Ravenseal battled House Harcort, which battled House Coven.
I rubbed the thumb and index and middle fingers of my right hand together, imagining myself with the Wiccan Mark.
Imagining if I could possibly be her. This Mythic Chick.
“I know you are asking yourselves if you are worthy, if, when it comes your turn, you will show yourselves adept...” said Veruschka Ravenseal.
St. Martley’s was so full of Wiccan potentials––it too was all-girl. Yet I had a father who was magical, and there were other wizards attending the Gathering––male practitioners, themselves with the Mark, circling me even now.
I wanted to look at their fingertips––to see the conduit through which each of them crafted. More than anything I wanted a Mark of my own.
“Only a lineaged, second-degree crafter or higher-up, may invite someone with no powers to study,” said Veruschka Ravenseal. “That person being the Initiate... Like the Great Book, we are tied, each of us, tied to each other, by the Goddess herself...
“So long as Initiation is lineaged,” she went on, “there remains an unbroken link of every magical adherent back to the beginning––to the one true Magic.”
“Blessed be,” they all intoned. Lia nudged me.
“We pass... We move from the here into the hereafter. Our time comes. We turn from fledged to neophytes and back again. We pass through this existence. We are energy... ‘When I die, my energy will flow...’”
The others recited it as a chant almost.
* * *
I rushed back to my room.
Dear Diary,
I think I know now why Wicca is predominantly female... Even though a witch will call herself a wizard a warlock has a connotation of being a subpar spellcaster. Mother Gaia and the Goddess above. But as my mother used to say––it’s written here in her book––when I’m a rose I’ll act a lily. Her Wiccan band has been ‘immortalized’ in my Codex––alongside that verse. Witch (funnily enough, I wrote witch) after all used to be her Codex. I wish I could draw the Mark so that you could see it. Her Mark was like a flower creeping up her arm.
I wish she hadn’t died, or been murdered.
They have a device in Rome, the Rota. It’s where mothers used to drop their infant babies––the ones they didn’t want anymore––off, like puppies at a night shelter. I wonder who stuffed me down the Rota.
Her Mark is too beautiful and obviously magical; it’s full of Craft. She must’ve been a powerful, powerful Wiccan. If I could be a tenth of her...
And my father...
My mother loved my father.
Something Veruschka Ravenseal said about Initiation––that it was unbroken, that you had to be invited.
But nobody invited me. I was stuffed down a hole and left for dead.
Chapter 12 – Volt and Pouch
Dinner was a raucous affair. The Wolves were back from wherever they had been. We had fried rice croquettes and abbacchio alla cacciatora together with a sprite garden salad that snapped in the mouth; there was wine and even the Succo del Gatto I had not had since forever, its bitter spirits racing to my brain set everything right. The vampires were someplace else. I leaned toward Lia. Just how were the vampires eating? I asked.
“The what-d’you-call-’ems, Blood Cups,” said Lia. “While they are here, killing people is strictly off the menu. I know what you mean though. I bet they can’t stand watching us eat. It must be really difficult for them.”
She took a sip of her aperitif.
I nodded, wondering how the Lenoir managed, with so many viable morsels wandering around.
My map was my constant companion. I laid it on the back of the chair in front of me. There were a series of tunnels that had no names––just designations... Werewolfs, Wiccans, Immortals.
“Those are access points,” said Lia. “Notice how the vampires insisted on being called Immortals? They just can’t stand not rubbing it in.”
“It’s like we’re segregated,” I said.
“Separate his and hers everything,” said Lia. “Just because we’re having this fling, doesn’t mean we cannot get divorced. Everything is structured to prevent confrontation.”
“I just wish we could be more open,” I said–– Still, there looked like there were other tunnels.
When I pointed this out to Lia she just shrugged and nodded. We were interrupted just then by Ballard.
He and Lia shared a brother-sister moment.
“Hey, butt-face!”
“What do you want, Lia?”
