The North Valley Grimoire

by Blake Northcott

  “Sorry,” Calista said, straining to keep a straight face.

  “I’m sorry,” Beckett added.

  Frank pinched the bridge of his nose and walked away.

  Christmas spirit exploded from the Hayashi residence—it was ten pounds of mirth stuffed into a five-pound bag. The estate was dressed top-to-bottom in multicolored lights, and an animated wireframe Santa clung to their chimney, poised to squeeze down the flue. The wreath on their door was the size of a hula hoop.

  Music spilled onto the porch. Calista knocked twice, and when the door swung open, a boy no more than twelve stared up at her, sporting a mop of black hair and a red knitted sweater. He was a miniaturized Kaz.

  The kid let out a low whistle, slowly eyeing her from head to toe. “Damn, girl! Step inside and get under the mistletoe.”

  A hand blistered across the back of the boy’s head.

  “Ow! Aunt Asuka!”

  Kaz’s mom stood behind him, tiny and slender and all of ninety pounds, but from the sound of the impact she hit like a heavyweight.

  “Brandon,” she said, “what have I told you about speaking to women? Respect.”

  “You didn’t have to throw salt on my game,” he whined, rubbing his head.

  “You don’t have ‘game’—you have an hour alone in the spare bedroom. Perhaps next time you will think about your actions.”

  Brandon threw his hands in the air. “It’s Christmas Day!”

  “No,” she said, standing her ground. “It is Christmas Day for kids with respect. I will see you in one hour. Go.”

  Once Brandon had scampered away, Kaz’s mom returned to form. She was affable, but strangely unreadable; it was like conversing with a stunningly lifelike oil painting. “Calista, please come in. May I get you some tea? Something to eat? We have plenty of leftover fried chicken.” She opened the door wide. “I prefer turkey, but as you know, Mister Hayashi insists on his annual trip to KFC.” She said ‘KFC’ with a little shake of her head.

  Calista stepped inside, unzipped her coat and kicked off her boots. “No, but thank you. Is Kaz available?”

  Kaz and his parents had been visiting relatives in Seattle all week and returned on Christmas Eve, just in time to host their guests flying in from Nagoya. Calista hadn’t even had the chance to tell him about her run-in with Malek at the safe house. There was a lot to discuss, and it had to be done face-to-face; text messages and emojis didn’t seem like the best way to explain a near-death experience.

  Mrs. Hayashi nodded, glancing towards the door that led to the basement. “Of course. He will be delighted to see you.”

  The sharp crack of resin balls echoed from the basement as Calista descended the spiral staircase. The room was enormous, with enough square footage to accommodate a billiards table, ping-pong, a jukebox, and a quartet of pinball machines.

  When she saw the rest of Kaz’s family, Calista felt under-dressed in black leggings and a ruby-colored tunic. She hadn’t even done her hair—she’d twirled it into a bun and stabbed it through with a pen. The tone of the party was semi-formal—ties and vests, dresses and heels—but that didn’t get in the way of their fun: his uncles stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the pinball machines, tilting and clacking away; two teenage girls were at the ping-pong table volleying like Olympic athletes; and Kaz lined up a cue to sink a ball in the corner pocket.

  Calista leaned on the table. “Are you hustling your poor dad again?”

  Mr. Hayashi let out a hearty laugh. He was tiny—not much larger than Mrs. Hayashi—but was considerably more jovial. He looked comical next to his son, who towered a full head above him.

  “You look lovely,” Mr. Hayashi said. “I trust you are having a wonderful Christmas?”

  “Yeah, just quiet. Me and my uncle.”

  “That sounds nice.” Mr. Hayashi circled the table and handed Calista his cue. “Hopefully you will have better luck against my young disciple. I fear he has surpassed the master.”

  Kaz laughed. “When were you ever a master at pool?”

  “Long, long ago,” he said reflectively. “Sadly, my skills at the billiards table have diminished with age, but I am glad my only son has inherited my talent.” He turned to Calista and flashed a quick wink before heading upstairs. “Unfortunately, I was not able to pass along my good looks as well.”

