Neophyte

by T. D. McMichael

  * * *

  I turned to the diploma emblazoned with the St. Martley’s crest. My name and my 18th birthday, which was custom, said that on this day, I was ready to begin. But to begin what?

  Being a Neophyte, I felt, was like being a freshman in college, a new beginning: but I was without campus or guidance, and I was on my own. There was no ‘come back’ in Mistress Genevieve’s voice; only acceptance, essentially, at what had been my choices.

  Careful not to bleed on it, I inserted the diploma, and the letter, back into the envelope, sticking the entirety into my desk drawer, my mind like one of those mulchers, gobbling up the accrued wisdom of St. Martley’s and, of course, Mistress Genevieve’s, fabulous wooden rings.

  Standing in my room above my beloved Via dei Condotti, I blew out the candles and let the nighttime consume me. No one had been in contact with me for over a week, not since the Gathering.

  He didn’t come...

  Chapter 2 – Ballard’s Problems

  Beyond shopping, I hadn’t been out of my apartment all week. Even the werewolves had been keeping their distance, the familiar growls of their motorcycles an all too distant memory. It was 6:00 a.m. The sky outside the color of pitch. The sound of the rushing water was like rainfall, as I held my hand under the bathroom faucet, which flopped and spattered dirt from the shivering pipes, until they began to flow cool and clean, and I dabbed at my forehead, which was the source of my problems. You’ve been alone too long, I thought. My three Wiccan fingertips (thumb, middle, and index) looked like silver leaping fish. The intricate swirl of lines culminated in a fingerprint––an ornate crosshatching at the tip of my right index finger, which was unique. I wondered briefly if there were southpaws, in the world, left-handed Wiccans... I figured there must’ve been.

  I read over Mistress Genevieve’s letter again, committing it to memory, and carefully opened my codex––all while managing not to get any of the pages wet, as I took a bath. I figured I would continue on with my practicing. Lux had said there was a correlation between Mark-development and hard work. I didn’t want to be left behind just because I was lazy. Two things fell out of the codex.

  First was a map of the Gathering, which I crumpled up and threw in a wastepaper basket, with some smaller lightbulbs from the bathroom vanity: all exploded, naturally. Next was a letter from Veruschka Ravenseal, in which she had threatened me. (“You have until New Years––and then I will expect you at my home. Remember––I’m watching you. And keep a lookout for my man. He will come to get you. VR. Veruschka Ravenseal.”)

  Several things occurred to me.

  First: Genevieve had said “lots of yous;” Veruschka Ravenseal had once said she preferred to talk to lots of herself. Maybe Genevieve and Veruschka were talking about the same thing. This Wiccan concept of being in more places than one. But that was a Half-Lighter thing, wasn’t it? According to craft ardanes, the use of them (of the Ashers of the world; those who could scry) was illegal. Then how was Veruschka seeing me? Unless she could turn invisible, and had stalker tendencies, I didn’t see how she could be watching me. Keep a lookout for her man. Was I supposed to be watching like they could? I gave up, confused. I also threw her letter away. The bath was becoming lukewarm and I postponed my magical education to get a soak. Half-Lighters are only illegal within the contexts of war, I told myself. Veruschka may be perfectly able to look at you whenever she pleases. I exhaled underwater. So be it.

  It was the 22nd. Not counting today, I had nine days to prepare for the arrival of her man, and to think up some excuse to placate them both. Maybe I would just tell Veruschka and him to shove it. I could still feel her handprint from where she had slapped me. It made me angry. Did I have any say-so or would I have to go with them?

  No––I was eighteen––I would do what I pleased.

  The water erupted from the tap in a rhythmic pattern.

  It had been so long since I had seen Lennox, I had gotten used to thinking of him as someone who was perpetually elsewhere.

  Not having him was almost as bad as wanting him in the first place. It made me ache all over. There was no cure.

  I decided to put my mind to other uses. Such as what the Dioscuri had meant when they told me to find... them. But unlooked-for Lennox’s specter seemed to materialize before me.

  This was silly. I’m not dreaming, am I? I said to the Lennox-hallucination, who seemed to glimmer before me. He vanished as if in response.

  Had something inside of me broken?

