# chapters

path: 11211222111212
author_id: seuzz
title: Of Bullies and Beauties
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Depends on what the cocksucker has to say for himself," you growl, and stare off to the side, fingers flexing. It's such a mess, such a goddamn mess. At least when it was you and Lucy fighting off Blackwell it was all pretty clear. There was an enemy, and your need to survive focused things. Now you've got the real Gordon out there, pretending to be you, while you figure out if and how you can deal with him. Javits is probably fucking around for his own private amusement. And Richards has to be handled, too, not because he's a danger--you're not the least bit scared of him--but because he's the only friend you've got who knows what's going on.<br/>
<br/>
You catch sight of him staring at you, and something twists inside you. You release a strangled roar of frustration and throw a punch at the air. "Goddamn it, Jeremy, I'm sorry. I've got this fucking prick all up in my head. He gets loose when I get excited and it's like trying to ... to wrestle a lion to the ground." You cross your arms and hug yourself. "It's nothing personal."<br/>
<br/>
"I know," he says, his voice a rasp. But he doesn't sound like he believes it.<br/>
<br/>
You stumble forward and clap him on the shoulder while avoiding his eyes; and then on an impulse you draw him into a manly hug. "Oh God," you say, and all those feelings of anger suddenly melt into a great puddle of maudlin self-pity. "I couldn't stand it if things got fucked up between us. We used to have fucking fun when it was you and me and Caleb and Keith, and--" You squeeze him tightly. "And if Gordon Black never saw what a great guy you are then he's a bigger fucking idiot that he seems."<br/>
<br/>
He squeezes you back, and tears spring into your eyes. Gordon Black, you suddenly understand, doesn't really have any close friends.<br/>
<br/>
You hold each other for a minute, and then you remember where you are. "Come on," you say, releasing him and brushing at your eyes with the back of your hand. "If someone catches us being all faggoty, I'll have to kill 'em and stuff 'em down the shower drain with the fuck stick."<br/>
<br/>
Jeremy actually laughs a little.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You actually decide <i>not</i> to say anything to Javits about the mask, at least not yet. It'll take him awhile to polish up it up--if he has it--and that'd be less work for you anyway. But you do track him down after fifth period, and crowd in so close to him he almost clambers back inside his locker. "Richards tell you steer clear of Prescott?" you murmur quietly at him.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," he says.<br/>
<br/>
You press a fist, with a slightly extended knuckle, into his breastbone. "You gonna steer clear of him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," he repeats, wincing.<br/>
<br/>
You press your knuckle deeper, and he gasps. "He's a fake, but he's dangerous. No telling what that thing can do. He might fuck you up." Javits nods, and jerks in pain as you twist your knuckle around. "But that's nothing to the way <i>I'll</i> fuck you up if I catch you even looking in his direction."<br/>
<br/>
"I get it, Gordon," he gasps. His face is turning pale.<br/>
<br/>
"You know who he hangs out with?" Another vigorous nod of the head. "You gonna steer clear of them too?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, goddamn it!"<br/>
<br/>
You grab of a fistful of his hair down near the roots, and pull. His mouth falls open and his eyes go wide. "You using bad language around me, motherfucker?"<br/>
<br/>
"No!"<br/>
<br/>
"You don't take me seriously?" You tighten your grip on his scalp.<br/>
<br/>
"Gordon! Oh, God!"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm the only god you need to worry about, Javits. Beware my wrath." You release him. But you push your face so close to his, and bore so hard into his eyes, that your noses touch. "You don't do exactly what I say," you murmur in a very soft voice, "and Steve and me will give you the full Borman." A terrified "clicking" sound comes from the back of Javits' throat: Borman was a team mate Gordon and Steve bullied so mercilessly he actually changed schools. "Richards will help," you continue. "Oh yeah. He's <i>my</i> bitch, not yours."<br/>
<br/>
You step back into the crowd, and a squeal tells you you've probably squashed a freshman. But you don't look around. You just give Javits a slow, meaningful look, then turn to trudge to your next class.<br/>
<br/>
Probably Javits wasn't going to mess with Prescott; probably Jeremy's own cautions would have sufficed. But now you feel sure of it.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Normally, Gordon hangs out after school for an hour or so in the fuck room with Steve Patterson and/or Jason Lynch. Today you offer the sour excuse that you have to beat your dad home. The excuse is almost true, but you drive out to Blackwell's first. You have some unfinished business.<br/>
<br/>
"It's about time I heard from you," Lucy Vredenburg snaps when you call her on Blackwell's phone.<br/>
<br/>
"I missed you too," you sarcastically reply. "Anyway, it's all over. Well, almost all of it."<br/>
<br/>
"What happened?"<br/>
<br/>
"You'd have to come out and see it to believe it, but I managed to corner Blackwell, and used a new spell to turn him into one of his own golems."<br/>
<br/>
"You what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah! He's sitting in front of me now, dead to the world, as near as I can tell." You're in Blackwell's living room, and the golem is seated on the sofa in front of you. You've taken its mask off--so you could safely take off Gordon's in order to make this phone call--and you're twirling it on the tip of your finger. <br/>
<br/>
"What about Gordon?"<br/>
<br/>
"Eh, that's a little complicated." You tell her about your temporary arrangement with Black. "I'm gonna give him his life back," you insist when she expresses a certain distaste for what you've done. I just need a little, you know, insurance."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's no more than he deserves," she allows, "if everything Cindy tells me is true."<br/>
<br/>
"That's right. So, uh--" You suddenly feel your heart hammering in your chest. "Are we still friends?"<br/>
<br/>
There's a longish pause, followed by a neutral-sounding, "Why wouldn't we be?"<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, we went through a lot." You shrug, even though she can't see you over the phone. "Some people, you know ... They bond when things like that happen."<br/>
<br/>
There's another longish pause, and you find yourself wishing you'd worn Gordon's mask for this phone call: <i>he</i> would know how to handle her. "We'll <i>always</i> be friends, Will," Lucy finally says, and her tone is so syrupy and insincere it makes your teeth hurt. "You saved my life and defeated an evil magician. I will always be grateful to you." You fall sideways in pain, waiting for the inevitable "But." And she doesn't even have enough respect for you to give you that.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, say, before you hang up--<i>you heartless, ungrateful, stuck up, cold, sneering, cock-teasing bitch</i>--" You don't actually say any of those true but ugly things, but you think them to yourself. "Before you hang up, um, you took a souvenir from our adventure, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like that mask that Blackwell used to replace you with."<br/>
<br/>
"What about it," she says, her voice tight.<br/>
<br/>
"I just wanna keep track of where things are. You don't want to leave that thing laying around."<br/>
<br/>
"It's in a safe place, Will," she says firmly.<br/>
<br/>
"If you say so."<br/>
<br/>
There's a longish pause. And then you have to face the fact that there is nothing more she wants to say to you or hear from you. <br/>
<br/>
After hanging up--and sitting for a good ten minutes slapping yourself mentally for thinking you could have spun this adventure into some kind of connection with Lucy--you gaze speculatively at the golem, then go upstairs, where you change into Blackwell's robe and pajamas and set his mask on your face. It's an ugly feeling being back in his form, and his brain is like a nest of tarantulas, but it seems best to continue the pretense that the professor is in residence. Back downstairs you put Gordon's clothes next to the golem, and put his mask to it. "You will find some of my property inside the trunk of my car," you tell Gordon as you hand him Blackwell's car keys. "Bring the golem inside and put it upstairs in the third bedroom on the left." He groans slightly, but of course has to do what you say.<br/>
<br/>
You putter about the kitchen, preparing a meal--since the mask will be going back on the golem at some point, you have to create the illusion that Blackwell is being himself. Gordon, puffing and straining, goes past the entrance a few minutes later, and thumping and bumping all the way as he takes the golem upstairs. When he returns a few minutes later, very red in the face, you give him a wry smile: "You may now return home and all the unpleasantness therein. Return early tomorrow morning, and call me if something interesting happens in the meantime."<br/>
<br/>
After Gordon is gone you eat a fairly hefty supper--with some good wine; Blackwell didn't stint on certain pleasures--and contemplate your evening plans. You can continue reading deeper into the <i>Libra Personae.</i> But maybe you should use Blackwell's borrowed persona to rig up some other useful spells.</span></div></div>


path: 112112221112121
author_id: seuzz
title: A Scholar and an Athlete
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Blackwell knows lots of dirty little spells--knockout powders and hexes and hypno-magical tricks--but with the fake magician completely under your thumb there is no need for <i>you</i> to study or master them. The <i>Libra,</i> though--and you catch yourself rubbing your hands with a very Blackwell-like anticipation--is a prize well worth exploring.<br/>
<br/>
And so you return to the library, where (like a boy at Christmas arranging his presents in the best order to be opened) you pull down concordances and reference books that may be useful, and stack them on the main desk. That done, you sit and open the <i>Libra.</i><br/>
<br/>
You're overcome by a feeling of déjà vu, for Blackwell, of course, has been in this position before. Yet there is a great feeling of  novelty, as well. You did not study the book closely when you first got it, and you had a hard time getting through it when (as Gordon) you took it back from Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
But with Blackwell's eye and mind ...<br/>
<br/>
You don't even flip to the new spell, but concentrate on the first one. The main thing you notice is that the ingredients and materials are mostly irrelevant--just a device for realizing the spell, which is contained within the sigil. And what had seemed just a hyper-complicated (though rather pretty) design contains the real magic. It is composed of many discrete but overlapping and interlocking elements, most of which you now recognize. Words like <i>essential</i> and <i>imago</i> form easily in your mind. And since the "Will Prescott" part of you is still untutored in the meaning of the sigil elements, you start taking down copious notes. You copy down elements of the sigil--but being very careful to complete them, for "Blackwell" knows there are few things in the world more dangerous than incomplete sigils--and note what they are and how they work. Perhaps there is some strange, complementary force at work between the two minds you have at your disposal, for your own native ignorance causes Blackwell's intellect to note aspects of the main sigil that he himself had simply glossed over. <i>Ah, so, </i>this<i> element of the sigil disassembles the victim's elementals, which allows </i>this other<i> part of the sigil to copy and recapitulate </i>these<i> elementals and pass them into the mask itself. </i>That<i> is how it works!<br/>
<br/>
And yet if this other portion of the sigil were to be modified in this-a-ways-- No, that would cause a collapse of the suspending function.</i> You open one of the concordances and consult a table of basic sigil elements. <i>If this one were modified in </i>this<i> way ...</i> You pull from the desk a pad of specially prepared "negative parchment" and scribble down possible resolutions. <i>No. Unless--</i> You flip to another spell in the <i>Libra</i>, prompted by a vague memory. <i>Why yes, </i>that<i> would be the proper solution.</i><br/>
<br/>
Studying the <i>Libra</i> is like studying the finished masterpiece of a great artist--a Rembrandt, or a Bach, the Blackwell brain thinks--to tease out his secrets and the patterns of his genius. That is the main reason Blackwell wanted this book (though he had other ideas for its use), for it is like a practical solutions manual to some of the most subtle and cunning techniques a great magician might employ.<br/>
<br/>
You happily putter along in this way for several hours, until a shuddering chime from one of the grandfather clocks reminds you that it is nearing midnight, and the house guardian--the thing that so frightened you and Lucy when you were exploring upstairs--will soon be stalking the hallways with a deadly power. Reluctantly, but still with a great sense of satisfaction, you tidy up the library and carefully dispose of all your scratch material. Upstairs, in Blackwell's fortified bedroom, you slip between his sheets. You don't even bother to change out of his mask, for you are intoxicated by many strange and delightful thoughts, and rest in the dark, on your back, hands folded on your belly, breathing softly, until sleep comes.<br/>
<br/>
The dreams are disturbing, but that is all you remember about them when you wake with the dawn.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You chew hungrily on Chelsea's lips, which taste of bubblegum; her mouth slips down, and teeth bite on your lips. You grip her tightly about the waist; her legs wrap around yours and squeeze. Your cock rises and trembles and aches through your shorts.<br/>
<br/>
But when you drop her back to the ground, you content yourself with lightly stroking her back; anything more could provoke a shrieking fit about public "groping" later, in private. "I wouldn't mind watching you practice," you murmur. "Could skip Gambetta's class."<br/>
<br/>
"You've got that test coming up," she dimples. "Maybe an acrobatics display later on, just the two of us?"<br/>
<br/>
You growl hungrily, and stare after her as she disappears into the gym. "You want a piece of the action, Richards?" you taunt Jeremy.<br/>
<br/>
"That's okay, Gordon," he mutters, and hangs his head.<br/>
<br/>
"I wasn't talking about Chelsea, cocksucker." You saunter up close to him. "You wanna get your hands on me? I saw you staring. We could take it upstairs for a private session."<br/>
<br/>
There are hoots from the other players, and Richards blushes deeply.<br/>
<br/>
"Come on," you say, and drape an arm around his shoulders. You tug him toward the gym. "I'll be gentle. You'll like it." He twists away, and you shrug. It's the first chance you've had to suggest a for-the-day swap with him, and you have to make in this public way. "I'll text you later." And you wink.<br/>
<br/>
"What's with the sudden love for Richards," Patterson asks as the two of you cruise on to the main building, pushing other students out of the way without breaking stride.<br/>
<br/>
"Why? Jealous?"<br/>
<br/>
"Is he a special project?"<br/>
<br/>
"He could be good. He's a drip and a flop and he needs a little stick--"<br/>
<br/>
Jason Lynch giggles from near your elbow. "And you're just the guy to slip him some, huh?"<br/>
<br/>
With tiger-like strength and speed, you shove your flunky hard toward the wall; he bounces off some girls, who shriek and curse, but you ignore them. "Don't try to get fresh with me, Lynch. You stink like one of your mom's tampons."<br/>
<br/>
He grumbles, but falls in docilely in your wake.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Classes pass in the usual way, with you slouched in the too-small desks with your ballcap turned insolently backward. At the conclusion of each, you twitch notes away from a designated victim. And then, at lunch--<br/>
<br/>
"Kendra, you're next to Steve," you order as you drop into your regular seat. "Douglas, you're sitting with the girls." Dalton Douglas glares blackly, but rises from his seat so the stricken-looking Kendra can sit within easy reach of Patterson's long arm. "And what the fuck happened to you?" There's a fresh bruise on his cheek. "A girl scout punch you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," he says with bitter sarcasm, and then flinches.<br/>
<br/>
You sit up straight and concentrate on him. "What's the story?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just an asshole. Caught me by surprise. I'll take care of him after school."<br/>
<br/>
"It was Prescott, wasn't it?" Jeremy calls meaningfully from farther down the table. "I saw you hassling him by his locker."<br/>
<br/>
"Who the fuck is Prescott?" you loudly call. "Some queer you're sweet on?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just--!" Douglas snorts in disgust and moves down a couple of seats, dropping his tray with a loud clang onto the table.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, whoever he is, he's storing up trouble for himself," you observe, seemingly to no one in particular, but actually to Jeremy.<br/>
<br/>
"I hope you're storing up trouble for me," Chelsea says as she materializes next to you. She squeals as you squeeze her.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Prescott punching Douglas. Out of character for him. Not out of character for Gordon Black, though ...<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, so what's going on with you know who?" you quietly ask Richards at his locker after lunch.<br/>
<br/>
"Just what you saw and heard," he replies. He glances over his shoulder. "Douglas didn't make the first move, either."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck. I can't afford to have Douglas pissed at me. He'll get Chen and maybe Brown to  help. That idiot is making a mess."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe not on purpose," Jeremy cautions you. "You know Gordon, he's got a temper."<br/>
<br/>
"But he started it? If he's fucking things up for me at home, I'll make him regret it." <br/>
<br/>
"Want me to talk to him?"<br/>
<br/>
You chew your lip. "Nah. We'll see if it keeps happening. I owe you two days as Gordon, you know," you add in a very low voice. "You didn't take me up on my offer this morning--"<br/>
<br/>
"That's okay."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, show up early tomorrow out at that house. Blackwell's. You remember where it is?" He nods. "And bring that mask you accidentally made of yourself. I got something to show you."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's the new spell you're thinking of. It puts a golem inside a mask. Well, that's the easiest way to describe it. By coating a mask with a special surface, you can enslave its wearer, bending him to your will as you would a golem. <br/>
<br/>
It's the perfect way to make someone "disappear" while you take their place, for you can hide them under a mask of yourself, where they will forget who they are and simply act as your replacement, while you take over for them.<br/>
<br/>
You don't need it for yourself, but Jeremy could probably make use of it. And it would useful for you if Jeremy stepped in for ...? Well, maybe you should leave that to him.</span></div></div>


