The North Valley Grimoire

by Blake Northcott

  Darkness swirled behind Director Cho’s eyes. “Let me be clear: I don’t waste time socializing with the rank and file, and I don’t divulge classified information to my assets. Your entire op has been a carnival sideshow; when The Agency asked for results, King would trot out his dog and pony, parading them around until he received a pat on the head and more time on the clock. But the clock has run out, Junior Agent Malek. I’m accelerating the timetables, and from now on, we’re running things with precision.”

  Suddenly, Malek felt nostalgic for the venerable Charles King. Was it possible to un-hellfire someone back into existence? He doubted it. He’d begun this meeting with the terrifying notion that it could end with him locked in an underground torture chamber. Now, with Cho calling the shots, he worried things were somehow worse.

  She flipped over her phone and held it up for his inspection. It was a video, taken from a security camera at a local convenience store. “The same attack every time: dead clerk, stolen cash, and some disintegrating effect that the Deadly Hexes & Enchantments lab has yet to identify. This is the same guy who got King, if I had to guess—we’re still looking into that. So your mission, which you have no choice but to accept, is to bring this individual to me—and do it fast.”

  Malek cleared his throat. “Any preference on his condition?”

  “In bracelets this time, not a body bag.” She leaned in on her elbows. “Though the fact that you’d ask that question leads me to believe you’re confused about your role at The Agency. Scriveners are invaluable assets because of their capacity to alter biomolecular structures and disrupt cellular dynamics. Using ink alone they can tinker with reality. They create.”

  “Sounds more like an artist than an asset,” Malek said. And could Cho have jumped through any more linguistic hoops to avoid saying the ‘M’ word?

  “Well if Jackson Carter was an artist, from what I understand he was Michelangelo. It’s why we needed him alive. And it’s why we need this low-rent serial killer in one piece so we can assess what level he’s at, and if he’s of any use.”

  DARPA had curated a small but impressive library of spells, though they lacked qualified Scriveners to execute them, or in some cases, to even verify if they were real (a problem exacerbated when The Agency’s lone techno-alchemist fled the country). Stray transmogs who knew little about their own abilities were often easy targets, but experienced Scriveners were far more difficult to locate, and even harder to bring in alive. Bagging a Magnus level Scrivener powerful enough to craft sigils of their own—a master with decades of experience that long pre-dated Gravenhurst—was The Agency’s white whale.

  Undeterred, the division focused their R&D around other magickal disciplines using Foxcroft’s leftover research, and were steadily progressing in his absence. Though with vanishingly few volunteers, conscripting Scriveners to generate fresh spells remained a priority. The search for the elusive Magnus level Scrivener was laughable, though—maybe even more so than discovering a proper grimoire.

  “I understand.” Malek leaned back and twisted his cufflinks, paying no particular attention. The picture of cool indifference.

  “Do you?” Cho said, her smugness returning in droves. “I know you went through The Farm and were properly trained, but it’s my opinion you’ve also been coddled. The Agency believes that you people are required to apprehend other transmogs. ‘Uniquely qualified’ they like to say. I don’t share their sentiment.” She leaned in closer. “I think you’re a liability.”

  “Thankfully it’s not up to you,” he snapped, his tone teetering on insubordination.

  Cho’s thin lips cracked the slightest hint of a smile. “No, not yet. But I’m ambitious, and positions are opening up all the time.” She gestured to the stain behind her; the bloody Rorschach test that blotted the exposed brick wall, dried to a muddy clot. “A plum director position just opened up at FATHER. It would be a lateral move, but it comes with perks. I suppose I should thank whoever disposed of Charles King.”

  Malek acknowledged her with a small nod. “If I meet them, I’ll be sure to pass along your best.”

  She stood, marched to the door, and slid on her overcoat. “The North Valley Killer is growing more brazen with every attack,” she said, “and we’re at risk of exposure. Local news has been compliant, but independent video channels are almost impossible to police. And on top of that, we have dark web forums bursting at the seams with theories about magick—it’s only adding fuel to the fire. We need this killer dealt with.”

