Neophyte

  “I think right now I’m homeless,” I said.

  “Still no luck finding it, huh?”

  I shook my head, no... not that I’d tried finding House Rookmaaker yet. Still, what would the insignia for it look like?

  Rooks are birds––too close to Ravenseal, I thought.

  Ballard took the sketchpad back.

  Maybe, I thought, I wasn’t supposed to find House Rookmaaker? In which case, was I going against my parents’ wishes? They stuck me down the rota, after all. It was on their orders Selwyn shipped me off to St. Martley’s. Or someone did. Maybe they had no intention for me to come back to Rome. But Risky had....

  I looked at him, up there, smiling. Why had he intended Ballard and I to meet?

  “You know,” said Ballard, sketching a picture, “a place that big would have to be noticeable. Your House, I mean. You couldn’t just put it anywhere.”

  “If only I could ask the twins,” I said. “You know, the Master House? They signed off on it. They must know where House Rookmaaker’s at.”

  What if House Rookmaaker’s not in Rome? I thought. I couldn’t remember seeing any willow trees, anywhere near here...

  “I keep thinking my parents’ House is in Rome, but from the way Wiccan covens like to keep their distance, maybe it’s not?” I said.

  ...Pendderwenn had hived from Ravenseal, and look how far they’d traveled. They’d come all the way to Rome. Where had my parents gone when they left House Pendderwenn?

  “I wish Risky was here. He would know. Maybe he did know...” I said.

  “Done!” said Ballard. He obviously hadn’t been listening.

  I looked at what he’d drawn, thinking, What are my parents hiding? What is Risky hiding? And where are they hiding it?

  “Maybe it’s big, Ballard. Maybe it’s so big they knew I wouldn’t be able to handle it, or you. Not yet, anyway.”

  Then, why do I feel like I’m running out of time? I thought to myself.

  * * *

  It was a cat, which I liked.

  “Can you add ‘House Rookmaaker & its Members’?” I asked, showing him where.

  Ballard obliged.

  “No problem,” he said. He quickly drew it out. “There! Finito! Done!”

  The question was, who were the twelve names that were going to be listed under House Rookmaaker? I thought about that before filling them in.

  HOUSE ROOKMAAKER

  &

  its Members

  a list

  Selwyn-cat

  Ballard

  Lennox

  Marek

  Me

  Gaven

  Lia

  Sándor

  Septimus

  Asher

  Laurinaitis

  Manon

  Meeting Ravenseal had ticked me off so much I wanted nothing to do with ordinary magic––or them. To embrace outsiders––That was what House Rookmaaker was for. As Rome had embraced me, before it banished me, I thought, acidly.

  The problem was, I’d already filled it in, and there were still more openings needed. Could a coven have more than twelve spots? Was there any way?

  ROME––It’s called The Palio. A three-lap horse race in Sienna, Italy. Except the Roman version involves motorcycles and the winner is declared Head Wolf. A strange moniker for the leader of a gang known as The Cats. By Emma Skarborough.

  Did she know what she was doing? Ballard’s cousin had just outed I Gatti. And here I’d thought I could start my own House. My stuff was all unpacked––Directory, Everything book––but it would have to wait––everything would.

  What would happen if they found out about us? If the non-magicals knew that supernaturals existed? It went against the sed esse in silentium, The Silent Existence.

  I kept finding myself in extremis and to top matters off, Ballard’s trial was coming up. My trial was coming up. What was I going to do?

  * * *

  Tourist season kicked off in Rome with record temperatures and the motorcycle ban was lifted. Ballard’s shop was filled with customers, finally. The money was rolling in. Unfortunately, that meant I’d lost my ally in all things supernatural. Lia and Gaven had been released on bail, so we weren’t the only ones facing the heat. La Luna Blu had been gutted by the fire. But they were rebuilding, and some of the Warlockes had crossed the divide separating the two werewolf camps, and were helping I Gatti rebuild it by clearing out the charred remains.