path: 1121122211121212
author_id: seuzz
title: The Alarming Behavior of Will Prescott
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>On reflection, you decide you can wait before showing the new spell to Jeremy. He's been rather shy about stepping outside of his own skin, and might have qualms about imprisoning someone, even if the new spell stops well short of turning him into the kind of golem that Blackwell has been turned into. Instead, you decide to make him another offer on Gordon.<br/>
<br/>
The next morning comes, and Jeremy gets to Blackwell's before the fake Gordon. He looks at you a little askance. You're not wearing Blackwell's mask--that would be too confusing--but you are in one of his dressing gowns, and even you would have to admit it leaves you looking like a Chinese gigolo. "Did you spend the night here or something?" Jeremy asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I figured out how to get out of spending the night at Gordon's." You lead him into the kitchen, where you finish making some breakfast--enough for the both of you--as you fill him in, describing Blackwell's mask and how it and other masks interact with the transformed Blackwell. "So, you see," you say at the end. "I've just been coming out here after school. I put Gordon's mask on Blackwell and send him home, and I stay here as the professor. Then Gordon comes here before school--he should be here in a few minutes--and I go to school as him."<br/>
<br/>
"Smart," Jeremy says, but he doesn't sound very interested or enthusiastic. <br/>
<br/>
"You know, you could go to school as Gordon instead."<br/>
<br/>
"You keep saying that," he says, and shifts restlessly in his chair. "And you'd go to school as me."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe not." That catches his attention. "You want your privacy, I get it. Well, I've been putting Blackwell's mask back onto Blackwell during the day. But we can put <i>your</i> mask on him and <i>he</i> can be the fake Jeremy. I could stay here during the day as Blackwell." You shrug. "I'd have to go teach his classes, but--" You shrug again.<br/>
<br/>
"But then Blackwell would be inside my head," Jeremy objects.<br/>
<br/>
You snort. "He's just a golem. I've been studying the spells. There's nothing left of him. Well, there is, but he's totally out of it. Just asleep. Even if he got changed back he wouldn't remember anything." Jeremy's eyebrows go up a little. "So, you see, no violation of privacy."<br/>
<br/>
There's a banging on the front door, and you waggle your eyebrows suggestively at Jeremy before answering it. Richards looks up thoughtfully at Gordon when you return. "The fuck are you looking at, faggot," Gordon says to him.<br/>
<br/>
That seems to settle it for your friend. His lips whiten, and he mutters, "Yeah, I'll do it. Anything to--"<br/>
<br/>
"Just don't fuck anything up for him, okay?" <br/>
<br/>
"You think he's not fucking around with you?"<br/>
<br/>
You blink. "Who? I'm talking about Stupidman here." You jerk your head at the fake Gordon.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. I thought you meant the real one."<br/>
<br/>
Your chest quickly tightens with anger. "Oh, yeah, well, okay, let's not give <i>him</i> any excuses. In fact--" You shift uneasily. "Don't talk to him or do anything, right? Just keep your ear to the ground about what he's up to."<br/>
<br/>
You lead Jeremy and the golem into the living room and supervise the switch, and twenty minutes later a fake Gordon Black and a fake Jeremy Richards leave for school. You watch them through the window, wondering how the real Jeremy will treat the fake from behind Gordon's façade, but they don't even seem to talk to each other.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Blackwell only has two classes on Wednesday, one in the late morning and one in the early afternoon, so you're back at the villa well before your comrade shows up to make the afternoon switch back. He has no news, though, and only takes you up on your offer to let him have Gordon on Thursday as well. So you pass another productive evening and make-work day as the professor.<br/>
<br/>
On Thursday afternoon, though, Jeremy has two interesting and alarming bits of news. "Fucker's definitely up to something," he tells you after you've sent Gordon back home and he's recharged his own memories of the day from his own mask. "The big thing-- Well, I don't know which one you'll think is bigger."<br/>
<br/>
"Just spit it out, okay?" His words have got you very nervous.<br/>
<br/>
"Prescott tried out for the basketball squad this morning."<br/>
<br/>
"<i>He what?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, he comes walking in before practice, all cocky and shit, and said he wanted to try out."<br/>
<br/>
"You told him to piss off, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Well, I tried. But Patterson was there, and he gave him a ball and told him to show what he had."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck? Isn't that out of character for Patterson?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not really. I could tell he thought Prescott was going to make a total fool of himself."<br/>
<br/>
"Which was what Gordon was trying to do--make me look stupid. God, I'll kill him."<br/>
<br/>
"Thing is, he wasn't bad." You look at him sharply. "Well, he wasn't great, either. No offense, but--" He gives you a playful shove. "You got kind of a shit body."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean <i>he's</i> got a shit body, and he'll be keeping it."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but it was Gordon running the body, right? So, he's got no stamina or anything, but he can bounce a ball and pass it, and he made some really impressive shots. He must've been practicing all week, getting the feel of--" He gestures at your chest.<br/>
<br/>
You stare. It makes sense, in an awful way.<br/>
<br/>
"Anyway, I had to wind up telling him I'd think about it. Patterson was really surprised, and afterward told me it might be worth putting him on the team."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck," you say, and grip your head. "It's brilliant. Horrible, but brilliant. If we switch back, I'll look like a total tool 'cos I can't do that stuff. And then I'll have to back down and he'll never let me hear the end of it."<br/>
<br/>
"So you don't switch back with him?" Jeremy says in a way that sounds half like a question and half like an assertion.<br/>
<br/>
"Thing is, he's not <i>fucking around</i> with my life, not the way I warned him not to. Shit, he's smarter than I gave him credit for."<br/>
<br/>
Jeremy lets you stew for a moment, and when you don't follow up drops the other bombshell. "Also, he's started hanging around with Lisa Yarborough."<br/>
<br/>
"Fucking Jesus, what did you say?" Your heart almost hammers out of your chest.<br/>
<br/>
"I went around-- I mean, I had the fake me go around and talk to him a little today, find out what he was up to. I-- He caught up to ... Prescott ... Jesus, it's hard keeping names straight. Anyway, he was at a locker with Lisa Yarborough. Weren't you guys, like, uh ..."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." Hot crimson embarrassment and anger wash over your face. "And then she got all into Geoff Mansfield."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, that's how come I thought maybe this would be bigger news than the basketball tryout. He looked like he was all into her, and he told me afterward that he was going to go out with her Friday night."<br/>
<br/>
You fall backward onto a sofa with a groan. You put a cushion to your face and punch yourself repeatedly. You drop it and look up at Jeremy.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know if you had any plans for getting back with her," he says dryly. "But after Friday night, I wouldn't count on it."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You spend the rest of the day stewing. <br/>
<br/>
It's a smart play Gordon Black is making, all the way around. He's fucking things up real nicely for you, but he's doing it by making your life really hard to return to, by setting you up for failure all around. <br/>
<br/>
Well, fuck it. Maybe you should let him keep your old life, let <i>him</i> take the inevitable falls and failures. <br/>
<br/>
Or maybe ...<br/>
<br/>
You're sitting in Gelding's class, not paying any attention, all your concentration focused on the problem at hand. You doodle in your notebook: an oval mask. Slowly you fill it in with blue ink.<br/>
<br/>
There's that new spell. You could coat the inside of Gordon's own mask with it. Take him off alone, tell him he can have his life back. Take off the masks, and tell him he has to "recharge" his memories by putting his mask on. Then, when he puts it on, he'll be trapped inside it as your slave. He won't be able to screw with you, and you can use him in a variety of ways to straighten out the mess he's made. Make him put the beat down on the Molester and others. Keep you off the basketball squad without putting you through any humiliations. If you do it tomorrow, before that date with Lisa, you'd have the advantage of the date and avoid the humiliations he's undoubtedly planned for the night.<br/>
<br/>
And you wouldn't have to tell Jeremy about it. You could just tell him that you let Gordon have his life back.</span></div></div>


path: 11211222111212122
author_id: seuzz
title: A Surprise Switch
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>He's at his locker--your old locker--the next day, talking to Caleb with a sharp grin. "I only saw it for a second," he chortles, "and it gave <i>me</i> nightmares. I dunno how you can stand having it stuck onto you."<br/>
<br/>
You grab him by the neck and drag him outside to the portable units, where you pin him against a wall with a strong arm. "I'll give you this much. You got guts," you say mildly.<br/>
<br/>
"And how's it hanging with you," he grins. "How's Dad? Mom still out of town?"<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't even quail as you punch the wall next to his head. "And how's it hanging with you? Because you've just about talked yourself into making that your permanent home."<br/>
<br/>
"Awesome," he says. "Wouldn't change back for anything."<br/>
<br/>
You blink. It's a nasty feeling, knowing that you're staring back at him with one of his own stupid expressions. But if he wants to bluff: "Okay then, it's yours."<br/>
<br/>
"Terrific. So, do I make the squad? Steve was impressed."<br/>
<br/>
"Steve-- Wait. Are you <i>serious</i> about not wanting to change back?"<br/>
<br/>
His face melts into a puddle of satire and happiness. "You're such a pussy, Prescott. You had all this stuff, and what did you do with it? You got a great family. I mean, your dad's a hard-ass, but he's fair, and I've got him totally confused because his jerk-off kid is doing the stuff he's supposed to be doing. Your friends are dumb twats, but they're fun to hang out with. The Molester hurt me kind of bad Wednesday, but I hurt him too. You say the word, and I'm on the basketball team. And Lisa?" His laugh is a bark. "You actually let <i>Mansfield</i> get between you and her? Fuck that."<br/>
<br/>
You stare and stare and stare, but you can see no bluff in his eyes. And then it hits you: He's serious. He's turning your life into-- Well, not into his old one, but into the kind of life you wish <i>you'd</i> had.<br/>
<br/>
"You got it set up real nice, don'tcha?" You can't keep the sneer out of your voice, for what he's said and implied actually hurts. "Maybe I oughta take it back from you."<br/>
<br/>
He laughs. "You think you could keep it if you did?"<br/>
<br/>
And that's the horrible thing. You definitely couldn't make the squad. You doubt you could do any better with Lisa. You've no taste for defending yourself from the bullies. "Yeah, well, I got a good life like this," you smirk. "You been missing Chelsea?"<br/>
<br/>
"Has she been putting out?" he smirks back.<br/>
<br/>
You come real close to crumpling him into a ball. "She'll come around. She always does."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, that's the best part, right? The make up sex after a fight." He grins. "She gets so hot and so wet, and she grabs you and digs into you. And she's a screamer when she's gone a few weeks without--"<br/>
<br/>
You pound the wall again, missing his ear by so little that this time he can't stop from slightly flinching. "That's <i>my</i> woman you're talking about now," you roar. "I'll be keeping her and everything else you had. So keep your slimy, perverted--"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, <i>I'm</i> the pervert here."<br/>
<br/>
"You wanna fuck with me? Really?" You hoist him by the belt and slam him against the portable so that his head bounces off it. "You want on the squad, you're on the squad. If you think you think you can get through the <i>shit storm</i> I'm gonna throw at you."<br/>
<br/>
But he just smiles faintly.<br/>
<br/>
So you drop him. "You're so fucking smart," you grumble helplessly.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Jeremy laughs softly. "You think he's serious?"<br/>
<br/>
"You think it's funny, him saying my life was better than his?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. Well--" He squirms. "It's not <i>obvious.</i> I mean, if you get inside his life and look around ... Like we have ..."<br/>
<br/>
It's still Friday, but it's after school, and you're up in the fuck room. Jeremy leans against a big crate. You lay sideways on the gym mat, arms folded and knees drawn up. You're in Gordon's mask, but look like you've been punched in the stomach. And maybe you have, in a sense.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothin' wrong with this life at school," you observe. "Or when Chelsea's--" Juices hot and sour suddenly squirt through your system, and you slam the mat with your fist. "His fucking dad, though. Ah, fuck it, that's what we use the golem for."<br/>
<br/>
"Except you remember all the home stuff when you put the mask back on." Jeremy slouches. "At least, that's how it is with me."<br/>
<br/>
"Me too." You sigh. "I guess we can keep trading it back and forth."<br/>
<br/>
"So Black's gonna stay on as you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I guess." You laugh sourly. "I told him he'd be stuck as me if he fucked it up. I just didn't count on him being happy about it."<br/>
<br/>
"So, what do we do with these?" Jeremy digs a mask out of his bag. It's now an iridescent blue. "Polishing it was fucking nasty."<br/>
<br/>
"You're such a girl, I should make you suck my cock." You turn onto your back so your tent can pitch itself more comfortably. "I should use it to turn you into a girl."<br/>
<br/>
He flips you off, and quickly withdraws the finger when you raise your head to frown at him. But it's because you've had a sudden idea. "Chelsea," you say suddenly. "We got a spare golem back at Blackwell's. You said Javits was talking about making  a copy of Cindy?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." He doesn't look pleased at <i>that</i> sore subject coming up again.<br/>
<br/>
You sit up excitedly. "Suddenly I'm a fucking genius. Listen, we move the golem up here, make a copy of Chelsea, put the mask on the golem when want some fun, and take it off when we're done." You slam your fist into the palm of your hand. "Endless fuck-o-rama, whenever we want, and then who cares what the bitch does or thinks?"<br/>
<br/>
Jeremy gapes, then laughs hoarsely and falls sideways. <br/>
<br/>
"Fuck," you continue. "We can make as many as we want. Get a mask of each of the girls in school, even the ugly ones, 'cos you know, sometimes it's the ugly bitches that make you horniest."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Jesus," Jeremy moans as he clutches his stomach.<br/>
<br/>
"We'll start with Cindy. Just you and me know about this, okay?" His eyes widen at the implicit betrayal of Seth, but you continue as you take out your cell phone. "Javits's gotta be done with that mask he stole by now. And if he's already got Cindy in it, we confiscate it. Yo, asshole," you bark into the phone as he picks up. "Richards and me are up in the fuck room, and he's howling for your cock. Get yourself up here." He excitedly asks if you're shitting him. "Totally not. I screwed him till he turned gay. I'll share him with you." Jeremy crawls forward to shove both his middle fingers in your face. You slap them away with a laugh. "Yeah, just the three of us," you tell Javits. "Oh, one more thing." All the humor drains from your voice. "That mask you stole last time you were up here? Bring it." The line goes quiet, and when Seth speaks again there's a quaver in his voice. "I said bring it, cocksucker! You get it up here in the next twenty minutes or by all that's fucking holy I'll tear the skin off your face and make a mask of <i>you!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
Jeremy swallows hard as you catch your breath--you'd meant only to pretend to be angry, but real rage came exploding out once you jostled the cork. <br/>
<br/>
"Can't he be part of the team?" Richards asks in a small voice. "He knows about the masks."<br/>
<br/>
"He's a fuck up and an asshole." You wheel on him. "You were friends with me and Tilley back in middle school. How come you let Javits bully him?" His eyes fall and his jaw works uselessly. "Jesus, Jeremy!"<br/>
<br/>
"He could stand to learn what it's like to be, uh, the other guy," Jeremy allows. He picks up his mask and looks at it thoughtfully.<br/>
<br/>
You change the subject, but Jeremy's comment has sunk into your memory.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Javits looks very nervous as you snap your fingers and hold out a hand. He digs into his backpack and takes out a mask. "'M sorry, Gordon," he mutters. "I just thought--"<br/>
<br/>
"No you didn't. Or you would have <i>known</i> I'd be pissed."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it doesn't work anyway," he grumbles. To your raised eyebrow he replies, "I got it on Cindy yesterday because, well--" He flushes. "Because if I got a copy of her I could put it on and play with her tits whenever I wanted." You snort but say nothing. "Anyway, I must've screwed up, because nothing happens when I put it on." He hangs his head.<br/>
<br/>
You look at him skeptically, then look down at the mask. If it's screwed up, it would be because he didn't polish it fully. But there is definitely a face inside the mask. You turn it over. No mind band, of course, so--<br/>
<br/>
"You fucking moron!" You whap him so hard on the side of the head he staggers. "Never play with shit more complicated than your cock. It has to be sealed up before you can use it!"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh," he says in a very small voice. Then he looks up hopefully. "But once you seal it, it'll, you know, let you turn into Cindy?"<br/>
<br/>
"You said you put it on yourself?" you reply. He nods. Again you whap him hard. "Fucking numbnuts. No, you won't get Cindy. You put your fucking stupid face in there too. It'll merge them. With any luck it'll have your ugly face and Cindy's plumbing. Then we can put it on you and give you the fucking over you deserve." He hangs his head, and you lean in close. "You're going to have to pay for this fuck up, you know."<br/>
<br/>
He raises a horrified face. "What are you going to do?" he whispers. <br/>
<br/>
"I'll have to think about it," you whisper back. "I'll tell you tomorrow. After I've thought up something really good and really special."</span></div></div>


path: 11211222112
author_id: seuzz
title: The Fate of Gordon Black
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The three of you drive out to Blackwell's: you in your car, Jeremy and Prescott in the former's. Naturally, you arrange it so that you don't find anything. You do contrive to get the golem alone for a few minutes. "I'm gonna send you home when we're done here," you tell it quietly. "After Richards is gone, wait for my call. Yo, Richards!" He comes in from the library, looking white as a sheet. "There's nothin' here. Thing to do is get this ... fake back to his house until the real Prescott turns up."<br/>
<br/>
"What if he doesn't?"<br/>
<br/>
"Then the phony will have to do. Think you can handle being Will Prescott?" you ask it.<br/>
<br/>
It shrugs. "It's what I was made for."<br/>
<br/>
"That's the spirit." You send them away, and after sitting down with the <i>Libras</i> for awhile you call Lucy.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I can't let Gordon out. You know that, right?" you tell her gravely after you've given her a summary of all that has happened.<br/>
<br/>
"So you're going to turn him into another one of these golem things?" she asks with distaste. <br/>
<br/>
"Sort of." You tell her about the next spell, the one that comes after the golem-making spell. "I think it'll just put him into some kind of trance and let the mask take over. Later, after we figure out some kind of scheme, maybe we can let him out with some kind of amnesia excuse."<br/>
<br/>
"Lemme guess," she says curtly. "After you've gotten tired of banging Chelsea and winning the championship."<br/>
<br/>
"You know, it's an attitude like that that keeps you from getting close to a guy. I have to do something about Richards and Javits in the meantime."<br/>
<br/>
"You're turning out to be not much different from Blackwell, you know that?"<br/>
<br/>
"God damn it. He made a mess, and yeah, we're gonna have to make a bigger mess until it's all sorted out. Think you can keep me honest?"<br/>
<br/>
"Up until the moment you have to do something about me."<br/>
<br/>
"Lucy, please." She shrugs but acquiesces. "So, we let Gordon out of the mausoleum. Or, you do. I tackle him, put the Blackwell mask back on him. That puts Blackwell back in commission, but under our control. In fact, give me some of your hair." You use a handy knife to cut a few strands off, and put them inside the Blackwell mask with the powder. "This way," you explain, "he's under your control. Some insurance, since you don't seem to trust me." You toss a match into the mask, and continue to talk as it briefly burns. "Then we go back to the gym and put Will's mask on Blackwell. Then ..." You tug your lip as you think through possible plans, none of which are terribly convincing. "Then you stay up there in the fuck room. It's your hiding place. Tomorrow I get Richards and we come up here to get rid of Blackwell's remains, and we find the two of you. You've already gotten rid of Blackwell. Bang, all the loose ends are tied up."<br/>
<br/>
She shakes her head. "You're a hell of a lot smarter than the Gordon Black I used to know."<br/>
<br/>
You grin. "Come on, let's make the change permanent. Well, semi-permanent," you correct yourself after she glares at you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The switches go smoothly, though the new Blackwell is tremendously unhappy to be under the thumb of an "addlepated cheerleader." The only unpleasantness comes when you go pick up Chelsea for a little action, and get hit with an avalanche of fire and ice: Lynch spilled about your wanting the fuck room to yourself during the afternoon, and she can only conclude that you wanted to screw another girl. For the second night in a row you have to jack off to Gordon's memories of the real thing rather than experience it directly yourself.<br/>
<br/>
The hand off Sunday goes well, and even the golem's own stammering inability to keep its story straight plays well, since it suggests that Prescott has been seriously discombobulated by whole experience. <br/>
<br/>
The only loose end is Javits, but you decide to put off dealing with him until Monday. Much to your subsequent regret, since Chelsea is still being frosty, and Monday morning brings the start of a new crisis.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Dude, check it out," Javits says to you on your way into practice. He slips open his backpack and shows you the top of a blue, glowing mask. "I polished it all up all weekend."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck do you think you're doing?" you ask in a furious whisper.<br/>
<br/>
"Gonna make me a copy of Cindy," he gloats. "Have my own spare. Then, late at night, after the 'rents are in bed, I can put it on and play with her boobs and pussy as long as I want."<br/>
<br/>
"Fucking pervert," you snarl. You pin him against the wall of the gym and pull the mask from his bag and slip it into your own kit. "This isn't a game. You wanna get in serious trouble? We just put a lid on these things."<br/>
<br/>
"It's fucking perfect," he insists. "You should get one of Chelsea."<br/>
<br/>
You put your fist in his stomach and slowly drive all the air out of him. "First of all, you keep your perverted fantasies about Chelsea inside your own head. You let them out again, and I'll bust your head open and wash them out myself. Second, what if you can't get the fucking thing off again? Third, because I fucking say so."<br/>
<br/>
"Say what?" he gasps.<br/>
<br/>
"Anything. Whatever I says goes."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck, Gordon. I just thought—"<br/>
<br/>
"That's the fucking problem. Don't think." You let him go. He bends double and you drag him up by the short hairs on the top of his skull. "And especially don't think I can't find a fucking replacement for you, douchebag. You make trouble, and no one will miss you. Remember that." You shove him away.<br/>
<br/>
This is really disturbing; you hadn't noticed that he'd walked out of Richards with one of the masks tucked away. He seems chastened, but you doubt that will last. He can't do anything without a mask, but you don't like the idea of him stewing. </span></div></div>


