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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Armed to Strike from the Shadows"  (based on a chapter originally by imaj) "Almost done, Melody?" Blackwell asks. He glances up from his desk, which is positioned opposite yours. It's Saturday night, and you are again at the professor's villa, working in the library. He called you up shortly after you got back to your dorm room, to ask if you could make a special visit tonight. The request filled you with a sudden dread: Has he been spying on you somehow, and learned of your imposture, and this is a trap to lure you out? Almost you turned him down, but instead cautiously inquired as to why extra work would be needed. Because I will be abroad for a few weeks shortly, he said, and thought you might like to put the work in before I left rather than have it cancelled altogether. An iffy excuse: What kind of professor takes off in the middle of a semester? But you decided to chance it, for you really do not see how he could know who you really are. And though you do not have a mask prepared to use on him—that won't be ready until Wednesday's regular night at his house—you figure you can use tonight to do a little recon. "Oh, sorry," you sigh as you quickly close the book you were perusing. Having Melody's memories and instincts, it is very easy to fall into her habit of reading any book that catches her passing interest. "Just got sucked into this one." "Really." Blackwell smiles: a twist of the lips lacking anything like human warmth. "Which one?" "The Shadow of the Planets. Nikolai Chekov. Is it a translation from Russian?" "It's not an original," he replies, gnomically. "Do help yourself, if you are nearly finished with your other work." He returns to the notes he is making out of his own reading. Whether the invitation was genuine or not, you decide to take him up on it, and after finishing up the last few books you open the mystery volume again, at random. You read: To the Babylonians, Viritrilbia was called Nabu. The Greeks named it Hermes and the Romans Mercury. It is no coincidence that these ancients named this wandering star after messengers to the gods, for those whose aspect is shaped by Viritrilbia frequently share the characteristics of these figures. From orators, to silver tongued charmers, to liars, cheats and swindlers, the most common gifts of the Viritrilbiae are tied up in skills with language, communication and speed of thought. The light of their presence goes before them like a lamp. But that is as far as you were allowed to get. "Ah, it's getting late, I see," Blackwell says. "I really should let you go." He rises from his seat and takes out his wallet, from which he extracts ten crisp ten-dollar bills. "Pray do not tarry, Miss Weiss," he says as he hands you the money and ushers you toward the door, all in one motion. "It threatens to be an unpleasant night, and I would feel better knowing you were safe in bed." It seems a peculiarly heavy warning, considering that the worst the day has been is overcast and drizzly, but you're not eager to remain behind. Mostly, you are grateful that you got in and got out without him knowing who you are. He locks the front door with a click directly behind you, leaving you alone on his porch. The night is cold, and heavy clouds hang low in the sky, giving the grounds an especially foreboding feel. You thrust your hands into your thin jacket and hunch your shoulders in an attempt to keep warm. You resist the urge to glance back as you walk toward the gate. The high walls muffle all outside sounds, leaving you alone with the crunch of gravel beneath your feet. As you close the gate behind you, you allow yourself one last glance at the house. A shadow moves against a lit curtain on the first floor. And then your eye is caught and draw what seems a similar movement on the second floor. A hard chill ripples over you, but not until you are in your car can you understand it: the implication that there was another person in the house. * * * * * You have to park some distance from your dorm—the lots at Keyserling are totally illogical in their placement and layout—and it's a fair walk back to the dorm, which you take at a brisk pace. But though it should be a quick and familiar walk, the visit to Blackwell's library has left you jittery. You can't shake the feeling, ridiculous as it is, that someone is watching you. When you can't take it anymore, you stop and turn around. But the street and sidewalk are empty, save for the shadows that the street lamps cast. "Is someone there?" you shout, though it feels a little foolish. You resume your walk when there is no reply, until some sixth sense compels you to stop. For a moment only, you hear heavy footsteps behind you. All the hairs go up on the back of your neck, and you turn again. Still, you only see shadows, splayed across the sidewalk and against a nearby wall. Yet your imagination cannot help twisting them into horrible, threatening shapes. And when one of the shadows wavers, you wheel and bolt for home. You tear across the campus, your heart hammering in your chest and your lungs laboring for breath. You dare not glance behind, and accelerate when your dorm comes into view. And then, from behind a tree, a figure steps. You bowl into it, and fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs. "Oh, son of a bitch!" someone yells. And somehow, that very plain curse seems to break whatever spell of fear had gripped you. You are much calmer as you scramble to your feet, to find the person you collided with already on his, and even putting out a hand to help you up. "Sorry," he says, and dazzles you with a wide, white smile; his eyes glint with cheerful light from beneath the bangs of a shaggy mop of blonde hair. "I should'a looked both ways before trying to cross the sidewalk. Are you alright?" "Yeah, I'm fine," you pant, and glance behind you. The sidewalk is clear, even of shadows, the night seems much brighter and clearer than it was only a minute ago. "Are you okay?" you ask your companion when you turn back to him. Whatever he says, you don't hear it, though, being struck almost deaf and dumb by his startling beauty. He is a boy of about your age, trim and plainly well built. His eyes gleam in an intelligent face. But his two most striking features are his hair and his smile. The former, even in the dim light, seems to glow like a thatch of living gold. The latter radiates confidence, cheer, and friendliness. All the doubts and fears that dogged your steps from the moment you entered Blackwell's villa flee under the light of his countenance. "I'm Joe," he says after you and he have stared deep into each other's eyes for a long moment. He puts out a hand. "That was my fault right then. Make it up to you by buying you a coffee?" Next: "Tongues of Fire" |
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