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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Paper Chase"  But the moment has been shattered. (You even have the weird impression that a bubble has literally burst somewhere nearby.) So, politely, you demur. But there is an odd sequel. You have to pass through a locker room on the way out, and on the far side a blonde kid about your age steps out of nowhere to block your path. He starts to speak, but is then distracted by something over you shoulder. You glance back, to see nothing but a cleaning woman who has just stepped into the room with a wet-vac; and a moment later your archery pal appears. He takes in the scene with a glance, but ignores it and you in favor of a locker. You turn again to the blonde kid; he grins back at you, slips something back into his pocket, and brushes past, bumping you hard in the shoulder. "Watch where you're going, asshole," you mutter. "Wanna make something of it?" He turns to gloat. Behind him, your acquaintance is deeply absorbed with the knot in his shoe, and you wonder why, in spite of his earlier friendliness, he hasn't involved himself. You just flip off the blonde jerk, and exit. You expect him tackle you from behind, and you tense, but nothing happens. Only afterwards do you wonder, both at the fact and at the fact that it didn't register at the time: the blonde kid had his right arm in a sling. And he was still spoiling for a fight? Weird. * * * * * Monday's excitement starts at the break between fourth and fifth periods, when your attention is attracted by a knot of students at the junction of two main corridors. You feel a nasty prickle of suspicion, and slip your way through the crowd. Sure enough, Will Prescott is involved. He has Patterson cornered by a water fountain, and is milking it for all it's worth. You've read up a bit on that hex, and you shiver to think what Patterson must be going through to have Prescott that close. It looks like he's trying to climb up the wall, backward. "Moving to Eastman, huh?" Prescott chortles. "Can't hack it here anymore? Betcha never thought someone could scare you into changing schools." An angry murmur runs through the hall; the apparition of faces in this crowd: scales on a wet, black beast. A voice by your ear shouts "Fuck you, Prescott!" Your eyes lock briefly onto those of Jenny Ashton, on the other side of the crowd. She looks sick. It's not your life anymore, but ... You grab Prescott around the neck from behind and, with his head locked next to your chest in the crook of your elbow, drag him back into and through the crowd, which hoots and jeers appreciatively. He flails, but Justin Roth hasn't been working a compound bow for six months without results, and Prescott's squirming does him no good. You kick open the door to the restroom, toss him inside, and push the door closed against the surging crowd. "The fuck are you doing?" you roar at him. "The fuck did you get in my way for?" he shouts back. "I was having fun!" "You were gonna get yourself killed." You kick shut the door, which has opened briefly behind you. "Like that matters to you!" The real Justin Roth is under the fake Will Prescott's facade, and so it does matter. Of course, you can't say that ... "This isn't like you. You don't just go around asking to get your ass kicked. You're only lucky I was around to—" The door flies open, and you turn with a snarl to shove it closed again, but Prescott charges you from behind. You duck away from his fist, which glances off your ear but still sets your skull ringing. You punch him hard in his exposed midriff. "Gwooff!" All the air explodes from him, his eyes bulge and he bends double. To the cheers of the crowd behind, you slam your bent elbow into the side of his skull, and he collapses onto the floor. You get detention, but you're a hero. * * * * * How much of a hero you don't realize until school lets out. It's hard not to notice the heads that turn your way as you press through the halls, and you slouch against the stares. You're neither happy about nor proud of what you did. But then outside, as you pass the gym— "Hey, Justin!' a sweet voice calls. It's Cindy Vredenburg, calling over from a knot of cheerleaders loitering near the door. Her eyes gleam. "Wanna come watch us practice?" No one of that class has ever paid attention to Justin Roth before. You suck on your cheek as though torn by indecision, then with a shrug swerve to trudge up to them. The girls exchange shining glances with each other, and peek at you from the corners of their eyes as they swarm around, leading you