path: 1121122212
author_id: seuzz
title: A Talk Between Two Liars
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Okay, sleeping beauty, wake up." You roughly shake Richards into a stupor. "Get up."<br/>
<br/>
"What is that thing?" Javits asks as Richards staggers to his feet.<br/>
<br/>
You shove all the masks into your nearby kit. "I dunno, but the faggot booby-trapped 'em somehow. You guys can go fuck off now. I'll take care of the cocksucker."<br/>
<br/>
"You sure?" Javits asks. You give him a hard look, and he wilts.<br/>
<br/>
You look down at your very sweet haul when they're gone: masks and book. Blackwell is impotent now, but that doesn't mean he can't cause mischief. He's back at your house, and though he has no place to hide, he might hurt your family just out of spite. Or he might take off. He has no money, but running away would be better than the fate he knows you have in store for him. Does he suspect you're inside Black? If he doesn't, then you have some time. If he does, or if he is just deranged with fear ...<br/>
<br/>
You need to move quickly. But you can't fetch him out in your current disguise. You do have the newly made Jeremy mask, though. You look back at the elementary school ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Prescott looks at you warily from the stairs. You do your best to look abashed. "Hey," you mumble.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey yourself."<br/>
<br/>
"Like, you got a few minutes? Go for a walk?"<br/>
<br/>
"I've got homework."<br/>
<br/>
You grimace. "Come on, man, don't be like this. I wanna say I'm sorry."<br/>
<br/>
"Apology accepted." He turns.<br/>
<br/>
"Prescott! Will!" He pauses. "You're not the kind to hold a grudge. At least, you didn't used to be."<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't used to be an asshole."<br/>
<br/>
"I know. That's why I want to walk and talk. Maybe talk about getting your stuff back."<br/>
<br/>
That gets his attention, and he comes down slowly. "You have any of it?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's in my car. Come on." He follows you out.<br/>
<br/>
"You know," you say as you go out the front. "You weren't the worst ball player back in middle school. You don't gotta be tall or big to swing a bat."<br/>
<br/>
"And play on the team with Lynch? Fuck that."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"Where's you car?"<br/>
<br/>
"Back at the school. I walked over. Felt like thinking. Anyway, you never did anything with it. I got tall and, well, I wanted to."<br/>
<br/>
"Is it fun?"<br/>
<br/>
"It has its moments. When Black and Patterson aren't around, mostly. Fuckers."<br/>
<br/>
"And Javits?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, he's not bad. It's their influence on him, mostly. They kind of force people to be dicks, in order to survive."<br/>
<br/>
"Javits always used to push Keith around."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know. But Keith always made it easy for him. Thing is, I don't want you to think that's really what I'm like. It's just— Well, fuck, I guess I'm a pussy, but it's easier to go along with Black and them than it is to stand up for, well, everyone else."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't get off on it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not really. I don't think so. I try not to. Would you get off on pushing people around?"<br/>
<br/>
"If it was the right people."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, well, there's that."<br/>
<br/>
You continue to talk in this vein until you get to the schoolyard. You jerk your chin at the basement. "Why were you hanging out there?"<br/>
<br/>
"Privacy. From Robert, my dad."<br/>
<br/>
"What are those things you were making?" <br/>
<br/>
"Arts project, like Black said. Where <i>is</i> your car?"<br/>
<br/>
"Around front. How'd you get in there? I thought it was all shut up." You saunter over to the basement door, open it, and look in.<br/>
<br/>
"I just busted in. Look, about those masks—"<br/>
<br/>
You ignore him and walk into the middle of the basement. "Great make out place. Oh, sorry. You and Lisa, I mean." You pick up an upturned silver bowl: a concave mirror of some kind. That draws him into the basement.<br/>
<br/>
"It's alright. But I really need to get back."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. Oh, back on the subject of bullying. Are you sure you wouldn't get off on bullying people around? Hurting them, I mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like I said, if it was the right people."<br/>
<br/>
"Who's the right people? Lisa Vredenburg, maybe?"<br/>
<br/>
He gapes, and before he can bolt you tackle him and pin him to the ground. He struggles, but you get your hand up to his brow, and hold it long enough to say the secret words. A moment later there's a ripping sound as Blackwell bursts through your clothes. You leap to your feet and kick him hard in the stomach where he lays. <br/>
<br/>
"I don't have anything magic that can hold you in here, professor," you sneer. "But I bet you can't Houdini your way through a locked door." He can only puff and blow as you dash out the door, slamming it shut and securing it with the new padlock you just picked up from a nearby hardware store.<br/>
<br/>
Now you just need to find some way—hopefully short of murder—of putting Blackwell permanently out of commission.</span></div></div>


path: 11212
author_id: seuzz
title: A Not-So-Great Escape
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The night is long and cold, because Lucy has the bed and the sheets and you have the concrete floor. You might have dozed off at a few points, but you doubt it. <br/>
<br/>
You stir when daylight begins to seep through the window, but you don't move until  you hear Lucy shift and raise her head. "Do we get breakfast?" you ask her.<br/>
<br/>
She grunts and makes a face, and it's a minute before she answers through a heavy yawn. "Every few days he'll bring something down, but you better get used to the hunger pains."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You pace the room, trying to keep warm, and communicating with Lucy in only short bursts. Hours pass.<br/>
<br/>
Finally the door at top of the staircase opens and Blackwell—the man himself and not your double—smiles down at you.<br/>
<br/>
"You may come up now, Miss Vredenburg," he says lightly, as though ushering her in for an appointment. He comes halfway down the stairs and holds out his hand. "You'll be quite alright, I assure you." <br/>
<br/>
She looks at him, and looks at you, and pulls the sheets up to her chin. The professor clucks impatiently. <br/>
<br/>
"You first, Miss Vredenburg, then Mr. Prescott a little later. I wish to thank you children for your indulgence, but it is time for you to go home."<br/>
<br/>
"You're not really letting us go, are you?" Lucy says.<br/>
<br/>
"My dear child, I can hardly keep you down here forever, and I don't really want to."<br/>
<br/>
"You want us to promise we won't say anything?"<br/>
<br/>
"I can hardly demand that of you, as you would instantly renege. But I have made arrangements. I needed test subjects, and you have served admirably. A little light amnesia will wash away the lingering stains, and you'll be quite happy again, I assure you." <br/>
<br/>
Still Lucy doesn't stir. <br/>
<br/>
"Of course," Blackwell says with a shrug, "if you'd prefer my brand of hospitality—"<br/>
<br/>
That gets her up, and she winds the sheet about her. But you pluck at her elbow as she totters toward the staircase. "Don't go," you tell her. "It's a trap of some kind."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, of course it is," Blackwell retorts, "whereas this basement is a holiday resort. Do hurry, Miss Vredenburg."<br/>
<br/>
She pulls away from you. "It's the only chance I've got," she says. "And he'll be back for you. Right?" She looks up at Blackwell. He nods with a benign smile.<br/>
<br/>
Slowly, she ascends the stairs, but seems to find new strength when she clasps his hand, and she fairly runs the rest of the way up behind him. The door closes.<br/>
<br/>
A few minutes later it opens again. "Time for you now, Mr. Prescott," Blackwell says with oily benignity. "And to show there are no hard feelings, you will find your night's wages—almost two hundred dollars—on the table in the foyer. Your clothes and keys are in your truck. Oh, I almost forgot." He tosses down small object shaped something like a bone. "You'll need that to get out." He disappears again.<br/>
<br/>
It all seems too easy, and you linger for quite a while. Then, girding yourself, you run up the stairs, and find yourself back in the library.<br/>
<br/>
True to Blackwell's word, there is a stack of ten twenties next to the front door, and you find your truck parked outside, with the keys in the ignition and a fresh set of clothes in the seat. You quickly dress, gun the engine, and rush down the road.<br/>
<br/>
You can hardly believe it would be as simple as that. Is the man mad? Does he really think you won't tell anyone? Except what could you say, given that, to all appearances, you spent the night at your house last night? Maybe that's why he didn't give you that amnesia treatment?<br/>
<br/>
Wait. Didn't he say there would be some kind of memory wipe?<br/>
<br/>
While you are puzzling that out, something gets in the truck behind your seat. You wheel to look over your shoulder. Of course there isn't anything there, and with a shake of your head you chide yourself for thinking that something could get inside your truck while you're hurtling down the street at fifty miles an hour.<br/>
<br/>
Then, as you approach a sharp turn in the road, something closes its hands over yours, presses its foot into the accelerator, and jerks the truck from your control. A large brick wall looms ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
For the next few weeks, after you waken, you are mercifully kept on a cocktail of powerful painkillers. You are only intermittently lucid, and more than once you bat away people that you know you should love and trust, screaming that they are imposters. More than once you find yourself back in Blackwell's basement. But the fog gradually clears and the pains increase until they pass over a sort of hump and begin to decrease again. You are pulled from school, naturally, and it's a depressing Halloween and Thanksgiving, even with the constant visits from your family and friends. Missing the rest of the school year is not much consolation when you know that you'll just have to pick up again next year.<br/>
<br/>
And it's less than a consolation for knowing that you will never walk again.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Sucks to be us," Andrew Gary says a few days before Christmas. Your neighbor is also a wheelchair-bound invalid, and he's been showing you the finer points of maneuvering. Now, though, it's a toast with clinking beer bottles that he offers you. You both chug.<br/>
<br/>
"Teach me computer programming?" you ask after letting out a long belch.<br/>
<br/>
"I can do that," he says. "But, you know, there's lots more you can do without needing your legs."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but I can just come next door for lessons."<br/>
<br/>
He grunts. "You're gonna have to get used to going out in public, doing things out there for yourself."<br/>
<br/>
"I know. But—and I don't want you to think I'm gay—I like hanging out with you."<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing gay about thinking me a handsome boy." He grins. "There's nothing gay about truth." You bump him with your own chair.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, that reminds me," he says after a pause. "A girl called last night, looking for you. Just after you left. Did she get ahold of you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I turned my phone off. Trying to avoid some people."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, she sounded sexy. So I don't know why she'd be interested in you."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck," you exclaim as you examine the call list on your cell phone. "Fucking hell."<br/>
<br/>
"Who is it?"<br/>
<br/>
You ignore him as you dial her number. You swallow, trying to hide the tremble in your voice as she answers. "Hello. Uh, Lucy? This is Will Prescott. You called me yesterday?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It was one of the more painful—even infuriating—mysteries after your accident that Lucy should have gotten off scot-free. No accident for her, which went a long way toward convincing you that the whole thing was your fault, and so you never told anyone (at least when you were lucid) about your time at Blackwell's. But she never called you, and when you tried calling or emailing her you got no reply or response. So for her to reappear this way ...<br/>
<br/>
She is as sexy as ever as she steps from her SUV, to smile knowingly as you watch her from the front yard. "It's nice to see you, Will," she says softly.<br/>
<br/>
"Nice to see you too, I guess. Well, better late than never, I should add if I'm going to be honest."<br/>
<br/>
She smiles faintly. "How mobile are you in that thing?"<br/>
<br/>
"I can get around. Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"Can we go for a ... well, for a walk?" <br/>
<br/>
You indicate that she should lead the way.<br/>
<br/>
"So, I ignored all those messages you sent me after your accident," she says as you slowly roll down the sidewalk beside her.<br/>
<br/>
"Did you even know what I was talking about?"<br/>
<br/>
"Of course I did."<br/>
<br/>
"So Blackwell was lying when he talked about making you and me forget what happened."<br/>
<br/>
"Naturally. The man was a liar through and through."<br/>
<br/>
"So why didn't you tell anyone about it all?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why didn't you?"<br/>
<br/>
You grimace. "I think I did. But I was drugged out of my mind and no one would believe me, then or afterward."<br/>
<br/>
"The same here. I wasn't in an accident, but no one would have believed me."<br/>
<br/>
"So he gets away with it," you say bitterly. <br/>
<br/>
"Maybe, maybe not."<br/>
<br/>
"What does that mean?"<br/>
<br/>
She turns to look at you steadily. "Do you think you could stand to see him again, Will? If I drove you out there, would you go and talk to him?"</span></div></div>


path: 112121
author_id: seuzz
title: The Sleeping Beauty
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Are you fucking kidding me?" you explode. "I still have nightmares. So should you!"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't dream, Will. It makes it easy."<br/>
<br/>
You stare at her. "So you've been out there to see him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, I have," she says. "But this isn't his idea. It's mine."<br/>
<br/>
"What the fuck do you talk about with him?" you ask, ignoring her last comment. <br/>
<br/>
"Oh, this and that. He's not a nice man, but he can be quite the conversationalist when he tries." She stares off into the distance.<br/>
<br/>
You shake your head. "Okay, you got me. This I have to see."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your brave words notwithstanding, you are trembling badly as Lucy helps you from her SUV and into your wheelchair, and you rear back as she pushes you up the walk to the stone steps and the massive front porch. She knocks, and strolls around without looking at you or anything else in particular.<br/>
<br/>
"Why Mr. Prescott, how good to see you again," Professor Blackwell exclaims on opening the door. His tone seems authentically genial. "And Miss Vredenburg! Do come in." You shudder as she pushes you in. "Can I get you anything?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, how about the use my legs back," you blurt out before you can stop yourself.<br/>
<br/>
He freezes, then tugs his ear. At least he has the grace to look embarrassed.<br/>
<br/>
"Ah, yes, that business," he mutters. "I should ... Well, that is to say, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you."<br/>
<br/>
You shift uncomfortably, well aware that you are an invalid and more or less completely in the power of a man who once did horrible things to you and Lucy. But you can't stop yourself once you start. <br/>
<br/>
"Maybe you can go to the police and confess to kidnapping and false imprisonment," you suggest, "or whatever shit charges apply to you. That's something you can do for me."<br/>
<br/>
He looks genuinely pained, and gives Lucy a worried glance. She merely looks placid.<br/>
<br/>
His eyes drop. "Yes, well, if I can't do something for you, there is something you can do for Miss Vredenburg."<br/>
<br/>
Lucy bends down and puts her face close to yours. "Put your thumb here and your fingers here," she indicates. You just stare at her, so she takes your unresisting hand and puts it to her brow. "Don't worry about hurting me," she says. <br/>
<br/>
"Now say the following words three times," Blackwell says, "and the third time you say them, pull at her forehead." He gives you a nonsensical set of words.<br/>
<br/>
You stare between them, and then comply.<br/>
<br/>
There is a ripping sensation, and a white mask, the color of the summer sky, falls into your lap. You rear back: Where Lucy had been standing there is now a stone statue: an exact replica of Lucy Vredenburg.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck is going on here?" you shout.<br/>
<br/>
"It wasn't my idea," Blackwell says defensively. "I wanted to leave well enough alone. But she did insist."<br/>
<br/>
You stare at her: except for her skin and hair and even her eyeballs being a perfect shade of granite, it looks just like her, down to the eyelashes. You look down numbly at the mask. It glows a bright blue, and in its mirrored surface you can also see the ghostly outline of her face.<br/>
<br/>
"You son of a bitch," you whisper. "You didn't let her go. You turned her into ... into ..."<br/>
<br/>
"Into a golem," Blackwell says. "A dumb, immobile creature, but one that can take any mask and become the person it contains."<br/>
<br/>
His words mean nothing to you. "You killed her!"<br/>
<br/>
He looks uncomfortable. <br/>
<br/>
"I'm not sure I did," he protests. "Think of her as Sleeping Beauty, waiting for the kiss of a handsome prince to wake her." He holds your eye meaningfully.<br/>
<br/>
"Change her back!"<br/>
<br/>
"I can't. For many reasons, but the main one being that I no longer have the book that changed her into this state."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck are you talking about?"<br/>
<br/>
He sighs. "I'm talking about the <i>Libras Personas,</i> Mr. Prescott, the book that you found in Arnholm's. It appears the book does not want to be part of my library. It found its way out once, to Arnholm's, where you bought it. And then when I recovered it, it managed to go missing again."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck? How can a book 'want' to go missing?"<br/>
<br/>
"It is a magical book, sir, and if you knew anything about magic you would not find the idea that books 'want' things to be quite so absurd."<br/>
<br/>
It can't be as absurd as this conversation you're having. For a lack of anything else to say, you ask, "So where did it go?"<br/>
<br/>
"I've no idea. And I've no good chance of finding out. Or finding <i>it,</i> for that matter."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?"<br/>
<br/>
His face twists up. "You've no idea how much it pains me to say this, but I am not a very good magician. Even in my prime I was not very good, and recent, ah, changes in my circumstances have rendered me altogether impotent. It is now beyond my feeble capabilities to even remove the mask from the golem of Miss Vredenburg. Which is why she had to bring <i>you</i> here."<br/>
<br/>
"Why would she want that? I mean, now she's practically dead!"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, Mr. Prescott, that the golem can take any mask. The thing there is senseless, even when it is wearing a mask. The Lucy Vredenburg that fetched you is in that thing." He points to the mask. "<i>It</i> wanted to come off the golem."<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
His expression turns owlish. "I suppose little of what I've told you makes sense."<br/>
<br/>
"You can fucking say that again!"<br/>
<br/>
He sighs. "If you will follow me into the living room, where we can make ourselves comfortable—"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want to get comfortable! I want—"<br/>
<br/>
"Then where <i>I</i> can get comfortable," he says, and his hitherto affable tone turns a little peevish. "I will endeavor to explain things to you."<br/>
<br/>
You glower at him, but nod. And with an uneasy backward glance at the frozen form of Lucy Vredenburg, you wheel yourself after Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It takes him a good thirty minutes for him to explain things, what with your various interruptions, but the gist, once you review it, isn't that complicated.<br/>
<br/>
Lucy Vredenburg is now a golem, a thing like a magical statue. It is unable to move, and it has no thoughts, no memory, no personality of its own. It is only a <i>thing</i> onto which a mask can be placed. A mask like the one you hold in your hand.<br/>
<br/>
"<i>That</i> is the thing that contains her personality," the professor explains, pointing to the mask that you pulled off the golem and that you hold in your lap. "It contains her personality, her memories, her inclinations and her dispositions. It can act just like her. And if <i>you</i> put it on—if anyone else puts it on—it will transform you into her double, complete with her personality and memory in addition to her, ah, physical attributes."<br/>
<br/>
You remember what Lucy told you last September, when you were trapped in the basement with her: Blackwell had made a double of her. The double, you now realize, was inside this mask.<br/>
<br/>
"But the personality inside the mask," Blackwell continues, "knows that it is an imposter. It knows that it is not real. These things react to that knowledge in different ways, depending upon the kind of person it is imitating. Some cling bitterly to their existence, for they cannot bear to be undone. The false Lucy Vredenburg, on the other hand—" He shrugs. "It carried on as best it could, for awhile at any rate, but it seems finally to have come to yearn for oblivion. It—she—told me she felt like she was a ghost, and she finally wanted to rest. She wanted her original to have her life back."<br/>
<br/>
You stare down at the mask in your lap, and rub it. <br/>
<br/>
It was a monster, you realize now. The thing that brought you out here wasn't real, it was the monster that replaced the real girl—a girl that, really, you didn't know either. <br/>
<br/>
And yet it was close enough to the real thing that it preferred its own destruction to the continued enchantment of the girl whose life it usurped.<br/>
<br/>
"And you can't help her? The real Lucy?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. And you're the only one who knows about the <i>Libras</i>, and the masks, and so you're the only one who can help. <br/>
<br/>
"I can give you some little aid," the professor says. "I can tell you what I know. I can advise. But the great burden will be upon you, Mr. Prescott."</span></div></div>