  The cousins at the ping-pong table shared a giggle at Kaz’s expense, but never took their eyes off the zinging ball.

  Kaz couldn’t suppress a smile of his own. It was always fun to see him interact with his parents around the holidays; it was the only time of year they didn’t harangue him about his grades.

  Calista reached for the triangle. “New game?”

  “You rack ‘em,” Kaz said. “I’ll break.”

  She strolled around the table, digging her hands into the leather pockets, fishing out the balls and depositing them on the green felt surface. “I need to tell you something.”

  “I was going to say the same thing.” He chalked the end of his cue.

  “You first.”

  “No,” Kaz insisted. “You go.”

  “It’s about Beckett and I. We’re a thing.”

  Kaz’s eyes widened. “Like, a thing?”

  Her cheeks suddenly heated. Saying it out loud made her feel like a middle-schooler at her first dance. “Yes!” she blurted out. “We’re together. It just kind of happened. He came over, we started talking, one thing led to another …”

  Kaz jerked his head towards his family and then whipped it back around. “You mean, the two of you—?” He twisted the chalk holder on the tip of his cue, sending a plume of blue dust into the air.

  Calista grimaced. “No! God no—my Uncle Frank was home. It was only a kiss. But we talked, and laughed … it was nice.”

  He leaned his cue against the table and took her by the arm, ushering her towards the jukebox.

  “I had a talk with Maisie,” he whispered. “She said we can’t trust Beckett.”

  “You what?” Calista shouted.

  Kaz shushed her. “It’s okay, I know everything. She popped over for a visit last night and told me the whole story: that she works at a special division at the Pentagon.”

  “I know about FATHER,” she cut in. “So Maisie admitted it?”

  “It’s why she’s been acting so suspicious. She’s working with another agent named Monroe, or Malfoy, or—”

  “Malek.”

  “Right, Malek. They’re on assignment in North Valley looking for Scriveners who have been transmuted.”

  “Transmogrified.”

  “But she’s not going to arrest you,” Kaz said, “even though you’re one of them. Which I thought was pretty cool of her.”

  “Yeah, she’s super cool … but why would she tell you all of this? Doesn’t that seem a little strange?”

  “Strange how?” He gave a breezy wave of his hand. “She mentioned you were following her, and ended up at a safe house in Oz. Now that she and Malek know you’re a transmog they just want to keep an eye out in case some computer hacker contacts you.”

  Maisie was a great storyteller, and an even better editor. She’d omitted a few key details in the narrative, like how FATHER was responsible for Jackson’s death, that the government was killing people to keep magick under wraps, and how Malek was a double-agent who’d casually blown his boss’ head off without a second thought.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Calista said. “I don’t know what Maisie’s game is, but—”

  “Her real name is Aphra,” Kaz interrupted.

  “Aphra?”

  “Maisie is a code name. Her real name is Aphra.”

  “Fine, I don’t know what Aphra’s game is, but there are more dangerous elements out there.”

  “Like the North Valley Killer. I know, we talked about that, too—she’s worried about me. She said I could help by keeping my eyes open, seeing if anything looked sketchy at Hawthorne.”

  The fact that Maisie—or Aphra, or whatever h
er name was—decided to visit Kaz the moment he got off the plane from Seattle was suspicious, but the fact that she’d practically deputized him went well beyond run-of-the-mill strangeness. And the gleam of excitement dancing behind Kaz’s eyes as he recited her every word was even more disconcerting.

  Calista narrowed her eyes. “Since when did you become Indiana Jones?”

  His eyes narrowed to match hers. “What are you talking about?”

  “You never want to do anything adventurous. Whatever happened to ‘I want to graduate and go to college and become a crusty old accountant’?”

  “Come on, Callie. I’ve done some crazy things with you since we found the grimoire. And when did I ever say I wanted to go into accounting?”

  “Shut up!” she shoved his chest. “You are in love with her!”

  “What? How can you…” He glanced over his shoulder to ensure their conversation wasn’t commanding an audience. To his visible relief, his family was still preoccupied with their games. “Don’t be ridiculous. She explained things to me—sigils, magick, amulets. Now it all makes sense.”

