– Passage in The North Valley Grimoire
16. Nonversation
“DROP YOUR STUFF HERE,” Calista said, piling her winter jacket atop a towering mountain of laundry that had found a permanent residence by the front door.
Once everyone had shed their coat and boots, they tromped through the living room and into the kitchen, setting up on the wooden table.
Maisie wandered to the window and pressed her hand against the frosted glass. The ninth floor afforded a scenic view this time of year; the houses sprawled out below were topped with fresh snow, and more was piling on in fat, slow-drifting flakes. A few stuck to the pane, showing off delicate patterns.
She typed a message on her tablet.
Calista joined her at the window. “It’s about the only beautiful thing in this part of town, but I can’t complain.”
Maisie held out her phone once again.
“That’s my bedroom,” Calista said, “Kind of my personal space, so I don’t like it when people …” She trailed off, realizing she was talking to Maisie’s back—her words were literally falling on deaf ears.
Calista’s guest strolled through her room and became transfixed by her corkboard. It hung by the closet, collaged with a mishmash of photographs and postcards. Maisie only had eyes for a Polaroid fixed to the board with a cherry thumbtack; the dark, handsome boy smiled broadly, powerful arms clutching a football.
She held out her tablet.
< How well did you know Jackson?>
Calista shuffled her feet. “We were friends.”
“No. Maybe it could have been, but it never happened.”
Calista waved her hands, erasing the notion of such an unfathomable suggestion. “There is no ‘thing.’ He’s cute and sweet, but he’s moving back to L.A. after graduation.”
Instead of writing on her tablet Maisie raised a curious eyebrow. So what?
“There’s no use getting excited about a guy when you know it’s going to end, right?”
Her guest scribbled a quick message, smirking all the while.
An ephemeral tryst with the quirky boy from California sparked her imagination. It could be a fun distraction—even a romantic one. And having it end out of necessity in six months might not be that bad. Everything was going to change after graduation anyway, so it’s not like she had anything more to lose.
Her soon-to-be adult life was filled with question marks; there was a distinct possibility that a nametag and a McNugget-encrusted smock were in her future, and not much else. With her mother in prison and the grimoire to be solved, who knew when she’d have time to pursue anything permanent. At the moment, ‘temporary’ seemed to be the only flavor of happiness on the universe’s menu.
But still, it was Beckett.
“I don’t know. We laugh and have fun, but I never saw him as boyfriend material.”
Maisie jotted a quick reply.
“You don’t seem like a teenager. You’re wise, like a fortune cookie.”
“Enough about my love life,” Calista said, “Let’s talk about you. Do you have your eye on anyone?”
Her smile faded as she wrote, though she tried to force it back into place.
“Well it’s their loss,” Calista said. “And I’m sorry, about … you know.” She wanted to ask if Maisie had lost her hearing later in life, or if she had been hearing impaired since birth, but she didn’t want it to come out wrong.
Maisie suddenly brightened.
Calista’s guest wandered past her and into the living room. She swiped her stylus across her tablet as she walked.
“No, just me and my uncle.”
Maisie hovered in the living room, eyes tracing the walls.
“Yeah. A couple hours I suppose.”
As the willowy redhead wandered the room, Ashley—who had scarcely glanced at a book since she’d arrived—stood and skipped over to the living room. The wooden crate that served as a coffee table grabbed her attention, and she locked onto a ragged spiral-bound notebook. It lay exposed next to the TV remote, half buried by a fold of newspaper. The cover was defaced with so many magickal symbols that some overlapped.
“Here it is!” Ashley said. She thumbed open the cover. “This is what Obituary needs.”
Calista lunged forward and snapped it up, clutching it tight to her chest. “Sorry, that’s private. Kind of a diary. Deep dark secrets and all that.”
“Did someone say diary?” Beckett called out from the kitchen. “If you’re in the mood to read a few passages I wouldn’t say no.”
“If this is about cash I can totally pay,” Ashley assured her. “My dad is back in town, and he finally coughed up my allowance.” She rushed back to the kitchen where she’d hung her small leather purse over the back of a chair. She produced a stack of cash, extending it towards Calista with a luminous smile.
“These ones are terrible,” Calista said, hoping her guest would take the hint. “I couldn’t ask you to pay me for a doodle.”
“Aw, come on, I don’t want to read the diary part,” Ashley pleaded, “Let me take a peek at the designs.”
Calista apologized again, swiveled on her heel and marched back to her room, flinging the door shut behind her.
As her late-night study sessions routinely stretched into the early morning hours, she’d become more and more neglectful about hiding the grimoire, and even more careless about where she’d scattered her notebooks filled with failed sigil attempts. Most mornings she shambled around the apartment in a zombie-like stupor, unable to recall if she’d brushed her teeth or eaten breakfast. Her typical routine involved shrugging on her uniform, pulling her platinum mane into a ponytail, forgoing even basic cosmetics, and then chugging an energy drink on the city bus ride to school. Ah, the perks of insomnia—hunger pangs and all-day morning breath. And that morning she hadn’t only skipped out on food and hygiene: she’d wandered into the living room with one of her notebooks, leaving it on display like a magazine at a dentist’s office.
