PARIS––For generations, Paris youth have partied openly at the gravesites of some of History’s most famous dead people. Lighting candles, drinking beer. An activity which has been called into question, of late, following the discovery, over night, of two bodies authorities say spontaneously combusted. Paraphernalia found near the corpses suggests they were up to no good.
According to one investigator, who spoke on condition of anonymity, “as this is still an open case,” he said, “and I don’t want this psychopath doubling back on me,” there was another set of footprints there.
According to the source, they’re looking for somebody who may be on a lunar schedule. “A lone wolf. A rogue, as they’re referred, with abnormally-shaped feet. He left paw prints behind.”
This rogue is considered armed and considerably dangerous. “How else did he fry those two individuals?”
Europol has posted a red notice along with a descriptor index of the subject. Be on the lookout for anyone with signs of hypertrichosis: a hairy disorder which makes you break out in fur, and perhaps, dog feet.
As is typical with arsonists, they always come back.
As if, on cue, my Mark began prickling again. I rubbed it surreptitiously, stifling the impulse to say ow. There was a picture of Emmanuela Skarborough, Ballard’s cousin, underneath her byline. Although she did not become a werewolf, any doubts I had that Skarborough did not know of the supernatural world, were quickly assuaged. I wondered briefly what would happen if they found out about all of us? The normal people, I meant. Would it be werewolves and witches versus people in tanks? Or vampires versus the Vatican? I hoped we never found out. Something told me the supernaturals would have a field day. Why hadn’t Ballard mentioned anything to me about this? And why were the werwolves so interested in it?
I could answer that.
Because werewolves in Paris was strictly forbidden, just as vampires in Rome was. And this hunter read like he was a werewolf. I sighed. You to your corner, we to ours.
Should I tell Ballard and his family about what I had seen?
Paris will blame Rome.... I thought. Especially as it’s in the news. The Lenoir don’t like that. They prefer to keep things as quiet as possible. But then, this thing, whatever it is––man or beast, or man-beast––must be I Gatti. I mean, what other werewolves are there?
Paris must experience enough murders, without the werewolves contributing to them. They are vampires, after all.
I needed to talk to Lennox. Somebody. Anybody. Lia, Gaven...
But I couldn’t bother them. Lia looked so happy. Gaven too. They were dancing, the music spilling out of La Luna Blu, along with the rest of the werewolves.
I needed to get to the bottom of this. It was imperative Ballard and I work together. But, why hadn’t he told me?
* * *
The days were passing rapidly. Apparently Ravenseal got my letter, because they never sent their man. We were already well into January, with still no Lennox. Wherever he was, I hoped he had a good reason for abandoning me? Otherwise, why be so cruel? I decided not to bother Dallace and Camille with this. They would just get worried. But then I remembered.
One of Camille’s gifts was she could sense where people were at. And how they were doing. Since she hadn’t told me about Lennox, I figured he was okay. The alternative was Lennox was dead, or just didn’t want to see me anymore. In which case, Camille would inform me as soon as possible. And that would be that. The fact that she didn’t, meant that he was still alive. A small but solid comfort!
Meanwhile, I had been studying Wicca, reading my codex. But something was missing.
The book gave few specifics. Like a cookbook without recipes. It showed you pictures of things, just not how to make them. Maybe that was a check against eclectics learning on their own. I needed somebody’s help.
Fetching out my diary, I turned to the last page, and drew two columns out. Column one, I headed SPELL; column two, EFFECT.
Under SPELL, I wrote “stormr hamrinum;” under EFFECT, “the fire spell.” For so the Hunter had immolated the two gravediggers, saying those words. I had clipped the Skarborough article and tucked it inside my desk drawer.
The last time Skarborough was writing articles, it was because Marek, Lennox’s older brother, was out on the loose. He eventually came to find me. I wondered where Marek was now. Then, if he really was one of my Four Protectors.
The race for Il Gatto had been scheduled. In almost Gaven’s final act as Head Wolf, he had demanded that the tradition be upheld. He said, “The winner is the best fit for Il Gatto. Always.” So, I guessed that meant it was on.
