by Ilana Waters
***
“How’s Londinium?” Titus asked. I stared out at Green Park from my hotel room window, trying to decide what to tell him.
“Not too bad,” I replied. “From what I’ve seen of the PIA so far, they’re not living up to their reputation. Rather a harmless bunch, really. Then again, they have no idea who I really am, or what my true purpose is here. I imagine if they did, they’d be decidedly less friendly.”
“Best not to forget that,” Titus said, as if I needed reminding.
“There’s more good news,” I added. “I managed to secure a seat in Rome in the very near future. I’m awaiting further instructions on that now.” I didn’t mention that the manager of the London branch was singularly obsessed with Titus. One, it might not be relevant, and two, his ego didn’t need the boost. And Philip Grant didn’t warrant a second thought.
“Fine, then,” Titus said. “Oh for gods’ sake!” he cried.
“What is it?”
“Not you,” he said, seemingly annoyed. I could hear bells and whistles from the casino in the background, the shouts of winners and losers. “Look, I have to go. Just let me know when you land in Rome.”
That was it? No “Good show, Joshua?” I shook my head and pulled the window’s curtain closed. After all these years, what did I expect?
“Until then,” Titus said, “keep your head down and your nose out of trouble.” I heard a click.
“I always do, Father,” I replied to the dial tone. “I always do.”
Chapter 9
We are on a train bound somewhere I don’t remember. Like me, my mother made herself stop aging; in my mind, she is always in her forties. Her hair is done up in a mess of bobby pins, several curls falling over her forehead. She is wearing one of her typical outfits: floral-print blouse, ankle-length skirt, shawl, and lots of earthy jewelry. Her enormous leather bag with the tassels is next to me, but I know better than to start playing with them. Instead, I am immersed in a brainteaser she gave me. I love secrets and puzzles, the latter of which are good things to give a precocious child on a long ride. It is night, and my mother is drowsy and goofy.
“I know a secret . . .” She leans over and grins conspiratorially at me.
I drop my puzzle. How could she have kept this from me? Why didn’t she tell me earlier? “What is it?” I ask.
My mother looks around at the other passengers, but most of them are asleep, or caught up in their own books and electronics. Still, she puts her head close to mine, cups her mouth with one hand, and whispers in my ear, “I love you.”
I wrinkle my nose. I can’t believe she got me all excited for nothing. “That’s a stupid secret,” I said. “I don’t like it.”
I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face.
How I wish I could go back in time and cut out my tongue. I’m sure she forgave my puerile reply, but would it have killed me to tell her I loved her too?
Would I ever get the chance again?
***
Believe it or not, I’d never actually been to Rome. You may find that odd, with my father being, well . . . Roman. Maybe he didn’t want me to see what he considers his former glory. Maybe he just didn’t want me on his turf. Regardless, the result is the same: I’d never been to Rome, though of course I’d consumed countless books and films on the subject.
No sooner had I arrived at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport than I knew something was different. But there was nothing unusual in the immediate surroundings, mind you. As soon as you get out of Roma Termini, the main railway station, you are accosted by people with all sorts of pamphlets in hand. Most are selling accommodations at hotels, hostels, and occasionally brothels. But as I stepped out into the street—past the seediness and the fumes from passing buses and cars—it hit me.
Roma Aeterna. They call Rome the Eternal City. They say all roads lead here. I suppose I always knew I’d come someday. I’ll freely admit the magic was palpable; I was fascinated, entranced. I swore I could feel the city whispering its ancient stories to me.
Rome has a mild climate. At this time of year, it’s not cold like New York, hot like Las Vegas, or rainy like London. I wouldn’t be surprised if heaven based its weather on Rome’s. This makes walking in the city a pleasure—doubly so, since certain streets ban cars during daylight hours. Strolling down them feels like it must have decades ago, complete with cobblestones, intimate cafés, and shuttered windows.
The majority of Rome’s ancient architecture lies on the east side of the Tiber River, which meanders through the town. Since the east side also houses the train station, I elected to get a hotel room close by.
“Where are you staying?” my father asked. I was on the phone with him a few days after my arrival, beginning to feel like a schoolboy placating his chaperone.
“The Hassler,” I replied. “You’d like it, actually. It’s one of the most elegant hotels in Rome. ‘Right at the top of the Spanish steps, and next to one of the most exclusive shopping districts in the world,’ ” I read to him from the brochure in my room. “ ‘With its gilded furniture, silks, and antiques, the Hassler is as renowned for refinement as it is for attentive service.’ ” Although that last bit could be a problem—I didn’t want them too attentive. Alert staff could pose a problem to one trying to carry out things in secret.
“Yes, well, don’t enjoy yourself too much while you’re there,” grumbled Titus. “You’re not on holiday, after all.”
I rolled my eyes. I chose the Hassler because it was close to the train station—and to the PIA. What more did Titus want?
“How’ve you been settling in?” he asked. “Everything going according to plan?”