  “I’ve been successful thus far,” Malek assured her. “Check the stats: I have more collars and kills to my credit than anyone at FATHER. I can assure you this transmog will be dealt with in short order.” He felt the sudden desire to deliver his own resume, tacky as it sounded. American office-speak was contagious; when a co-worker prattled on about their achievements, it was a reflex to fire back with a few bullet points just to keep pace.

  “You’ve proven effective,” she said, though a little reluctantly, “but your methods are highly questionable. Going through King’s notes, I see you have a field asset, which is frowned upon in your division … a Calista Scott? Interesting choice to leave her in the wind when she’s had close contact with a known Scrivener. If she’s been transmogrified, then we need to bring her in.”

  “She hasn’t,” Malek said firmly.

  Cho paused for a beat. “You sound certain.”

  “I am.”

  “Nevertheless, I’m risk-averse—and I’m even more averse to bullshit. Too many resources have been wasted here in North Valley. If I don’t see results before our next meeting, I’m launching an investigation into you and your partner. Then I’m going to burn Calista Scott.”

  “You can’t do that,” Malek said. “She’s a valuable asset.”

  “Assets produce,” Cho explained, though her explanation sounded more like a razor-edged threat. “If she’s not producing, she’s a throwaway. My mandate comes directly from the top: safety first. The Secretary can’t afford any more screw-ups, and leaving just one potential transmog in the wind is one too many.”

  Don’t show emotional attachment to the outcome, he reminded himself.

  “You’re either going to learn efficiency,” Cho said, “or I’ll recommend that you’re bagged, tagged, and locked in a box until you learn how things are done at The Agency.”

  He was fairly certain that the bagging and tagging Cho referred to were metaphorical, but he’d seen one of the containment facilities where captured transmogs were stashed away. The ‘box’ portion of her threat was most certainly literal.

  She raised her brow, awaiting verbal confirmation.

  “Understood,” he replied solemnly.

  One of her guards opened the door, and she left without another word. Her bulldog followed, leash scraping the floor behind it.

  How many Scriveners have used magick for personal gain? Most of them, if I had to guess. I don’t blame them.

  When I first discovered magick, all I could think about was wish fulfillment. Money. Cars. A private jet. Superbowl rings. I was obsessed with all the happiness I could purchase.

  But the mystical isn’t a cosmic ATM machine. Everything in this universe has a purpose, a meaning. If magick weren’t meant for something important, it wouldn’t exist in the first place.

  – Passage in The North Valley Grimoire

  22. Best Laid Plans

  HAWTHORNE’S MORNING HERD was thinner than usual. Winter break had ended, but that didn’t mean the holiday season was over; when a parent doles out exorbitant private school fees, they feel entitled to keep their kids for a few extra days in January if it suits their travel itineraries. Many students were still on vacation, no doubt tanning on the decks of their family’s yachts or cavorting on sun-drenched beaches.

  Kaz, whose workaholic parents were wealthy enough to take him on fabulous vacations but never did, often mused that he’d enjoy a good cavort, but he’d have to wait until July to travel abroad. His mom
had promised him a trip as a graduation gift. ‘Study now,’ she said, ‘fun in the sun later.’ Odd, since Calista had never heard of Mrs. Hayashi doing anything related to either fun or the sun.

  Calista silently wished that Kaz had left the country. It would’ve distanced him from Aphra. Broaching the topic was always a non-starter; she’d tried to convince Kaz of his crush’s breathtaking lunacy on more than one occasion, but he argued that she was reading too much into their otherworldly chat. Aphra had no doubt been in his ear, professing her innocence, and he’d seen nothing to the contrary; around Kaz, she was a picnic basket full of saccharine smiles and fluttering eyelashes.

  If he’d only seen her performance in the Nether Realm.

  Part of her wanted to believe that Aphra’s bark was worse than her bite. She’d dealt with mean girls for years; sure, they knew the emotional pressure points and exactly where to squeeze, but they never posed any physical danger.

