The Wiccan Diaries (2 page)

The Headmistress at my school, Mistress Genevieve, seemed to
think so. “You are only seventeen,” she said, “and have not yet graduated. This
institution has a responsibility for your welfare,” and so on.

I protested. I was adamant. I made my case.

She listened to none of it. “Perhaps when you are older,
Halsey. I’m sorry. As trustee of your parents’ estate, I have final say, and I
say
no
.”

The word hung in the air as no’s often do.

“Well, I’m going, anyway,” I said.

“Decisions are decisions and we live with those decisions,
Miss Rookmaaker,” she said.

I told her I had decided. She said I was being impudent. She
went so far as to say,
A snot
. I
didn’t feel like a snot. I felt like this was an opportunity I had to take to
explore something I had to know. She said she knew what was good for me, and
that would be good enough. “After all, it was your parents who elected
me
your guardian. Does not their word
count for something with you, Halsey Rookmaaker?”

* * *

I put the backpack in the corner of the closet and shut the
small louvered door, then roamed my new abode in my bare feet. A small bend led
to an even smaller bathroom. But the floor plan was pretty much that described.
I stepped onto the balcony as the sun was setting and let my eye travel over
the small crowd that was forming below. It was a quirk in Roman architecture
that the first floor was actually the second. I was five stories high. The
roads were narrow even in a posh district such as this.

I thought of the stars and the wheeling clouds and the
colors of the night. And I thought of what to do. I had decided that I wasn’t
going to stay in. On the contrary, I wanted to take a look around. The
nightscape looked promising. I actually had a very good view.

I unpacked my laptop, and plugged it in. While it charged, I
studied the map. The neighborhood I was staying at was, quote, a
place of interest
. Good to know, I
thought, as I radiated my finger outward, I realized that all of Rome fit that
description.

I was sitting at the small desk that was now mine. Made from
aged and cracking wood, it had a single locking drawer with a key. I had a
passion for antiques. This looked prewar. Inside the drawer sat a notepad and
pen. I removed the top sheet that had some scribbles on it––a phone
number with the Rome prefix, followed by the name Enzo.

There were also a few paper clips, a pair of scissors, some
random staples, a whole box of multicolored tacks.... A spool of black thread
littered the bottom, together with sewing needles. I would add my own journal
to the contents, when I was done writing in it for the night. I loved to write,
it helped me think. When I wrote things down, I remembered them better. My
journal had an all-black cover; I filled it, religiously.

The most interesting conversation today had been with the
cabbie.
‘I am here, finally, and already
strange things are happening to me,’
I wrote.
‘The bad thing about my hideaway: no kitchen. No stove, no
refrigerator. Dining out is its own reward. I am looking forward to authentic
pasta. Drinks served at small tables. Conversation filled with “ciao,” and
“bella.”’
I paused, uncertain how to proceed. I got out four tacks and
pinned the map to the wall. It looked impressive.
‘The city is built on seven hills. Each hill is an area. And each area
is distinct.’
I thought that was interesting. I looked at the map. I was in
Piazza di Spagna.
‘I want to see the
azaleas on the Spanish Steps.’

So much for writing. I put it away and locked the dainty-looking
drawer. I would need a place for my two new keys. I put them next to the laptop
and went to take a shower. Only, my bathroom didn’t
have
a shower. It had a tub. The porcelain type with clawed feet.

I should describe myself. I had long hair.

It was wicked black.

My skin was pale, because I was a night owl. I swear I
didn’t look like a freak. Sometimes I felt like a freak, though. As far as the
measuring tape went, I was terribly, terribly average.

Description done. In the morning, I would get my stuff. Hair
care products, etc. I gathered up my hair, pinning it up, and opened the tap.
The pipes shivered. Some brown dirt flopped out, then it started gurgling. It
took
forever
.

Finally, clear liquid spewed into the porcelain tub. It got
hot
.

It felt good, after the long train ride. I felt all of the
fatigue wash away. All I had was a piece of soap but it was good enough. I
bathed with the door open. When you grow up in a private New England Academy
where the rules are strict––

I shook my head; I wasn’t going to hate on them. It felt
good to have a place of my own.

