Kaz shrunk into the couch, clinging to the armrest.
“Do your parents have any tools?” Calista asked, eyes filled with frenzied excitement.
“My dad has a toolbox in the shed. But I don’t like where this is going.”
She headed towards the front door. “Let’s get moving. And bring some bolt-cutters.”
The rain intensified when they pulled up to the Hawthorne Academy. The drops hammered the roof of Kaz’s Audi, made louder when he twisted his keys out of the ignition.
Calista and Kaz rarely came to a consensus on anything, but they agreed if Jackson had secrets, they were stashed in a locker at Hawthorne. Like many private schools, the accommodations were generous; the rooms were cavernous and the staff was plentiful, although there were only a few hundred students enrolled at any given time. Part of Hawthorne’s private school experience was more personal attention, which meant limited class sizes—which meant extra lockers.
Lacquered wooden lockers with sturdy brass hinges lined Hawthorne’s halls. For every one occupied, there was a half-dozen left vacant. There weren’t many unenforced rules at Hawthorne, but there was one indulgence the faculty allowed: as long as your kilt wasn’t more than three inches above your knee and your tie was knotted with a crisp full-Windsor, you could take as many lockers as you need. A rule that was enforced, however, was one about breaking into someone else’s. If it had a padlock, it had been claimed.
They sprinted through the downpour to the main entrance. Once inside they moved through the empty hall, wet rubber soles clopping on polished tiles. A girl rounded the corner up ahead. She lurched forward, head sagging, limp chestnut hair falling across her face. Dressed in a mismatched hoodie and sweatpants, she was virtually unrecognizable.
About to pass them by, Calista reached out and snatched her by the wrist. “What are you doing here?”
Whitney blinked hard and let out a silent gasp like she’d been napping on a couch and was startled awake. “Oh, hi Cal.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Her fingernails dug into Whitney’s hoodie, nearly piercing the fabric.
“I was paying my respects.” Whitney blinked hard. Her reddened eyes looked naked without mascara and eyeliner. She looked five years younger. “You know, the memorial. I was going to come earlier, but I couldn’t face the crowds.”
A memorial. Calista hadn’t heard about it. She’d been so preoccupied with solving the mystery of Jackson’s death that she’d hardly allowed herself time to grieve. She was angry at herself for not feeling more, and somehow angrier at Whitney for emoting more than she was.
Calista tightened her grip. “Who started the rumor that I have a tattoo?”
“You’re asking me this now?”
“You heard me. Was it you?”
Whitney’s eyes darted to the hand on her wrist, fingers like tense metal bands. “Let me go,” she threatened. Her eyes were fresh with tears, poised to stream.
“Answer the question,” Calista persisted.
They were chest-to-chest like prizefighters in a pre-match staredown before the bell sounds and leather starts flying. The floor squeaked. In her peripheral, Calista noticed Kaz had flattened against a locker. He was creating a perimeter, as if he expected them to fall to the tiles, clawing and tearing at each other’s hair.
“I’m grieving,” Whitney screamed. The tears that had threatened to fall were now streaking her cheeks. “Why do you always have to be like this?”
Kaz swallowed hard, the gulp audible in the narrow gap between shouts.
“He knew,” Calista said, suddenly fuming.
Whitney looked genuinely confused. “Who knew what?”
“Jackson. He knew you only wanted him because he made varsity. Until talent scouts started chasing him, you didn’t even know he existed.”
Kaz stepped forward, though still out of punching range. “Callie, come on. This isn’t the time.”
“That’s why he broke it off,” Calista thundered. “He saw through you, just like I do.”
Whitney shoved away with her free hand, breaking Calista’s grip. She massaged her wrist, flexing out her fingers. “You weren’t always like this, you psycho. It used to be fun hanging out with you. You used to be—”
“What? Different?” Calista tapped her chin, glancing off to the side. “Hmm, I wonder what could have happened last year that changed me. What tiny little event might have turned my entire life upside down?”