  But another part of her recalled that Malek had no qualms about blasting his boss’ head open like a piñata, painting the wall of their safehouse with brain matter. Aphra might be just as ruthless. When FATHER Division posted a job listing, remorse and compassion didn’t seem high on their list of requirements.

  She didn’t know whether the thinly-veiled threats were idle or genuine, but like it or not, the deranged redhead was sticking around. And Calista lacked the mental bandwidth to focus on things outside of her control. A showdown with Aphra felt inevitable, but she was miles from being prepared for that battle. To protect herself (or anyone else for that matter) she needed to build her arsenal of spells. To sharpen her skills. To level up.

  Night after sleepless night, page after fascinating page, she pored through the dense hand-written notes of the grimoire. The diary portion, interspersed between the spellwork, told the origin story of magick, though it was outlined in broad strokes. It’s been said that magick had always existed, and came to Earth in a drip—small, controlled doses, available only to the most disciplined. Some believed magick would one day be omnipresent, freely flowing and endlessly renewable, used by masters and amateurs alike. Others were more pessimistic. During the Renaissance, there were rumors of fail-safes created for just such an occasion: a mystical dam that would crash into place, halting the rapid influx of magick should a flood occur.

  The flood never came, but at points in history there had been significant leaks; events triggered by the correct mixture of words and sigils, allowing magick to trickle through certain structures. But anyone who’d tasted magick wanted a lot more than a trickle. They knew the power was there, waiting to be tapped—and the easiest path to the mystical was blood.

  Gallons of blood were spilled through Aztec sacrifice, centuries were dedicated to building The Pyramids, and lifetimes were spent searching for a key that no one would ever discover. If they only knew that thousands of years later, the floodgates would be thrown open by a man sitting in an office chair clacking tiny plastic keys.

  Jackson collected spells from around the globe: in Mali, the Dogon people ‘hooked the clouds’ to call down rain; at the Tassili n’Ajjer plateau in Algeria, sigils were painted on sandstone depicting humans with multiple faces—the ability to mask one’s identity (now called a ‘glamour’); and the French were credited with a number of simple yet effective sigils divined in the Middle Ages. Street performers would glamour small objects or magnetize coins; tricks to amuse passersby and garner a copper or two. And there were more impressive ones, like Le Bouclier Noir: when the plague ravaged Europe, a Scrivener from Marseille conjured an immunity sigil, saving countless souls from a horrifying death.

  The more Calista read, the more she wanted to be like Jackson; to master Elemental magick, casting spells with nothing more than ink. She’d been transmogrified, which was the first step—you can’t start casting until you have your own sigil—but to graduate beyond somatic gestures and Blood magick required more than just meticulous penmanship. ‘You need to believe you’re a Scrivener before you become one,’ he wrote … whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Jackson hadn’t lived long enough to elaborate on his frustratingly vague, ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ principle.

  “Did you sign up for drama again this semester?” Kaz asked. They were side-by-side at their lockers.

  Calista sighed. “I went for art history instead. Drama class was getting too dramatic.” She’d pretended to be a tree in a windstorm enough for one lifetime, and it was demoralizing to receive a C+ in ‘being a tree.’ In her dazed and un-caffeinated state, she didn’t realize she’d been pawing her locker door like a cat left out in the cold. It was suspiciously lock-less.

  “Random search over Winter break,” Kaz said. He was rolling a sparkling new combination lock into place. “They clipped them all.”

  “How did you know?”

  “About the raid? School newsletter.”

  “There’s a school newsletter now?” Calista slammed her locker shut, and it bounced back open a crack.

  “Yup. Ever since the dawn of this new invention called ‘the world wide web.’ You should check it out—I hear it’s gonna be bigger than the microwave.”

  “So they cracked every lock?” The timing was suspicious. Anyone using their locker to hide contraband would presumably have brought it with them before leaving for Christmas. A raid during the holidays would turn up nothing more than textbooks and overripe gym socks.

