How could I have been so arrogant, she thought. So careless? She’d used the same security measures to safeguard the grimoire as a ten-year-old hiding her diary.
“We’re leaving,” Malek said curtly. He pulled the seatbelt across his lap and clicked it into place.
“We’re going to Hawthorne? Now?” She envisioned some type of a master plan emerging before they rushed headfirst into a trap—something that involved back-up, and diagrams, and possibly a bazooka. This felt more like a Kamikaze mission.
“Unless you have a previous engagement, yes, that’s the plan. Thanks to you we’re out of options. Magnus level Scriveners are a rare and disciplined breed, and they’re exceedingly cautious with their spellbooks—they know the consequences of letting one fall into the wrong hands. Right now, your unlocked grimoire is the equivalent of a nuclear weapon.”
The overhead light winked on, and Kaz appeared in the backseat. Malek glanced in the rearview mirror. “This isn’t a cab, mate.”
“I’m coming,” Kaz said shakily. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
Malek turned to Calista. “I’m not a bloody babysitter.”
“Fine,” Kaz said, “I’ll drive there myself.”
“Wait,” Calista said. “He’s safer with us.” Her hand circled Malek’s wrist. “If he runs off on his own, he could get us all killed. And you saw his phone—he’s part of this. I don’t know why, but he is, whether you like it or not.”
The suggestion hung in the air for a moment, silently percolating as Malek kneaded the wheel. She thought he might snap it off.
“He’s your responsibility,” Malek finally said. He addressed Calista directly, as if Kaz wasn’t listening. “I’m not liable for civilian deaths, so if he gets himself injured, or decapitated, or flayed alive, don’t start whingeing about it.”
Malek fired up the ignition, peeled out of the parking lot and started towards Hawthorne.
It was a very long time before anyone spoke again. Kaz, possibly regretting his impulse to tag along, broke the silence. He delicately asked if Malek was serious about what he’d said before—about the possibility of someone being injured … or flayed alive.
Malek didn’t reply.
Should you be apprehended or killed during a mission, you will be disavowed by The Agency. Any civilian casualties that occur as a result of your mission will be considered tragic losses of life that, while unfortunate, likely saved countless others.
- FATHER Division Agent Handbook
27. Compartmentalizing
“GET THAT THING away from me!” Calista shoved a shotgun back into Malek’s hands.
The open trunk of his sedan was an armory, overflowing with guns of various shapes and sizes, binoculars, and some devices she didn’t recognize.
“You can’t always rely on your sigil to protect you,” Malek said, exasperated. “And magick is sometimes in short supply. There are situations where you’ll need to make do with what you have.” He was doing it again: acting like a parent scolding a petulant child. If she weren’t so terrified it would be pissing her off.
They stood across the street from Hawthorne. Framed by crisp winter moonlight, The Academy had a dreamlike quality to it; dark piercing spires reached towards the clouds, outlined in muted silver; delicate Renaissance windows brimmed with hazy gold. It could’ve been a battery-powered Christmas ornament on a mantle.
And then, all at once, the lights snapped off.
Malek didn’t seem to notice. He popped one red slug after another into the shotgun Calista had refused to take ownership of. “Whoever sent these invitations won’t be pulling any punches. They have your grimoire. We have to assume they’ll use it.”
Whoever did this. It could be almost anyone. Aphra could have orchestrated this entire thing, faking her own abduction. As a suspect she made the most sense; she had motive and opportunity.
Malek offered her the weapon once more. She crossed her arms in defiance.
Calista had already killed once—or at least her sigil had. Her conscience was far from clear, but she hadn’t been directly responsible for taking a human life. She wasn’t keen to start notching a body count.
Discarding the gun, Malek reached into a cardboard box in the trunk and plucked out another slug. Like twisting the lid off a stubborn pickle jar, he opened the tiny cylinder and held it out for Calista’s inspection. “Smell.”
She sniffed the open casing. “What’s this?”
