The North Valley Grimoire

by Blake Northcott

  It sounded like she was speaking from experience. And though she was smiling, a clear and bitter note cut through her sing-song voice.

  “Malek controls you? But how?” Calista asked the question before she could think it through, not expecting an honest reply.

  Her otherworldly host was more than happy to oblige. “He controls his cells: closing wounds, mending bones. He can even re-grow limbs. Malek does the same with others, manipulating their brain chemistry, but he can’t do it without assistance. I have a feeling The Agency gave him some of their techno-nonsense to help amplify his reach. It’s why we were paired in the first place: so he could chain me up.”

  Calista’s mind went to the brass cuff that Malek had given her in case of emergency. “What is he using to hex you?”

  “If I knew that, lassie, I’d have crushed it by now … along with his face.” She punctuated her sentence with a sugar-sweet smile that shot ice water thought Calista’s veins.

  “So you’re telling me to back off,” Calista said. “That I shouldn’t listen to Malek.”

  Another laugh spilled from Aphra, this time sharper, more derisive. “You’re not paying attention, lassie. I’m saying don’t trust him—I never said you were off the squad. You will be a part of the operation here in North Valley, and you will lead us to Nolan Foxcroft. I’ve come to realize that snuffing out magick for good might be the only way I get free of this bloody hex.”

  “And Kaz tells me you’re not a fan of Beckett, either. Do you think he’s one of us?”

  “It’s a possibility. These dobbers get transmogrified, and suddenly they’re casting, and enchanting, and gods only know what else. Stupid children playing with daddy’s gun; most have no earthly idea what they’re doing, or what kind of power they’re toying with.”

  “Okay, let’s assume you’re right—what does it matter?”

  “What does it matter?” Aphra said in her best American accent, which came off like a bad impression of a cowboy in a spaghetti western. “Since the rift in Gravenhurst, Scriveners have been a plague. They harness magick and they’re keen to hook up their mates, transmogrifying them without a second thought, never realizing how rare it is that someone can actually control it.”

  “You’re implying the North Valley Killer could be Beckett?” Calista said.

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m saying he showed up in the right place at the right time. So yes, I’m keeping a close eye. And you should be too if you’re as clever as Malek says. There are rogue agents and opposing factions everywhere, and they’re often well trained.”

  “Trained to do what, exactly? Beckett hasn’t done anything.”

  Aphra smirked. It was an ‘oh, you poor little lamb,’ smile, equal parts patronizing and rueful. “Do you feel safe around him? Does he make you feel like opening up? Does he share deep, meaningful stories from his past that make you weak in the knees? This is how the game is played, lassie—we put out the honey, and the marks lap it up.”

  How real was this Nether Realm? Could she punch Aphra in her pearly teeth, shattering her smile? At that moment there was nothing she wanted more. “So that was the advice portion of our chat: ‘don’t trust anyone.’ What’s the warning?”

  The redhead pranced away, lifting the hem of her dress, skipping through a make-believe meadow. “Malek has faith in you,” she chimed. “He feels you have potential, and that you could be the key to ending all of this. But I’m not convinced. I’ve seen people like you buckle under pressure; when it’s time to pull the trigger, they can’t seem to squeeze.” She stuck out her bottom lip like a little girl pouting for candy. Her act was getting very old, very fast.

  “So what do you want me to do?” Calista huffed.

  “Again, you’re not listening.” Aphra stalked back towards Calista, chin down, jaw rigid. Her air of carefree lunacy was washing away. “I told you I wasn’t convinced of your commitment. So I’d like you to convince me.”

  Aphra stepped dangerously close. They stood toe-to-toe, peering into each others’ unblinking eyes. They’d be as close in a phone booth.

  “I want this,” Calista said. “I want to take down FATHER as much as you and Malek.”

  Aphra shook her head, eyes tethered to Calista with a tractor beam. “Wanting it isn’t enough, wee lass. You have to need it. Like oxygen. Like your life depends on it. And not just your life … someone else’s.”

