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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Dangers from Expected Quarters"  by Masktrix The rest of the day seems to pass as usual. At lunch, you and Keith accidentally walk into the middle of some squabble on the soccer team, mainly directed at the new transfer, Hannah Westwick, and spend an awkward thirty seconds getting out of it. You're hoping for an easier afternoon, but then the intercom sounds... “William Prescott, please report to the principal’s office. William Prescott, principal’s office.” You stop dead in the middle of calculus, the eyes of the class all upon you. You want to vanish. “What the hell did you do?” Carson Ioeger stage-whispers to you from across the room. All you can do is shrug back dramatically: you genuinely have no idea what this is about. As the glares continue, you want to shrink, shrivel and die. There’s a cough from the front of the room as Mr Kowalski folds his arms. “If you’re quite ready, I suggest you have somewhere to be, Mr Prescott. You can get the notes from a friend.” You gather your things and slink down the corridor, lone footsteps echoing down the hall, then across the Westside campus as you make your way first to your locker and then to the main office, all the while shaking your head and wondering what’s the matter. If it were a family emergency, someone would have been sent to fetch you. You remember last year, when one of the now-graduated seniors, Darius McBride, lost his parents in a car accident. Apparently the principal arrived in the middle of Darius’s triumphant presentation on the tactical nuances of the Schlieffen Plan and took him out of class. The school talked about it for weeks, and McBride would burst into tears whenever he was in history for the rest of the semester. The poor bastard was supposed to go to UC Davis to study modern history, but dropped out. At least, that’s what the school legend says. Finally, you reach your destination, one of the secretaries glancing up at you from the office desk outside, a perimeter guard dog there to make sure the senior staff don’t have to deal with unexpected interlopers. “Yes?” “Will Prescott,” you say. A blank look. “I’m Will Prescott?” Still nothing. “You put a call out for me to report here?” The blank look remains. Maybe it’s a secretarial thousand-yard stare, the only way she can survive in this place. Then, mercifully, there’s a presence behind you. “Thank you,” you hear Coach Acuna say to the secretary, her usually deep, dancing Hispanic accent once again conspicuous by its absence. “I’ll take it from here. Mr Prescott, I need you to come with me, please.” “What’s this about, coach?” you ask. You’re puzzled why the head of the school’s tennis program has pulled you out of class. Acuna’s Latina frame is stocky rather than lithe, but you know from seeing her on court it’s all toned muscle. Another school legend says she was an all-state mixed doubles player, but a health scare meant she never got any further. You study her youthful face, its wide cheekbones framed by a straight, slick river of long black hair. Her pencil-thin eyebrows are implacable, and the usual smile on her generous lips has been replaced with an expression of utmost seriousness. “I’ll explain in the side office,” she says, indicating for you to follow. “Come with me, young man.” She opens a side door to one of the secretarial workspaces and waits. You take a last glance at the disinterested secretary, whose vacant stare is all you need to follow the teacher into the room. As you pass, you can’t help but notice how odd Acuna seems. She’s always made a point of being approachable, whether you play tennis or not, carrying herself with a natural, easy grace. Now that open and confident stride is gone. You enter a room stuffed with old office supplies, stacked chairs and cardboard binders no one has used since the invention of the computer. Acuna motions for you to sit down behind an old table and closes the door. Why aren’t you holding this meeting in her office? “Will,” she says, slouching against a bookcase on the far wall, probably gathering grime on the back of her polo shirt in the process. “William. Mr Prescott. Were you, by which I mean have you been, ever, in possession of a book of magic?” God, this again. You feel discomfort grow in the pit of your stomach. That creepy-ass book has been nothing but trouble. This is the third time it’s come back to bite you in the ass. There’s no point in lying. “It’s not really a book of…” Before you can finish, Acuna crouches down, pulling a book – the book – out of a Harry Potter backpack on the floor and setting it on the table. “Specifically, this book of magic?” Once more you’re staring at the pentagram on the binding, and the optical illusion of the faces shifting as the light catches them. You nod in resignation, wondering what you’ve done to have this thing return to you like a bad penny. “Yes, coach. Look, I don’t know where it’s been for a month. Whatever’s happened, whatever someone’s done with it, it wasn’t anything to do with me.” Acuna’s eyes narrow, and she leans forward, speech a little too rapid. “And what, hypothetically, might someone have done with it?” You have no idea. Your mind runs through scenarios: Joe Thomason using it for some bizarre torture; or maybe selling it to some idiot freshman who tried to summon a ghost in the boy’s locker room and has left a thousand black mass candles across the floor. Acuna’s said to be a devout Catholic, and you once heard from Lisa – back when you were dating – that she’s full-tilt into the idea of angels and demons walking the Earth, even praying for divine help before tennis tournaments. Perhaps she thinks it’s part of her job to stomp out the devil’s works, taking it upon herself to launch a Westside Inquisition the moment occult nonsense rears its head. You suspect this is about the hunt for Thomason's cohorts, so you decide the best option is to be as flippant as possible. “I dunno, try a magic spell?” Whether it’s the right or wrong answer, it seems to heighten Acuna’s attention – and her warpspeed questions begin again. “Will, I need you to tell me everything you know about this book, right now. It’s important. Start at the beginning. Where did you get it?” And it’s at this point, where you should be feeling under pressure as a member of staff grills you, that you realize you’re not intimidated at all. In fact, that strange feeling you’ve got about Acuna has neutralized any nerves you may have had. There are small, imperceptible details that are just wrong. Acuna is a stickler for looking smart, but her hair has loose strands from where it’s fallen forward and not been combed. Her fingers are twitching like she’s shot with caffeine, but you remember once hearing her tell Tesla she can’t drink it for some reason. And, underneath the polo shirt, she isn’t wearing a bra. “Nowhere special,” you say, deliberately noncommittal. “William, please don’t play games with me.” You look straight at Acuna. Behind those apparently serious eyes, there’s a hint of something more primal. Something you’ve seen in your own eyes when you’ve looked in the mirror and known a school day was ahead. Fear. “I’m not, coach. I just don’t see what this has got to do with me. I told you, I got rid of the book weeks ago. Or tried to, at least. I don’t know why it’s resurfaced now.” There’s an uncomfortable, aching silence. Acuna looks uncertain where to go; you’re trying to work out what’s happening. There’s something about the way the coach is acting, and the strange absence of that wonderful, rolling accent that James Lamont once called her ‘sexy senorita lilt’ that makes you think something strange is afoot. You steel yourself in this battle of wills, promising you won’t say anything. Fortunately, Acuna is the one who breaks. And when she does, it’s perhaps with the craziest question you’ve ever been asked in your life. “You know, I’m just going to come out and get to the point,” she says, a hint of neediness creeping into her voice as she changes tack. “William Prescott. Are you, or have you ever been, a wizard?” Next: "Nobody Expects the Tennis Confession" |
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