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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "A New Role for Will Prescott"  You're really unsure what to do with the rest of your evening: so unsure that almost you decide to simply drive home and stay in, and deal with everyone and everything tomorrow. You're not keen on following up on Gianna's budding romance; and the way Sydney bugged out on you, you doubt the wisdom of trying to see her again tonight. But the desire to see her again wins out. You wonder a little at this, because you feel like the decision is being pushed on you from without. Is it Gianna Johns's instincts working on you? You wonder, for you know yourself well enough to sense that, back in Saratoga Falls, in your old life, you would give Sydney her distance. Maybe Gianna knows better, and is trying to tell you something. You start, though, by returning Michael's call as you get into your recent-model Elantra (a sensible though slightly expensive purchase). "Hi Michael," you chirp when he picks up. "Sorry I missed you earlier. I was outside my office when you called." "S'okay," he says, "I just wanted to see what you're doing tonight." "Oh!" you pretend-gasp. "Now I really wish I hadn't missed your call! I just got done making plans with my friend Pam." That would be Pamela Ellison, the only college friend that Gianna still keeps up with. She actually lives in Arizona, but there's no reason to tell Michael that. He accepts your apologies, though he turns more gruff when you also block his proposals for a Friday-night or Saturday-night date. You try to let him down easy—you don't want to push him away permanently, in case Sydney thinks he's worth pursuing— but at the same time you want to slow the drift that's pulling him and Gianna together. You end the call by promising to text him if your plans for the weekend change. That done, you swing by a little Vietnamese restaurant that's one of Gianna's favorites, and get takeout for three. You would call Sydney to tell her you're coming over, but you have unaccountably forgotten Paul's cell phone number. Don't be such a blonde, you chide yourself after wracking your brain for almost seven full seconds, and jump a little when you recognize it as one of Gianna's commonest thoughts. At least you are pretty sure you can find your way back to his apartment. * * * * * It's a long drive, slowed further by afterwork traffic. But that gives you plenty of time to off-handedly sink deeper into and reflect on the person whose identity you've assumed. Gianna Johns is from Phoenix, and was an outdoorsy girl who went out for soccer, track, and light backpacking in the northern country. She had her friendly high school romances, but she didn't get laid until she was in college (University of Arizona). She was late getting into acting, it being her senior high school year when she let her boyfriend at the time talk her into joining his theater class, where she discovered she had a talent for it. (And further surprised herself to discover that she didn't have stage fright.) Her quick mind and knack for improvisation covered her poor memory, though she did tend to leave her cast mates wrong-footed when she'd wing a line instead of delivering the one she was supposed to. She pursued a theater major in college, but was at least wise enough to pair it with a degree in education as a fallback. She also clerked at a car rental agency for a year, so that she had some real-world experience when she graduated. After a year in New York (which she hated) she fled to the more congenial climes of southern California, where like most actors she held down jobs in retail and dining while looking for work. She hoped to get into television, but by the time she was twenty-eight she was reconciled to the fact that she'd do no better than off-and-on stage work, and probably never get noticed there. And so her education degree (and the many low-level contacts she had succeeded in making during her five years of practical experience) allowed her to shift into teaching, first at the Rocky Beach Middle School for a year, and then at the high school, where she is the junior theater teacher. She has never been married, though she did live with a guy with two years while she was still acting professionally. (You can't help wincing hard at the memory of the break-up fight, after Gianna discovered he was bisexual and had still been sleeping with an old boyfriend all the time that they were cohabiting. The worst part had come when Scott told her that her last two boyfriends had also been bi-, and that she'd simply never noticed.) In fact, the last year has been a dry spell for her, which might be why she has been so interested in Michael Riordan, even though she knows almost nothing about him except that he's the manager at her gym, and that for the