The Wiccan Diaries

Chapter 12 – Halsey




Ballard and I sat up talking late into the night. For once, it felt like we were getting to the bottom of things. We made plans to meet again soon.

With I Gatti zooming around, safety was not an issue. So I headed back home, unattended to my apartment a little after one a.m. My landlady was not pleased.

I got to my journal ASAP. This was what I needed.

I ran a bath and crawled into the tub, taking the journal with me. Quickly, I turned to a new page. “It’s me, Halsey,” I wrote. I drew a big symbol of a triangle with a circle and dot, followed by a heptagram.





“Ballard withholds. Edits. I can feel him wanting to tell me things, then he only goes halfway.”

I thought about that, then dunked my head underwater.

I made sure to bring back the Codex from Trastevere; I no longer wanted it out of my possession. Since scratching my name in it, the Codex felt like mine to guard.

Besides, I really would be a bad influence, if I continued to allow Ballard unsupervised access to something neither one of us fully understood. I might not have been a witch but I knew they existed.

The truth was, I needed him. I was alone in Rome. Practically.

Lennox came and went. I hadn’t seen him in twenty-four hours. Before that, his absences had grown even longer. It was a long time without a steady dose of those lavender eyes.

I soaked and wrote, and wrote and soaked.

“The first one intrigues me. Sun. Change. I don’t know. It could be an All-Seeing Eye. Or a pyramid. There are a lot of pyramids in Rome. I forgot the most intriguing aspect, Diary. Ballard said the circle used to be a symbol for death. Like a skull and crossbones on a bottle of poison.”

I got out and traipsed nakily through the old joint, to fetch out my copy of the Codex, and then got back in the tub. If Lennox had bothered to show, he would have caught a glimpse. I flipped it open to the dog-eared section on symbols.

It was no good. I was going to need the Internet for this.

There was more than just these two symbols; all of them were hand drawn, but there were no annotations––no little notes what the symbols could mean. Another one looked like the international radioactivity symbol, except the circle was broken into four blades, not three.

I was tired. I drew it in the journal––or Diary––anyway.



Obviously, I needed to know what these symbols meant.

It was the same old conundrum: How to get information?

I closed the journal and tossed it safely away from the tub. My ablutions done, I got out and dried myself off. I wrapped the warm, plush towel around myself, and followed my wet footprints down the hall, to my laptop. I fetched out my hair dryer.

Ballard’s remarks had been so cryptic, especially with regards to his cousin, the reporter, Emmanuela Skarborough. There was so much double-talk and obfuscation. Was he being deliberately thickheaded or was he trying to hide something? Our conversation had been fruitful but hardly coherent.

Delta, I typed.

Delta gave me something other than what I was looking for.

I went back and typed delta symbol into the search engine. Everything was in Italian so I figured how to translate it and searched like I would in the U.S.

Delta symbol returned the Greek symbol for change. .

I opened a new tab, and searched theta.

It gave me this: . The Greek symbol for the eighth letter of their alphabet.

That wasn’t quite the same as a dot in the center, though.

A little digging, however, and I learned that it was called a circumpunct. When I looked up what circumpunct meant, I got Dan Brown, and also there it was, the sun.

I made an entry in my journal, adding it all up:

“The theta, which does have a connotation of death, is actually a circumpunct, which usually refers to the sun; when it’s put inside a triangle, you get something remarkably similar to the trefoil used internationally to denote a radioactive hazard. In other words, a warning.”

Was that what this was? Was the book warning me? If so, against what?

I zonked out.

I felt like Alice in Wonderland, moving across the chessboard, except instead of squares, I was stepping across triangles, and they all had pointy teeth, like they wanted to eat me.

In my dreams, I was surrounded by figures; they were shadowy, on the periphery. I was turning round and round. Surrounded.

Instead of attacking me, however, they continued to motion indistinctly, as my head went blurry. Suddenly, it felt like they wanted to kill me. I screamed for Lennox, but he was no longer there. Instead I was in the arms of a man, a stranger. I had never seen him before. His arms were the only things keeping me sane.

The will of the circle was upon me. I was beset on all sides, with one thought above the rest: that someone out there did not like me.

