She nodded, slowly, and like I had done something wrong. And, leaving her, I felt like I had. Why did she hate me so much? And why didn"t I just move out? I had crossed an ocean by myself. I could do anything.
It may have sounded weird, but in that moment, I realized, anywhere else and I wouldn"t have been as safe. She was... watching over me or something... I couldn"t explain it. It was almost like my landlady was one of my Four Protectors.
Eighteen and Wicca.
No, that was no good.
The Diary of a Teenage Drama Queen.
Too melodramatic.
Halsey Rookmaaker, Teenage Witch.
It sounded like I should have pom-pons or something.
I settled on The Wiccan Diaries. Volume III.
Being one year of the life of an of-age witch, I wrote. For so now I was. It was December 21st. My birthday. I put the pen down and thought about that, and my Diary.
I must become Adept, I told myself.
I did not forget that it was in this year, those who had the Craft pa.s.sed the particular milestones (which, I had no idea what those were) enabling them to matriculatea funny college word for go onto the next level. After Adept, it was up to the individual, I was told, to become Fledged, but I had a problem. A big, big problem. And it wasn"t going away. Every day it got nearer. What to do about Ravenseal?
What to do about the Wiccan House that I had been selected to attend?
And the fact that, if I didn"t go with them, I would have no House.
I ran my hand over the notebook I had constructed. I had built it by hand, with absolutely no help from the tracery of veins which carried magic into my fingertips, out of binder"s needles, bees wax and thread, sewing the signatures together, finishing the boards off in a plum-colored cloth with the help of my PVA (polyvinyl acetate). I absolutely adored the written wordI almost wrote Wiccan Word, wondering if there was one, some all-powerful phrase which could point me to all the aforementioned milestonesand had a very practical reason for keeping the Diary. It helped me with all of the thinking of things. I could go back and look at this, that, whathaveyou, and a.n.a.lyze trends.
Was it not like the book of magic, the codex given to new pract.i.tioners, as they wrote down their discoveries? Except my Diaries were for me alone. I would not be pa.s.sing them on. Unless...
Only a second-degree or greater Wiccan could Initiate someone. One of the ardanes, or rules, which governed all of Wicca.
I was not yet even able to do thatInitiate someoneto say, "Hey, you should come check this out! I"ll show you The Way!"
Which was kind of the point.
I did not yet know The Way.
I had been so adamant about following my principles I had alienated myself from the only people who could instruct me in the Art of becoming more than I was. And I had not yet told Ravenseal of my choice to reject their invitation, so-called, which was obviously a summons. Veruschka, its Head, had told me she would be sending someone from Ravenseal to fetch me. Thinking about it made me shiver. "Blessed be. Or something," I wrote in my diary.
I couldn"t think. I gave it up as a bad diary entry.
Was it Lux? Was that who was coming? Or I know. The Master House. Was Veruschka already a part of them? It was said they coveted her. Which, I couldn"t see why. She had candy-colored blue hair and was two-faced, Veruschka: appearing friendly, charming, and then selfish and mean-spirited. I still remembered the trick she had played on Vittoria. I had to stop right there. I didn"t like thinking about Vittoria, especially as she had so thoroughly, and awesomely, emanc.i.p.ated herself from any Wiccan Household. While II was behaving like a coward. I couldn"t even make up my mind. About Vittoria. About anything.
What I really needed was someone to talk to, a kind of magical guidesomeone who had been through all of the steps and could instruct me as to how to avoid this or that false step, or whathaveyou. Someone who could rhapsodize about Wicca, about what to expect; instead, there was only me, and Lia, if I included her, but Lia was twenty-four going on thirty-five and married with kids. You could see it in her eyes. She didn"t need Wicca the way I did. And then I realized.
She was outgrowing me, she was outgrowing magic.
Of course, Lia was no stranger to losing things.
She had lost her animal. When she became Wiccan she could no longer transform. Apparently being Wiccan precluded being a shape changer, and vice-versa, one or the other. Witch- or Wizard-Shifters, those who could do both, were very rare. So rare that there had not been one in over a century. Rhea Silva, whoever she was, was the last. It was said she could transform into the shape of a wolf and also do castings. Which I guessed meant her paw must"ve had a Wiccan Mark on it, or something.
