“That does not work on me, she-witch,” he hissed, his voice metallic. “I am Grigori. The last of my kind––as... are... you...”
“W-What do you want?” I said. “Why are you trying to hurt me?”
“Trying?” He shook his head. “As if you could stop me,” he said.
“You said we were alike. I thought Witch- and Wizard-Shifters couldn’t be,” I said.
“There hasn’t been one in over a hundred years, I admit. Surely you have heard of Rhea Silva. She was a powerful witch, before I killed her.”
He stepped into the small clearing. “Now––about us...” he said.
I could just see a sickle of the moon, overhead.
“Why are you after me? Why can I see you in my dreams? If you’re not dead, then why were those two gravediggers trying to bury you?” I said.
Must keep him talking.
“My master told me you were special,” he said. “At least––potentially...”
“What does that even mean?”
“Halsey, get away from him.”
Ballard was back––he stepped under the tree. I was still in my sleeping bag. I managed to get out of it, while he stepped between us. Even though Ballard had undergone a growth spurt, he was nowhere near the size of the Grigori, who was seven feet tall and bristling with rage.
“Things have changed, Rayven,” said Ballard. “Tell your master, he had his chance. It’s over now.”
“He has magic, Ballard. Be careful,” I said.
I put my boots on while they talked. Next, I fetched my walking stick. At least I had a weapon.
The hunter shifted his footing.
I knew from premonition what came next, but it seemed impossible. His eyes were on me; I knew that look; I had seen it before. What had Ballard called him? Rayven? Why were he and Marek so interested in me? Who was I? I’m nobody, I thought.
As if on cue, the aether in my arm began throbbing painfully. It wanted to fight.
“You may not fear me,” said Ballard, talking fast, “but you are in danger.”
Rayven smiled, showing his teeth. I heard shouting in the distance. Voices drawing near. Ballard looked at the hunter. “Last chance,” he said.
It happened.
The hunter crept forward in a stalking motion, the fingers of his forehand like claws––pointing them at me. “The witch is mine,” he said.
“Don’t worry, Halls,” Ballard said to me. I stood motionless, unable to prevent it from happening.
A spell erupted, hitting the tree trunk next to me, which exploded. “Vargr noctum....”
The hunter was reloading. He pointed his Wiccan Mark at Ballard.
Ballard howled. There was a sound like lightning. The ground exploded. It rocked me where I stood.
Ballard was no longer there. He had been replaced by a huge, husky, electric-white werewolf.
Ballard bared his fangs and shot at the hunter, who fired his mark. The massive animal dodged the ineffectual magic, latching his teeth onto Rayven.
I heard a quick succession of lightning strikes––one, two, three... there in the distance, the voices drawing closer.
Rayven stumbled backwards, wounded––his eyes briefly flashing my way. Anger and disappointment were etched on his face. “So be it,” he said.
He pointed his mark at me.
I heard the words, without understanding them.
It happened in slow-motion.
A huge womp as the spectrum-visible flash of light erupted my way.
The spell connected with Ballard squarely in his chest. He had thrown himself between us. Ballard fell in a heap.
The Hunter backed away, pointing his finger at me. “Remembr,” he said. A trail of ribbon-like tendrils left his fingertips and crawled through the air––connecting with me. “Soon,” he said. I had a momentary impossible fantasy. No. It couldn’t be....
Rayven turned and was gone.
All thoughts turned to Ballard. I raced to him, there at the edge of the forest. There was a huge, sickly-looking gash down his left side. His pristine white fur matted in blood. His muzzle had been cut.
I put my hands on him, completely powerless to prevent what was happening. He was covered in blood. I heard howls behind me. I could feel others arriving.
Ballard breathed in and out. Something in his eyes. I felt somehow connected to him, as if either he or his wolf were trying to communicate with me. It was like a poorly-tuned radio station, or current passing through a faulty electrical switch, in out, in out. I heard him say my name.
“Halsey?” he whispered to me...
Only, the Ballard Wolf had still not shifted back; I was talking to his Animal.