path: 1121212
author_id: seuzz
title: Lucy's Offer
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"It's not my business," you tell Blackwell. "I didn't know her, and I sure as hell didn't know this ... golem or whatever it is." You continue to talk over him as Blackwell tries to interrupt. "And if the damn thing doesn't like living her life, then it can kill itself the old-fashioned way, by throwing itself in front of a bus."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell looks very grave. "Doing that would certainly result in the death of the girl inside the golem."<br/>
<br/>
You shift uneasily. "Then stick it in your library or donate it to a museum. Destroy the mask. Push her car off a cliff. Surely even an ex-magician can manage that."<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs. "You'll need to tell her yourself. Put the mask back on the golem. It's the only way you'll get a ride home."<br/>
<br/>
You make a face at his retreating back, for he turns and pads softly from the room, then wheel yourself back to the foyer, where the frozen Lucy is still bent over. With a muttered curse, you jam the mask back onto her face. A flush of life runs through it as the mask vanishes, and she straightens up. "Well?" she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, Lucy, or whatever you are," you say. "I'm sorry you want to kill yourself. I'm sorry you think it sucks having a life that isn't yours. But both of us got screwed up a few months ago, and if you ask me you got off pretty light." You run your hands lightly over the rims of your wheels. <br/>
<br/>
"You think I've got it good, do you?" she says with a faint smile.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't give me some pity story about feeling like a ghost. Suck it up."<br/>
<br/>
"I wasn't going to start some pity story. I was really asking you. Do you think I've got it good?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, sure. Count your blessings. You can walk. You're a freaking cheerleader, fer Chrissakes. You're drop dead gorgeous. You're in college. You're independent, you've got some kind of money, or at least folks who support you pretty good. Anyone would want what you've got."<br/>
<br/>
"Then why don't <i>you</i> take it?"<br/>
<br/>
You blink. "Take what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Everything I've got. My life. I'm serious." She points to her face. "Take it off. Put it on yourself. You know how. Become Lucy Vredenburg."<br/>
<br/>
"That's ... I mean ..." <i>There must be a catch,</i> you think. "I don't want to have those feelings you're having." Right now, though, you're feeling confused.<br/>
<br/>
"You won't. The only reason I've got them is because there's nothing inside me. I've got nothing but the feeling that I'm a fake, with no feeling of reality underneath. But you won't. You'll be a person who is pretending to be another." She twirls, and the skirt rides invitingly up her thigh. "And don't tell me you couldn't have fun with this."<br/>
<br/>
You turn very red, and are saved from gibbering embarrassment only by a sudden thought. "But what about my own life? I can't just disappear."<br/>
<br/>
"Of course not," Blackwell's voice booms out behind you. He has returned, and he is carrying two masks. "You wouldn't have to disappear. As I said, the golem can take any mask. Merely make a copy of yourself with this mask, and put the golem in for yourself."<br/>
<br/>
"I can do that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Certainly. It was done once before, you remember." He smiles wryly.</span></div></div>


path: 11212121
author_id: mocs
title: Out of the chair, into the girl.
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Then why don't you take it?"<br/>
<br/>
The golem's question rings through your head as you look at the delightful sight of Lucy Vredenburg. You imagine it. Pulling her face off of the golem, and placing it over yours. Sending a fake you to live your mundane life, while you fit yourself into Lucy's life, nice and tidy. Having a girl's body at your beck and call.<br/>
<br/>
Looking down at your broken body settles it.<br/>
<br/>
You extend your hand to Blackwell. "Alright I'll do it. Give me the mask."<br/>
<br/>
Somberly he hands it over. It's very unremarkable. You look back up at Lucy, and let out a small chuckle to yourself as you think of how you had wanted to get into her panties, just not quite the way you had thought it would happen.<br/>
<br/>
"Here's the sealant," Blackwell says. "You'll need to put it on the inside of the mask after you wake up again. I'll go ahead and give you two some privacy." He hands Lucy an ornate vessel filled with some sort of paste. <br/>
<br/>
Lucy is staring at you with a small grateful smile. "Thanks, Will. I know you think it's going to be easy being me, but we'll see how you'll handle it. I really can't keep going on knowing I'm not really her. But I can't kill myself and hurt my family like that. I'm sorry that I'm not stronger Will."<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes are brimming with tears, and you wheel yourself over and give her a reassuring pat on her back. <br/>
<br/>
With a nod to her you lift the mask and push it against your face. A sudden blackness overwhelms you, nothing like being knocked out or sleeping. But instead an all consuming blackness that you feel nothing in. <br/>
<br/>
When you wake up you wonder how long you have been out? Minutes? Hours? Days? There's no way to tell. Couldn't have been too long, because Lucy is standing there, looking about the same she did before you put the mask on.<br/>
<br/>
You look down to see the mask sitting on your lap, flowing silvery writing hovers above it: WILLIAM MARTIN PRESCOTT.<br/>
<br/>
"I sealed it while you were out," Lucy chirps up.<br/>
<br/>
With weary resignation you look up to Lucy and say, "Well I guess is goodbye in a way, and hello in another. Do you mind taking off your clothes and stacking them over there? It'll be easier than trying to get them off the golem." <br/>
<br/>
She gives you a sly, slightly sad smile, "Why Will, you didn't even buy me dinner." <br/>
<br/>
"Don't worry, I'll be taking Lucy Vredenburg to many dinners in the future." You return her smile.<br/>
<br/>
You hungrily watch as she disrobes, removing her skirt and blouse, revealing soft lovely flesh. Lastly goes the bra and panties, she doesn't bother covering herself up giving you an eye full. You take in the fullness of her chest, and the cleft between her legs, the long flowing hair atop her head. All to be yours in mere moments.<br/>
<br/>
She bends over and gives you a small kiss on your forehead, while you put your fingers to her temples and chant the nonsense words. It almost feels like separating velcro as you pull the mask off. Again, she seems to petrify in place.<br/>
<br/>
Taking a deep breath you loosen your clothes, unzipping your pants and unbuttoning your shirt. Although Lucy is smaller than you, you’re sure that she would be cramped in your jeans and shirt. <br/>
<br/>
Pulling the mask to your face you feel that black nothingness take you again. When you come out the other side, your first thoughts are of home, Cindy asking for help with cheerleading and pestering you about what college life is like. You find yourself warmly thinking of your sister. You two have had issues in the past as any siblings do but you genuinely love her. <br/>
<br/>
The Will part of your mind pulls you away from the random memories of Cindy, but you find her mind actively grasping at you, like a woman in the middle of the ocean desperately clinging to the flotsam of her broken life. After a sense of vertigo passes you find yourself in equilibrium between Will and Lucy.<br/>
<br/>
Your breath catches as you feel your legs in your old jeans, the fabric straining slightly against ample thighs and hips. You let out a giggle in Lucy’s voice. (Well, now your voice.) Looking down you're greeted with creamy white flesh, and cavernous cleavage that is made of your newly acquired breasts.<br/>
<br/>
With a sense of reverence you run your hands up and down your new feminine legs. It’s intoxicating, feeling the smooth flesh beneath your fingers. Another alien sensation hits you: your memories tell you that you’re turning yourself on. Oh God it feels like a lifetime ago since you had such sensations!<br/>
<br/>
Unsteadily you push yourself out of the wheelchair, and feel a new sense of gravity across your entire body. Breasts hanging from your chest, pulling you down, wide hips changing your gait, not to mention the lack of anything between your legs. <br/>
<br/>
Speaking of the lack of your previous manhood, you experimentally reach a hand between your new sex and probe about. Your conscious mind knows what should be there, but when your fingers actually find it shocks you. You feel the soft folds part eagerly as you press a finger into yourself. <br/>
<br/>
With a shake of the head you stop yourself, for there will be plenty of time later to get acquainted with your new form. <br/>
<br/>
With a sorrowful expression you look at the golem Lucy. You shake out the clothes she had been wearing, and find they are still warm from when she was wearing them. You note how the shirt smells like Lucy. (Well, now you.) <br/>
<br/>
The Lucy part of your mind takes immense satisfaction when you pull up your panties, and how you enjoy the tight comfort you feel as they wrap themselves to your Venus’ mound. Next you pull the bra around your midsection and clasp it before spinning it around and pulling it up, tucking your breasts into the cups.<br/>
<br/>
Ah, that’s much better! You now understand why women both hate and love bras. Sure it’s digging into your shoulder a bit, but having your breasts secured is much more comfortable than them swinging to and fro.<br/>
<br/>
You pull the shirt and skirt on with little effort. It’s a strange sensation for you at first, feeling the skirt swish and your naked legs sticking out from underneath it, but then again it also feels absolutely natural, a stark dichotomy within your own mind(s). <br/>
<br/>
With a sense of foreboding you take the Will mask in hand and walk over the door to let Blackwell in. He solemnly walks over the statue of Lucy, a forlorn expression painting his face. <br/>
<br/>
Using a clipped way of speaking you ask, “Alright now what? We just put this thing on it and poof there’s a Will?”<br/>
<br/>
Nodding Blackwell says, “Yes my dear, that is exactly it.”<br/>
<br/>
You angle the Lucy golem so that it will fall to the couch when it assumes your broken body. Steadying your breath you push the mask gingerly against the golem's face. The effect is instant and a naked Prescott lands against the couch. <br/>
<br/>
Will Prescott looks down at his useless legs and with voice with venom, “Great, just fucking great.”<br/>
<br/>
Shrugging you give him a sympathetic smile, “You know the deal, you would do the same thing if you could get out of that hell. Sorry.”<br/>
<br/>
Deflating visibly, Will says, “Yea I would. Still sucks to be like this, when you get to be like that. Say, would you be willing to show me the goods please?”<br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes at him, but decide to give him consolation prize. Looking over to Blackwell you give him a pinning stare, moving your finger in a circle to get him to turn around. He lets out a sigh and turns his back to you.<br/>
<br/>
Reaching down to the hem of your shirt you pull it up, exposing your bra encased bosom. You pop each boob out of their cup and walk over to Will. <br/>
<br/>
“Alright, lover boy, this is a one time thing, give em a grab.” You can see the other you working his mouth, probably trying to work moisture back into it. <br/>
<br/>
Gingerly he reaches out and tentatively touches your tits. A mischievous grin cracks as you yell, “Boo.” He physically recoils from your outburst and you tuck your tits back into their clothy cages, flattening the shirt against your taut tummy.<br/>
<br/>
You spend the next fifteen minutes getting the new Will Prescott dressed and in place. Granted mobility again, you didn’t realize how miserable you were, how helpless you were. <br/>
<br/>
So now you’ve got the body, and you’ve got the legs, the well shaped and erotic legs. But now what?</span></div></div>


path: 11212122
author_id: wordsmitty
title: A Surprising Choice
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Wordsmitty<br/>
<br/>
You definitely remember being in the basement when your look-alike appeared wearing your clothes. That fucker demanded your keys and threatened you, left you naked and cold along with Lucy. How Blackwell did it, you didn't know until just now. Masks! And that damn book.<br/>
<br/>
A shiver runs through you. When you first started with that book, it was creepy, and you knew there was something wrong with it. That's why you went to get rid of it. Sold it to Blackwell - at a huge profit. If only you'd just left it at that and not tried for more easy money by accepting Blackwell's job.<br/>
<br/>
And now you know what it could do. It turned Lucy into stone and put her body and soul into a mask where she knows she's a fake and wants out - out of life itself. <i>Or does she?</i><br/>
<br/>
You look at her. She isn't acting like you remember her. She's changed and not just because of this depressed attitude. She wants you to wear her mask, but was that what turned her to stone? Was that how it's done? Is this a trap - again?<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. I remember, and you're not going to turn me into a compliant statue. I'm not wearing any mask to become you or anyone," you snarl.<br/>
<br/>
"No, Will. That's not it." Lucy reaches for you.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Gotta get outta here before ...</i> You spin to get away but hit the edge of the rug. The chair rocks, topping out. Blackwell, still holding those other masks, looms over you. "Here. Let me help you ..."<br/>
<br/>
"Get away!" You flail at him while protecting your face. <i>Can't let them get me.</i><br/>
<br/>
"Will, please. Give us a chance to explain how it works!" Lucy bends down beside you.<br/>
<br/>
"No. No!" Terrified tears begin to blur your vision. You pull yourself along the floor, but you know they can easily get you without your legs to help. "Stay away," you squawk, barely able to speak from fear. "Isn't it enough that you made me a cripple? Now you want me as the groom of golem."<br/>
<br/>
"Will, I - I ..." Lucy drops to her knees, sobbing. <br/>
<br/>
That stops your retreat.<br/>
<br/>
"We can't change you," Blackwell calmly states. He has circled around and now blocks your escape.<br/>
<br/>
You can only tremble. They have you, even if you got back in your chair and get outside, it's doubtful you could wheel yourself safely home. Defiant, you challenge, "W-what, what do you, you mean you can't change me? You changed Lucy, didn't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"If you want to refuse Miss Lucy's offer, she will take you home."<br/>
<br/>
"I never m-meant to scare you, Will. I'm, I'm sorry." She slowly gets up. "I know it's all much to accept that magic is real. I was just - hoping." She looks off and pauses a few moments before turning back, her face now dry. "But I'm not going to force you to do anything. Believe me, please."<br/>
<br/>
All is silent except for distant clocks ticking out of sync. You struggle into the chair, still shaking and heart racing. Lucy's eyes are no longer red as she stands next to Blackwell; his face is blank.<br/>
<br/>
"I can't. I just, just," you mumble with a cracking voice as your head droops.<br/>
<br/>
Lucy enfolds you in a hug like a mother comforting a frightened child. That's how you feel even as she pulls your face into her chest. You instinctively hold her as you regain your composure.<br/>
<br/>
"Why did you need me to remove the mask? Why couldn't you do it yourself?" you ask Blackwell. "I didn't need a magic book to pull her face off. Why is this book so important?"<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell fidgets as he and Lucy look at one another.<br/>
<br/>
"He's like me," Lucy says. "He's not real. He's just a golem in the professor's mask."<br/>
<br/>
"W-w-what?" you sputter.<br/>
<br/>
"We can't do magic. Only a real person can."<br/>
<br/>
"It's magic to remove a mask," Blackwell, or whatever, explains. "The words you repeated are a spell. It won't work if Lucy or I say them."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * *</div><br/>
An ornate coffee table separates you from Lucy and Blackwell, seated on the Victorian sofa in the living room. Blackwell explained what the <i>Libras Persona</i> is all about and what the real Blackwell had done with the spells to make masks and golems, but those all hinge on figures called sigils drawn in the book. You were more amazed than scared any more. After all, you were talking to two animated stone statues like they're real. However, that still didn't change your mind that it's too creepy to try Lucy's mask or the one Blackwell has of you or any other spell or concoction that had to do with that book or any other magic.<br/>
<br/>
Although you won't take over Lucy's life, you offered to help find the book or the real Blackwell in hope of getting Lucy back to being real. Yes, it would be great to have a body that could walk, but something about all this magic and the book still felt like it would suck you in and devour you. No thanks. At least you were able to convince Lucy not to do anything to end her life. She even seemed more happy and carefree after you told her that she must remain upbeat while you try to figure out how else to help her besides wearing her mask.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell explained about his being left to cover for the professor when he went on a trip months ago. The golem wasn't told where the real professor was going nor how long. After about a month or so, he started to get a weird sense that he had been abandoned. That was when he and Lucy began having more conversations about her situation and feelings, too, which finally lead to contacting you and this meeting.<br/>
<br/>
"So, you have no idea where he went and no way of contacting him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Only that he was very interested in talking to someone who may know more about the book."<br/>
<br/>
"What about his phone? Have you tried to call him?"<br/>
<br/>
"I have no need to get in touch. Only if an emergency arises should I contact him."<br/>
<br/>
"Isn't this some kind of emergency?"<br/>
<br/>
"I hardly call your visit an emergency."<br/>
<br/>
"What about his being gone so long?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm perfectly able to continue to function as him."<br/>
<br/>
"But what about Lucy and her feelings knowing she's a fake and wants to change that or end existence?" You are incredulous at his continued calm.<br/>
<br/>
"Hardly an emergency, my young lad. She's acting no different than many people who get depressed."<br/>
<br/>
"There must be some way to track the real Blackwell down. People don't just disappear. Is there someplace he may have  left some notes on what he was working on, or contacts he had?"<br/>
<br/>
"He always worked in the library. You can take a look there."<br/>
<br/>
As he leads you down the hall, Lucy remains in the living room, preferring not to enter the library.<br/>
<br/>
It looks identical to when you were last there. The two clocks are still ticking against each other. In an alcove is that strange, stuffed, one-eyed monkey-thing. You pause at the doorway from the foreboding that you sensed as if unseen things watch and wait. Blackwell walks to two desks that are pushed together and pulls away one chair. Keeping him in sight and cautiously scanning the room, you join him.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll keep Miss Lucy company while you work. If you need anything, just holler."<br/>
<br/>
There is a mess of various books on the desk, but few notes - mostly references to other books. One thing does catch your eye, a page of names and places linked together with lines. There's a Shabblemann Jones in New York (deceased) and another Shabblemann in Cuthbert along with various Stewarts and Martins. Cuthbert is a town way back in the Cathcarts, the hills a ways from town. You were there years ago for a family reunion of sorts because your mom was a Martin.<br/>
<br/>
"Blackwell! Where's that phone number?"<br/>
<br/>
"Pardon me. What number?"<br/>
<br/>
"Blackwell's. The real one. The professor."<br/>
<br/>
He writes it on a piece of paper, and you try it with your phone. "Out of coverage," you report. "Cheapskate probably has some low-cost service."<br/>
<br/>
"Quite the contrary. He has one of the top providers with full international roaming because of his travels, although he does sometimes venture into, shall I say, less than civilized places. I have a second phone with that service, on the desk there." He points.<br/>
<br/>
"Two-for-one deal?" you ask, picking it up. He sheepishly nods.<br/>
<br/>
Well, if he has good service, then maybe his phone is open for location reporting. After a few minutes you have his last known location - the edge of the Cathcarts. <br/>
<br/>
To help Lucy, you need to find Professor Blackwell or the book, or someone who might know more about it. If Blackwell is still up in Cuthbert, you could go there and look, or they may know where he's gone from there. Well, you could go if you could drive, or had and knew how to use a car that worked for someone without working legs. Or had someone to trust who could drive you there.<br/>
<br/>
You're not sure if it is because of wanting to help Lucy or something else, but you develop an unsettling desire to get involved. There is nothing stopping you from making a brief a trip to the Cathcarts at least. It is Christmas vacation. This "local Blackwell" should be able to help or know someone who could. <br/>
<br/>
But it might be a bad idea to visit Cuthbert in the middle of winter. Maybe there's something in the professor's notes or library, or the rest of this eerie house.</span></div></div>


path: 112122
author_id: roboat-robot
title: Stay away from him
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"What would be the point"? You say bitterly, "what in the world can one crippled boy do to an evil wizard or mad scientist or whatever he is"? Lucy just looks at you with pity in her brown eyes, which only makes you more furious "nothing happened to you! I am the one who can't walk, who is in constant pain, and I was the one who had the harder life, but you, the beautiful blonde girl who also is a superb athlete and talented student gets off scott free"! you shout. "You know nothing about what my life is like or what I have been through" she says quietly "don't judge someone until you've walked a mile in her shoes". Lucy then turned around and began to walk away. <br/>
<br/>
You were still furious at her, and not particularly enamoured with her use of such a trite phrase,  but you were still sorry to see her leaving and not just because she was the first pretty girl you had seen since your accident. </span></div></div>