  Maybe I couldn’t see Lennox because there was nothing to see. When I scried him there was just darkness, like the dark aether. Had Lennox survived the Agonies?

  Or had he been––killed?

  I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t seen him in months. I needed to get out. Something.

  Ballard.

  I needed Trastevere; the ancient cobblestones; the erratic helter-skelter of the streets; the dirty laundry hanging in the sky, across those streets; the oldness; the I-don’t-give-a-damn, and, of course, the smell of the Tiber, the rich flow of the blood through the Old World.

  The intrusion of reality left a sobering aftertaste in my brain-mouth. Why had I not foreseen this? I had felt it. But it had come on so gradually. Distance was never good in a relationship and Lennox and I had the ultimate distance––being that we were separate species. Lennox a vampire, I a witch. But, then, something was going on. After all, how many times did a vampire fall in love with a witch? He was clearly older than I was. World-savvy. He also didn’t seem to have a problem acquiring money. He could do what he pleased. Would he leave Rome too?

  I was already beginning to perceive of myself as a wanderer. Like one of those eclectic witches or wizards––like Asher or Selwyn; or, said a little part of me, Vittoria, wherever she was.

  It was because I didn’t have a House––a three-dimensional place where I could learn and train Wicca. I needed to find it. House Rookmaaker.

  It felt good thinking about other things. We should do this more often, I told myself sarcastically, and then wondered if I would be like one of those old cat ladies––the gattare, as they were called, here in Rome––though if people realized there were other Cats in the world, such as I Gatti, I don’t think they would be so hasty to criticize them––incapable of social intercourse with anyone but felines.

  I felt slashed-up, woebegone. I had no recourse to St. Martley’s, or to Mistress Genevieve. I would write to no one, I would interact with no one. I stopped short at ripping my four-poster apart, lest my landlady think I had gone completely off my head, and refrained from kicking in the slats of my closet door. Neither would I smash the Iron Roses, or break my laptop. Lennox inspired no desire to rearrange my room. But I felt his absence heavily, and wondered why he had so effectively booted me from his brain. As Infester had said: they will have a Power... A Power of Sight.

  Maybe the prophecy meant two others––that Lennox and I weren’t meant for this... existence... or to be together...

  The House, the House...

  Rome for me was poisoned. I had nowhere to go. I wouldn’t just rush off, but I wouldn’t stay either. Admittedly, I was in a terrifying place, a place I had not been in for ages, since I came to Rome––and worse, my visa was running out. Somehow I had been so overwhelmed by this unbelievable inclusion in an as-yet un-understood magical world that I forgot I was also part of the hopelessly mortal, mundane world, where things such as ninety-day stays existed, and there was a EU (European Union) and a Schengen Agreement. People could pass to-and-fro across relatively open borders. I did not have carte blanche like I did within the spectral community of werewolves, whom I realized I had never fundamentally seen alter their shapes. Ballard was Ballard, and Lia moreso. I had only their words and the fact that Il Gatto, who was Gaven, had ordered his werewolf boys and girls to fight back revenants and bloodsuckers––a werewolfy thing to do. A very long daymare whipped through my head like a satellite on the periphery of House Ravenseal, which
would be squashed, destroyed, especially as I was only officially a Neophyte and couldn’t conjure my way out of a paper bag, but even more officially, because I somehow recognized that whereas Ravenseal was good for giving face time to things such as band together and work for the common good, etc., etc., and striving to prevent the past, in reality they were headed up by a tenacious she-bitch who wouldn’t for a second pause in destroying my parents’ House. Especially as you needed someone third-degree or higher to run your own autonomous coven. And as has been said, I was not. More on that later.