Chapter 8 – The Hollow
Magic was in Ballard’s wound. A curse. I could see it spreading through his limbs. Hadn’t I known what was out there, and I hadn’t said anything. By not including Ballard, I had allowed this to happen. If my parents were here they would be so ashamed.
“Patience!” said a voice behind me.
I turned and Asher was stepping into the clearing. He was wearing his spotted leather pants and matching indigo vest. A symbol dangled on a chain from his neck. It looked like a fang with a swirl inside of it.
“Dobry den, Halsey Rookmaaker,” he said to me.
“Please! You have to help him!” I said. I didn’t have time to fathom how Asher could be here. “I’m... not Adept! I don’t know what to do!” I said.
He bent his head over Ballard, tying his dreadlocks behind him with a purple rubber band, and began feeling at the fringes of Ballard’s wound, probing with his fingertips.
The ground was rumbling with more cyanthropes. I could hear them changing into dogs. Someone was barking orders. I kept hearing the word koruna, I later learned was Czech for crown. Then I remembered, Asher was one of the Celeres, bodyguard to the Magister Equitum himself. The Werewolf King. Is this where they lived? The Stromovka must be their home range––Central Bohemia, the region surrounding Prague.
As if in answer, I heard more explosions; one of the men transformed right in front of me, but I was still too dazed to really notice.
“He needs a doctor,” Asher said. “That foul! Do you know what he did? Never mind.... There is not much time.”
The light in Ballard’s eyes was fading fast.
“I cannot stop the bleeding,” said Asher. “It is... too late...”
It was everywhere, in the mud, all over us. Tears began streaking down my face.
Ballard, you can’t leave me. You can’t... I didn’t know what to do.
A storm was raging through me, a reckless storm––if I didn’t do something––something soon....
“I will give you some time,” said Asher.
“That’s it? You can’t just quit,” I said, indignant, but Asher repeated his line:
“It is... too late, Halsey Rookmaaker.”
The werewolves were running through the Stromovka, searching for Rayven, who would not be caught––I realized that now. Rayven had a plan for me––to kill me, if he could. Some other voice had kicked in. Some other me. First things first, I needed to stop the bleeding. The only way how was to cauterize the wound.
I looked at the Spellcaster’s Mark running down the length of my arm, and thought, fire?
Stormr hamrinum could do it quickly, but it could also get quickly out of hand. The fire spell consumed everything in its path. Could intent and forcefulness change its intensity? At least if I messed up, Ballard’s pain would be short-lived.
My fingertips sparked. As if, either they knew what to do, or Mistress Genevieve’s recklessness was taking hold of me. I put my hands on his wound, the blood seeping from between my fingers, and as carefully as I could, said the magic words.
Warmth spread from my fingertips. Magic warmth. Where my hand moved, I could feel the bleeding begin to let up; the magical energy was draining from me, however. Could I die, if it got too low? It made me lightheaded; yet giddy, because the tissue a
round Ballard’s wound was knitting itself of its own accord. Then I remembered: Magic healing. Werewolves had accelerated recuperative properties. Good thing too. Silly Ballard. He had just jumped devil-may-care in front of Rayven––to protect me.
Asher looked on, wide-eyed.
“I didn’t know you could actually do magic,” he said.
Neither did I. I could see Ballard breathing again; it was ragged at first, and he was going to have a scar, but still.... I broke the connection, wiping the sweat off my brow, smearing Ballard’s blood on my forehead.
“He is not ready to ‘give up his ghost,’ then,” said Asher. “Perhaps you are the One.”
Asher looked at me with penetrating fire-opal eyes––somehow warmth and respect mingling there.... Two of his men appeared who updated him on the search for Rayven.
“He is gone––the trace is muddled––we picked up that other scent as well––whoever they are, they’re crafty.”
Asher nodded. He directed them to take up Ballard’s body. “We will follow behind. Laurinaitis, if you could, please take some of your men and set the perimeter. Perhaps one or both will show themselves tonight, and wander into our traps.”
