Neophyte / Adept (35 page)

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––anything. 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.

“Ow!”

I heard someone cursing. Ballard stepped out, sucking on his
thumb.

“Tired of being everyone’s biotch,” he said. Apparently, he
hadn’t heard me approach, because he went on in that fashion, mumbling to
himself, until, randomly, he cracked a smile and started chuckling. It was a
moment before I realized he had a pair of earbuds in his ears and was listening
to rap music.

The familiar grease rag dangled out of his back pocket of
his jeans which were frayed at the bottom, and he was holding a bloody crescent
wrench.

I played a little game, sitting on my Gambalunga, with how
long it would take him to see me, flipping the visor of my helmet up. Something
which I really liked about Ballard was how committed, emotionally, he got in things.
Whatever he did, he did it all of the way. So I was not surprised when he
didn’t notice me. Whatever he was thinking about, it seemed to consume him.

Speaking of Ballard, it was like he had gone through a
growth spurt of sorts. Ballard, the sixteen-year-old, didn’t look like Ballard,
the sixteen-year-old, anymore. He had always been on the scrawny side; I don’t
mean runt of the litter, but he had never exactly challenged the rest of the
members of the werewolves, as far as size was concerned. They were all six
nine. He was not. Now, however, it looked as though he had somehow managed to
split the difference. Ballard was six three at least; he had put on half a
foot. And he had also filled out in the shoulder area. Which didn’t seem
possible. I hadn’t been gone
that
long.

I guessed he was growing up, literally before my very eyes.

I watched him for another minute or two. It looked like
something was puzzling him. The smile became a grimace and he turned to go
inside.

Our eyes met.

Something incredible happened. Caught as he was unawares, I
saw the look of the werewolf behind his eyes. It was only a flash but it was
there. Even when he saw me staring, he didn’t bother turning away. Instead, it
was like the animal inside of him was standing on the edge of a great
forest––and then it turned to go inside. Ballard, however, stood
his ground.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said, but only because it
was witty and suggested supernatural things were afoot. “How are you, Halls?”

I shrugged, still on my motorcycle. He smiled at me, and
then I broke down completely. The whole Lennox thing had subconsciously
rearranged
me
. I realized now that it
was
a thing. That I was missing
Lennox
hard
. Where was he, and what
was he doing? I guess it was lucky Ballard was good at fixing things, because
that fit me to a T.
What the H?
I had
come for general repairs and maybe a grattachecca.

Ballard shuffled his feet momentarily, uncertain how to
proceed. I sniffed unselfconsciously, scrunching up my eyes, and flipped down
my visor. My diary was strapped below my seat.

“I’ll be all right,” I said. It echoed in my helmet-top. He
was over to me in a second.

“You never told me this motorcycle was so expensive,” I
said. “I mean ridiculously expensive, Ballard.”

“Well, if you are who those Ravenseal wackjobs say you
are––
and
my Uncle
Risky...” he said, but cut it short.

That last one had some clout. Ballard believed in Risky.
They all did. I had never heard Risky’s name mentioned without some kind of awe
in the voice of the speaker. It was Gaven who gave Risky his biggest
credentials, calling him the greatest werewolf to have ever lived. Somehow,
just then, I thought Ballard could take the prize. He held me and nuzzled my
helmet-top. “Something happen?” he asked me, sincerely.

I just held him. Implied was the beatdown he’d put on
whoever had hurt me.

“No.” I shrugged and wiggled some more. He liked to rock me
when he hugged and I didn’t mind. It kind’ve meant something more, but I didn’t
mind that either. I was beginning to realize
I was free
.

I sniffed again and gulped down my runny nose, saying,
loudly enough so that he could hear: “I want to be I Gatti or well affiliated
with you at least.”

Ballard wiggled some more.

I popped up my visor, better now.

“Jeez, your eyes are sore,” said Ballard.

“Did you hear me?” I asked.

“Check. You want to be a werewolf. What’s bothering you,
anyway?” he said.

“Nothing. I need a grattachecca,” I said.

“You got it,” said Ballard.

I waited in his shop while he went to make us
some––and there I encountered the salt-and-pepper countenance of
the sly, elusive, Risky Rosen, Ballard’s uncle.

It was a portrait which hung on the wall.

“Actually,” said Ballard, returning with our
grattacheccas––which really should have been grattachecci, “Rosen
is my father’s name. Risky and my mother were siblings, remember? But it
doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?” I said, eating the ice and syrup concoction.

