The North Valley Grimoire

by Blake Northcott

  “It was life or death when we were seven, too. Everything was.” Kaz leaned against the table, shouldering up to Calista. “Every obstacle was a mountain until we conquered it. To a kid, sleeping without a nightlight can feel like going to war. It’s all in your head.”

  “I think you’ve done way too much extra credit for evolutionary biology.”

  The grimoire was bristling with spells that could snare Maddox, or out him as a transmog, or force him to admit what he’d done—but she wasn’t ready. Advanced spells required precision, and the consequences of a misstep were disastrous. Using a marker to scribe magnetism sigils on her own skin had no downside (other than wasting her vanilla body scrub) but botching a more ambitious spell could result in actual damage.

  Though there was a small section of notes in the grimoire about potions—elixirs that are far less catastrophic than spells if they go awry. And most were simple mixtures of household items. “I have an idea,” Calista said. “There’s a liquid that turns your skin blue if you’ve been using magick. I’ll whip it up, spill it on Maddox, and we’ll know if he’s been tinkering.”

  Kaz nodded stiffly; he was tight-lipped, but seemingly convinced. “If it really is Maddox, then we tell Aphra and Malek, and let FATHER Division deal with him … right?”

  Calista’s mind flooded with images of the convenience store clerk being desiccated, eyes bulging from his sockets, screaming for his life.

  She wondered if Jackson had screamed the same way.

  “Yeah, for sure.” She added a little nod of her own. “We’ll let them deal with it.”

  History class was late in the week, giving Calista ample time to concoct her potion. The mixture was surprisingly simple, with the recipe calling for a few herbs and a single spoken word—thankfully, no eye of newt or other squishy lizard parts were required. She placed the cereal bowl filled with ingredients in the kitchen sink. Using her best French accent, she enunciated, “Révéler,” while stirring the potion with a silver spoon. After a pop the bowl bubbled over with frothing blue liquid, smoking and hissing like she’d been boiling Windex on a stovetop. The excess swirled down the drain. When the bubbling ceased and the smoke cleared, the potion reverted back to a clear liquid, indistinguishable from water. She cautiously dipped her pinkie into the potion, and, to her relief, it didn’t melt her skin down to the bone; it was cool to the touch and smelled like peppermint. Off to a good start.

  The tip of her finger was coated with a blue veneer, like she’d slathered on the perfect consistency of alien body paint. She couldn’t stop smiling; she might not be a Scrivener, but she’d managed to rock the hell out of a magick potion. A moment passed and elation turned to panic when she realized the grimoire didn’t indicate how long the effect would last. She raced to the bathroom. Scrubbing her finger with a loofah only intensified the color, until, a few minutes later, the effect simply vanished.

  Dousing Maddox with a cup of this stuff would leave a mark she couldn’t explain. Scanning her bedroom, she spotted an empty perfume bottle. It was vintage glass with an atomizer and a black squeeze bulb—the perfect container. It was small enough to palm until she could get close enough to ‘accidentally’ spray her target. A tiny spritz would suffice: a few drops on the back of his hand and she’d have a positive ID.

  The next day, Calista and Kaz arrived early to history class. Mister Degray was at his desk poring through notes, and a few students were filing in. Maddox and a trio of jocks stomped through the door, decked out in black and green letter jackets with their slicked hair and raucous laughs, tossing a football around until the teacher threatened to confiscate it.

  Calista gazed down the aisle towards the whiteboard where Maddox and his teammates were gathered; he was joking loudly and his team circled around, clapping each other’s shoulders, reacting to his every word. The new football captain was positively magnetic. He was the kind of good-looking where he could make a disgusting joke at someone’s expense, and the girls in earshot would just giggle and flip their hair. It was like a form of magick all its own. Or maybe it was magick. If corpohancers could grant speed and size, surely there was some enchantment to increase charisma. For all she knew Maddox wasn’t even that handsome; he could be using a glamour to chisel his jaw and simulate movie star cheekbones.

  Calista’s feet carried her towards Maddox in small measured steps until she was an arm’s length away. The bottle was cupped in her hand. “Hey,” she said, for lack of a better opener, and managed a meek smile.