Locke had grudgingly agreed, so I’d heard.
Ballard was in a constant state of flux. “Do you realize I could win this race?” he said. “Do you realize I could lose?”
He was in his shop, working night and day, on his motorcycle. He had apparently cannibalized some of the other motorcycle’s parts, without their owners’ consent. The long-term fixer-uppers that were in various states of disrepair. “But I had to, didn’t I?” he said.
“This is a win game, not a lose game, Ballard,” I said.
“Exactly. And I want to win,” he said. “I will be Il Gatto.”
Meanwhile, I had a dilemma. I had internalized what Lia had said, about me being a she-wolf, a lupa mannara, as she called it (“Lupa is the Roman slang for prostitute,” she said. “Proof of the prejudice against a female being Il Gatto”), even if it was just honorary, when I realized it was another hoop––another link, so to speak; and that if Lia wouldn’t race for Il Gatto, maybe I should; I could bind the two Houses together. She said she wanted to be on the lowdown. Disappear. I said down-low, Lia. “Gaven and I are to be invisible when we marry,” she said. “At least for a year.”
Lia was right. It was important we and Wicca––we Wiccans and werewolves––be like this. Like Wiccawolves. And how better than at least by trying for the Headship? I decided therefore that if they would let me, I would race for Il Gatto. A small part of me felt my own insecurity flinch at the fact that maybe if I could do this, then maybe one day I could earn the right to be Mistress of Rookmaaker House. As though being Il Gatto were somehow a steppingstone...
Also, I wanted to see if I could do it. Race. Compete. Win.
Ballard was all for it––“So long as you don’t win,” he said. He seemed to think that would be really bad of me, if I somehow managed to outlast him.
“Then you’ll just have to stop me,” I said.
He laughed. “Don’t worry––I intend to.”
Ballard said, “It gets really hairy in places.” He seemed to regard me skeptically. “Fights sometimes break out during the race,” he said.
“I can deal,” I said. I huffed. But I asked him: “Are there lots of issues with the race, like that?” I was hurt that he wasn’t taking my chances more seriously.
Ballard said, “There is some cheating––and nudging. Lots of nudging. Hey, just stick with me. I’ll watch out for you!”
I was scared about this mid-race fighting thing he described to me––and the fact that it sounded like they brawled, throwing fists and whatnot.
If we could road race we could also road rash.
It was really scary.
I had no intentions of letting Ballard babysit me, however.
“Thanks, Ballard,” I said, dropping it.
At least we were working on our bikes together. Ballard was showing me how to take care of mine. “This piece goes here,” he said, showing me how to repair the drive shaft on my Gambalunga. Risky was looking down at us from the wall. He seemed to be winking about something. As though everything was going according to some plan or other.
I didn’t see how. After all, until Lia had suggested it, I had never thought of entering the race––either because it was too dangerous, or I wouldn’t be allowed. Either way, the pathway had opened before me like a holeshot, and I intended to take it. “I’m ready,” I said.
“I hope so,” said B
allard.
Chapter 5 – The Race
The day of the race dawned with a curious sensation in the pit of my stomach, abject fear. What had I gotten myself into? It was a day spent with the Werewolves. Everyone would be there, including the Quirinal. They were the ones who ruled on things, their power checked only by that of Il Gatto. It was the Quirinal that had decided to allow the Gathering. It was the Quirinal that had decided to continue purging Rome of vampires, even though it annoyed the Lenoir. The Quirinal also kept tabs on former werewolf members. Ballard told me.
“They know, like, the secret identities of all of us,” he said.
I decided not to bring up the Hunter––and that the Hunter sounded like a werewolf––and that maybe, just maybe, the Hunter may have been a former member of the Pack?
Vittoria was still in her room, when I headed downstairs. My landlady was nowhere to be found, like she was on vacation or something. It was the first time she had ever abandoned her post.
