Neophyte / Adept (The Wiccan Diaries, Books 2-3)

by T. D. McMichael

  I settled on the fact that she had a flower-Mark, like mine––except it was onyx not silver. Was it that we had things in common, that I did not like? Vittoria’s virtue was either Grace or Goodwill, after all, the same as mine. Could anyone whose virtue was either one of those two things really be that bad? Yes, I decided.

  I did a little whathaveyou, twirling so Lia could see me decked out in my rider’s garb; it pleased her I had become so biker-ish. “There she is. There’s Halsey Rookmaaker,” she said. Liesel was on hers. I could hear it running fast and steady, thanks to Ballard’s ministrations.

  Gaven said, “What’s up, Halsey?” He didn’t look like he was suffering the ostracization described by Ballard. In fact, he looked happy. The rest as well. Maybe riding did that. I always felt happy when I rode. Free-like. As always, when I looked at Gaven, my mouth watered. “We just thought you’d like to take a spin,” he said. “We’re having a party––at my place.”

  Pretty soon, we were all on our bikes, Ballard riding a generic one. “The blue moon will ride again,” he promised, referring to the monocoque of his other one––of a blue moon breaking through the storm clouds.

  “But the race,” I said.

  “I’ll figure something out,” he said. It was clear he thought little of the spare: a jumble of tubes and wires under a coat of primer paint, so that he looked like a grey wolf.

  Gaven’s place turned out to be La Luna Blu, The Blue Moon, a werewolf-friendly tavern, in Trastevere. It was centrally located, in the heart of the anti-vampire movement. Any time here, I felt like I was split in two, in due, as the Italians say. My Lennox-allegiance at odds with all of them. But so be it. When it mattered, Gaven could be clear-thinking, solid, leader-like––and work for the interests of all. But he was no longer Head Wolf. He existed in a state of semi-retirement. His perpetual alertness somehow diminished, subdued, as if his coolness had somehow mellowed out and he had become even more super awesome.

  Lia and them were racing while I drank my Succo del Gatto. It banged in the back of my throat. A caffeine kick plus something extra.

  I was on my Gambalunga, listening to its peculiar whine: a rapid throaty rise and fall: thinking about my addiction memoir. For so the Wiccan Diaries had become for me, a place I wanted to exist in entirely––with Gaven and all of them; and with Lennoxlove, wherever he was at.

  Not Prague. Not Ravenseal. Not being told what to do. No. I realized I was too old to ever again be under anyone else’s thumb. If that made me eclectic––so be it, I was eclectic. Badass and whatever.

  Liesel’s cycle fired; she and Lia were going toe-to-toe.

  The other racers whooped, cheering them on. It was just a straightaway, at the end of which they circled back, neither having outmatched the other. But I heard a rip-tear and suddenly Lia disappeared.

  It was quite something watching her maneuver her bike into a standing wheelie. A trail of acrid smoke whomped into the air.

  They were blowing off steam, like the smoke which issued from Lia’s rear tire. The werewolves were relaxing.

  For them that meant doing things which were reckless. After all, endangering themselves on two-wheelers was nothing compared to the Cold War they seemed to be in with the other supernatural enclaves around this world.

  Lia banked into a group of guys and was off her motorcycle in no time, coming over to talk to me. I could remember being jealous of her. Now I had only admiration for Lia. Maybe I was being unfair to Vittoria. Judging her.

  Judging her correctly... I said to myself...

  If I could have, I would have said Lia walked with a certitude belying the fact that she was so screwed up. We both were. After all, how many times had we changed? She into a werewolf––and us both into Wiccans. Lia was the only one I could talk to about magic. Simply because she was the only one I talked to who was magic. What Vittoria and I did wasn’t talking. It was showing off. Warning each other to stay away. Whereas, Lia and I were friends.

  The requisite looker-on deposited into her hand a fresh Succo del Gatto. Lia popped the top, and said, coming over to my Gambalunga, “I’ve always loved this bike. It was Risky’s, didn’t Ballard tell you?”

  My Gambalunga hummed some more. Ballard... I had no idea... Lia could tell it on my face. “He lied to me,” I said.