path: 1122
author_id: seuzz
title: A Slippery Sale
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"My dad already has a job lined up for me," you tell Blackwell. And there is a position at his company that he is trying to get you to apply for, and which you've been resisting. So, you're not technically lying ...<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell smiles tightly. "Of course. And fathers can be very insistent, can't they? Now, about your payment."  He presses five twenties into your hand. "I could get you the other four hundred now, but I am also late for a faculty meeting. If you will let me, I'd like to ask you to stop by my house this evening, any time after six, to pick up the rest of what I owe you. In such a case, I will give you a fifty-dollar bonus."<br/>
<br/>
You don't like him, but for something like the retail price of an Xbox game on launch day you're willing to set up a subsequent meeting.<br/>
<br/>
"Excellent. Here is my card." He sets it on the book, which you are still holding, and writes on its back. "This is my cell phone and my private email address." The card itself reads "Aubrey Blackwell, Professor of Archaeology, Keyserling School of Mining and Technology." He circles the name "Blackwell" and scribbles an ornate symbol beside it. Must be his trademark.<br/>
<br/>
He beams in his odious way, thanks you again, and departs after giving you another clammy handshake. You're left with the card, and it takes you several dazed seconds to register that he has walked off with the book under his arm.  <br/>
<br/>
You glance over at Ted Arnholm. He rolls his eyes. "Butterfingers," he mutters.</span></div></div>


path: 11221
author_id: seuzz
title: The Magician's House
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You suspect the card will be a fake, or that Blackwell will just laugh in your face when you ask for the rest of your money. But on thing's for sure: You <i>won't</i> get your money if you don't make the effort!<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The professor's house, when you arrive there at six on the dot, turns out to be a large villa on the outskirts of town. It is surrounded by a tall wall of whitewashed stone; you pass through an ornate iron gate to find an extensive front yard that is intricately landscaped but entirely devoid of grass. Instead, little stone walls run hither and thither at ankle height, as though lining the places where flower beds once bloomed; the ground stacks up in terraces; and little stone towers squat like pygmy monoliths. <br/>
<br/>
Yet there are no flowers and no grass, and the bushes are nought but nests of dead sticks and withered leaves. The only living thing is a yew tree standing at the corner of the house by a small stone shed.<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe it's not a shed. You edge closer, and see three gravestones arranged near it. Opposite it is a pile of dirt, and a shovel leans against the wall.<br/>
<br/>
You swallow. It's not a shed. It's a small mausoleum. <br/>
<br/>
Your nerves aren't improved when you mount the steps to the broad porch and find the doorbell set inside the iron jaws of a ravening wolf. Instead of chancing your finger inside what looks like a trap, you bang the side of your fist against a massive wooden door.<br/>
<br/>
Your pessimism proves groundless. The door opens, and Blackwell beams when he sees you. With a fluttering hand he ushers you inside, into a dark and gloomy foyer. There is a stack of bills on a small table by the door, and he carefully counts each twenty into your outstretched hand.<br/>
<br/>
"—two-eighty, three hundred, three-twenty— I beg your pardon," he sys, "but you are quite sure you won't take that job I offered you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks, no. Three-twenty?" you prompt. After his trick with the book you are going to be very careful with him, for you suspect he'll try some fast talk with the money.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. Three-forty, three-sixty— How about one night's work? Tonight? For twenty dollars an hour?"<br/>
<br/>
"Um ..."<br/>
<br/>
"You see, as a result of today's faculty meeting I am suddenly called out of town. I must leave early tomorrow morning and I'm in a dither over packing. I have several books I need to take but I must catalog them before I go. I cannot possibly get everything done in time. So for twenty dollars an hour—"<br/>
<br/>
"For how long."<br/>
<br/>
"Two hours' work at the most. You'll be home before nine."<br/>
<br/>
Well, that would  e another forty dollars. "Two hours at twenty," you mull aloud. "Two at twenty, two at twenty. Yeah, I'll do it." The professor beams at you. "Two-twenty," you say, pointing to the cash in your palm.<br/>
<br/>
"Of course. Two-twenty, two-forty, two-sixty—" He pauses and gives you a sharp look. "You'll find all your money here," he says, and presses the rest into your hand.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He shows you into the library, which is a very large room under a high ceiling, and lined on three sides with shadow-shrouded shelves. He guides you into that chair at an ornate desk, atop which sits a very incongruous laptop computer.<br/>
<br/>
"It's all terribly simple really," he assures you as he launches the software. He has no concept of personal space and presses in far too close. "Title, author, etcetera. Some of the books may be a little tricky on account of their being so old," he warns, and points to a stack of books that rises from the floor to your elbow before leaving you alone.<br/>
<br/>
But it takes you almost no time to do the first book. Perhaps some of the others will be "tricky," but you don't see how this job will take you more than forty minutes, if even that. You dial back your efforts accordingly. If you can stretch this out to two hours, that'll be forty bucks, <i>and</i> you'll have given Blackwell reason to think you're a moron. Maybe then he'll stop pestering you to take a job with him. <br/>
<br/>
It's not hard to slow down, either. The room keeps distracting you, and not in a good way. Sitting under that high, shadowy ceiling is like sitting at the bottom of a well, and the bookshelves seem to lean in over you. There are little alcoves in the walls, too, but you find you don't like to look at the things sitting in them. They are statues of owls and cats and wolves and ... <i>Yow!</i> That one in the alcove by the door looks like a hairless orangutan flashing fake vampire teeth. You flinch from taking a closer look, but are pretty sure it has only a single eye in the middle of its forehead.<br/>
<br/>
Then there are the clocks. Two large grandfather clocks loom next to each other, touching corners at right angles to each other. They tick discordantly, and by listening very closely you come to realize that they are out of phase with each other, one being slightly slower than the other. Meanwhile, behind your left shoulder there's another clock ... No, now that you take a closer look, you see it's just a pendulum, almost flush with the wall, in a space bare of shelves. It swings in a long, slow arc. Your eye follows the shaft, which disappears through a slot in the ceiling. You look back down, and notice that the pendulum is shaped like a scythe. Peering closer still, you see that although it does not brush the ground, it slips back and forth over a shiny groove in the floor.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
After about an hour of this you are eager to get out sooner with less money; you also don't like that your back is turned to the a set of French doors that give out onto a rapidly darkening landscape. You are down to only three books when—<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, for fuck's sake." The software freezes and the entire computer has to be rebooted. It takes precisely ninety-four ticks of one grandfather clock (and eighty-three ticks of the other) to get back to where you'd been when it crashed. (You know how many ticks because your mind has become morbidly fascinated by the noise they make.) You start to type in the book title again—<br/>
<br/>
"Son of a bitch," you mutter, for the software has crashed again. You press your hands to your ears, trying to shut out the clocks. You pull open a desk drawer, looking for something that will occupy your attention as the computer reboots, and find a hunk of modeling clay the size of your fist. <br/>
<br/>
You grab it up and start working at it absent-mindedly. It is very dry and hard and flaky, impossible to work with, so you spit a huge loogie onto it and work the moisture in. Almost instantly it becomes soft and pliable, and seems to slither beneath and between your fingers. You're holding it in your left hand when the spreadsheet relaunches, and with your right hand you hunt-and-peck the book title into the box—<br/>
<br/>
"Piece of motherfucking shit!" you scream as the screen fades to blue. You fall back into the chair and work angrily at the clay. A perturbed Blackwell looks in through the doorway. You blush and hang your head.<br/>
<br/>
"Is something wrong?" he asks in a polite tone. <br/>
<br/>
"Sorry," you mumble. "The laptop keeps freezing." He comes over to look at the computer and the book. He smiles tightly when he opens the latter up to its title page. <br/>
<br/>
"Mmmm, yes, it's a pity no one knows how to write stable code anymore. I've gotten quite superstitious about it myself. Where does it keep crashing?"<br/>
<br/>
"In the title box." The title is a jumble of words that sound vaguely Russian. "Three times it's done it. I mean, Christ!"<br/>
<br/>
"I doubt <i>he</i> has anything to do with it," Blackwell says. "If it gives you trouble again just put in a placeholder title. That's one of my workarounds, and God knows why it works." You pull and press at the clay and study his head resentfully as he leans in to point at the screen. "Here, just put in an acronym of the title and then the author's name in parentheses. I'll change it to whatever suits me later."<br/>
<br/>
The software has relaunched by this point, and you follow his suggestion. Luckily, the fourth time is a charm and it takes the entry he has suggested. You set the clay down on the desk and turn to the rest of the information.<br/>
<br/>
"What's that?" Blackwell cries in a strangled voice. You glance up, and find him staring down at that lump of clay. His expression is one of bug-eyed terror.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, sorry," you mumble. "I was just playing with that stuff while waiting for the computer to come back on." You reach out to take it, but he grabs your wrist in a vise-like grip. He makes a choking sound, and gingerly picks the clay up.<br/>
<br/>
But it's not a featureless lump anymore. It has acquired an eerie resemblance to Blackwell himself. And not a flattering resemblance either: it looks like a the work of a caricaturist with a deep loathing for his subject. But it captures him perfectly: the skinny legs, the apple-like belly, the sloping shoulders, the bulbous head with the drooping nose and protuberant lips, and the combover, like a limp snake trailing over his scalp.<br/>
<br/>
At least, that's what it looks like from your angle, in an admittedly dark room. It must be a trick of the light and your nerves.<br/>
<br/>
"How did you soften the clay?" the professor asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I spit in it. Look, I'm really sorry—"<br/>
<br/>
"No no no. No." He seems to have recovered, but he has grown quiet. "It's quite alright. I'm just startled is all." He turns toward you with an intense expression on his face. "You have a prodigious talent."<br/>
<br/>
"I was just goofing around."<br/>
<br/>
"I will give you fifty dollars an hour to be my assistant," he says. "You can set your own hours, your own schedule, to work around the job your father has given you. What do you say?"</span></div></div>


path: 112211
author_id: seuzz
title: The Bully Boy
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Who's set to make a thousand bucks a week?" You do a high step.<br/>
<br/>
"You are," your friend Caleb says tonelessly.<br/>
<br/>
"Who's set to make a thousand bucks a week?" You kick your leg like a chorus girl.<br/>
<br/>
"You are," your friend Keith says, just as tonelessly as Caleb.<br/>
<br/>
"Who's set to make—" You lick your index finger and thrust it in the air, and punch your fist next to it in the air three times. "One. Thousand. Motherfucking. Bucks. A week?"<br/>
<br/>
"I give up, Prescott, who?"<br/>
<br/>
You whirl and freeze. Lester "The Molester" Pozniak, soccer goalie and bully, stands behind you with an amused look on his piggy face. Other students passing by the school wing are giving your little knot a wide berth. <br/>
<br/>
You could run, but that would be a bad mistake. Instead, you compose your face and resign for what is to come.<br/>
<br/>
"Hmmm, who could be lined up to make a thousand bucks a week?" the Molester muses. "Can't be any of your friends. They're worth more as organ donors." His eye falls on Keith. "By the way, Tilley, I'll be come for your spleen after lunch. Have it out and ready for me. But back to Prescott's question. Who's set up to make one thousand motherfucking bucks a week?"<br/>
<br/>
You swallow. The suspense is always the worst part with the Molester, and the Molester knows it. Sometimes he doesn't even follow through, just taunts and leaves.<br/>
<br/>
"Couldn't be your sister. That is your sister I see down at the middle school when I drive by there, isn't it? Roberta's her name?"<br/>
<br/>
No, it's Robert, and he's your brother, but you don't correct the Molester.<br/>
<br/>
"I always see her hanging around that Stephano fag," he continues. "I suppose she's safe with him. <i>He's</i> not going to pop her cherry. Too bad, because she's obviously hot for him, and real pretty besides. I bet <i>you'd</i> like to fuck her, even if she is your sister."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe you'd like to fuck my brother, you're so obsessed with him," you blurt out. By now you just want to get it over with.<br/>
<br/>
His punch to your eye drops you onto your ass. "This is just the start, Prescott," he says with quiet malice. "Your job sounds real interesting."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Oh, good heavens!" Blackwell exclaims as he ushers you into his foyer. It's Monday, the first day of your new job. "Don't pretend for a minute you walked into a door! I know the mark left by a fist."<br/>
<br/>
"It's not as bad as it looks," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"Poor consolation, because it looks terrible. Let me see that, William."<br/>
<br/>
You wince and try to avoid his fingers, but he is insistent. "I think there is real damage there. What do your parents say?"<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't been home yet."<br/>
<br/>
"Good. We can do something before they see it."<br/>
<br/>
"It's not—"<br/>
<br/>
But he is gone. You go into the library. It's just as creepy as before, and you particularly avoid the niche with the vampire cyclops-monkey. There is a greasy feel to the air.<br/>
<br/>
You're looking out the French doors at the dead garden when your employer bustles back in with a jar. "This should clear that up," he says. "A remedy of my own making."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want to put on makeup—"<br/>
<br/>
"Bosh. This is medicine, and very potent it is, too." He seizes you by the chin with a firm hand, and with the other brushes something around your tender eye. You feel a tingling, and he beams. "Take a look." He holds up a small mirror, and you see the discoloration has faded; is still fading; it is suddenly gone, and all the pain is gone too. You press your fingers to your face; all the swelling has gone as well. <br/>
<br/>
"Whoa! You oughta bottle and sell that stuff. You'd make a fortune."<br/>
<br/>
His laugh is a bark. "I mixed it myself, but the recipe comes from ancient Canaan, and though the Canaanites were more advanced than is recognized, they were not so advanced as to have encompassed a Food and Drug Administration. I'm afraid the bureaucrats would blanch at my recipe."<br/>
<br/>
You hope he's joking.<br/>
<br/>
"Anyway," he continues, "you did splendid work on the books last Friday. I have a different job for you today." He gestures to a stack. "I've marked several illustrations in these tomes. Please copy them out by hand. I want them in one file instead of scattered throughout these books." He opens to the first illustration: a circle containing an intricate, almost eye-splitting design. <br/>
<br/>
"Wouldn't it be easier to scan them into a PDF and print them out?"<br/>
<br/>
The professor gives you a penetrating look. "Yes, it would be easier, on you and me both. You also would have just talked yourself out of about two hundred and fifty dollars." You grimace. "They are for a book I am compiling, but the designs here are too regular. I want them to resemble as closely as possible those that an adept would have made. I will, of course, credit your work in the acknowledgements."<br/>
<br/>
He pauses in the doorway as you sit down. "I'd like to see your illustrations before you leave," he says, "and please don't leave an unfinished copy behind when you go for the night."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The library continues to creep you out, but you thought to bring a music player and ear buds, and it nicely filters out the infernal ticking of the clocks. You are soon deeply absorbed in the line work, much to your surprise. It gives you great pleasure to trace out the designs, which twist and curve in interesting ways, and despite their complexity they seem to yield easily to your pen strokes.<br/>
<br/>
You get a bad scare at one point, though. Blackwell has left that hand mirror leaning against the stack of books, and when you glance over you see your own face reflected in it—and also the face of the cyclops-monkey as it leans directly over your shoulder. You whirl, but of course there's nothing there. You glance around, and realize it must have been a trick of the light, for the monster is still safely tucked inside its alcove.<br/>
<br/>
About an hour after you start, the doorbell rings; Blackwell answers it, and over your shoulder you see him and a visitor go walking past the doorway connecting the library to the wide hall beyond. You only have time to see the long blonde hair that falls inviting around her shoulders, and a short skirt that hangs off a nice ass to frame some shapely legs, before they disappear.<br/>
<br/>
A short time later Blackwell enters. "I have to leave soon, Will, so may I see your work?" He examines it closely and praises it very highly. He points to only one correction, and then asks you to finish the design you are presently working on.<br/>
<br/>
Thirty minutes later the girl leaves; a few minutes later you also finish up. You shout a farewell and Blackwell answers that your money is on the front table. Indeed it is: two hundred and twenty-five dollars. You pocket it with a smile.<br/>
<br/>
As you walk out to your truck you see a light come on in one of the front rooms, and through the open curtain you see Blackwell, in his stocking feet, enter. He puts a DVD into his TV and sits down on the couch with what looks like a dinner plate and a dish rag. He begins to dry it.<br/>
<br/>
You watch for a few minutes, but it looks like he's not going anywhere. Apparently he told you he was leaving only as an excuse to cut short your work hours.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div> <br/>
Blackwell's face is a mask of anguish when you see him the next day. "My ointment never fails," he says, and points to your eye. "That's a new bruise."<br/>
<br/>
"I walked into a door."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't strike me as the type to get into fights. Are you being bullied at school?"<br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes. "Yeah, there's this kid who likes to beat me up for my lunch money," you sarcastically reply. Then you choke, because it is very near the truth.<br/>
<br/>
"Will—" Blackwell says gravely.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, yeah, but it's my own damn fault. I was bragging about this job and the money, and this one guy, we call him 'The Molester' because he's this real fucker, he's decided he wants a cut of it."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh m," Blackwell says. "Certainly we must do something about this."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not going to tell the principal!"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I agree. School administrators are useless, as are the police." The professor scratches his cheek thoughtfully. "Here now," he says, and he leads you into another room. <br/>
<br/>
This one looks like a study. From a file cabinet he takes a folder and examines its contents briefly before returning it to the drawer. With a meaningful glance at you he takes a crisp new ten-dollar bill from his wallet and sits at the desk. He takes a fountain pen—its case is livid green—from a drawer and begins to write on the bill.<br/>
<br/>
"If the gentleman—may I speak ironically?—wants your money, I think you should give him some."<br/>
<br/>
"I can't do that!"<br/>
<br/>
"Please, Will." He quietly and carefully continues to trace something onto the bill. When finished, he smiles and hands it to you. "Take that with you to school tomorrow. When he demands money of you, say 'I will give you ten dollars to leave me alone.' Then give him that bill. That precise bill."<br/>
<br/>
"What good will that do?"<br/>
<br/>
"Probably no good at all!" Blackwell bubbles over with laughter. "But it will buy you one day's peace at least."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You gasp and grit your teeth. "Uncle. Please, uncle." But the Molester just presses your wrist back farther. <br/>
<br/>
"Uncle <i>Sam,</i>" he insists. "Or some of his boys. Honest Abe or Andy Jackson. Ben Franklin, if you have him."<br/>
<br/>
The tears are squirting out of your eyes. You have that ten on you, but isn't it better to take the pain than humiliate yourself by paying Pozniak off?</span></div></div>


