The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)

The Devil in the Deli

Previously: "The One Who Has It Worse" 

"You know what?" you tell Dean. "Never mind. I know what I'm going to do."

He gives you a puzzled look, but you dismiss it.

"Let's go someplace where you can do your homework," you tell him, and after talking about it a little, you decide to separate for your houses and then rendezvous at Besandwitched, an eatery up the street a little way, at five.

* * * * *

You don't know what it is about Saratoga Falls that it sometimes feels like a small city in California that got transported inland by a few thousand miles. But that's the effect it sometimes gets from the kooky coffee shops and restaurants that are scattered around the university, like The Crystal Cave, The Flying Saucer, and ... Besandwitched.

Like, where outside of coastal California are you going to find an occult-themed sandwich shop?!

At least there's a light and airy feel to the place, due mostly to the enormous plate-glass windows looking out onto the street, because otherwise the decor—black candles and blood-red beads; iron pots and ragged brooms suspended from the ceiling—would be altogether too much. Worst of all is the floor-to-ceiling painting on the far side of the restaurant, of an enormous, heavy-lidded, unsmiling moon-face. It crowd the entire wall and looms over that side of the restaurant. Every time you catch a glimpse of it from the corner of your eye, you think it looks like the front of Thomas the Tank Engine, bursting through the wall to run over the customers and tear out the insides of the shop.

When you get to the restaurant—you beat Dean there—you take the side of a booth facing away from the awful thing and looking out onto the street.

And you brought money—given by your mother for your supper—so you won't have to starve or sponge off of Dean again.

He's ten minutes later getting to the shop, and you already have your books spread out. Not that you have much to work on, for you got finished with it Friday night, and only have some reading for English that you can get ahead on. But you did open up a notebook in front of you, and piled up some other books, so you would look like you've got plenty to occupy yourself.

"You order yet?" Dean asks as he slides into the booth. Something catches his eye, and he winces slightly. Probably Thomas, you think, and feel a little bad about sticking him with the view. But you don't feel bad enough to regret having grabbed the prime spot first.

Dean signals for the waitress when you tell him you haven't, and pulls over one of the menus from behind the napkin dispenser. (You do likewise, now that he's here.) "I love the food here," he murmurs as he studies the selection, "but I always get so embarrassed when I have to order." He points to the page. "This is my favorite, but it's so hard telling them I want a 'Hermetic Swine'."

You search it out on your menu. It would sound good if the description didn't also threaten indigestion.

Celestial ham and astral-Swiss bound with an alchemical mustard and sealed between two slices of sanctified sourdough. Served with a rod of dill pickle and your choice of arcane potato chips.

"I'd just tell them I want the ham and Swiss."

"They won't let you," he says. "They always want the names. And don't tell them you want them to 'hold' anything. You've got to 'banish' it. And you've got to 'conjure' anything you want extra."

"Really? I don't remember them ever telling me that when I've come in here."

"Maybe it's the waitresses I always get," he mutters. "Although this one looks new," he quietly adds as she appears at your table side. "Can I have water with a lemon slice?" he asks. You ask for a Coke.

After a minute or two of looking over the menu, he replaces it and proceeds to stare vacantly at something behind you. After you've chosen for yourself (The "Sacred Bull of P'tah": a roast beef sandwich "transmuted by the power of a chthonic horseradish") you replace your menu and stare at him, which has the effect of shaking him loose. "You all sorted out for that time capsule thing?" he asks. "What are you giving your teacher?"

As it happens, you've got it with you, as you packed it with your other school books so you wouldn't forget it in the morning. You pull it out and push it over to him. He rears back a little as he frowns at it.

But before he can open it, he looks up, suppresses a wince, and pushes it to the side. You look over, expecting it to be the waitress.

It isn't. It's someone you'd expect to lurk in this kind of place.

* * * * *

Braydon Delp is one of the creepiest guys at school, so it's kind of funny that you don't really mind him much. Maybe because he's so much like your own friends, just with a black-magic twist.