I sighed and watched the inflamed candles whip about in the draft coming from my open French doors, half expecting to see Lennox standing there. But he hadn"t shown.
Not that I had expected him to. After all, I was me, and he was who he wasentirely out of my league, vampire hottie person.
What would he need with me when he had all the world, what with his new superpowers and everything? All that I could offer would be to hold him back.
Part of me wished for him to be standing there, to experience the raw awesomeness of his presence, while the other, unknown part of me, said: whatevers. You have work to do, kiddo. And, yes, I did.
Moreover, I felt a kind of destiny, when I considered that it was up to me to re-openif that was even the right wordmy parents" House.
I had kept the knowledge of their Wiccan House absolutely secret, telling no one of House Rookmaakerfor, so I thought, Selwyn would have wanted it of me. He was a false mage. A roughly-fledged, unschooled guy. Thinking about him was painful. I didn"t like not knowing where he was. Selwyn was my only other Housemate. A fellow Rookmaaker. A fact which I had not really thought about before.
Just then my hand began tingling. It had been doing this off and on for the last few hours. It would burn with heat, like at its Forming, and then the heat would subside; it wasn"t painful, just alarming. And I think it meant something. But I couldn"t be sure.
That was like everything in my life that may have meant something. I had been kept so in the dark about everything to do with my past, I didn"t even know what was real anymore and what wasn"t.
I wasn"t delusional or anything. Just a bit confused.
I looked unwillingly at my writing desk I never used. It had my laptop on it, but there was also an unopened letter given to me by my indefatigable landlady who watched the comings and goings of all. She was as steadfast as the alarm I felt every time I looked at the letter on my desktop. I had been avoiding reading it for days. Mostly because I didn"t want to know what was in it. But in a way I kind"ve already did know, or so I thought. If I had learned one thing from Mistress Genevieve, people have a way of surprising youshe certainly always did. I didn"t even know how she knew I was even here. But she did.
She knew it as certainly as she knew everything else in this uncertain world.
I was scared to read the letter she had sent me. Would she be angry, upset, if she knew what I was up to? Had she just grown tired of the other students at St. Martley"s, and so reached out to scold me one last time, her most disappointing pupil ever?
It sat there, the letter, looking like the underbellies of some spiders I have seen, warning me against it; but I had to know. I weighed the likelihood of the letter containing anything good against the reality that I had run off, quit St. Martley"s, and abandoned my mistress. Which was Genevieve.
Coward, I chided myself. Pick it up and read it.
I came to the letter, managing the first part.
Her letter felt like a paving stone in my hands. I felt the weight of her judgment and it terrified me.
Something about it made me think she had written to me in all caps, like she was screaming, or worse, like whatever she had to say was so spot on I wouldn"t be able to countermand it. If she said come back, I would come back. And then where would I be?
There were ten days left until the Turning. When invented Time turned over and the world got to start over again. I lived surrounded by change. The only one who stayed the same was me. Essentially, what had magic accomplished for me? If I were being honest with myself: not much.
And still a part of me thought: He didn"t come...
The rest was busy with this letter, a letter which could disillusion and disenchant, not to mention, disenfranchise, meand probably, though I didn"t like to admit it, perhaps pull me back from the precipice; for so I was about to go over, cross a line, take a stand, announce myself to European witchcraft and wizardry: The girl who was chosen has selected to be un-Chosen.
An anagram of Rome was More. And my struggle with wanting to know more was at odds with a small part of me which missed St. Martley"s, missed going on, matriculating, Graduating.
This letter was my Graduation. I had to open it. To stare its contents down.
I slit it with my fingernail and gave myself a paper cutand I pulled out the letter, watching as my blood darkened and stained the fibrous material. Halsey girl, it said. And I knew I would be all right.
Your Mother and Fatherrest their soulselected me your Guardian. We go on, when we are through, we graduateand so now you are Eighteen. Something happens to a witch when she turns eighteen. It is said that if she does the thing right, she will come into her inheritance, whatever that may be. Oh, do not look for your inheritance in a letter, young girl. Do, however, please find enclosedand it"s long overduesomething which (I almost wrote witch) you have earned, which is Your Diploma. We go on. We graduate. We Come Into our Powers. Which I"m sure you know, if this letter finds you well. I wonder what your band of Wiccan purity and innocence looks like. For so I have struggled to keep you Innocent and Pure.
