Red in the face, I put it into second––then something really happened. I started flying––not literally, just going really fast.
The Gambalunga shot ahead, and I made it to the bend. The shout of the crowd was behind me now. I felt lost in a maze, but I had navigated these chambers before. In the distance I could hear the roaring engines speeding through Trastevere ahead of me.
Okay. Three laps, I told myself.
The speedometer redlined. I could hear the engine protesting. My nerves were gone, replaced by an alertness I didn’t quite understand. I was pleased to note that I didn’t seem panicky; instead, I was methodically looking for my next mark.
The seven-sided star! There it was! The septagram...
They meant otherkin, the seven-sided stars––ailuranthropes, and whatnot; cyanthropes and so forth; those who were not exactly all-human, but interested in them. Such as us, and Asher, and Selwyn. Was that me? Was I part something-else––but interested in being human? The introduction of elements fantastic, and otherwise, in my mundane world, didn’t seem to have made an impact yet on the inner-city life of Rome. I wondered if that would hold. If those who did not know, would remain ignorant of the magickals?
WHAM!
Someone ran out at me and tried to throw me off my bike. It was a moment before I realized who it was. Michelle!
She had slammed into a wall, and was trying to take me off my bike; hers was broken. I flipped her off, swerving slightly, and continued on my way, the sounds getting closer, thinking: one Rider down!
Seeing Michelle’s face when she had tried to unseat me made me want to win the race now more than ever.
Maybe Lia, Ballard and Gaven were the exception. Maybe the rest of the Pack didn’t want me here. Like Liesel said, Magic should be put back in its box. They should mothball me.
What about Lia? I suddenly understood what it was like for her to not fit in, to have a Mark. Maybe being marked meant being on your own. Like you had a bull’s-eye on your back or something.
I zipped down a straightaway seeing the back of the nearest rider in front of me. It was Liesel this time; I was on her in a flash. She didn’t try and hit me. Instead, she swerved behind and drafted on my rear tire, rubbing it.
Gaven had a point––you had to be slightly crazy to win this race.
Liesel was playing it safe. Going too slow. I felt like I understood something, in that moment, about Leadership. How you had to do what others weren’t willing to do. To be reckless...
I shot ahead of her, but she seemed to have latched onto me. All right. So be it. Play follow the leader!
My Mark was prickling. I felt on fire. I wished it would stop. I had to get to the head of the pack. This couldn’t be good.
Three laps wasn’t very much time. I needed every second to get where I was going. Maybe I was like a lightning rod, walking around; all the spontaneous crafting... the smashing of lightbulbs, etc., blowing things up. I looked back at Liesel. I shouldn’t, I said to myself. No... I can’t... don’t blow her up...
Liesel rubbed my wheel again as we caught up to the next group of riders––we shot into the piazza, one lap down! I thought I recognized somebody in the stands, but it couldn’t be. The audience gasped. I narrowly avoided wiping out. Liesel’s cheap shot nearly put me into the wall. Ballard was nowhere to be found. He must’ve been further ahead! Winning! I wondered if he was head of the pack? Then if I wanted him to be? Paolo was a beta, after all. The Pack needed to be headed by someone powerful. In the absence of Gaven, Ballard truly was the second-best candidate to head them up. He was special. Different. Whatever.
Always with werewolves there were repercussions. There would be certainly for whoever won or lost this race.
I refrained from any magic usage, even though my Mark was paining me terribly. Such as putting Liesel into the wall. The Mistresses had taught me patience––to not lash out in anger. I had learned to control my desires. Maybe that was the point! To let slights against my existence truly slide.
Leander, the kinda beautiful one, did something, then, that was really nasty. So much for looks.
It looked, momentarily, as though Berenice was out of it, but she recovered quickly. As a group, we took a sharp turn, Liesel still on my flank. I guess it was to be expected, the infighting. Romulus killed Remus, after all. It was in the wolves’ natures to betray themselves, to destroy each other. Gaven was so selfless. How had he managed? You’ve got to fight, to win! I was giving up being a twelfth. I had chosen Rome instead of Ravenseal, a wolf instead of a witch, my gut for prestige.
