The North Valley Grimoire

by Blake Northcott

  Calista wasn’t even sure she was talking to a person anymore—someone capable of human emotions. She swallowed hard. “I want in. I want a cut of whatever you have going on.”

  He raises his brow. “Yeah? Well I do have a plan. I’m thinking next time I’d knock over a bank and score some serious coin for a change.”

  “Let’s make it happen.” She bent and pulled the bracelet from her knee sock, extending it into the shaft of light. “This is our secret weapon.”

  He stepped forward. “What is it?”

  “It was Jackson’s,” she lied. “Makes you bulletproof. Snap it on, and nothing can pierce you. It would’ve worked wonders against …” She flicked her eyes towards his bandaged wrist.

  He took another cautious step closer. The band was drawing him in with every flicker of light that danced off its surface; a fish hypnotized by a glittering lure.

  She offered a reassuring nod. “Want to try it?”

  “Yeah … sure,” he conceded, but only after a long moment’s pause. Parker relinquished his wrist, allowing her to take hold if it. She was about to snap the band into place. “You know what,” he said, yanking his arm back, “why don’t you try it first, show me how it works.”

  Damn it. Maybe Parker wasn’t as dumb as he looked, which seemed scientifically impossible.

  “Already did,” she said, a little flustered. She cleared her throat and lowered her gaze. Then she felt a pop, rapid and blinding, like flashbulbs behind her eyelids. When Parker’s fist slammed into her cheekbone it weakened her knees; she toppled, hip bouncing off the hardwood. Her skull quickly followed.

  And all her plans went right out the window.

  She’d been rattled during her field hockey days, but nothing like this. Hitting the turf when a girl’s shoulder collided with hers was one thing, but it was quite another to absorb a right hook from a Creatine-enhanced football player more than twice her size. She felt like she’d been clocked with a crowbar.

  A rush of adrenaline flooded her system, snapping her doubled vision back into focus. When she regained her bearings Parker was in mid-leap, fists clenched, barreling down towards her. She kicked upwards. The heels of her boots caught his jaw, whipping his head violently.

  It bought her a moment. Enough time to scramble and regain her footing.

  She rushed forward and threw a pair of wild punches; a left-right combination that cracked Parker’s nose. He staggered, eyes rolling to whites. She followed up with a leaping kick to his chest, and he skidded along the floor like a tin can booted across a parking lot. Her strength was suddenly increasing, reflexes sharpening.

  It was time to call for back-up. She spotted the bracelet sitting center court, and stepped towards it. And then her lower back began to heat. Her sigil churned, burning and violent, preparing to unleash.

  “No, no, no,” She reached back and pressed her palms into the sigil, as if she could somehow physically restrain it. She’d have better luck plugging a broken fire hydrant with her fingertip.

  The gelatinous spears burst from her skin, shredding her cardigan, blasting her hands aside. They solidified and prepared to impale their target. Parker, who was up to a knee, saw them coming.

  She screamed “STOP,” so loud it strained her vocal cords. Without realizing it she’d clenched her eyes tight, and a horrific image assaulted her mind: Parker’s quivering body perforated with inky spears, shuddering horribly, gurgling out a bloody cry. In that same moment she realized if she let that happen, she’d end up like him—jaded, callous, incapable of self-control. Maybe incapable of remorse.

  The moment froze in time, and her thoughts raced to Malek’s Blocare Ward, heating her back. She recalled his words—his reassurance that she’d have control of her sigil. For the first time she felt like she’d smashed the autopilot and taken the wheel; this dark, uncontrollable magick embedded in her skin was no longer a monster she had to cage. It was a part of her; by extension it was her, like a limb, or a thought, or a simple decision. It was something she could control with the slightest flicker of her intention.

  When her lids flew open, the tendrils froze, just inches from their target. Two were at Parker’s throat, and two more threatened to pierce his eyes like a pair of wickedly sharpened fingernails. He yelped like a wounded animal. A sheen of perspiration reflected off his face.

  The tendrils rushed back to her skin with a molten-hot splash, resuming their dormant state.

