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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Opinions Sought, and Opinions Unwelcome"  You feel like you should talk to your dad before you reclaim the book, so you leave it on your his desk for the time being. And on the way to school you get a super idea for the time capsule—cheap, easy, and possibly brilliant. * * * * * But that's only one of two projects you've got going on, and during second period you get a visit from your partner on the second. You're talking to Keith when his eyes widen at the sight of something behind you, and he shrinks down in his seat. "Hey Will," a voice sounds. You turn. It's Scott Frazier, one of the basketball players. He drops his backpack with a heavy thud on your desk and roots around in it. "Here's what I wrote for class," he says as he tugs out a sheet of paper. "Check it over and see if there's anything you wanna change, give it back to me in eighth." "Will do," you reply. "Why didn't you text it to me or something?" "Don't have your number. Just check it over, okay? I wanna get the final draft done tonight." He hefts his pack onto a strong shoulder and trudges out of the classroom. "Jesus, is he gone?" Keith mumbles. "Yeah. What's your fucking problem?" "Dude's friends with Seth." That would be Seth Javits, one of Scott's squadmates, who has made Keith's life a special hell for the past few years. "Oh, Christ. Scott isn't—" You catch yourself as Keith's eyebrows go up. "I mean, he isn't, is he? One of the guys who's been, uh—?" "No, not yet. What did he want with you?" "We got partnered in Astronomy on a report. He seems like kind of a good guy." "Why, 'cos he didn't steal all your clothes and glue you to your desk and make you do all the work?" "No, 'cos we hardly worked together. I just did the research and he wrote it up." You shrug. "I'd work with him again." "Well, give me notice if you do, so I can catch the plague and skip school." You catch Andy Tackett's eye as you turn back around in your seat, and exchange a private smile with him as he shakes his head at Keith's melodrama. * * * * * "A Twinkie?" James Lamont exclaims at lunch. "A Twinkie?" "And some Ding-Dongs," you add. "And a bag of potato chips." "What kind?" asks Carson Ioeger. "I dunno. Regular." Carson glances over at Caleb. "You never told me Will was a genius," he says. Caleb rolls his eyes. You are all—along with Jenny Ashton and Paul Davis—spread out on the quad in front of the school building. Normally you'd be taking lunch just with Caleb and Keith, but Keith is still hiding from Javits and the other basketball players, so you and Caleb are squatting with Carson and his friends. You are all of a type, you suppose. Lanky, a little nerdy and unkempt, definitely more into school work than sports, but mostly trying to just get through the year and on to graduation. "Yeah, I thought it was pretty brilliant," you admit of your contributions to the time capsule. "Walberg liked it too." "He told you that?" "Well, he smiled when I plopped the stuff on his desk." James snorts. "Maybe he just thought you were bringing him breakfast." You flash James a parody of a smile, then nudge Caleb in the hip. "Don't sulk, dude. You're idea's pretty genius too." "What did you put in the capsule?" Paul asks him. "Porn," you answer when Caleb doesn't. "A thumb drive full of porn." There's much laughter at that, except from Caleb, who looks uncomfortable and doesn't speak much at all during lunch. "I dunno," he sighs as you're walking back toward the building for sixth period. "I just can't shake the feeling that something's going to go wrong." "What makes you think that?" He looks at you. "You actually had a good idea for the time capsule. Carson was seriously impressed." That was pretty high praise indeed, for Ioeger and Lamont are science snobs, and they instantly seized on the ingenuity of sending junk food that might still be edible when the capsule is dug up. But Caleb still shakes his head. "It's karma, man, yin and yang. The universe is setting you up for a hard punch in the face." "Fuck you." * * * * * So impressed are you with yourself this day— —and not only with your idea for the time capsule but with the way you caught a couple of errors in Frazier's report; he actually thanked you for catching them when you pointed them out at the start of Astronomy class— —that when you get home you snag that crazy book from your dad's study and take it up into your room for a thorough examination. You have to re-familiarize yourself with it a little. Red leather cover with gold thread running through it. End papers covered with intricate designs and a thumbprint-shaped sigil. A title page (you suppose; the title, if that's what it is, is about 75 words long) with a row of shifting faces along the bottom. A blank page after that, and then the preface. A quick session with an online translator reacquaints you with the goofball book's antics: It's almost impossible to copy down too many of the words—Latin or English—onto paper or into the translator without ink or pencil lead going dry or the browser going wonky. But you get the gist of it. It's a book about making masks and disguises, and in order to open it further you have to "sign the book" with your own blood, using the sigil on the end papers. You examine the book itself a little further, looking for any hook or button or switch like your dad hypothesized would open a secret compartment. After all, you think, a box that's disguised as a book might as well be disguised as a book that's about making disguises. Maybe the compartment will contain blueprints for making just this kind of box. But you can't find any such hook or button, so you return to staring at that preface. After a few minutes, you shrug what the hell? to yourself and dig your old pen knife out of your dresser. The knife is dull and it hurts like hell as you drag it over your thumb until a few drops of blood ooze out. These you press to the sigil. "Okay, you stupid book, what now?" you mutter. You shake it and pull at the edges, but the thing doesn't open. You flip through the loose pages, looking for any changes— And you almost drop it when you find one. Another sheet has turned loose—the pages with the preface—and you find yourself staring at a completely new page. Three short paragraphs (in Latin, naturally) take up the top, and a large sigil—a circle whose edge is bound by intricate designs—takes up the bottom. No way, you think to yourself. You examine the new page closely, but can find no residue of glue that would have bound it to the previous sheet. But you can't peel the new page back, not even with the pen knife. You chew on your thumbnail and think about taking it downstairs to show your dad. But you decide to do a little more private research first. You start by trying to translate the new page. You get the same problems here as earlier: Words and phrases don't like to be copied down. As before you're reduced to making piecemeal translations that you put together in your head. It's not hard to understand, though. It's basically a recipe. The first paragraph lists a bunch of ingredients, and the second and third tell you how to put them together. There's a bowl involved, and a convex mirror, and something gets set on fire. Oh, and the bowl with the fire in it has to be set on top of the sigil at the bottom of the page ... You loose a low whistle. Why didn't you see it before? It's a spell! There's no indication of what the spell itself does, though. You just ... do it? And then you figure out afterward what it does? "Will!" your mom calls from downstairs. "Supper!" You look at the time: 6:15. You must have really been into it, for the afternoon to fly past that way! * * * * * Tuesday, after school. You're up at the university library, digging through the stacks for books on magic and Latin, when you hear someone softly calling your name. You look up and over to see Carson loping down the aisle toward you. "What are you doing up her, Prescott?" he asks. "You don't know how to read." "Fuck you, man, I do too." "Yeah, what?" He grabs at the books in your hand. You try jerking them away, but he's too quick. "Elements of the Esoteric?" he says, lifting the book and his eyebrows both. "What is this shit?" "Just stuff." "You putting together a role-playing campaign or something?" "Uh ..." "Watch yourself. Those guys are hard core." "What guys?" "Knouse and them. Who did you think I was talking about?" "I 'unno. Don't you sometimes run campaigns?" His lip curls. "Have you heard I'm currently running a campaign that I don't know about? But watch yourself." His eyebrows arch skeptically over a frown. "And don't take this the wrong way, Prescott. But I have the impression you've a hard enough time mastering subjects that are actually true." He hands the book back. "This stuff'll just confuse you further." You blink at his retreating back, then look down at the books. They are an armful, and already you feel daunted by this "research project." Maybe you should get some help. * To show the book to your dad again: "Father Knows Best" * To show the book to a friend: "The Devils One Has to Deal With" |
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