Part of me was nervous, feeling like I had gotten myself in over my head. The other part was excited. Ballard’s nervousness had shifted in the night. Now he regarded the race as a great opportunity. “How often do you get a second chance at anything?” he said.
Apparently, there were no rules. It was a free-for-all.
“Has anyone ever died?” I asked.
“You mean been killed? Just a few times,” said Ballard.
There’s a load off. The prospect of dying didn’t seem to phase Ballard. I wondered why not, and why he looked so schoolboyish and giddy-like? If his disregard for the consequences of crashing could somehow trickle down and ease my shaking nerves. “So, you’ll just need to make sure your bike is tip-top,” he said. “And it is. And then, just, ‘Good luck!’”
I gulped, nervously. He was excited. I had the pants, the boots, the helmet, the bike. Just not the experience. Abstinence had deprived me of certain life lessons. Among them, how to ride really really fast on a motorcycle without getting myself killed. But my Gambalunga was up for it. “So this is the broomstick of a modern-day witch,” said Ballard, admiring Risky’s old motorcycle, and perhaps trying to lift my spirits at the same time.
I had taken to researching the track, in the days previous, looking for weak spots; and the riders, if there were any weak links. There didn’t seem to be. I felt like I was prepared to the best of my ability. It was a month since my last birthday. If I thought anything would just happen, Wiccanwise, because I had turned eighteen, it didn’t seem to. Wicca had to be earned. Having finished the codex, I had reached a Wiccan dead end. Now what?
Go it alone, I thought.
When we were in the sandpit, Vittoria was always the one who could do things best. She certainly had come in with the most skill. But, then, if I couldn’t find information, how had she? It was annoying. She had been learning spells. I knew she had. How else to describe the small bangs, which issued forth from her room, late, late at night. A small part of me wanted to be learning spells. But instead I was doing this. Racing motorbikes. Maybe Vittoria just wanted it more. Wicca...
Did she? Did she want Wicca more than me? To not have been drafted by the Ravenseals! No wonder she was so upset, she had been hurt, rejected. I understood how that felt. It gave her an edge, like I had gotten comfortable, and she had not. Like I expected things to be given to me. To just be handed out.
But Wicca had been handed out. The Mark was there, on my forearm. Given, not earned. And, I thought: Could it be taken away?
By not working hard, the Adept stayed that way forever. So Genevieve had said. My codex too. The Mark stopped advancing. Dulled, faded with age, ceased to be. Camille’s was barely recognizable. Almost as though she had abandoned Wicca. It had left her. And Lia’s?
I resolved to work harder. But first––this race; and then––the future...
That was a scary word, the future. Two scary words. Especially as my mind kept throwing strings out into the future. Future-seeing.
No one knew, for instance, or guessed, that I was crazy, that I had seen things happen, before seeing them happen. That I was clairvoyant or whatever.
What was this gift?
I had seen many things, some of which I didn’t entirely understand, but some of them I think I did now. Visions––a version––of the future. As though it could change.
Did I have the power to change the future? To prevent Lennoxlove dying, wandering the barren wasteland? Or Ballard and I doing whatever we had been doing?
I had seen us breaking through trees once, Ballard and I––except it was like I was him––like I had undergone a change myself. It was difficult to describe. I had even seen the Gathering several months beforehand. I remembered being in a circle, being READ as the Wiccans would say, except the figures had appeared shadowy, nebulous. The whole event had. I didn’t know what it had meant, back then. Until it happened.
Before they happened, I was in the dark with these moments.
The dreams could alter. The future was not set. I gulped. Perhaps these premonitions were leading to someone, or something. I hadn’t thought of that. Were there other people out there like me? There must be. Other future-seers? People who could manipulate the world?
How or what happens, we decide, Halsey.
Trastevere was silent out. The windows shuttered, shops closed, alleyways empty. This oldest of old enclaves was giving itself over to the werewolves, and to their traditions. The Roman walls had come up. Outsiders were forgotten about. The non-existent carabinieri (police) were nowhere to be found. The early-morning streets were primed for illegal street racing.
