Neophyte / Adept (40 page)

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 Ballard.

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
in
to 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
in
active 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.

Okay. Three laps
,
I told myself.

The speedometer redlined. I could hear the engine
protesting. My nerves were gone, replaced by an alertness I didn’t quite
understand. I was pleased to note that I didn’t seem panicky; instead, I was
methodically looking for my next mark.

The seven-sided star! There it was! The septagram...

They meant
otherkin
,
the seven-sided stars––ailuranthropes, and whatnot; cyanthropes and
so forth; those who were not exactly all-human, but interested in them. Such as
us, and Asher, and Selwyn. Was that me? Was I part
something-else––but interested in being human? The introduction of
elements fantastic, and otherwise, in my mundane world, didn’t seem to have
made an impact yet on the inner-city life of Rome. I wondered if that would
hold. If those who did not know, would remain ignorant of the magickals?

WHAM!

Someone ran out at me and tried to throw me off my bike. It
was a moment before I realized who it was. Michelle!

She had slammed into a wall, and was trying to take me off
my bike; hers was broken. I flipped her off, swerving slightly, and continued
on my way, the sounds getting closer, thinking:
one
Rider down!

Seeing Michelle’s face when she had tried to unseat me made
me want to win the race now more than ever.

Maybe Lia, Ballard and Gaven were the exception. Maybe the
rest of the Pack didn’t want me here. Like Liesel said, Magic should be put
back in its box. They should mothball me.

What about
Lia
? I
suddenly understood what it was like for her to not fit in, to have a Mark.
Maybe being marked meant being on your own. Like you had a bull’s-eye on your
back or something.

I zipped down a straightaway seeing the back of the nearest
rider in front of me. It was Liesel this time; I was on her in a flash. She
didn’t try and hit me. Instead, she swerved behind and drafted on my rear tire,
rubbing it.

Gaven had a point––you had to be slightly crazy
to win this race.

Liesel was playing it safe. Going too slow. I felt like I
understood something, in that moment, about Leadership. How you had to do what
others weren’t willing to do. To be reckless...