  Gaven was prematurely and quite quickly old. His hair had turned all-white while in jail waiting for the Quirinal to bail him out. But of course that just made him look even more handsome. He reminded me of the Grey Wolf, or like Risky. Perhaps all ex-Il Gattos looked like silver foxes.

  A calmness had come over Rome––a quietude. But I knew better. Rayven was still out there. Every day lost brought us closer to doom.

  “Severe hailstorms... hundreds of lightning strikes...” The news was filled with calamities and natural disasters––but no more mysterious house fires had been reported.

  If anything it felt as though the Dark Order was building up to something big.

  One good thing had come from our trip to Prague––even though it had enabled Locke to potentially engineer Ballard’s ouster. And that was the Benandanti, who were now back. Once Lennox returns, I thought, we’ll have a nice little army.

  * * *

  The S Bros, Sándor and Septimus, had been preparing Ballard and I for our trial, the following week. They’d opened a shop in Via dei Condotti, called S Bros, which was very swank. And it was there that we adjourned, to discuss the case. S Bros reminded me of the Voettfangs’ shop, in a way. Dusty books and other things scattered the tables and bookshelves. Maybe Via dei Condotti could be the new Golden Lane. Antiquarian Row.

  Ballard said, “I get it. Leave me alone,” to which they replied, “Locke’s crafty. He’ll lead you into traps. You need to twist his words, Ballard.”

  Having a verbal duel was a lot harder than studying magic, especially as you couldn’t afford to make mistakes. “One false word, it’s over,” said Sándor. “Locke’s a xenophobe––it means he’s afraid of Paris, London, Prague––all of us.”

  Septimus pretended to cross-examine me.

  “Stop stuttering. And don’t fidget. Stick to the facts,” he said.

  By the end of it, Ballard and I didn’t know what to do.

  * * *

  The next few days I withdrew from everybody else, doing my best Vittoria impression, and began to work on my House.

  It was annoying to think that it was going to be held in interreges until I came to be––or if I ever was––such-and-such. Like I wasn’t old enough. Like I needed their permission. I was just irritated, is all. I didn’t like being told what to do. Like I needed their help. All this Locke talk. Maybe there was some kind of key I needed to unlock my House.

  I will find it; my blood will lead me there....

  But so far there had not been any breaks and I had been led more by fantasy than any familial connection.

  What happened to my parents? And what was Risky’s role in it?

  Maybe he was encouraging them to hive... I thought... and he got them killed before the plan was finished. Yeah. Maybe that’s what got them killed, I wrote in my Diary. Because they led the werewolves with them! That’s why they’re not in The Directory! Their House was never started! House Rookmaaker is invisible! An abomination!

  But I had seen it––unless it was all some kind of trick on the part of Rayven. Not even Vittoria’s banging around could discourage me from that line of reasoning––yet Mistress Genevieve had warned me against being too often in my head. Like it was dangerous.

  Siobhan, the Hall of Records woman, said there was no record of my parents’ House anywhere.

  Think, Halsey. Why would they cover it up? Who would cover it up? Maybe it wasn’t covered up? Why would a House exist, but not be listed? What was it about their House that it had not been included in The Directory? Was there
anything about my parents that I didn’t know?

  I was the de facto head of a House that didn’t exist––on paper. But it was real. I was sure of it. I need to know, I wrote. I need to know that they didn’t just leave me. They didn’t die for nothing.

  But who could I turn to?

  I gathered all my stuff––Diary, Directory, Codex, Everything book––emptying the desk drawers.

  The Rookmaakers were getting powerful––that much is clear. They had a lot of influence. The Rookmaakers were trying to break away. To form their own House, I invented wildly. Mistress Genevieve’s letter fell out––followed by Ballard’s––

  And Selwyn’s Marker; I grabbed at it hungrily, rubbing the Marker with my Wiccan fingertips––

  Risky and them were up to something––maybe this is the key...

  “BEWARE THE DARK PATH.”

  * * *

  “What is out there? The truth? What is that? Somebody’s truth. Isn’t necessarily ours,” said Ballard, when I had whispered to him what I’d found, the next day. “Why didn’t the Dark Order want Rookmaaker hiving from Pendderwenn?” he said. “Because of their plans? What are those? Whose plans are those?”

