The Book of Masks (Abridged)

The Making of the First Mask

"IT DOESN'T LOOK THAT HARD," you insist. "Wouldn't it be safer to copy it out on another piece of paper, like the others?"

"We can't—"

"I mean, what if I spill something on the book?"

"You don't spill anything on the book," Blackwell says firmly. His mouth is a line. "The man who made this book was a very powerful magician, and he made sure that only the sigils contained on its pages could perform the magic. Copy the sigils out, and you'll only have a pretty design."

You shrug. "I guess it saves us work."

It is Monday afternoon, after school, and you are again up in the workroom. Blackwell has brought out the Libra Personae

The Libra Personsae the book that you found at Arnholm's and that you sold back to Blackwell, and is showing you its spells. You are still on the first one, the one that shows how to make a mask like the one of that "Jared" bro.

"So, I put the the stuff on the sigil," you say as you carefully set a bowl of powders and liquids onto the open pages of the book.

"Yes. Now pour—carefully—and light. Wait! Let me open that window."

The noxious stench and smoke that pours out of the burning bowl almost sends you reeling from the work room. "You know," you choke, "I thought there was something off about this room when I first walked in."

Blackwell's own eyes are watering. "And the really unfortunate thing," he gasps, "is that you never really get used to it." Both of you are soon retching.

But the fans blow most of it from the room. He then shows you how to pour the stuff in the bowl over a convex mirror. He cautions you before you pick up the dried shell, so that you don't drop it when it twists in your hand into the shape of a mask.

"Something went wrong," you say. "It's the wrong color." It's a dull gray, not the brilliant blue of the mask that holds Jared's image.

"Check the instructions again," he orders. You look over the ornate Latin written on the page and shake your head.

Blackwell sighs. "What do they teach these days?" he says. "Before we go much further I'm going to have to start giving you Latin lessons."

"Why doesn't someone just make a translation?"

"Easier said than done. Fortunately. It is a very bad idea to leave magic words—even words that only describe magic—laying around. It's like leaving gunpowder around. The crafting of a book such as this is itself an arcane art, and it is made in such a way that it is very difficult to copy out anything that it contains. You've got to be able to use the book, and that means being able to read it."

"Well, if I'm going to finish this spell before I graduate from college, maybe you could give me a hint?"

He ignores the sarcasm in your voice. "You have to polish it." He hands you a rag. "Better get started. It will only take you the rest of the week."

* * * * *

"How much is this guy paying you?" your dad asks that evening. He spoons some potatoes onto his plate and regards you skeptically.

"Ten dollars an hour?" you say. Actually, Blackwell is no longer paying you anything; but the lessons he teaches as you help him with housework and cataloging and research are free.

Your father chews thoughtfully. "Lotta money for library work."

"You should see the library."

"Can I?"

You wince. "He's a real private guy."

"Uh huh. Well, I like to know where my son is working, and for who."

"I told you, he's a professor of archaeology at the university. You know, like Indiana Jones." Of course, Aubrey Blackwell is about as far from Indiana Jones as one can get.

Your dad ponders this as he stabs at his vegetables, but you can tell he isn't really convinced. "Well, I suppose that's okay." His tone says it's not. "But I don't want you over there more than two hours a day."

"Dad!"

"You're going to argue?"

"Yeah, Will, you're going to argue?" Your little brother grins at you.

"Shut up! You can't do this—"

"Don't talk to your brother that way, and I can do it to you." Your father's eyes flash. "You have chores here, we hardly see you anymore, and your schoolwork is suffering."

"I'm doing my schoolwork over there!"

His eyebrows shoot up. "He's paying you to do your homework?"

"No!" You snap your mouth shut and glower at your uneaten dinner. "When I'm done working for him," you continue in a quieter tone, "I do my homework in his library. It's quiet and I don't have any distractions." That's a huge lie; you haven't done a lick of homework in almost ten days, and the library is still creepy, though its familiarity is beginning to rub the worst aspects away.

"And he doesn't mind?"