It was like I could read their thoughts. And they meant me harm.

The dream ended. I was out.





Lennox



Lennox,

Next time come for a more protracted stay, huh? I enjoy what it does to Camille. I don’t think she has ever forgiven you for that fiasco in the fifties. I would say she needs to get a life, but I gave her this one, and it’s till the end of All Time. So, what are you going to do?

Seriously, I’m looking into blood curses for you. This girl you told me about is American, which will help. In the Old World, I would have told you to watch your back. They are not like us. Our two ‘species,’ for lack of a better word, were not meant to mix. Be careful, is all. She may not be fledged, but she is a witch. The Lenoir are picky about such things.

If you care about that.

It is coming on time for you. I am forbidden, of course, to inform you of certain aspects of the trials. But you should not be thinking of anything else. Or anyone.

I do not mean to get heavy, but there it is. This coven will never be whole, until you are part of it, in every way.

If you die, I really will kill you.

Dallace.

P.S. Somebody stopped by, the day after you left. ‘You cannot go to Paris without going to Rome,’ as the saying is; ‘and Venice is the go-between.’ His name is Marek. He says you two know each other? I suppose vampires are the Monaco or Vatican City of all the races, mortal and immortal alike. We cannot help but prune our numbers, so keep our membership small.


Still, I never heard of this vampire before. He is coming for you. And I think you know who sent him. Be sure you don’t get clipped, my friend, huh?

Your friend.

P.P.S. Vampires travel faster than the postal system.

* * *

There was also a letter from John Occam. Unlike civilized people, he didn’t seem to care how I was, or what I was up to, beyond trying to identify and do something about ‘this vamper contagion,’ as he called it.

* * *

Massimo, he wrote, is like a crystal ball or a ouija board; he makes big prophecies of hot air easily debunked, and then tells me I’m doing it wrong.

Prague is a deeply disturbing place, still off-limits to your kind. I think if I could take Prague I could take Paris. Instead I will go sniveling back to them.

I have been searching, searching, searching for a cure. That fool doesn’t read his mail, and when he does, he doesn’t understand it. Which is why I’m getting to you so late.

I spend my days in the library, pouring over old manuscripts, and my nights avoiding what I call the Human Revenants: the evil Hunters and others of their ilk. I swear, they think it is like scoring a buck, taking down an Immortal.

I would like to see them contend with the oldest dead. And watch them fail.

This preponderance of dead flesh is not unlike other urban myths of viruses engineered to eliminate so-called cultural undesirables. I think if it is meant to wipe out any population, it is the vampires; and so originated with vampires. At least, that is the theory I am working on.

People only work hard to kill other people they know. And vampires used to be people.

How very astute of you, by the way. There are only two unnatural metamorphoses––and vampires is the other one. It affects the blood, the Suck, even as it effects it.

Change is a constant in all lifeforms. Even yours.

Please, do not scratch my car.

* * *

He didn’t bother to sign it.





Halsey



Dear Diary,

Breakthrough! I’m going to have to buy you another diary, so you can be boyfriend and girlfriend together. I’ll write in that one, too. Then you can whisper between yourselves, and figure out what I’m keeping from you both.

Ballard and I have been p-ssyfooting around this ‘Supernatural’ issue. I don’t know why when we have openly avowed a suspicion that such things may, in fact, exist.

I had Lia bring him over, even though she was against it. She told me I was putting ideas into his head. I said that’s what heads were for. Except in her case, Diary.

Then I took Ballard over to my local scooter rental outfit, and being a girl of independent means, I rented him one. At least until he can afford to fix the damage done to his Ducati-thing. He made a face, but eventually shrugged. “I’ll pay you back,” he said.

That means we can back-and-forth instead of just e-mail all the time. Which is good because I can be online anywhere. I have half the summer left in Rome and I don’t want to waste it. It’s approaching the end of July, when everyone gets out, and I want to enjoy it while it’s still peopled.

You should see my skin. I’m almost golden. Growing up in New England, I didn’t think I had any skin pigmentation in me. Ballard of course is just naturally that way.