Still––the one thing I missed was privacy. I had
it.

When I got out, I tracked watery footprints to the closet,
and put on a few new things. I hung up the rest of my pathetically meager
wardrobe. Sadly, there were hangers to spare.

I decided I would remedy that tomorrow. Or the next day. But
that was the whole point. I had days. The whole summer. I was
free
. It inspired me to make a new
entry.

‘It’s me, Halsey. This
is going to kick butt. So you know.’

I put on a pair of flats and went out the door in jeans and
a tank top.

Chapter 2 – Lennox’s Point of View

I woke to the sound of my laughing wristwatch, feeling like
the dead. Occam hadn’t wasted any time. By now he was halfway to Prague. You
had to give it to the E.U. The open borders made traveling much more
convenient.

The monster in my wristwatch may have slept in a coffin; I
did not. My ablutions were finished posthaste. I had a lot to do today.

It was 6:05 p.m. The sun did not go down until 8:48. That
was the kind of information it paid to know, when you had my condition. It
would continue to lose a minute, each day, until the end of Daylight Savings
Time. The Summer Solstice had passed a fortnight ago––my birthday.
It was the longest day of the year. My own personal anathema.

Vampires are fat and lazy in these summer months. We hunt
little and pass the time in personal endeavors. I was catching up on my
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She was a poet, the one who said, “How do I love
thee? Let me count the ways.”

I preferred, “Each man stands with his face in the light... ready
to do what a hero can.”

Tonight’s errand involved vampers. While I was prepared to
do what I could, I wasn’t sure about the face in the light bit. There was a
statue I liked, in Campo de’ Fiori, where I lived. It was of the forgotten
figure Giordano Bruno. He was holding presumably a magic book, and was deeply
hooded and cloaked. As I was, now.

I made do with a stake, usually. Simple, effective, elegant.
There was a leather loop sewn on the inside of my duster, especially for it. I
could pull it and deliver a backhand strike in a single move. Or I could just
rely on my innate speed, and invincibility. Nothing mortal could take me.

Occam laughed at such statements.

I thought about taking his car, but it was too large and
conspicuous looking. It wasn’t built for the labyrinth of streets and alleys.
Besides, it drank fuel.

I put my hood up, so it cast my face in shadow, and
descended the stone steps, to the inner courtyard of Occam’s private residence.
A large gate topped with pointed spikes protected Castle Occam.

“I have enemies,” he told me once.

I took such declarations with a grain of superstitious salt.

There was an all-alone-in-your-parents-house-for-the-weekend-so-let’s-party
atmosphere to the old place. I imagined him coming home early to find people
passed out drunk everywhere.

I couldn’t remember the last time I just hung out with
someone.

Rome was not vampire country. It wasn’t anything. It used to
be. But it wasn’t anymore.

The market at this time of night was completely empty. I had
a bit of a trek before me.

I passed strolling couples with my head down. Romans had a
word for such a nighttime stroll.
Passeggiata.

I was in no hurry. On a corner under some scaffolding, was a
street vendor who dealt in used books and images of the Pope. He sold every
major newspaper from wire racks.

I bought one from Paris and Rome––giving him the
coins that passed for money––and perfunctorily thanked him, before
passing on. I had time to kill, so I decided to spend it at the place I liked
best.

It was just closing before I got there. I simply walked in
and never left. Everything was roped and gated off. Footpaths led through all
and sundry. One monument caught my fancy in the early years. I liked to go
there sometimes. It was a good place, if you wanted to be alone.

Tucking the newspapers inside my floor-length duster, I
rested my fingertips upon the warm, pink granite, of the Temple of Saturn, and
began the climb, curving around the column to avoid the last rays of sunlight.
I made it to the top, and hid in a nook atop the architrave, unfolding the Rome
newspaper first.

I was high up; it was silent and peaceful. I turned to the
crime beat.

Emmanuela Skarborough, reporting.

There was a picture of her next to her byline. “Police today
found the body of another alleged victim of what some are calling the worst
mass murderer to stalk Roman streets in modern times.
Peter Panico
, if he does exist, has some explaining to do.