  He shot his friends a quick glance. “Hey, Freakshow. Just to be clear, I don’t have to take pity on you because Jackson is gone.”

  “I know,” she said, taking an exploratory half-step in his direction. “I was wondering if you need help with calculus. I’m not bad, and Kaz is like a guru.”

  “Are you kidding me?” someone shouted. Whitney stormed into view.

  The rest of the football team erupted with an excited chorus of ‘ooooh’s. They formed a perimeter in anticipation of a show.

  Whitney stepped in front of Maddox, hands on hips. “First you attack me in the hall during a memorial, and now you’re hitting on my boyfriend in history class? You’re pathetic.”

  Calista retreated a step. The back of her thighs pressed the edge of a desk. “No,” she said shakily, “you don’t understand.”

  “Enough with this shit,” Whitney thundered, triggering a halfhearted, ‘Hey, watch the language,’ from Degray. “I want you away from Maddox, off my social media, and out of my goddamned life!”

  “Your social media?” Calista let out a nervous laugh. “As if I care about your status updates.”

  “Just go!” Whitney slammed a palm into Calista’s chest, knocking her off-kilter.

  She reached back to keep her balance against the desk and the bottle slipped from her fingers, bounced twice, and shattered. Calista’s eyes flicked to the puddle of liquid. “That’s perfume,” she said, feeling the need to offer a quick explanation. “It’s new. Ordered it from The Netherlands.”

  Whitney didn’t budge. “Wow, I so don’t care.”

  “It’s cool,” Calista said, kneeling to pick up the larger pieces. “I’ll order more.”

  “Still not caring.”

  Mr. Degray had seen enough and promptly escorted Whitney to the principal’s office.

  Calista returned to her seat.

  “Smooth,” Kaz said from the adjacent aisle. He propped up a textbook and ducked behind it. A few more students had ambled in, talking and checking their phones.

  “Shut up,” Calista groaned.

  “So now what?”

  “Now I whip up a new potion and use it on Maddox during the next history class, I guess.” She lowered her voice. “Or maybe you could try it?”

  “Awesome plan. I’ll go spill some mystery liquid on the captain of the football team. I’m sure my orthodontist will thank you.”

  “Well, what other choice do we have?”

  Kaz leaned across the aisle. “Hey, here’s a plan: let FATHER Division do their job. You already have a lead, so tell Aphra and Malek about it. They can check him out on their own.”

  Mr. Degray returned to class, and everyone took their seats. Order had been restored. As he delivered an impassioned speech about Abraham Lincoln, Calista spotted Maddox in the far row making a not-so-stealthy move—he spun in his chair to pass Parker his phone.

  How Parker thought he’d get away with watching a video in class was anyone’s guess, but Mister Degray was having none of it. He strolled down the aisle and plucked the phone from Parker’s unsuspecting hand, waving it overhead.

  “What do we have here,” Degray sang out. He tapped the screen and increased the volume, allowing the class to hear what Parker and Maddox had been giggling about. It was the sound of cursing, intermingled with screeching rubber. “It looks like Mister Ashton is a fan of epic fails,” he announced. “Compilations of car wrecks, and idiots breaking their bones during skateboarding stunts. After mid-term rep
ort cards I thought you’d have seen enough disasters to last you a while.”

  “Come on, man!” Parker reached out to snatch the phone back, but his teacher pulled it out of range.

  “Nice try,” Degray said. “You can have it back after class.”

  As laughter broke out and the teacher tried to regain control of his lecture, Calista’s mind locked in a freeze-frame: Parker, reaching out, trying to steal back the phone … and the sleeve of his jacket riding up, exposing his forearm, where a series of bandages coiled his wrist.

  Was he concealing a tattoo with bandages, just as she had done on her back? Then her mind raced to the video of the convenience store: the shopkeeper clawing at his assailant, desperately trying to break his grip.

  And the man’s fingernails burrowing into his wrist.

  Class was dismissed, and Kaz shouldered up to Calista at their lockers. She glanced towards the junction where the jocks had reclaimed their territory. Whitney must have gotten off with no more than a slap on the wrist from VanDerberg, because she was back with the team, performing her hourly make-up reapplication. Maddox and Parker were trying to pin each other to the wall while a few other knuckle-draggers egged them on.

