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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Muscle"  "Ritual sex acts?" you shriek. "With us?" "I thought I mentioned that before." In the silence that follows, Fake-Blake's eyes flick between you and Sydney. "Fine," you exclaim. "Do whatever you want. But I know I don't wanna see this part of it!" You flee up the stairs. * * * * * Your mind is a stormy maelstrom of half-formed thoughts when Sydney catches up to you a minute later. "Hey," she calls, and you turn as she comes running up. "I'm sorry," she says, and catches your hand in hers. "Sorry for what?" "For being insensitive to your feelings." You blink at her words. "No," you stammer in surprise, "I don't think— I mean, you weren't—" "I wasn't?" She squeezes your hand. "You kind of blew up at me in there, Will. So I think I was, at least a little." "I didn't blow up!" Except you did, and you are so abashed at her smile that you have to hang your head and kick at the grass. "I'm sorry," you grumble. "I guess I did get kind of pissed. I didn't— Well, I don't know what I was thinking." She squeezes your hand again. "No, it's my fault. I'm so caught up in all this that I didn't stop to think about what it means to you." But what does it mean to you? When she asks, you have to shake your head and shrug. "That's kind of what I thought," she says. "You were just playing around with stuff, right? Just figuring it out? No plan?" "I guess." She steps in close, and your breath shortens. "But then I come along and basically tried taking it over, didn't I? I told you that we're going to make a golem to replace my stepdad, and that we're going create a Brotherhood, and that that we're going to use the golems to fill it up. And I even pick out the first guy for it and made a copy of him, and then I start poking and prodding at your pedisequos like he's—" She snickers. "Like he's my science project." "Well, at least you know what you want to do. And I do want to help." "Why, Will?" She is so close you can feel her breath on your cheek. "Why do you want to help?" You're too tongue-tied to answer. Because the only answer that makes sense is I love you and that sounds like just about the stupidest thing you could say. "Look, part of this is my fault too," she continues. "Mostly it's mine, probably." "'Cos you're trying run things?" "No, 'cos of the way I've been acting with you." Now she steps back, and you tense at what you anticipate will be a hideous confession. "Look, I was a cheerleader back in Kansas," she says, "so I know what I do to guys, and I know how to do it to them." You're seized by a wave of nausea that settles in your stomach like a lump of cold, undigested oatmeal. "And I've been doing it with you. The hard flirting, all the little affectionate things." She grabs your hand and plays with your numb fingers. "Tricks to keep a guy interested but off-balance when I don't want to go too far with him. It's kind of a self-defensive thing, 'cos, you know—" She shrugs. "There are things I sometimes want from a guy, but there's things I'm not actually willing to trade for them." "Uh huh." You pray you don't actually vomit on her. "It's habit, Will. And it's hard to drop a habit—" She takes a very deep breath, and exhales. "Even when it's not an act." Her words hang. Your nausea rises ... then pauses and hangs alongside her words. "I've never really been friends with a guy," she continues, "except the guys who were going out with my girlfriends. But every other guy, either I'm ignoring them, or I'm, like, fencing with them, trying to keep them back without acting totally uninterested in them. 'Cos I like them and want to keep them close, but on the other side of a boundary." She grips your hand and takes another deep breath. "But you're not dating one of my girlfriends. And I'm not ignoring you. And the only reason I'm fencing with you is because that's the only other thing I know how to do. Because—" She swallows and looks away. "Because I'm used to wanting a boundary. But I don't think I want a boundary with you." That lump in your gut has risen to your throat, but now it's only a lump and not nausea. Still, it takes an effort to push the words past it. "Why?" you croak. "Because I've got this occult stuff? Because I'm into it and can help you?" She takes a short breath, so you figure she can't deny the accusation outright. "That's part of it," she says, "but it's because it's part of you. And I like you. Because you're a mess." You must have reacted—you do feel staggered—for she titters. "Yes, you're a mess, Will," she says, and she pulls the cap off your head. "But I like that you're a mess. I like that you're messy and honest and you don't put on an act, that you're not just about getting grades or going to a great school or being the big guy. I gotta tell you the truth," she adds, "I never really paid a lot of attention to guys like you. To tell the truth, I kind of thought guys like you didn't give a shit, so why should I give a shit about you? "But I get now that you do give a shit—or at least you give a shit, Will—but it's about things that are important to you. This stuff we're doing, it's important to you, so it's what you're focused on." "That's because you're interested in it," you protest. "Bullshit, Will. You were into it before I came along. Remember? You were disguising yourself like your best friend." She strokes your chest. "So you were focused on something I'm focused on, and that's why I noticed you. "But now that I have noticed you," she says, "I really like what I've noticed." "My mess, you mean." She grimaces. "You're a mess because you don't have a plan. But that's what I like. Most guys, they look at me, they have a plan. Right?" Her dimples deepen. "And they don't want to make a mess, they just want to execute a plan. I guess why I like you so much is because—" She goes up on her toes to put her face close to yours. "Because I'm hoping you'll make a real mess with me," she whispers. "And because you don't have a plan, you'll never stop making a mess with me. Just us, making messes together." The night fills with the sound of her breathing softly into your face. Then she says, "This is the point where you're supposed to kiss me." It takes a moment for you to oblige. * * * * * So it's a quarter-hour before you return to the basement. Fake-Blake is lounging on the bench with a satisfied smirk on his face and the tiny plastic container between his fingers. Sydney takes it from him and glances in it. She frowns. "I told you to fill this thing," she tells him. His face falls. "I did." With a snort she shoves it into his face, and his eyes pop as he peers into it. "I'm telling you," he protests, "I filled it with enough cock snot to—!" "Well, do it again." Then her eye falls on the other samples, and she gasps. "You jerk! You went through and emptied everything!" "I didn't touch your shit!" She holds up the empty syringe. "Will!" she yells at you. "What am I supposed to do?" "Get him to confess, and tell him—!" "I didn't do shit!" Fake-Blake hollers. You loose your shrillest whistle to shut them both up. Fake-Blake, when you ask him, insists he never touched any of the stuff that Sydney took off him. Sydney snorts hard and grabs him by the wrist to take another blood sample. "Now get back to whacking off," she tells him after drawing more blood. You nod when he looks over at you for confirmation. Upstairs and outside—for again the both of you flee—she examines the syringe and squirts a drop onto her finger, smearing it around to test its consistency. "It's not natural," she says, "stuff just disappearing like that. But he's not natural either. And I've had just about enough of him." "Why'd you pick him out?" you ask. You like that she's pissed off at the thing. "We wanted muscle. And he's been pestering me for a date. But not in a bad way, so I thought I could get one date with him without committing to anything." She glances back at the basement. "He was okay in the car. The way this copy is acting, though, it makes me wonder if the real guy's going to be a handful starting tomorrow." Against your better instincts, you mutter something about Blake O'Brien seeming like he'd be "her type." Probably you were hoping she'd deny it. "That he is," she sighs. A crack opens up in your heart. "What type is that?" "Kind of an alpha, but not gross about it. And he is cute." "Is that why you picked him out for the ritual sex acts?" "Don't get all stupid jealous, Will, not after what I was telling you earlier. Besides, we agreed to pick out good ones." You mumble something in the back of your throat, and a silence descends on you both. It's not broken for another ten minutes or so, until Sydney, with a gasp, holds up the syringe. "Will! The blood! It's gone!" Next: "The Inner Animal" |
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