path: 1122111
author_id: seuzz
title: Fear Strikes Out
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Caleb!"<br/>
<br/>
But he continues hurrying across the parking lot toward the school, hunching as though against a wind. "Caleb!" you call again. How can he not hear you? "Hey, wait up, dude!" He seems to hurry even faster.<br/>
<br/>
But you manage to catch up. "Didn't you hear me calling! Where's your head?" you pant.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want to talk to you," he says. "I don't want to be anywhere near you. Stay away from my locker." He keeps moving, quickly, out of the parking lot and toward the school.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck? Do I have cooties?"<br/>
<br/>
"Scuttlebutt is the Molester's been bragging to Lynch and his friends about how he scored money off you. You've got a shitstorm heading your way, and I don't want to take any collateral damage."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck you say!"<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck I don't!" Caleb wheels on you. "You better have at least fifty on you, and you better try dolloping it out in small bills." He veers sharply away from the doors to the gym; pre-class basketball practice will be letting out soon. "You're gonna take a loss on that job, and then you're gonna start losing blood!"<br/>
<br/>
Jason Lynch is the school's star baseball pitcher, and with Gordon Black and Steve Patterson, the two top basketball players they are the creme of Westside society. Alpha jocks, and alpha bullies. The Molester is just a pilot fish to their Great Whites. They're so far above you they never noticed you.<br/>
<br/>
Until you bled money to Lester Pozniak.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb darts a fearful glance at you. "Why the fuck did you have to be such a pussy?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Wham!</i> Your head hits the locker door so hard you think you hear the school bell. <br/>
<br/>
"It's like a piggy bank!" Lynch's voice is almost deranged with glee.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Wham!</i> It rings again.<br/>
<br/>
"I wonder how much I got saved up in here. Never opened it before. Must be a fortune!"<br/>
<br/>
A hard kick sweeps your feet from under you, and your shoulder cracks on the floor. You wince up into Lynch's wide, grinning face. He looks like a fashion model—blinding teeth; strong cheekbones; symmetrical features; the complexion of a ripe peach; and sandy hair. Only his eyes—blue, naturally—blaze in a way that reveals the sadistic psycho behind the all-American face.<br/>
<br/>
He puts his foot on your chest and steps down hard. "Squeal like a piggy, my little piggy bank. Squeal, or I'll bust you open."<br/>
<br/>
"Squeal?" you squeal. <br/>
<br/>
He hocks up a loogie—a big one—and with a baseball player's practiced ease hocks it into your right eye.<br/>
<br/>
You swallow and take out a ten. He snatches it, examines it, and slowly tears it into eight pieces. "Twice that, man. If Pozniak gets ten, I get twenty." He leans over you. "Tomorrow. And I suggest you start carrying at least that much ever'day."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"It's my fault, Will," Blackwell tells you that afternoon. "I should have foreseen the precedent it would set."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm going to need a raise," you say sullenly from the other side of the library desk you and the professor are jointly occupying. It is Thursday, your fourth day on the job, and the second day you have been openly mugged in the school hallways.<br/>
<br/>
"A raise is what I'm giving you now, I believe." Blackwell looks up at you from the banknote he is doodling on. "In a manner of speaking. By the way, did the Molester accost you today?" <br/>
<br/>
You shake your head. "Just Lynch. Pretty sure they've worked out a schedule. One a day until I crack."<br/>
<br/>
"That may work to your advantage," the professor muses. "How many of these custom-made twenties will you need?"<br/>
<br/>
"Until I graduate? Oh, about—"<br/>
<br/>
"No no. How many bullies? You'll only need one for each."<br/>
<br/>
"Right. Because one go at me is all they really want." You roll your eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't resent your skepticism. But let's just see what happens. It's my money we're losing."<br/>
<br/>
"But it's <i>my</i> face!"<br/>
<br/>
"How is your face? Swelling down?" He picks up another twenty and begins to carefully mark it.<br/>
<br/>
You touch your cheek. Anyone who hadn't seen Lynch's assault would never know he'd hit you. <br/>
<br/>
"Thanks," you say. "I don't think I've thanked you yet for this or for those black eyes you fixed. By the way, how's your finger? How did you say you hurt it?"<br/>
<br/>
He grimaces. "I didn't say, and it will be alright. Please continue to concentrate on that design. I found a mistake in one that you completed last night." He glowers briefly, then regains his composure.<br/>
<br/>
"We were talking about your being humiliated," he continues as he bends over another bill. "We all have to be humiliated at one time or another. It's part of learning. So what have you learned from these humiliating experiences?"<br/>
<br/>
"That I need to stop knuckling under to them."<br/>
<br/>
"Tch! And what happens when you stand up to them? Do you ever win?"<br/>
<br/>
"No," you admit through gritted teeth.<br/>
<br/>
"And you're still humiliated." He shakes the pen to unblock an obstruction. "How do you avoid being humiliated, win or lose, yield or resist?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno," you snap. "Just live with it? Don't give them the satisfaction?"<br/>
<br/>
"A Stoic attitude," he exclaims, as though this is a strikingly new thought. "Ask the residents of Auschwitz how that worked out. But perhaps we are framing the question wrong. So: How do you prevent the bullies from humiliating you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Really," you sigh. "I don't know." You wish he'd just shut up about it.<br/>
<br/>
"That's because you've lived at the bottom so long you don't see where you are. You're like a frog in a deep well. No, you're like a newt in a latrine, and you let everyone drop excrement on you. What would you do if you found yourself in a latrine?"<br/>
<br/>
"Try to get out of it, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"Exactly!" The professor's cry shocks you into looking up from your work, and you find him beaming at you. "So how does one avoid being humiliated? One avoids the situations where humiliation is possible."<br/>
<br/>
He says this like he's discovered a new continent, but you're less impressed with the insight. "I can't stop going to school," you point out.<br/>
<br/>
"Ha! But it's not a physical context I am speaking of. It's a social one. You are lower than them, and one only ever bullies those who are lower than one's self. So you need to get higher than them. You are afraid of them. You need to make them afraid of you."<br/>
<br/>
"Like how? Take karate?"<br/>
<br/>
He suddenly looks very wry and puckish. "Or an equivalent. This is your karate chop," he says, handing you a just-finished twenty. "And instead of 'Hiyaa!' you say 'I'll give you twenty dollars to leave me alone'."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The week that follows is awful. After Lynch comes Patterson. Then Black and Seth Javits, who more often than not satisfies himself with torturing your friend Keith. Then David Kirkham and Gary Chen double-team you, and three of their goonish friends attack you the day after that. Also Roy Nelson and Dominic Kleason, who had given up hassling you a couple of years ago but now see money in it, and some other guys you don't even know but who are built like football players. <br/>
<br/>
You do fight off a sophomore, though. Your pride couldn't take giving in to a tenth-grader.<br/>
<br/>
And then nothing.<br/>
<br/>
At first you think it must be a lull, or that they have unaccountably lost interest in you. For three days you hurry through the halls, at each moment expecting a blow. But one never falls. <br/>
<br/>
And then on Friday morning you are passing by the gym on the way into the school when the doors fly open. Laughing, cursing, jeering, the basketball stars charge out, straight at you. Instinctively, you flinch against a wall—<br/>
<br/>
And look up to see Black and Patterson and Javits flinching away from <i>you</i>. <br/>
<br/>
That's Gordon Black, who is six foot-six and two hundred pounds of ugly muscle: his eyes go wide and his nostrils flare when he sees you. <br/>
<br/>
That's Seth Javits, who one-handed hauled your friend Keith up a ladder onto the gym roof: he darts around to put Jeremy Richards between you and him. <br/>
<br/>
That's Steve Patterson, the tallest guy in school, who regularly carries two victims at a time over his shoulders to the end of the track, where he sits on them and twists their legs into interesting three-dimensional puzzles: he darts back into the gym. <br/>
<br/>
The other players stop and stare in bafflement as Javits and Black slink back into the gym after their friend. Richards then give you a puzzled glare, then shuffles off with the others toward the main building amid a confused murmur of voices. <br/>
<br/>
"It was the weirdest thing ever," you tell Caleb later at lunch. He's not done avoiding you, but you have managed to corner him, and are eating with him in a private corner behind the school.<br/>
<br/>
"They're trying to psyche you out or something," he says after you describe the events of that morning. "It'll start again on Monday. It's just a trick to make it hurt more."<br/>
<br/>
"They're not that subtle. Besides how is that supposed to work?"<br/>
<br/>
"They're mocking you, pretending to be afraid. Or some shit like that."<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno." You scratch your head. "Those guys haven't hit me up since Monday. I haven't even seen the Molester around since—"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't worry, I'm filling in for you." There's a bitter note in Caleb's voice.<br/>
<br/>
It suddenly occurs to you that Caleb shouldn't be wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day like this. "What are you hiding behind your shades?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
He turns on you slowly and pulls them down. Both his eyes are a livid mix of red and yellow and black.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Metaphysics of Magic Part 1
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"So you want to help your friend," Blackwell says. "An admirable sentiment. How?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. With some of that ... well, with that money you've been making."<br/>
<br/>
He looks surprised. "You think that would work?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I dunno. It seems to have worked with me."<br/>
<br/>
"Then the Molester and the others have stopped attacking you?" Your employer claps his hands in delight. "My God! Who'd have thought that old gypsy curse would actually work!"<br/>
<br/>
You blink. "It's a gypsy curse?"<br/>
<br/>
"Most certainly. Slightly modified to the circumstances. So you think that's what it was?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well—" You scratch your cheek. "Caleb thinks it's some kind of trick they're up to with me. But I saw what I saw at the gym yesterday. And I remember what you said about making them afraid." You suck on your lip. "I don't know how it works, but ... Yeah, I think that was it."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell's eyes glint. "You know what happened. But you don't know how. You believe the what, though you don't know the how. Hang on to that thought. The whats and the hows."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"This is not a comedy routine," he warns you sharply. <br/>
<br/>
It is Saturday afternoon, and it a surprisingly warm one for the last week of September. The sun is streaming strongly through the library window. Perhaps that is why it seems a little less creepy than usual. The statues in their niches still glitter malignly, but their malice seems balked, bent toward deflecting the sun's rays rather than bullying the imaginations of any unfortunates caught in their gaze. Even the ticking of the clocks sounds more like a complex syncopation than the mad clacking that chased you that first evening in the house. <br/>
<br/>
Blackwell rises from the other side of the desk. He has taken to sitting with you while you work: you on more designs, the most intricate yet, while he pores through books whose connections to each other are entirely obscure: What does a history of some old tapestry have to do with a book about the mechanics of wine presses? But as both of you work you have talked, of this and that, mostly about you and your circumstances. But this sounds like the start of a lecture:<br/>
<br/>
"What is science, but the study of how things work?" the professor asks as he paces. "But scientists are a close-minded bunch. The most superstitious priest in the blackest Basque valley is more open-minded than they are. If they don't understand the hows, they deny the whats. If they can't explain how it happened, they say it didn't happen at all! If they don't see the chicken lay the egg, they deny the existence of the chicken they ate for supper and the egg they had for breakfast!"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh ... Yeah." <br/>
<br/>
"Here," he says, leaning across the desk and holding up a coin. His fingers flash. "Where did it go?" He reaches up to your ear. "Here it is!" He twirls it playfully. "What did I do, and how did I do it?"<br/>
<br/>
"You pulled a coin from my ear. And you used, uh, sleight of hand."<br/>
<br/>
"You're so smart," he sneers, and flips the coin to you. "You try it."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know the trick."<br/>
<br/>
"The 'trick'," he snorts. "You're as bad as the scientists. Did I really pull the coin from your ear, or didn't I?"<br/>
<br/>
"Of course you didn't," you sputter. "Everyone knows ... It's just an illusion."<br/>
<br/>
"But you don't know how it works?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
He throws up his hands. "You won't believe <i>what</i> happened—that I pulled a coin from your ear—because you don't know how that works. And yet you will believe a different <i>what</i>—that I practiced an 'illusion' on you—even though you don't know how <i>that</i> works either. You are much smarter than I am in that case!"<br/>
<br/>
You turn red. There must be a mistake in his reasoning.<br/>
<br/>
"Try this now. That design you have not yet finished." He eyes it closely. "Yes. Put your hand on top of it. Now pat your chest three times like this." He slowly but powerfully drums his chest. <br/>
<br/>
You mimic his actions. "Okay, so what am I— Shit!" You pull your hand back. Blood drips from your index finger, and you blink stupidly at the stinging wound.<br/>
<br/>
A slow smile crosses Blackwell's face. "Why Will, what happened?"<br/>
<br/>
"It— I—" You take a sharp breath. "It bit me!" you gabble. "Something bit me!"<br/>
<br/>
"How?" His word is like the blow of a hammer. "How did a piece of paper <i>bite</i> you?"<br/>
<br/>
You lick your lips. "I don't know."<br/>
<br/>
"What happened, did you say?"<br/>
<br/>
"Something bit me," you repeat.<br/>
<br/>
"How?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know."<br/>
<br/>
"Pray don't drip any blood on any of your work,"  he murmurs. "You will need a bandage. You will need more than that. Do not suck on it, either."<br/>
<br/>
You hold your hand—which is burning as though from a vicious wasp sting—over the carpet as he goes to fetch a kit. He returns with a spray bottle and a bandage very much like the one wrapped around his own index finger. He squirts a fine mist on your hand, then binds the wound. As he does so he resumes his talk.<br/>
<br/>
"What did you say you want to do for your friend?"<br/>
<br/>
"I want to help him."<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"I want to help him."<br/>
<br/>
"How?" The word is again heavy.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know."<br/>
<br/>
"Good. You see? Like the coin 'illusion'. And the gypsy curse. You have a <i>what,</i> even though you haven't a <i>how</i>. But do you need one?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I need to know <i>how</i> I'm going to help him. Jesus, that hurts!"<br/>
<br/>
"It will yet for a few days. This isn't as simple as a blow from the Molester's fist." He pulls the bandage even tighter. "But just now, that's not a <i>how</i> question you asked. No, it's a <i>what</i> question. What <i>precisely</i> will 'helping your friend' look like?"<br/>
<br/>
You take a deep breath.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't answer yet," he says. "Think about it, long and hard." He ties off the end of the bandage and snips away the excess. "That's the difference between scientists, Will, and people like you and me."<br/>
<br/>
"You and me?" You're not thrilled to find yourself in the same category as Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
A faint smile crosses his face. "Scientists are very careful to ask the correct 'how' questions. And by doing so they've given us many great things. But magicians are careful to ask the correct 'what' questions.<br/>
<br/>
"Tell me, Will," he says. "<i>What</i> do you want to happen to you next?"</span></div></div>


