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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "One Well-Armed Research Project"  The electronic bell dings a second time as you open the door and let it close. Still no one comes in answer to it. The beaded curtains that separate the back rooms from the front sway slightly in the breeze you've created, but they don't even rattle. Maybe the shopowner thinks the second bell means the customer turned around and left. So you open the door and let it fall closed a third time. The tone sounds again: flat and bodiless with none of the character of a real, old-fashioned bell, and none of the extravagance of an up-to-date electronic tone either. It is as dull and dated as the tired old strip center that houses the shop, and is as dingy, in its way, as the crimson drapes on the walls, and the dusty carpet, and the round, walnut table that's scored all over with tiny nicks and scratches. They say the third time is a charm, and maybe it is in this case, for the beaded curtain abruptly parts and a small woman in a black, fur-trimmed kimono enters. Her hair is dyed as dark as her robe, and it is cut in a short bob—shaped to fit her head almost like a helmet—that frames a well-powdered face with wide-set eyes. "How may I and the spirits be of service?" she asks in a husky, Hungarian accented voice. Your own eyebrows go up slightly, perhaps in unconscious imitation of her own arched and well-plucked brows. You hold her eye for just a moment before greeting her with a grunted, "Hello, Prissy." Her mouth falls open a little at the hated nickname. But it still takes her several seconds to recognize you. "Harris!" she cries out, and the accent vanishes. "What are you—?" She gasps. "How's Martha?" "Oh, she's fine. What, you think that's the only reason I'd come see you, is if something happened to her?" Her mouth settles in a straight, grim line. "It's the only reason I'd come see you." Eesh. This is going to be even more awkward than you'd feared. "Well, she's fine. Healthy and happy, and so are the boys." I'm the one with troubles. My troubles are so bad I'm not even here. "I've got some consulting work for you is all. If you're interested. How much do you charge per hour?" She doesn't so much as bat a lash. "The spirits don't charge by the hour, only by the session." "So how much is a session, and how long does one last?" "Seventy-five dollars, and it lasts until the client is happy and satisfied." You can't fight down the smirk. "This is going to cost me thousands." She bridles. "Look, just tell me what you want, Harris, and I'll tell you if I'll even charge for it." What you want is to be out of here. Or, your dad does. I like Priscilla just fine, he would protest if anyone pressed him. She's funny and charming and I bet she's a hoot to be with when she's got a couple of daiquiris in her. It's her business I can't stand. Fortune telling, palm reading, tarot reading ... She's even got a goddamn crystal ball! A crystal ball! And yes, charming she is, but that's what con artists are, they're charming, and that's what she is, a con artist, preying on gullible people. How the hell is it even supposed to work, this stuff? Why does she think it works? Because five thousand years ago some swami wrote a book on papyrus with a quill dipped in his own dung? What's worse is she believes it herself! Jesus! A liar who lies to herself is even worse than a liar who milks the marks while laughing at them behind their backs, because at least the other kind might get a conscience about it one day! And this is why your mother's mother's sister's daughter is a stranger to you—such a stranger that you never knew she existed until after you'd turned yourself into your dad. Because he can start with a compliment, but within ten seconds it will morph into a screedy, arm-waving lecture. "Harris?" Priscilla Martin says now, and you realize you've been staring at her. You sigh. Well, you came to her because maybe she will know something about this stuff. And even though your dad is grumbling in a very loud, very skeptical voice inside your skull, you drop into a chair—one of those cheap, thinly cushioned chairs they set out in hotel conference rooms; probably she found a few used ones on eBay—and lay the grimoire on the table. "It's this book, Priscilla," you say. You open it to one of the spells. "Particularly, what can you tell me about these things?" You point to the sigil. She sits down too, with her elbows on the table, and bends over the book, almost putting her nose to it before straightening up and taking out a pair of eyeglasses. Your lips twitch. They are round, owlish, thick-framed things, like Winston Churchill used to sport. In fact, you see once she's got them on her