The North Valley Grimoire

by Blake Northcott

  “The Hawthorne Academy is a cash machine, Callie. Can you imagine what would happen to their enrollment rate if someone died on school property? And what about endowments they get from the rich and famous? You think they’d keep donating if word got out that a teacher blew her brains out all over the computer lab?”

  Calista scoffed. “So you want me to believe a school covered up a suicide? That’s ridiculous.”

  “More ridiculous than magick?”

  “Here,” Calista said, madly paging through the book. She reached a crudely drawn map. Jackson was no cartographer, but the rendering was clearly an attempt to copy the map they’d discovered on the floppy disk. “I looked this up: they’re called ley lines.” The primary vein circumnavigated the planet near the equator, tilted slightly off-kilter, cutting a straight path through every mystical landmark imaginable—the Pyramids at Giza, Easter Island, Machu Picchu—linking ancient wonders with shocking precision. According to Jackson’s notes, early civilizations spent millennia attempting to crack the big convergence points where two or more ley lines intersected. Monoliths like Stonehenge and the towering Moai heads were meant to act as conduits, opening the floodgates. “Don’t you think it’s weird that we’re sitting right on top of a convergence point? And that there’s another one in Gravenhurst where a mysterious terrorist attack happened?”

  Kaz traced his finger along the hand-drawn map that spanned two pages. “I think something is weird.”

  “Think of the points like mystical batteries. The closer you are, the more energy you can produce.”

  “Okay, so if this is true, what does it mean? How does any of this help free your mom?”

  She flipped to the back of the volume and jammed her finger at an address (to her it was an address, to Kaz it might as well have been Klingon). Jackson had used the back cover as an address book. “I know you can’t read this, but it’s contact info for someone named ‘The Cobbler.’ Probably the person who made Jackson’s fake ID and scored him the gun.”

  Kaz stared blankly at the page. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “I say we go visit this guy. If someone is there, it proves I’m not crazy. And it proves I can read this grimoire.”

  “So worst case scenario is that no one is there, and you’ve lost your mind.”

  Calista nodded. “I suppose.”

  “Best case scenario, we’re at a criminal’s house who deals in fake IDs and illegal firearms.”

  “Well if you put it that way …”

  Kaz stood and paced the room, hands laced together on top of his head. “You know what the worst part about this is? It’s classic Callie.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Not everything is about you!” he thundered. “My parents are flipping out over this whole college thing, and I study every millisecond they’re not home! Know why?”

  Calista lapsed into a regretful whisper. “No, I don’t.” She was still seated, clutching the half-empty mug to her chest.

  “Of course you don’t! Because you never ask! My parents are home for probably six hours a week, and when they’re here, they grill me about my grades. Not, ‘Hey, we miss you,’ or, ‘Wow Kaz, we wish we could spend some quality time with our only son before he ships off to college.’ It’s always, ‘Did you get an A-plus on that test? Because Harvard Medical isn’t for A-minus students.’ It eats away at me, Callie. I barely sleep, and when I do, I dream about math.”

  That’s better than what I dream about, she thought, but decided to keep it to herself.

  He stopped pacing and glanced at the leather volume on his coffee table. “I know this grimoire is important to you, and I know you believe it has some supernatural key to freeing your mom. I don’t know what it means, but—”

  “I don’t either,” she interrupted. “But don’t you want to find out?”

  He threw his hands up, eyes bulging from their sockets. “Not really! What I want is to get out of this town in one piece. What I don’t want is to be held at gunpoint. I definitely don’t want to see any more dead people, and I don’t want to run around North Valley with stolen government property.” He collapsed into the sectional at Calista’s side, falling limp like he’d been taken down by a sniper. He grabbed a plump throw pillow and buried his face in it.

  When the moment seemed right, she attempted to say something—two words she’d neglected for most of their friendship. They lodged in the back of her throat.

  She mouthed, “I’m sorry,” three times before saying it out loud.

  “Excuse me,” he mumbled from behind his floral-patterned face mask. “What was that?”