first six months after meeting her, he never so much as talked to her even though he saw her there almost every day. Yeah, you decide after mulling it over for a couple of miles. It probably best just to shut that down. It startles you to feel yourself adopting a new perspective—well, a perspective new to Gianna—on Michael. It had never occurred to her, but it occurs to you now: If he's suddenly interested in her it probably means he just broke up with someone else, and is on the rebound. Better for Gianna to steer clear of him; better for you and your plans for a Brotherhood; and even if you told Sydney about him, you doubt she'd see any advantage to pursuing him, either as an acquisition or for Gianna's own sake. And that, you decide as you take the turn-off that will lead to Paul's apartment, means that Gianna's future lies with Paul Griffin and Becky Oliver. And of course, you think with a twitch of your lips, with Will Prescott! * * * * * Becky Oliver's eyes nearly pop from her head when she opens the door to find you standing there with three grocery sacks. "Hey there, sweetheart!" you exclaim. "I would've called, but I forgot your dad's phone number. Can I come in?" "Er. Sure," she says, and awkwardly shuffles back to let you pass. "I hope you haven't eaten yet, I brought enough for all of us. You like Vietnamese?" You carry the bags into the kitchen and start to unpack them. "I know you said you wanted to talk tomorrow, but I've got nothing else to do tonight except go back to an empty apartment. And also I was wondering—" You pause, and glance out into the living room before lowering your voice. "What's it like being here with your dad when he's not, you know. Me." Becky stares at you with a slack jaw. Then she shakes herself, but just has time to shake herself alert and say, "Well, it's—" when there's the sound of a door closing and the rustle of footsteps on carpet. A moment later Paul Griffin steps into view. He starts when he sees you, much the way Becky did. She glances at him, and claps her mouth shut. And you are also stuck for words. You remember Gianna's reaction when Paul stepped into her office—she thought him quite handsome—but that's nothing to the violent jar his appearance gives you know. His dark hair settles in folds on either side of his head like the wings of a raven, and his equally dark eyes seem to smoke under his strong brow. His face tapers from that broad brow down to strong cheekbones and then to a tapering chin. His mouth is small but set in a powerful jaw. His skin is clear and healthy. He is dressed in a white t-shirt that clings to a strong chest and is stretched tightly around big shoulders. He is in blue jeans, but his feet are bare, and he balances on them with a cat-like poise. It's because I'm in his house, maybe, comes the thought that bubbles up through the boiling froth that is your brain. I'm in his space, in his domain, instead of him being in mine. You certainly feel very vulnerable, and have the quick—but ecstatic—impression of him sweeping up to crush you in his arms while pushing your face into the fragrant crook of his neck. You have to put your hand out to catch the counter to keep yourself from puddling right then and there. "Hi again," you stammer at him. "I brought some, uh, supper." You gesture at the styrofoam containers. "Hey boss," he replies. His brow furrows and his eyes dart as he glances between you and the food. "Er, Becky told me we weren't going to meet until—" "Well, we're meeting now," Becky interrupts. "Apparently." "Did I come at a bad time?" you ask. Becky stares. Then she suddenly relaxes into warm smile. "No, Will, you're fine. I just wasn't expecting you, is all." "I would have called, but for the life of me I couldn't remember your number." "It's fine. Wha'dju bring? Oh!" Her eyes pop as she opens one of the containers. "I know you said we'd talk tomorrow—" "We can talk now. Maybe it's best. Do we eat at the table?" she asks, swinging toward Paul, then quickly correcting herself to address you. "Shit," she says, "I don't even know who to talk to." "Maybe the living room would be more comfortable," you suggest, but you too can't help shooting an inquiring glance at Paul. "That is, if—" Then you also correct yourself. "Living room it is. Sydney, I'll let you pick your supper first. It's all good with me." * * * * * The meal is much less awkward than you had feared it would be, and Sydney quickly relaxes as you give her Gianna's biography. She doesn't ask for the names of any candidates for the Brotherhood, and you don't give any. Instead, you spend the whole meal watching Paul, who eats sparingly and silently while listening. Helplessly, you wonder if you can (or should) try to talk Sydney into letting you spend the night here. Next: "Night Blooms" |
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