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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Big Double-You"  You listen intently, but the noises do not return before you fall asleep again. You mean to mention them to Blackwell the next morning, but you cannot find him until you are washing up from breakfast, when he comes in through the kitchen door, followed by your golem. Both are laughing. Blackwell turns a puckish eye on you. "It sounds like you had a fun night, Will," he says. "I suppose you'll find out soon enough. You're running late, so let's make the trade now." At a word, the golem quickly slips out of its clothes, and then with a muttered string of words Blackwell reaches up and rips at its face. It instantly reverts to a featureless statue, and he hands you the mask. You sit and press it to your face. You almost pass out from the rush of images, sounds, thoughts, and emotions: another argument with your father; chasing your brother from your room; driving off to meet Keith for a study session that turned into game of pool at the establishment across from the municipal library; the shouting and shoving match with a group of bikers followed by a quick exit and flight around the block before doubling back to Keith's car; getting yelled at by your dad again for being late; going to bed and ... yeah. It was a real relaxing one, too. You slip the mask into the bottom of your back pack, dress, and rush off to school. * * * * * The days that follow are weirdly bifurcated. Each afternoon you go to Blackwell's house after school, where you switch out with the golem—an easy trick that he doesn't even need to supervise. At Blackwell's insistence, though, you then change into the Jared mask (for he says he doesn't want anyone, even accidentally, to spot two of you) and slip into some cheap cotton shorts, t-shirt, and flip-flops that you picked up for clothing. You don't argue: you enjoy feeling strong, even though you are no better trained with these muscles than you were with your old. Then you reshelve the books he has used during the previous night and day. You follow that by practicing making the fundamental sigil symbols he has taught you: those for the elements, the numbers, the powers, the zodiac signs ["a barbarous system inherited from primitives and ignoramuses," he complains, "but one that is used in almost every sigil"], the modes, the humors ["God save us from quackery"], the atoms ["enlightenment, finally!"], and others. The hardest are the conjugations and the tenses, but he explains that if you cannot frame the commands to come off at the right times and in the right directions, then you might as well aim a loaded pistol at your own temple. He sets you puzzles: "Start with a blind cat," he orders, and you combine the symbols for "sight" and "dark" and "cat", twining them with the symbols for "grasp now". He corrects you with a smile: "No, you've got it looking for a black cat blessed with clairvoyance. Which wouldn't be a bad trick to pull off, now that I think about it. What would that end state sigil be?" So you write "sight" and "dark" and "cat" and twine them with the symbols for "lo and behold." "Excellent," he says. "Now switch the sigils for 'sight' and 'dark'—mind you correct that curve the right way—and you'll have your starting 'what' and ending 'what'. Now you just have to find some way of getting a blind eye to see into the future." You ponder the challenge, believing him serious. "Perhaps the eye sees only light rays that haven't hit it yet." He looks impressed. "That may be part of the solution," he admits. "But never mind," he adds, dismissing the problem with a wave of his hand. Latin, you find, is much harder, but he presses it upon you for an hour a day. Then there is dinner, and an hour studying and analyzing the sigils for the first three spells in the Libra Personae. They would be simple to copy, but their meaning is wicked-hard, for you cannot see why they should lock together in any meaningful way. He has to guide you through each, showing how an immense complex of thought and command unfolds through inference and implication. He also has you make up a mind-strip (very easy) and the sealant for a mask (also easy). Without the latter, he explains, a mask will absorb images and combine them into new forms of people who don't actually exist. "A useful trick," he says, "and one I should have used on Jared, but I didn't have a chance." And from then until bed you polish masks while relaxing and watching movies or reruns on cable TV. You continue to hear odd noises in the night, but you are now certain that they are only the "security system" and ignore them. * * * * * School, though, is