  She explained her newest theory to Kaz.

  “If you’re right and it is Parker? Then what?” He peered around the edge of his locker door.

  Calista held up a bronze bracelet. “This is techno-alchemy.” She rolled it between her fingers. The overhead lights caught the band and winked up a little flash. “It’s from Malek. If Parker has been transmogrified, this will bind his powers and send a distress call to The Agency.”

  “Okay,” Kaz said, a little quizzically, “but why do this yourself? Why not tell Aphra or Malek? Can’t they arrest him?”

  Calista gripped Kaz’s shoulder and pulled him close. “They’ve been on this case for months,” she said, her words sharpening, “and they didn’t save Jackson or any of those store clerks. They have their own agenda, and they clearly don’t care who dies in the meantime.”

  “Okay,” Kaz said, a little quizzically, “but why do this yourself? Why not tell Aphra or Malek? Can’t they arrest him?”

  “They’ve been on this case for months,” she said, her words sharpening, “and they didn’t save Jackson or any of those store clerks. They have their own agenda, and they clearly don’t care who dies in the meantime.”

  “It’s not your job to police North Valley. And it’s definitely not your job to stop mystical craziness from going down.” His eyes were on a swivel, scanning the area for eavesdroppers.

  “Then whose job is it?” Calista said, trying to control her volume. “If I can prevent even one more death, should I stand by and wait for the killer to take out another clerk? Or a student? Or you?” When Calista said ‘you,’ Kaz’s face fell slack. She inhaled deeply and went on in a more reasonable tone. “Jackson wrote that magick wouldn’t exist unless it were meant for something greater. And I know he believed it because he risked everything to help my mom when there was nothing in it for him. If I don’t at least try to do something good with the grimoire, then maybe I don’t deserve it.”

  “But Callie, if—”

  “But nothing,” she said. “I’m doing this. And if Malek and Aphra don’t like the way I do shit, fine. They can fire me.”

  She felt prickles of anger simmering below her skin, flushing her cheeks red. Anger felt good, like a defibrillator jolting her into the present moment. Preventing a future death wouldn’t bring back Mrs. Walton, or Jackson, or anyone else, but it might bring back a little piece of herself.

  “So what’s the plan,” Kaz said. “Strip his clothes off and search him for tattoos?”

  The ridiculousness of his question deflated some of her rage. “Ew, no. I’m going to ask him.”

  “And he’s going to admit it?”

  “Maybe. If I ask nicely.”

  “Think for a second,” Kaz said, “if he does have a sigil, and if he is the North Valley Killer, why would he agree to meet you alone? Or confess to any of this?”

  “I have a plan.”

  “Yeah, well, everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.”

  Calista dug into her book bag and yanked out a sheet of paper and a pen. “Where did you get that pearl of wisdom, from one of your Playbox Gear of Duty games?” She flattened the sheet against her locker door and scribbled on the page.

  “First of all, that’s not even a thing. And the quote is from a boxer, but it still applies: if Parker is the guy, you don’t know how he’ll react when he’s cornered. Your best-laid plans could go flying out the window.”

  She glanced down the hall where Whitney was still preening herself, commanding a steady influx of leers and dropped jaws. Did she have a professional hair and make-up team prepping her for school? It was ridiculous—she came to Hawthorne each morning looking like she walked off the set of a photo shoot.

  “This isn’t going to work,” Calista sighed.

  “I know,” Kaz said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  She snapped open her locker and rummaged through her stash of cosmetics and hygiene necessities. She rapidly ran a brush through her hair, applied some lipstick (the Sassy Mauve she kept meaning to use but had neglected since last semester) and blotted a touch of concealer on her darkened under-eyes—the perpetual bruise-colored tint that had become her trademark since she’d traded beauty sleep for grimoire study sessions.

  Her hair refused to cooperate, so she twirled her locks into a loose bun, stabbing it through with a pen. She wasn’t ready to adorn the cover of a fashion magazine, but it would have to do.

  She spun to face Kaz, shoulders back. “How do I look? Rank me from one to ten.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Am I rating your looks, or your sanity?”

