“Uh-huh,” King groaned. “What was your impression of Jackson’s work? Did you get the sense there was more where that came from?”
“That’s what this is about? You believe Jackson Carter authored a grimoire? That’s not possible.”
“The Diviners beg to differ,” King said matter-of-factly.
Malek rolled his eyes. Diviners. A dozen crotchety octogenarians huddled in a smoke-filled room beneath The Pentagon, spouting vague warnings and half-baked predictions. It was like a bingo hall, but without the quiet dignity. They were more like drug-sniffing dogs than proper psychics, able to point in the general direction of mystical activity, but lacked the ability to offer meaningful specifics. Most of F-Division considered them a joke, but for whatever reason, upper-management swore by them.
“Even if that were the case, which I seriously doubt, grimoires are notoriously difficult to pin down,” Malek explained. “We’ve never seen the inside of a completed volume.”
“But you have seen one,” King ventured.
“Of course. Came across one last year in Sapporo, authored by a Magnus level Scrivener with decades of experience. The moment I cracked the cover it was devoured by purple flames, blinking out of existence—a clever little security feature. And we recovered another in Ankara during a recent operation. It had been safeguarded as well, though the result was far less dramatic: reading the text aloud triggered an enchantment that transformed the entire volume into a cook book.”
“So it was a total loss?”
Malek offered a shrug. “Unfortunately. But on the upside, I discovered a fabulous recipe for baklava.”
King wiped a pudgy hand across his forehead. “Mmm. So you’re saying there is no way Jackson Carter could have authored a grimoire?”
“If he had,” Malek said, though he clearly didn’t, “he disposed of it before we arrived.”
“Based on the note he left on his drawing board, we have reason to believe otherwise. We also have reason to believe there’s more than one Scrivener at large in North Valley.”
More ‘predictions’ from the vaunted Diviners, no doubt. “What makes you say that?” Malek asked.
“It’s need-to-know.”
Of course it was.
“So you cleared the room,” King said, after a few phlegm-rattling attempts at clearing his throat, “and then you retrieved the remaining spells and equipment. What was your next move?”
“I called headquarters and asked for my next play. They told me it was my op, and my call.”
“Uh-huh. Which was?”
Malek stirred in his chair, suddenly unable to mask his discomfort. “Cleansing Protocol.”
The Hawthorne Braves are a powerhouse football team with the trophy case to prove it. Players have always been local celebrities in North Valley, though not everyone was a fan of their logo.
When the Academy decided it was time to do away with Native American imagery and usher in a more politically correct mascot, it was put to a vote. Students were welcome to choose from a pre-selected list of animals—a timber wolf, a tiger, a wolverine, all the classics—or, they could write in suggestions of their own.
The ballots were counted, and the winner by a landslide was the Kraken: a mythological sea creature. Logos were designed, school colors were changed, and the board never allowed students to vote on anything ever again.
In a town that turned out to be a secret hub of mystical activity, I always found it amusing that something as innocuous as choosing a school mascot had shades of the supernatural.
If they only knew.
– Passage in the North Valley Grimoire
3. Pipe Bombs & Pom-Poms
THE SUN WAS UNDETERRED by a few wisps of cottony cirrus, making the otherwise cool October day unbearable beneath a stifling cardigan. Calista loosened her tie with a quick tug as she trudged across the courtyard.
Kaz stood beneath a towering oak that shaded the bleachers. “They just invented these newfangled devices,” he called out, waving his phone overhead. “They’re called ‘cellular telephones.’ I think they’re gonna be all the rage.”
“What can I say? I’m retro.” Calista slid the pack from her shoulder and dropped it next to his on a pile of crunchy orange leaves. “Plus the government can’t trace a piece of paper.”
“Between you and Jackson it’s like listening to a non-stop podcast about the apocalypse. I won’t be surprised if the two of you start building a doomsday bunker.”