“So far the bodies aren’t saying much. This reporter did
uncover one interesting new twist in a case which has so far managed to baffle
local authorities. According to one unnamed source, all of the victims appear
to have been
bled
dry.

“Exsanguination
is
a very rare method among serial killers. According to the source, the fact that
all of the bodies have been drained, means that the killer is dumping the
bodies, as opposed to randomly killing them.

“‘We have found no blood
on,
or around
the chalk outline,’ said the source.

“The most famous ‘exsanguinator’ in history––if
I may coin a new term––is perhaps Elizabeth Báthory, who, legend
had it, bathed in the blood of her victims. According to trial records, she
liked to bite them and visit other atrocities upon them.

“Romans are cautioned to avoid traveling at
night––but, if you must, to avoid traveling
alone
. We will be following the case as it develops.”

I turned the page. What followed was a tallying of the
kills, the facts of which I committed to memory.

This was a deep and complex issue for me, especially since
Occam was right, and Paris would be sending more vampires.

(“I will have to
report this––” Occam had said. “They will send someone….”)
I
decided to use my time wisely. Occam was off to Prague to see Massimo, a
demonologist we both knew. Which gave me some time to myself. But I still had
work. We had thrown a revenant into the back of Occam’s car.
“He wasn’t directly persuaded,”
said
Occam.
“But it will be good for you to
study a second-generation carrier. If all goes well, I should be back in a
month. From the Czech Republic, it’s on to France. I’ll send word.”
He
showed me his special Occam seal; it was on a cross he wore around his neck.
“Correspondence may find you with my seal on
it. Be careful of broken wax.”
I nodded and he was off. The revenant would
be ready to study in two days.

The next issue was the matter of the dead bodies.

Fresh corpses were preferable when raising the dead; it was
this whole thing. If you waited too long, you might not raise something
recognizably human.

There were other, more supernatural considerations, I wasn’t
interested in at the time.

It followed, however, that if this necromancer
was
raising the dead––and we
knew he was––then he was probably working his voodoo on fresh meat.
Ergo, the obits.

A quick survey of the obituaries yielded nothing by way of
any new leads. As for the desecration of any graves––none had been
reported.

All corpses accounted
for.

I was out of luck. I unfolded the Paris newspaper next. How
I was ever going to track this bodysnatcher, was beyond me.

Staid. Very staid.

Paris was inscrutable. If it had problems, they were of
mortal making. All quiet on the supernatural front. I could imagine the kind of
emissary the Lenoir would send. A real bloodsucker, probably.

I put such inevitable unpleasantries out of my mind and
stood up, stretching more out of habit than any real need. The
day––or night––was calling. Slowly, I began to run.

I ran for the pleasure of running. My duster swept behind me
like two giant black wings. I began to flow, arms and legs pumping, the motion
effortless, people, buildings, sweeping by.

I leapt across rooftops––higher, farther...

My fingers delved expertly into the folds and cracks of
stone. It was keen and pleasant. I enjoyed it immensely.

When I stopped running, I perched, warily, beside a small
stone gargoyle. He had fangs just like mine. We were high up. I think he shared
the same opinion. That whatever waited below might possibly test the theory
that vampires lived forever.

“We shall see,” I said. I descended the side of the
building, feeling the wooden stake stowed across my chest. It had a
point––to keep me alive.

I crossed the emptying piazza, and descended the set of
stairs leading underground. A large white M on a red background declared one of
the many metro stations strategically placed throughout Rome. Vampires didn’t
like the sunlight. Sometimes to avoid it, we took up in strange places.
Like cockroaches.

I was underneath Piazza Barberini, in Barberini Metro station,
one of many stops along Line A. It was a long metal tube going down the axis of
my vision, disappearing into shadow.

The scythes on my watch hand spun.

I passed the overhead signs going down the platform. People
waiting on benches... advertisements for Hollywood movies... the rattle and
whoosh of trains coming in and stopping. People got off and on. There was a
guitar player, sitting in the middle of the platform. He had a collection of
coins in a guitar case and was strumming his instrument.

It was just him and me now. One particular train coming in
was covered in graffiti. He said, “Hey, man, welcome to the underground,” as it
whooshed into the metro station.