  “I told you the exact same things and you said I was crazy! Look, I know this one spell where I can melt things. Let’s go to your garage and I’ll show you.”

  He waved her off. “It’s all good. I know you can cast spells.” He let out a light chuckle. “It sounds weird just saying that out loud.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Kaz. Your girlfriend shouldn’t be asking you to look for serial killers. You saw the same footage that I did at the Cobbler’s house: these people are dangerous. She should be telling you to stay the hell away from them.”

  “But she said I could be part of the team.”

  “No, you idiot,” Calista seethed, “there is no team. I’m bait. And you’re nothing.”

  “Wait, you’re what?” His enthusiasm faded a degree.

  “They think a guy named Nolan Foxcroft is responsible for melting down the server farm in Gravenhurst, and they think I’m the key to smoking him out. He’s the one they want.”

  “Nolan who?”

  She took Kaz by the shoulders, pulling him near. “You don’t know what these people are capable of.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Kaz said.

  “Possibly, but that doesn’t make me wrong.”

  “We’re getting off track, here. Aphra warned me about Beckett.”

  “Why would I worry about Becks?”

  “Think about it,” he began, counting down the reasons on his outstretched fingers. “First, he showed up mid-semester.”

  “Wow, you’re right,” she said flatly. “Let’s tie him up and torture him with a chainsaw.”

  He continued his list undeterred. “Second, Beckett tried really hard to get close to you. Aphra said that agents are trained to gain people’s trust.”

  She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “I know it’s hard to believe, but maybe he actually likes me.”

  “Maybe he’s looking for Jackson’s grimoire,” Kaz said with an unnecessary hush, as if his relatives would have any clue what a grimoire was.

  “You told Aphra about the book?” Calista hissed.

  “Of course not. I promised to keep that between us. But she’s one of the good guys, okay? Whoever these transmogs are—whether it’s Beckett or someone else—we’ll catch them.”

  The abridged, G-rated recap that Aphra had given Kaz seemed to comfort him, but a false sense of security wasn’t helpful. And it wouldn’t keep him alive.

  “Kaz, I think your feelings might be messing with your head.”

  “And Beckett isn’t messing with you? Listen, Aphra told me all about—”

  “Stop it!” Calista said fiercely, loud enough to turn the heads of half the guests in the basement. “You’re saying ‘Aphra’ over and over, as if repeating her name is going to instill me with some overwhelming sense of confidence. News flash: we don’t know Aphra. Your new crush could be a psychopath for all we know, or a deranged serial killer!”

  She’d barely finished her sentence when a redhead breezed into the room, sneaking up behind Kaz. Her arms circled his waist, and her lips left a cherry print on his cheek.

  Kaz turned to face her. “Glad you could make it.”

  Aphra wore a flowing green dress that matched her eyes, hair twisted into an immaculate braid. She reached into her purse and pulled out her tablet, rapidly tapping a message.

 

  Calista painted on a smile. “All good things.”

  Aphra typed a quick reply while forcing a tight-lipped smile of her own.

  “Want a drink?” Kaz pointed a thumb towards the bar in the corner. One of his uncles was acting as bartender, matching his patrons shot-for-shot.

  Aphra politely waved him off and dug into her purse once more, this time removing a tiny satchel. It was a black velvet bag with a delicate drawstring like you’d find in an upscale jewelry store. She extended it towards Calista.

  She took the bag in her palm, unsure if she should unfurl the tightly drawn opening.

  Kaz patted her shoulder. “It’s Christmas. You know, the time of the Rudolph and the nog and the giving of gifts?”

  Aphra nodded expectantly, her doe eyes reflecting a hint of bashfulness. Kaz, so moved by the gesture, was practically tearing up.

  Damn this bitch was good.

  Even if Kaz remained oblivious, Calista had caught a glimpse of Aphra’s true nature; the darkness that swarmed her eyes as she stalked through her kitchen, the moment before she doubled over in pain and bolted for the door. The more she rolled it over in her mind, the more certain she was that Aphra had planned to attack.

  Calista studied the bag. The lingering moment was dragging out, and the vibe was getting weird.

  She picked open the drawstring.