Asher grabbed Ballard’s motorcycle and I followed after him.
* * *
As we walked, I brought him up to speed on everything that had happened in the last few days, including the grey wolf.
“Rayven said that I was different, Asher, the last of my kind, that he was too. He couldn’t mean I’m Grigori, could he? I mean, am I? The Sons and Daughters of Romulus don’t have magic, do they? And this Grigori did, somehow.”
“He both is and is not Grigori.... Slow down, tell me about the grey wolf; for I do not know of it....” said Asher.
“It felt familiar. As though I had seen it before, but couldn’t remember where. I thought––well, I thought I might be one of them, a daughter of Romulus. Instead it’s like I’m becoming––Rayven–– It’s like he’s a shape shifter, but a wizard as well––and I might be too... potentially...”
“Have you ever experienced ‘the Calling’?” said Asher. “It’s what happens to a young shape shifter, before they turn. At birth... a tutelary spirit watches over them. This grey may be your spirit-animal. Good rule of thumb––or fingers, in your case: Don’t discount the possibilities. Everything may be important or nothing at all.
The twilight under the trees made the day night. I still had Ballard’s blood on me. I didn’t think it would ever wash out. In the back of my mind was the knowledge I had failed him. I kept remembering Ballard fighting the Grigori, dueling Rayven. Now I got a sense of him as a fighter opposing the Dark Side. We all were. Rayven must be one of them. A member of the Dark Order, an enemy. I felt the handlebars of my Gambalunga, thinking, Risky, what have I done to your nephew?
I was filthy, starved; I needed a change of clothing. Compared to Ballard, however....
I noticed my feet traveling downwards, my stride increasing. A bowl full of some ethereal moonlight spread before me. It was a moment before I realized it was midday, time ceased to matter in Stromovka. I felt my Wiccanness awaken under the canopy of trees. No earthly place I had been to was like this Hollow. A tributary of the Vltava trickled through it, the small twisting stream full of leaping, silver fish, before it reached the river that ran through the heart of old Prague, plunging through the Districts of Magic, the places I needed to go.
As I passed through the Stromovka it seemed to disappear behind me, swallowed in the tangles of Moonfire, concealed in the elder trees. It was Golden Hour––the time of day when the mysteries of the world seemed at their ripest, proof time moved differently here.
Could it be? Had the Dioscuri meant for me to find Stromovka? They were Seers, after all. The oldest kind. Perhaps they saw me coming here looking for Them––Find Them.
ENOUGH. The word exploded through my head. I will make my own Destiny. ME. I refused to live thinking otherwise. I put my hoodie up.
“Something is bothering you. What is it?” said Asher.
“Magic, my own especially. Of what kind is it, who gave it to me, and how will I develop it? Becoming Adept really. But now this thing’s out there, what makes me think I can become Adept at all? Those kinds of things. And then there’s Fledged... and who knows what that’ll be. Nothing’s easy anymore, is it? For if I am magic, shouldn’t I be able to manifest, to invoke? To banish, transmute, do away with, alter... levitate, entrap... part? To imbue, see things, project, shield, ward, demystify? Shouldn’t I? I am without any of the things you would expect from one with my supposed gifts. My curse, therefore, is to know what I don’t know; or, rather, to know what I am capable of, without knowing what I am capable of; to know what has escaped me and will not come back––
“My parents, and Risky...” I said.
“And I know. And I hate it. I hate myself for allowing this to happen to me. But I don’t even know who I am, so even my hate’s misguided. In short, I am lost, Asher, and I’m beginning to think, I may never be found. What do you think about all of this?”
“That you shall. You shall be found, Miss Rookmaaker. I do promise you that,” he said.
I looked at him, skeptically.
“Now, now,” said Asher. “Don’t be like that. Don’t be sullen. Very few people, magical or otherwise, have the wherewithal to find the answers that they seek; you should be glad that you do. I have seen it in your face. In the way you’ve lost yourself here in the Stromovka. Biding your time, figuring things out....”