Do not say NOTHING HAPPENS, for Life is a gift. As is our Marks.
You are Marked by the love of your family, and if, for whatever reason, you should ever find yourself in a hard place, just think of them, and what they would do. The answer is in your soul, Miss Rookmaaker, as I hope St. Martley"s is. You are with us, as we are to you. And if your family won"t help you, then I will. Or maybe that"s wrong. Maybe even Maximilian (whose name means "greatest," btw) Marked you in ways so innocent and profound, that your father knew would be neededhe even saw fit to elect me Your G.o.dmother.
One last thing. I have observed the Past comes back to us when we need it most. When you were under my roof, you needed some sense put into your head. I foresee that good taste is not your problem. Rather, you feel too much. Let go, Halsey girl. Be like the satellite, which tumbles free from the confines of the earth. Magnetism pulls us back to the beginning. You to yours is a powerful tug. Embolden your heart and remember that I love you.
Genevieve P.S. Becca is becoming really problematical. I tried to show her how to make a proper Wiccan W and she made a Q instead. Q for quiddity.
P.P.S. Don"t tear your Wiccan diploma up. It may come in handy. It"s time you forgave me for being so hard on you: when I see potential all I want to do is whip it into shape, fledge it. You possess all the hallmarks of a truly great witch. Remember to practice the four D"s: Desire, Dedication, Determination, and Discipline. And, above all, follow your Mark. Some witches have road signs laid out for them. Others do not. Open your eyes! Because... Those who remain Adept stay that way forever. While the truly Fledgedwell, hopefully, you"ll see.
This thing last. Be reckless in your affections. Think what you yourself would tell your younger self and listen to her. Be external. Create lots of yous. Life ends or it never begins. G.
I turned to the diploma emblazoned with the St. Martley"s crest. My name and my 18th birthday, which was custom, said that on this day, I was ready to begin. But to begin what?
Being a Neophyte, I felt, was like being a freshman in college, a new beginning: but I was without campus or guidance, and I was on my own. There was no "come back" in Mistress Genevieve"s voice; only acceptance, essentially, at what had been my choices.
Careful not to bleed on it, I inserted the diploma, and the letter, back into the envelope, sticking the entirety into my desk drawer, my mind like one of those mulchers, gobbling up the accrued wisdom of St. Martley"s and, of course, Mistress Genevieve"s, fabulous wooden rings.
Standing in my room above my beloved Via dei Condotti, I blew out the candles and let the nighttime consume me. No one had been in contact with me for over a week, not since the Gathering.
He didn"t come...
Chapter 2 Ballard"s Problems.
Beyond shopping, I hadn"t been out of my apartment all week. Even the werewolves had been keeping their distance, the familiar growls of their motorcycles an all too distant memory. It was 6:00 a.m. The sky outside the color of pitch. The sound of the rushing water was like rainfall, as I held my hand under the bathroom faucet, which flopped and spattered dirt from the shivering pipes, until they began to flow cool and clean, and I dabbed at my forehead, which was the source of my problems. You"ve been alone too long, I thought. My three Wiccan fingertips (thumb, middle, and index) looked like silver leaping fish. The intricate swirl of lines culminated in a fingerprintan ornate crosshatching at the tip of my right index finger, which was unique. I wondered briefly if there were southpaws, in the world, left-handed Wiccans... I figured there must"ve been.
I read over Mistress Genevieve"s letter again, committing it to memory, and carefully opened my codexall while managing not to get any of the pages wet, as I took a bath. I figured I would continue on with my practicing. Lux had said there was a correlation between Mark-development and hard work. I didn"t want to be left behind just because I was lazy. Two things fell out of the codex.
First was a map of the Gathering, which I crumpled up and threw in a wastepaper basket, with some smaller lightbulbs from the bathroom vanity: all exploded, naturally. Next was a letter from Veruschka Ravenseal, in which she had threatened me. ("You have until New Yearsand then I will expect you at my home. RememberI"m watching you. And keep a lookout for my man. He will come to get you. VR. Veruschka Ravenseal.") Several things occurred to me.