“I know you were hurting,” Whitney said meekly.
“No, you don’t, because you weren’t there. You never bothered to check in on me! You were too busy ruling your kingdom to deal with one of the peasants.”
“My life wasn’t perfect either, you know. I was in pain. I’d lost something, too.”
Calista’s eyes widened. “Yeah, Jackson dumped you. You lost a boyfriend. I lost my mother. It’s not the same thing.”
“I don’t always know how to deal when things go bad,” she said, followed by a sniffle. “I didn’t know what to say.”
She’s fishing for sympathy, Calista thought. Even without an audience she was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance.
“How about, ‘Hey, Cal, since we’re BFFs and all, maybe I’ll pop over and see how you’re doing?’ You don’t have to say anything, you self-absorbed idiot—you just have to be there for someone. It’s part of the whole ‘friendship’ thing. But you wouldn’t know that, because Whitney Covington doesn’t have friends. She has followers: wide-eyed morons who follow her around, hanging on her every word because she has the perfect daddy and the perfect car and the perfect little existence.”
“I’m not going to apologize because my father is the mayor, or because my family has money.” Her words were edged with razors.
“Oh, I never expect you to apologize for anything.”
Kaz raised a trembling hand. “Callie, maybe we should—”
“I should apologize?” Whitney continued her tirade as if Kaz wasn’t there. “What about you?”
Calista threw her arms wide. “Oh my god, are we really having this fight again? Really?”
“I always knew you were the one who turned him against me.”
“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t have to. Unlike most of the Neanderthals you date, he was actually smart, Whit. He figured you out all on his own. And news flash: Jackson and I were just friends.”
The staring contest lasted a few breathless seconds, tension strained tighter than a freshly tuned piano wire.
Whitney finally threw on her hood and stormed off, body-checking Calista on the way.
“I know you and Whitney have a past,” Kaz said cautiously. “But you just crossed a line.”
“You don’t know Whit like I do. It’s not like we can kiss and make up. She reaches around to hug you, and that’s when she sticks the knife in your back.”
Kaz wiped his face with both hands. “Look, I know she’s …”
“An evil slug that oozed from the pits of Hades?”
“Okay,” he shrugged. “But she’s still human.”
“That’s debatable.”
“She has feelings, Callie. You didn’t need to stomp on them. Not today.”
“She’s never had a problem sticking her stilettos into me when I was down. I just returned the favor.”
She didn’t want to be callous, but Whitney brought it out of her. It wasn’t fair: why did she get to treat Jackson like garbage and then play the victim after his passing? Her status updates would no doubt be replete with platitudes—‘thoughts and prayers’ for the tortured ex-girlfriend who lost the love of her life (or at least the guy she claimed to have loved until he came to his senses and booted her out on her Yoga-toned ass).
It was hard to take the high road when a war of words broke out, especially where Whitney was concerned. It’s not like there was a rulebook for any of this. There’s no Geneva Convention to dictate the do’s and don’ts of life at Hawthorne; if there were, Whitney Covington woul
d’ve been the biggest war criminal of them all.
Leaving the crime scene behind they soldiered towards the end of the hall. Around the corner was a locker enshrined with flowers and candles, encroaching on the walkway. Every kid in school must have stopped by judging by the sheer volume of well-wishes; normally eight people could walk the hall abreast, and now there was barely a sliver of space to sneak by.
Calista knelt to smell a bundle of roses. Jackson’s overturned football helmet was the centerpiece, overflowing with cards and notes. An open-face card read, ‘You changed my life, bro’, signed by someone she’d never heard of at Hawthorne. If death makes a regular person a celebrity, it must turn a celebrity into royalty.
Jackson’s locker was open. She tiptoed through the minefield of flowers and cards and reached inside, sifting past his letter jacket, fishing around behind. Some more bouquets were jammed into the space, but there was nothing else.
When she turned around, her partner in crime was gone.
“Kaz?” she called out, her voice echoing down the hall. “Where are you?”