nose, they're pince-nez. You wonder if she uses them as an affectation, or simply because they were cheapest kind of glasses that could take her prescription. As you let your eye idly wander the dingy room, you can't help thinking that there can't be a lot of money in this business. "Where'd you find this book?" she asks. "It doesn't look like your kind of thing." "Will found it." That seems a safe enough confession. "A used bookstore." "How is Will?" "I told you, he and Robert are fine." "What is he now? Eleven? Twelve?" "Seventeen. Where does the time go?" you dryly add as her head shoots up. "I could keep track of these things," she murmurs as she looks back down at the grimoire, "if I got to see you and Martha more." "You've got too much common courtesy. You could drop in on Martha any weekday between eight-thirty and five-thirty." "Those are my business hours. Also, Saturdays, from ten to two. Oh, but you knew that much at least." You sigh and almost invite her out for Sunday lunch. But that would be so completely out of character for your dad that it might actually provoke suspicion. "So what do you want to know about these things?" Priscilla asks. She flips a page to study another sigil. "I notice you're not asking me about the Latin." "I looked at the Latin already and it's hogwash. At best, it's only good for blowing things up." "No wonder you're interested in it," she says with sweet poison. "You didn't tell me this was a consultation of one professional to another." You grimace. You forgot that Priscilla disapproves of your dad's job—aeronautical engineering with military applications—as much as he disapproves of hers. "I'm just curious about the sigils." "Well, it's a collection of authentic spells, I can tell you that much." "Is that all you can tell me about the sigils?" You notice her hesitation, and add, "What you can really tell me? Not the hoodoo you make up to impress the marks." She claps the book shut and shoves it toward you. "Take it to an antique dealer, then." You rub the side of your face and feel a rueful smile forming. "I just meant that I want an expert's opinion," you tell her. "What kind of stuff are these ... patterns? This writing." You open the grimoire back up and point to a sigil. "You know about them, it sounds like. What are the books you read that told you about them, and where can I find them? I'm not looking to be entertained, Priscilla. We both know a good patter is part of the sales technique, and I use a good patter myself when I have to. But expert to expert. Yes, professional to professional." You tap the sigil. "What is this? Because I don't believe for an instant that it's just a pretty picture. There's too much system in them. I've studied them, and they share too many similarities just to be doodles." Priscilla sucks in her cheeks, like she's biting a lemon, and pulls the book back toward her. You hold your breath as she flips forward through it, and you lean forward, tensing yourself so that you can casually (so it might appear) take the book back before reaches the torn page. If she saw that, and the funky things going on there, she'd never believe that even Harris Prescott could treat the book with skepticism. But she stops before she reaches it, and begins flipping backward to the front. You let out your breath again. "I can't tell you what they say," she tells you. "It's academical magic, far above my level of expertise. If my business was making paper airplanes—" She gestures at the room. "These would be like you and your jet engines." "So how do you know about it? You must have read about it somewhere, is all I mean," you add when she gives you a sour look. She gets up and disappears through the beaded curtain. She's gone for several minutes, but when she comes back she hands you a slip of paper. "The Keyserling library should have a copy of these books," she tells you. "Use inter-library loan if they don't." Now I am impressed, you almost say, but catch yourself in time. "Thanks. What do I owe you?" She glances at the clock. "Spare a twenty? I made a deposit yesterday, and the Thai place next door only takes cash." As you dig out your wallet, she returns to the book, flipping back toward the front cover. And when you hold out the bill, she doesn't take it. You cock your head. She is frozen in fascination, her hands pressed to the table on either side of the book. It's those faces on the end papers. She's found them. And she's watching them change. * * * * * Priscilla said nothing after giving you the book back, but she was very pale, and you have the strong impression that knows, or suspects, something she didn't tell you. A mask or mind band could pry it out of her. That's all for now. |
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