That was so unfair. “That is so unfair,” I wrote back. “Go to class. You know the pact. We sign off on each other’s guys.”
* * *
Today was going to be crazy. I found a place nearby I could park a scooter. So I rented one for the summer. It was an interesting shade of orange. A Vespa. I was soon to learn scooters were ubiquitous, in Rome. They were absolutely everywhere.
The gentleman who rented it to me made me wear a helmet. “It’s the law,” he said. I got a pair of sunglasses to go with it.
So with my hair being matted, and my cheeks pinched, I started the 10.7 horsepower engine, and was off, wobbling a bit before I got my footing. He waved nervously. I saw him shake his head in my rearview mirror.
It was perfect. It was exactly how I wanted to travel through Rome. I had my backpack on my back. And it was perfect.
My ensemble for today consisted of the last of my clean laundry: a black cotton T-shirt with ciao written on it in purple and sparkles, a pair of jeans that were beyond loose from having been lived in for so long, and boots.
The first stop was the police. Despite what Lennox said, I wanted to at least let them know someone or something had attacked me last night. Unfortunately, they didn’t really take my report seriously. A detective who spoke English said, “You are alive, yes. Not harmed, yes.” He reminded me of the minicab driver, just not as nice.
“But I was robbed,” I said. “He took––”
“Ah. So it is not. Ah.”
I filled out a form. “If we find anything, we will let you know,” he said. Scratch going to the police, I thought. As I moved through the precinct, I couldn’t help noticing a lot of detectives moving around. I saw them go into a room, where a lot of people were, and close the door.
It was obvious that they were working on finding whoever was killing all of those people. I couldn’t help noticing how worried they all looked. Like they didn’t have a clue.
The sun was out. My skin, unused to so much light, was beginning to darken before my very eyes. I was going to be bronze-colored before long. It was amazing how beautiful everyone was. I sat on my Vespa, waiting to turn into morning traffic, and thought about him again.
He felt so fragile to me. His large, liquid eyes were like purple ink, staining parchment, drawn into the fibers. I thought he may have worn eyeliner––it made him all the more seductive.
I had to get a grip. I promised myself to be more casual, if we ended up bumping into each other again. No way would he just voluntarily come to pick me up. I had a few essentials to get: new clothes, shampoo. I wanted to drive around a bit. I liked how the Vespa cruised around almost silently, but when it came to a steep hill, it had the ability to go up.
I was at this huge interchange. It was massive. I had never seen so many people and automobiles coming from so many different directions. But I got in a pack of other motorini enthusiasts and together we formed a large school of mopeds big enough to keep them at bay. So I scootered around with them for a while.
It takes a Vespa to get you to see all of the other Vespas in Rome. Who you were, or whatever, was totally a non-issue. This must be what a motorcycle gang is like, I thought.
I left them, waving good-bye, and headed for a place called Trastevere, my Vespa humming with excitement. Ballard worked there, in a motorcycle shop, coincidentally enough. They did repairs and whatnot. I should fit right in. Right? I gulped. This was going to be weird.
Hi. You sent me this stuff. So I dropped out of school and crossed the Atlantic Ocean to come talk to you. I’m staying in Rome for the summer....
Even in my head it sounded lame.
I didn’t even know how old he was or what he looked like.
You’re not dating him, Halsey. You’ve just come to talk. No strings. You’ll just say your bit and go. Stop making so many judgments all the time.
I knew what Becca would say, if she were here. “He sent you that, halfway around the world? Oh my god. You better sleep with him.”
He was going to think I was crazy! “Crap,” I said to myself. Breathe. I had to pull over, get my bearings.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
It’s me, Halsey.
Halsey, who?
Halsey You-Sent-Me-A-Package-From-Italy-And-Now-I’m-Here-Three-Months-And-Four-Thousand-Miles-Later.
Freak. I parked my Vespa in a pack of other scooters outside a café, and took my backpack off, putting it down on a round glass table for two. The waiter hurried over as I unsnapped my helmet and set it down. I ordered a cappuccino and a cream-filled brioche.