”Don’t forget about the tin foil hats,” she added. “Stylish, yet practical. And for the record, if we did start a show, we’d score more hits than the video game battles you live-stream while your parents are sleeping.”
Kaz scoffed. “You’d be surprised how many people log in to watch me kick some serious ass.”
She resisted the urge to smile. It always amused her when Kaz got defensive about his gaming; it was the only thing he took as seriously as academia. “Are you ever going to let your parents know you’re a competitive gamer?”
“What they don’t know won’t hurt them. Besides, my mom would have a coronary if she knew I was blowing off study sessions to enter tournaments.”
“Good thing she’s a doctor.”
Kaz deposited his phone in his front pocket. “Speaking of my parents, can we take it easy on the notes? If I get a blemish on my permanent record, I might be the one in need of medical attention.”
“Phones are prohibited, not notes. Technically, we weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“Technically, I’m sure Walton doesn’t care about your loophole. Did she tear you a new one after your rant?” He had that look on his face; the quiet dismay he constantly battled but was never quite able to shake loose.
“What’s wrong with asking for some facts once in a while? Starting a discussion?”
“Nothing,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just … you have moxie, that’s all.”
She sagged against the trunk and exhaled, gazing out across the courtyard. “Why do I feel like ‘moxie’ is your code word for ‘crazy’?”
A crowd was forming near the scoreboard that rose from behind the end zone. The horde was swathed in green, black and silver; letter jackets, uniforms and banners, all emblazoned with the school’s mascot: the Kraken. The cartoon sea monster was itching for a fight, furious eyes drawn in a downward slant.
The notion of school pride revolving around a bunch of sweaty boys slamming their helmets together while girls cartwheeled and shook pop-poms had always baffled her. It seemed so shallow. And pointless. And led to the decimation of precious brain cells. And it made her lips curl because it reminded her of Jackson.
“We’re seniors,” Kaz said, genuinely concerned. His brow was furrowed more than usual, and at a more precarious angle.
“You always did have an amazing grasp of the obvious.”
“I’m not saying you need to go cold turkey, but if you could tone down the moxie by like, ten percent?” He twisted his fingers, gingerly adjusting an invisible dial. “A slight moxie reduction.”
She shot him a sidelong glance. “Ten? That’s it?”
He readjusted the dial. “Maybe fifteen. Seventeen, tops.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
“This is our last year at Hawthorne, Callie. Universities tend to look at things like extracurricular activities, and test scores, and if you’ve ever murdered a teacher.”
She snorted. “It won’t come to that.” Probably.
Kaz peered down at her through a disheveled mop of black hair, the bangs he was forced to continually sweep away but refused to cut. “Keep your cool,” he pleaded. “Do the work and gut it out. And if you need help with anything just ask, okay?”
She acknowledged him with a nod, though she didn’t need help—not from Kaz, not from Walton, not from anybody. What she did need was for everyone to quit assuming she was in danger of falling to pieces at any given moment. Being kicked around by life leaves its marks, b
ut given enough time the bruises give way to calluses. They toughen the skin and make it harder to break.
“Come on,” she said. “I want to evacuate before the pep goes into overdrive. Things are already getting a little too peppy for my liking.” A gaggle of cheerleaders bounded across the field, and a few ‘Release the Kraken!’ signs made their way through the crowd.
“It’s school spirit, Callie, not Ebola. You can’t catch it by being in close proximity.”
“I’m not taking any chances.” She flung her backpack over her shoulder and headed down the flagstone path towards the gates.
A football player jogged past with a battle-scarred helmet tucked under his arm. He sidled up to Calista.
“Looking good,” he growled, followed by a low whistle. It was Parker Ashton, a pock-marked mouth breather with a crooked nose and rust-colored hair slicked into a top knot. “You should watch some make-up tutorials and hit the squat rack. Maybe in a few months I’ll take you into a utility closet. As long as you don’t broadcast it.”
Calista didn’t bother wasting a retort. “Have you talked to Jackson today? He’s not answering my texts.”
