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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Blackwell Has a Visitor"  No guts no glory, you tell yourself with a gulp. You yank the blank mask from your bag, and scamper back out the French doors with it. You expect to hear the front door open at any moment as you dash for the gate, but you make it outside the wall without being seen, and fall against the side of the visitor's car with your lungs and heart bursting in a rush of adrenaline. For what seems a very long time you lean there, catching your breath, and wondering what you will do when the visitor comes out. Jump him directly? Ask a few friendly questions and then hit him with the mask? Hide and jump out at him? I Your anxiety about how to catch him fades, though, and is replaced by worry as the minutes pass and he doesn't appear. He said that he had to go, and Blackwell wanted to be rid of him. So where is he? Did they fall into another conversation? How long will he be? Then a worse worry occurs to you. Perhaps they went looking for you in the library, and found you gone. Perhaps they are looking for you now. If they are together, you will have no hope of using the mask; possibly you will lose it to them and be exposed. You are soon paralyzed with a wracking indecision. Finally, though, your nerve fails, and you turn to try sneaking back into the house. Perhaps you will see the man leaving as you're going in, and then you can follow— Shit! you realize. I've got the mask out in my hand! If you go back in, and Blackwell catches you with it, it's game over. In a flash of inspiration—which after you think about it, wasn't inspiration so much as blind panic—you throw the mask into your own car. Then you saunter as nonchalantly as you can back around to the side patio. If anyone catches you and asks what you're doing, you'll tell them you went out for a short walk, and of course had to go out the side entrance because Blackwell locked you in. You make it back into the library without being seen, and when still no one comes you are soon just as anxious as before. Where the hell is everyone? You fidget by the pile of work Blackwell left for you, but can't summon up the will or the concentration to do anything with it. At last there comes the sound of footfalls outside the door, and the murmur of voices. They pass. You are hopping from one foot to the other when with a rattle that puts your heart in your throat, the library doors slide back. Professor Blackwell, looking drained and unhappy, stands there. He doesn't seem to notice that you are not at work. "Ah, Miss Weiss," he mutters. "I am afraid that I must ask you to curtail tonight's session. I am— Unwell." "Oh. Okay," you say. For a moment you think, Now's my chance to get the mask on him! But then you remember: I put the mask in my car. Listlessly, the professor pays you a hundred dollars for your time without inquiring as to how much work you got done, and sends you on your way. You are kicking yourself all the way down the sidewalk to your car. What a waste of every possible chance! * * * * * You chew over the night's mistakes on the way back to your dorm, wondering how to recover from them. What if you call Blackwell in the morning, and explain that you actually got no work done, and offer to come out that night to finish with no additional compensation? The worst he could say is "No." On the other hand, he might wonder what you were doing all that time that you got no work done. You are wondering whether to chance it still when red-and-blue lights flash in your rearview mirror, and with a whoop and a short wail a police cruiser swings in behind you. Your heart slams into your throat, but you edge over to the side of the road. Perhaps he only needs to pass you. No luck. He pulls up and parks directly behind you. You barely have time to get your license, registration and insurance out before he is at your door. "Do you know why I pulled you over?" he asks as soon as you have the window down. His face is hidden in the dark night, under the shadow of the brim of his hat, which is pulled down low over his brow. "N-no," you stammer. "I don't think I—" "Please get out of the car." You stare. "What?" "Please get out of the car," he repeats. Okay, this is really janky, but you (and Melody) have been taught all your life to comply with a policeman's orders. "I don't see why," you gabble as you scramble for the door handle. "I'm pretty sure I— I got my license and—" "Please just get out of the car." His tone is flat and not unfriendly. But you could say the same about a slab of concrete. "Come with me," he says after you're out, and steps back toward his cruiser, whose lights are still flashing. He stops when you don't move. "Please come—" "Look, I don't understand!" you protest. "I didn't—!" "Please do not resist arrest," he says. "Arrest?" you exclaim. "I—" "Ma'am," he says, and now there is steel in his voice. So you crumple. On quivering legs you shuffle over to the cruiser, surreptitiously glancing at its regalia to confirm that it's an actual police vehicle. It seems to be. But then, you don't get a good look at it—and you're not sure you'd know a fake if you saw one—before you are being ushered into the back seat. At least he doesn't lay so much as a fingertip on you. Not that he has to, once you are closed up in the back seat. There are no handles on the doors, and a metal lattice separates the front cabin from your compartment. He flicks a few switches once he's behind the wheel, and a moment later is speeding smoothly away, leaving your car abandoned on the roadside. * * * * * He ignores the few questions you try asking him, and also ignores the occasional squawk on his police radio. He drives north, taking the main boulevards, driving well under the speed limit and stopping at every red light. You pass the mall heading northeast out of town, then exit onto the first of a series of winding roads that take you deeper into the countryside. At last, you pull through a gateway that pierces a tall hedge, and come to a stop on a circular drive in front of a building. You peer at it apprehensively, for it looks nothing like a police station. Instead, it looks almost like a motor court. A high-end motor court, but a motor court nonetheless. You are parked under a solid, canopy-like pediment in front of a a couple of glass double-doors. From one side of the building projects a short wing under a gently sloping roof, its walls pierced regularly by a few bland windows. On the other, a metal railing extends down the length of the drive. The cop continues to be cold and correct as he lets you out of the cruiser, and leads you over to this railing. Behind its gate is a patio enclosing a wooden deck lit by a couple of tiki torches that mutter and gutter in the night breeze, and a large swimming pool whose floor is washed by pink and sea-green and turquoise underwater lamps. A scent of eucalyptus hangs in the air. The cop leads you past the pool and inside the building through another set of double glass doors. The carpeted hallway beyond is completely dark, and the only illumination comes from an open doorway a little ways down, out of which spills a soft, amethyst-hued light. The cop points at the doorway, and with a gesture ushers you toward it. It opens onto a sunken living room, looking like something out of the jet-set early 1960s. Three of the walls are lined with flat stone; the fourth with dark lava rock. In the midst of the room is a five-sided, jointed sofa that encloses a low, pentagonal table; sunken inside the middle of the table burns a small gas fire. The only other light comes from large, shallow-bottomed copper bowls, suspended by chains that hang from the ceiling. These must contain hidden electrical lights, for the ceiling above them glows in the beams of amethyst-colored spotlights that slowly weave and wobble, casting complex patterns of light and shadow on the ceiling. Two men are seated on the sofa, facing the doorway—and you. The one on the left is enormously fat and you have the impression that he is also very tall. His melon-shaped head that is bald on top, but fringed on the side with dark, gray-streaked hair, and he sports a lush but close-trimmed beard and mustache. He is dressed in dark slacks and a white, long-sleeve dress shirt, and is stitched up tight inside a dark vest. He wears a burgundy tie that is cinched all the way up to his collar. His companion is similarly dressed, but his tie and shirt are a dark, muted purple, and he wears a jacket that might be brown (it is hard to tell in the dark). But he is skinny and lithe, and the foot that he has crossed over one knee is enclosed in a dress shoe that is very long and pointed and gleaming. His hair—unlike his companion, he has a full head of it—lays flat on his scalp, trailing over his ears and forehead to touch his brows. His face is narrow, almost gaunt, and his eyes are very bright. And yet it is a handsome face, despite its impression of sickliness and wastedness. And the smile he turns on you gleams with hunger and interest. Next: "Heart's Blood" |
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