  Sándor and Septimus were still going on and on about what we needed to do. I kept thinking about House Rookmaaker and the Dark Order.

  “Rayven showed it to me, Ballard. He used the Remember Spell. He must want me to find House Rookmaaker. Although, I can’t think why.”

  “Hmm, let’s think,” he said, “so he knows where to find you, so he can kill you...”

  “Oh yeah. Right,” I said.

  “Are you two paying attention? Because he’ll most likely use the witch argument.”

  “Which argument is that?” said Ballard, drawing an appreciative nod from yours truly.

  * * *

  It happened. There was a knock at Ballard’s roll-up door in his motorcycle shop one day and Emma Skarborough appeared, with her notebook in hand and a look on her face of deepest cunning. She made some wisecrack about Ballard and I playing Spin the Bottle.

  “What do you want, Em? Following up on your latest hit piece?” said Ballard.

  “Cousin, I had to warn the public. Besides,” she said in her unusually nasal voice that made the hairs on the backs of my arms stand up, “you should be thanking me. With motorcycles taboo, everyone will want one. And you are?” she said to me.

  “Nobody,” I said. I got on my motorcycle to go. “C’ya, Bal.”

  “Wait a minute, wait just one second,” she said. “I recognize that bike. That’s Risky’s bike. It belonged to my uncle. Ballard wouldn’t just give it to anybody. Who are you?”

  “What’s it to you?” said Ballard. I realized immediately he’d made a mistake.

  “Something’s not right here,” she said. “The stories in the news––even though I put them there. You’re up to something. Both of you! I can feel it! What is it? The only stories worth knowing aren’t necessarily what people are willing to tell me. At the same time, I would never dig. No, I would not.” She eyed me beadily and began scribbling in her notebook.

  Ballard closed the door on her, saying “Get out!”

  “She’ll get you next,” I warned. “You better be careful, Ballard.”

  * * *

  ROME––Purse snatching pays. How motorcycle gangs are funding their lavish lifestyle. By Emma Skarborough.

  I read and I reread––I still couldn’t believe it.

  “Thankfully, with her visa up, Miss Rookmaaker of Via dei Condotti, will be booted back to America where she belongs! It’s been a year! Surely the Questura will be interested to know how an unemployed teenager with no work history and no family connections is affording her rents in the posh shopping district?”

  I gulped.

  With Skarborough on my case, I’d be out of Rome tomorrow, even if the werewolves didn’t banish me. Why was my rent so cheap, anyway? I thought.

  Ballard took the pragmatic point of view. “At least she’s after you now,” he said.

  “I’m not kidding, Ballard! You have to apply in advance for a permit to stay, and I didn’t! I’m done for!”

  “Don’t you see? She’s lumped you in with us. We protect our own, Halsey, at least I do.”

  “Right... The trial,” I said, wondering if I was going to be kicked out.

  Emma Skarborough was nothing––nothing compared to the trial. I could always put out a hit piece on her––with my fists. But if the werewolves banished me...

  The thing about politicians, I wrote in my Diary, is they put their faces on everything, but their souls into nothing. Would Locke destroy what Ballard and I were trying to build? Could he?

  “Just remember,” said Septimus the day of the trial, “there are others besides Locke on the Quirinal. They’ll give you a fair hearing. Reason with them.”

  “Stick to the facts,” said Sándor. “They can’t possibly kick you out.”

  Ballard and I nodded. It was almost time to go. Despite their warning, my heart rate skyrocketed.

  “We’re behind you one hundred percent,” they said.

  We made our way to the Colosseum on motorcycles. All too soon, we were coming through the fog, and the stadium appeared, wolf-shapes running through the bars. The trial was by moonlight.

  “They’re over here,” said Lia, pointing to us. She and Gaven came running over. Ballard and I greeted them, but it was like I couldn’t concentrate on anything.

  The full twelve members of the Quirinal were present in the pit, almost like a House, flanked by the werewolves known as The Warlockes. It gave me the creeps.