  She snapped her compact closed, slammed her locker, and marched down the hall. When she reached the football zone, some of the boys stopped and stared, and Parker, who was in the process of headlocking Maddox, released his grip.

  “Do I need a restraining order?” Whitney shouted, throwing her hands apart.

  Calista breezed past her. “I’m not here for you.” Her eyes locked onto Parker’s.

  And Parker’s eyes locked right back.

  She extended a gentle hand, and he took it. She palmed him the note, turned, and walked away.

  The message, Parker would soon discover, contained nine short words: ‘Meet me in the gym, five minutes, come alone.’ The request was followed by a heart and a few x’s and oh’s to drive the point home.

  It was as blatant an invitation as Calista could extend without drawing a lurid diagram.

  There is no official ranking system for Scriveners. It's not like earning a belt in martial arts, or degrees in academia.

  The loosely defined Magnus level is, more or less, a Scrivener who is at the top of their game; someone who has crafted their own spells, taught apprentices, and, in rare cases, created a grimoire.

  But even among Magnus level Scriveners, there are undefined levels. Being able to forge a world breaking, act-of-God spell means you're one of the best in the world. That's undeniable. But in my estimation, the very best Scriveners—the elite among the elite—can forge a world breaking spell, recognize its potential for disaster, and have the humility to tear it into pieces.

  – Passage in The North Valley Grimoire

  23. Glittering Lure

  THE GYM WAS EMPTY during third period. The lights were off, but sunlight poured through overhead windows, reflecting brightly off the lacquered hardwood floors. Dust motes danced in the yellow shafts.

  Calista stood center court with the bracelet tucked into her knee sock, the metal cold against her calf. Her kilt and cardigan had left nowhere else to conceal it.

  A door creaked open, then slammed with a bang, and Parker strode confidently across the gym. Barely three minutes later he’d taken the bait.

  “Scott,” he called out. “Color me flattered, girl, b
ut I’m not surprised.”

  She moved her hips, swaying her kilt like a bell chiming against her thighs. “After seeing you in class today I couldn’t help myself.” Come a little closer, jerk-off.

  Parker bared his teeth, a twisted grin that sent frigid darts up her back. “You act all prim and proper, but I always knew you were a jersey chaser.”

  Calista nodded suggestively. “What can I say? The grunting, the groaning, rolling around on the grass with other boys … it’s just so … it’s so …” She bent at the waist and burst into gales of laughter. Parker stopped in his tracks. “I’m sorry,” she said, breathless. “I can’t do this. I had this entire plan worked out in my head: I was going to seduce you, take off your shirt, and see if you had a tattoo, but I can’t fake it anymore.”

  His features twitched, eyebrows contorting. His brain was having a reactor meltdown.

  She wiped a tear of laughter from her cheek. “I know about the kegger, the tattoo parlor. I know what you are.”

  Parker stiffened. “How did you—” were the only words he could produce.

  “I’m just like you.” She un-tucked the shirt beneath her cardigan and lifted it, pivoting her hips towards the light. She exposed the sigil that emblazoned her back.

  He stared at her from the edge of the red center circle, six feet away.

  “Jackson inked me. Right before he …” she drew a sharp breath. “Before his accident. Now I can make things happen.”

  The jock’s brain worked slowly (glaciers move with more urgency), but it was starting to sink in. “So … you’re one of us?”

  “Now you’re catching on, big guy.” She tucked in her shirt.

  He grinned like an idiot. “This is totally bad-ass. There’s someone else who really gets it, you know?”

  “Yeah, for sure,” she said, somewhat quizzically.

  “We don’t have to play by their rules anymore—we can make them up as we go. Check this out.” He yanked his own shirt high, exposing his torso. From his armpit to just below his ribcage was a series of twisting runes, cascading together like loosely-joined links in a chain. “I can grab people and suck the life out of them. It’s so sick. I’ve hit a couple of convenience stores, and I usually gank some cash and a few bottles of Jack. One time I dusted this old bastard, and he turned to sand. Probably only had a few weeks to live, anyway—bet I did him a favor.” He chuckled as if what he’d done was actually funny.