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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The High and the Mighty, the Low and the Flighty"  You don't have long to wait before Kendra comes out. She leans against the side of her car, studying her cell phone, for a long minute or two before she gets in and drives off. Then Kelsey and the other girl move to their cars. The one drives off, but Kelsey is still sitting in her sporty BMW convertible when Steve Patterson comes loping out, to climb into a sedan and drive away. Kelsey lingers for a few minutes longer, then she also drives off. As far as you can tell, that leaves Chelsea alone inside the school. Aw, fuck it, you decide. If I don't try now, I'll get myself good and killed in the morning. You slam Dane's car into drive and rocket over to park next to the sole remaining vehicle by the gym. The gym door is still unlocked, and you peer inside. The place appears to be empty. Where's Chelsea? Either in the girls' changing room or (more likely) up in the loft where the spoiled kids like her get to hang out. The fabled "fuck room." You decide to try there first. The slap of your footfalls on the hardwood floor echos as you scamper over to the semi-hidden staircase in the corner that leads up to the loft. The steps creak beneath your tread as you climb toward the loft. The stairs terminate in a short, narrow landing in front of a scarred wooden door. You fumble at the knob and find it locked. You rap on it, and unzip the bag you've clutched to your chest. There's the muffled sound of movement within, and footsteps. A voice sounds on the other side of the door: "Who is it?" Shit. "Yeah, it's me, Chels," you improvise in a voice deeper than usual. You dip your hand into the bag, and grasp the mask. There's a hesitation. Then the lock scratches as a deadbolt shoots back. The door creaks open a crack— You throw yourself against it while tearing the mask from out of the bag. Chelsea grunts and falls back. You crowd in close, forcing the mask to her face. She bangs up against a massive wooden box and slides to the floor in a heap. You stand over her, looking down. And yet somehow it comes as a surprise to find that you're not holding the mask anymore. It all happened in such a flurry that you didn't even notice it going into her. Rapidly you glance around to orient yourself. The "fuck room" turns out to be a slightly airier and better lit version of the elementary school basement. The ceiling crowds close above your head, and it is supported every few yards by some roughly hewn support beams and pillars, but it well-lit and ventilated by the windows that run along under the gym's eaves. The spaces are crowded in with discarded gym equipment—pommel horses, uneven bars, busted trampolines—and wooden crates, like the kind Chelsea is slumped against. A space has been cleared out in the middle, under one of the support pillars, and the floor covered over with old gym mats. There's some open cardboard boxes, and a dorm-size refrigerator. Only after you've glanced over the room does it occur to you how stupid you were to assault Chelsea like that. What if she hadn't been alone? You shut and lock the door, and pull Chelsea by her ankles over onto one of the gym mats, there to give her a long, greedy look over. So this is the girl who got you into all this trouble. She's a mess. Her skirt has flown up over her hips and her sweater is twisted halfway around. Her golden hair is a tangled mane of curls. Her neck and her limbs are crooked, like those of a rag doll flung carelessly into a corner. But my God is she inviting! Her thighs and calves, wrapped tight in a golden hose, are firm and muscled, and her feet inside the tiny white sneakers are nubile. Her prodigious bust rises and falls as she huffs and chuffs unconsciously, and even in her swoon her brow and cheeks are taut and clear. That mess of tangled hair is just begging to be brushed out with caressing fingers. And beneath her blown-up skirt are a pair of tight, white panties. You can't resist the urge to wedge your hand there. Her body heat radiates through the cotton. Yes, yes, this is giving you a raging hard-on, but you've got work to do. You have to get her out of her clothes—and get yourself out of a mask—before she wakes up. And before anyone comes up here and catches you. * * * * * You start on Chelsea, hauling off her sneakers and skirt; pulling her upright to pull off her sweater and bra; lifting her leg by leg to peel off the hose. It all goes into a jumbled pile, topped—like a cherry—by the dainty panties. (Your eye greedily goes to her secret place. It is flushed and ripe and smooth.) Over her you drop a set of Dane's clothes, which you brought packed in the bag, so that you don't have to change more clothes than necessary. Then you flop down with your back to one of the support pillars and grab your face. 