I decided to go! Just go! The Gambalunga hit the straightaway and I left them all behind. Go! Go! It whizzed beautifully through the sharply twisting alleyways. The Gambalunga’s thrumming engine echoing off the high stone walls. It had gears I had never found before.
I turned a corner, in fifth place, and they were all there: the crowd, and the last four riders; Ballard, Paolo, and two others. We raced through the piazza, alone together. Ballard looked surprised to see me. When we disappeared around the bend, Paolo flew into the two masked riders, Ballard with him; they were grappling one another, single-handed, holding onto their motorcycles. It seemed to be Paolo and Ballard versus the two of them. I didn’t know what to do.
I tried to do the tire thing on the two riders, getting in the middle of the fracas, but they just ignored me. When one of them put Ballard’s face in the wall, however, I lost it. Sparks glinted off Ballard’s helmet-top, catching in the slipstream off their racing bikes, and flew into my face. It was like I was in a shower of stars. I watched as Ballard’s muscles rippled. He fought against them.
Paolo wobbled.
There was a whooshing sound, followed by a hard thudding SMACK!, and he was off his motorbike!
I saw him flying through the air. He starfished. I narrowly avoided running him over. I could see him looking up, shaking his fist at us, as we disappeared down another alleyway.
Ballard’s helmet was all messed up. He took it off and winged it at the remaining two riders. I heard it clatter a few times on the cobblestones as we disappeared down the vicolo.
In my angst, I had paid little attention to these two, but I saw who they were now. Blunt and Giorgio.
Two betas.
The only thing I knew about them was how much they seemed to desire alphadom and the Headwolfship. Either their instincts were telling them to murder each other, or these two were psychopaths. Maybe we all were. We were about to break into the opening, when it happened again. Blunt was trying to put Ballard’s head into the wall without Ballard having his helmet on, Giorgio helping.
“Halsey, don’t!” said Ballard.
It was two against one.
Something glinted in Blunt’s eyes. “Let’s give her a proper welcoming,” he said to Giorgio.
The two of them dropped back.
Ballard raged. “Leave her alone!”
“If she thinks she can be in charge,” said Giorgio, “let her prove it.”
They dropped back and came at me. I hadn’t planned on this. Ballard let out a cry of rage. But it was too late.
We came into the piazza and a giant BOOM! sounded. Blunt’s and Giorgio’s motorcycles went flying out from underneath them. They face-planted, sliding across the finish line, their motorcycles on fire. Ballard and I finished one-two. I had to look back to see them. Flames licked at the charred motorcycles. What was wrong with me? It was pandemonium. In that moment, I had seemed to think the words. I looked at the husks of the motorcycles, paint curling in the flames, and felt sickness well within me. Nausea instead of butterflies. I had nearly killed them. Worse, I had used dark magic.
Stormr hamrinum. Ballard was the new Head Wolf. Which was good––because I didn’t deserve it.
Ballard’s fist was in the air; it was over. Blunt and Giorgio were getting up, no worse for having escaped death–– But their rides were wrecked!
They came to congratulate Ballard, along with the rest of the pack,
Paolo and the other racers belatedly crossing the finish line. It seemed to drag on forever. Then why was my heart still racing? Like I was a danger magnet. Or worse, mistress of danger!
Someone said, “No hard feelings, Halsey, huh? I thought you did really well. Runner-up!” Liesel was shaking my hand for some reason. I said something or other. Apparently the races were always this way, she said. “Pretty weird, huh?”
Then why had I lost myself so completely? The rest of them were over it––no big deal––but not me. My blood was still up. Liesel was amused. “For a newbie chick you’re OK,” she said.
“Thanks, Liesel,” I said.
I could feel it coursing through my body, the blood. Others were coming to congratulate me. Giorgio and Blunt echoed Liesel’s water-under-the-bridge line––when someone behind me coughed, unexpectedly.
I turned, mechanically.
My landlady was standing right there, smiling at me, with an electric energy in her eyes.
“You very fast,” she said. “Yes, indeed.”
I think I waited for my mind to catch up with the rest of me. What was going on?
“You’re a werewolf?” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You need practice sed esse in silentium. Shh with talk of werewolves. Very fast, very fast.”
The knowledge that my landlady was one of us––
“But you never told me.... Vittoria....” It seemed to clunk in my brain.