Parker crinkled his twisted nose. “I’m his second cousin, not his wet nurse. How the hell should I know? Dude barely makes practice anymore.”
A pack of green and black jerseys galloped by. A fist flew out and struck Parker’s shoulder pad. “If you’re done with your charity work we need to go,” Maddox called out in mid-stride, breaking from the group. His teammates ran ahead.
Maddox turned and jogged backward, smiling at Calista like a toothpaste commercial. “Hey Freak Show, thank your boyfriend for me. I’m getting my first start at QB since he decided to bail.” He had chiseled features and a wave of dark hair that seemed perpetually styled, even after he’d removed his helmet. His looks were so disarming that it was easy to forget how evil he was until he opened his mouth.
“Have you heard from—” was all Calista had a chance to say. Maddox and Parker broke into a sprint and joined the festivities on the field.
Despite the fact that Jackson had cut Parker some very undeserved slack based on family obligation, he only tolerated the rest of the troglodytes on the football team as a means to an end. Thanks to his record-shattering Junior year as quarterback, he had a golden ticket to any college in the Western hemisphere, which made his absence from the big game all the more alarming. With recruiters swarming the stands, why miss out on this opportunity?
Calista texted Jackson as they walked. Halfway across the courtyard they were approached—or intercepted, to be more accurate—by a quartet of North Valley clones decked out in Hawthorne’s tasteful yet trampy cheerleader uniforms. It was Whitney, pom-poms in hand, flanked by a pair of dark-haired sentries who Calista recognized, but never had the misfortune of meeting. Trailing a step behind was Maisie Niven, a slender, porcelain-skinned girl with long tangerine curls and cheeks dusted with freckles. The only three things Calista knew about Maisie were that she’d recently transferred from a school in Scotland, she was deaf, and that for some reason she’d latched onto the cheerleading squad.
Whitney locked her feet in place, blocking Calista’s path. “That was quite the performance in class today, Cal.” She sounded astonishingly sincere, yet her grin told a different story.
“Thanks, Whit. And as per usual, thanks for correcting me.”
“It’s a thankless job,” Whitney sighed, “but someone has to do it. So I heard a rumor, and I was wondering if you’d confirm or deny.” When she uttered the word ‘rumor’, the pair of diminutive brunettes sparked with interest.
“If you’re looking for a winter prom date,” Calista said dryly, “the answer is no. I’m into guys. And even if I weren’t, I’d go for someone with better fashion sense.”
Whitney narrowed her gaze. “Ha, ha. They say you got a tattoo.”
“As per usual, ‘they’ are full of shit. I wouldn’t risk expulsion over some ink.”
Word around campus was that the football team had gotten matching tats after a wild post-game kegger last year—a scandal that landed a local parlor in hot water for tattooing minors without parental consent. Since then, the rumor mill churned endlessly about who may or may not have been inked as well.
She waggled her eyebrows at one of the brunettes. “Say what you want, Cal, but my sources are very reliable.”
“More reliable than your hair stylist, I hope.” Calista painted on a smile, mirroring her aggressor. Why take the high road? The passive-aggressive low road had room enough for two.
Whitney’s luminous smile eroded. “I hear tats are super chic in prison. Maybe next time you and mommy are chatting on a phone separated by bullet-proof glass, the two of you can compare body art.”
And with that, she performed a half-pirouette and strutted back across the courtyard with her giggling idiots in tow. Maisie followed, but not before glancing back and offering a consolatory nod.
It was vintage Whitney: engage, drop a pipe bomb, and retreat before the enemy had a chance to retaliate.
“Thanks for having my back,” Calista grumbled.
Kaz had been standing with his back to Whitney during the encounter, apparently fascinated with the clouds overhead. “What did you want me to say? She scares me.”