  Kaz shrugged. “Someone called in a bomb threat. Turned out to be a false alarm, big surprise. If you fill out a form, the office will reimburse you for the lock.”

  If someone wanted an unsolicited peek inside every locker, a false bomb threat would be a clever tactic. “Have you seen Ashley this morning? She seemed pretty interested in the grimoire before the break.”

  They made their way down the hall towards the junction that led to the main foyer. “You think Ash wanted into your locker?” Kaz lowered his voice to a whisper as they passed a knot of freshmen. “You think she called in the threat?”

  “There’s something off about her. No one is that cheerful. It’s unnatural.”

  “Maybe you just forgot what cheer feels like.”

  “It’s not just that she’s happy. It’s everything about her: the way she talks, and laughs, and that idiotic smile that’s practically tattooed across her—” She stopped on a dime when she noticed activity at a cluster of lockers. It was the junction where the football team congregated. Parker and Maddox were up to their usual antics, wrestling against the walls. Whitney stood nearby, fussing with her flawless chestnut hair, using her phone’s self-facing camera as a mirror.

  Kaz placed a hand on Calista’s shoulder. “You okay? You don’t usually run out of steam mid-rant.”

  “You know that rumor about the football team getting tattooed after their championship game?”

  “Sure. Everyone does.”

  She took Kaz’s hand. “Come with me.”

  You could hear a pin drop in the library. Not a single student was anywhere to be seen, and Mrs. Oldham—the twenty-something librarian who was fond of plunging necklines and spent more time gazing at the male students than re-shelving books—rarely showed up before 10am on a Monday. They had the cathedral-sized space to themselves.

  Calista leaned on the edge of a study table beneath a skylight, where a shaft of steel-grey light cut across the center aisle. “What about Maddox?”

  Kaz knit his brow. “Captain of the football team Maddox?”

  “He could be the North Valley Killer.”

  “You saw the footage, Callie. The killer is a transmog, like you.”

  “The football team supposedly got tattoos after the big game more than a year ago—maybe that’s where Jackson got his start in magick.”

  “He was scrawny back then,” Kaz reminded her. “And he wasn’t on the team.”

  “No, but his cousin Parker was. Maybe he tagged along, and they all got inked? Then a month later it’s the Gravenhurst Incident, and bam—instant Scrive
ners.”

  “It makes sense they’d get similar designs,” Kaz said. “But Maddox is going to Texas A&M on a scholarship. Why would he risk everything by knocking off convenience stores for a few hundred bucks?”

  “Who knows? Malek said the sigils can screw with your brain chemistry. Maybe it’s poor impulse control?”

  Kaz laced his hands on top of his head. “All right, let’s assume it’s Maddox. How can we know for sure?”

  She instinctively touched her forearm where she’d drawn so many sigils before. “The Venari seems to work. I can draw one, get close and see what happens? It’s just … I don’t know. I can’t seem to be consistent with Elemental magick.”

  She’d spent weeks repeating the process until her skin was raw. Using herself as a canvas for low-level spells was arduous, and she’d grown tired of waiting for her ‘it factor’ to kick in—if such a thing even existed.

  Kaz pitched forward and studied her face intently. “You’re not screwing around with Blood magick, are you?”

  “No,” Calista said, and then, after a moment of pause, “Maybe a little, but it’s practically nothing. Just sigils here and there to test out magnetism. I’ve been levitating coins, but I promise that’s it.”

  “Are you kidding me? Where are you even getting the blood to practice these spells?” Kaz waved his hands in the air, squinting his eyes shut. “Forget it, I don’t want to know. But how are you ever going to become a real Scrivener if you keep falling back on Blood magick? It’s a crutch. This is like second grade when we started riding bikes, and you were too scared to take off the training wheels.”

  Calista barked out a laugh. “I remember. You loosened the bolts and they came flying off on a hill.”

  “Right, you fell off and scraped your knees. But you got back on. Because you realized if the worst thing was a few bruises and cuts, it was worth the damage.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re not seven, and this isn’t a bike ride. This is life or death.”