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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Problems of the Heart, Muddles of the Head"  "It's not going to blow anything up," says Will. "Don't be a dumbass." "Do you know what's in those bags I bought?" Caleb shouts. "Do you know anything about chemistry?" "This isn't chemistry," Will retorts. "It's magic. It didn't blow up the last guys who owned that book." "How do you know? The book wound up in a used bookstore. Maybe it blew up everyone who tried that spell and that's how come it keeps getting bumped around from person to person!" You've heard enough, and step in. "We'll try it out, but we won't do it in the basement. We'll do it in the open." Will shrugs, but Caleb still wears a guarded expression. "What about the book? You wanna risk blowing it up?" "Risk it? According to you, it will blow up if we set fire to the crap." "Right. So we should make a copy of the sigil." "Uh uh. We'll use the book." Both Caleb and Will look startled. "The fuck?" says Caleb aloud, and Will's expression echoes it. "Yeah. What you said about it blowing up the last guy or guys who tried that spell," you say. "If it blows up in our faces, we'll blow up the book, and that way no one else gets blown up by it." Now your friends turn a little green. "And if we get blown up too?" asks Will. "We won't," you say. "'Cos Caleb knows how to make a fuse. A really long fuse. Don't you?" "Sure," says Caleb, though he sounds far from certain. "Perfect. So that's what we'll do." And now you permit yourself a smile. "And I know the perfect place to do it." * * * * * Will laughs. "Oh, shit, this is awesome!" "Quiet," you growl. "Just keep moving the dirt." It's pitch black -- it's past ten o'clock -- and you're unloading sandbags filled with graveyard dirt from the back of your old truck. Well, you're unloading it; Will and Caleb are emptying the bags in a pile atop the grimoire, which you've opened to the most recent spell. You're sore from having to move the dirt into the back of the truck, and are fervently hoping there aren't any more spells that call for you to move that much earth. And where are you unloading the stuff? It hasn't got an address, being just an open acre of land next to the river. But it's at four-way nexus, just to the west of where Carver Road crosses the Mohegan River. To the east, just across the river, is the stretch of riverbank where teens like to gather to smoke, party, make out, and screw inside their cars. Just to the south is the Saratoga Falls Country Club. If you set off an explosion here, it will light up and rattle kids on their dates, and old, rich people at the club. That's why you suggested it. Actually, you hope nothing does blow up. It'd suck if you lost the book in an explosion. Bag by bag you unload the truck. Bag by bag, the other two dump the dirt out in a low berm. Under Caleb's direction, you gingerly soak the pile with dry fuels and wet fuels, being careful not to get any on yourself. Then you drive one end of a very long, homemade fuse into one end of the berm. Despite yourself, you're nervous, and you jump when Will starts the truck. He moves it down a hundred yards just to where the dirt track branches off of Carver. Caleb inspects your work, nods, and runs at a hard sprint to the truck. You run a sweaty palm against your shorts, flick the cigarette lighter, and set it to the ragged end of the fuse. It sputters to life. You trot back a few steps, then turn and thunder down the track to the truck. "Get in the cab," you bark as you gallop up. "Get in! I wanna get out of here fast if that thing goes up like a bomb!" Will and Caleb scamper up into the cab and turn over the motor; you vault into the bed of the truck, take out the small binoculars Will had brought along. You focus them on the berm, and pray that the fuse doesn't go out. In the dark you can barely make out a tiny spark and sputter. You wait. And wait. The spark doesn't seem to be moving. You lick your lips. Your cell dings, but you ignore it. The truck lurches forward, and you lose sight of the spark. Then you catch it again. You grip the side of the truck, willing yourself not to lose focus. If that berm goes off with an earth-shattering kaboom, you don't want to be surprised by it. And then there's a flash. You steel yourself for the shock. It never comes. * * * * * "Shit," says Will. "I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed." "I do." You shove Caleb in the shoulder. "Moron. We coulda done it