We drove south, to more ancient areas. All the way to Via Appia Antica. One of the oldest paved roads in existence. It was lined with ruinous crumbling tombs––some no more than mounds of dirt. Lizards basked in the sun, regulating their body temperatures.

Travelers along the road included a Who’s Who of Biblical figures.

The stones along the road were laid flat and smooth. Countryside went into the distance on either side, followed by the Alban Hills. Tall pointy cypresses and thin broccoli-shaped ones shaded the joggers and cyclists from the midday heat.

It was a wild and overgrown area––full of whitepinklavender orchids and hawthorn.

This, Diary, was the spot.

Ballard seemed uneasy; he suspected me, I could tell.

We were alone for half a mile in every direction. A volpe, which is Italian for fox, came out from wherever it was hiding, and stared at us; he had a shaggy head, and a red fur coat. He suspected me of duplicity.

Ballard. Not the fox.

“So,” he said, then did an arm swing thing. Was Ballard uncomfortable? He was always so nonchalant. Which was exactly the problem.

I picked an orchid. It looked like a fiery red flame with points of white. Then twirled it in my fingertips. Ballard was taller than I was. I looked up at him, from underneath my eyelashes.

The wind picked up and caught my hair; I could see it blowing licks, this way and that. Smelling the orchid, I walked up to him, equally nonchalant, and then turned aggressive.

He dropped his hands to his sides and then looked down at me––his thoughts not so inscrutable, after all. But I wasn’t here to take advantage of him, Diary.

I backed him up against a cypress tree; I think I will never forget the smell of that field. A dry, sweet, serene scent. It was the easiest thing.

His back thudded against the cypress.

He had a look on his face.

“I know you’re hiding things from me, Ballard. Don’t play coy,” I said.

“What––whatever––do you mean?” he said.

I was inches from him. He had held his breath, expectantly. The orchid looked like some alien plant, like the iron roses––twisted.

I lost heart.

“Romulus and Remus,” I said. “The founders of Rome. I looked them up––” And so I had.

He searched back in his memory, breathing again. “What––what about them?” he said.

“Well, you said,” I said, twirling like the orchid, and then tossing my head, so my hair did interesting things, “that your family––has a Legend.”

“Oh. That,” he said.

I did a cartwheel, and then threw my head back. I was crouching, half-wild, looking up at him. “Yes, that,” I said. I picked another orchid. A blue one. The two, complementary, set each other off.

“I don’t get it,” he said.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“No problem.” I began picking at the orchid, destroying it. The twisted one I let live.

“They were suckled by a she-wolf. Right?”

I looked at him, between my eyelashes, like two giant staring liquid eyeballs, beady and insect-like, ready to pick him to pieces. And then did the face, blew the strand of hair out of my face again. So I definitely had his attention, Diary.

“I heard you say the word ‘outlaws,’” I said, “fuorilegge.”

“Oh. That,” he said again.

“You edit. Withhold. p-ssyfoot.”

“What?” he said. “Wait.”

I turned back around; I had been about to leave.

“Go on,” he demanded.

“They were outlaws. Fuorilegge.”

“So what?” he said.

I said, “So that’s code, all right? It means werewolves. That’s why I’m here, Ballard. Don’t you see? I did some digging. It’s called lupo mannaro. Italian lycanthropy is perfectly well documented.

“Who’s to say what is real and what isn’t?” I went on. “Do you know, they found a two-thousand-year-old computer lost off the island of Crete. People bend spoons with their minds. Do you believe in the Resurrection? The Holy Eucharist? That a man can transform himself into the ravening figure of a wild dog? I do.”

“There’s just one problem,” he said. “I’m not a werewolf.”


“The moon is steadfast. It never turns. It also doesn’t show you what it’s got behind its back,” I said, coming towards him. “It has a dark side, the moon, which it keeps to itself.”

“And you think I do?”

“You hide,” I said.

“I’m not a werewolf,” he said again.

“Ballard... Your parents went to Greece.”

“So?”

“So that’s where werewolves are from,” I said. “And when Greek writers were done writing about werewolves, the Romans picked them up. They probably traveled on four legs and set up shop here. Romulus and Remus.