Calista threw a sweatshirt over the book and dropped it on the floor, kicking it under her bed.
This isn’t adding up, she thought. She paced her room, wiping her sweaty palms on her kilt. Her Venari sigil has disappeared in history class, but what was it telling her? Ashley could’ve been coated in some latent mystical residue, causing the sigil to burn off and disappear. Or, more likely, it was another failed attempt at Elemental magick—she’d lost count of how many of those she’d accumulated. But still, her previous sigils had fizzled out with very little fanfare. This felt different. A few hours ago her forearm lit up like a miniature Roman candle, and someone in that classroom had triggered it.
This was the part she hadn’t worked out: what she’d do if she ran into another Scrivener. Aside from Kaz, Ashley Flowers was the least threatening student matriculating at Hawthorne; sh
e was the human equivalent of a charity bake sale. Then again, no one suspected Jackson Carter had been practicing magick, either. She’d seen the security footage—Ashley certainly wasn’t the North Valley Killer. But even if she was dabbling, Calista needed to know about it.
She rolled her sleeve, snatched a Sharpie from her desk and re-drew the Venari sigil where the previous one had vanished. “Anyone want to order in?” she shouted through her door, doing her best to keep her trembling arm steady as she recreated the design.
When she returned to the living room, Maisie was facing the window. She texted at a dizzying speed, tapping her stylus pen like a woodpecker drilling into a pine tree.
“I’m down for some won-ton soup,” Beckett said with a grin, coupled with an enthusiastic thumbs up.
“Count me in for soup, too,” Ashley said brightly.
“And I’m always good for at least a half dozen chicken balls,” Kaz added. He was dragging a highlighter across his notepad, too preoccupied to look up.
Calista pointed to Maisie. “Did she tell you her order?”
Beckett shook his head. “Not yet. Said she had an important call—er, text to make.”
Incoming message.
Secure link request, code PURPLE, 09845
Link secured.
APHRA: I think Calista knows more than she’s letting on.
MALEK: Do tell.
APHRA: I’m at her flat for a study session. She has a notebook covered in sigils. None that I recognized, but it was suspicious. Could be the one King is searching for.
MALEK: You’re buying into this nonsense, too? There is NO grimoire. We found an industrial grade paper shredder in Jackson’s room. He was destroying his work to cover his tracks.
APHRA: If there’s even a chance that Calista has a grimoire we need to take action. Imagine the leverage we’d have. The Agency would have no choice but to reward us.
MALEK: Grimoires take decades to compile, and the authors are Magnus level. Most are in their 40s or 50s, at least. Jackson was barely old enough to shave.
APHRA: There’s always an exception to the rule.
MALEK: A quest to find a fabled grimoire isn’t the plan—monitoring Calista is. Keep playing the part of Maisie Niven. Wear the tartan kilt and the knee socks and the painted-on smile.
APHRA: It’s not only the book. Calista could have been transmogrified.
MALEK: Could have?
APHRA: Only one way to find out. I’ll tear off her clothes after I snap her neck. If there’s anything tattooed on her scrawny little body, I’m sure I’ll find it.
MALEK: Calm yourself. We can’t have any more missteps, especially after the awful scene you made at the Carter residence. I don’t care if Calista is a transmog or not—we don’t deviate from the plan.
APHRA: Do you really think she’ll lead us to Foxcroft? If you believe that rubbish you’re more delusional than King.
MALEK: Be that as it may, I’m ordering you to stand down.
APHRA: ORDERING me? Oh, that’s rich.
MALEK: I know, pulling rank is tacky, but you’re not leaving me any alternatives. King made it abundantly clear: there won’t be any more Cleansing Protocols.
APHRA: Don’t pin the blame on me, you cheeky bugger. You were the one waving that stupid business card about and got your head blown to bits.
MALEK: I’m not pointing fingers. I’m simply reminding you that if you’ve infiltrated Calista’s inner circle, you’re halfway there. This was the plan all along: gain her trust, blend in.
APHRA: We need a quick win. If they pull the plug on our operation, we’re OUT. And if we’re out, that means we can say goodbye to ever going home again.
MALEK: I know precisely what it means.
APHRA: Then you also know a bagged transmog will be a huge score. And a grimoire would be a golden ticket.
MALEK: No, it wouldn’t be. The Agency would stick us on a plane and ship us to another assignment like they always do.
APHRA: One way or another I’m bringing Calista in. She’s too valuable.
MALEK: Don’t do this.
APHRA: It’ll be easy. These two little boys won’t even put up a fight. This apartment is small, there’s nowhere to run.
MALEK: I’m giving you an order: STAND DOWN.
APHRA: Ooooh, since you typed in all caps I guess I have no choice but to listen.