  She grabbed the pillow and tore it from his grasp, tossing it aside. “I said I’m sorry. Really, really sorry.”

  He folded his arms over his chest, eyebrows raised. “Go on.”

  “You forgave me for ignoring you during the years I was sucked into Whitney Covington’s vortex. You were the only one there for me after my mom got arrested. You kept me from flunking every class in school, and were my shoulder to cry on whenever I felt like it was all too much. And you never complained or asked for anything in return. You’ve been a rock. And all this time you’ve needed someone there for you, too, and I’ve been the crazy bitch monster who’s been ignoring you.”

  Kaz opened his mouth to interject but stopped himself. “Okay,” he said flatly, and after a moment of pause, “please, continue.”

  “You’re not only the best friend I have, but the best friend I could ever hope for. And now I’ve dragged you into even more of my insanity without ever stopping to ask how you were doing. I suck. And I don’t deserve you.”

  Kaz’s lips turned up at the corners and he cocked his head to the side, examining Calista’s face. “What have you done with my friend? Are you one of the pod people taking over her brain?”

  She punched his shoulder and let out a laugh, holding back tears.

  “Ow! Again with the punching. I’m not a fan of the violence.”

  “Try this on for size.” She leaned in and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, burying her face in the nape of his neck. He squeezed her back. It was the first hug they’d shared in longer than she could remember, and it was more cathartic than she ever thought possible.

  “So,” Kaz said, uncharacteristically buoyant, “want to hunt down a Cobbler?”

  Calista blinked. “You want to come with me?”

  “Not so much,” he said, adding a nervous chuckle. “But I’m not going to let you lurk around a crazy person’s house alone.”

  “Unless I’m the crazy one.”

  “You’ve had a traumatic year, Callie. Your mom, Jackson, the thing with Mrs. Walton. I think you might be manifesting some type of—”

  Calista cut him off with an exaggerated wave of her hands. “All right, Doctor Google, I’m gonna stop you right there.”

  “Hear me out. You owe me that much.” Kaz dipped his head, parting his jet black hair to reveal a jagged scar above his temple. “Nine stitches. I lied to my parents and said I slipped down a staircase.”

  “Fine.” It was Calista’s turn to fold her arms and sag into his ridiculously comfortable couch. “I suppose you’ve earned the right to give me some crap.”

  “Damn right. And I don’t know how to say this tactfully, so I’m just going to spit it out.” He drew in a deep breath, mustering the courage to say, “I think you might be delusional. Psychosis is common in people who suffer PTSD.”

  “Post-traumatic stress disorder?” Her eyes widened. “Delusional?”

  “You’ve been fragile all year. At Jackson’s house, while the fire was being put out … you should have seen yourself. It was like an out-of-body experience. Then Mrs. Walton clocks me and mysteriously dies. I wouldn’t blame you if you needed some help. No one would.”

  She massaged her forehead, eyes squinted shut. I am not insane, she told herself. Although isn’t that what all crazy people tell themselves right before they’re tackled by a team of nurses and injected wit
h a syringe full of thorazine? ‘I’m not crazy’ is the crazy person’s official motto.

  “I can’t explain a lot of things,” she admitted. “But Jackson was onto something, and the grimoire …”

  Kaz took her hand. “I know. That’s why we’re going to visit this Cobbler person from the book. But if we knock on the door and there’s no answer, promise me you’ll get help.”

  A cab ride south of North Valley transported Calista and Kaz to a much less desirable zip code; five numbers separated by several commas in a resident’s bank account. While the Valley was a paradise of manicured golf courses and glittering McMansions, the small town of Oswick seemed perpetually on the verge of collapse. Not a financial collapse (though that was certainly possible) but a literal one; the neglected century-old homes looked as if they’d topple like dominoes if they were forced to stand their ground against a powerful storm.

  When Calista had revealed The Cobbler was in Oswick—or ‘Oz’ as it was colloquially referred—Kaz reneged on his offer to drive. He’d chaperone as long as they took a cab, but there was no way he was going to park mom’s Audi in an urban war zone where it was just as likely to return with a bullet hole as a parking ticket.

