The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)

The Stepford Stepfather

Previously: "The Inner Animal" 

You haven't long to wait outside before headlights show and a luxury sedan pulls into the lot next to Sydney's SUV. A man gets out. "So what happened?" he brusquely demands.

You cast a startled look at Sydney: Even in the dark, the guy is far from the middle-aged "Dad" that you were expecting.

His hair is long and thick, for a start, and hangs to his shoulders. He sports a scruffy beard. Though you can't make out his features, your first guess is that he can't be more than twenty-eight years old.

"I don't know," Sydney tells him. "We can't get it to start." She gestures at the hood, which is already propped open. The engine is illuminated by a flashlight balanced on the edge of the compartment.

Nicholas Lawhorn grunts and walks over to it. "Try turning it over," he orders Sydney.

She gives you a frightened look, for she's got the mask, but gets behind the wheel. "Ready?" she calls as he bends over the engine.

"Yeah, any time," he growls back.

You slip up behind Lawhorn. The motor churns for half a second, and catches. Sydney races it. Lawhorn straightens up. "So what's the—?"

That's as much as he gets out. You grab him under the armpits and pinion him in a headlock. "Sydney!" you bark. "The mask!"

She falls out of the car and trips forward as Lawhorn twists in your grasp. But Blake O'Brien is a football player; he's in top shape; and he works as a bouncer/enforcer at The Warehouse—the toughest party spot in the city.

Still you grunt and strain until Sydney finally runs up and pops the mask onto her stepfather's face. He sags all over. "Can you get him downstairs?" Sydney asks.

"No problem," you tell her as you shift your hold. "You get his feet."

* * * * *

Nicholas Tyler Lawhorn crouches with a bestial snarl on his face. With his long, tousled hair and beard, he looks like the Wolfman. Only an order from Sydney keeps him from springing. "So how old is he, anyway?" you ask your girlfriend.

"Nicholas?" she says. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-eight!" he spits.

You'd have pegged him at closer to thirty, but the confession is believable, at least in this light. The three of you are in the basement.

After getting him downstairs and undressed—he came in t-shirt and jeans but with a sports coat and boots; California office casual—and after retrieving the mask when it came out of him, you dumped him, the dirt, the powders, the liquids, and a few strands of Sydney's hair onto the book and set him on fire. Not until the purple flames shot out did you stop to think, What if this spell takes a week to finish like the last one?

It didn't, thank God, it lasted only a minute, and when the fire went out it left a petrified version of Nicholas Lawhorn behind.

Really. He lay on the table looking completely unharmed save for the unnatural pallor of his skin. And when you pressed a fingertip to him, you found that except for a slight "give" he was as stiff all over as concrete. Even the hairs had turned to something like stone. But he was so perfectly detailed that you could even see the pores.

You wondered if he would wake up, and what would happen then, until you pried at his eyes and found the lids frozen shut. That's when the word "petrified" suggested itself. And when Sydney pointed out the similarity of color between him and the unmasked golem nearby, you deduced almost simultaneously that the spell had turned him into a golem.

The test came when you dropped Caleb's mask on him. Caleb appeared and woke up, and under a little questioning showed that he had no idea who or where "Nicholas Lawhorn" was. He also refused to obey your orders, though he did obey Sydney's.

The second, and more dangerous, test came when you sealed up Lawhorn's mask and put it on him. His skin instantly turned flesh colored, and his hair softened, and he woke. But now he obeys Sydney: not only telling you his age, sign, and Social Security number while pounding himself in the balls, but even confessing with his own mouth to the murder of her father.

You wince as she grips your arm, the nails digging into your flesh. "We did it," she says in a haggard whisper. "Oh, God, Will, we did it!"

"Uh huh. Better tell him to calm down." She does, and the feverish light in his eyes dies. "Better tell him to get dressed."

"I can handle it," she tells you. "I know exactly what to tell him to do."