“Ground peanuts, sage and ginger root.”
“Will it kill someone?”
He snapped the bullet back together with a quick twist. “Not unless they have a severe allergy. But thanks to a Turkish enchantment, it will punch a sizable hole in a mystical barrier.”
Calista reluctantly accepted the shotgun, and Malek chose some firearms of his own. He selected a nasty looking hand-cannon and slapped a magazine into the grip.
“What does that one do?” She gripped her own gun like a broom handle with both hands on the barrel, her finger as far from the trigger as possible.
“It’s called a Smith & Wesson, love. It will punch a sizable hole in someone’s skull.”
Kaz had been standing on the sidewalk throughout the conversation, rubbing his arms through his jacket. Sunlight warmed the daytime hours, but after nightfall the wind came in swooping gales, biting at exposed skin. He stared intently at the school.
“You okay?” Calista asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned into the trunk and extracted a pair of binoculars. He leveled them towards the darkened building, running his finger along the focusing knob.
“Check this out,” he said. “Looks like someone rolled out the welcome mat.”
He passed Calista the binoculars. The main doors were ajar, and a glistening wet arrow decorated the walkway, inviting them to enter. She hoped it was only paint.
“This is part of the game,” Malek put in. He rummaged through his trunk as he spoke, filling a duffel bag with supplies. “Showing us Aphra was a tactic, and so are the lights. Whoever set this up will have more surprises once we’re inside. You have to compartmentalize. Remain sharp, detached.”
Kaz shouldered up to Malek at the trunk and pulled out a shotgun of his own. “Does this one shoot real bullets? Not fruit salad or eye of newt?” He stared down the sight.
“The bullets in that one are quite real.” Malek placed a fingertip on the barrel, angling it towards the ground. “I won’t ask if you’ve ever held a gun that fires anything besides Nerf darts, because I’m fairly certain I know the answer. But until we see the bad guys, let’s keep the dangerous end pointed away from Calista and myself, shall we?”
They walked through the open gates, down the flagstone path, and made their way across the courtyard.
Hawthorne’s corridor seemed different—longer, wider, and in the absence of power, considerably more ominous. The moonlight at their backs struggled to reach more than a few feet past the threshold, stretching thin, bleeding into the darkness. Rows of candles reflected off symbols that spattered the tiles.
“Stay behind,” Malek said without turning around. “And please don’t point your gun at the back of my head. As it turns out, regenerating it is a terrible ordeal.”
While Kaz lagged a few steps back, Calista kept pace with Malek. She had Sharpies tucked in her pocket, but she’d already sigiled herself to the nines: her palms were rendered with enchantments to expel flames; her upper chest had protection wards to block incoming projectiles; and her forearms were marked with runes designed to harden like iron, good for deflection, or to be used as blunt objects. She’d also enchanted Kaz with some basic shields—no way she was going to let him walk naked into a potential firefight. Everything she’d drawn was done from her admittedly fractured memory; she hoped that during combat she’d have enough poise to pull them off, or at the very least generate enough defense to keep herself in one piece. It was a concern Malek didn’t seem to share.
“If we track down Foxcrof
t before anyone else,” Calista said, “and if he closes the rift, then magick will be gone from our world, right? Cut off at the source?”
“That’s the idea.”
“But you can’t be hurt.”
“Exactly.” Malek’s hand drifted to his shoulder, fingers trailing his jacket along the seam. “Have you ever tried to get your sigil removed?”
She replied with a tiny nod.
“So did I. Laser treatments were useless, so I scraped it with razors, blasted it with a blowtorch, but it kept returning to form. It’s not just that I heal. As it turns out, I’m not aging, either.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I had a life before magick. Before The Agency, before I began disposing of bodies … it’s something I’d like to have back. When that happens, I don’t fancy the idea of attending the funerals of all my best mates, and my …” he trailed off, seemingly lost for words. Or maybe the words were too painful to produce. “You won’t understand this,” he said, not much louder than a whisper. “But there are some people you’re not meant to outlive.”