  Basking in her small personal victory was a short-lived affair, and the freeze-frame jerked and stuttered back to the present moment. Parker blitzed forward. He dipped his shoulder, jamming it into her solar plexus, wrapping his arms around her thighs. She hit the floor with a woof, driving the air from her lungs.

  After a quick scramble he overpowered her, pinning her to the hardwood. He clasped her throat, thumbs and index fingers almost completely encircling her neck. Calista wheezed, slapping at his arms. She felt stronger than ever, but her power was worthless against her attacker’s size and leverage.

  Parker applied more pressure to her windpipe. The moisture leeched from her mouth, and her skin pulled against her cheekbones.

  Calista clawed out to her side to grasp the bracelet. It was out of reach—two, maybe three feet from her fingertips. Three feet might as well have been a mile.

  Oxygen struggled to reach her brain. The cuff blurred and seemed to recede into the distance. She blinked twice, slowly, and a hazy darkness drifted in on every side.

  She reached up and yanked the pen from the bun in her hair.

  Parker redoubled his grip, teeth grinding. “Go for it, bitch. Stab me with a ballpoint. See if I let go before you pass out.”

  She poised the pen, and instead of stabbing Parker she scribbled on his wrist, using his white bandage as a canvas. It was a pair of triangles enclosed in a circle; they were jagged and rough, but it was the best she could manage. With what might have been her last remaining breath, she choked out a grainy word: “aimant.”

  Her French accent was atrocious, though apparently good enough to do the trick.

  The bracelet sailed through the air, latching onto Parker’s wrist, and locked in place with a tiny clink. The sigil had reeled it in like a fishing line, and the binding spell took effect: his grip loosened, and Calista felt the life rushing back to her.

  She hacked painfully while he staggered across the gym, ripping open his shirt. His sigil was gone.

  “What the hell did you do?!” He clawed at the bracelet, trying to loosen it. It wasn’t giving an inch.

  “Elemental magick,” she croaked, massaging her throat. Every syllable stung.

  “This thing flew on!” Parker shouted. “It was like a magnet!”

  He wasn’t wrong: it was a magnetic spell, divined in France during the Dark Ages. She’d used blood magick to lift coins and spin them in mid-air, but had never pulled off the trick using ink. Taking control of her sigil had given her a flash of confidence; she’d believed in magick for so long, but maybe believing wasn’t enough. Maybe she needed to believe she was strong enough to control it, too.

  Parker had lost the battle, but wasn’t ready to cede the war. He charged. He’d given Calista a taste of his strength when he had his sigil working for him, but now, he was just an angry teenager sprinting towards a Scrivener.

  And she thought he was stupid before.

  He ran straight into a palm strike that met his chest, marked by sternum-rattling crack. A halo of purple light punctuated the blow. Parker sailed off his feet and across the court, spine-first into the backboard. It was like swatting a plump, slow-moving fly, except flies don’t let out blood-curdling screams when they hit the wall.

  He bounced off the board and crashed to the hardwood, landing with an ugly bounce. Shattered Plexiglass rained around him.

  Calista raced to Parker’s side, rolling his limp body. He was bleeding from a gash on his cheek, and a small piece of glass protruded from his eyebrow. Thankfully, he was still breathing—a realization t
hat caused her to exhale a loud breath of her own. He might’ve broken a few bones, but he’d live.

  She was about to drag the lifeless jock to his feet when a voice echoed through the empty gymnasium. “What’s going on here?” It was the custodian, mop in hand, quaking in terror.

  He dropped it and ran.

  “In all my years as an educator, I have never seen such a thing. This is so incredibly …” Principal VanDerberg drummed her fingers on her antique desk, mentally scouring the archive of her vast vocabulary. Apparently a strong enough adjective wasn’t springing to mind.

  “Troubling?” Calista suggested.

  The principal pointed in her general direction. “Close, but ‘vexing’ is more appropriate. I’m terribly vexed.”

  There they sat, side by side, being lectured like rowdy middle-schoolers for shoving each other on the playground.