  Selwyn. I didn’t know why I had not been thinking about him. It was my fault he was gone. But to go, I would need something more; to get him, I would need something more. After all, I didn’t speak Czech. And then there was the fact that the Dioscuri and the Master House seemed to be connected––and that meant the twins and who knew what else? I couldn’t go up against all of them. I couldn’t go up against any of them! I needed help. Selwyn was in Prague, in the Districts of Magic, which was located northeast, past the Alps, through Slovenia, Austria. It was landlocked. It was called Praha. Prague. The Czech Republic. It was winter there, which would mean snow, but I didn’t give a damn. I would take my Gambalunga, the motorcycle Ballard had built for me. But what about Ballard? Would he want to go with me? Would Lia let him go with me? After all, he was the only reliable mechanic good enough to run his Uncle Risky’s motorcycle shop. I felt an itch––a dangerous itch, in my fingertips, which I could not ignore––and then the heat rush happened again; I gave myself over to it, like a dull throbbing, wondering if this was it for me. If all I would ever be was some pulsating freak monster all by herself. The intoxicating stirring spread to the remainder of my limbs––to the very core of my being. Where it raced through my Mark, I could feel a surge of Power. I was suddenly so lonesome I could howl. Would Lia take kindly to me rapping on the door this early in the morning? She was still living at home.

  I couldn’t help it. I needed to get away. To hell with the Diary. I grabbed my helmet from out of the closet: fire-red to match my bike. And then I stopped, because something red was poking out of the detritus.

  Embossed with the number six, it was the red marker Selwyn (and House Rookmaaker) had been awarded, but hadn’t been able to use, prior to the Gathering. The marker I didn’t even know I had. It must’ve fallen out of my pocket or something. Selwyn must’ve slipped it in there before––when I was busy, when I wasn’t looking. Unbeknownst. I picked it up and thinking better tucked it into my new Diary, Volume III. I grabbed a black hoodie, throwing it on the bed, and fetched out my riding boots. In moments I was dressed in a pair of old Levi’s-brand jeans, and my book, with the marker in it, tucked inside my helmet. I put my hood up. My landlady said nothing as I walked past her. I didn’t even look at her. If anything, we had come to an understanding, the two of us. I was damaged goods and it was good that I was on my way out. I supplied the “I hope I never see you again,” and got out. Deranged. Damaged. Dead. In my soul and in my mind. But so what? I was over it. I didn’t care anymore. Lennox was a free agent––he could see whomever he pleased.

  Camille’s ghost-face looked reproachfully at me as I imagined what she would say. Breaking up meant more than never seeing Lennox again.

  Sigh. Blank face. Sigh.

  It meant losing an anchor, without which I was adrift, alone, and in dire need of companionship. Do nothing to yourself, I told myself.

  My blood would not abate; instead a recklessness overwhelmed me. I found my Gambalunga in the park and started it. It was so cold out my breath fogged. Pretty soon both I and the Gambalunga were snorting, and running under the power of our own resolve. For I needed it now, that resolve, and the reassurance of my Gambalunga, more than ever. Ballard was my true anchor. The only one who was, quote-unquote, always there for me.

  * * *

  I spent the remainder of the early morning cruising, in spite of my so-called resolve. This involved veering wildly through alleyways (vicoli), cutting through traffic, which never seemed to let up, racing traffic lights, just in general trying to lose myself. The second-guessing, which had plagued my spirit, was over. Lennox––was gone. He was free.

  The muffled fits of my Gambalunga sounded silent in the muffled globe surrounding my head case––I mean headspace. Even the old stick of the throttle was gone. I watched as the last of the stars raced across the sky, and the moon (some would call it a supermoon) wheeled over the many monuments whose names I had never bothered to learn.

  The torre dell’Orologio (I had looked that one up) was the name of the watchtower I had seen in Venice. But then a mental block appeared. Thinking about Venice was off-limits. Everything to do with––him was. I would have to create new thoughts, a new persona; I would have to be somebody else, yes. I decided I would start immediately. Lots of mes. The old me was gone. The new me was chilled to the bone, teeth rattling, yet faster, faster––almost as though I could facilitate the change by speed alone. Why weren’t they wheeling fast enough, those stars? I wanted the morning. The sunlight unto tomorrow. Not to have to think about nasty, depressing yesterday. Or what the future would hold for me. But sun. And a blazing star. Because then I could forget. Because then I needed to. Yes. I needed to.