  Their taxi pulled up to an intersection, letting them out on the sidewalk. It was dark when they arrived and only half the street lights were functional. Kaz tucked his hands under his armpits, shielding them from the howling wind.

  Calista tipped the driver with a handful of rumpled bills, and he offered a tip of his own: “Get the hell out of here as soon as possible.” She chuckled at what she assumed was an attempt at dry humor, but his face remained stoic.

  66 Finch Street was a battered pre-war Victorian, no different than the houses it rubbed up against. They made their way up the wooden stairs to the porch, and the weather-stripped wood groaned with each step. The porch light was out. Kaz illuminated his phone. After trying the doorbell (it was broken), Calista rapped the aluminum screen door for the better part of a minute.

  Kaz angled his phone, casting a dim blue light across the bay window—it revealed a patchwork of wooden planks. “This place looks abandoned. We should head home.”

  Calista continued to knock.

  And then the front door creaked open.

  A pale-faced girl parted a curtain of dreadlocks, squinting through bleary eyes; her dirty blond coils were so thick and matted it looked like the sheer weight of them would be difficult for her tiny frame to support. She couldn’t stop grinning.

  “Are you guys with Albert?” she said foggily. “He was supposed to pick up some stuff, but his stuff isn’t here anymore. If he calls Bella she might be able to help … with the stuff.”

  Calista and Kaz exchanged a bewildered glance.

  “Um, no,” Calista replied, “we’re looking for someone named The Cobbler.”

  “Ohhh, you mean Wyatt?” The girl offered a lethargic nod. It wasn’t clear whether she was asking a rhetorical question, or if she was legitimately confused.

  They shared another glance, and Kaz’s bewilderment gave way to shock. “There’s actually a Cobbler? How is that even … you actually read that, from Jackson’s book?”

  There was no time for ‘I told you so’—Calista would save the gloating for later. “Yeah, that’s the guy,” she said. “Is he home?”

  The girl spun and hollered down a wooden staircase. “Wyatt! You have visitors!”

  Static crackled from behind the door frame. “What have I told you, Melody?” an angry voice hissed. “Use the intercom. My protocols are in place for a reason.”

  Melody playfully smacked her forehead, the grin never leaving her face. She poked the intercom. “Sorry, Wyatt. You have visitors. Should I send them down?”

  “Yes, genius,” Wyatt fired back, and muttered a few expletives under his breath. “And tell them to take their shoes off.”

  Melody motioned for her guests to enter. Her grape-colored shirt was so over-sized it fell to her knees. It didn’t look like she was wearing pants; whether it was an intentional fashion choice or if she’d forgotten to put them on before answering the door would remain a mystery.

  “Wyatt says to take off your shoes,” Melody cheerfully instructed them.

  Calista nodded. “So we heard.”

  The unfinished stairs descended towards a door; a door that was notably different from the rustic wooden aesthetic that dominated the rest of the house. It was flat and featureless and didn’t have handles. Also, it was solid steel.

  Calista rapped the door. It was like trying to knock on a bank vault. It cracked a sliver, and peeking out was a stocky, moon-faced man with dark skin, serious eyes, and even more serious eyeglasses—black-framed monstrosities that magnified a distrustful glare.

  “Who else is with you?” Wyatt asked, eyes swiveling between his uninvited guests. “My outdoor cams don’t show any unidentified vehicles.”

  “We took a taxi,” Kaz said nervously.

  “It’s just the two of us,” Calista added. “I was going to come alone, but … well, you never know.”

  “No, you really don’t.” Wyatt stared over their shoulders and up the staircase, possibly anticipating a SWAT team to come barreling towards him with guns blazing. “All right,” he said, after a very long pause. “Come in. But first, phones.”

  He reached through the crack in the door, palm out.

  Calista and Kaz exchanged another look; a ‘what the hell did we get ourselves into?’ glance that she was fairly certain Wyatt picked up on.