  “That’s my little bro. He does things like that,” she said. “Seemed to think you deserved it.”

  If he lied to me about my Gambalunga, what else had he lied to me about? If I couldn’t trust Ballard, who could I trust?

  “Lia. Race for Il Gatto,” I said.

  She eyed me.

  “That may not be wise,” she said. “But it may be fun.”

  The exhaust snorted.

  “It’s Il Gatt-o, not Il Gatt-a, Halsey. O not A. Masculine, not feminine. The Head Wolf is usually a guy,” she said, as if I didn’t already know that.

  In this case, usually meant always––and we both knew it.

  “In fact, I wanted to talk to you about that,” she said. “But first, I think you need a refill. We’ve been having a hectic time of late, and this is an opportunity for all of us, irrespective of gender, to let our hair down, so to speak, even if we’ve shaved it all off.”

  I watched her go in her tight-fitting leather pants, and wondered if she would even want to assume the Werewolf Headship. Would I? Did I? With House Rookmaaker?

  We hadn’t really spent that much time together, Lia and I. Part of me knew that I was guilty of keeping my friends at bay. I hadn’t even told her about my House––Ballard either.

  The dog star, Canis Major, was bright in the heavens. Lia came back with a newspaper under her arm I saw Gaven give to her.

  She scrunched up her eyes at the front-page headlines, folding the paper under her arm. “So...” she said.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing.”

  I waited for what she had to say. She seemed to drink her drink and ponder what she had just been reading. Weighing it on her Lia scales.

  “Right. The race...” she said. That seemed to be what everybody was talking about––who would win; who would be the new Il Gatto...

  I heard Liesel say to Ballard, who was hanging on her every word, a short distance away: “Greek werewolves actually put Wicca back into its box. Wholesale rejection of magic was key to their philosophy. The Greeks were after a kind of harmony without magic. It was the Romans who let it out of the box again. So I guess we failed in our duty. That was actually what the Renaissance was all about. To try and get back to the Greek perfection. Do away with Magic. Instead, we opened Pandora. You can see the results.”

  Liesel said: “Know thyself. Nothing in excess. Those were the two rules ancient Greeks lived by. I like this little touch here, you did with my motorcycle.”

  Ballard licked his lips. “You know we are them––the Greeks,” he said.

  “I guess what I’m saying,” Liesel went on, “is that if I’m elected Head Wolf––I will try and take us from being out of whack, back to that place of harmony, which is vital if we’re to sustain ourselves.”

  Ballard only nodded.

  “Oneness––not twoness,” said Liesel. “Maybe, you know, that is why Lia can no longer shift. After all, she’s Greek. Maybe she was not supposed to have dabbled in magic.”

  Lia quirked her eyebrow at me. “Do you see what I have to put up with?” she said, but in a lighthearted way, so that only I could hear.

  “It is a little rude,” I said.

  Together we watched the moon spinning through the galaxy. Gemini––the twins––all those.

  Lia said, “Pretty soon the werewolves will be sending up white smoke, electing a new leader. Gaven’s out. Someone else is in. There will be a new Il Gatto.”

  “If you mean it can’t be you, just because you can’t shift––” I said.

  “Il Gatto is for werewolves only,” said Lia.

  “We need you, Lia. The pack needs you. Or Gaven––. Ca
n’t he just hold on?” I was thinking of FDR––who was President of the United States for twelve years. Rules could be broken, term limits stretched, if warranted.

  “They’ll just see it as Gaven controlling the pack through his werewolf bride-to-be. Bear in mind, to them I’m just a wannabe. They won’t go for me being Head Wolf,” said Lia.

  “If it’s a race, they’ll have no choice,” I said. “How good are you, anyway?”

  “You mean, at racing bikes?”

  She paused and then her thumbs came up. I saw her Mark. It hadn’t changed much, but mine had. I wanted to tell her all about the itching-scratching-burning thing.

  “It could be a warning––” she said. “If you’ll let me, I had a point, though.”

  “The race, Lia. It’s the only way.” Then Ballard can come with me, I thought, happily.