“Not you here.”
Ballard smiled. “My sister,” he said. “Bet you could use a break,” he said to me. “How about tomorrow?”
“What d’you mean?” I said, and stuffed my face with my garden salad.
“You. Me. Elsewhere. You can take out your Gambalunga. What do you say?”
“You mean we can just leave?” I said.
“It’s a meet and greet, we’re not exchanging vows,” said Ballard, who also seemed to have marriage on his mind. He grabbed a piece of meat off Lia’s plate. “Besides, I wouldn’t get too comfortable,” he said. He exchanged a look with his sister. “We’re having visitors.”
The word hung in the air like it was made out of helium or something.
“Does Gaven want to have a Wolves’ Council?” Lia asked, her mouth hanging open.
I saw her look down to the long table; Gaven was in a heated discussion with two of the Wiccans, neither of whom I recognized.
There were more Wiccans than I knew.
“Even if he did,” said Ballard, “you wouldn’t be invited.”
This was rather cruel.
“That’s unfair and you know it,” said Lia.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Gaven’s orders. While I’m here I’m not on the Wolves’ Council. Technically, you shouldn’t even be talking to me,” she said to Ballard.
“Ah, technically, Gaven can shove it, if he thinks he can tell me what to do. You’re my sister, remember?” said Ballard.
“Gaven thinks that because I might be a witch there’s a conflict of interest,” said Lia. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Actually it’s pretty sweet. He says I deserve an opportunity to be whatever I want to be, and if that means being a witch...”
They continued to be vociferous down at the table.
“Halsey?” said Lia.
“What are they arguing about?” I said.
Again, Lia and Ballard exchanged looks.
“It’s nothing,” said Ballard. “So how did your training go?”
I decided to let Ballard win. “So-so. How would you say, Lia?”
“I’m all over it,” said Lia.
* * *
Ballard waited outside my door looking all nonchalant, which I knew was a very difficult pose for him, holding his motorcycle helmet and a pair of riding gloves. After all, how many more opportunities would we get to ride with winter coming on? I joined him soon thereafter, leaving Lia, who had her head in a book. Each Initiate had been given a copy of the Magus Codex. Apparently it was traditionary. A Wiccan stopped by to hand us ours. “Learn it,” he said. I already had. The good bits, anyway. “Later Lia,” I said. She waved bye-bye. I was excited to get out, the conditions were so cramped.
Ballard said, “Ready?” His face brightened in that Ballard way.
“After you,” I said, and followed him out.
Ballard was chitchatty. The long tunnels were empty that led to our motorcycles. I started my Gambalunga. It took a while but it caught and snorted.
“I may have to adjust the fuel mixture,” he said.
“You know I researched for this get-together,” I said.
“And?”
“Well, I was thinking about last night, and our conversation.” I unstuck the throttle and the Gambalunga made a bunch of loud fits. “Official Church doctrine––and I’m talking Rome here,” I said, “––had it that all shapeshifters––you, Asher, everyone––”
“I like Asher,” Ballard said.
“Anyway, if you were a werewolf, you were considered a witch, back in the day.”
“Is that really true?” he said.
“Yep. And in Serbia, werewolves and vampires are vulkodlak, literally the same thing. So I guess what I’m saying is, we’re not so different after all.” I put on my helmet.
“No, just part of the same strange mixture of legend and lies,” said Ballard.
Ballard’s moon-blue motorbike started and we raced into countryside. I felt alive again.
* * *
Volt and Pouch were two scrawny-looking fourteen-year-old boys, when we finally got there––they jangled when they walked, weighted down with binoculars and other gear. Both were in makeshift fatigues. They looked ridiculous.
When Ballard appeared, they said, “It’s Ballard”, “It’s Ballard”, in hushed, awestruck voices. As a sixteen-year-old, he was far, far older and far superior than they were.
They were camped out in a little hideaway in Rome. Trastevere, to be precise.