I could not honestly say that I had been doing any of that. More, just randomly seeking out information. I told Asher, who sighed. It reminded me of the old times. He turned every ounce of his cat-eye cunning upon me.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said, “if you should solve this mystery. Which is the mystery of your life. Open your eyes. Everything may be important, or nothing at all. Don’t discount the possibilities.”
“You know, sometimes you are spectacularly awesome,” I said.
A flash, and we were standing in his village. Just bang.
“That is what happens when you unburden your mind,” he said. He raised his arms before him, as if inviting me to take it all in.
I began to hear the murmur of voices; until now, they had been concealed behind shadows and the figures of trees. Looking up from the Hollow, I could see a flash of sky––it was nighttime already. The stars were peeking through. The small intrusion a reminder things were not as they appeared outside or within the Prague forest.
In a sense, the Stromovka was like a resting place, a respite, of sorts, from the outside world––where I could figure out my dreams.
Sparkling lights twinkled in the trees. Rosemary and juniper sprung from simple stone columns, concealed in the undergrowth. There were vines and creepers, a whole alien world. It swallowed me whole.
“Welcome!” said Asher. “To the home of the Benandanti!”
Dark eyes peered at Asher and I as we passed. They looked scared. Like something was happening. It was absolutely necessary I get Ballard back. I didn’t work without him.
“We must present ourselves,” said Asher, “to the Magister Equitum. At which point, the burden of what to do next will be decided. A lot has happened, since last we met.”
I watched as a little girl ran up to me and said “Uvítat.” She had striations of purple and green and gold, in her skin, and other exotic colorations. “Is she...?”
“An eclectic,” said Asher, who watched her run away. “Her name is Sienna.”
She was extraordinary. When I looked again, she was gone. But then her eyes poked out and I saw Sienna peeping at me. Just extraordinary. It was like she was a chameleon....
I was suddenly nervous. Ballard should be here, I thought. I was runner-up. I couldn’t parlay with the Magister Equitum. No way! It was overstepping my bounds.
* * *
A domov was prepared for me. It was a bungalow in the trees. It had a round wi
ndow and sparkle lights. But also a bed, wardrobe, and writing desk. I could peek through the window as I wrote in my diary. The domov moved with the movement of the trees; it was very high up.
Asher was anxious to make me feel at home. After all... I would be staying with the Benandanti for a long time. “At least until Rayven’s caught,” he said.
The Magister Equitum agreed.
When I asked him how long that might be, Asher replied, “Who can say? We haven’t caught him yet.”
As for the domov, these were the lights I had seen in the trees. The effect was like magic. The arrangement had its perks, but also one rather large drawback.
Selwyn.
Even now, he must be with those––those things––there in Prague. The M.E. said we were very near to it.
There wasn’t a thing about it I could do. My orders were to stay put. Rayven seemed beyond fledged––invincible––whereas I–– I couldn’t stop thinking about the spell he had done. If I should wander, and be caught.... If Rayven should catch me....
I fetched out my diary and found the page I was looking for. A part of me realized how backwards this was. Trial and error wasn’t exactly the best protocol for learning how to duel. Was it going to take my death to figure out which spells could kill you? I was suddenly thrust into the real world and I was unprepared for it.
That was the entry I had made, so many months ago. We were now into March. I bit my lip and scribbled fast, filling the chart in. Vargr noctum, I wrote; that was the spell Rayven had used to almost kill Ballard––but he had pointed it at me. How come?
I didn’t know what precisely vargr noctum meant, but Ballard was in deep trouble.
I put a question mark beside it, and then I wrote remembr.
Somehow, this one didn’t seem quite so baffling.
Rayven had shown me a memory––one of his memories, in point of fact. I stared up at a great mansion. Damp. Derelict. Destroyed. The grounds filled with willow trees. It was swampy underfoot. Filth and decay were everywhere. It looked Dead.
Rayven stooped and I got a close-up of his clawed hand. In it was a sign, covered in moss. I wondered how long ago this had been? Why was he showing it to me?
Neophyte / Adept (The Wiccan Diaries, Books 2-3) Page 46