Broad, athletic, and over six feet tall, Kaz had no logical reason to fear Whitney, though his physical presence was directly inverse to his comfort level in social situations. Like everyone at Hawthorne, he froze whenever she drifted into his orbit. Some froze and gawked at her with envy, some with disdain. Some froze in terror as if she were a T-rex, and her wrath was based on movement—if they stood perfectly still she might pass by without acknowledging their presence. But most just wanted her approval. They held the notion that maybe, even if it were in the most ancillary sense, they could one day be considered her friend.
Calista had no such delusions. She’d ventured down that path already, and it was a very rocky road.
They made their way past Hawthorne’s imposing wrought iron gates, through the parking lot, and towards the suburban sprawl that surrounded the campus. It was a short walk to Jackson’s house.
They were four blocks away when they spotted the smoke.
From two blocks out, they could hear the sirens.
From what I can tell, magick has three major limitations.
First, you can't travel through time. There isn’t an amulet, phone booth, or 80s sports car with gullwing doors that can send you to the past, or transport you into the future.
Second, you can’t predict what will happen next. Tomorrow hasn’t happened yet, so anyone who claims to see the future with tea leaves or a crystal ball is selling something—or they may have recently suffered blunt force head trauma.
And third, you can't bring someone back from the dead.
Of all the resources in magick’s nearly bottomless toolbox, there’s no such thing as a reset button. Our actions have consequences. Our time here is valuable. And what we do matters.
– Passage in the North Valley Grimoire
4. From the Ashes
MIDWAY THROUGH HER junior year, back when Calista still harbored delusions of earning an athletic scholarship, she’d suffered a cracked rib during a game of field hockey. Hawthorne was playing the hard-nosed team from St. Mary’s when a hefty midfielder dropped a shoulder into her solar plexus. Calista’s ass hit the turf, followed by her head, and the midfielder followed her down. She couldn’t be sure whether it was intentional, or the momentum of the tackle (an illegal tackle, by the way, which had never stopped the cows at St. Mary’s before) but the girl landed flat on her chest.
Calista clambered to her feet, head spinning, vision doubled, the referee’s whistle rattling her ears long after he’d stopped blowing. She felt well enough to continue the game until she inhaled. It was agony.
Now, Calista was certain her ribs were not broken, but her symptoms were familiar: shortness of breath, dizziness, and the feeling that her chest h
ad caved in on itself.
She collapsed on Jackson’s lawn, just inside the charred remains of the picket fence.
There was nothing left.
The smoldering husk billowed smoke; it rose in towering pillars with every splash of water. The troupe of firemen—who were dousing flames and speaking with neighbors—didn’t notice Calista sobbing for nearly a minute.
A dark-skinned man with kind auburn eyes approached, helmet tucked under his arm. He wore a grey and yellow jacket with matching pants. The reflective stripes lining the seams were black with soot.
He extended a hand and Calista took it, pulling herself upright.
“Did anyone make it out?” she whispered hoarsely.
The fireman didn’t answer, but his kind eyes told the story. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not just saying that. I really am.”
She twisted away tears with the heels of her palms. “I believe you.”
Her stomach tied itself into horrible knots and she fought off the urge to vomit. Kaz was saying something comforting, offering a few gentle pats on her back, and at the same time, the fireman mumbled something about an electrical fire, explaining how ‘in these old houses you never can tell,’ because of the blah, blah, blah. It was white noise; the platitudes of a stranger who seemed nice enough, but was making matters worse with every word.
This was the place, she thought. The last place she felt any semblance of family. Sure, Jackson’s mother was a lush who staggered around with a glass of wine strapped to her hand, and his father sleepwalked through life on a cocktail of anti-depressants, but they were a family. Sunday dinners, movie nights, backyard barbecues. Jackson complained about them, of course, as every teenager does, with his privacy being his biggest issue: if a helicopter parent hovers in their child’s personal space, his mother was a Predator drone armed with hellfire missiles. Last year Calista shared many of his same complaints, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. They were complaints she wished she still had the luxury of making.
The North Valley Grimoire Page 3