You quail, worrying that she'll tell him to drown himself or steer his car at seventy miles per hour into a wall. But she's a lot more restrained than that. She only tells him to leave her alone, to not speak to her unless she speaks to him first, and to tell no one about what has happened that evening.

* * * * *

You are mentally exhausted by the time you get home—divested of Blake O'Brien's mask, of course—and make an early night of it. The next morning, after you shower, you find a text from Sydney on your phone, asking if she can pick you up for school. After caroming off the walls a few times, you text back to say "Sure."

"God, that was intense last night," Sydney says as she pulls away from the curb with you in the passenger seat. "I think I still haven't come down yet."

You resist the urge to smirk and say something about how Yeah, damn, Blake sure was intensely sexy when he kissed you, wasn't he? and only ask how she dealt with Nicholas after she got home.

"I went back in his office with him," she says. "I wanted to ask him some stuff, like, about my dad. That's one reason I'm still on a high. Except I also feel like I drank Drano or something."

You hesitate, and almost don't react. Then, feeling like you're jumping off a cliff, you stroke her thigh. She gives you a quick, warm smile, though her face has turned pale.

"But that gave me a little closure, I think," she continues. "Hearing him actually confess everything. How he did it, why he did it." She shudders. "What a slimeball. But knowing that I had him right here, Will. Right here!" She cups her hand. "With his balls and everything. Knowing that he was— Was my puppet!" She looses a soft shriek.

"I'm glad," you tell her.

Her nostrils flare. She is still pale, but by the time you reach the school, there's a light in her face again.

"Are we getting together again this afternoon?" she asks after parking. She turns to give you a direct look when you don't answer.

That's when you lean over to kiss her. You're a lot less bold now than last night, when you had Blake O'Brien's animal passions coursing through you. But it's the boldest you've been with her yet, and bolder far than you've ever been.

She's blushing brightly when you pull back. "God, I've been waiting so long for you do that," she says. "And I guess that's a 'yes'?"

"Well, you gave me a ride up here, so I guess I'm stuck with you for a ride back."

"Oh, you figured it out, why I asked if you wanted a ride."

"And you figured out why I said yes."

"You should come find me at my locker between classes."

"I will."

"And walk me to some of them."

"I will."

"And stand in the doorway and watch me after I'm inside and sitting at my desk."

You kiss her again before things can get too sugary-cute between you.

* * * * *

And yet, when you're joined by Reagan Hackett—who seems to be lurking in the parking lot these days, waiting for Sydney to arrive—you don't put your arm in Sydney's, or lean in close to her, or treat her as anything except a friend. Part of it is your own native dislike of PDAs. But there's no denying that Reagan's bold and skeptical curiosity has you a little daunted. I bet Blake would put his arm around Sydney and not even look at Reagan, you reflect with gritted teeth.

Speaking of Blake O'Brien, you almost jump out of your skin when he comes shambling into your fourth-period English class—you'd forgotten that you share it with him. He gives you the briefest glance, and you quickly avert your gaze before he can notice that you're staring at him. Your heart thumps—for a moment you thought he was the pedisequos, following you to school. You sink down in your seat, and watch as he flops into a desk next to another footballs player. They grunt and mumble at each other, and Blake runs his hands through his hair.

"What's biting you?" Caleb asks.

"Nothing," you tell him. "Just, uh, a case of deja vu."

* * * * *

As you'd promised, you go looking for Sydney at her locker throughout the day, but you only manage to catch her at the start of sixth, and walk her to class.

You stop in the doorway while she proceeds in, but catch at her hand. She stops and turns to dimple brightly at you. That's all you do, and let her go to her seat. Your heart is soaring as she slips into it and watches you from under lowered brows as she unpacks her bag.

Then you notice the guy sitting behind her: Tony Peterson, the wrestler. He's in a sleeveless sweatshirt, and he's folded his arms so that his biceps bulge. He glowers at you from under heavy brows, and a sneer distends his lips.

Your heart takes a dive, and so do you: You quickly shuffle off to your own sixth-period class.

Next: "Will Versus the Competition" 

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 3)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)"