“She’s my niece,” said my landlady. “You be nice to her.”
“Why?” I said, dumbfounded.
But Ballard came over to me then, and she melted away.
“Ballard, my landlady is a werewolf,” I said, in a daze.
“She must be one of the old Defenders,” he laughed, exaggerating the words. It was his coronation celebration.
“Ballard, you’re Head Wolf!” I said.
* * *
Lia’s wedding to Gaven on the Lupercalia was approaching like gangbusters; I had little time for anything else. The worst part was Ballard was so busy. He and Gaven were initiating THE CHANGE, as they called it. Gaven was passing the keys to the kingdom over to Ballard, his protégé. Which meant I was never going to see the youngest Il Gatto in their history ever again (“It’s official. I am,” he said). Instead, I was stuck with Lia, and her wedding planning. Her train of baggage included me; I was to stand there, and do that, and act according to her preadolescent daydreams of the big day. No, thank you. Wedding, this, wedding, that. Lia, Lia, Lia. Which would have been okay normally, but I had things to do. Sigh. Blank face. Sigh.
They walked over coals during Lupercalia, but I was getting dragged through them. I felt like I needed to be in twelve places at once. Maybe if there were more of me.... But Lia’s babble-talk was infectious. Any high and mighty she may have had about sticking around for any noble reasons was secondary to the fact she was going to be spending so much alone time with Gaven. I started wondering about Wiccan couples. “Is there a marriage system in the culture?” I asked. “Can people in one house marry people in another? Is same-house marriage forbidden? What about marriage with non-wizards and witches, Lia? Or eclectic witches and wizards, hey? Shape shifters, and the like. Can they marry into Houses? Or can they only marry each other, and non-magicals? If marriage, as we define it, takes place, what is the ceremony comprised of, who performs it? Who approves Wiccan marriages? Is there a document of marriage issued or are the partners marked, body and soul?”
Okay––she knew I was crazy. That look proved it.
“I would think a third-degree Head of House could marry two people, Halsey,” she said. “But I can only tell you how it’s done for werewolves. The girl, me, is given a moonvase; that’s the female symbol for werewolf. The boy, Gaven, is given a moonflask; the male. Would you like to see Gaven’s moonflask I bought him?” She opened a drawer and slid out a small oblong box, fetching it from tissue paper. It was crystal, the moonflask, with a gold stopper shaped like a heart. “This is what I’m giving to him,” she said. Her face shined, giving me the magnetic Lia smile, beaming at me like headlights.
“Lia, are there other werewolves in the world?” I asked. “Besides I Gatti.”
She looked confused by the question, putting the moonflask away. It was very beautiful, I told her.
“Some,” she said. “But I’ve never met them... I don’t think. Why?”
I was thinking of my landlady––and Vittoria... If they were related, if my landlady was a werewolf... Then what the H was Vittoria?
“I’ve heard of one group. The Benandanti...” she said. “And there’s another... The Grigori. My brother would know more. He’s Head Wolf! One of the things which happens is Gaven tells Ballard everything. Like presidents about Area 51 and Roswell––he gets brought in on all the secrets.” She shrugged.
“That’s pretty!” I said.
“Do you like it? I’m thinking of vajazzling myself with Swarovski crystals,” she said. She was off in Dreamland again.
So Gaven was telling Ballard the pack secrets––I almost wrote pact secrets––like it was an ancient magical passing on or something; we had broached this subject before, Ballard and I, and Gaven and I. There was more apparently to the werewolves than I knew...
Lia’s TMI hit me then. I wondered who had told Gaven the pack secrets, when he had become Head Wolf? Maybe Ballard would tell me some of them, if I asked. I could probably trick it out of him. But, no, I wouldn’t do that. Ballard would tell me when he was good and ready, or not at all.
“Your eyes are so pretty. Like amethysts. Gaven’s a lucky dawg, Lia.”
* * *
More bangs issued from Vittoria’s room. They weren’t so much an annoying nuisance as a reminder to work harder. Pretty soon my Fledged status would be in jeopardy. Everything seemed to have been pushed back until after the wedding, including House Rookmaaker. I suddenly had a terrible thought. Sometimes Wiccans getting together were called Houses, even if it was just in their minds, and there wasn’t an actual location.