  “You can have them back when you leave,” he huffed. “Come on, I don’t have all night.”

  They turned over their devices, first Calista, and then, more reluctantly, Kaz. Their host pulled the door wide.

  The basement looked more like an unkempt thrift store than a residence, though judging by the mattress in the far corner it looked like The Cobbler lived there. Sheets of metal quilted the walls, and tin foil covered a pair of rectangular windows that sat high near the ceiling. A maze of tables filled out the room, each of them supporting monitors; some were filled with code, others were being used for surveillance. He must have been hacking everything from security cameras to satellite dishes, keeping tabs on every corner of North Valley. It was an all-seeing eye: you could watch the entire world from this oversized crawlspace without ever stepping outside, and judging by the Chinese food containers littering the floor, he was testing that theory.

  Wyatt slammed the door with a resounding boom. A latch hummed and zipped, locking out potential intruders.

  Locking Calista and Kaz in.

  Their host wore a charcoal jogging suit, though judging by his waistline he wasn’t much of a jogger. He turned to a metal table by the wall and placed the phones side by side. He opened a drawer and rummaged around. Metal clanked metal. After some fumbling he found what he was looking for. A hammer. He used it to flatten the phones.

  “What the hell!” Kaz shouted. “You said we could have those back!”

  When The Cobbler turned around the hammer was gone. He’d replaced it with a gun.

  “I lied. Now strip.”

  Calista’s feet rooted to the ground, ice-water filling her veins. Kaz stumbled, and his heel knocked over a take-out container, spattering week-old noodles across the concrete floor.

  Wyatt sighed. “I’m going to say this one final time, and then I’m going to start blowing off body parts: lose the clothes, and then tell me who sent you.” He cocked the hammer. “Right fucking now.”

  The trafficking of magickal amulets and artifacts has been going on forever. There’s no way to estimate how much money changes hands or how big the market is, because in some cases, the buyers might not even be aware of what they’re purchasing. There are rumors of world famous paintings being enchanted with hidden portals, and jewels on display in museums with the potential to summon ungodly creatures.

  Thanks to the internet, the magickal black market has gone from clandestine local transactions to a worldwide enterpri
se. I wouldn’t be surprised if it surpasses the trade of narcotics and illegal weapons combined.

  – Passage in The North Valley Grimoire

  13. Control Room

  THE LAST TIME Calista was staring down the barrel of a gun her sigil had gallantly saved her; like a white knight galloping to her rescue, only dark, and evil, and extremely terrifying. It was a neat trick, but she wasn’t entirely sure how she’d pulled it off. As far as she could guess it was a burst of adrenaline that activated her little friend—if such a trigger even existed. For all she knew this thing had a mind of its own.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Tendons strained, muscles burned; a wave of anger throbbed in her temples. It was happening: this perverted little hobbit was going to get harpooned like Mrs. Walton, but this time it would be intentional. She was willing it into reality.

  A moment ticked by … and nothing happened. Whatever her sigil was supposed to be doing to protect her, it wasn’t doing it. Her eyes snapped open, and Calista became hyper-aware of how unprepared she was. It was a life-or-death situation, and she’d brought a tattoo to a gunfight.

  The Cobbler redoubled his grip, now clasping the weapon with both hands. It was level with Calista’s chest. “I’m not going to start a dramatic countdown, people. Strip.”

  “The girl upstairs!” Kaz blurted out. He’d backed himself into a wall-mounted server, flattened against the metal casing as if he were teetering on the precipice of a cliff. “If you fire she’ll hear it! She’ll call the cops!”

  Wyatt sniffed. “I could fire a bazooka and that burnout wouldn’t even blink.”

  They were out of options: if they refused to strip down for this lunatic they’d be riddled with bullet holes, their panicked screams drowned out by the reggae music that was now blaring upstairs.

  Grasping at straws, Kaz opted for a different approach. He advanced on The Cobbler with baby steps, palms outward—a repeat performance of his encounter with Mrs. Walton. Calista wondered if he’d been hit so hard that he forgot how this tactic worked out the last time.