Neophyte / Adept (36 page)

“I’ve just been stressed out, is all. Sándor and
Septimus––my twin older brothers––well, they’re coming
to the wedding, and my parents will be there. You know, the people who raised
Lia and me––and never told us about––about any of it,”
said Ballard. The bitterness had crept back into his voice. I assumed he meant
his condition of having lycanthropy. Being, in Italian, lupo mannaro. A
wolf-man. But it should really be lupo boy-o; I didn’t want him growing up too
fast. I decided to steer us in a new direction.

“I bet it’s gotta be tough,” I said; he stumbled with the
translation of
gotta
, but then nodded
his head, clearly an understatement on my part. I bit my lip. Something in me
wanted to ask him to show me a werewolf transformation immediately. I think I
was thinking about the monster I had seen. I wanted to know that there was some
difference between it and Ballard. And between Rome and the outside.

Ballard looked like Atlas. The weight of the Werewolf World
on his shoulders. Plus, he was really buff.

“There’s a statue of Rhea Silvia,” he said, “called the
Capitoline Wolf, an Etruscan bronze in the form of a she-wolf. Romulus and
Remus get to suckle Rhea Silvia, you know, they get to grow up with it,
lycanthropy. Be mothered. Whereas I. It’s like it got thrust upon me. I was
weened of lycanthropy from infancy. And now it’s back. And, like you say, the
gift is showing itself early. Gaven is convinced it is a sign, but the others
are skeptical. And something
else
is
going on,” said Ballard. “You remember Locke?”

It took me a second, but I nodded my head. He was a
taciturn, unpleasant sort of werewolf, Locke––one of the old Team
Leaders from when we had the Gathering; Locke gave me the creeps, which I knew
I shouldn’t have said, so I kept my mouth shut. It was almost like Locke,
though an impressive specimen, physically, was aloof, outside of the Pack,
while being paradoxically esteemed within its group. (It wasn’t a fraternity
because there were female members in I Gatti. All except for Lia, who had lost
her Gift, while acquiring Wicca. Something
else
she shared with her soon-to-be hubby, was the absence of their animals. Gaven
was no longer a transformer, being that he was over thirty and old.) “Anyway,”
Ballard said, “Yeah. Locke’s been making trouble.”

By troublemaking, Ballard said, “Locke’s been angling to be
in charge, you know,
politicking
.”

“You mean he wants to be Head Wolf?” I said.

I asked Ballard why this was so bad, but he just scowled.

“So Locke’s been campaigning, so what?” I said. In fact, I
was glad Locke did anything so normal as speak. He had certainly never opened
his mouth in front of me before, except once.

But Ballard insisted it was not how it was done.

“How what’s done?” I asked.

He looked at me. And again, I saw that menacing, prowling
something, behind his eyes. The shade of the werewolf.

“Il Gatto is a distinction
earned
through daring,” said Ballard. “It’s like riding the biggest
wave, or k-killing the most dangerous bear. You don’t just talk your way into
the Headship and are elected Il Gatto. Everyone knows it’s a motorcycle
competition. In I Gatti, we
race
for
it!” His fist was in the air. It was important I understand how macho and
badass werewolves were.

“So when
is
the
race?” I asked.

This was the wrong question.

“Never, if Locke gets his way. He keeps saying the next Il
Gatto will be the most important in our history, and whoever is elected, it
should be because they’ll be the best fit for ‘the particular problems we will
face.’ Or some such. I’m not good at all that talking. I prefer the actual
doing. You know? Something Locke fails at completely. He’s all talk.
No. Don’t start.
I know what I’m talking
about. If
he
gets elected,” said
Ballard, “you’ll see what I mean. Rome will fall to pieces.
Again.
Gaven picked the wrong time to
get old.”

I thought about that. In fact, I had a theory: that the Head
didn’t matter so much. It was the body politic and all its processes which gave
the Head its power.
Without the worker
bees there could be no queen bees.

It was impossible that Wicca not intrude on my dream
scenario. In Wicca, females ruled. The werewolves seemed to be patriarchal; now
Locke wanted to change all that. Maybe Lia could be Head. I asked Ballard.

But he cut me off. “Please. The Head should be a dude. Pure
and simple.”

“Why can’t women participate?” I asked, indignantly.

“Lia only mattered when she was Gaven’s
thang
,” said Ballard, not without smiling. “When he was the Head.
Now that he’s not... the crown, or whathaveyou, is being held in interreges,
waiting for the new one to be––yuck––figured out.
Gaven’s a puppet Head only. A figurehead. A lame duck. That’s it. Gaven is a
lame duck. Those are the words.” Ballard smiled.

