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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Basics on Baphomet"  Sydney still has gymnastics practice to attend, so you run home and return with a mask and the glue that she will need to copy you some "muscle." She already has a blank memory strip. "Get us whatever muscle you want," you gruffly inform her after she's met you at your truck. You slip the supplies into her bag. "You're so sweet." She kisses you—just a smack on the lips—then goes in for a more probing nuzzle. "You don't have anything to be jealous of, you know," she murmurs. "So how are you getting close to this guy?" It comes out almost as a gurgle: you feel strangled by your own erection. "A study thing tonight. He's been chasing me since I showed up, and I told him I could help him with his math." You still don't like the sounds of it—you parlayed a study session with Sydney into a serious relationship (you think). "He's in your math class?" "No, but he needs help with his. 'Cos he's a lunkhead. That's what we want him for, right? Muscles, not brains." "Sure. And, uh, your step— Nicholas," you correct yourself. "I still have to finish the other memory strip. I can do that tonight, have it ready by tomorrow." "Awesome. Then we can have a date tomorrow night, and he can come rescue us." * * * * * You've got a lot to think about that night, but it's hard to think it over in a systematic way, not when you've got homework and a memory strip to finish. So you do most of your thinking with your gut. There's Sydney's stepdad, for instance. He's a killer and a cultist, so you figure that he deserves whatever you and Sydney have planned for him. On the other hand, if you do this, you'll be a killer too. And Sydney wants to recruit or even make her own little "Brotherhood", which would put you in the same "cultist" camp as her stepdad, right alongside "killer," so then what would be the difference between you? If he deserves what's coming to him, wouldn't that mean you would deserve the same sticky end? It leaves you with a feeling like there's something creeping up behind you, so strong that you actually catch yourself looking over your shoulder a couple of times. And this "Brotherhood" thing. The notebooks are a jumble of disconnected jotting, not at all like a handbook or even a Wikipedia article, and you've only read through some of them, so there's still a lot you have to learn about it. So far, though, from the things that Sydney's dad wrote, the rituals sound more like a rave or maybe even just a sports game than a summoning. There's lots exhortations about "intensity of belief" and "the actualized manifestation of the group will," and there's a pretty strong hint—almost an assertion—that if or when "Baphomet" appears, it's just a collective hallucination that focuses the Brotherhood's metaphysical energies. But, it adds, the Brotherhood must actually believe in Baphomet for the thing to work, so who knows. Well, there's one thing you know. Unless you find and copy the ten members of the local chapter of the cult, you and Sydney are not going to be able to create your own Brotherhood unless you manufacture some members with masks and golems. Even Delp, it sounds like, would be very cool toward joining. And in back of all this, your deepest preoccupation: Sydney herself. She keeps talking like you and her are together. And yet you can't quite believe it. Is it because you can't shake the feeling that you're being manipulated by her? Or is it because you're the kind of loser who is so convinced that he's a loser that he'll lose a girl rather than lose the illusion that he's really a loser? And that question tortures you even more than the ethical quandaries of killing a murderer, or the practical dangers involved in trying to summon up demons. * * * * * Tuesday evening. You and Sydney are down in the school basement, where everything is set up. You've been out to the cemetery to get the dirt, and there's a hank of Sydney's own hair mixed in with the other ingredients. All you need now is to call her stepdad and tell him that her SUV has broken down at the Acheson Community Center. Once he's arrived, you'll ambush him with a mask, drag him into the basement, and add him to the pile. But Sydney wants to run some tests on the pedisequos first. "We'll use the mask I got of Blake," she says, and she's got it out before you can counter-propose using the mask of Caleb. It's very gloomy in the basement, so your first impression, after she's dropped the mask onto the golem, is that he has a pale skin. He doesn't look muscle-bound or even very tall, though. But it is definitely a "him." The chest is flat and there's a pink hump inside the hairy bush between its legs. Then he sits up, and you see that