A bang exploded from down the hall, stopping them in their tracks.
Kaz shrieked and stumbled, firing his shotgun overhead. The blast sent a spike into their eardrums.
Malek leveled his weapon.
“What was that?” Kaz yelped. His shotgun clattered to the tiles and plaster rained down around him, drifting from the ceiling in chunky snowflakes.
Malek peered into the distance and shook his head. A gust of wind had blown the front doors shut. He lowered his pistol. “Don’t worry: if a locker door tries to attack you next, I’ll be sure to kill it.”
Calista scooped up Kaz’s gun, handed it back, and motioned for him to follow. Malek set off ahead, following the arrows deeper into the darkness.
As she paced forward a sting blurred her vision, like opening her eyes in a heavily chlorinated pool. The world drifted in and out of focus, and light from the candles dimmed with each step.
“Anyone else noticing this?” As Calista spoke, she realized she hadn’t heard Kaz or Malek’s footsteps in a few moments. She looked up. They were gone.
The lockers and walls had vanished. A murky spotlight focused on her, stretching a few paces on every side. When she stepped, the flickering cone of light slid across the tiles to follow.
She called out, receiving no response.
Until someone responded.
It was a small, child-like voice, clear as a bell. It was herself.
A seven-year-old Calista appeared in a second spotlight. She sat cross-legged, scissors in hand, clipping a chain of paper dolls. Every conceivable detail was accounted for: the powder-blue dress, polished white shoes, the blonde ringlets her mom tied with satin bows. But it was the little things that brought the illusion to life; the way she gently rocked, humming as she played; the burnt orange carpeting rough on her skin; lemon furniture polish wafting through the halls. This wasn’t like watching a home video. It was more like she’d stepped out of a time machine and into her childhood.
“Did you say something?” Calista asked foggily.
Pre-tween Calista giggled. “I said hi.” She continued to snip away.
“You … you’re me.” Calista spoke the words aloud so she could hear how insane they sounded. “You’re me, but in the past.”
Mini-Callie broke into a giggle fit. Her cut went awry, amputating one of the doll’s legs, and the extremity drifted into her lap. “In the past!” she repeated, trying to mimic a deeper adult voice, but was laughing too hard to pull it off. “No, silly. I’m us in the future.”
She stepped towards her younger self, clutching the shotgun to her chest like a security blanket. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m what we fear,” the girl said cheerfully. She extended her string of paper dolls, five wide, and frowned at the missing appendage. Her pink bottom lip stuck out in a pout.
“You’re here to show me something?”
“Technically, I’m not here at all,” the girl said, looking up from her art project. “And soon, everyone else will be gone, too. Scriveners are alone in this world, and they always will be. You always will be. But you’re used to that, aren’t you?”
“But … I have friends.”
“B-b-but I have friends!” the girl repeated, breaking into more gales of laughter. “Who are these supposed ‘friends’? Jackson? He’s a pile of ash. Whitney? She dropped you like a hot curling iron the moment mommy got locked away. Beckett will be back in California before you know it. And Kaz is a lost little puppy who trails along at your heels because he’s as pathetic and lonely as you are. When he goes to university he’ll have new friends, a new life—he’ll leave you behind, too.” She held up the chain of dolls once again, and the missing leg had reattached (or had re-grown—Calista wasn’t sure how this illusion worked). “Aww, poor stupid Calista. You’re trying your little heart out, aren’t you? But no matter how hard you fight, in the end …” She clapped her hands and the dolls burst into flames, vanishing with a curl of smoke. Poof, like a party trick.
“If you’re trying to make me quit, it won’t work,” Calista said. “People need me. My mom needs me.”
Suddenly grumpy, the girl stood and flounced her dress. “You really think you can save mommy? Save the day? Save the world? You’re delusional. You can’t even save yourself. You’re a disaster.”
