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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "A Trap for Blake O'Brien"  You decide that it's less important that you get to be Blake O'Brien than that you get him out of your hair. "It's not a problem," you tell Sydney. You glance down at the mask that you're polishing. "I can take over for you there," she says, and scoots over to join you. You relinquish the buffer, and start putting together the stuff you need to make a memory strip. * * * * * Sydney isn't meeting Blake until nine-thirty, which gives you plenty of time to get everything ready for her. "Make sure you cover up all the inside of his mask with that stuff," you remind her as you follow her out to her SUV, "and don't forget to burn some of your hair in it when you're done. Do you want me to write down the words you have to use to take a mask off a person?" "No, and I think I've got everything, Will." Sydney's voice is haggard with stress. "Have you got the—?" "Stop trying to babysit me, sweetheart!" She clambers into the SUV, and rolls the window down after turning on the motor. "I love it that you worry about me," she says, and leans out to give you a brief, wet kiss on the mouth. "But I got lots of experience back home in Kansas keeping horny guys off me." You know she said it to make you feel better. Only she didn't succeed, and now you're wondering just how far and with how many guys she went, her technical virginity notwithstanding. You watch her roar off into the night, and remain staring into the street for several minutes after she's gone. * * * * * So here it is, Friday night, and none of your friends are talking to you and your girlfriend is off on a date with another guy. You pack stuff up and take it home, and spend the evening flipping between YouTube videos while finishing up a second (and, until you get some more materials, a last) memory strip. You also check your texts. Not that you're getting any. (And not that you're finding any interesting YouTube videos, either.) Jenny Ashton, you find yourself thinking. Maybe I should call Jenny, text Jenny, get together with Jenny, at least talk to Jenny. She's friends with your other friends—your ex-friends—but she wouldn't hold a grudge against you so bad that she won't talk to you. But you hesitate to text her, for another thought wedges itself in: And if I took a mask out with me to meet her, I could add her to the cult. Would you do that? Would you do that to a friend, or to a former friend? She'd be useful, a way of keeping tabs on Carson and Caleb and them. You could use her to spread some mischief. You don't make any decisions, though. It's like you don't want to make a decision there, either for or against the idea of making a mask of Jenny, and you distract yourself by linking fancy unto fancy. What other girls would be likely recruits? Lin Pol and Yumi Saito sometimes hang out with Carson and them; so do Jessica and Eva Garner. They're sort of friends, but not nearly so much that you'd feel the same guilt at using them the way you're thinking about using Jenny. And they'd be a good fit with Blake, them being cheerleaders. Somewhere along the way, while you're thinking of other girls who could be captured and converted into cultists, you realize with a start that you're thinking of them as possible masks for yourself. Until this moment—even after Sydney had walked off with a plastic container filled with a goop that will turn Blake into a pedisequos—you'd been assuming that the male cultists would be your aliases and the female cultists would be Sydney's. But she's going to have at least one male mask—Blake's—for herself, which means (if the numbers of boys and girls is to be even) that you'll have one female mask for yourself. Well, that wouldn't be a problem, you decide. It would be kind of fun. In fact ... You gulp, and a slight sweat breaks out over your scalp. In fact, most of your masks, or even all of them, could be female! Would that be so bad, either? You wonder what Sydney would have to say to that. Ah, but if you hogged all the girls for yourself, she'd have to take all the guys, and there's no way she'd like that. You glance back at your phone and do a double-take when you see that it's nearly ten. Where are her texts? you wonder. Shouldn't she have texted that everything went off okay? A sudden fear grips you: What if she screwed up? So you text her: hey hows things? Things are great, she replies less than a minute later. But what does that mean? did the thing go off okay? I think so. We'll talk about it tomorrow. Why is she putting you off? no problems? We'll talk about it tomorrow, okay? You're sweet to worry but don't. Her words almost send you into a panic, but you force yourself to let it go. Call me early i ll be up early. Will do luv u, she texts back, and adds some hearts and kissing emojis. You allow yourself to feel a little relief. If she's sending texts like that, then Blake must not be with her. Or he's no longer himself. * * * * * Despite your intentions, you're not up early the next morning. It's nearly eleven before you pry your eyes open, and even after that you lie petrified atop your bed, your limbs feeling like you've been run hard and beaten harder. Your muscles strain and crack when finally push yourself onto your elbows, and you stumble and bump into the walls on your way to the shower. Maybe you dreamed about getting chased and beaten up by Blake. The shower at least wakes you up, though you still feel dead on your feet as you dress. You check your cell phone with a frown, and find no texts from Sydney, so you text her yourself. It's fifteen minutes before she replies, and then it's just to say that she'll meet you for lunch over at the elementary school around one. The weather is starting to turn, and the school basement is filled with a chilly, grimy miasma when you arrive, smelling of grease and cold metal. You do a little straightening up, then cut up some cardboard boxes that Sydney bought, and position them against the windows so that no one can see in. That also shuts out all the natural light, but she also brought an electric lantern. A little after one the door bangs open, and you whirl at the sound of a heavy tread on the wooden steps. "Hey man," Blake O'Brien says. He's hauling a couple of plastic sacks. "Got some stuff here for the project, and there's food out in the car." You swallow the blockage in your throat. It's not really Blake, you remind yourself. It's the pedisequos. "Did Sydney send you out shopping?" "Huh? Oh yeah." He drops the sacks on a table, and looks around the basement with his hands on his hips. "I remember this place now." He's dressed out like you'd expect him to be dressed out in fall weather, in shorts and a hoodie and a ball cap, which he pulls off his head and flaps out against the side of his brown and brawny leg. "Wha'd you do last night?" he asks as he pops the cap back on. "Nothing. Goofed off. What, uh—?" You gulp. "What did you do?" "Had a date. You know." He cocks his head, and amusement shows in his dark eyes. "Fuck, man. You don't gotta be jealous. It's all over between her and me. She explained it all." A shiver runs through you. "Yeah?" "Of course." His lips twitch. Then he steps forward, takes your face between his hands, and covers your mouth with his. "Glmph!" you shout at his tonsils. He releases you with a harsh laugh. "Oh, sweet Jesus, Will! If you could see your face! You are adorable!" He grins, and reaches for you. "Come on, you know it's coming now, let's try it again." "Glack!" You scramble over the table, putting it between you and him. "Oh, come on! Don't you love me like this?" He leans across the table, a demonic smile enwreathing his face. It takes you a stupidly long time to make the deduction. "Gurk! Sydney?" "Took you long enough." He climbs onto the table. "Come on, let me convince you." He paws at you. "Stop it! What the fuck?" He stretches cat-like across the table, a come-hither expression on his face. "You're not getting past me, Will, not without—" He kisses his fingertips, and pushes them at you. "Just stop it! Jesus!" You try catching your breath. "When did—? Last night?" you gulp. "Did you fucking switch places with him when you—?" "Why do you keep asking me dumb questions, Will, when we could be making out?" He unzips his hoodie and rubs a meaty man-tittie. * * * * * You finally force Sydney to back off, and she tells you about her night. She was curious to try out Blake's mask, but as with Caleb's she found she couldn't get any memories from it. "So I just hung out with, well, me. Yeah, I was already dressed up like this when we texted." You gag at the thought of Blake O'Brien sending you hearts-and-kisses emojis. "Anyway, I went home when I figured it was safe to sneak in, and when I woke up this morning I had his memories, personality, everything. So here we are, step one." You suffer her to put strong arms around you, and to nuzzle your neck. "Now, who are going to get for you, Will?" she murmurs. Okay, so maybe she would go along with having mostly boys on her team. Next: "Submerged Identities" |
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