“If the plan involves running around to several different government offices, trying to accomplish a single task,” I replied, “then yes. It’s going swimmingly.” I didn’t know how long I’d be staying in Rome, so I figured it didn’t hurt to put in for a visa. However, it’s not uncommon for Italian visas to be rejected two or three times for minor issues. There’d been quite a bit of going back and forth to different offices, pacifying cold, indifferent clerks and their silly rules. Even using all my sorcery and mind-powers, it was a tedious business.
But a few lucky things had happened that made me wonder if some other magic wasn’t at work. Several documents became available more quickly than I expected; one or two higher officials were more accommodating than anticipated. I smiled to think that perhaps the land was in love with me. It recognized its long-lost son, home at last. Still, no need to tell my father that. Let him think I was undertaking all sorts of burdens on our behalf.
“I imagined as much,” he said. “I can’t begin to contemplate what the mortal stupidity and paperwork is like over there.”
“I’ll give you a hint,” I said. “Have you ever been flayed alive?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” he answered.
“Ah, yes, well.” I scratched the back of my neck. “It was nowhere nearly as pleasant as that.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Titus said, in a voice that didn’t sound sorry at all. “So, has anything else changed in Roma since I left?”
Since he left. The last time Titus had been in Rome was two thousand years ago. I thought of the traffic lights, car horns, mopeds, and radios. Scantily clad women, and tourists and citizens on cell phones. People of every shade and costume roaming the teeming metropolis.
“Not at all,” I replied.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Very good,” Titus finally said. “When do you report to the PIA there?” he asked.
“First thing in the morning.” The PIA’s office in Rome didn’t open until nine, and although I probably could have used my powers to sneak in and begin researching right away, I decided to wait. I’d introduce myself properly first; after that, who would look twice at an eager young man working early in the morning, or late into the night?
“Right then,” he said. “And remember—
let me know the minute you find out anything.”
“I will,” I replied. So you can get your hands on my mother or the crystal, whichever matters most to you.
***
With nothing to do until the following morning, I wandered the streets, thinking. What was the city like in my father’s day? I wondered. Traffic jams had long ago replaced the clip-clop of hooves, the groaning of iron chariot wheels. Though there were still glorious fountains, and public squares called palazzos, not to mention the graffiti.
The Romans were well known for their poetry, drama, and epigrams. Often using satire and obscene language to make a point, my ancestors carved and wrote such words wherever the public could view them. As I passed the modern equivalent, I wondered if the hoodlums who graced this wall with their artwork were aware they were upholding a centuries-old tradition. Doubtful.
Still, it was a lovely evening for a stroll. It’s true Rome is crowded and touristy, but not so much at night. It was almost easy to believe I really was here on holiday, or maybe a native Italian with business in the city. No one knew what evil might lie beneath these very streets, or whether my own flesh and blood might be a victim of it.
I walked by a restaurant where a large family was having dinner. They were all smiles and laughter, and I couldn’t help but feel envious. My parents would never have been able to share a meal together without a fight breaking out. And my father certainly wouldn’t be able to eat anything served.
I pushed such thoughts from my mind and tried to enjoy the walk instead. Rome certainly was a city of contradictions. For instance, modern sculpture stood side by side with statues of ancient gods and goddesses. I’m sure by now you can guess which I was more interested in.
Not unlike my Roman ancestors, witches worship various pantheons. In fact, some deities, like Hecate and Aradia, are specific to witches. However, ancient Rome didn’t tolerate other religions well, to say the least. I mean, they fed Christians to lions on a regular basis, so accepting witches was out of the question. I imagine that made my father feel like an outcast wherever he went. I had no idea what his present religious convictions were, or indeed, if he believed in anything. I’m fairly certain his expressions involving gods and fate were just a force of habit.
Still, the monuments were fascinating to look at. There were statues, reliefs, looming churches. Made of marble, some had once been proud and smooth, but were now grayish-brown and pockmarked. Please don’t misunderstand me; they were still majestic. But rather the way an overused ball gown is majestic: luxurious and regal, but showing its age. They say that in ancient times, the columns and statuary of Rome were painted. I’ll bet Abigail would have loved that. She was always fond of bright colors.
Eventually, I came to the oldest triumphal arch in Rome: the Arch of Titus. Not my father’s, but the emperor of the same name; it commemorates Rome’s victory in yet another battle. Staring at the sand-colored stone high above me, I wondered about the outcome of my own expedition. I hoped that it would yield the answers I sought, but most of all, that it would lead to my mother.
Chapter 10
The PIA satellite office was located not far from the British Council building, and just a few blocks from the Hassler Hotel. At Rome’s PIA office, the Italian nameplate outside the door translated roughly to “For the ladies and gentlemen of Rome. Members must provide identification.” Well, I was a gentleman of Rome, was I not? I walked in and made myself at home.
The building’s setup was similar to the PIA’s London branch, with conference rooms, libraries, et cetera. The style was more Italianate than English, but that was to be expected. And here, our bored receptionist was male.
With my flair for linguistics, they assigned me some work translating ancient documents. Fortunately, what they thought took me hours was actually accomplished in much less time. I have magical genes to thank for this; you can imagine my mother’s delight when she had me tested and discovered my IQ was off the charts. But I can’t really take credit for that. It was partly the result of witch blood, and most witches’ intelligence cannot be measured by mortal instruments. But taking notes for your own research looks an awful lot like translating, so it was perfect.