“Here,” he echoed back. By the time Calista reached him on the second floor, he was staring at an endless row of lockers.
“What have you got?” Calista asked.
“Jackson gave you the emergency number for his burner, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
Kaz looked one way and then the other. “Did he give you another number? A secret code, maybe?”
Calista smiled broadly. “Now that I think about it, he did! And we had matching decoder rings. When we bumped fists they would glow, and it activated our superpowers.”
“Shut up,” Kaz chuckled. “I’m serious.”
“No, Watson, he didn’t.”
Kaz chose a locker at random and cradled the combination lock, flicking the dial with his thumb. “We can’t crack three hundred locks. We’ll be here all afternoon. Plus we’ll be expelled—there’s always a janitor or a teacher lurking.”
She raked her fingers through her hair. “I know, I know …” This was the part of their plan they’d neglected to sort out—the missing piece of the puzzle that had fallen beneath the table and was accidentally vacuumed up. They were squinting at the picture, and there was a jagged hole where an answer needed to be.
“Think,” Kaz said. “Come on, any number.”
“You know, telling someone to ‘think’ doesn’t improve their memory. It’s like shouting extra loud at someone who doesn’t speak English and expecting they’ll understand you.”
Kaz gently booted one of the lockers. “Well screw me for trying to help. Short of making a phone call to the afterlife there isn’t much we can do, is there?”
“Wait,” Calista dug in her pocket and extracted her cell. With a few taps she accessed her phone book and scrolled until she reached Jackson’s emergency number.
“I was only kidding,” Kaz said. “I don’t really think he’s going to pick up. Although how freaky would it be if he did?”
She paused with her thumb hovering above the ‘send’ button. Occam’s Razor. Maybe the simplest explanation was the correct one. Maybe Jackson was literal with his instructions—call if you ever need to find me.
She hit ‘send’ and lifted the phone to her ear.
It rang.
Twice.
A third time.
No one picked up.
And then a muffled chime rang out, coupled with a rattle—plastic vibrating against metal. The intervals were timed with the rings of the phone, emanating from down the hall. It was Jackson’s burner, and it was inside a locker.
They shot each other a glance and jogged towards the sound. The chimes grew louder with each stride, and at the end of the hall was locker 242.
Kaz flung the backpack from his shoulder. It clunked to the tiles. “Keep an eye out.” He pulled out the bolt cutters, wedging them over the lock.
“If the hall were any emptier a tumbleweed would roll by. Snap the freaking lock!”
He grunted when the handles constricted, but one labored snip was all it took. The lock fell, clacking at their feet.
She flung open the door to reveal a leather-bound volume stacked atop a metal lockbox. She cradled the book and flipped open the cover. Scrawled across the manila-colored flyleaf was a message:
This book couldn’t save my life
but it might save hers
Beneath it was a design: a pair of stars inside a circle.
– Passage in the North Valley Grimoire
7. Words for Elves
“THE COAST IS CLEAR,” Kaz whispered.
He teetered atop a rolling brass ladder, peering over the bookcase. Hawthorne’s library was a towering two-story showpiece with exposed wooden beams that arched to a point, and transom windows lining the walls. It reminded Calista of church. The central aisle stretched the length of the building, scattered with study tables, and flanking it were endless rows of mahogany ten-tier stacks. Cozy reading nooks were carved into regular intervals, each with a banker’s lamp.
Kaz climbed down the ladder and shouldered up to Calista in the alcove. He adjusted the emerald lamp shade.
She’d spread out every item they’d pillaged from Jackson’s locker: the book, the lockbox, the burner. They exchanged a bewildered glance. Where do we start? The leather-bound tome seemed daunting; they were quick to agree it should be saved for last.