  Aside from her cardigan and shirt having been shredded, Calista was unscathed. She lacked any visible bruising from the brawl, and the swelling on her neck—agonizing just moments ago—had all but vanished. Parker looked significantly worse. His shirt was in tatters, and his face looked like the aftermath of a twelve round bare-knuckle boxing match. The school nurse had patched him up, but he was going to need stitches. He had glimmering bits of glass stuck in his top knot, and his nostrils were plugged with twists of cherry red cotton.

  Principal Valerie VanDerberg continued to observe the students in silence. It was disquieting. With her long silvery braid, horn-rimmed glasses and pastel blue pantsuit, her appearance was as antiquated as the punishments she was fond of dispensing. Students never received preferential treatment, regardless of their parents’ status as alumni; whether it was a star athlete or a faceless C-student on the chopping block, she swung her ax with impunity. Expulsion was never off the table, and her rulings were final.

  “She started it,” Parker groaned. He was hunched in his seat, clutching his ribs.

  VanDerberg steepled her fingers, surveying his face from across her wide desk. “Hmm. You are the worse for wear, Mister Ashton. Is this true? Did you start this scuffle, Miss Scott?”

  The skin jumped at the corner of Calista’s mouth. Using ‘scuffle’ to describe a magickal mixed martial arts brawl that nearly resulted in both of their deaths was almost laugh-out-loud funny.

  “Is this amusing?” the principal crowed, her brow knitting tightly. “Because I certainly do not share that sentiment. Destroying school property, attacking a student …”

  “Whoa,” Calista said. “He hit me. I was defending myself.”

  Parker gingerly reached into his pocket and pulled out a fold of paper. “She lured me to the gym.”

  With great care (and in no particular rush) VanDerberg removed her horn-rimmed glasses, placed them on her desk, and extracted a different pair from her drawer. After spraying them with a tiny bottle of glass cleaner, wiping them clear and adjusting them on her nose, it felt like five minutes had elapsed.

  She flattened Parker’s note on the surface, using a paperweight and a stapler to anchor each end.

  “Hmm …” she said, tracing her finger along the page. “It appears that you tried to seduce young Mister Ashton. Is that an accurate assessment?”

  “No!” Calista protested. “He’s lying!”

  “I was defenseless,” Parker said. “She tricked me into meeting her, and then she clubbed me with a baseball bat. I was pleading for my life, but she wouldn’t stop.”

  “The custodian failed to mention a bat,” VanDerberg said curiously. “Where did this alleged weapon disappear to, Mister Ashton?”

  “Yeah, Parker, where did the bat go?” Calista folded her hands in her lap and sat a little straighter.

  Parker gripped the armrests of his chair, eyes burning.

  Against her will, Calista’s lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Did this bat vanish into thin air? Was it a magic bat?”

  “It was magick!” he blurted out. He leaped to his feet and winced, nursing his ribs. “She used a spell to throw me into the backboard. I could have died! Ask to see her back, she has a sigil of a—”

  “Mister Ashton!” VanDerberg hollered. “Finish that sentence and you won’t be graduating. Sit down this instant.” The principal’s trademark stoicism evaporated; her cheeks glowed red, and a nasty blue vein danced on her forehead. “I have no earthly idea what happened in the gymnasium, but it is clear that you, Mister Ashton, are in need of some discipline. And as for you, Miss Scott, I believe a suspension might be in order.”

  Her intercom buzzed, rattling her wooden desk.

  “Principal VanDerberg, ma’am?” a voice crackled. “Some men are here to see you.”

  She poked her fingernail into the com. “I am otherwise occupied, Mister Walsh. Please advise the visitors they can return during regular office hours.”

  “I don’t think they’ll take no for an answer. One has a gun.”

  VanDerberg frowned at her intercom. “A … pardon me?”

  The door flew open and clattered against the wall. Two virtually identical men in black suits stormed the room.

  The Principal sprang from her chair like it was spring-loaded. “This is a private school! You have no authority here!”