We met, all of us, in the piazza outside the doors to La Luna Blu, the Riders, werewolves, and spectators. There were some this time. More than active I Gatti––these must be inactive I Gatti. The Old Defenders. The werewolves who ran the shops, and kept the peace, and didn’t whisper, lest the secret get out, that there were shape changers in our midst.
There were a great many of them.
Ballard and I marveled.
We weren’t the only ones. The rest of the Riders flipped open their visors to look. I saw them exchanging glances. There was Liesel. The pink rider. Ballard on his grey. A handicap he could not abide.
“I would’ve been finished with my motorcycle in a day or two,” he said. But when he revved his engine, you could tell the replacement had some guts.
Leander, a svelte, tanned, gorgeous rider, on a silvery-pearl motorcycle, I GATTI displayed proudly on its side. The purring, opalescent motorcycle sent shivers down my spine.
“Do you like it?” said Ballard, motioning to the motorcycle. “My own design. I Gatti-brand. I figure Trastevere is moving up in the world. Why not as the hub for my own motorcycle company? I’ve worked on Leander’s, just about everyone’s bike here.” He looked dewy-eyed at his accomplishment. “I’m a glutton for causing problems for myself. Anyone of them could win. Including you.”
“Take your marks!” said a voice.
Locke was on a bullhorn. The crowd seemed anxious. Whoever won would be calling the shots from now on.
I made a perusal of the rest of the riders. Each of us had ghosted through the alleyways in the days previous. I saw Michelle, Berenice, Paolo, Pendderwenn, myself, Ballard, Liesel... two other ones.
Absent was Lia. She really did intend to take a step back from the Pack!
“Get set!”
I took the opportunity to look over Locke again. He had changed in recent weeks. He was more austere. I never knew he had powers equal to that of Il Gatto. The werewolves were led by a two-headed monster.
The Quirinal, on the one hand, and the Head Wolf, on the other, who was... going to be the winner of this race!
A Rider lurched forward. “False start!” bellowed the bullhorn. “Do it again and you’re disqualified!”
There were nine of us in all. Of the entrants, I was the only one who could not shift. An outsider. Even on my motorcycle, I still felt that way. Like I shouldn’t be here.
Locke whispered something to Gaven, who looked nonchalant, comfortable in his own skin.
There was not much for Gaven to do now, except wait.
“Very well,” said Locke, through the bullhorn. My nerves spiked painfully. “Not now!” I whispered to my Mark. It throbbed mercilessly.
“We’ll go on Lia,” said Locke. “And, Paolo, if you mess up again––!”
Ballard and I were side by side. Middle of the pack.
I checked the stands, where those who were in the know, stood up, jets of water in the background, shooting from a fountain, behind them. I was racing for the Headship, the Head of the Pack! It seemed to hit me just then. What would I do if I actually won?
My Gambalunga started having fits. Just show. Just show, I thought. My hand revving the engine, raring to go.
Lia sauntered to the head of the double column of Riders, making a show of sass. I knew why Gaven liked her so much. She took her place and the excitement in the air shifted palpably. All attention was focused on her. Lia had magnetism. Every teenage hormonal guy there was in to her.
A litany of words in my head: slow in, accelerate out. Going over what I needed to know. If you get lost, follow the septagrams; they’re engraved at the turns... Don’t die, I told myself.
It happened. Lia raised her hands and the audience gasped. Her Mark flared in her zeal to get us underway. It flashed like a medallion of gold in the morning light. I heard someone shout: “We love you, Lia!” She jumped in the air and shot down her arms. We were off.
Ballard zipped ahead of me as my clutch stuck and my engine backfired. It was just enough that I made a fool of myself. But I did what he taught me––and the last thing I saw before they disappeared around the bend, was his taillamp, and Ballard’s face looking back at me, making sure I was all right. I put the Gambalunga into gear and shot forward. Lia grimaced. “Get ’em, Halsey!” she shouted. I passed her by.
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.
Neophyte Page 40