“If there was a district of Magic in Rome it would be here. In Trastevere,” said Ballard.
Either Volt or Pouch––they were honestly interchangeable––took off their binoculars and handed them to Ballard.
We were in a quaint little corner of Trastevere, hiding behind a pillar at a four-way intersection; the street was made of cobblestones.
Volt and Pouch were using a newspaper stand to hide behind. People came and went, on foot, buying The Daily Telegraph, and somesuch, ignoring the boys. Ballard, however, seemed serious. The newspaper vendor pretended like we weren’t there. I looked at my Gambalunga, just wishing we could leave. It was parked beside a huge stack of newspapers that had been cut open. There were riots in the streets in other parts of Rome; it had yet to spill into Ballard’s neighborhood. I commented upon it.
“How many times do I have to say? We keep the peace. The other mortals are completely oblivious to what is going on here. They’re free to do what they want,” said Ballard.
“But what is going on?” I said.
“In a word?” said Ballard. “...Change.” He peeked through the binoculars at the doorway across the street. It looked like a tavern of some sort. A moon and star were engraved above the doorway. It looked like a cyclops with a happy face.
Ballard frowned.
I made a noise.
“Ahem,” I said. “Can I see you over here?” I pulled Ballard away. Volt and Pouch continued to stare at the strange tavern; one of them undid his canteen and took a long draught.
“What are we doing here?” I said.
“It’s a stakeout mission,” said Ballard.
I mimed staking a vampire.
“It’s not that,” he said.
“So are Volt and Pouch on the Wolves’ Council? I mean are they––werewolves?” I practically had to whisper.
“Of course not,” said Ballard. “They’re way too young.”
“How old do you have to be, anyway?” I said.
He ignored this.
“Look. It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” I said. “But I do want to know what we’re doing here. I could be getting ready. Or something.”
“What, you mean for those Wiccans? You can’t honestly believe you want to be a part of them? I’ve heard things,” said Ballard.
“Be that as it may...” I said.
He held up his hand. Ballard was really becoming annoying. Either Volt or Pouch made some hand sign. Ballard returned it, but more intricately.
“I just told them to hold their positions for another forty-eight hours,” he said.
“Don’t they have school?”
“This is more important. Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah. You were nervous about something.”
“I just wondered what we were doing here, is all,” I said, slightly hurt.
“I told you, we’re staking the place out. There are... things inside.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Honestly it’s more up your ally than mine,” he said.
“Is that why I’m here, you need me for something?” I said.
“No.”
I snapped my fingers in front of his face, bringing him back. “Hello? Ballard, you there?”
“Right. You wanted to know,” he said. “It’s like this.”
I waited for him to speak, but it was like he was thinking about something. Finally he opened his mouth.
“We are called. It is our birthright. You understand?”
“Not really,” I said unhelpfully.
“It’s like in magic. Lia says that when one is ‘particularly well-lineaged,’” he said, putting the words in quotes, “they are said to have status. Something to do with which parents you had or something.”
“Go on,” I said.
“Well, Lia and I come from a well-lineaged werewolf bloodline...”
“You mean Risky?” I said.
He nodded. “My parents don’t know. They think we just run the shop, so I guess it may have skipped them.”
“But what does that have to do...?”
“I’m getting there. That symbol over the door... means it’s a werewolf-friendly tavern. Like that restaurant I took you to,” said Ballard. “There is something in there that should not be. That is why we are watching.”
I looked again. Ballard made it sound like whatever was inside there was really dangerous.
Then he said, “Wiccans. But not Wiccans. They are inside.”
“Did you get a look at their faces?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“As far as werewolves go,” he said, “we are called hamrammr, and we are called, to serve seven years. But for some of us, for some of us it lasts longer than that.”
“Gaven...” I said.
“His time is running out. He’s already stretched it to as far as it will go. The Gift, as he calls it, could leave him at any time. And we are under tremendous duress. He thinks the vampires may be angling to stake Rome for themselves.”