We were just off a vicolo––one of those crazy alleyways Lennox had saved me from, and for which I now seemed to harbor a hidden phobia––in an almost-piazza. Cars came and went within inches of our tables. I saw the ‘scissor doors’ that went up, like in Lamborghinis, which meant their occupants could get out in tight spaces.
According to my guidebook, Trastevere was like ‘stepping back in time.’
I generally liked to prepare myself when traveling through time. I dug inside my backpack, my fingers finding the spines of several books. I recognized my notebook. The cloth on the spine had a nice tactile feel. I took it out just as my waiter returned with my order. I tipped him and he shooed.
My first taste of Italian coffee did not disappoint. Yum. It had a sprinkle of some delicious spice or another atop creamy foam. I opened my notebook, not bothering to wipe my fingers before turning the pages, with the brioche in my hand.
Writing things down to remember stuff should have explained why I wrote things down. I just wanted to go over everything again.
There was an elastic band and a pocket in the back that could hold things. Mine held the letter Ballard had sent to me. I had read it so often, I practically had it memorized.
The ink was faded in spots. There were smudges and coffee stains. I was a messy reader.
Anyway, I read it again. It still had the power to upset. I felt vindicated in my choice to throw my future away.
“Dear Miss Rookmaaker,” it began. I took the opportunity to smile over the messy penmanship.
“Please excuse the electrical tape. It’s all I had to seal this up with. My hands are greasy from working on a bike all day. I work in my uncle’s motorcycle shop. I clean engines and change parts and handle grease rags and all that. My name is Ballard. Buon giorno!”
I sampled some more of the brioche, rubbing the powdered sugar from my fingertips before continuing.
“I bet you’re wondering how I found you? Don’t worry. I’m not some stalker.
“I do not often have the chance to write foreigners, and an opportunity such as this cannot be squandered. Especially to write in English. So I will say that the contents––this letter aside––require every bit of care. I assume you have looked through them? They are not to be trifled with, missy, as my Uncle would say, and as I now inform you.
“This book belonged to your mother,” he wrote. “Let us just say that if you are what I think you are––and obviously you must be, otherwise why would you be going to St. Martley’s––you will want to have this in your possession.
“Such manuscripts are dangerous. I do not feel comfortable even flipping through it.
“Here is the material point. My uncle knew Kinsey and Maximilian Rookmaaker––
“But he died last week. I was named executor. It was my job to go through his stuff. Among his few possessions was this.
“I did not know him to be a hoarder. Anything he kept would have been important to him. Things that he did keep were mostly in scrapbooks. So I noticed this right away.
“I saw the design on the cover. I was immediately disturbed by it and picked it up. When I opened it, I found the inscription. I will leave it to you to decipher what it means. I do not know.
“There was also a note from my uncle. The note I keep out of sentimental reasons, it being his last correspondence in this world. But it scared the ever-loving bleep out of me.”
I read his transcription of it. It had lost none of its potency.
“Such things are beyond my understanding,” he continued. “But a little digging told me the gist. I pass it on to you, now. Although I cannot help thinking I have burdened you, only to be rid of it myself. I hope this package finds you well. If you can think of anything, or would like to discuss this further, correspondence directed to my uncle’s shop, will find me. Ciao, for now. See that you do not cut yourself playing with old daggers. Somebody told me that once. I hope you can tell me what it means, because I certainly don’t understand it.
“Ballard.”
I put it away. My journal entry from three months ago read like a gunshot.
‘I don’t think the Rookmaakers died natural deaths. The bodies that were recovered were quickly cremated. If I am to believe Mistress Genevieve....
‘She has never given me cause not to. But these morbid feelings. She wants me to see a shrink. I don’t think somebody rattling around in my head will find anything I can’t. Some wounds cut too deep to be cured. I don’t tell her about my journal. I don’t tell her how it makes me vent, or that it can be therapeutic. Or that I suspect things, I am not willing to share. I don’t tell her jack shit.