  “My mom’s life is already on the line,” Calista reminded her.

  She smirked again; a mischievous curl of her perfect bow lips, eyes glinting with the promise of untold horrors. “I’m not talking about Julia.”

  Calista finally blinked. No, she wasn’t talking about Julia.

  Aphra was pulling Kaz close as insurance—to serve as a constant reminder that hurting someone she loved would be punishment for non-compliance.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” A furnace of violence was swelling in her chest. Her breaths came in ragged bursts.

  “Wouldn’t I?” Aphra snapped. “You know nothing about me, but believe me when I say I know loads about you, Calista Freja Scott. Jackson lies to you about magick and leaves you with a sigil you can’t control, your mother betrays your trust and gets herself locked away, and no one can stand to be around you. Your entire existence is in shambles. You stumble aimlessly through life, barely clinging to a childhood friend who probably feels more sorry for you than anything. No one stays by your side, no one trusts you. Why should I be any different?”

  Calista raked her fingernails across her scalp. “Because I’m going to do whatever it takes.”

  “I know you will.” Aphra tapped Calista’s nose like pressing a button. When they made contact, a coil of flesh-colored smoke swirled into the air, only to swirl back in place. “You’re going to do exactly as we say, when we say it, like a good little soldier. You think you understand suffering? You know nothing of pain, lassie. It’s a foreign language to you. An abstract. I’ve experienced torment beyond anything your feeble mind could possibly fathom, but if you back out of this—or if you expose us as double-agents—you’re going to learn. The pain Jackson felt will be nothing compared to what you’ll experience.”

  The ominous warning stopped Calista’s heart. She wanted to respond but her tongue turned to lead, dry and heavy in her mouth. And then, in the thundering gulf of silence the blank non-world provided, a notion struck her.

  She knows how Jackson died. She was there.

  “It was you,” Calista said hoarsely. “You killed Jackson, his mom, his dad. And you were going to kill my friends and me that day in my apartment.”

  Aphra’s steely expression seemed to penetrate, just enough to confirm Calista’s suspicions … but she couldn’t be sure.

  Calista went on. “Malek’s hex is what stopped you. He forced you to leave, somehow.”

  Coyly fluttering her eyelashes, Aphra gazed back in defiance. Her lips were sealed.

  “Answer me!” Calista thundered.

  Aphra replied with a giggle. “Look down.”

  Calista looked. And once again, she was holding the crystal. Or maybe she’d been holding it all along and couldn’t detect it, but there it was, brimming and phosphorescent, heating her skin. It burned until she was forced to drop it.

  Kaz’s basement came rushing back.

  “I’ll get it.” Kaz stooped and plucked the crystal off the carpet.

  Time disappeared under the control of the Hlusta charm, so it was difficult to judge how much of it had elapsed, but it definitely had elapsed—enough to carry on a lengthy and disturbing conversation. Here, in Kaz’s basement, no more than a second had ticked by.

  Calista deposited the gem into the velvet bag and pulled the drawstring.

  No longer ranting like a Scottish serial killer trapped in a schoolgirl’s body, Aphra reverted to her demure, self-effacing persona. And she was typing on her tablet.

 

  Kaz chuckled. “Usually the ‘note ninja’ h
as glue on her hands. She catches as well as she throws.”

  “Yeah, I’m a little off today.” Calista clutched her stomach, unable to mask a grimace.

  Kaz placed a hand on her shoulder. “You feeling all right?”

  Transitioning back from the Nether Realm was disorienting; her brain had been slammed into a blender, her guts turned to liquid. She was too nauseated to express her rage; to react to the horror bubbling up inside of her.

  “Might be coming down with something,” she lied. “Maybe a stomach flu.” She shuffled towards the staircase, gripping the railing for support.

  Kaz followed her to the front door where his mother welcomed more guests. Mrs. Hayashi thanked Calista for coming and retrieved her coat. Kaz offered to drive her home but she declined; a ride across town would likely include Aphra sitting shotgun, and she’d digested as much Aphra as she could handle for one night.