in the basement, saved all the trouble of lugging that shit around." Caleb replies with a dirty look. That is, you assume he's giving you a dirty look. You can't really tell in the dim light of the fire. It's a purple fire, and a very gentle purple fire it is that's licking at the berm of earth. It makes no noise, and it gives off no heat. Will discovered that when he put his hand in it. There was a very brief and large flash of purple when the spark hit the fuel-soaked earth, but there was no explosion, no sound, no shock wave, and the flash lasted only a second or two before dimming into these ghostly flames. "How long do we have to wait?" Will asks. "The book says to wait until the flame dies out." "How long will that be?" "I don't know," Caleb cries. "Why don't you pull the book out and look at it for yourself?" Will rears back. "Can we do that?" He looks between you and Caleb. "Won't that stop the spell from working?" Now you and Caleb exchange a glance: you'd not thought about that. "I don't know. I suppose we should just wait and see how long it lasts. If it goes out in the next hour, there's no point in worrying, is there?" So you wait for about fifteen minutes, pacing the ground and slapping at insects and peering across the river at the few -- very few -- cars in view on the other side. Will finally declares that he's going to drive in to town to pick up some snacks for everyone, and when he's gone you and Caleb hunker down next to the berm. "You thought about going to Chelsea's party on Friday?" you ask him. "I told you, I don't want to." "You thought about asking Eva out again?" He groans. "It's too late for that." "It's not too late. It's never too late until you give up." "Oh, what is that, some kind of mystic dating koan?" he cries. "Anyway, what the fuck do you know about getting it on with hot cheerleaders?" You have a wry answer to that, but you keep your mouth shut. Until Caleb realizes you'd have a wry answer to it, and he repeats his question in a much more serious tone of voice. "What do you know about it?" "You mean, What do I know about getting it on with Chelsea Cooper?" "Don't brag. You knew what I was asking without me having to say so." "Ask Gordon." "I'm not gonna do that. He's got your sticks where your arms should be, but I don't want him whaling on me." "So you want me to tell you what it's like to date Chelsea." You sit back and stretch strong legs in front of you, so that everything can unfurl. "You want me to tell you about how she shaves her pussy, so she's all soft like velvet down there, and it feels awesome whether you're touching her with your lips or your tongue or your finger or your cock. And how when she swells up down there, and you touch it, it's like pushing an orgasm button, and she makes this little whistling shriek in the back of her throat, and she grabs your hand and -- Hey, let go." Caleb has sunk a clawlike hand into your arm. "Not unless you keep going," he says in a strangled voice. "I wanna take a 3D movie of it to bed with me." "I don't wanna think about what you're doing in your bed in the next room, Johansson." You pry his hand off you. "Anyway, I'm not gonna say any more. It won't do you any good. What you need is to think about how you're going to get back in action with Eva, now that you've let so much time dribble away." "I was never in action with her. That was you." "Right. I served her up on a platter, and you dropped her. Asshat." You slap him, and he cries out. "Watch it! You're turning more and more like Gordon every day, Will!" "And he's turning more and more like me, it seems like. So what's it matter? Anyway, I didn't mean to hit you hard. Did I?" "It felt like it!" "Suck it up. I mean, I'm sorry. I don't -- " You roll your shoulder. "I don't know how it feels on the other end. Gordon doesn't, or never did, I think. He's not an asshole, Johansson," you snarl in a sudden, defensive heat. There's no time for him to reply as the beams of a truck catch you in their glare and the cloud of dirt off the track blows past you when it brakes. "Yo, it's my treat," Prescott says when gets out and drops a bag in front of you. "But you owe me for later." * * * * * An hour passes, and then ninety minutes, and finally midnight creeps into view. Your trio finally decides to check the fire in the morning: you'll do that on your way to school early. But do you try to extract the grimoire from under the burning pile of earth? Next: "Party Plans" |
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