path: 112211111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Ones Who Would Be Magicians
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You are sitting now at Professor Blackwell's dining room table—which to your relief occupies one of the villa's relatively sane rooms—with your hand in your chin and mulling the rest of what he'd said that morning. Yes, he talked for quite a bit longer, and then suggested a break for lunch, which he would prepare. "I think you should come to a decision before we eat," he said with a wink. "I don't want you to think you're being influenced by adulterated food."<br/>
<br/>
"What is the most natural thing for a human being to do?" he replied when you asked him to explain what "magic" is. "Why, to pump blood, metabolize food, exchange oxygen. For the longest time we didn't know how we did it, but we knew we did it, even if we didn't use those words and phrases. What are the next most natural things? To eat, to sleep, to evacuate our bowels, to relieve our sexual tensions. We know how to do those, too, and no one taught us those either. Ask a fine athlete how he throws a ball or dodges another player. He doesn't know, but he had to train, and in training he learned to do it without ever knowing some kind of 'how.'<br/>
<br/>
"<i>That</i> is magic, Will, and I'm not being metaphorical. Magic is the art of binding a cause to an effect, to produce a 'what' happening. How do we do it? We don't need to know! The best magic simply happens. The next best happens with training. Only the rubbishy sorts who putter and dabble and read things in books—" He caught himself, and his expression grew very black. He had to take several deep breaths before he regained control of himself. "Only such as those need to ask 'how' questions," he finally said.<br/>
<br/>
"But what do you mean, you connect cause and effect?"<br/>
<br/>
"Cause and effect," he repeated, as though to a slow child. He held out his hands one at a time. "Cause. And effect. Action. And response." He twined his fingers. "Brought together."<br/>
<br/>
"But how—?" He held up a warning finger. "How—?" Two warning fingers. You sighed. "But how—?" He clenched his fist, and you felt your throat briefly close, then open again.<br/>
<br/>
"Not 'how', Will. Never ask 'how'. That is the scientist. The magician asks three questions: What do I start with? What do I end with? And what changes one into the other? Example." He held up the same damn coin. "What do I start with? Heads. What do I end with? Tails. And what changes one into the other?" His fingers flickered. "The action of my hand. It's so simple that only a child understands that it is magic."<br/>
<br/>
That's stupid, and your expression alone would have told him that's what you thought if you hadn't added, "No! You start with heads. You end with tails. How do you change them? You flip the coin." You gave an exasperated snort.<br/>
<br/>
He waved at you dismissively. "You just repeated what I said. Only a semantic difference. The real 'how' question, the scientist's 'how' question, is 'How does your hand flip them?' So go on: How does your hand flip them?"<br/>
<br/>
You started to answer but then stopped. You looked at your hand. You turned it over. Flesh, blood, tendons, bones, muscles; nerves running to your brain. Brain and nerves and hand. Flipping your hand is ... flipping your hand. But the how ... does that happen in your brain or in your hand? Both? At once, and everywhere in between?<br/>
<br/>
You glanced up to see Blackwell snickering. "You see? 'How', you can't answer. 'What', you can."<br/>
<br/>
"So why isn't all magic that simple?"<br/>
<br/>
"Perhaps once it was," he shrugged. "No one really knows. People just say 'What do I want' and then get lost in 'How am I going to get it?' Even I do, which is why I travel by car instead of on a flying rug. And for getting the magic to work you have to ask the right 'what' question. If you don't ask the right 'what' question, then nothing will happen. Well, if you're lucky, nothing will happen. If you're unlucky, something very bad will happen."<br/>
<br/>
You started. "Like 'The Monkey's Paw'!" you exclaimed. "You want something, but you ask for it the wrong way!"<br/>
<br/>
"Exactly!" Blackwell beamed. "The poor woman wanted her dead son to come back. But she didn't ask 'What am I starting with?' And so she got a corpse walking up her garden path."<br/>
<br/>
You pondered this. "But there has to be a 'how' in there someplace, doesn't there? I mean, don't you need spells and wands and magic words—" Probably it was good you trailed off before the name "Harry Potter" came spilling off your lips. <br/>
<br/>
"You don't step across the room in one leap, Will," Blackwell said. "You take a lot of small steps. It's the same with magic. To get the big 'what' to work you have to craft lots of little 'what' steps in between. That's the difference between my coin example and what you would call 'spells'. The 'what' that transforms the first stage to the final stage is a bridge of many small stones, many turns of the hand." <br/>
<br/>
He set the coin into the middle of one of designs you had been tracing.<br/>
<br/>
"I want to melt that coin," he said. "What do I start with? A solid object. What do I end with? A liquid object. What takes me from one to the other? This sigil." He pointed to a filigree on one of its edges. "Start with a symbol for solidity. What makes it a symbol for solidity? Its shape. What makes that shape the symbol for solidity? Its isomorphism to an astral projection." <br/>
<br/>
He shrugged. "Well, that's what theory says, anyway, and here's a spot where the magicians are no better off than the theoretical physicists. But there is also a symbol for liquidity." He pointed to another spot on the sigil. "And they are bound, in sequence, by many more symbols denoting heat, because you don't want the thing to set the paper on fire; and light, because maybe you don't want to call attention to yourself; and material, because perhaps you don't want the hand holding the object to melt, and so on.<br/>
<br/>
"If you are very clear in your mind, and you see the connections and traps, you can map your way through the maze of possibilities that lies between what you start with and what you end with. And the map of that maze is this." He points to the sigil. <br/>
<br/>
"It's all inside that?" you asked.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh no," he said. "You often need materials, though there the choice is often up to the magician."<br/>
<br/>
"How can that be? I mean—" You hastened to cover up the '"how." "I mean, What makes it the magician's choice?"<br/>
<br/>
"Force," he thundered, and for a moment he was like an academic and more like a bearded prophet come down from a mountaintop, and he had brought most of the mountaintop with him; a stormy smoke seemed to rise up behind him. <br/>
<br/>
"Force!" he repeated. "Force of intellect, force of character, force of will! The magician by his raw strength grasps things that are not connected and connects them!"<br/>
<br/>
"But aren't there laws of magic?" you squeaked. "Like laws of physics?"<br/>
<br/>
There faded that impression of thunderheads arranged behind him like a curtain, and Blackwell was once more just a professor dressed in a shabby sweater and slippers. He made a face. <br/>
<br/>
"Perhaps in some fundamental sense," he said. "No one knows what makes the very small changes work, we just know that they do, and that is enough. But to make a new change you don't 'discover' how to make it work. You <i>craft</i> a way to make it work, using other devices whose potency is unquestioned. Once such a technique is crafted, of course, another can use it. Because those who come later know it works, and that is enough. That is why—" He took a breath. "That is why the dabblers, those who have to read books, can still perform magic. They cannot make new magic, but they can perform the old. Even those who are not magicians can accidentally perform it, if they have accidentally picked up the right ingredients and instruments."<br/>
<br/>
"So what is the difference between a dabbler and ..."?<br/>
<br/>
"And a magician? Don't be so shy of the word. The magician, for whatever reason, is strong enough to craft a new bond."<br/>
<br/>
"So if I'm a magician—"<br/>
<br/>
He held up a finger. "Not yet. Though you have promise."<br/>
<br/>
"So if I want to help Caleb, how— I mean, what can I do?"<br/>
<br/>
He looked grave. "You have to put Caleb out of your mind for the moment. Crafting such a thing between two other people is very tricky. I was able to do it for you with the gypsy's curse, but it's an advanced technique. You must start with yourself. Not 'what do I want for my friend?' but 'What do I want for myself?'<br/>
<br/>
"Well," he then asked with a wry cock of the eyebrow. "What does a seventeen-year-old lad like yourself want for himself?"<br/>
<br/>
That's when he stopped to suggest lunch.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Money? Power? Influence? Popularity? Eternal youth? Sex? A girlfriend? <br/>
<br/>
Justice? World peace? An end to hunger and pestilence?<br/>
<br/>
Congressmen worth voting for?<br/>
<br/>
To help Caleb?<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell brings out lunch: a rich and savory stew, and you realize you are very hungry. Before you can pick up the spoon, though, he admonishes you. "You have to answer my question. What do you want for yourself?"</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Ambition of Will Prescott
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>What do you want? Absolute power. <br/>
<br/>
Well, no. Just the power to punish the wicked and reward the good; to get what you need (and maybe a little bit of what you want) and to help your friends. You want to rearrange things for your own satisfaction and for the satisfaction of ... well, the people who deserve to be satisfied.<br/>
<br/>
But you phrase it differently, remembering what Blackwell said about being "higher" than those who could bully you.<br/>
<br/>
"I want what Black and Lynch and Patterson have," you tell him slowly. "I want to be one of the top guys at the high school. I want to be one of the guys that isn't afraid of anyone, that others people are afraid of. I want to be one of the guys who tells people where they can and can't sit." You feel your lips curl hungrily. "I want to be one of those guys who puts other people in the places that they deserve."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell regards you silently for a good long time. He stirs his stew but doesn't eat any of it. You grow very fearful that he's going to tell you that you're asking for something not just impossible but very foolish. You pre-empt him.<br/>
<br/>
"No, you're not being foolish, not at all," he replies. "You are actually being quite perceptive. Moving things around in the physical world is no great trick. Any fool can build a bridge, just as any fool can take it down with a bomb. Moving <i>people</i> around, though ... That is what every great man from Sargon to Shih huang-ti, Genghis Khan to Napoleon, has tried to do."<br/>
<br/>
You blush. <br/>
<br/>
"But it is very difficult," he adds.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I don't want this power over the world," you hurriedly say. "Just in my high school."<br/>
<br/>
"That is scarcely less difficult," he retorts. "These fellow have what they have because they fought for it. They are athletes?" You nod. "That makes them popular, which attracts admiration, which gives them authority, which they use to protect and enhance their reputations. Had you the same level of skill, you could not win the same position, for you would not know how to use it. Are all the athletes at your school so powerful?"<br/>
<br/>
You think of one of the wrestlers, Derek Balaban. Handsome guy, well-built. He should be popular, but he keeps to himself and hardly anyone pays attention to him.<br/>
<br/>
"There is another way," Blackwell murmurs.  He looks at you keenly. "We became acquainted, Will, because one of my books found its way to your possession. I am beginning to wonder whether it did not <i>seek you out.</i>" He studies you carefully. "I will have something to show you tomorrow afternoon."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"What would you ask for if you could have anything?" you ask. It's Saturday night, and your friends are finally willing to hang out with you—but only at the old elementary school near your house.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb sucks on the cancer stick and exhales a long stream of smoke; he's been watching Bogart movies again. "Who am I asking, Cindy Vredenburg or Santa Claus?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Couldn't Santa give you what you want?" Keith asks. "He's got that magic bag."<br/>
<br/>
"Would <i>you</i> ask Santa for a blow job," Caleb retorts.<br/>
<br/>
"He could pull Cindy out of the bag, right?" Keith says.<br/>
<br/>
"Not if he doesn't want to be taken down on kidnapping charges."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Blackwell seems very chipper the next day. "Did you have a pleasant Saturday night?"<br/>
<br/>
"I guess. Hung out with friends." You shrug. "You know, my friend Caleb might make a good magician."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell freezes. "Please don't say such things," he snaps. "This is a high and abstruse art we are investigating, and it is not for common minds or boys."<br/>
<br/>
"But—"<br/>
<br/>
He holds up a hand. "I really must have your word on this, William, that you will not share <i>anything</i> that you learn with me. Not with your family and not with your friends. As far as they are concerned, this is library work."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, but—"<br/>
<br/>
"Have I your word?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah."<br/>
<br/>
"<i>Have I your word?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
His voice is like thunder. You gulp: this guy could really fuck you up if you pissed him off.<br/>
<br/>
You raise your hand: "I will sign anything, give blood, make any oath, draw up any sigil. Whatever you need me to do. I won't tell anyone <i>anything</i> about what we're doing."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell holds your eye, and then smiles. "Your word is good enough for me, Will."<br/>
<br/>
Your promise restores his good humor, and he hums a pop song as he leads you up the great staircase to the second floor, then along a corridor to a back staircase leading to the small third-story loft. "This is my work room," he says. The door opens into a small space dominated by a work table. Instruments of a vaguely familiar shape hang on the walls. "The window, of course," he says, "is angled to catch the full moon on propitious days of the year."<br/>
<br/>
He turns. "I am going to initiate you in your first great piece of magic. Something to demonstrate the kind of power you aspire to control. It is a thing far beyond your skill, and barely within the compass of my own. But you need know nothing of its operations. It is merely an instrument. As, ultimately, all magic is an instrument of the magician's purposes."<br/>
<br/>
He holds an object that looks like a tragedian's mask. It has the oval shape of a face, and it is bent and bowed with a brow and nose and mouth; but the eyes are simple blanks. It glows with a burnished blue color, and odd reflections play off its surfaces.<br/>
<br/>
"You say you want to possess what certain of your classmates possess. With a device such as this, you can possess <i>everything</i> that they possess." <br/>
<br/>
You take the mask from him. It is not heavy; and maybe only your own excitement makes it burn to the touch. "What do I do?"<br/>
<br/>
"Good," he smiles. "Not 'How does it work' but 'What do I do'. Take it to the next room. Remove your clothes—you will not want them on you—and lay upon the ground. Place the <i>persona</i> upon your face. Then return here."<br/>
<br/>
You give him a look. <i>Take my clothes off?</i> But Black only smiles back. So, feeling no little trepidation, you do as he asks.<br/>
<br/>
The next room is the size of a walk-in closet, holding only a small skylight and a full-length mirror. You pull off your clothes, lay on the ground, and, after taking a deep breath, drop the mask onto your face.<br/>
<br/>
For an instant only you feel like you are suffocating, and then something like liquid gold washes over you. Your muscles and bone seem to catch fire and liquefy; it should be painful, but it actually feels quite delightful. There is a brief moment of dizziness, and you know no more.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
When your eyes next snap open you are staring directly at the skylight. You press your face and rub it and sigh; you feel very relaxed. You sit up and look around for your clothes, and and vaguely wondering what happened to that mask-thing-doohicky that Blackwell gave you, when discover you're not alone. There's another guy in the room with you. <br/>
<br/>
He's squatting on the floor next to you. And like you, he's naked.<br/>
<br/>
You gasp and stumble back; he does too. You stare at him in open shock, and he stares back at you with the same expression. His hair is cut short, and he has piggy eyes, strong shoulders, and beefy biceps—one of which is ringed by an armband tattoo. His pectorals are like slabs. He has a beer belly, but it isn't grotesque. You notice that he crouches in a frozen attitude and is studying you with the same intensity that you are studying him. Every time you glance passes his face, his eyes catch yours. <br/>
<br/>
And then you realize he is sitting inside that full-length mirror. You whirl— But there is no one behind you. You look back in the mirror. The guy in the mirror stares back with slack-jawed astonishment.<br/>
<br/>
Then you realize you can't find your own reflection. Only his.<br/>
<br/>
You straighten up. "Jesus Christ," you murmur. His legs—your legs—are thick and stubby; one of the calves has another tattoo. You run your hands lightly over your chest, checking that it is not an illusion, and his run over his body. You tear your gaze from the mirror to look yourself over.<br/>
<br/>
You stroke the tattoo that twines around your bicep. You brush your hair;, it is cut very short. You press your hand over your face and lick your thick, chapped lips. It's not a good-looking face. Flat, with an upturned nose and deep-set eyes that peer out at the world. But your cock is longer and thicker than it had been.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell turns when you open the door. "I thought I heard noises, but I wasn't sure if they were happy or not," he says. <br/>
<br/>
"Is this an illusion?" you ask. Your voice sounds funny in your ears—deeper.<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs. "It is a mask, so if a mask is an illusion then that is an illusion."<br/>
<br/>
"No one would recognize me!"<br/>
<br/>
"Not in a million years. Even your fingerprints are no longer the same."<br/>
<br/>
"How did you make it? I mean—" <br/>
<br/>
"I can describe that later. Right now, just know that this is a real face and a real body, as real to the touch as it is to the eyes. I think his name is Jared, but he might been lying." <br/>
<br/>
You gape. "This— This is somebody's—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not a somebody, Will. A nobody. Just a fraternity brother who spends his days drinking beer and smoking weed and doing poorly in his classes. He lives only for weekends, when he can use his frat connections to bed co-eds. At least," he adds reflectively, "that's the impression I have of him."<br/>
<br/>
"I could go out and pretend to be him," you murmur.<br/>
<br/>
"Could you? Do you know where he lives?"<br/>
<br/>
You think. "No. No, I don't know anything about him."<br/>
<br/>
"But you appreciate the possibilities. Would you like to explore those possibilities further?"</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Making of the First Mask
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"It doesn't look that hard," you insist. "Wouldn't it be safer to copy it out on another piece of paper, like the others?"<br/>
<br/>
"We can't—"<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, what if I spill something on the book?"<br/>
<br/>
"You <i>don't</i> spill anything on the book," Blackwell says. His mouth is a line. "The man who made this book was a very powerful magician, and he made sure that only the sigils contained on its pages could perform the magic. Copy the sigils out, and you'll only have a pretty design."<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. "I guess it saves us work."<br/>
<br/>
It is Monday afternoon, after school, and you are again up in that cramped, second-floor workroom. Blackwell has brought out the <i>Summa Libra Personae</i> <br/>
<br/>
The <i>Summa Libra Personsae</i> is the book that you found at Arnholm's, that you sold back to Blackwell, and he is showing you its spells. You are still on the first one, the one that shows how to make a mask like the one of that "Jared" bro. <br/>
<br/>
"So, I put the the stuff on the sigil," you say as you carefully set a bowl of powders and liquids onto the open pages of the book.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. Now pour—<i>carefully</i>—and light. Wait! Let me open that window."<br/>
<br/>
The noxious stench and smoke that pours out of the burning bowl almost sends you reeling from the work room. "You know," you choke, "I thought there was something off about this room when I first walked in."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell's own eyes are watering. "And the really unfortunate thing," he gasps, "is that you never really get used to it." Both of you are soon retching.<br/>
<br/>
But the fans he set up soon blow most of the smell from the room. He then shows you how to pour the stuff over a convex mirror. He cautions you before you pick up the dried shell, so that you don't drop it when it twists in your hand into the shape of a mask. <br/>
<br/>
"Something went wrong," you say. "It's the wrong color." It's a dull gray, not the brilliant blue of the mask that holds Jared's image.<br/>
<br/>
"Check the instructions again," he orders. You look over the ornate Latin written on the page and shake your head.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell sighs. "What do they teach these days?" he says. "Before we go much further I'm going to have to start giving you Latin lessons."<br/>
<br/>
"Why doesn't someone just make a translation?"<br/>
<br/>
"Easier said than done. Fortunately. It is a very bad idea to leave magic words—even words that only describe magic—laying around. It's like leaving gunpowder around. The crafting of a book such as this is itself an arcane art, and it is made in such a way that it is very difficult to copy out anything that it contains. You've got to be able to <i>use</i> the book, and that means being able to <i>read</i> it."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, if I'm going to finish this spell before I graduate from college, maybe you could give me a hint?"<br/>
<br/>
He ignores the sarcasm in your voice. "You have to polish it." He hands you a rag. "Better get started. It will only take you the rest of the week."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"How much is this guy paying you?" your dad asks that evening. He spoons some potatoes onto his plate and regards you skeptically from under lowered brows.<br/>
<br/>
"Ten dollars an hour?" you say. Actually, Blackwell is no longer paying you anything; but the lessons he teaches as you help him with housework and cataloging and research are free.<br/>
<br/>
Your father chews thoughtfully. "Lotta money for library work."<br/>
<br/>
"You should see the library."<br/>
<br/>
"Can I?"<br/>
<br/>
You wince. "He's a real private guy."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh. Well, I like to know where my son is working, and for who."<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, he's a professor of archaeology at the university. You know, like Indiana Jones." Of course, Aubrey Blackwell is about as far from Indiana Jones as one can get.<br/>
<br/>
Your dad ponders this as he stabs at his vegetables, but you can tell he isn't really convinced. "Well, I suppose that's okay." His tone says it's not. "But I don't want you over there more than two hours a day."<br/>
<br/>
"Dad!"<br/>
<br/>
"You're going to argue?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, Will, you're going to argue?" Your thirteen-year-old brother grins at you from his side of the dining table.<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up! Dad, you can't do this—"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't talk to your brother that way, and yes I <i>can</i> do it to you." Your father's eyes flash. "You have chores here, we hardly see you anymore, and your schoolwork is suffering."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm doing my schoolwork over there!"<br/>
<br/>
His eyebrows shoot up. "He's paying you to do your homework?"<br/>
<br/>
"No!" You snap your mouth shut and glower at your uneaten dinner. "When I'm done working for  him," you continue in a quieter tone, "I do my homework in his library. It's quiet and I don't have any distractions." That's a huge lie; you haven't done a lick of homework in almost ten days, and the library is still creepy, though its familiarity is beginning to rub the worst aspects away.<br/>
<br/>
"And he doesn't mind?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. He's off in his own world." Well, at least that much is true. "If you stop me working there, it's like making me take a pay cut. Are you willing to pay me the difference, for the pleasure of my company here?"<br/>
<br/>
"Cut the sarcasm, mister. I'll pay you ten dollars an hour for your chores here, for up to ten dollars." You make a face and sneer at the ceiling. "Or I pay you nothing. It's your choice."<br/>
<br/>
"Harris," your mother says in a pained voice. "Will has a point. If you're going to make him cut back paying hours, shouldn't we make it up to him?"<br/>
<br/>
Your father looks at you. "How much time would you spend working over there, if you could set your own hours?"<br/>
<br/>
"Twelve hours. Fifteen. Twenty-four." You push back from the table, ignoring your father's command to return, and stomp from the room.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're in a stormy mood when you hit school the next morning. Caleb and Keith are still avoiding you. In fact, as you look around in class and on the quad and in the library, it seems that lots of people are avoiding you. Even eye contact is rare.<br/>
<br/>
This is bullshit. You're not afraid of Lynch and the others any more, and it pisses you off that people think you're still on their hit list or something. So at lunch you seek them out in the cafeteria.<br/>
<br/>
The bunch of them are at the head table—Lynch and Black and Patterson and Javits; the cheerleaders Chelsea Cooper and Gloria Rea and Maria Vasquez and Lin Pol and Kendra Saunders; and assorted hangers on and suck ups—laughing and hooting. It's Dalton Douglas, one of their would-be players, who spots you gazing calmly at them from the end of the table.  <br/>
<br/>
"Whoa, it's Bill Gates," he jeers. "Here to spread the wealth?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll give you twenty dollars to leave me alone," you say, proffering one of the remaining gypsy bills in your possession.<br/>