  She finished texting her cab and looked up to see the redhead sidled up to Kaz, pearly white smile lighting the room.

  Aphra typed a parting message.

  Every FATHER Division badge has been glamoured with DARPA’s patented Fox Techno-alchemy™.

  Civilians will see the emblem as an eagle on a circular background, but anyone within The Agency (those who have been exposed to the CIA’s L-clearance security charms) will see the enhanced logo, featuring tentacles and a serpentine head.

  This feature has been included to allow FATHER Agents to identify each other in the field, even while undercover.

  – FATHER Division Agent Handbook

  21. Hard Stop

  WHEN MALEK RECEIVED an urgent message to rendezvous at The Pit, he was apprehensive, to say the least. It had been a week without a word from The Agency, which meant they’d been digging for evidence. No doubt investigating the untimely disappearance of Charles King.

  He’d been careful, of course, incinerating the remains. The ward inside The Pit was designed to repel techno-alchemy—anyone attempting to use Fox Tech was abruptly shut down—but other spells were fair game. After a quick hellfire enchantment, the bloated windbag was quite literally erased, right down to the last vulgar molecule. With sirens approaching and precious few minutes to work with, scrubbing the safe house to a shine was out of the question, so he’d left the crime scene as-is, allowing the local PD to discover the broken doorknob, along with a generous amount of King’s blood.

  Malek paced the dank room. He re-adjusted his cufflinks and re-buttoned his jacket. “I’m trained for this,” he said fiercely, just so he could hear the words aloud. And he had been. When FATHER division was assembled, he ran the gamut from weapons training, to detective work, to spycraft—not that he had much choice in the matter. Despite loathing the process, he’d learned to lie and misdirect, using every tool at his disposal to trick interrogators into believing whatever he wanted. Which was helpful, because Malek had no delusions that this meeting was going to be exactly that.

  The door burst open, and a pair of soldiers stormed in. They wore helmets with black visors, brandishing rifles as large as they were tall.

  “Clear!” they shouted in unison, and retreated to each side of the door. They kicked their heels together and stood at attention like guards at a castle gate.

  Then a squat bulldog padded in, dragging a leash that clacked along the grimy tiles. It huffed with exhaustion while it sniffed the air, shooting Malek a curious glance. He glanced back, mimicking the animal’s slight tilt of the head. Apparently satisfied, the pudgy canine flopped down for a mid-afternoon nap, wheezing with every breath.

  A fit, sturdy woman followed, dark hair chopped to an angular bob. She removed her overcoat and flung it on the hook by the door, revealing a tailored gray pantsuit.

  She introduced herself with a firm handshake: Amanda Cho, Director of Advanced Biological Research and Development at DARPA. Before relinquishing Malek’s hand, she made it clear she was ‘on loan’ to FATHER by special request of ‘the Secretary himself.’ Cho was like innumerable Pentagon employees he’d encountered during his brief tenure; relentless ladder-climbers who relished any opportunity to broadcast their resumes, and who were not at all bashful about name-dropping their allies. She was mid-forties perhaps, though she could have passed for younger. Her face was more handsome than pretty.

  The Director took a seat and folded her hands on the table, leather gloves squeaking when her fingers laced. “There is a mole in our midst,” she declared. “Someone has been sneaking cookies from The Agency’s private jar.” She filled with room with a palpable smugness, like a cat cornering a field mouse.

  Instinctively, Malek’s eyes flicked towards the exit, surveying the guards that flanked it. He thought, for a nanosecond, about racing past them, sprinting through the hall, down the stairwell, and scrambling to his car; he had a go-bag stashed a few miles away and might reach the airport before a lockdown. His family was minted, with properties all throughout Europe—they’d never find him.

  He banished the sudden impulse from his mind. Use your head, you stupid git. The Agency would never send two paltry soldiers to apprehend a Scrivener. For all he knew the hall was set up as a kill box; he’d get a few paces beyond the threshold and be ripped to pieces by intersecting sniper fire. He’d regenerate, of course, but from behind steel bars.