  “We have something called a Quirinal. It’s a therian court of Rome. Locke heads up the Quirinal. He’s like a dissenting voice,” said Lia. “The Supreme Wolf––or I don’t know. A counter to the Head Wolf. Not in opposition, just a check, to Il Gatto’s power. That way we don’t have any Julius Caesars, you know, rogue macho badasses, who want to commandeer the Pack. Just Coriolanuses.”

  “Coriolwhatuses?” I said.

  “The name means Defenders of Rome. Us. It prevents warmongering. Having a two-headed monster with Gaven and Locke in charge, prevents any rash decisions. If we wanted to fight, there would be a lot of ‘people’ we could engage in battle with, you know what I mean? So many people. So many monsters.

  “Next point. See,” said Lia, “Gaven is very clever. He recognizes change is coming. His, ours, yours, mine, my brother’s, the Pack’s, Rome’s.”

  ...What about my change?

  “In a sense, he has consolidated our power. Rome is both a werewolf and a Wiccan town now. Because of you––and, well, me–– and the fact that Risky knew your parents.

  “Before you ask,” she said, “we don’t know anything about that. When Risky was Head, neither one of us, Gaven nor I, was into our cyanthropic primes––we were not werewolves yet. That was before our time. Anyway...” She tapped her finger to her nose and winked at me. “We are linked, you and I. Wicca and werewolves. Wiccawolves. Gaven and the rest. But Locke could destroy all that. Which is why Gaven and I have decided not to go on our honeymoon. We will stay for the time being, to watch over Rome––even if we are on the outside. If what is coming is, it means our plans will have to change.” She nodded her head at me. “Change is a good word,” she said.

  Lia couldn’t go away with Gaven, who had to stay––and I couldn’t stay with Lia, because I had to go away. Selwyn was out there. I couldn’t explain it. I just felt that leaving Rome was important. At least temporarily. Everything had been building toward it. And I had to take Ballard with me.

  It was quiet while we thought––everything else cancelled out.

  “The Sons and Daughters of Romulus is no longer my House,” she said. “But with Gaven as my husband, I’m in. Man and wife is one entity, one flesh, kind of like werewolves with their animals. Gaven is my animal and I am his. Plus we love each other. What I’m saying is, regardless that I cannot shift, I am bound to the Sons and Daughters of Romulus through Gaven. He is my blood. My husband. In a sense, I am both a witch and a shifter. A witch shifter. Which is why Gaven made you an honorary member, Halsey. You are a witch, but you are also with us, now, a shifter. A witch and a shifter. So in a sense, we’re both Witch Shifters. Haven’t you thought that you might enter the race?”

  I could feel my mind going fuzzy––not unlike the onset of revelation––with the implications of what Lia had just said.

  “We bind ourselves with blood. Gaven and I is just another steel hoop. A Wiccan in with werewolves brings Wicca into that House, don’t you remember that? That’s what the Mistresses said, anyway, and that’s what I believe,” said Lia. “You are an honorary daughter of this tribe.”

  “I can’t shift,” I said.

  “Neither can I,” said Lia.

  “No––I’m not a werewolf. I’m not anything.”

  “Stop it,” she said.

  I knew who I sounded like. Like Ballard. Something had been eating him up inside. Maybe the same something which was currently chasing after me. The who am I? question. I needed to check my own inner-luminarium––to see what was up. That reminded me...

  I fetched my diary from underneath my seat. I had the letter to Ravenseal tucked inside it. “You shouldn’t leave that lying around,” said Lia, referring to the diary. “In case you missed it, we generally enjoy gossip, werewolves. The more scandalous the better. Somebody might try stealing it.”

  I nodded, oblivious to the threat. What could happen in Trastevere? Then deposited the envelope in a red mailbox in the wall––and put my diary back. It reminded me of La Bocca della Verità, the mailbox, the Mouth of Truth, when it snapped shut on my fingers. I was leading people on––the Ravenseals, Ballard; I wasn’t telling them what I knew, how I was feeling––and Ballard himself had been so transparent. A major steppingstone for him. Lia needed to know about my Wiccan House. And the fact that it was the nearest one. She would not have to go someplace else. Lia could study here in Rome. With me. That was big news. Yet, why wasn’t I telling her? It was just as much her House as it was mine.

