The Book of Masks (Abridged)

The Vessel

"ACTUALLY, I'M NOT FEELING VERY OBEDIENT," you reply. "I'm feeling kind of pissed off."

"A natural response," Blackwell sniggers, "but I assure you that you will do exactly as you're told."

"And I can assure you I'll do exactly as I please," you retort. Blackwell looks startled.

"For instance, I'd be extremely pleased to tell you that there's been a colossal fuck up in your plans, whatever they are. Sure, I look like this asshole, and I could play him perfectly if I had to." You gesture at Shabbleman, whose demeanor has turned very black. "But my name isn't William Shabbleman." You tilt your chin and gaze meaningfully at Blackwell, whose mouth is hanging open by this point. "It's Prescott. William Prescott."

There is a moment of absolute silence before Blackwell clears his throat. "Um— Uh-hegh. What did you say?"

"I said my name is William Prescott. You remember, the kid who bought the Libra Persona and then sold it back to you. The kid you took on as an adept. I guess I've been gone for—" You do a quick calculation in your head. "I guess it's been a little more than a week now. Well, I'm back, and I'd sure like to know how the fuck I managed to wind up here." You slap your hand against your naked torso.

Blackwell has turned a very pale shade of green by this point. He glances over at Shabbleman and quails beneath the latter's murderous stare. He sinks, to sit the edge of the bed.

"This is," he gasps, "a most unexpected reappearance, William."

* * * * *

You and Blackwell are up in the workroom, where he stands helplessly flipping pages in the Libra while you glare at him with your hands on your hips. The professor had to make some very dark threats before he could shake off Shabbleman and lead you up here. You suspect he'd like to make some very dark threats against you, but he is far too puzzled—and maybe even frightened—to say anything more than "I don't understand."

You tell him the story again, of leaving your room and making your way up to the workroom, where you found the Libra and the strange writing on the now-blank page. He peers at it closely. You tell again of the thing in the doorway. "The gwarcheidwad," he murmurs. "I told you to stay in your room, for your own safety." You tell again of falling backward into a blank world of sigils, and of disappearing into it. His lips compress. When he glances up at you again there is a fearful light in his eyes.

"I can't be certain, Will," he says, "but it sounds very much to me as though you managed to escape my guardian by passing into the book itself." You see that his hands are trembling. "I do not know how such a thing is possible. I had no notion that the book was capable of acting in such a way. Certainly, and I hope you'll take no offense, I do not think you have the capability yourself of executing such a maneuver."

"No offense taken."

"But the manner of your reappearance ..." He tugs at his lip. "It could be— Of course I had to use the book to make the mask for Mr. Shabbleman. It was the first time that I used it since, er, your accident."

"And what is up with him?" you interrupt. "And what have you done about my life since I've been gone?"

"One question at a time, Will, I beg you! I must think!" He presses his palms against his temples. "You must have passed through the book somehow. It took you in, and then, when, like a portal opening, it—" He gives you a penetrating glance, and his breathing, though loud, is shallow. "If you will permit me to make a small test," he says. "I have a hypothesis."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to take your face off."

"What?! What'll happen?"

"That's what I have to find out. Permit me?"

You really hate the suggestion, but if it's the only way ... You nod.

Gingerly, he reaches up, and you flinch as his fingertips touch your brow. He murmurs some words, and the world briefly goes white.

And then it's back. But all the color is gone. It's like being trapped in an old Hollywood movie.

Like a Dracula or Frankenstein movie. You half expect to hear thunder and see lightning.

Blackwell peers closely at you, then studies the mask in his hand. "Well, at least that shut him up," he mutters nastily.

You rumble gutturally, inarticulately, and Blackwell quails as you grasp the mask and wrench it from his weakened grip. As you raise it to your face you notice that your fingers are thick, stubby things.

There is a rush and a roar, and the world returns to normal. You glare at him. "Nice trick," you snarl, "but we won't be doing that again."

The professor does the last thing you expect of him. He starts to giggle. The giggles bubble and build on each other. Then he starts to hiccup. Hiccupping and giggling, he bends double, and his knees buckle, and he falls to the floor. This is no laughing matter, but you can tell from his stricken face that he is not laughing from pleasure. He is in a very bad way. This is an attack of some kind.

"It's a phylactery," he finally gasps. "It can't be anything else." He starts giggling again, hysterically. "God in heaven, the lad used the Libra to create a phylactery for himself! Impossible! Inconceivable, or the word has no meaning! The grail of every warlock for the last thousand years ... and a goddamned high school student with the brain of bird is the one who manages it!"

You slap him, less for the insult than to sober him up. He buries his face in his hands and slumps.

"I do apologize," he says when he raises a very pale face again. The madness is gone; instead he looks almost infinitely sad, as though someone has taken his favorite toy away from him, forever. "I am simply so ... struck ... by what has happened."

"What has happened?" you ask. "What is a ... a phil ...?"

"A phylactery. In magic of our sort, it is a container for the soul. You've heard of warlocks who can't be killed because their soul is hidden in a secret vessel?" You nod. "That vessel we call a phylactery."

"And I've made one?"

"I think so." He points. "Beneath that mask is a golem. An animate golem. It seized the mask from me and returned it to its face."

"I did that."

"Oh, I see." He nods. "Yes, I suppose that would be one way of executing it." He takes a deep breath. "I thought perhaps the book had lodged you inside the mask. I suppose it did, but now I see that you then passed through the mask itself and into the golem. Probably a roomier and hence more congenial environment."

"So if my soul is now inside a golem—" You shudder at the thought. "Where is my body?"

"I don't know," he admits. "Destroyed, possibly. Or still trapped inside the book. I'm afraid this is a technique as far above my abilities as nuclear physics are above yours."

"So what do we do about it?"

"Do?" He seems shocked by the question. "Why should we do anything? You have a nearly indestructible body now. Ageless, too. You are immortal. Good God, what do we do about it? Nothing! You've accomplished only what so many others have striven for and failed to achieve!"

"I still want my life back."

He shrugs. "Your golem is still out there pretending to be you. We can retrieve it and return you to your life. Or—" Something of his old spirit seems to be returning. "We can find you another situation. I had to find another adept after you disappeared, you know." He catches himself, then gives you a smile that is meant to be fatherly but only makes your flesh creep. " But now that you're back, why can't you continue where you left us?"

"Yeah, tell me who that other guy is, and why you had to find another adept."

"All in good time, Will," he says soothingly. "But I think Mr. Shabbleman will be easier to deal with if you're not done up to look like him. Quickly now, what do you want? To return to your old life? I can have your replacement out here lickety-split. Or I have Jared. You can wear him, permanently or until I get you a replacement."