"No. He's off in his own world." Well, at least that much is true. "If you stop me working there, it's like making me take a pay cut. Are you willing to pay me the difference, for the pleasure of my company here?"

"Cut the sarcasm, mister. I'll pay you ten dollars an hour for your chores here, for up to ten dollars." You make a face and sneer at the ceiling. "Or I pay you nothing. It's your choice."

"Harris," your mother says in a pained voice. "Will has a point. If you're going to make him cut back paying hours, shouldn't we make it up to him?"

Your father looks at you. "How much time would you spend working over there, if you could set your own hours?"

"Twelve hours. Fifteen. Twenty-four." You push back from the table, ignoring your father's command to return, and stomp from the room.

* * * * *

You're in a stormy mood when you hit school the next morning. Caleb and Keith are still avoiding you. In fact, as you look around in class and on the quad and in the library, it seems that lots of people are avoiding you. Even eye contact is rare.

This is bullshit. You're not afraid of Lynch and the others any more, and it pisses you off that people think you're still on their hit list or something. So at lunch you seek them out in the cafeteria.

The bunch of them are at the head table—Lynch and Black and Patterson and Javits; the cheerleaders Chelsea Cooper and Gloria Rea and Maria Vasquez and Lin Pol and Kendra Saunders; and assorted hangers on and suck ups—laughing and hooting. It's Dalton Douglas, one of their would-be players, who spots you gazing calmly at them from the end of the table.

"Whoa, it's Bill Gates," he jeers. "Here to spread the wealth?"

"I'll give you twenty dollars to leave me alone," you say, proffering one of the remaining gypsy bills in your possession.

He snatches it from you. "Thanks. Same time tomorrow?" He winks and nudges Lynch in the ribs.

But Lynch just stares at you. His cheeks are white and his lips peel back. His blue psycho eyes glow with an intense hatred, but they are white around the rims. The basketball players stare down at their trays and pointedly ignore you.

"I'm in a generous mood today," you say softly. "Anyone else want some?" There are snickers from all the suck ups, but the big boys are silent.

And the girls are sullen, too. "Why don't you get out here, you creep?" Chelsea says. "I'll kick your ass myself."

"Kick my ass or kiss it?" She flushes. "You hear that, Black? I just told your girlfriend to kiss my ass." The giant basketball player turns very red in the face and glares up at you. "Why don't you come fuck me up?"

He rises, but he doesn't even unfold to his full height before his legs give out from under him and he falls back into his seat. Even from six feet away, you can see him shaking violently.

Your gaze travels around the table. No one moves.

You suck on your cheek, grin, and wave your hand in front of your face. "Phew. Who shat their pants? Was it you, Javits?"

Douglas stands and advances on you, then pauses. He looks at you uncertainly. He glances over his shoulder at the rest of the table. With a dark glance at you he sits back down.

* * * * *

"I thought we might reach this point sooner or later," Blackwell sighs.

It's Tuesday afternoon, and he has taken over polishing the mask while you carry books up and down the ladder to the shelves. You shudder each time you have to pass one of the animal statues in its niche. Your cheery mood from lunch has evaporated under their malicious gaze, and the subject of your curtailed hours has put you in positive funk.

"Yes, but I'd hoped we'd avoid reaching it quite so quickly," he repeats.

"Look," you say, "I suppose I can still come over for a couple of hours on weekends. And maybe you could give me homework?"

"Oh, I'm not about to give you homework," he says. "Nothing you make or study is to leave this house." He peers at the mask; most of one cheek is now a bright blue. "What I'm talking about is making arrangements so that you can continue to work here for whatever hours you like."

"You're gonna have a hard time convincing my father. He's the most bull-headed—"

"Well, convincing your father is definitely one possibility, and it shouldn't be too hard to do."

You turn slowly on the ladder and look down at him. He is contentedly polishing away, and is either stupidly oblivious to the impossibility of what he has proposed, or he is suggesting ...

"Are there any other ways?"

He shrugs. "We might arrange it so that they do think you're spending your evenings at home."