark, this time they would be––the Dark Order.
Ballard would be all right; he had the twins; he had Lia and Gaven; he had his own magic to find out. Besides, something told me, if he left Rome now, he would be exiled forever, the Quirinal would never let him back in.
Ballard needed Rome; I did not. I just had this inkling, like a preternatural intuition, really, which the current Il Gatto would definitely understand, about being reckless; otherwise, maybe not tomorrow, but someday, I would find myself face to face with something I could not defeat, because I had been too scared to try. My backpack felt heavy, as I rode out of town.
The north star was Fomalhaut.
I thought about circles and souls, Steampunk, and the Last War; a House of Spirit and of Fire; and I thought of my House; and I thought, This is my world now; and I’m prepared to fight for it. So, this is it, for now, I wrote in my Diary.
Checking to make sure all the flips and switches were in order, I accelerated my Gambalunga away from Rome, towards the City of Light.
# # #
Discover other titles by T. D. McMichael
The Wiccan Diaries, Vol. 1
Eight of Jacks
Sold exclusively through Amazon.com.
You have reached the end of this eBook.