Calista thought back to the weeks and months following her mother’s arrest; friendships deteriorating, grades slipping. The feeling of hopelessness that tarnished her every thought, reminding her nothing would ever improve. She felt abandoned, worthless. She’d wrapped herself in armor made of bitterness and resentment, and had no intention of ever taking it off.
She was a disaster … there was no better word to describe it.
But that was then.
In recent months Calista had peeled off her armor, melted it down and forged it into a weapon. Now she was razor sharp, dangerous, and focused like never before. She had purpose. She’d learned to defend herself, she’d discovered magick, and she was making a difference; she’d saved people’s lives by stopping Parker, and was on the verge of saving more. It’s not like she was keeping score, but maybe she should have been—mentally tallying her accomplishments had been a pleasant dopamine rush that felt long overdue.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Calista said to the annoying little illusion. “That’s not me anymore.”
Another giggle fit ensued. The incessant laughter from her miniature self began to grate like sandpaper on an open wound. “Wow,” the little girl said. “I didn’t think I’d actually be dumber in ten years. I know you because I am you. I’m your subconscious. I’m your paranoia. I’m your anxiety. You’re strutting around like the belle of the ball, but we both know you’re wearing glass slippers.” The girl dragged the edge of her scissors across her wrist, opening a gruesome gash. “You’ve been low, and in your dark moments, you still go there. Because you know there’s always more to lose.” She held the dripping wound up for Calista’s inspection, and her pout returned; despite the gushing blood, she reacted like it was a boo-boo that could be healed with no more than a kiss.
“If you’re trying to scare me, it’s too late.” She took a knee and stared into her younger self’s piercing crystal eyes. “I’m already scared. I might not be ready for what comes next, and I don’t know if I ever will be. But if I don’t move forward, I’ll never find out.”
The little girl sat back on her carpet, criss-cross-applesauce, one leg folded over the other. “Suit yourself,” she said with a little shake of her head. Her golden curls bounced on her shoulders. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Calista stood, pressed the shotgun’s stock to her shoulder, and aimed at her mirror image.
“What is that going to do?” the little girl wondered aloud.
“We’re about to find out.”
The slug burst from the barrel, struck the c
one of light, and exploded into dazzling streams of amber and gold. Fireworks lit the hallway.
Reality tumbled back into view. Kaz and Malek were nearby, wandering around in a stupor. They looked drunk.
“What happened?” Kaz moaned, rubbing his forehead. “I think I fell asleep.”
“It was a barrier,” Malek said. He used a locker for balance. “We passed through when we entered Hawthorne, and it induced a mystical trance. It was showing us—”
“Our worst fears,” Calista said.
Kaz massaged his throat and hyperventilated, eyes darting around the hall. “Did that thing hex us? Are we going to start barfing black goo?”
It was only an illusion, Calista assured him, though it might as well have been a hex. Hexes, she just came to realize, are the only spells that anyone can perform, Scrivener or not. She’d spent so much time hexing herself with simple incantations: I’ll fail. I’m worthless. This will never work out. And then she willed her spells into existence. Millions of people, every day, binding themselves with invisible shackles made of nothing more than words. Maybe she’d just shuffled hers loose.
The candles and freshly-painted arrows led up the staircase of the main foyer and past the computer lab. The ghoulish Easter egg hunt concluded at a gray metal door reserved for the maintenance staff with two words stenciled on it: Roof Access.
She stared at the polished silver handle. Beyond three inches of steel, someone was waiting, prepared to unleash a flaming barrage of who-the-hell-knows-what. A cold rill of sweat slid from her hairline and streaked the bridge of her nose.
Without missing a beat, Malek reached out and clutched the knob.
“Wait,” Kaz said. “You’re just gonna open it?”
“If you’re afraid, then leave.”
Kaz waved him off. “We need to be logical. Anything could be waiting for us up there. It could be a bomb, or a ghost, or an orc, or a—”
The North Valley Grimoire Page 29