What if my parents’ House existed like one of these Houses? In the mind only? It could be imaginary, couldn’t it? Non-corporeal? Was House Rookmaaker fake?
The vending machine sounded. I peeked through the peephole. Vittoria was out there, sweating profusely, guzzling an aperitif. It was like she had aped my entire existence down to the Red Bull.
I was supposed to be the only Wiccan in Rome.
And, well, Lia too. But that’s it.
Vittoria went back in her room and the banging started up again.
Ugh. I didn’t like all of these secrets. A part of me wanted to go ask Vittoria what she was up to, but I knew what she’d say. “Mind your own business,” or, “Don’t be such a Coriolanus, asshole.”
Was she my wolfsbane? I gave her the finger through the wall. The next night was worse, like she was hammering nails into my head, or something. “That’s very interesting!” she said.
* * *
I booted up my MacBook Pro and typed in Benandanti, feeling the headrush as the words came up, and the energy drink went down.
SEE BENANDANTUS | WEREWOLVES
For kicks I typed in my parents’ names into the search engine, but KINSEY AND MAXIMILIAN ROOKMAAKER returned nothing. I wished I could type in WHAT’S THE POINT? or HELP. WEREWOLF, RISKY returned nothing either. LORENZO, I typed.
BOOTED FROM HIS HOME RANGE. | TOOK UP IN STROMOVKA.
Whatever that meant. Where was everything? There was no wiki for any of this. A bang went off. Vittoria...
I hissed the hated name, silently to myself. A lightbulb exploded. It was my last good one. Why did she have to be here? Couldn’t she just leave me alone, in peace?
I GATTI. The only thing that came up was Ballard’s burgeoning motorcycle company. He needed a better website designer.
I paused infinitesimally.
THE LENOIR, I typed. It felt forbidden.
Why did I feel like they would know if I was trying to acces
s their secrets? I redefined the search. PARIS, THE LENOIR, VAMPIRE, COVEN.
It gave me something. A link. When I clicked on it, I got an error message. 403. Forbidden/Access Denied.
The jolt in my stomach had nothing to do with the campari I was drinking.
I was at the website I had been to before. The one with the snowflakes, the falling symbols. The Wiccan website. Were the Lenoir connected to this? Ballard needed to be here for this!
401 Unauthorized
Access denied. Red flags came up. I looked for the FBI. Briefly, I imagined the Lenoir kicking down my door. But they couldn’t get to me here, could they, not in Rome.
Oops! You’ve crashed the Internet!
I connected back up and typed some more secrets into the search engine. The breeze was playing havoc with my hair. I kept the French doors open, hoping Lennox would return.
PARIS. COVEN. THE VAMPIRES. LENOIR.
By hitting enter I was stepping over the invisible threshold which separated my kind from Lennox’s other family, breaking the rules. The search held a proviso, a warning against it. It was akin to Lennox’s dream-warning. We only let those come this far who have committed first to going all the way. What was this commitment? Did I want to become a vampire? I needed to know where he was at! If I tampered too much with them they would probably give me an ultimatum: join with us or die. But the electronic safeguards surrounding the Lenoir were impenetrable. My search yielded several actors, actresses, an old historical figure. But no actual Paris vampire coven. Disappointed, I shut down my computer and went to bed. My dreams filled with explosions, and Lennox, zombying the land, alone and without hope, and suchlike general un-at-easiness.
Chapter 6 – Lupercalia
The wedding day emerged sparkling from the dawn, a fine layer of snow vanishing by mid-morning, followed by a blinding hot Roman sun. Everyone said the winter had been the longest in memory. It was February 14th, Valentine’s Day. I arrived to the Rosen family residence, flush from my early-morning ride, having spent the time battling traffic and my own growing sense of uneasiness over who the werewolf had been I had seen in my dreams. I decided I would tell Ballard as soon as possible––About the Hunter and so forth. Ballard was the new Il Gatto, after all. He needed to know. If anything skullduggerous was going on, it was his business, was it not? But Ballard was not at the Rosen family residence. They were.
Neophyte / Adept (The Wiccan Diaries, Books 2-3) Page 41