a little more fraught. Caleb and Keith still refuse to be seen with you. You finally corner Keith in the boys' bathroom between periods. "Dude, why are you avoiding me?" "I'm not avoiding you," he says, pressing himself against the back wall. "The Molester and the others aren't going to go after you just because you hang out with me." "Actually, they might," Keith says. "You've seen Caleb, right?" Yeah, his eyes are still black. "The Molester still giving him shit?" Keith nods. "And I'm doing my best stay out of Javits' eye line." "So hang out with me. They won't touch you then." "Yeah," he drawls. "People have kind of noticed that. It's freaking a lot of them out. Um, no offense, but me and Caleb included." "They're noticing that I'm not getting beaten up by Lynch and those guys? Funny, they never noticed before when I wasn't getting beaten up by them." "Yeah, that it is funny. But no one's laughing. Google 'freaky dick,' and your Facebook page comes up as the top hit. Which, considering what else is out there, is pretty impressive." "Come on, be a pal again." "I am your pal. Please don't hurt me." * * * * * And then late on Friday Blackwell's doorbell rings. You're glad you're wearing the Jared mask when you answer the door: It's your dad. You jump a little. He notices, but says nothing. "Is Professor Blackwell home? My name is Harris Prescott." "Yeah," you say, and let him in. "He's upstairs. If you'll wait in the living room, I'll get him." "Thanks." Your father follows you into the back of the house. "Do you work for the professor?" "I'm doing some library work for him. Assisting." "Ah. It's a big library?" "Biggest I've seen outside a public library." Your heart is thumping hard. "May I see it?" "It's ... Well, Professor Blackwell is a little funny about it." You don't want your dad seeing Dracula's Own Bookshop for himself. "He, uh, has lots of rarities in there, and I think he's kind of paranoid about people seeing what he has. Might give them ideas about stealing them or something." "Huh. How long have you worked for the Professor?" "A few days. He likes me, so he trusts me." "Are you the only one who works for him?" You suddenly guess where this is going. "No. There's another guy, a high school kid, who comes in during the early afternoons. What did you say your name was?" "Harris Prescott." "You're Will's dad, then." You have to fight down a panicked grin. It's really weird talking about yourself to your own dad as though you're another person. "Yeah, you know Will?" "Vaguely. Now I know who you reminded me of. I see the resemblance. Yeah, we pass each other in the door, him going out while I'm going in." "Was he here yesterday?" Bingo. "I guess. I didn't see him. I think he returned some books to the university library for the professor. I was supposed to, but I forgot." You grimace. "Got chewed out kind of good." Your dad visibly relaxes. Apparently he saw you at or near the university library yesterday, when you were doing some extracurricular research before going over to Blackwell's. And he was checking up to see if there actually was a job ... "So, I'll go get the professor now." "That's alright, you've answered my questions." He turns to go. "Yeah, okay. Say hi to Will for me," you say as he leaves. * * * * * You quickly call your twin with an account of the meeting so your stories will be straight. You spend all of Saturday at Blackwell's studying hard. You're exhausted by seven, but Blackwell himself seems to become more energetic. "You've done extremely well this week, my boy," he beams. "I have never had a student in any class or on any subject make the strides you have in such a short amount of time. You should be proud, and you should celebrate." "Thank you. Can I go to bed early?" His eyes pop. "Listen to you! You're young and hot-blooded and you are wearing the body of a college boy who beds co-eds on a regular basis. It's Saturday night! You should go out and have fun." "Well, unless you got the mind-strip for a party animal, I don't do real well with girls. I got no friends, either. And my clothes—" You pluck at the thin t-shirt you are wearing. "And no ID." "You don't need an ID to get into a frat house, which is where you will find frisky girls who don't need much persuasion to fall into bed with someone who looks like a brother. As for clothes—" You hear the front door open and shut. "There they are now." He holds up a finger. "This is not your date for the evening. You have to find your own. But she did bring clothes for you. "So what will it be? Bed with or without a bedmate?" Next: "Final Touches on a First Scheme" |
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