“I’ve always considered Gaven to be a cool cat,” I said,
“despite his being a werewolf.... Meanwhile, Lia
is
an Alpha cyanthrope...”

“Alpha, beta, beta, alpha,” said Ballard. “And she’s not a
cyanthrope, she’s a witchanthrope.”

“Don’t be such a misanthrope. You know what I mean, she’s
got a good head on her shoulders,” I said.

“There’s just the fact that she can’t transform any longer,”
said Ballard.

“Has it not come back?” I asked, wondering about Lia’s
transformation, and if possible, if she could somehow become the first Shifter
Witch in a century––since the great Rhea Silva, who I didn’t know
anything about, but kept thinking of. I didn’t know why, but it felt like Rhea
Silva was our mother. Like she was Lia’s and my mother. Our Wiccan mother. Our
precursor, maybe. That we had been brought into a great tradition. Which was
like my Mark. I had my mother’s Mark. The hoodie was keeping it under wraps.
Good thing about winter––it
hides your Marks.

Ballard just sighed.

“It’s hard being the one who’s never chosen,” he said. And
then: “Gaven–– he’s like one of those dogs running around with its
hindquarters strapped in a two-wheeler; you know, gimped?”

“Ballard...” I said.

“They treat him like a dead man walking, or worse, like a
leper. He’s wandering aimlessly. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s
sticking around for her. Lia. Before I met you, when Lia was first shifting,
she used to be in and out,” said Ballard. “My parents were really worried. They
didn’t know what was going on––which I’ve just learned was a
complete and utter lie. They
did
know
what was going on. They just wouldn’t tell me. Anyway––they
wondered why she kept running around with
that
dratted boy
. Now, apparently, they’re going to rewrite the past and say
they knew Gaven was the Pack Leader, and an alright dude. Apparently the old
Leader whom Gaven replaced, Lorenzo, had run off. I forget what happened.
Actually, I think he was banished. I’ve been thinking about the cats. They say
a new cat will have to get thrown out of his home range and wander to find a
mate. That’s sort of the same with wolves. You realize that there’s only one,
quote-unquote, mating pair within a pack of wolves, right? In the wild, they
form packs of between six and eight. But we’re werewolves, so it’s a little
different. And the pack sizes are larger. Our pack’s never been this large
before. And there have been squabbles,” said Ballard, his mind all over the
place. “They say the sin of large families is backbiting.
Whatevs.”

I didn’t know if I was a bad influence on him or what. But I
waited for Ballard to talk again.

“Anyway. What I was saying is Lia and Gaven are like
this
,” he said. He entwined his
fingertips. “They don’t want
him
coming back.
Gaven,”
said Ballard,
making sure I understood.

“Wait... What?” I said.

He sighed.

“It’s a hard life being a wolf. Moreso when your own pack
turns on you.”

“I Gatti has turned its pack––I mean its
back––on Gaven?”

“Not to his face,” said Ballard, unhelpfully, “but you get
the gist.”

“No. I really don’t,” I said. “Explain.”

“Gaven is old,” said Ballard. It seemed obvious to him. Then
why did I feel like I was missing something?

“You don’t mean to say––” I said, “they don’t
want him around anymore?”

“Bingo,” said Ballard, and winked at me.

Now I was completely confused. And I was starting to get
angry. Gaven was Gaven. He didn’t deserve this kind of treatment. I focused on
Ballard with my eyes to get him to elaborate. Maybe he could see the
fierceassness behind my eyes. Maybe he thought I would put a jinx on him.
Whatever it was, he started talking more explicitly, in a way I could
understand.

“Gaven can’t shift. He is no longer one of
us
. Before you get
upset
,” said Ballard, “it was my advice that the Council, the
Werewolf Council, you remember, make him a lifetime member of the Pack, a
consiglieri
, you know, a respected
advisor, someone on the board of trustees, that sort of
thing––that’s why I haven’t been around, I’ve been
busy–– Happy birthday, by the way,” he said to me.

“Thanks.”

“––but apparently it’s against the rules, and
now he’s a dummy figurehead waiting for his successor. I didn’t make the
rules,” said Ballard, who could see me getting visibly upset. “In fact, the
Council, of which I’m
not
a
member––too young, remember?––suggested that I was
colluding with him, that Gaven was trying to exert his waning influence to
choose his successor, but then that’s how Locke is, he makes everyone so
paranoid, to the point where they turned away from Gaven. It’s almost like he’s
outcast, or worse: like Gaven’s a non-person. A non-wolf. NWG. Non-wolf Gaven.