inside the gym. Cheerleader practice occurs in the morning; this is a special show they've arranged just for you. And it's very nice, too, though you're made twitchy by the knot of ball players who sit not too far away on the bleachers. There's no missing the slit-eyed glares they cast at you, or the hiss of their voices. When practice is done you get up to leave, but the flushed and perspiring Cindy calls you down. "I need a ride home from here. Give me a lift?" Seth Javits, her boyfriend, steps forward. "What's wrong with my ride?" "I'm not talking to you," she replies, not taking her eyes from yours. "I'm asking Justin. I don't have to hang out with you every day, Seth." Something seems to churn through his knot of friends. "Come on, Cindy," Gordon Black says. "Don't be a cunt." "Gordon!" That's Chelsea Cooper. She flashes steely eyes at her boyfriend; in fact, all the cheerleaders seem to be staring hard at the jocks. Patterson's face blackens. "So, how 'bout it? A ride?" It's like a little shock to feel the tip of Cindy's forefinger against your shirt. Well, there is no way out of this. Even if you prudently turned her down, Javits and Patterson and Black and the others would haul you off and beat the shit out of you, just for showing them up over Prescott. Your only hope is to impress the girls, who have the boys on a choke-chain cast of steel links. But more inviting, of course, is Cindy herself: The long legs and smooth calves and pear-like breasts; the platinum sheets of hair and the blue eyes and the flat, dish-like cheekbones. "Yeah, happy to," you grin. * * * * * "Eemph ... eemph ... eemph ..." She squeaks like a squeeze toy, biting her lip as she bounces lightly up and down. You're trying to stifle your own groans of anticipation, and concentrate on thrusting your way up into her. It's not just the pleasure of being inside her that draws you up, or the promise of expended tension; the car seat presses your lower back in a bad way, and you really do feel like you'd be more comfortable if you could fold up backward like a penknife and thrust yourself, torso, legs, head and all, up inside her. Of course, incongruous images like that are one reason you are having such trouble finishing things up. And then, with a growl you can't stifle, you are pistoning away inside her. Her tone changes too, to a thrilled and surprised-sounding purr. You gasp and sink back, but discover that's a bad idea, so you raise your pelvis again, to support yourself inside her. She lets out a long sigh, puts her hands on your shoulder ... And then pauses, to cock her head and regard you from under half-closed eyes. "Something wrong?" you ask. You can't imagine she was disappointed. "Hmm," she says. "Hmm," she repeats. She tilts her head in the other direction. "This is ..." Her head lolls, she tips, and she face plants right into your kisser. You put your arms around her, supporting her against your torso, and listen. She is breathing, raggedly and heavily, but steadily. In fact, she's got a little bit of a snore. "Hey," you say, shaking her lightly. "Hey, come on, wake up." Isn't it the guy who's supposed to crash after coitus? You look out the car window. She'd suggested a drive, which took you away from the center of town; and then she'd suggested some fucking, which took you out to the country. In fact, by chance, you're not far from Blackwell's. And then, just as suddenly, she's awake again. She blinks and stares at you, and then bursts out laughing. "What's your problem?" you ask. "Oh, nothing. But if you could see your face." She hops off your lap and scrambles back over into her seat. Still giggling, she pulls her panties back on. "For that matter, if you could see my face." "I can see your face." That provokes more laughter. "Not this one, you dingaling," she chortles, and leans toward you with a mischievous grin. "The other one. I don't know why I'm telling you this. I really don't, except that I think I've fallen in love with you. My God, you're a stallion." "Did you take a hit of acid or something before we came out here?" She smiles. "Go on. Take my face off. You know how. Just put your fingers here—" She takes your stiff hand in hers and puts it to her forehead. "Now say the magic words." She repeats them to you. Your tongue is taut and clumsy as you mumble them out. You tug at her face, which tightens and then comes off in your grasp. Numbly, you look down at the mask you are now holding. And in the car seat, still dressed up as Cindy Vredenburg ... Next: "The Man in the Cindy Mask" |
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