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... Secret words, secret words, secret words ... And pull! The world shrinks into a bright dot swallowed by an obliterating darkness as you fight the urge to faint away. And maybe you succeed, for you are numbly aware of putting out a hand to catch yourself as you topple to one side. Or maybe you do pass out, for after shaking the wooziness from your head, you look over to see a blue mask balanced atop Chelsea's face. You grimace as you lean over to snatch it up, and your elbows nearly go out from under you; you just catch yourself before falling face-first into her belly. Your breathing, even in your own ears, sounds as labored as an old-fashioned steam locomotive as you gingerly peel the mask off Chelsea's face, disclosing the sleeping girl beneath. You gulp and hold your breath as she swallows, then feel around—eyes locked on her face—for Dane's mask. It almost slips from your trembling fingers as you thrust it at Chelsea. Then it vanishes as it hits her. The hairy and very masculine Dane Matthias materializes where Chelsea had been. Your eyes still locked on your unconscious companion, you clamber unsteadily to your feet and look around for your gear. Chelsea's mask goes into your supply bag, along with her purse (which was resting atop the dorm refrigerator) and the cell phone that was lying on one of the mats. You grab up her clothes in an armful, and tiptoe across the creaking floorboards to the door. You give the new Dane Matthias one last, fearful glance as you back out of the loft, and shut the door on him. You fight the urge to run down the stairs—quietly, quietly, man, you tell yourself—and not until you're at the bottom do you sprint like a son of a bitch for the side door. You throw yourself outside into the sunlight and gallop for the parking lot. That must be Chelsea's car—a two-door, cherry-red Honda subcompact—parked next to Dane's, but not until you've fumbled the keys from her purse and hit the remote unlock do you confirm it. You jam yourself inside it—the space between the driver's seat and the wheel is way too short and narrow for you, but you don't waste time adjusting it—twist the key in the ignition, and rocket backward away from the school. Then, hurling it into drive, you race across the lot and back toward town, hardly even bothering to watch for traffic as you whip onto Borman Avenue. Your heart is pounding hard as you shoot across the river; and, strange to say, you feel a lot more panicked now that you are away from school than you felt when you were making the actual heist! Almost clear, you find yourself fretting. But still time for a massive screw-up! Once across the river and into town proper, you scout for a hiding place to park and finish the transformation. That had been part of your plan, too, but you'd neglected to scope out a changing spot first, and now you have to improvise. You wind up in the narrow employee parking lot behind the Mellon Village Shopping Center, parked by the big, green trash dumpster. Only after you've shut the motor off and given the scene a long, slow, look around to confirm there's no one loitering in sight, do you let yourself start to unwind. Your muscles and joints ache all over, and black dots swarm in front of your eyes as the accumulated stress starts to boil away inside your skull. Your hands are shaking hard as you dig inside your bag—wouldn't it be fucking perfect if you forgot something?—and you nearly make a mess of it while coating the inner surface of Chelsea's mask with the sealant. The whole time your eyes nearly bulge from your head at the way that Chelsea's name—CHELSEA COURTNEY COOPER—seems to float over the inside of the mask, just above the metal strip you glued there. At last you finish coating the mask, and blow it dry, and pack the tub of sealant and the brush away. Distractedly, you even try to tidy up Chelsea's of clothes before making the final move, and you make sure the car doors are locked. Your breath is coming in great, painful gasps as you lift the mask with both hands, and hold it just before your face. Here goes, you think. I'm about to turn myself into Chelsea Cooper. But your brain is so frazzled by adrenaline that it hardly registers, even as you lift the mask to your face. Again, everything goes dark. Next: "Are You There, Chelsea? It's Me, Will Prescott!" |
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