  ...About something else I had also been mum, and it was doing things to my head. The fact was, if I instigated a fight by rejecting House Ravenseal––even though they had gotten up to some serious shenanigans at the Gathering––and by all rights I belonged to my parents’ House––

  Breathe, Halsey. Relax.

  Who would defend me? My defenders? Who were they? Lia and Ballard and Gaven and the pack?

  I had always felt things were after me. Was I a paranoiac, or had I good reason?

  No––something was after me. If I could’ve put a name to it, the hunter. Hadn’t Camille described to me the city of Prague, in a scene so long ago I could barely remember it, as the birthspark of Wicca? As being overrun with vampire hunters? And was that who this fellow was?

  Was he after Lennox––? Or Marek?

  The Lenoir had a death warrant out on Marek. Marek told me so.

  Were they the ones who were employing this monster? Was it the Master House who was doing it––? Sending this thing after me? Was it after me? And my tingling? Did it mean something? Was my Mark giving me premonitions, like my visions had been, visions that had a nasty habit of coming true?

  It was like a hallway full of doors had been laid before me. Open this one, go here. Open that one, die.

  I could see the Master House, in my mind, with Mistress Ravenseal in tow, saying I told you so; and You better join with me, or else. She was a third-degree, after all. Fledged. Maybe Veruschka knew something I did not. Like who I was.

  You didn’t think of that, did you, Halsey? I told myself.

  What was going on? Was anything going on?

  Would I be willing to put my friends in harm’s way for something so selfish as my own Wiccan independence? Would they step into the fray on my behalf?

  Yes. Immediately, the answer was yes.

  Some dogs just like to hunt.

  It made me feel bad. And selfish. And like a pariah.

  Mistress Genevieve’s line about the satellite spinning out of control, came back to me. In a sense, I was a satellite of Ravenseal. Rookmaaker House hived from Pendderwenn, which had hived from House Ravenseal, which was one of the original magical Houses that had split.

  But Pendderwenn was not, in truth, emancipated from its parent coven, which was Ravenseal. Pendderwenn was a puppet House. Or had been. It no longer existed. It had been led by a weak number two. Julius Pendderwenn had been merely Adept, when he was killed–– As I would be, in a year, if things worked out, when I was done being a Neophyte––if I matriculated that far, and didn’t die.

  I had fear of not advancing.

  Pendderwenn House had never really broken f
rom Ravenseal. So Rookmaaker breaking from Pendderwenn shouldn’t really count, should it?

  Genevieve was right––I was too much in my head.

  I didn’t care. I had to figure this out.

  If I rejected the Ravenseals, my House would have a hard time standing on its own, as I was only level one, a Neophyte, and not a Mistress; not capable of leading my own House. Nor was I exactly legally allowed to do so. There were rules against it, but there was also the fact that the Lenoir upheld the rules, and as they had allowed Julius Pendderwenn to lead his House (and he was a guy, and only adept)....

  Maybe you could break the rules so long as you still appeared weak? It was only when Houses got too big...

  I couldn’t let the werewolves stand in for me. I wouldn’t. Whatever was coming, I would have to face it alone. Or with Ballard. Perhaps that was why I had felt so reticent about sharing the fact that Rookmaaker House existed at all. Had Selwyn told anyone? The rest of the magical world had known about my House. They had sent me a Marker. I had it safely sealed away in my Diary.

  Lia...

  She would have to study somewhere.

  I looked at her. She was wearing long sleeves, manica langas. But that may have just been the weather. Rome was cold. Almost like the winter, which had been freezing in Paris, had crept down to the other magical cities: Rome and Prague.

  You to your corner, we to ours.

  “Lia, is anything happening with your Mark?” I asked. “Ballard made it sound like you may have had something going on.”

  “I’m perfectly all right,” she said. “I haven’t been practicing, but everything’s all right. Are you okay?”

  I said that I was fine, which, I didn’t know why I said that; just that I didn’t want Lia to get involved. I didn’t want people worrying about me. Lia had her wedding. And the fact her whole family was coming into town. Gaven was calling her. It was a weird night. Lonesomelike.

  “Can you hold that?” she said. She ran and jumped into his arms.