First: Genevieve had said "lots of yous;" Veruschka Ravenseal had once said she preferred to talk to lots of herself. Maybe Genevieve and Veruschka were talking about the same thing. This Wiccan concept of being in more places than one. But that was a Half-Lighter thing, wasn"t it? According to craft ardanes, the use of them (of the Ashers of the world; those who could scry) was illegal. Then how was Veruschka seeing me? Unless she could turn invisible, and had stalker tendencies, I didn"t see how she could be watching me. Keep a lookout for her man. Was I supposed to be watching like they could? I gave up, confused. I also threw her letter away. The bath was becoming lukewarm and I postponed my magical education to get a soak. Half-Lighters are only illegal within the contexts of war, I told myself. Veruschka may be perfectly able to look at you whenever she pleases. I exhaled underwater. So be it.
It was the 22nd. Not counting today, I had nine days to prepare for the arrival of her man, and to think up some excuse to placate them both. Maybe I would just tell Veruschka and him to shove it. I could still feel her handprint from where she had slapped me. It made me angry. Did I have any say-so or would I have to go with them?
NoI was eighteenI would do what I pleased.
The water erupted from the tap in a rhythmic pattern.
It had been so long since I had seen Lennox, I had gotten used to thinking of him as someone who was perpetually elsewhere.
Not having him was almost as bad as wanting him in the first place. It made me ache all over. There was no cure.
I decided to put my mind to other uses. Such as what the Dioscuri had meant when they told me to find... them. But unlooked-for Lennox"s specter seemed to materialize before me.
This was silly. I"m not dreaming, am I? I said to the Lennox-hallucination, who seemed to glimmer before me. He vanished as if in response.
Had something inside of me broken?
Maybe I couldn"t see Lennox because there was nothing to see. When I scried him there was just darkness, like the dark aether. Had Lennox survived the Agonies?
Or had he beenkilled?
I panicked. I didn"t know what to do. I hadn"t seen him in months. I needed to get out. Something.
Ballard.
I needed Trastevere; the ancient cobblestones; the erratic helter-skelter of the streets; the dirty laundry hanging in the sky, across those streets; the oldness; the I-don"t-give-a-d.a.m.n, and, of course, the smell of the Tiber, the rich flow of the blood through the Old World.
The intrusion of reality left a sobering aftertaste in my brain-mouth. Why had I not foreseen this? I had felt it. But it had come on so gradually. Distance was never good in a relationship and Lennox and I had the ultimate distancebeing that we were separate species. Lennox a vampire, I a witch. But, then, something was going on. After all, how many times did a vampire fall in love with a witch? He was clearly older than I was. World-savvy. He also didn"t seem to have a problem acquiring money. He could do what he pleased. Would he leave Rome too?
I was already beginning to perceive of myself as a wanderer. Like one of those eclectic witches or wizardslike Asher or Selwyn; or, said a little part of me, Vittoria, wherever she was.
It was because I didn"t have a Housea three-dimensional place where I could learn and train Wicca. I needed to find it. House Rookmaaker.
It felt good thinking about other things. We should do this more often, I told myself sarcastically, and then wondered if I would be like one of those old cat ladiesthe gattare, as they were called, here in Romethough if people realized there were other Cats in the world, such as I Gatti, I don"t think they would be so hasty to criticize themincapable of social intercourse with anyone but felines.
I felt slashed-up, woebegone. I had no recourse to St. Martley"s, or to Mistress Genevieve. I would write to no one, I would interact with no one. I stopped short at ripping my four-poster apart, lest my landlady think I had gone completely off my head, and refrained from kicking in the slats of my closet door. Neither would I smash the Iron Roses, or break my laptop. Lennox inspired no desire to rearrange my room. But I felt his absence heavily, and wondered why he had so effectively booted me from his brain. As Infester had said: they will have a Power... A Power of Sight.
Maybe the prophecy meant two othersthat Lennox and I weren"t meant for this... existence... or to be together...
The House, the House...
