The Wiccan Diaries: Neophyte Adept Part 41

My blood would not abate; instead a recklessness overwhelmed me. I found my Gambalunga in the park and started it. It was so cold out my breath fogged. Pretty soon both I and the Gambalunga were snorting, and running under the power of our own resolve. For I needed it now, that resolve, and the rea.s.surance of my Gambalunga, more than ever. Ballard was my true anchor. The only one who was, quote-unquote, always there for me.

I spent the remainder of the early morning cruising, in spite of my so-called resolve. This involved veering wildly through alleyways (vicoli), cutting through traffic, which never seemed to let up, racing traffic lights, just in general trying to lose myself. The second-guessing, which had plagued my spirit, was over. Lennoxwas gone. He was free.

The m.u.f.fled fits of my Gambalunga sounded silent in the m.u.f.fled globe surrounding my head caseI mean heads.p.a.ce. Even the old stick of the throttle was gone. I watched as the last of the stars raced across the sky, and the moon (some would call it a supermoon) wheeled over the many monuments whose names I had never bothered to learn.

The torre dell'Orologio (I had looked that one up) was the name of the watchtower I had seen in Venice. But then a mental block appeared. Thinking about Venice was off-limits. Everything to do withhim was. I would have to create new thoughts, a new persona; I would have to be somebody else, yes. I decided I would start immediately. Lots of mes. The old me was gone. The new me was chilled to the bone, teeth rattling, yet faster, fasteralmost as though I could facilitate the change by speed alone. Why weren't they wheeling fast enough, those stars? I wanted the morning. The sunlight unto tomorrow. Not to have to think about nasty, depressing yesterday. Or what the future would hold for me. But sun. And a blazing star. Because then I could forget. Because then I needed to. Yes. I needed to.

I was a wet dog. A bedraggled old soul stuck in a young soul. I needed a Ballard "in his own sauce," so to speakthe lemony-fresh scent of his small ho-vel. And then it hit me, the pitiful state of my whatevers. Literally I had a diary and a motorcycle. Nagging me was the realization that I had lineagea name, a birthright. My own House. But that Wiccans were supposed to be lin-e-aged. Literally produced through a factory-like process to become Fledged; which I would not be, and, therefore, checks and balances, there must be a higher authority, mustn't there, The Master House, for instance, who looked over Wiccan Initiates and made sure they were progressing correctly? But I would not be subservient to them. It wasn't what my parents had wanted. I had failed in my faithfulness tohim. (The whole Lux thing came to mind.) I would not in my charge to them. House Rookmaaker had to become my prioritybut first Ballard, and then Selwyn, if I could. But I had one advantage, with regards to the black catSelwyn was sneaky, a virtuoso. And who knew? Just because I had seen him go, didn't mean they had grabbed him. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe, in that moment, he had been protecting mea la the prophecy of sortsand had been willing to face whatever on my behalf. Would I let him?

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 indoctrinatedthere was that word againyoung 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 upyou 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 a.s.signment. A destiny. Together he and I could figureoutwellanything. 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 donesomewhere, 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 seedor 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 voicesomeone'sto 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 GambalungaBallard 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 forestand 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 areand 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 someand 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 grattacheccaswhich 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 doyou 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 rackseach of which was undergoing some kind of minor operation. "They suck," said Ballard, dismissively, and reverting again to his woe-is-me att.i.tude. "That's it, then," he said, defeated. I felt like I could relate. GivenI thoughtthe whole Lennox thing.

I looked at my Gambalungaand 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 s.h.i.+ft, 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 emascuwhat 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 ordersthank 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 himselfto be a werewolf or something.

"Are," I said. "And I won't hear differently." I slurped my grattachecca.

He apologized for his outburst.

"I've just been stressed out, is all. Sandor and Septimusmy twin older brotherswell, they're coming to the wedding, and my parents will be there. You know, the people who raised Lia and meand never told us aboutabout any of it," said Ballard. The bitterness had crept back into his voice. I a.s.sumed 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?"