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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Basement"  "Where are you going to get a thousand dollars?" you demand. His offer is ridiculous. "Look, you want it or don't you?" Russ retorts. If an offer is too good to be true, they say, it likely is. You don't know why Russ would be offering you an untrue offer, but you don't want to be sucker enough to accept it. Instead, you raise the bottle to examine the label. In the darkness of the night you are only just able to make out "GlenDronach" on the label. It means nothing to you, of course, but it sounds expensive. "What do you mean you want to 'rent' the key from me?" you ask. "I mean I want to rent it," he says. "Borrow it, pay for it when I borrow it. I'd rather have it than have to keep coming to get it from you. But I'll keep you in this stuff"—he taps the bottle in your hand—"for as long as you let me have that key whenever I want it." "What do you want it for?" you ask. Even in the dark, you can tell he is giving you a look, but he says nothing. "But I get to keep the key, and I get to come out here whenever I want?" you ask him. "Sure. Only time you can't come out is when I got the key." "Because I'm going to need a place to keep this, and drink it," you say. "Sure. You just don't come out here when I've got the key." You mull this. "And when this runs out, you give me a new bottle?" He raises his hand in something like a scout's oath. "When it runs out, you keep the key until you get a new bottle from me," he says. "Day I stop bringing you this stuff, that's the day I don't need or want the key anymore." You're not sure how much use you're going to get out of this deal. You don't drink all that much anyway, and last year, after the novelty had worn off, you decided you didn't enjoy it all that much. On the other hand, you kind of like the idea of getting something out of this asshole in return for something you've got and don't use anymore. And he also told you that the stuff you had been drinking was "rot gut." Maybe you'd like this stuff better? And it would give you an excuse to revive your use of the old basement, and to get Caleb and Keith back out. "Yeah, okay," you tell him. "It's a deal." "You want the thousand, and give me the key?" "No. The rent thing." "How come? I'd rather do it the other way." Instead of telling him that you don't believe him, you say, "Because like I told you, I need a place to do my drinking. Besides, I'd feel like I'm taking advantage of you if I made you pay me that much for a freaking key." "You wouldn't be," he assures you, and he tries pressing you into accepting the deal. But when you prove obdurate, he abruptly surrenders the point, and insists on shaking hands on the liquor-for-rental deal instead. "I'll probably be calling you for it some time this week," he tells you. "What's your locker number?" You give it to him. "Cool. When you need a refill, we can make the trade out here, but I'll probably stop at your locker when I need to get or give back the key. So keep it on your ring. Also, I don't like texting about this stuff, so that's another reason to do it at your locker." You agree to his terms, and part for the evening. * * * * * Monday morning. You had regrets during the night about turning down that thousand-dollar offer from Russ. If he wants to give you a thousand dollars for that key—and all the risks associated with sneaking in and out of that basement—who are you to turn down that kind of money? So you get out to school early, and once there you text Russ to ask him where his locker is because you want to talk to him. He replies almost immediately with his locker number, and asks what's up. You just repeat that you'll talk to him when you see him. But you see someone else first, and it knocks you totally off course. Geoff Mansfield is someone you have had the misfortune to know for most of your life, and he is acquaintance has not improved with time. He's a rich, well-groomed, well-dressed snob who gets As in all his AP classes, and talks long and loudly about the Ivy League colleges he will be applying to. He is also taller than you and very good-looking in a very preppy way, and he always seems to be looking down his nose when he looks in your direction. (And that he doesn't look in your direction very often only piles insult upon insult.) Anyway, it turns out that his locker isn't far from where Russ has his, and that's where he is as you're looking for Russ, and he sees you as you are approaching. You try to ignore him, but he turns to ask you, "So, Prescott, you got something to give Mr. Walberg this morning?" "The bird," you mutter under your breath. Then you stop dead. The time capsule! You forgot all about that fucking time capsule assignment! And your submission is due today! Almost you shit yourself, but grab control of your sphincter in time. Instead, you bolt for Mr. Walberg's classroom. From the doorway you peep in, and when Caleb catches sight of you, you gesture him frantically to join you in the hallway. "Dude, I am so fucked!" you hiss at him. "I forgot about the assignment!" His eyes pop. "Today's assignment?" "No, next year's! What the fuck am I going to do?" "Well, what are you asking me for? Didn't you get something last week?" "If I got something last week, I wouldn't be—!" You catch yourself as a memory comes back. Last week! Last Thursday! You went in to town to get something and ... You bought that crazy book at Arnholm's! Oh, but it's at home. "Well, what am I supposed to do?" Caleb asks, for you've been spinning your mental wheels frantically in silence. "I'm not giving you mine!" "Give me an idea!" "Like what? If I could get a good idea just like that"—he snaps his fingers—"you think I'd have—?" "Stop blabbering and help me out! Please!" He gives you an exasperated look. "Just give him something for Chrissake," he says. "Does it matter? It's gonna be a pass/fail grade, right? Either you give him something or you don't. Better to—" Caleb is right, but what can you give him? A pencil? A notebook? The retainer yanked from the mouth of a passing freshman? You dig your hand in your pocket, expecting to find lint, and surprise yourself with a couple of crumpled bills and some loose change. You don't know why that causes a light bulb to go off—unless it's because you're also thinking in the back of your head about that money you want from Russ—but you shove Caleb aside and dive into the classroom. Twenty minutes later, when Mr. Walberg issues his "last call" for submissions, you march to the front to hand him a sheet of notebook paper, folded up and taped into a closed packet, that jingles faintly. Back at your desk, you peep up from under the brim of your cap to watch as the teacher gingerly undoes the tape and unfolds the paper, and stares at the contents. He looks up at you, and you hide your eyes. When you look up again he is retaping the makeshift package closed. * * * * * Russ texted to ask where you were, and what you wanted, but you told him you would talk to him tomorrow. That narrow escape in first period had left you wanting a stiff drink, and because you remember you still had that bottle in your truck (and you needed someplace to drink) you decided to take advantage of the key before loaning it to him. So after supper—which is the soonest you can get away without having a deadline hovering nearby—you head over to the school, take the lock off the door, and go inside with the bottle. The liquor Russ gave you is warm, smooth, and very palatable, so much so that you worry that you'll drink too much. So after your first belt you put the bottle out of reach and turn your attention to the second item that you brought with you: that fucking book. This morning's narrow escape had reminded you of it, so on getting home you dug it out of the mess on your desk and reacquainted yourself with it: the pentagram on the spine, the uncanny shifting faces on the first page, the Latin script. With your phone you had retranslated it—it still doesn't make a lot of sense—and recalled the original reason you had tossed it aside: its demand that you take "possession" of it by giving it some of your blood. You are rereading it now—well, glancing over the Latin—using the flashlight on your phone. What a funky old book, you think as your brain warms and begins to fuzz over. Weird old Latin, and all the pages glued together. You remember that it frightened you a little when you read it the first time. Now you're not sure why. And after a second pull off the bottle, you are ready to give it what it asks for. You have to search for something sharp in the basement—and if you were more clear-headed you wouldn't have tried—and when you find a metal hinge on a cabinet doorway that feels sharp enough, you scrape your thumb across it until it seeps blood. This you press onto the tiny sigil on the page below that instruction. You smile to yourself until you lift your thumb— And that page, which had been bound down so tightly that you couldn't even slip a fingernail behind it, lifts easily up and flutters. That's all for now |
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