Rome for me was poisoned. I had nowhere to go. I wouldn"t just rush off, but I wouldn"t stay either. Admittedly, I was in a terrifying place, a place I had not been in for ages, since I came to Romeand worse, my visa was running out. Somehow I had been so overwhelmed by this unbelievable inclusion in an as-yet un-understood magical world that I forgot I was also part of the hopelessly mortal, mundane world, where things such as ninety-day stays existed, and there was a EU (European Union) and a Schengen Agreement. People could pa.s.s to-and-fro across relatively open borders. I did not have carte blanche like I did within the spectral community of werewolves, whom I realized I had never fundamentally seen alter their shapes. Ballard was Ballard, and Lia moreso. I had only their words and the fact that Il Gatto, who was Gaven, had ordered his werewolf boys and girls to fight back revenants and bloodsuckersa werewolfy thing to do. A very long daymare whipped through my head like a satellite on the periphery of House Ravenseal, which would be squashed, destroyed, especially as I was only officially a Neophyte and couldn"t conjure my way out of a paper bag, but even more officially, because I somehow recognized that whereas Ravenseal was good for giving face time to things such as band together and work for the common good, etc., etc., and striving to prevent the past, in reality they were headed up by a tenacious she-b.i.t.c.h who wouldn"t for a second pause in destroying my parents" House. Especially as you needed someone third-degree or higher to run your own autonomous coven. And as has been said, I was not. More on that later.
Selwyn. I didn"t know why I had not been thinking about him. It was my fault he was gone. But to go, I would need something more; to get him, I would need something more. After all, I didn"t speak Czech. And then there was the fact that the Dioscuri and the Master House seemed to be connectedand that meant the twins and who knew what else? I couldn"t go up against all of them. I couldn"t go up against any of them! I needed help. Selwyn was in Prague, in the Districts of Magic, which was located northeast, past the Alps, through Slovenia, Austria. It was landlocked. It was called Praha. Prague. The Czech Republic. It was winter there, which would mean snow, but I didn"t give a d.a.m.n. I would take my Gambalunga, the motorcycle Ballard had built for me. But what about Ballard? Would he want to go with me? Would Lia let him go with me? After all, he was the only reliable mechanic good enough to run his Uncle Risky"s motorcycle shop. I felt an itcha dangerous itch, in my fingertips, which I could not ignoreand then the heat rush happened again; I gave myself over to it, like a dull throbbing, wondering if this was it for me. If all I would ever be was some pulsating freak monster all by herself. The intoxicating stirring spread to the remainder of my limbsto the very core of my being. Where it raced through my Mark, I could feel a surge of Power. I was suddenly so lonesome I could howl. Would Lia take kindly to me rapping on the door this early in the morning? She was still living at home.
I couldn"t help it. I needed to get away. To h.e.l.l with the Diary. I grabbed my helmet from out of the closet: fire-red to match my bike. And then I stopped, because something red was poking out of the detritus.
Embossed with the number six, it was the red marker Selwyn (and House Rookmaaker) had been awarded, but hadn"t been able to use, prior to the Gathering. The marker I didn"t even know I had. It must"ve fallen out of my pocket or something. Selwyn must"ve slipped it in there beforewhen I was busy, when I wasn"t looking. Unbeknownst. I picked it up and thinking better tucked it into my new Diary, Volume III. I grabbed a black hoodie, throwing it on the bed, and fetched out my riding boots. In moments I was dressed in a pair of old Levi"s-brand jeans, and my book, with the marker in it, tucked inside my helmet. I put my hood up. My landlady said nothing as I walked past her. I didn"t even look at her. If anything, we had come to an understanding, the two of us. I was damaged goods and it was good that I was on my way out. I supplied the "I hope I never see you again," and got out. Deranged. Damaged. Dead. In my soul and in my mind. But so what? I was over it. I didn"t care anymore. Lennox was a free agenthe could see whomever he pleased.
Camille"s ghost-face looked reproachfully at me as I imagined what she would say. Breaking up meant more than never seeing Lennox again.
Sigh. Blank face. Sigh.
It meant losing an anchor, without which I was adrift, alone, and in dire need of companionship. Do nothing to yourself, I told myself.