MALEK: Excuse yourself. Tell them you’re sick to your stomach after eating some bad shellfish and leave.
APHRA: I have a better idea. Why don’t I grab this bony kid Beckett, twist his head clean off, and tear open his ribcage, just for fun? I’ll record it and we can watch it over dinner :-)
MALEK: You’ve started a summoning, haven’t you? You’re losing control.
APHRA: Stop bossing me or I’ll kill the girl just to spite you.
MALEK: Once we’ve located Foxcroft all bets are off, but until then I’m telling you to stay the course.
APHRA: No, I think not. I’m going to gut the school kids and bring in the girl. And since you’re waaaay on the other side of the city, I guess there isn’t much you can do about it.
MALEK: DON’T.
APHRA: BRB. I’ll try not to get entrails on my kilt.
“How are things?” Beckett asked.
The girl who’d been calling herself Maisie swiped a message on her tablet and held it out for everyone’s inspection.
“My parents are never around,” Kaz said with a slight tremble in his voice. Still sitting at the kitchen table, he’d un-tucked his Polo shirt and was twisting the hem, wringing it like a wet towel. “Most nights I’m alone with the fireplace and a good book. It’s pretty cool, like having my own place.”
It occurred to Calista that she’d never seen Kaz converse with a female who wasn’t a relative or a teacher, and then it dawned on her that this could actually be an attempt at flirting.
Maisie’s lips pulled into a smile that dimpled her cheeks, and she twisted a loop of her hair. Was she flirting back? Calista hoped not—Kaz might die of shock right there in her apartment.
Beckett and Kaz resumed their studies, and Maisie paced the room, trailing her fingertips along the furniture. Her gaze crawled up the exposed brick walls. She typed another message and held it out for Calista.
She turned to face Maisie, whose Cupid bow lips were pulled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Nope,” Calista said, “I’m not much of a partier.”
Maisie circled back to the kitchen and hovered around the table. Kaz and Beckett highlighted passages they guessed might be on the mid-terms, though Kaz was having trouble focusing on academia with this leggy new distraction wandering about. Ashley sat cross-legged on her chair, doodling on the back of a notepad. Was she creating a sigil of her own? Calista couldn’t tell from her vantage point, but her forearm was exhibiting familiar symptoms—she’d just inked a fresh Venari, and the itching had already begun.
The air thickened around her, prickling and electric. It was the eerie sensation of a forest falling quiet before a storm … the precursor to a spell.
Fear kicked her fight or flight mechanism into hyperdrive, and if those were the only two options, running might be the smartest move. She stole a glance at her front door and eyed the deadbolt, mind blistering with calculations: how long would it take to reach it if she broke into a sprint? Could she unlatch the lock, sweat-slicked hands groping the knob, and throw herself into the hallway? Would she have time before Ashley unleashed whatever she was planning?
She bit down on her lip. Damn it—I can’t leave. There’s no way that Kaz, Maisie, and Beckett would follow.
She battled with indecision as her forearm needled her, the itch intensifying. She took an exploratory step towards the kitchen, eyes locked onto Ashley.
The pre-twilight sun poured into her apartment, bathing the room in a golden sheen. E
verything was blown out, overexposed—though curiously, Maisie’s eyes repelled the effect. The light couldn’t penetrate her irises, and the emerald green shot through with plumes of ink. The darkness expanded, swimming in every direction until the whites blotted out.
An arrow of panic speared Calista’s chest. Maisie was triggering the Venari, not Ashley. She was sure of it. And she’d made her decision. Flight wasn’t an option, so it was time to fight. She didn’t have a counter-spell to ward off whatever Maisie was about to do, but a stiff punch in the face might negate it. Her legs carried her forward, fists clenched, jaw wired shut.
“You don’t look so good,” Beckett said, glancing up from his textbook. Calista froze in place a few paces out of punching range.
Maisie dropped her tablet on the table, clutched her stomach and moaned. Her eyes squinted shut, and when they flew open, the darkness had vanished. She recovered and signed something to Beckett. After the sloppy series of hand gestures she grabbed her tablet, sailed past Calista and slid out the door, not bothering to pull it shut at her back.
“What was that all about?” Kaz asked.
Beckett scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know? My ASL is a little rusty, but if I had to guess, it was something about fish? Maybe shellfish?”
After a few hours of studying and several boxes of Chinese food, Beckett’s phone jangled in his pocket. “Gotta dip out,” he announced, zipping up his camouflage knapsack. With a quick hug for Calista and a crisp high-five for both Kaz and Ashley, he bid them farewell. Ashley followed him out.
Finally alone with Kaz, Calista revealed what had happened prior to Maisie’s abrupt and bizarre exit.
He was skeptical of the situation’s bizarreness.
“She was behind you,” Calista said breathlessly, shaking Kaz’s shoulders. “You couldn’t see her eyes. They were black. Like horror-movie black, all swirling and freaky.”
The North Valley Grimoire Page 16