At least, it would have been if I’d been able to find anything. But two weeks of discreetly searching through dusty tomes and record halls hadn’t yielded many answers. I did see a few things about my mother—when she became a witch, various powers, places she’d lived. Obviously, nothing I didn’t already know.
Perhaps it was somewhat for my own ego that I wanted to see more—she was my mother, after all. But the lack of information frustrated more than just my ego. Because she’d flown mostly under the radar for years, there were no details on her relation to the crystal, how she acquired it, or who else might want it. And true to Titus’s word, there was no mention of me or my mysterious birth anywhere. My parents had indeed done an excellent job of keeping me hidden—at least from mortal eyes.
I did, however, find out several things about Callix Ferox. Examples of his cruelty and viciousness are far too graphic to divulge here, gentle reader. And I didn’t have any real reason to believe what the alley vampire said was true: that he would “rise again,” that he had some sort of mission to accomplish. What really mattered was that I couldn’t find any evidence he ever left Rome.
In an odd way, it gave me hope that he was still here, or that the people who took my mother believed he was. It meant I was looking in the right place. But so far, even the most powerful locating spells Titus and I cast had been ineffective. Whoever took her was likely using a cloak—an enchantment used to keep hidden things, well, hidden. And a damn fine one at that.
I let out a dry laugh. This must be similar to the frustration Titus felt as a witch raised among mortals. Imagine having no access to knowledge of who you or your people truly were. It would have been quite a shock to realize how different he was, and just plain dangerous to practice and hone his skills in secret.
I once asked my father, “What’s the difference between a witch and a mage?”
“Not a great deal,” Titus had replied. “Witches tend to be more powerful. The offspring of mortals and witches are sometimes called mages, if they have any magical ability.” Titus snorted. “Essentially, a mage is a slightly lesser witch.”
That, my friends, is the truth. I am indeed less powerful than the offspring of ordinary witches, since Abigail wasn’t fully a witch when she had me. You see, there are two ways to become a witch: to be born of two parents with witch blood, as Titus was, or the learned way. The latter is a bit more complicated, with a year and a day of study, a three-day fast . . . I won’t bore you with the details.
What? You didn’t think I was going to come right out and tell you how to become a witch, did you? Believe me—it’s a lot more trouble than it seems.
Anyway, that was the route my mother took, but her studies weren’t complete when I was born. You might say she was betwixt the mortal world and the Wiccan one. The result is that I am something of a half-breed, though I’d rather you didn’t use such a vulgar term to describe me. You seem far too well-mannered for that.
In case you’re wondering, the answer is no: I didn’t inherit any vampire powers from my father. Genetics doesn’t really work that way, and even though we are supernatural creatures, we are still beholden to the laws of nature. Being a witch alters your DNA; being a vampire doesn’t.
It’s like when you learn in biology class that if you cut off a mouse’s tail, its children still won’t be born without tails. I always thought it was a gruesome way to explain the subject, but there you have it.
What I did “inherit” is a sense of comfort around vampires. Since I grew up with one frequently in my presence, they no longer hold the power to terrify me. And yes, vampires can be terrifying to witches who are young, inexperienced, or simply seeing one for the first time. I’m also immune to the hypnotic sway they can have upon mortals.
Of course,
there is the question of how I was able to inherit anything at all. I was not supposed to be born, you see.
What you’ve heard in most stories is true: vampires cannot create life. Male, female, it makes no difference. Oh, they can enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, mind you, but no conventional offspring will result. How do witches have families, you ask? In the usual way. And if you’re not familiar with that, my friend, this is really neither the time nor the place for such discussion. Your parents should have had a little chat with you on that subject long ago.
So the fact that I do exist and am talking to you . . . no one quite knows how that happened. Certainly not my parents. I suppose it remains a story for another time, and one I cannot tell, since it is a mystery even to me. But I can say that as a “half-breed” and mystical-born child, I am usually treated with suspicion and derision by other magical beings. Almost as if I were a demon, or responsible for being born the wrong way.
But enough of this self-indulgent prattle; surely you’d rather hear about my investigation.
I was in the main reading room late one night, when everyone else had gone home. Still hoping for a breakthrough, a book on crystals lay open before me, and I traced my fingers down familiar lines of text.
“Crystals . . . microscopic arrangements of atoms . . . in metaphysics are a way to focus energy, increase power for spells, et cetera.” I yawned. Nothing I couldn’t have told you about crystals. Hell, I probably could have written this book.
“However, there is one crystal, roughly three inches in length and one inch in diameter, that merits special mention,” I read. “Completely clear and fashioned from quartz . . .” The hairs on the back of my neck pricked up. This was starting to sound familiar.
I read on, but there was nothing about my mother’s fairy tale of the witch-queen, or the crystal coming from another dimension. There was hardly anything about the crystal in this dimension. I saw a few paragraphs on people who’d owned it over the years, but things got fuzzy when it came to the latter half of the twentieth century. There were several mentions of it and Rome, so that gave me hope I was in the right place. But what was it that made this crystal so special? Why was it different than all others?