he does have well-defined muscles in his torso and arms. Sydney glances back at you. "Well, come on up and say hello, Will. He belongs to you, right?" You approach. The guy frowns at you. His eyes and his hair—which is trimmed in a bowl-shaped haircut—are dark, and he has a large, black mole on his left-hand jaw, midway between his chin and his ear. You don't know his name, but you do recognize him from your fourth-period English class—a jock buddy of football players like Erik Carstairs. "Hey," you say. "I'm Will." "Hey Will." His eyes flick over to Sydney. "The fuck's going on?" he demands. "And where are my clothes?" He seems completely unembarrassed about being stark naked. Of course, with his well-defined pecs and his six-pack, he has no reason to be embarrassed. He's also smooth and hairless, from his neck to his ankles, except at his crotch, where (you can't help noticing) a short, fat cock lounges like a lion relaxing inside a thorny bush. "Will, tell him who his boss is," Sydney says. "Hey you, I'm your boss," you inform the guy. "Yeah?" His expression tightens. But you think you see fear in his eye and a flutter at his throat. "Yeah. Hit yourself. Slap yourself across the face." Wack! His arm goes up and across as though operated by remote control, and the guy jumps, startled by his own action. He flushes and grimaces at you. "I'm your boss," you remind him, feeling more confident now. "You have to do what I say. Stand up." He lurches to his feet. "Sit down." He drops to his haunches. "Um—" "Tell him to put out his hand so I can take some blood," Sydney says. She unzips her bag. "What?" "You heard me, Will. Tell him to put out his hand so I can take some blood." You and the pedisequos exchange a glance of surprise and horror. "What—?" you start to ask, then backpedal as Sydney gives you a look. "Put out your hand and let her take some blood," you tell the guy. He puts out an arm even as he tries merging with the bookcase behind him. "I'm the boss of him," you grumble at your partner, "but it's like I'm not the boss of me." "Oh, hush." Sydney has taken out a syringe. "This is for science." She grabs the pedisequos by the wrist. "Who is this guy?" you ask. "How do you know him?" "Why don't you ask him? He has to answer you." "Yo, what's your name?" "Blake O'Brien. Ouch! Fuck! Bitch, do you even know what you're doing?" "How do you know Sydney?" "I seen her around school." He grits his teeth as she pulls blood from his arm. "Seen her in my fantasies, jacked off to her a couple dozen times." "Charming," Sydney retorts. "If you'd told me before, I'd've gone out with you sooner." "Yeah, well, I'm not complaining now. Tonight's turning out to be a lot of bullshit." Fake-Blake scowls. "If this is your idea of foreplay you're a psychotic cunt, and you don't know fuck about statistics." Sydney holds up the syringe and examines it. "I know more than you." "Bullshit. You couldn't even do the baby problems. And for your fucking information, I'm taking the AP class, not the regular one, and I'm getting a ninety-three percent in it." Sydney freezes. "Will, make him tell the truth." "That is the fucking truth!" Fake-Blake howls after you've relayed the order. "And it's a ninety-three and not a ninety-six only 'cos I was hung over the Monday fucking morning Muniz dropped a fucking double-point pop quiz on us!" Sydney stares at him, then looks back at you. "I thought he was a lunkhead," she says. "He's on the football squad." You can't help snickering. "So you pretended to be math-challenged to get a date with Caleb, and this guy pretended to be math-challenged to get a date with you. I'd call it karma." * * * * * Sydney continues what is turning out to be a medical examination. She snips off some of Fake-Blake's hair, has him spit into a cup, and scrapes off some of his dead skin cells, all of which she carefully stores away. You tense as she asks him to fill a glass jar with some urine, then relax when she doesn't follow it with a request for a stool sample. But you nearly ricochet off the ceiling when she hands him a small plastic container and says, "I need you to whack off and put your cum into this. I'll take my clothes off, if it'll help." "Whoa whoa whoa! Time out!" You wave your arms. "You're not going to—! I mean," you correct yourself when you see her expression. "What do you need a, a semen sample for?" "To see if these things are fertile." You nearly choke. "What are you running, a science fair project?" "No, Will," she replies. "Some of the things I want to do with the ley lines require ritualistic sex acts. And I want to know exactly what kind of things these things are, if they're going to be having sex with each other or with us." Next: "The Mess" |
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