I nodded. Beyond the ordinary tags, one bit of graffiti on
the train caught my eye. A pair of eyes. Like they were staring at me. I had
seen this bit of artwork before.

It was a reference to a bit of subversiveness called
The Urban 411
, a guide to
surviving––

No, it was impossible.

I didn’t want to acknowledge it. The part of my brain that
thought about these things, was playing devil’s advocate.
Think about it. Isn’t what’s happening now, a SIGN? Things aren’t as
they have been. The dead bodies. The missing people.
Exsanguination.
Paris is getting worried. Bodies don’t
suffer the trauma these bodies suffered and
not
bleed.

I shied from the argument. Occam was going to handle it. I
didn’t want to listen to it anymore.

I dropped a fifty in the guitar case. The broseph asked me
what I wanted to hear. I told him to give me some sympathy. And he played it.
The broseph played it.

The tunnel was dark but I was a creature of the night, so I
did that.

A vamper was a vampire in fangs only. They were layabouts.
They gave the rest of us a bad name. All they did was suck. But they had their
uses.

I used them for information.

The one I was going to meet was named
El
Sid. He liked to call himself that. He often referred to himself
in the third person.

Sid had been a used car salesman in Topeka. He hadn’t let
anyone leave the lot without paying for something. One night, he sold a lemon
to someone. This was 1976. Things backfired on him like one of his bad engines.

It turned out the purchaser of the
Cadillac––that cracked its rear axle and lost the transmission, all
without leaving the lot––was endowed with, shall we say, a life
which will never end?

He bit Sid and drank his blood. But Sid had skank blood, as
the story goes, and was left for dead. That night, Sid crawled into his office
trailer to die. In the morning people wondered where “the Sid” had gone
to––that’s what he used to call himself, back then. The Sid had
closed shop and was never heard from again. But the people of Topeka enjoyed a
resurgence of reliable, used automobiles.

Flash forward, and he was master of an empire on par with
his ambitions.

Walking between the tracks, I found the place without much
trouble. It had been made to look like any other part of the tunnel. But I knew
its occupant; I knew Sid.

He didn’t bother answering when I knocked, so I set aside
the false panel, and entered through the crouch hole. It looked like it had
been punched out with metal fists.

The infamous ex-Topeka Trickster was relaxed on a
rat-infested sofa with fluff and springs coming out of it. He was watching
I Love Lucy
on a TV with rabbit ears
sticking out the top of it.

I said, “Hey, Sid.”

He didn’t bother answering. That told me something right
there. I plopped down on a recliner next to him.

He was drinking a Blood-in-a-Cup. “Mind if I have one?” I
asked.

“Help yourself,” he said, scratching his stomach. Sid was in
a coffee-stained wife beater and pair of dickies.

I punched thirty seconds into the microwave on the floor and
watched my Blood-in-a-Cup go through, rotisserie-style. The floor was littered
with them. They were all half-empty and dripping everywhere.

When a Blood-in-a-Cup
is exsanguinated
, I told myself, it
makes
a mess
.

“Mmm. That’s good Blood-in-a-Cup,” I said, smacking my lips.

I finished the fluid manna, and said, “So.”

He looked up at me. There was blood on his mouth and teeth.
His eyes were empty. But I saw the telltale nystagmus.

“El Sid doesn’t think he’ll be hearing any more ‘so’s’ from
you,” he said. He had a scratchy smoker’s cough; it translated when he became
immortal. He looked away. “I home. I home, Lucy,” he said.

I still had the newspaper from Rome, which I tossed on
Sidney’s lap. He looked it over, being all blasé about it, and pretended like
he didn’t know what it meant. I had great faith the Sid could read. After all,
he could understand foreign language
I
Love Lucy
. That had to count for something. Right?

Actually, I knew him to be diabolical in a limited,
self-serving way. The stake was for if things got out of hand. Not that I
needed it.

It paid to have resources, which described my relationship
with Sid to a tee. “I thought you said you knew all the vampers,” I said.

“I don’t know who is doing this,” he said, referring to the
article about the serial killer.

“But you do agree that it
is
a vamper?”