He's a short son of a bitch, with dark hair that's been styled and feathered up top into a kind of faux-hawk. It is unnaturally dark, too, like it's been dyed with shoe polish, and he touches up his eyebrows with mascara. But otherwise he looks pretty normal: skinny with big eyes and a large-ish nose, and arms that dangle at his side. He dresses in dark clothes—black or charcoal gray—and he has lately taken to sporting (you've noticed) a silver ring on one of his index fingers. It's his constant talk about the occult that marks him out as something unusual at WHS (there's not a lot of goth people there), but even that could be put down to his interest in role-playing fantasy games, because he hangs out with a crowd that is into those.

Now here he is, looming over your table.

"Hudgens," he says with a faint smirk. "Prescott." You're actually impressed he knows your last name. "In the mood for something arcane?"

"No, man," Dean sighs. "Just good old American sandwiches."

Braydon's smile plumps a little.

"I saw you over here, wanted to come say hi. What's this?" he asks as he cranes his head a little to look at your books. "You bring homework?"

"Yeah, we got some stuff to do," you tell him. Dean doesn't look like he wants Braydon hanging around, so you try to keep your voice cold. "So we came out here."

"Cool. Lemme go get Gillian—she's freshening herself—she'll want to say hi too." He oozes back the way he came.

Dean slumps almost onto his elbow, and his eyes roll wildly in their sockets.

"He's not that bad," you hiss at him. "Behave!"

"But he's bringing his girlfriend over!" Dean replies in a choked voice.

"So? She can't be awful—"

"Have you seen her?"

"No. Quit it!" you hiss as he moans.

"You're right." He straightens up. "I've got to be strong. I've got to be polite. I've got to be—"

He catches himself as he looks past your shoulder. He turns very white. You turn around.

Braydon is coming back, and he's got a girl with her. Next to him she looks like a brownie covered in warm hot fudge and whipped cream.

She is as short as he is, and dressed in a brown leather vest with fringe over a black t-shirt. Her dark hair is cut in a short bob, and her eyes dance merrily in a chipmunk face. There are deep dimples in her cheeks.

She looks like a cross between an imp from the infernal depths, and a cherub.

"Hey," she chirps. "We saw you guys come in! Braydon didn't want to bother you, but I said we had to say hi!" Her lips purse into a mad little smile. "Hey Dean, why don't we have any classes together this semester?"

"Because I sacrificed the wrong sort of goat to the wrong class of demon?"

She covers her laugh with her hand.

"I miss you so much," she says. "Remember in Mr. Montague's class?"

"I still have dreams."

"Should I be jealous?" Braydon asks, but Gillian slaps him on the shoulder.

"That was two years ago," she says. "But hey, can we sit with you a little while?"

To your surprise, Dean is quick to say "Please."

* * * * *

But apparently you shouldn't have been surprised, for after they have joined you—you have to move over to Dean's side so Braydon and Gillian can sit together—Dean and Gillian immediately start reminiscing about classes they shared their sophomore and junior year. It quickly becomes apparent that if they didn't date outside of class, they damn well nearly did inside. It sounds like they were always doing stuff together, and Gillian asks about Lacie and Tiffany and Patrick, whom she was apparently also friends with.

As for Braydon, he seems to suffer all this in an amused and patient silence. Maybe a smug silence too, because you seem to catch him shooting little gloating looks at Dean, as though to say, Look what I've got now and you don't. You've a better idea now why he moaned when Braydon threatened to bring her over to the table.

But Braydon also seems bored with their talk, for he runs his eye over the table. And that is how he notices, and then pulls out without asking, that book you got at Arnholm's. "What's this?" he asks.

So you tell him about it, and what you're going to do with it. He looks interested by the body of your story, and scandalized by its conclusion.

"You can't just dump a thing like this," he says as he flips through the few pages that will open. "It's probably something," he says.

"All the pages are glued shut," you say.

"Give it to me," he says. "I'll buy it off you."

"Nuh. I got to put something in the time capsule, man, and this is it."

His brows lower.

"If I bring you something to put in your capsule—something good—will you trade it to me for this?"

You stare at him.

But before you can answer, Dean says, "I'll give you fifty dollars for it, Will. Right now."

Either offer is clearly superior to what you had planned for it.

That's all for now.

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 5)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)"