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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Larceny and Other Larks"  Joe punches you lightly in the shoulder after you've stated your choice, then turns to Frank, and they chatter in a language you do not recognize, let alone speak. Their obvious distrust of you leaves you bridling. Maybe Joe senses this, for he winks when he's finished and takes your arm in his. "We gotta go pick up a rental car," he says. "Can you drive?" "Sure, but--" Well, maybe it's not a good idea to press for answers just yet. But Joe seems eager to talk, and he anticipates most everything you'd want to ask. "It's just me and Frank at the house, you know," he says when you and he are back in Justin's car. "Dad lives way off--we'll be on the road tonight and most of tomorrow, in fact--so we'd need to rent a car even if that Shabbleman fucker hadn't driven off with our truck." He shakes his head. "Dad's really gonna flip about that." "You don't live with your parents? That's kinda weird, isn't it?" "What are you, judging us?" He laughs. "Well, it's time to start coming clean I guess. Frank and me grew up together, and Dad really is a father figure. But we're not related, not biologically. We call each other family, and I guess we think of each other that way. It's kind of a family business, I guess. Though 'secret society' would be closer to the truth." You can't help shivering. A secret society of people with magic powers? Joe laughs, but not in a mean way. "Yeah, you're wondering if it was really such a good idea, throwing in your lot with us." "Can you convince me I shouldn't?" "it's a bad idea setting me challenges like that." He turns sly. "I could talk you into believing you were an hibiscus plant named Harold if you gave me enough time. But for right now I'll just say that--" He drums the wheel with the palms of his hands. "Well, first of all, you needed to get away from Blackwell. Even if the guy wasn't bad news, which he is, he's just using you for his own purposes. Magicians are like cats, and they don't get along well with each other. He'd get what he wanted from you and then--" He mimes capping you in the head. "But my people, we're family, and we look out for each other." "And what do you want with me? It seemed like you were just interested in the book--" "Oh, we don't want the Libra for ourselves," Joe says. "We just don't want anyone else to have it. You know at the end of the first Indiana Jones movie, with the Ark and the warehouse? We got a place like that." You cast him a sidelong look of incredulity. "Yeah? And me? The way Frank talks, it sounds like he's got a box fitted for me too." "Frank's always talking like he wants to put people in a coffin. That's just his-- Well, for right now, let's just call it a mannerism. I'll tell you more about him when it's time to tell you about Dad." * * * * * Your arrival at the rental agency interrupts the conversation, and it doesn't resume for awhile. You and Joe are both underage and shouldn't be able to rent a car, but Joe falls into a happy conversation with the manager, and after ten minutes the two are best friends; and after another five Joe's signature is on several pieces of paper and an order has gone out back to bring around a car. He seems preoccupied when he returns to where you are sitting and waiting, and he paces the floor, flexing the fingers of his healthy arm and looking everyplace but you. "We were talking about your dad," you interrupt him, and you feel very brave for doing so. "Yeah, I was just trying to figure out the best starting place," he says. Twiddle twiddle. He cocks his head at you. "How much did Blackwell explain to you about magic?" "Not a lot," you admit, and stumble through a half-assed recollection of his inaugural lecture, about how to ask the right questions and craft connections between beginning states and ending states. Joe snorts. "Yeah, that sounds like the kind of thing someone like him would say. He's an old duffer, knows only potions and hexes and sigils and shit like that. Everything he knows he gets out of a book." "You mean that's not real magic?" "Oh, it's real magic alright. That's the problem." "I don't understand." He regards you closely, then sits next to you. "The first thing to understand," he says in a low voice, "is that there's no clear distinction between science and magic. I don't mean they're two names for the same thing--though, in a sense, that's exactly what they are. But you shouldn't think of physics as the kind of thing you do with an electron microscope and magic as the kind of thing you do with a wand. They're actually different ways of apprehending and modifying the world." You just blink, both because you don't understand what he means, and because he's surprised you by being so open. He sighs. "Look, suppose I show you a collection of steak knives. 'Like my knives?' I ask. 'One of them is a murder weapon. Guess which one.' You look at them. They're all identical--factory made, none of them have any blood or notches or scratches. 'Is it this one?' you ask, and I shake my head. 'I give up, which one is it?' you ask. 'This one,' I say, and stab you through the heart." He mimes stabbing you, and you actually flinch. "Now, they're all knives, and they're all exactly the same, and you could stare at 'em till your eyes bleed and never tell the difference between them. But one is also a murder weapon. It's a murder weapon not because it's made of murderanium, but because it is connected to a murder. And to a murder, not a manslaughter or a suicide or an accidental killing. And it's a murder because it's connected to something in my mind, to a particular intention. Examining the knife won't tell you what is here--" He points to his forehead "--so it won't tell you that it's a murder weapon. Of course," he adds, sitting back, "looking at it afterwards might tell you it's been used in an act that might be a murder, but that's something different." You scrunch up your face. It's very hard. "I don't-- How does--?" "Well, it's a metaphor for magic," he says. "Though it's only a metaphor for another metaphor. Magical connections are like the connections between murder weapons and murder victims. Those things exist in a certain kind of relationship, a 'murder' relationship, let's call it, and that's not something you discover with a spectrometer or a Bunsen burner. A scientist looking at a dead body might never realize he's looking at a murder. But a detective, someone who knows exactly what to look for and is probably looking for it, might spot it right away--that the guy was murdered, and didn't just fall over dead--because he knows about lots of other things, like that the dead guy had a jealous wife, a mistress, and a big insurance policy, the kind of things that will lead him to say 'Hey, you know, this is probably a murder and not just an ordinary death.' Same kind of thing with magic. Things are connected in ways the scientist will be blind to, but the magician won't." "Blackwell said that magicians make connections, not find them." Joe turns grave. "Yes they can, and if they're good enough they can make very powerful ones. But it's kind of like the way you can make a connection between a knife and victim by using it to murder him. Connections made by magic are very dangerous, both to make and use. But you can also find other, ready-made connections out there and use them in what you'd call magic spells." You chew on a thumbnail. "It sounds like the difference between making a tool and finding something that you can use as a tool." His eyes brighten. "That's a good way of thinking of it, yeah." His eyes turn dark and satirical, though, at your follow-up comment: "Tools are usually better than stuff you find laying around." "Which is better in a fight, a hammer or a mountain?" That's a stupid question. "A hammer. How would I use a mountain?" "What if you knew how to pick it up and drop it on a guy?" he chortles. You feel your own eyes widen. "Is that possible?" "It's a metaphor for a metaphor," he reminds you. "But there are natural spells out there that stand to Blackwell's potions the way a mountain stands to a hammer." "Mm. Well, I guess I'd rather not be on the receiving end of either. I still don't see why you guys are so interested in me, though." "Well, we've only just started talking, right? Anyway, we'll have to continue our conversation later." He glances out the window and nods. "There's our car." He rises, and leads you out into the parking lot. "Take Justin's car and meet me back at our place," he says as you walk. "We'll take care of the real Justin and also figure out what to do about you." He bends over to peer into the rental car and grunt with mild satisfaction. "What about me?" you prompt. He looks up with raised eyebrows. "You willing to disappear for a few days? I mean, if you leave town and we let Justin go, and we're going to, so don't argue, then Will Prescott is going to--" "Ah. I don't have a choice, do I?" He chews the inside of his cheek. "Frank can take over for you," he points out. "He could just put on your mask. He's not going to, though, unless you ask him to." Next: "Of Horoscopes" |
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