‘Implicit is the fear that I may go too far, and vent on someone who can’t handle my angst. I will keep my mouth shut, for now.’
* * *
As I stood to go, I heard a rumble. It made the pigeons disperse. A sound, like engines, was coming down a corridor.
It grew in intensity, and then I saw them break through, into the morning sunlight.
A long unbroken line of men and women on motorcycles. I could tell the motorcycles were the fast type because of how the riders sat on them. They went past, one after the other, with their helmets shining in the sun.
The bikes all said DUCATI on them.
Some had just one rider. Others were guys who had their girlfriends riding on the backs. The engines roared like fierce cats. I felt a silly smile on my face when I got on my own little motor scooter. When I turned the key, it started like it was apologizing for something. I patted it and got ready to meet Ballard. I drove down first one vicolo, then another, searching for his uncle’s motorcycle shop.
I think I loved it. Trastevere was a different place than the other areas I had seen so far. It looked lived in. The sides of the buildings, all squished into one another, were weathered and sun-beaten. Lines crisscrossed overhead full of laundry airing out in the morning sun. I could see the tops of Romanesque bell towers; they beat the hours. All the shutters were thrown open. It had a bohemian heart.
As I drove, I was ‘transported back in time.’ Good old guidebook. I couldn’t help smiling. Grandmothers with shopping bags on their arms knocked here or there. Broken down cars that nevertheless still worked, waited on their owners. Through it all I navigated my shiny orange Vespa.
I could hear the rumbling. I was surprised, when I turned the corner, to see them hanging outside a makeshift storefront. I caught a glimpse of them with their helmets off. They were all extraordinarily tall, the riders.
The women were ‘Italian beautiful,’ with dark hair longer than mine, and a certain cut to the way they held themselves. One threw her head back and laughed confidently at a joke; she had a bright red motorcycle helmet beneath her arm, and she was dangling a pair of leather riding gloves in the other. She had on black leather pants and a jacket, trimmed out with strips of red that accentuated her helmet and set off her hair.
They were parked in front of Ballard’s shop. My nervousness jumped to a whole new level.
I was never good with introductions, and time apart, even from close friends, caused a nervous reunion. Part of me wanted to just keep on driving by. But I rode up on my motor scooter and parked. The sign outside advertised AUTOFFICINA. Some kind of mechanic shop. Above it in hand painted letters was TRASTEVERE MOTOR CLUB––WE FIX IT. In Italian, of course. I felt foolish pulling up. When I put down my kickstand, they all looked at me.
There had to have been ten of the most attractive young men I had ever seen standing there. Becca would have died. They were all athletic and muscular and all exceedingly tall. Six-foot-nine, at least. They looked like the scantily-clad models I had seen on billboards advertising the latest designer fashions.
The woman, who seemed to be my age or a little older, was conspicuous foremost by her beauty, but also because she was the only one with a full head of hair. The others had shaved theirs off. They were playing with the throttles on their expensive-looking motorcycles or else passing the time. They looked like they were waiting for someone. When I got off my bike, the girl looked at me. She continued her conversation uninterrupted but gave me a friendly smile. It was enough. I took my helmet off and walked up to her, unsure of what happened next.
“Hi.”
Her smile got even wider. “It’s buon giorno. You got to know where you’re at,” she said. The way she said it––it was like she had been all over the place.
“I’m afraid I don’t speak Italian,” I said, hoping she would understand. She looked over at my bike. I waited nervously for her to pronounce judgment.
Instead, she said, “I like your wheels.”
“I like your wheels too,” I said, wishing someone would put me out of my misery. She just smiled some more. It looked like she sympathized.
“I have three brothers. If I don’t ride motorcycles with them, their feelings will get hurt. It’s not like we can braid each other’s hair.” She nodded at their deficiency in the hair department. “Can I help you with something? You’re not lost, are you?”