  Inside was a jewel; an emerald, perhaps, but jagged and coarse, like it had been chipped from a larger piece with a pickaxe. It was the width of a quarter, but heavy, almost impossibly so for its size. As she marveled at the stone, she noticed Aphra’s necklace, shining with the same cosmic green brilliance, dancing beneath the overhead lights.

  Aphra moved her hands; a rapid series of gestures, rigid and precise, like Malek had done when he produced his light show back in Oswick.

  The stone was suddenly heavy … and strangely, hot and cold at the same time … and comforting.

  It was like bedtime during a fever, right after a dollop of potent medication.

  Her mind fell away.

  And the world followed.

  I’ve never encountered another Scrivener in person.

  The other magickal adepts I’ve corresponded with on the dark web are equal parts clever, enlightened, suspicious and introverted—‘eccentric’ might be a good umbrella term. They probably think the same about me. I’m as guarded as they are, always worried about leaving a fingerprint that might reveal my location or identity.

  Despite a few awkward interactions, I always give them the benefit of the doubt. But if I ever meet a Scrivener in real life, I don’t know how trusting I’ll be.

  It’s like passing by a shadowy figure on a dimly lit street. You want to believe they’re harmless—just out for a midnight stroll, or trying to get home. That their intentions are as pure as yours.

  When your heart starts racing, that’s what you tell yourself. That’s what you want to believe.

  But you can’t know for sure.

  – Passage in The North Valley Grimoire

  20. Absence of World

  CALISTA BLINKED, and Kaz’s rec room was gone. The tan Berber carpeting and ivory wainscoting and the game tables had vanished. A rapid shutter of her eyelids revealed a new world—but it wasn’t a world. It was the absence of one.

  The floor, if one existed, and the walls and the ceiling and whatever else there was supposed to have been all ceased to be there. She stood on a vast blank canvas stretching to infinity on every side; it was lit by an unseen source, brimm
ing with sharp white light. She didn’t cast a shadow. There was no heat and no cold and no breeze. And there was no noise—that was the most disturbing part. When she called out, her voice refused to echo.

  She glanced down to see her palm, holding nothing. The chunk of glowing emerald had vanished as well.

  “Bonnie view, isn’t it?” The voice came from behind, startling her into a scream.

  She spun to face Aphra. “You … you’re …”

  “Yes, I know.” Aphra wiggled her fingers by her ears, mouth open in mock surprise. “And hearing, too!” Her voice was a pleasant Scottish brogue, salty waves lapping a beach.

  “You’ve been faking?” The accusation tasted horrible, but there was no other way to phrase it.

  “Of course not,” Aphra said playfully. “I’ve been hearing impaired for years, ever since my accident. Tore up my vocal cords, too. My sigil glamours over the scarring, but my talking days are over. At least on the physical plane.”

  “What is this place?” Calista stamped her feet. It felt like jamming her heels into solid stone.

  Aphra laughed, light and airy. “It’s nowhere. All thanks to this whimsical little Icelandic Hlusta stone. A tiny rift slipped open in Reykjavík in the early 1900s, and these crystals came spilling out—or so the story goes. They’re quite rare, but I know a guy.” She lifted the chain around her neck between thumb and forefinger, letting the shimmering stone dangle. “When we touched a pair of linked crystals, a charm popped us into the Nether Realm—no prestos or abracadabras required. I’m a fan of spells that don’t require spoken verse, for obvious reasons.”

  “So why are we here?” Calista asked.

  “Ah!” Aphra skipped over like hopscotch. “Now you’re asking some fun questions. I’m here to give you a warning. But first, a wee bit of advice.”

  “A warning?” Calista echoed.

  “I’d be careful about your allegiance with Agent Malek. He’s a slick one, that Sassenach.”

  “Didn’t you tell Kaz that you two were a team?”

  “We were forced together by The Agency,” Aphra quickly corrected her. “The lad is all smiles and good looks, but just when you let him in, he starts to control you.” She rapped a fingernail into her forehead. “He worms his way inside with his dirty little hexes, and before long you’re dancing like a marionette. And he’s good at pulling strings.”