  Someone lit a fire. It was the second time I’d been to a Wolves’ Council––gone was the sense of solidarity. If anything, it felt more like a witch-hunt.

  I looked at each face of the Quirinal, wondering if they knew how full of it their leader was?

  Locke said, “From Lupercalia until two weeks ago, you both have been missing. Where have you been and what were you doing, that you left us in the lurch?”

  “We went to Prague,” said Ballard, “I had business there. Halsey went with me.”

  “Why not tell us beforehand?” said Locke. “Why close the border so we cannot follow?”

  Apparently, Il Gatto’s prerogative had prevented them from coming after us.

  “It was a private matter,” said Ballard.

  “Private from us?” said Locke.

  Ballard clenched his fists, but said nothing.

  “The border was penetrated at the start of the new year,” continued Locke, “by wizards calling themselves Ravenseals. They seemed to think they had some rights to your friend, Miss Halsey Rookmaaker.”

  “I don’t get the question,” said Ballard.

  “I’m trying to illustrate that when it comes to your friends, you’re willing to stand your ground, even when the other side has call to be there,” said Locke.

  “If you mean,” said Ballard, “would I stand here and let them take her––no, not unless she wanted to go.”

  “Thank you.” Locke held up a letter from the Ravenseals. “They sent me this. Apparently, Miss Rookmaaker has a House? What’s more, it’s here in Rome.”

  I could see Veruschka’s handwriting. What shrieks and oaths had she put out against me, anyway? Between her and Skarborough, I’d take Skarborough any day.

  Brandishing the note, Locke said “There are quite a number of rules or ardanes regarding Wiccan Houses. Quite a number. I will read to you a list of these rules. Because, apparently, we’re in quite a bit of trouble. Ardane Number One––” He cleared his throat “––Only a third-level Wiccan may lead her own House. Good so far. Ardane Number Two,” said Locke, “Only twelve members to a House. Ardane Number Three: Only a second-degree and up may initiate someone. Ardane Number Four: Only someone initiated may attend secret Gatherings, well, well––secret Gatherings. Ardane Number Five: If a coven becomes thirteen-or-greater, that coven must Hive. Ardane Number Six: If there is no numb
er three, one will be appointed by The Council of Magic, well, well, well. Ardane Number Seven: Houses in interreges will be monitored and the transfer of power overseen by––excuse me The Master House. You are still a Neophyte, correct, Miss Rookmaaker?” he said to me.

  “Me? Yes. Why?” I said.

  “The reason I ask, do we really want outsiders having so large a say in what goes on in our city?” said Locke. “Appointing officials and the like? Overseeing... monitoring us.... I say not. Bear in mind that there are other unwritten rules,” he informed his colleagues.

  If Rule Number One could be broken, I thought, could Rule Number Two? For all that was written in the codex, there was a lot more that was unwritten. Locke had a point.

  “The fact is, if she breaks the rules,” said Locke, “the vampires can come here and kill us––it’s called a Storm of Covens. Which puts us in a quandary.” He pantomimed concern. “Do we vouch for her and die, or do we cut her loose? Ballard has already said he will fight to protect her––and you know how fond he is of drawing lines––of forcing conflicts. Which means Miss Rookmaaker has the power to draw us into a war. Not only with Prague but with Paris. Witches and vampires. On top of which, they would be justified in coming here. It’s in their rules! And I quote: ‘Any Storm Leader opens her House to being drained by blood-drinkers.’ Unquote. She’s also sleep-ing with a vampire! One of the Lenoir! Our enemy! Lennoxlove Lenoir!”

  The way he said it. The other werewolves were looking at me, particularly the Warlockes, like I was some kind of scarlet woman. Locke gesticulated wildly. “What secrets have you been whispering about us, late, late at night, Miss Rookmaaker?” he said, to nods from the Warlockes.

  “My turn,” said Ballard, “because I have a lot to say also. It was Lennox, Locke, who helped fight back the zombies. Lennox, who helped protect Halsey and me at Club Change. If anything, her relationship with him strengthens our ties with vampires.”