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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Poor Boys"  "Double-crossing son of a bitch," Caleb mutters. "Yeah, Will." Keith grins at you. "You're a double-crossing son of a—" "What are you cussing at me for?" you demand of Caleb. "And you can just shut it," you tell Keith. "This doesn't have anything to—" "I told you I wanted that job," Caleb says. "And you told me—" "I didn't promise you anything!" "You told me that you didn't want it!" "Well, I don't want it," you exclaim. "But I need the money." "You need the money like I need a hole in the head!" It's Wednesday afternoon, and as usual you're taking lunch with your friends in back of the school. You didn't want to tell Caleb about the deal you made with your dad—taking that job out at Salopek in return for an advance on your salary—but when Keith asked if you wanted to see a movie after school, you had to demur. One thing led to another, and you had to confess that you were going out to Salopek to meet your dad. And then Caleb had to ask if he could come along too, so that he could talk to your dad about applying for that job at his work. So through gritted teeth you were forced to admit that you were going to Salopek to apply for that very job. "Look," you tell Caleb, "I didn't think it was going to work out this way. But last night—" "But last night you saw a way to slip a shiv between my ribs," Caleb says, "and so you took it." "Hey, it's not the only job in town!" "Then why don't you take one of those other jobs? " Caleb retorts. "You didn't want this one and I did!" "I don't want any job!" you holler. "Not this one, not— Look, it's too late now! Besides, my dad won't give me an advance unless it's the job out at his work," you add. "And I need the advance." "For what?" Caleb thrusts his lower lip at you, and a patch as black as a thundercloud appears on his brow. "Just for some stuff I need to buy." Caleb glares hot murder but says nothing. Which is better than what Tilley does. "Jesus, Will," he gasps, "you're not buying weed or something, are you? Or you owe a guy for—" "What? No!" "Then what do you need the money for so bad?" "Listen, it's my business, not yours!" You grab up your lunch and lurch to your feet. "It's my business, it's my dad's work, it's my job! I don't owe you a fucking thing, Johansson, so leave me the fuck alone about it!" You storm off. But you quickly cool down because you do feel guilty. Caleb really did want that job, and you sort-of-kind-of wanted him to have it (just not enough to talk to your dad about it), and it's only this chance thing with that book that has led you to knuckle under to your dad. So you go looking for Caleb at his locker when school is over. "I'm sorry I blew up at you earlier," you tell him. "What are you apologizing for?" he replies. "You didn't do anything wrong." When you continue to press an apology on him, he punches you lightly in the shoulder. "C'mon, man. I was just giving you shit. You wanna apologize, apologize for taking me seriously. Okay? Pax?" He puts out a fist. You smile and bump it back. "Get a room, you homos," growls David Kirkham as he shuffles past. * * * * * In accord with the deal you made with your dad, you drive out to Salopek immediately after school. He's busy, but he's left word with the receptionist, who with a friendly smile hands you an application form. And when you've finished filling it out, she lifts the phone to call someone inside the complex. "Andy Keyes will be along in a moment to show you around," she tells you after hanging up. "Show me around for what?" "Your dad asked us to give you a tour, tell you about the job." Even though your dad basically promised you the job so long as you applied for it, a cold chill runs down your back. "Do all the applicants get a tour?" "All the ones named 'Prescott'," she says, and turns back to her computer monitor. A few minutes later a tall, rangy man with a tanned face and crinkly smile comes in. "Will?" he addresses you. "Andy Keyes." He puts out his hand. "Welcome aboard." "Uh, thanks." You don't correct his impression that you have already got the job. The tour that follows is very short and direct. Basically, he just points out some of the buildings as he leads you deeper into the plant. You've never been out to Salopek, and you never cared to, but even you're impressed by the size of some of the buildings. It's into one hanger-like building, at the very back of the property, that Keyes takes you. "There's not much orientation for a job like this," he tells you, "though we will be giving you a pretty thick safety manual to digest. Sean!" he calls. "You'll be kind of a gofer, kind of a mechanic. You like working with machinery?" "Nn-nn," you say under your breath. "That's good," he replies, "because we'll be giving you a greasy handful. Oh, here's Sean," he adds as a meaty blonde guy appears. You vaguely recognize him, and peg him instantly as a football player. "You're at Westside, right, Will? So's Sean." You and the blonde guy shake hands. "Well, I'll leave you in his capable hands," Andy continues. "Will just got hired. Although your first day isn't until—?" He gives you a quizzical look. "I'm not sure," you stammer. "Have to ask to my dad." "Well, tell him about the job, Mitchell." Andy claps Sean on the back. "You two'll be working together." At first you're not sure whether to take that as a promise or a threat, but you soon find yourself relaxing in Sean's presence. He's a bluff, cheerful guy with a twinkle in his eye, and an easy laugh. He takes you back into something called the "distribution center." "It's air conditioned," he says with a wink. "If I'm gonna take the afternoon off to tell you about the job, might as well do it in comfort." He soon has you relaxed and laughing, though he tells you hardly anything about what the work at Salopek will be like. Your dad comes and finds out at quitting time, with a gruff apology about not being able to turn loose earlier. "Let's take your truck home," he says as he leads you out. "We can talk about the job." "What about your car?" "You can give me a ride to work tomorrow. So how does the job look?" You gulp and tell him it will probably be okay. You like Sean and Andy, you assure him. "That's good," he says. "Job'll be good for you." He gives you a sidelong, critical glance. "You might actually put on some muscle." Your heart sinks. You're halfway home before you pluck up the courage to ask for the advance he promised in exchange for taking the job. "I'll go by the bank tomorrow on my way home," he says. "I haven't got the cash on me." "Can we stop by the bank now?" "Why do you need to the money now?" "Well, I was hoping to go into town and pick some stuff up." His lips twist into a sardonic frown. "That video game will still be on the shelf tomorrow," he says. His retort stings you. "It's not a video game! I told you, it's—!" But you cut yourself. If your dad wants to think you're blowing the money on a video game, let him. It's better than him knowing that you're experimenting with the dark arts. * * * * * He's better than that vague promise, though, and when you get home from school the next day your mom has five twenties waiting for you. You run upstairs, make up a fast shopping list, and run out to get the stuff for the next spell. You make it back just in time for dinner. Afterward, upstairs, you risk another fire to make the basic item. It yields a metal band, about the size and shape of a bookmark, whose surface runs with an oily rainbow of colors. You clear off part of your desk and, with some jeweler's tools that you had to buy and bless inside the book's sigil, you set about carving a set of runes in the band. An hour later, you've hardly got the first rune done, for it's like carving a trench in granite with a nail file. You realize that you can either work on the thing, or you can finish your homework. You decide to work on the thing. It turns out not to take as long as you'd feared, but it's not until after one in the morning that you carve the last rune into the metal strip. You lay it across the book, then lift it. The page comes loose, and with eyes that have lost all heaviness you bore into the rest of the spell. It consists of only one phrase. To know the mind of another, it translates as. It comes to you as you lay in bed afterward, puzzling over its meaning. If a mask copies a person's image, does the metal band you make copy their mind? It stands to reason. But who should you try it on? Someone nearby and available? Someone that can help you at your new job? Or should you complement the mask you made with a copy of the mind that goes with it? Next: "A Return to the Scene of the Crime" |
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