  “Parker Ashton,” one of the men announced, presenting a gold badge. “Agent Townsend, Federal Bureau of Investigation. You are under arrest for murder in the first degree.”

  The next sixty second were unbridled chaos. Parker screamed and protested, kicking and swinging, forcing the agents to wrestle him to the ground. Chairs toppled. A fern was kicked from its pot, spilling earth across the carpet. VanDerberg flattened herself against the wall behind her desk and Calista leaped out of range. Parker pleaded his innocence, ranting about how he didn’t have a choice in the matter (“You don’t understand! My tattoo made me do it!”)

  With a knee in his back, face smooshed into the carpeted office floor, Parker finally accepted his fate; he went limp, allowing the agents to finish their job. Handcuffs clicked into place.

  One of the agents turned to Calista and acknowledged her with a nearly imperceptible nod. It was a gesture of recognition—or maybe a hint of professional camaraderie. Nice catch, kid.

  As he was being marched away, Parker glared at Calista. “We’ll come for you,” he seethed, firing molten daggers from his eyes. “And you’ll never see it coming, bitch.”

  “Wait—we?” She lunged across the office, grabbing a fistful of Parker’s tattered shirt.

  One of the agents gently pushed her away. “I’m sorry, miss, you can’t assault a prisoner in custody. If he’s working with someone, we’ll find them.”

  They hauled him through the lobby and out the front doors, and it was the last time Calista—or anyone, for that matter—would see Parker Ashton again.

  VanDerberg took her seat, straightened her posture, and cleaned her glasses once more. She ran through the slow-motion routine as if to wipe away the memory of the last few distasteful moments. Pardon me? Government agents tackled and arrested a student in my office? I hadn’t noticed … I was busy wiping this troublesome smudge from my bifocals.

  Calista upended her chair and sat as well, folding her hands in her lap.

  “Well then,” VanDerberg said, “in light of recent events, it seems I owe you an apology.”

  Calista shrugged. “It’s all good.”

  “We’ll find it within our budget to repair the backboard. Accidents do happen, after all, and kids will be kids.” VanDerberg’s craggy lips pulled tight, forced into an awkward semblance what seemed like a smile—she looked decades out of practice. “And I’ll ensure your school uniform is replaced at our expense, as well as anything else you might require. I will personally guarantee the remainder of your tenure at Hawthorne is both comfortable and productive.”

  “That would be nice.”

  Too nice. VanDerberg wanted her head on a pike a few minutes ago, and now she was treating her like a foreign dignitary.

  “Wait,” Calis
ta said, “you don’t want me to tell anyone that a murder suspect attended Hawthorne, do you?”

  VanDerberg’s lips tightened even more. “Your continued discretion in this matter would be greatly appreciated.”

  I could fill a thousand grimoires and still not explain how to create a sigil from scratch, but if I had to distill it into a single sentence: you take the universe in your hands, stretch it out like a piece of warm taffy, and mold it until you feel something awaken—until it starts to feel like the truth.

  – Passage in The North Valley Grimoire

  24. Just Desserts

  A FEW TUMULTUOUS DAYS passed at Hawthorne with Parker Ashton’s disappearance being gossiped about by teachers and students alike. Rumors spread through North Valley’s cell phones like a west coast wildfire, and every new theory fanned the flames.

  ‘I saw Ash getting hauled out of school by men in black,’ one eager freshman posted online, and was summarily laughed off as an attention-seeker trying to associate with the most elite clique on campus (‘Cool story bro,’ someone replied, followed by an emoji of a middle finger, while Parker’s teammate Maddox retorted, ‘Yeah, and I saw him get abducted by little green men.’)

  Some speculated that a football factory college had recruited him, or—the popular theory—that he’d dropped out. Calista and Principal VanDerberg remained the only ones privy to the entire story. The news reported that the guilty party had been apprehended, and celebrated local authorities for their heroic efforts in bringing the killer to justice. Seeing the police, the media, and The Hawthorne Academy fall in line with the same narrative was a frightening illustration of The Agency’s influence.