He mimed putting a stake through Rome’s heart.
“But its history... Romulus and Remus... Rome is the seat of the Werewolves...” I said.
“Then these black-magic, dark, Wiccan weirdos show up––it’s weird.” He motioned to the tavern. I wanted to know more.
“Gaven is nervous. If he loses the ability to transform... You see we have to use Volt and Pouch... we’re spread thin,” said Ballard. “I won’t let us fail. That’s why we’re here. Oh and Lia wants to take you shopping. So I thought I’d get you away from her for a while.”
“Are Volt and Pouch going to be okay?” I asked, disregarding this last bit.
“Oh yeah. They’re just observing. We have a few others we kept back,” said Ballard. “Transformers. You may have noticed we were gone yesterday. We were having a meeting. Don’t tell Lia.”
“But you shouldn’t even be telling me,” I said.
“Nonsense. You’re family. Anyway... There is a legend, in Trastevere, about Defenders. Many was the time my mother tucked me in and told me about how they protect Rome. I just didn’t know I would be one someday.”
“And the symbols on the doorways?”
“Like I said, it only lasts for seven years. There have to be Defenders out there, don’t there, whose time came and went. Yet they remember what it was like to be a Wolf.”
He hopped on his Ducati. Volt and Pouch gave him a thumbs-up. And a salute.
I didn’t say it––just thought it. For Gaven and the rest of the werewolves, they were twentysomethings. Ballard was showing and he was only sixteen. Why?
He kicked his Ducati into life. We drove past the ‘werewolf-friendly tavern’. It looked like one of those places which has suffered urban decay.
I drove up to Ballard. “It isn’t a tavern at all––it’s a movie theater,” I said.
He looked back at the round marquee, with the falling letters. The box office out front had b
een papered over with advertisements. The glass was all dark. Old newspapers drifted down the street, tossed by the people who read the bits they wanted, and discarded the rest....
* * *
“Lia. Lia!”
“Oh hi Halsey.”
“You’re drooling on your spell book,” I said.
“Mmm.”
I got into my pajamas. Dear Diary, I wrote.
Gaven is almost a tricenarian––it means he’s really old. Lia seems interested in the Craft, but she’s twenty-four. Next summer is probably her twenty-fifth, which means, from a Wiccan point of view, she just made it. I’m concerned about her werewolf point of view. And her Midnight mumblings...
Maybe, whatever Ballard took me to today, it has something in common with her dream talking. She’s worried about something but she won’t tell me what. Shopping should be the furthest thing from her mind. A mind dangerously close to being set in its ways. Can a person really be more than one thing? In school, they wanted to teach us to be well-rounded. But I don’t think that’s how it is. I think you find one thing. And then you do the you-know-what out of it. Right?
Asher was creeping around on his padded feet and I have still not seen a transformation. Although... Veruschka Ravenseal did make lights fly out of her hand. If one is real, the other probably is as well. I can’t help thinking Ballard is going to say, “Surprise! Fooled ya! I’m not really a werewolf, after all!”
I miss my room. I miss Via dei Condotti. If I had a home, I would say I wanted to go there. But I don’t.
Do you just stop being an orphan when you turn eighteen? Does it just turn off, in the same way it sounds like Gaven will turn off, when he becomes a tricenarian?
Despite what she may say, or however much she may want to be a Wiccan, I know Lia will go with Gaven, when he decides to leave. I don’t see him drifting through Rome saying Remember When?
Question: if I had to give it up, to stop being a witch, would I? For Lennox?
I put my pen down and thought about it. The candle guttered, then came back.
I guess what I’m saying is, it’s between love and something else. And I am at a crossroads. As is Lia. We didn’t see it coming. But it’s here. It’s here.
Chapter 13 – The Styles Master
Neophyte / Adept (The Wiccan Diaries, Books 2-3) Page 13