“Ballard.” I clung to that word. “Do you know who that is?”
She changed a little bit; there was more cunning in her eyes. “Who did you say you are?”
“I didn’t.”
Her eyes became unfocused and she said something to the others that caused them to go quiet. “I’m not here to start any trouble. I swear,” I said.
We stood like that for a while. “I see,” she said.
“Do you know where I can find him?” I finally asked.
The smile returned. “Of course. He is my little brother,” she said. My mouth formed the word O. “Ballard! Ballard!” she shouted. She unzipped one of her pockets and took out a pack of gum, offering me a piece. “Suit yourself,” she said. She chewed it, still thinking. “Ballard!”
I heard a machine shut off, inside. Next second, a teenager with oily jeans and a torn T-shirt appeared, carrying a rag in his hand, and said, “What, Lia?” He had brown eyes, curly black hair, and a pair of goggles on top of his head. He looked at each of us, waiting for somebody to talk.
“Buon giorno,” I said, feeling like a fool. “I got your letter.” His smile widened.
Chapter 6 – Lennox
I pulled into the underground parking garage thankful for the respite from the July sun, which had been beating upon the hood of Occam’s Charger. It was the start of the shift change at Police HQ. I had driven because in his wisdom Occam had installed bulletproof tinted glass that kept the sun’s rays at bay. He said it was just because he wanted to look cool, but I knew he did it for me. He had made his ride vamp accessible, in case I ever needed to use it. I crossed my fingers, hoping his trip was going well. Occam never left home unless it was an absolute emergency and even then he procrastinated until the final moment; all in the name of research, as he so often told me. His house was awash in books and half-forgotten parchments, the kinds with cracked leather bindings that were handwritten and illuminated.
Some were so old the pages were spilling out. They were worn and smelled faintly of mildew. His arcana. I was forbidden to touch them. If one were so much as out of place....
I sighed.
For the last eight hours I had been hard-pressed to get her out of my mind. I thought of nothing except what I was going to say to her, the next time we met. It interfered with my ability to concentrate on anything else.
I trie
d looking into necromancy, but Occam’s stores of knowledge on the subject were exhaustive. I was in no fit state to bury my head in books. My preference was always to enlist the help of others, when at all possible, rather than to rely on textbook explanations for things––to press the flesh, so to speak.
That was not to say I could not piece things together for myself.
I had cultivated very few close relationships––too often that meant revealing one’s self to someone, and letting them in on the secret existence of our kind. See rule number one. It was absolutely forbidden.
The only justifiable excuse in revealing yourself to a non-vampire was if it meant the difference between the life and death of a vampire. Humans dying was another matter. Let them.
The second rule was not to interfere in the affairs of humans.
There was only one other Law of Vampires.
I flashed my lights at a member of the Questura who was headed across the half-empty parking garage to a set of lifts that would take him upstairs. He looked over.
I saw recognition dawn upon his face. He raised his hand and came over.
It was a singular experience to see a human and know they knew who I was. That was a death sentence, generally––for the human, and the vampire, unless the vampire could explain what was going on.
Lieutenant Moretti had ten years working Homicide. Before that he had been a beat cop. He got a call one night and responded to a disturbance.
It turned out two ‘vampers’ had set upon a night watchman at this or that museum. Moretti was the first on the scene. He managed to save the night watchman, but drew the ire of the vampires. I happened to be there.
He drew his pistol and stopped one vampire dead in its tracks––he thought. I did not manage to get to him in time.
When he rolled over, with part of his face hanging from his chin, he fired. The bullet tore through the second vamper who had been about to run me through. Time was critical and I couldn’t bother to be discreet. Both of our lives were on the line. I ran the second vampire through.
Moretti witnessed firsthand the destruction of two immortals, that night. It cost him his innocence, in a way. Ordinarily, I was supposed to come up with a cover story. Only, I could not explain away what happened to the vampires he had helped to kill. “They disappeared into thin air!” he said. Since then, we had cooperated on a few other cases.