  “A mole?” he repeated. Without realizing it he’d been loosening his tie.

  “You had to realize something was going on internally, didn’t you?” Cho spoke curtly, clipping her words with a practiced enunciation. “The Director of FATHER Division was debriefing junior agents like a low-level cutout.”

  Calm down, Malek reminded himself. Eyes focused, breathing stable. “Now that you mention it, something did seem amiss.”

  “I’m here to tell you that as of today, you’re off the short list. Someone downloaded files from inside the Pentagon’s firewall at nineteen hundred hours yesterday. It was the largest breach since The Incident. We have a time-stamp on the transfer, and you were nowhere near the building when it happened.”

  They’ve been monitoring me. Not overly surprising, he supposed. ‘Redundancies on top of redundancies’ was The Agency’s core tenet.

  “Right. Well. Thank you for the update.” He leaned back, throwing one leg across the other, casually draping an arm over the back of the chair. Never show surprise. Use body language to convey indifference. Be calculated. Callous if need be.

  “What happened to Charles King remains a mystery, though.” She snatched a phone from her pocket and swiped the surface. “He planned to meet you here … seven days ago?”

  Malek nodded.

  “I’m curious about his disappearance,” Cho continued. “You reported that when you arrived for the meeting, the police were already taping off the scene. The lock was damaged, and the room was a bloodbath.”

  “It is an unsavory neighborhood. Some of the scoundrels I’ve seen lurking the halls …” Malek gave a theatrical shudder. “Frankly, nothing would surprise me.”

  “Mmm.” She absently searched her phone for another file.

  “Though if it were up to me,” Malek added, “King and I would have met at some beautiful downtown locale. There’s a golf course in the west end of the Valley with a clubhouse overlooking the links. The reviews are spectacular, and the mimosas alone are supposedly worth the membership fees.”

  “King might’ve found this cute.” Cho extended her palm across the table, making a vague circular gesture. “The clever British witticisms, coupled with your slick hair and devilish smile. I don’t find it quite as endearing.”

  He grinned. “If King fancied me he was playing his cards awfully close to the vest. I didn’t realize he’d referred to me as ‘cute’ in his reports.”

  “Right, reports. It took me a week to sort through King’s wad of scribbled notes and coffee-stained paperwork. It was like reading the world’s biggest pile of doctor’s prescriptions.”

&nbs
p; “Not impressed by his performance, were you?”

  Cho sniffed. “That word implies he’d actually performed. Since this op began, the three of you have accomplished nothing. Now that I’m your supervising officer, things are about to change.”

  Malek tightened his lips. “Sounds lovely.”

  “It’s temporary, of course. The Secretary is looking to fill King’s position on a more permanent basis, but in the meantime, he needs people he can trust to continue the mole hunt, and someone competent to oversee the capture of the remaining transmogs in North Valley.”

  “I see. So you’re the most qualified, I gather.”

  “Twelve years of counter-intelligence before I transferred to DARPA,” she said, as if she’d rehearsed it on the way over in her car. “And since the Gravenhurst Incident, I’ve become intimate with the trans-dimensional space-time event that facilitated these widespread thermodynamic anomalies.”

  Trans-dimensional space-time event? Malek couldn’t contain a chuckle. Why did upper management have such a hard time saying ‘magick’? Probably the same reason they referred to people who have been marked with sigils as ‘transmogrified human expressions’—in conversation it makes you sound more like an intellectual, and less like you’ve gone off your trolley.

  “The rift,” he said. “The magickal rift in Arizona.”

  “Yes,” she echoed dryly, “the rift.” Even that word seemed difficult for her to digest.

  “So if you’re a director, that means you have Q-clearance. You’ve seen it.”

  She nodded stiffly. “I have.”

  “And?”

  “And you want to know what it looks like,” she said, adding a pronounced sigh.

  “We’re all on the same side here. Can’t hurt to share a few details with a colleague.”