“Well, because we don’t have the hangups you guys
do––you know, about family names and all that. Excuse me,
House
names. That’s silly. And it’s
going to breed nothing but contempt.”

“Where is Ballard and what have you done with him?” I asked,
only half serious, but it seemed to have a big effect on him.

“I just don’t get why Wiccans have to reject where they come
from, is all. I don’t understand why they have to lose their names,” said
Ballard.

“How does Lia feel about having to take Gaven’s name?” I
asked. “Or is she going to hyphenate?”

“Meh,” said Ballard. “Oh no!”

“What? What is it?” I said. I looked around, wondering what
was going on.

Ballard was alarmed. He raced to his old PC. “No! My part!
Now I’ll never get it.” He slapped the keyboard. “I’ve just been outbid,” he
said, turning the computer monitor, so that I could see.

I looked:
intake
manifold and gasket kit
.

“Is it too late?” I asked.

Apparently he had just lost out on the only one. “Now my
motorcycle will
never
run,” he said.
He sucked his thumb again, and then ate his grattachecca, looking like he had
come to the end of his existence.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” I said.

He gave me a withering look.

“Can’t you use one of these?” I said. I pointed to the other
bikes around the shop.

There were literally twenty of them, all on
racks––each of which was undergoing some kind of minor operation.
“They suck,” said Ballard, dismissively, and reverting again to his woe-is-me
attitude. “That’s it, then,” he said, defeated. I felt like I could relate.
Given––I thought––the whole Lennox thing.

I looked at my Gambalunga––and then
reconsidered; I loved it too much to give it away, even if it did cost a
hundred thousand dollars, and could solve all of Ballard’s problems. “I guess I
won’t be Il Gatto, after all,” he said, reminding me. Ballard shrugged.

The race! How could I have forgotten?

“We do three laps to see who will be the head cyanthrope,
remember?” he said, looking as dejected as I had ever seen him in my life.
Cyanthrope was someone who turned into a dog (a werewolf).

“But I thought it was for a year––” I said. “I
thought the race was for a year.”

Gaven had won it just last summer. He still had six months
to go, didn’t he?

“It only lasts as long as you have a tail, and can shift,
and as Gaven can no longer transform, it’s time to elect a new leader: by
racing,” said Ballard. He looked like he was going to be sick.

Gaven.
I wondered how
he was doing?

“Oh, he’s all right,” said Ballard. “After all, he’s got
Lia. It’s sickening the way he makes puppy-dog eyes at her. Like he has no
self-respect. Always chasing after her. And the sounds she makes. It should be
outlawed. I can’t wait until they’re no longer under my roof, you know what I
mean?” He made a retching face.

“I think it sounds romantic,” I said.

He just rolled his eyes at me.

“She says fetch and he fetches. It’s like, I don’t know,
she’s emascu––what is it? Emasculated him. Or something,” said
Ballard.

“Good use of ‘Or something’,” I said. “Maybe he just knows
what’s important.”

But thinking about it made me hurt inside, so I stopped.

“Besides,” I said. “You’re too young to be Head Wolf.
They’re all twentysomethings, remember? And you, you’re a kid.”

“Not you too,” said Ballard. “I would have taken it last
year, won the race,” he said, “if fate hadn’t intervened. Or did you forget?”

“There’s just the small matter of you falling off your
racing bike,” I said.

I didn’t tell him that what I really wanted was for him to
be with me:
free
. I couldn’t have him
settling down here. Not if we were going to Prague together.

“Sorry. It’s just,” I said, “last time you nearly died. And
I care about you too much. Besides, you have all kinds of time, I mean, don’t
you?”

“What d’you mean?” said Ballard.

“Well, I mean, you’re, you know, and most of them are, well,
you know. You’ll be it longer than they will, won’t you? A werewolf, I mean.”

“I guess,” said Ballard, who looked like he hadn’t been
listening.

“They only started turning when they were how old, whereas
you, I mean you’re really young. According to Gaven, it’s unprecedented, a
werewolf being so young.”

“I’ll have no more ‘according to Gaven’––
or Gaven’s orders
––thank you
very much,” said Ballard.

“You know what I mean, Ballard,” I said. “You’re special.”

“I am not!” he said. I had finally gotten under his skin. He
looked angry about something.

It hit me that maybe he had been living with obligations of
one type or another himself––to be a werewolf or something.

“Are,” I said. “And I won’t hear differently.” I slurped my
grattachecca.

He apologized for his outburst.