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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Dangers from Expected Quarters"  by Masktrix The rest of the day seems to pass as usual. At lunch, you and Keith accidentally walk into the middle of some squabble on the soccer team, mainly directed at the new transfer, Hannah Westwick, and spend an awkward thirty seconds getting out of it. You're hoping for an easier afternoon, but then the intercom sounds... âWilliam Prescott, please report to the principalâs office. William Prescott, principalâs office.â You stop dead in the middle of calculus, the eyes of the class all upon you. You want to vanish. âWhat the hell did you do?â Carson Ioeger stage-whispers to you from across the room. All you can do is shrug back dramatically: you genuinely have no idea what this is about. As the glares continue, you want to shrink, shrivel and die. Thereâs a cough from the front of the room as Mr Kowalski folds his arms. âIf youâre quite ready, I suggest you have somewhere to be, Mr Prescott. You can get the notes from a friend.â You gather your things and slink down the corridor, lone footsteps echoing down the hall, then across the Westside campus as you make your way first to your locker and then to the main office, all the while shaking your head and wondering whatâs the matter. If it were a family emergency, someone would have been sent to fetch you. You remember last year, when one of the now-graduated seniors, Darius McBride, lost his parents in a car accident. Apparently the principal arrived in the middle of Dariusâs triumphant presentation on the tactical nuances of the Schlieffen Plan and took him out of class. The school talked about it for weeks, and McBride would burst into tears whenever he was in history for the rest of the semester. The poor bastard was supposed to go to UC Davis to study modern history, but dropped out. At least, thatâs what the school legend says. Finally, you reach your destination, one of the secretaries glancing up at you from the office desk outside, a perimeter guard dog there to make sure the senior staff donât have to deal with unexpected interlopers. âYes?â âWill Prescott,â you say. A blank look. âIâm Will Prescott?â Still nothing. âYou put a call out for me to report here?â The blank look remains. Maybe itâs a secretarial thousand-yard stare, the only way she can survive in this place. Then, mercifully, thereâs a presence behind you. âThank you,â you hear Coach Acuna say to the secretary, her usually deep, dancing Hispanic accent once again conspicuous by its absence. âIâll take it from here. Mr Prescott, I need you to come with me, please.â âWhatâs this about, coach?â you ask. Youâre puzzled why the head of the schoolâs tennis program has pulled you out of class. Acunaâs Latina frame is stocky rather than lithe, but you know from seeing her on court itâs all toned muscle. Another school legend says she was an all-state mixed doubles player, but a health scare meant she never got any further. You study her youthful face, its wide cheekbones framed by a straight, slick river of long black hair. Her pencil-thin eyebrows are implacable, and the usual smile on her generous lips has been replaced with an expression of utmost seriousness. âIâll explain in the side office,â she says, indicating for you to follow. âCome with me, young man.â She opens a side door to one of the secretarial workspaces and waits. You take a last glance at the disinterested secretary, whose vacant stare is all you need to follow the teacher into the room. As you pass, you canât help but notice how odd Acuna seems. Sheâs always made a point of being approachable, whether you play tennis or not, carrying herself with a natural, easy grace. Now that open and confident stride is gone. You enter a room stuffed with old office supplies, stacked chairs and cardboard binders no one has used since the invention of the computer. Acuna motions for you to sit down behind an old table and closes the door. Why arenât you holding this meeting in her office? âWill,â she says, slouching against a bookcase on the far wall, probably gathering grime on the back of her polo shirt in the process. âWilliam. Mr Prescott. Were you, by which I mean have you been, ever, in possession of a book of magic?â God, this again. You feel discomfort grow in the pit of your stomach. That creepy-ass book has been nothing but trouble. This is the third time itâs come back to bite you in the ass. Thereâs no point in lying. âItâs not really a book ofâŚâ Before you can finish, Acuna crouches down, pulling a book â the book â out of a Harry Potter backpack on the floor and setting it on the table. âSpecifically, this book of magic?â Once more youâre staring at the pentagram on the binding, and the optical illusion of the faces shifting as the light catches them. You nod in resignation, wondering what youâve done to have this thing return to you like a bad penny. âYes, coach. Look, I donât know where itâs been for a month. Whateverâs happened, whatever someoneâs done with it, it wasnât anything to do with me.â Acunaâs eyes narrow, and she leans forward, speech a little too rapid. âAnd what, hypothetically, might someone have done with it?â You have no idea. Your mind runs through scenarios: Joe Thomason using it for some bizarre torture; or maybe selling it to some idiot freshman who tried to summon a ghost in the boyâs locker room and has left a thousand black mass candles across the floor. Acunaâs said to be a devout Catholic, and you once heard from Lisa â back when you were dating â that sheâs full-tilt into the idea of angels and demons walking the Earth, even praying for divine help before tennis tournaments. Perhaps she thinks itâs part of her job to stomp out the devilâs works, taking it upon herself to launch a Westside Inquisition the moment occult nonsense rears its head. You suspect this is about the hunt for Thomason's cohorts, so you decide the best option is to be as flippant as possible. âI dunno, try a magic spell?â Whether itâs the right or wrong answer, it seems to heighten Acunaâs attention â and her warpspeed questions begin again. âWill, I need you to tell me everything you know about this book, right now. Itâs important. Start at the beginning. Where did you get it?â And itâs at this point, where you should be feeling under pressure as a member of staff grills you, that you realize youâre not intimidated at all. In fact, that strange feeling youâve got about Acuna has neutralized any nerves you may have had. There are small, imperceptible details that are just wrong. Acuna is a stickler for looking smart, but her hair has loose strands from where itâs fallen forward and not been combed. Her fingers are twitching like sheâs shot with caffeine, but you remember once hearing her tell Tesla she canât drink it for some reason. And, underneath the polo shirt, she isnât wearing a bra. âNowhere special,â you say, deliberately noncommittal. âWilliam, please donât play games with me.â You look straight at Acuna. Behind those apparently serious eyes, thereâs a hint of something more primal. Something youâve seen in your own eyes when youâve looked in the mirror and known a school day was ahead. Fear. âIâm not, coach. I just donât see what this has got to do with me. I told you, I got rid of the book weeks ago. Or tried to, at least. I donât know why itâs resurfaced now.â Thereâs an uncomfortable, aching silence. Acuna looks uncertain where to go; youâre trying to work out whatâs happening. Thereâs something about the way the coach is acting, and the strange absence of that wonderful, rolling accent that James Lamont once called her âsexy senorita liltâ that makes you think something strange is afoot. You steel yourself in this battle of wills, promising you wonât say anything. Fortunately, Acuna is the one who breaks. And when she does, itâs perhaps with the craziest question youâve ever been asked in your life. âYou know, Iâm just going to come out and get to the point,â she says, a hint of neediness creeping into her voice as she changes tack. âWilliam Prescott. Are you, or have you ever been, a wizard?â Next: "Nobody Expects the Tennis Confession" |
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