Calista scooped up the box. With a flick of her thumb she popped the latch and opened the lid. It creaked like a coffin in a vampire movie. If her mother had stashed a ‘go bag,’ this was definitely a ‘go box.’ It had everything required to flee the country: a fake passport, a stack of cash, pre-loaded credit cards—and buried beneath those, a gun. The stubby black six-shooter had a pearl handle and deep scarring where a serial number had been scraped away. It didn’t look overly legal. She picked up the gun with her thumb and forefinger, handling it like a wadded up tissue filled with a stranger’s phlegm.
Kaz swallowed hard. “What was Jackson planning to do with that?”
“He probably wanted to be ready in case something went down. Bet he wished he’d kept this in his room.” Careful not to touch the trigger, she tilted the weapon sideways and peered into the chambers. Each was loaded with a shiny silver bullet.
“You know how much trouble we could get in if we’re caught with that?” Kaz raced to the end of the aisle, peeking around the corner.
The passport revealed Jackson’s photo, next to the name, ‘Tanner Ashby,’ and a birthdate that identified him as twenty-one—nearly four years older than he actually was. A forgery of this quality couldn’t have been cheap or easy to come by. She leafed through the wad of slightly rumpled bills; a stack of fifties and hundreds so thick she could barely palm it.
He had an escape plan, that much was certain, but why escape? And from what? Calista worried incessantly about the future, but Jackson had a golden ticket to any college in the country—and, most likely, a career that would pay him like royalty for throwing a leather ball. If he’d planned this far ahead, he must’ve known that drugs (or whatever he was involved in) could end in disaster.
The drug dealer hypothesis checked all the boxes, and brought the mystery to a logical conclusion … but something didn’t fit. The message in Jackson’s oversized book blew a gaping hole in her theory.
She dragged the massive volume into her lap. “I’m opening it,” she announced. It weighed heavy on her thighs.
Kaz spun to face her. “After the gun, I don’t know how much more I want to see, Callie.”
“It’s a book, dude. Worst case scenario, I’ll get a paper cut.”
She cracked the cover and paged through the text. One sheet after another drifted through her fingers, filled with sketches and diagrams and carefully handwritten text. The pages were in Jackson’s handwriting, as far as she could tell, but it wasn’t English. The characters looked vaguely Cyrillic, but more like a fictional Elvish cursive that would be at home in a sword and sorce
ry novel.
“None of this makes sense!” Calista slammed the book shut and stood, letting the volume topple to the floor. “This was supposed to have something useful. Something about my mother.”
“How’s that?” Kaz asked.
“Jackson’s message! It’s on page one: this book couldn’t save my life, but it might save hers. Who else needed saving? Someone, a female someone, connected to me.”
Kaz breathed out a heavy sigh. “Then why not write it out? ‘Hey Calista, here’s some evidence that could help your mom’s case?’ What’s with the cryptic?”
The message was hastily scrawled as if Jackson has been rushed. Which made absolutely no sense, because it was tucked safely inside a locker; whenever he wrote this, he would’ve had plenty of time to elaborate. Nothing added up. A migraine hammered her skull in throbbing salvos.
“Let’s calm down for a minute and think.” Kaz retrieved the book and cradled it in his arm. He flipped through a few pages of unintelligible text until he came to the first round of sketches. They were symbols; runes and sigils, all with an ominous, occult-type of flair to them. But they didn’t look random. They were drawn with purpose, even and symmetrical. They were trying to convey something. “If you’re right, maybe the evidence Jackson gathered about your mother is hidden in these markings. If this is a cipher, we need the cryptovariable.”
“Crypto-what?”
“A key,” he explained. “Every code needs a key to unlock it. If this book is a series of codes, there must be a key lying around somewhere that can open it up.”
“So where’s the key?”
“No clue. If you want help with computers, algebra or useless video game trivia, I’m your guy. But that’s where my expertise ends.”
Interspersed between Jackson’s unreadable hand-written notes were illustrations of creatures: a towering quadruped with a gaping maw of knife-like incisors, a two-headed dragon, and a swarm of inky tendrils emerging from the darkness, like gnarled shadows of a winter-stripped tree come to life. They sent a shiver up Calista’s spine.
The North Valley Grimoire Page 6