“But it’s only during Wolf Councils. Of course, everyone’s
going to be at the wedding. They think it’s a good thing. They want Gaven gone
and maybe his honeymoon will help expedite the transition.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Or something.

“Gaven is like that old wolf,” said Ballard, which was a
kind of echo from the man himself. “With him here, no one else can establish
dominance, become an Alpha.”

But I had had enough.

“You cannot
become
an Alpha,” I said angrily. “Either you’re born with it, or you’re not. And I
know Locke. And he’s not.
Despite
what others may say!”

Locke was not an alpha dog. Nor was he a beta. He was a
tertiary character who was a whining cur and I wouldn’t let him treat Gaven
this way.
I wouldn’t.

“But you forget there’s also Paolo, and some others,” said
Ballard. “They all want their shot. In the absence of Alphas someone will
rise
to seize the Alpha Headship in
their stead.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “Gaven should be Head. He’s oldest
and he’s the wisest. And he’s the
hottest
.
So there.”

Ballard just sighed though.

Apparently I wasn’t a werewolf so I didn’t understand.

“Do you know what happens when someone new and younger comes
in? Either the old make way or there’s civil war. Gaven knows this. He doesn’t
want to be the cause of discord. Especially during these troubling times,” said
Ballard.

I snorted.

Ballard did his so-be-it look.

Ballard had a point, but I had the rest. Hadn’t I
seen
Ballard, in one of my dreams, as
Head of the Pack? Not Paolo. Not Locke. Not even Lia. But Ballard. I decided to
keep it to myself. But my Diary had to know. And I made a vow to myself that I
would get it all down.

This new sometimes-wise Ballard was really annoying. I
missed the old hothead. But now he contained distinctions. I would keep my eye
on that.

Locke was a bozo––there could be no denying
that; and if he was leading the Council, perhaps it wasn’t such a leap that he
would become Head Wolf. I rubbed my Wiccan fingertips together, itching to pick
a fight.

As far as mating pairs went, all the werewolves hooked up
with each other. Ballard said they had extraordinary sexual appetites. Maybe
they just needed to go with their instincts on this one, whatever that meant.
But it did explain one thing. Why there were no old werewolves in the Pack.
They had all been ostracized.

Chapter 3
– Luminarium

Ballard had reinvented himself: he was more self-confident,
less of a kid, more inclined to talk impromptu and passionately on various
subjects, and his mind raced, like a million out-of-control Gambalungas.

He was working on a crutch or a clutch or a brake lining or
something, which was all technical mumbo-jumbo to me, while I wrote in my
diary. He took the opportunity to look at it again, and comment that, Didn’t I
know better? “What would happen,” he said, “if your Diary fell into the wrong
hands?”

I shrugged. “They would be entertained? Besides,” I said,
“imagine if there were the Risky Diaries, if
he
had kept a journal? What might we know
then
?”

He nodded, thinking about it.

“You haven’t, you know, found out anything, have you?” he
said. “I mean, when I was... I mean...
did
you?” He looked at me bug-eyed.

“You mean when you were ignoring me, Ballard? No,” I said.
“I don’t know anything new. Why?”

He looked relieved.

“Good,” he said. “That way we can figure things out
together.”

It was like that whole episode in October-November-December
was forgotten about.

I looked at him curiously. For whatever reason, he and I
were linked. It was like we were lineaged to each other. Descendants of the
same problem. What had Risky and the Rookmaakers been up to, that it got the
Rookmaakers killed?

And Risky.
Whatever had happened, he had never spoken about it to anyone. Not even Gaven
or Lia.
If Risky wasn’t a Rosen, who was
he?
What had happened to
him
?
What happened to the Rookmaakers, and what was Risky’s role in it? Risky had
left Ballard a cryptic note, along the lines of
find Halsey Rookmaaker
. But now what?

The absence of any answer was my biggest problem in life.
Risky was dead and my parents too. But then, the secret must lay in House
Rookmaaker. I abused my diary gnatting at the problem.

Ballard was rocking out to his beat-up boom box, music I had
never heard before. I must’ve looked all weird, sitting cross-legged with my
hair in my lap. I needed a haircut. I couldn’t be left standing around not
knowing what to do, if I was going to have my own House. I was a Mistress now.
The
Rookmaaker of Rookmaaker House.
Me.
It felt like something which had
been unearned. And I wondered why my parents had left it to me? If I was ever
going to be worthy of House Rookmaaker, I would have to start earning it now.
Unbidden came the image of the two gravediggers, and the words:
stormr hamrinum
. I looked at my Mark,
wondering if I should try it.
Reckless
,
said a small voice in my ear.

The words had been spoken, like a magic spell, or an
incantation.