%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Four Offers"  "Sorry, I've got some other stuff I have to do this afternoon," you tell Stephanie. You'd really like it if she begged, and you wouldn't mind if she got mad, but she only nods and shrugs it off. Someone trips you as you make your way over to your chair, but you swallow the snarl when you see it's Rennerhoff. * * * * * Five thousand dollars is a lot of money, and the promise of even a fraction of it sorely tempts you. Through all of eighth period you jog your leg and tap your pencil as you try to reconcile your desire for that kind of money with your gut sense that there's something peculiar in back of Braydon's report. But at last you yield to temptation, and after the bell rings you dive into the hallways to find him. It doesn't take you long, and his eyes light up when he sees you coming. It's like he can read your decision in your face. "Let's go straight up to the university from here," he says. "I'll drive." For a moment the old anxiety bubbles up, but you push it back down again. It makes sense to get a ride with Braydon, since he knows where you need to go. Talk in the car isn't strained, exactly, but you and Braydon Delp don't have a lot in common. So after some brief talk about classes, and after filling a few minutes by talking about Mike and Carlos and the day you spent watching that dumb old movie with them, you both lapse into silence. Braydon, you notice, gets kind of a worried look about his eyes as you draw up close to the university, and he looks around nervously once you're parked in a lot next to a big brick building. "Something wrong?" you ask him. "I just don't know if I can park here," he says. A guy who claims to be into black magic is worried about a parking ticket? You shrug at the strangeness of it. He leads you inside and up a stairwell to the top floor. Halfway down daylight spills from an open doorway into the dry, airless corridor. Braydon puts his head into the office and knocks on the door. "Professor Blackwell?" "Ah yes," answers a plummy voice. "Mr. Delp, is it? Come in! And were you able to -- ?" The voice breaks off as you look into the room. The speaker is an fat man in his mid- to late-fifties, you'd guess. Stringy hair trails over a white pate, and a scraggly, graying moustache-and-goatee clings about a fleshy, red-lipped mouth. From the neck down he is encased in a black turtleneck under a gray sports coat, and dark wool trousers. He heaves himself from behind his desk, and splays his apple-like belly over it as he extends you a clammy hand. "And you are?" he asks. His eyebrows lift over his piggy eyes. "Will Prescott," you say, and surreptitiously wipe your palm on your shirt after he's released your hand. "Braydon was telling me that there's this book you're trying to find?" "Yes," he says, and settles back into the groaning chair. "He told me you've seen it about. You purchased it from Arnholms? Damnable bit of luck, that," he says when you nod. "It was the capstone of my collection, if that's the book you found, and I've been frantic since losing it. If you can tell me where it's got to, I would be most obliged to you. And," he adds, "I would show you so with a handsome monetary reward." "But I'm not sure it is the same book," you reply. "Oh, nonsense." He snorts. "From what Mr. Delp here has told me, it's absolutely the same book." He rattles off a lot of Latin. "In red leather covers with gold-leaf lettering, and pictures of faces marching down the frontispiece." "Something like that," you admit. "And you paid -- What was the figure you gave to Mr. Delp?" He turns toward Braydon, and the latter says, "Two dollars." "Quite a bargain," the professor continues. "And why was it so cheap?" He cocks his head. "Some of the pages seemed like they were stuck together." "That identifies it definitively," he says. "There is a trick to being able to turn the pages, it's one of the, oh -- " He waves his hand lazily in the air. "It's one of the little parlor tricks its author used to delight connoisseurs of his craft. I don't know any other book that uses it. So that settles it," he finishes with a hearty sigh. "The only point now is deciding how much I will pay you for this information, and how much more I will pay you if you are able to actually bring it to me. Or bring me the person who currently has it." "I don't know who has it," you say, and at the same time Braydon says, "A guy named George Mendoza." He looks at you. "Right?" "Mendoza's the last guy I know who had it," you say. "But he told me he sold it to someone." The room is beginning to feel very close and warm, and you're feeling awkward on your feet. "So I don't know -- " "But you could ask this Mendoza fellow, surely," says the professor. "And he could -- I beg your pardon, is something wrong?" He leans forward with a frown. Only then do you realize how much you've tensed, and you force yourself to relax. To your relief, Braydon takes up the explanation. "George Mendoza's -- Well, he's not really a nice guy," he says. "He's not really someone who -- " "He stole it from me," you blurt out. "The book. He and his friends took me out behind the school and wound up taking it from me." You feel yourself flushing. The professor turns very grave. "I see. Yes, I do see. I'm very sorry to hear that." His brow darkens. "I understand perfectly. And yet, I do suppose Mr. Mendoza, if I judge his type correctly, would be willing to sell the information as to where he placed the book?" "Yeah." You kick at the floor with your toe. "He told me he'd tell me who he sold it to, if I gave him -- I think he said a hundred dollars. Maybe it was two hundred. But I don't even know if he was serious," you add. "He's just an asshole, and maybe -- " "If I gave you two hundred dollars," says the professor, and he reaches inside his jacket, " would you offer it on my behalf to Mr. Mendoza for information on -- ?" He has pulled out a thin leather wallet, but he pauses with it in his hand. "Or perhaps you could simply give him my card, and tell him that if he gets in contact with me, he might learn something to his advantage." You glance at Braydon, and the two of you hold each other's eye. "I think," says Braydon slowly after a moment, "it would be hard to trust him. George Mendoza, I mean." He turns back to the professor. "If you gave him money, he might lie. He might think that then he could get some more money out of you." "Mm. Now I do begin to understand your obvious trepidation. Well, I do appreciate this additional information." The professor pulls two crisp new twenty dollar bills from his wallet. "That is for your help today," he says as he hands one to you and one to Braydon. "And here -- " Now he draws out two small business cards, and hand them to each of you as well. "I'll leave it to you to decide which of you approaches Mr. Mendoza. I will give three hundred dollars to the one who brings Mr. Mendoza to me so that I may discuss with him the whereabouts of the Libra Persona. That is my home address on the bottom, which is where I will discuss the matter with him. Email me when you have talked to him and set up a time for us to meet. It will have to be after five o'clock. Otherwise, I am at your convenience." He beams -- his face is like a loathsome moon leering over the horizon -- and stands to shake your hands before dismissing you. * * * * * "So what do you think, Will?" Braydon asks when you're outside again. "Did he pay you to bring me in for that talk?" "No. Well, not directly, not with money." Braydon scratches the back of his head. "It turns out that he's, uh, kind of an expert on the stuff I'm interested in." He glances over his shoulder. "He's not going to tutor me, exactly, but he said he'd spend a couple of afternoons with me going over some questions I've got. But I have to get the book back to him first." Great. This Professor Blackwell is basically a grown-up version of Braydon. "And that five thousand dollars he was talking about?" Braydon hangs his head. "Well, he said to mention that kind of reward, because he is willing to go that high to get the book back. But I'm not in it for the money. So," he says after drawing a deep breath. "If you want to be the one to talk to Mendoza, you can probably figure out a way to get, like, five thousand out of him. I won't fight you for it." "You don't want to talk to Mendoza yourself?" "Not really, but I will if it's the only way to -- I'm just giving you a chance is all." He stops with a frown, then with a curve of the lip resumes walking. "You can have the money, but Professor Blackwell has to get the book." He leans over the windshield of his car -- you'd reached it while you weren't watching -- and snatches a white slip from under the wiper. "Fuck," he snarls. "I thought this was the wrong lot." That's all for now. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