  * * *

  I was a wet dog. A bedraggled old soul stuck in a young soul. I needed a Ballard “in his own sauce,” so to speak––the lemony-fresh scent of his small ho-vel. And then it hit me, the pitiful state of my whatevers. Literally I had a diary and a motorcycle. Nagging me was the realization that I had lineage––a name, a birthright. My own House. But that Wiccans were supposed to be lin-e-aged. Literally produced through a factory-like process to become Fledged; which I would not be, and, therefore, checks and balances, there must be a higher authority, mustn’t there, The Master House, for instance, who looked over Wiccan Initiates and made sure they were progressing correctly? But I would not be subservient to them. It wasn’t what my parents had wanted. I had failed in my faithfulness to––him. (The whole Lux thing came to mind.) I would not in my charge to them. House Rookmaaker had to become my priority––but first Ballard, and then Selwyn, if I could. But I had one advantage, with regards to the black cat––Selwyn was sneaky, a virtuoso. And who knew? Just because I had seen him go, didn’t mean they had grabbed him. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe, in that moment, he had been protecting me––à la the prophecy of sorts––and had been willing to face whatever on my behalf. Would I let him?

  He was my Protector. Somehow, I didn’t see why that should equal a death sentence.

  In a bad situation, then, anything can mean anything, and there is no certainty. Keep your eyes open!

  I swerved, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision, and throttled back. Mistress Genevieve’s words came back to me. Road signs, I told myself.

  The pounding in my head was beginning to lessen somewhat. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I think I just wanted to feel road beneath my tires, to put the jeopardy of my life in my own hands.

  For too long it had felt like others had been controlling me. Here was something I could do. And I realized something else. Before, I had looked into Wiccanings on my computer, baby baptisms for cutie Crafters: infant whathaveyous. Wiccanings indoctrinated––there was that word again––young ones into the community of Crafters; but it didn’t say you had to become one. I would have a choice. I knew that now. To do whatever I wanted.

  And if I turned my back on it, on Wicca, so be it. I knew my parents would not disapprove. I was free to live my own life. And so a crossroads was before me. To do one thing or the other? Walk from Crafting or take it up, and so follow it... to the bitter end.

  My mind was already made up. The fact of wanting to see Ballard was my answer. Risky had wanted Ballard and I to hook up––you know what I mean. Not Lia and me; or even the werewolves and me; but Ballard and me.... It felt special. Like I had an assignment. A destiny. Together he and I could figure––out––well––an
ything. In which case, I existed in a state of whatevers. Step one was the boy with the curly, dark hair. My lifemate. My destiny-amanuensis. I would dedicate myself to the proposition that he and I had no choice, that we should do this; and therefore must.

  We were fated to do this, to find House Rookmaaker, just as Risky had been fated to do whatever he had done––somewhere, someone or other was looking out for us.

  This monologue coincided with my snaking my way through Rome, to Trastevere. It was silent, in Trastevere. No distant zipping through the vicoli on Ducatisti. Peaceful. The new dawn of a new day.

  But then looks could be deceiving. I had to remind myself of the imminent changes, in the wolf pack.

  Hopefully the transition of Gaven being Il Gatto, to someone new, would be a smooth one. The Wolves were only feral for so long, and then they got put out to seed––or stud. The marriage of Lia and Gaven was wonderfully coincidental, didn’t I think? I only hoped they were managing it well, especially Lia. She was giving up a lot to be with Gaven. We’ll see, I told myself.

  I needed a voice––someone’s––to douse the sense of hopelessness, welling within my breast. I felt the indefinable pull of my choices. But also that maybe I did not have a choice. That maybe I had been born into something. My four D’s were Marek, Ballard, and, of course, Lennoxlove Lenoir and Selwyn; and in a way I loved them each, distinctly. If I needed protecting, from whom was I in danger? Again the question.

  I turned the corner, into a grey-lit alleyway, and wouldn’t you know it, there was the Rosen Family motorcycle shop. The metal roll-up door, which led into the garage, was already opened, welcoming in a bright new day, which was the start of tomorrow.

  D for Defenders, I told myself. My full moon was waiting.

  * * *

  I cut the engine and stepped off my Gambalunga––Ballard had once told me that thievery in Trastevere was non-existent; no kidding. The last thing someone needed was a pack of werewolves who could smell them, hear them, bite them, track them. You did not mess with I Gatti. The exhaust toot-tooted and that was it. I looked for the telltale sparks coming out of the door, but there were none. Whoever was in there, it didn’t sound like they were working.