“Do you know what an outlaw is?” I asked him. “It’s someone who has, in effect, been banished. Its roots date from early Roman history. In a law called homo sacer. All the way back in a time just after Romulus and Remus, your forebears, died. Put simply, it meant you could kill them––these outlaws. Heck, it was your duty to kill them. But the words had a deeper meaning. ‘Cursed.’”

I explained to him that it persisted through history––these cursed men who were banished, hunted, and murdered––until the Middle Ages, when such an individual was called vargr.

And that was the Old Norse for outlaw. But it also meant wolf.

“Werewolf,” I said.

He said I was crazy.

“Let me get this straight,” he said.

I cut him off. I wouldn’t allow him to cheapen this. This wasn’t some specious argument. “Risky knew wizards,” I said. “Think about that. Which, by the way, I am one. The only thing I can think is that you haven’t gone through ‘the Change,’ yet, so perhaps don’t know what you are. Instinctively, you’re cool with it, though. You’re cool with us.

“Which is cool for me, because I need your help,” I said. “I did some major crumpling of my forehead last night. I was bothered by the symbols. You know the ones? Suddenly, it came to me. Change.”

I heard some rustling and looked up.

Ballard was gone.

I turned around and saw him stalking into the high grass. He was pacing around.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m fifteen.”

“So?”

“So I’ve been through puberty, okay? If I were this––” he couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘werewolf,’ “––you’d think I’d be scratching around already. Only, I’m not.”

“Ballard. That doesn’t matter,” I said. “The important thing is, we know what you are now. And I looked into the matter thoroughly. Did you know, there are actually people who think that they are werewolves? They’re not. They’re just crazy. But they think they are. You see what I’m saying? So there have to be people who really are werewolves but that think they’re not.”

I was satisfied with my logic. He flipped.

“Ballard... come back...” I said.

He stalked toward me.

He was my Bally: I played him like a yo-yo.

“Why are you upset?” I demanded.

“I’m not.”

“Are. You’re gritting your teeth.”

“It’s just...”

“What?”

We had come to the point, Diary––the brink. If Ballard and I were to continue to be friends––now––this moment––would decide it. He had to start being honest with me. He had to learn to trust me. I crossed my arms, and let my hair do whatever it wanted.

For his part, he completely collapsed.

“It would be so like me,” he said.

I sat down in the grass with him.

“The worst part is watching everyone else. Lia tells me to butt out; it’s hard, knowing that she gets to have all the fun. My parents put her in charge. I’m to go to school and be a good boy. It gets tiring being the one to have to mind my p’s and q’s. Meanwhile, just think about it, Halsey. I never saw anyone get up to something, unless there was something to get up to.”

“What do you mean?” I said, excited he was sharing, but concerned about the off-sounding note in his voice.

“The other night, at La Luna Blu,” he said, “I felt something. I didn’t see something. I didn’t hear it. I felt it. It was the weirdest thing. It was like a calling. A cold fear. A chill in my heart. A little voice in my head said, Something is out there. ‘What?’ I told Gaven about it, and you saw how he reacted. They rode around all night.”

“Did they find anything?” I asked.

“You’re not listening to me,” he said. “If they did, or if they didn’t, why would they ever tell me?”

“So... What are you saying?”

“Only this: You are not the only one who can get online...”

“If you were any more cryptic––” I said.

He pulled out what looked like a flyer. “I found something,” he said, handing it to me.

I unfolded it, and looked at it. It was crumpled in places. It looked like a map, of sorts. Directions. To a club.

“‘Cambiamento del club,’” I read.

“Club Change,” he said, complimenting my pronunciation.

I could see the requisite delta symbol. Again, it looked uncannily like the back of a one-dollar bill. Instead of an All-Seeing Eye, however, or a circumpunct, there were many symbols. Symbols I had seen before.

Symbols that were, in fact, swimming, as if in a constellation of stars––on the cover, and inside of, The Magus Codex itself. My book of magic.

“Ballard...” I said.

“I was thinking, we could go there. And maybe they could tell us... something,” he said. “They seem to be into this kind of thing. Or otherwise, it’s a club for transgenders. Change.”

I felt euphoric suddenly. I checked my watch, and said, “We have to get ready. According to the flyer, it opens at Midnight.”