<br/>
He snatches it from you. "Thanks. Same time tomorrow?" He winks and nudges Lynch in the ribs.<br/>
<br/>
But Lynch just stares at you. His cheeks are white and his lips peel back. His blue psycho eyes glow with an intense hatred, but they are white around the rims. The basketball players stare down at their trays and pointedly ignore you.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm in a generous mood today," you say softly. "Anyone else want some?" There are snickers from all the suck ups, but the big boys are silent.<br/>
<br/>
And the girls are sullen, too. "Why don't you get out of here, you creep?" Chelsea sneers. "I'll kick your ass myself."<br/>
<br/>
"Kick my ass or kiss it?" She flushes. "You hear that, Black? I just told your girlfriend to kiss my ass." The giant basketball player turns very red in the face and glares up at you. "Why don't you come fuck me up?"<br/>
<br/>
He rises, but he doesn't even unfold to his full height before his legs give out from under him and he falls back into his seat. Even from six feet away, you can see him shaking violently.<br/>
<br/>
Your gaze travels around the table. No one moves.<br/>
<br/>
You suck on your cheek, grin, and wave your hand in front of your face. "Phew. Who shat their pants? Was it you, Javits?"<br/>
<br/>
Douglas stands and advances on you, then pauses. He looks at you uncertainly, then looks back over his shoulder at the rest of the table. With a dark glance at you he sits back down.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I thought we might reach this point sooner or later," Blackwell sighs. <br/>
<br/>
It's Tuesday afternoon, and he has taken over polishing the mask while you carry books up and down the ladder to the shelves. You shudder each time you have to pass one of the animal statues in its niche. Your cheery mood from lunch has evaporated under their malicious gaze, and the subject of your curtailed hours has put you in a positive funk. <br/>
<br/>
"Yes, but I'd hoped we'd avoid reaching it quite so quickly," Blackwell repeats.<br/>
<br/>
"Look," you say, "I suppose I can still come over for a couple of hours on weekends. And maybe you could give me homework?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I'm not about to give you homework," he says. "Nothing you make or study is to leave this house." He peers at the mask; most of one cheek is now a bright blue. "What I'm talking about is making arrangements so that you can continue to work here for whatever hours you like."<br/>
<br/>
"You're gonna have a hard time convincing my father. He's the most bull-headed—"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, convincing your father is definitely one possibility, and it shouldn't be too hard to do."<br/>
<br/>
You turn slowly on the ladder and look down at him. He is contentedly polishing away, and is either stupidly oblivious to the impossibility of what he has proposed, or he is suggesting ...<br/>
<br/>
"Are there any other ways?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs. "We might arrange it so that they <i>do</i> think you're spending your evenings at home."</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112
author_id: seuzz
title: The Big Double-You
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I'd planned on showing you these elements one at a time," Blackwell says as he ushers you into one of the spare bedrooms. "Try not to get too excited—or too frightened."<br/>
<br/>
You tense. He's never warned you about the library. What could be so awful that it makes the library seem normal?<br/>
<br/>
He gestures at the thing standing in the corner. It looks like a store mannequin, but not one of those detailed ones. It's just a gray-hued hulk, vaguely humanoid in shape and size. "That is something you may have read about," Blackwell says. "A golem." <br/>
<br/>
As he speaks, he unlocks a tall cabinet mounted on an otherwise bare wall. Inside, hanging on pegs, are three blue masks—<i>personas</i> as he calls them—and on a shelf sit two metal bands. He catches you looking over his shoulder, and maneuvers to block further views. He takes one of the masks down, and closes and locks the cabinet.<br/>
<br/>
"I am making a considerable sacrifice on your behalf," he sighs. "But you are worth it. In fact, I think I'll turn a profit. Here. Lay down on the bed and put this on," he says as he holds out the mask.<br/>
<br/>
"Who is it? Do I need to take my clothes off?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's no one yet," he says, "and you can lay down as you are."<br/>
<br/>
You stretch out on the bed and drop the mask over your face. Again, you are overcome with drowsiness, and a feeling of heavy weights settles over you. They seem to press you down into the bed. They press on your eyes and on your mind. They sink over you and drag you down. You feel as though you are pushed into through the bed and through the floor below ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
With a gasp you sit up; the mask falls into your lap. You feel as though you have woken from a long and exhausting sleep. "What happened?"<br/>
<br/>
"You were out for quite a number of minutes," Blackwell says. He is standing by the window, looking down onto the grounds. "Look at the mask now."<br/>
<br/>
You examine it, as you had examined the mask of Jared on Sunday. Like that mask, it contains an image: something like a 3D effect. You gasp to recognize your own face.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, this is where it gets a little frightening," Blackwell says. "But don't be afraid. It's just a tool. Now turn it over."<br/>
<br/>
You examine the inside of the mask, and swallow hard. The mask of Jared had simply been blank and blue all over, but inside this one, attached to the reverse of the brow, is a metal strip. Over it, in the air, float ethereal letters: WILLIAM MARTIN PRESCOTT.<br/>
<br/>
"When did you make this?" Your voice sounds strangled.<br/>
<br/>
"Just now," he replies. "And I finished it while you were asleep. It is my last blank mask, until you finish the one you are working on now. Well, it was blank. Then you put it on your own face, just now. Now it contains a copy of you."<br/>
<br/>
You swallow. "Why does it know my name?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because it knows you, now." He doesn't walk toward you directly; he just sort of strolls around the room until he is by your side. "The mask of Jared only records his image. But this one ... You see that metal strip on the inside? It's ... well I suppose it's like a microchip. And it now holds everything that was inside your head." He points to his temple. "All your memories. Your likes and dislikes. Your personality. Your dispositions. Your talents and skills. Well, most of them." He is by your side now. "The stuff that makes you into you, not just your body, but the stuff on the inside. It is all now inside that mask as well."<br/>
<br/>
"What happens if I put it on?" You feel very cold all over.<br/>
<br/>
"If you put it on? Nothing. You can't disguise yourself as yourself. But if another person put it on ... Well, I'm afraid they would look just like you. They would be able to think and act just like you, too. They would be the perfect imposter, because there is nothing you know that they wouldn't know also, nothing you can do that they couldn't do, and just as easily and naturally."<br/>
<br/>
Something seems to be squeezing your throat now. "What are you going to do with it?"<br/>
<br/>
You look up at him. He holds your eye.<br/>
<br/>
Then he smiles genially. "Not that, Will. I respect your privacy just as much as you respect mine. But we need to fool your family. That is where the golem comes in."<br/>
<br/>
He takes the mask from you and places it against the blank face of the mannequin in the corner. The mask vanishes, and the thing ripples and changes. It seems to flex and distort. And then it is no longer a featureless mannequin, but an identical but naked duplicate of you. It settles back on its heels and opens its eyes.<br/>
<br/>
First it looks at Blackwell, and then it looks at you. It stares. Then its mouth opens in surprise and delight. You unconsciously shrink back as it steps forward.<br/>
<br/>
"Whoa," it says in a voice that you recognize is your own. "Like, double your pleasure, double your fun, eh, boss?" It grins at Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
"William Prescott, may I present you with William Prescott," Blackwell says, ambiguously.<br/>
<br/>
Your twin steps forward, grinning at you. It extends its hand. "Can I touch it, boss?"<br/>
<br/>
"Him, William, him. <i>You</i> are the 'it'."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, right." The other boy's fingers flex hungrily as he reaches for your face.<br/>
<br/>
You put your hand to his, and your fingers lock together. His grin widens. You block his other hand. <br/>
<br/>
And then you are wrestling.<br/>
<br/>
"Fight it, Will, fight it!" Blackwell exclaims. "You can't let your doppelganger defeat you!"<br/>
<br/>
With a snarl the other you pushes you back on the bed, but you twist out from under and push him off. You jump at him, and the pair of you ram into the wall. His face turns red, and he glares at you, pushing you back. You slip and fall and he piles onto you, trying to grab a hold around your head and neck that will lock you down. But then he slips—his bare feet scuttling on the polished wooden floor—and you twist over and push him down. You drop onto his chest.<br/>
<br/>
"Get off me, you fucker!" it shrieks. "I'll make you suck my cock!"<br/>
<br/>
"Eat my shit!"<br/>
<br/>
His lip curls. "I'll give you twenty dollars to leave me alone."<br/>
<br/>
You look up at Blackwell in alarm. "Can it do that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Of course not. It is a creature of magic, and incapable of practicing it."<br/>
<br/>
You grin down at your double. "Looks I'll be the one fucking you up."<br/>
<br/>
"Suck it, douchebag!"<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, stop it, both of you." Blackwell leans over and puts a finger in the thing's face. "You have to do what he says."<br/>
<br/>
"How come? He's not the boss of me, and you can't make him the boss of me neither!"<br/>
<br/>
"But you want to do what he says," Blackwell says in an insinuating tone.<br/>
<br/>
The thing your face blinks. "Oh, that's right. Dur!" He smiles up at you, but this time the grin is completely free of malice. "Sorry about that, dude. Pax?" He extends a hand.<br/>
<br/>
You shake and help pull him to his feet. Once up, he hangs a friendly arm around your neck. "We're gonna have a fuckload of fun, you and me, you know?" He looks down. "I mean, look at that, I'm getting a boner just thinking about it!"<br/>
<br/>
"This has been a delightful meeting of minds," Blackwell says, looking at his watch, "but it is time for you to go home, Will."<br/>
<br/>
You and your twin look at him, and then you look at each other, and then you and Blackwell look at the golem. <br/>
<br/>
His face falls. "Oh, shit!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Blackwell puts you in a wonderfully thick bathrobe once the other you has gone (in your clothes) and leads you downstairs to his living room, where the two of you sit down, each to polish a mask—for he has made another—while discussing plans.<br/>
<br/>
"You'll have to start spending the nights here, of course," he says. "I want you, and not your twin, to go to school, however. He'll stop by on his way to class, and the two of you will switch out. Pressing the mask to your face will give you all the memories it has accumulated in the meantime, so you won't get lost."<br/>
<br/>
"How many of these things do you have?"<br/>
<br/>
"At least two," he says curtly. "I need this one"—he gestures at the mask he is polishing—"for another ... project ... of mine. Your mask, however, will be yours to do with as you wish. I'll show you how to seal it and to make the mind strip. We should be ready by the beginning of next week, so you should start giving thought to what you will do with your mask."<br/>
<br/>
That's what you do for the rest of the evening, even while trying to be distracted by the old movie he puts in the DVD player.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Shortly before midnight—"It isn't healthy to walk afterward"—he takes you to the guest bedroom. Like the other rooms on the second floor, it is small and a little cold; the floor is wood, and the ceiling feels too low. But it is cozy, and you feel tired. Blackwell's parting words give you pause, though.<br/>
<br/>
"This house has a security system," he says, "but as you can imagine, it is a little unorthodox. It is also very sensitive. Pray do not open your door before dawn."<br/>
<br/>
You slip between the sheets and try to relax. When you sold the book back to Blackwell you were determined to have nothing more to do with him. Now you are sleeping in his house. Idly, you wonder what your doppelganger is up to in your own bed. If it really is a perfect duplicate of you ... <br/>
<br/>
You grimace and blush.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The glowing face of the digital clock—a real anachronism in this room—reads a little after two when you hear the door handle jiggle. You look over: someone or something is fumbling at it. Is it Blackwell, trying to get in? He said there was a security system, but could it be a burglar?<br/>
<br/>
Footsteps move off down the hall, and there is sound of a far off door opening and closing.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121
author_id: seuzz
title: School Days
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You listen intently, but the noises do not return before you fall asleep again. You mean to mention them to Blackwell the next morning, but you cannot find him until you are washing up from breakfast, when he comes in through the kitchen door, followed by your golem. Both are laughing.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell turns a puckish eye on you. "It sounds like you had a fun night, Will," he says. "I suppose you'll find out soon enough. You're running late, so let's make the trade now." At a word, the golem quickly slips out of its clothes, and then with a muttered string of words Blackwell reaches up and rips at its face. It instantly reverts to a featureless statue, and he hands you the mask.<br/>
<br/>
You sit and press it to your face. You almost pass out from the rush of images, sounds, thoughts, and emotions: another argument with your father; chasing your brother from your room; driving off to meet Keith for a study session that turned into game of pool at the establishment across from the municipal library; the shouting and shoving match with a group of bikers followed by a quick exit and flight around the block before doubling back to Keith's car; getting yelled at by your dad again for being late; going to bed and ... yeah. It was a real relaxing one, too.<br/>
<br/>
You slip the mask into the bottom of your back pack, dress, and rush off to school.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The days that follow are weirdly bifurcated. Each afternoon you go to Blackwell's house after school, where you switch out with the golem—an easy trick that he doesn't even need to supervise. At Blackwell's insistence, though, you then change into the Jared mask (for he says he doesn't want anyone, even accidentally, to spot two of you) and slip into some cheap cotton shorts, t-shirt, and flip-flops that you picked up for clothing. You don't argue: you enjoy feeling strong, even though you are no better trained with these muscles than you were with your old. <br/>
<br/>
Then you reshelve the books he has used during the previous night and day. You follow that by practicing making the fundamental sigil symbols he has taught you: those for the elements, the numbers, the powers, the zodiac signs ["a barbarous system inherited from primitives and ignoramuses," he complains, "but one that is used in almost every sigil"], the modes, the humors ["God save us from quackery"], the atoms ["enlightenment, finally!"], and others. The hardest are the conjugations and the tenses, but he explains that if you cannot frame the commands to come off at the right times and in the right directions, then you might as well aim a loaded pistol at your own temple.<br/>
<br/>
He sets you puzzles: "Start with a blind cat," he orders, and you combine the symbols for "sight" and "dark" and "cat", twining them with the symbols for "grasp now". He corrects you with a smile: "No, you've got it looking for a black cat blessed with clairvoyance. Which wouldn't be a bad trick to pull off, now that I think about it. What would that end state sigil be?" So you write "sight" and "dark" and "cat" and twine them with the symbols for "lo and behold." "Excellent," he says. "Now switch the sigils for 'sight' and 'dark'—mind you correct that curve the right way—and you'll have your starting 'what' and ending 'what'. Now you just have to find some way of getting a blind eye to see into the future."<br/>
<br/>
You ponder the challenge, believing him serious. "Perhaps the eye sees only light rays that haven't hit it yet."<br/>
<br/>
He looks impressed. "That may be part of the solution," he admits. "But never mind," he adds, dismissing the problem with a wave of his hand.<br/>
<br/>
Latin, you find, is much harder, but he presses it upon you for an hour a day.<br/>
<br/>
Then there is dinner, and an hour studying and analyzing the sigils for the first three spells in the <i>Libra Personae</i>. They would be simple to copy, but their meaning is wicked-hard, for you cannot see why they should lock together in any meaningful way. He has to guide you through each, showing how an immense complex of thought and command unfolds through inference and implication. He also has you make up a mind-strip (very easy) and the sealant for a mask (also easy). Without the latter, he explains, a mask will absorb images and combine them into new forms of people who don't actually exist. "A useful trick," he says, "and one I should have used on Jared, but I didn't have a chance."<br/>
<br/>
And from then until bed you polish masks while relaxing and watching movies or reruns on cable TV. <br/>
<br/>
You continue to hear odd noises in the night, but you are now certain that they are only the "security system" and ignore them.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
School, though, is a little more fraught. Caleb and Keith still refuse to be seen with you. You finally corner Keith in the boys' bathroom between periods. "Dude, why are you avoiding me?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not avoiding you," he says, pressing himself against the back wall.<br/>
<br/>
"The Molester and the others aren't going to go after you just because you hang out with me."<br/>
<br/>
"Actually, they might," Keith says. "You've seen Caleb, right?"<br/>
<br/>
Yeah, his eyes are still black. "The Molester still giving him shit?"<br/>
<br/>
Keith nods. "And I'm doing my best stay out of Javits' eye line."<br/>
<br/>
"So hang out with me. They won't touch you then."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," he drawls. "People have kind of noticed that. It's freaking a lot of them out. Um, no offense, but me and Caleb included."<br/>
<br/>
"They're noticing that I'm not getting beaten up by Lynch and those guys? Funny, they never noticed before when I wasn't getting beaten up by them."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, that it is funny. But no one's laughing. Google 'freaky dick,' and your Facebook page comes up as the top hit. Which, considering what else is out there, is pretty impressive."<br/>
<br/>
"Come on, be a pal again."<br/>
<br/>
"I am your pal. Please don't hurt me."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
And then late on Friday Blackwell's doorbell rings. You're glad you're wearing the Jared mask when you answer the door: It's your dad. You jump a little.<br/>
<br/>
He notices, but says nothing. "Is Professor Blackwell home? My name is Harris Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," you say, and let him in. "He's upstairs. If you'll wait in the living room, I'll get him."<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks." Your father follows you into the back of the house. "Do you work for the professor?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm doing some library work for him. Assisting."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah. It's a big library?"<br/>
<br/>
"Biggest I've seen outside a public library." Your heart is thumping hard.<br/>
<br/>
"May I see it?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's ... Well, Professor Blackwell is a little funny about it." You don't want your dad seeing Dracula's Own Bookshop for himself. "He, uh, has lots of rarities in there, and I think he's kind of paranoid about people seeing what he has. Might give them ideas about stealing them or something."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh. How long have you worked for the Professor?"<br/>
<br/>
"A few days. He likes me, so he trusts me."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you the only one who works for him?"<br/>
<br/>
You suddenly guess where this is going. "No. There's another guy, a high school kid, who comes in during the early afternoons. What did you say your name was?"<br/>
<br/>
"Harris Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"You're Will's dad, then." You have to fight down a panicked grin. It's really weird talking about yourself to your own dad as though you're another person.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you know Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"Vaguely. Now I know who you reminded me of. I see the resemblance. Yeah, we pass each other in the door, him going out while I'm going in."<br/>
<br/>
"Was he here yesterday?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Bingo.</i> "I guess. I didn't see him. I think he returned some books to the university library for the professor. I was supposed to, but I forgot." You grimace. "Got chewed out kind of good."<br/>
<br/>
Your dad visibly relaxes. Apparently he saw you at or near the university library yesterday, when you were doing some extracurricular research before going over to Blackwell's. And he was checking up to see if there actually was a job ...<br/>
<br/>
"So, I'll go get the professor now."<br/>
<br/>
"That's alright, you've answered my questions." He turns to go.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, okay. Say hi to Will for me," you say as he leaves.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You quickly call your twin with an account of the meeting so your stories will be straight. You spend all of Saturday at Blackwell's studying hard. You're exhausted by seven, but Blackwell himself seems to become more energetic. <br/>
<br/>
"You've done extremely well this week, my boy," he beams. "I have never had a student in any class or on any subject make the strides you have in such a short amount of time. You should be proud, and you should celebrate."<br/>
<br/>
"Thank you. Can I go to bed early?"<br/>
<br/>
His eyes pop. "Listen to you! You're young and hot-blooded and you are wearing the body of a college boy who beds co-eds on a regular basis. It's Saturday night! You should go out and have fun."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, unless you got the mind-strip for a party animal, I don't do real well with girls. I got no friends, either. And my clothes—" You pluck at the thin t-shirt you are wearing. "And no ID."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't need an ID to get into a frat house, which is where you will find frisky girls who don't need much persuasion to fall into bed with someone who looks like a brother. As for clothes—"<br/>
<br/>
You hear the front door open and shut.<br/>
<br/>
"There they are now." He holds up a finger. "This is not your date for the evening. You have to find your own. But she did bring clothes for you.<br/>
<br/>
"So what will it be? Bed with or without a bedmate?"</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212
author_id: seuzz
title: Final Touches on a First Scheme
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Thanks, but I'm way too tired," you tell Blackwell. He shrugs but doesn't argue. "Tell you what, if you want to borrow Jared for the night—"<br/>
<br/>
He smiles. "That is very kind of you, Will, but no thank you. I think, like you, I will stay in and make an early night of it."<br/>
<br/>
The visitor appears in the doorway to the library, holding a few shopping bags. She is not very tall, but she is astonishingly well-built: prodigious breasts in a sleek sleeveless blouse; strong legs framed by a short skirt; long blonde hair. She looks like a cheerleader. In fact she looks like—<br/>
<br/>
"Lucy Vredenburg?" you blurt out.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell looks at you in surprise. "You know her?"<br/>
<br/>
"She went to my high school! She was a couple of years ahead of me." You notice that Lucy is giving you a puzzled but appraising look. "Hey Lucy," you say in some embarrassment. "You don't remember me, I'm sure."<br/>
<br/>
"That doesn't mean we can't get to know each other now," she replies. You blink, and it takes you a moment to remember that you are wearing the Jared mask.<br/>
<br/>
"Lucy is one of my students," Blackwell says, "and she is kind enough to occasionally run errands for me. I'll show you where to put those, dear." He leads her up the stairs; her gaze trails back toward you as she goes up the steps.<br/>
<br/>
Yeah, you feel a quickening in your cock, and twenty minutes later you dash out of the library and wait alertly in the hallway when you hear her heels clacking again on the stairs. <br/>
<br/>
"Hey, the professor was suggesting I take the night off," you say, blushing a little. "I'm doing some private studying with him, you know. Maybe we could—"<br/>
<br/>
Her smile is warm but her eyes are cool. "That would be nice, but, um ... Well, he told me you were off limits."<br/>
<br/>
"You always do what he says?" you growl.<br/>
<br/>
Her smile grows lazy. "No. But I like to keep on his good side, and in this case ..." She bites on a smile, and reaches out to run her finger down the front of your shirt. "Maybe some other time, sport. But not tonight." Your nostrils flare as on swaying hips she strides off toward the foyer. You stare after, trying to swallow your tongue.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell joins you a few minutes later. He's yawning. "Ho hum," he says. "Now, if you'll go upstairs, er, Will, I'll get the lights down here."<br/>
<br/>
"How come I can't go on a date with Lucy?" you ask him bluntly.<br/>
<br/>
He blinks. "Because she lives at home, of course."<br/>
<br/>
"We don't have to fall into bed together. I just want to, you know, see her."<br/>
<br/>
He scratches the back of his head. "It's a little hard to explain, Will, but it's not a good idea for two of my students to ... combust."<br/>
<br/>
"Is she a witch?"<br/>
<br/>
He chuckles softly. "No. Not the way you mean. Though she does possess a witchcraft of a more familiar sort, doesn't she? No, if she were a witch it would be easier for the two of you. But what I require of her, well, it doesn't make you two a good fit. It's best if you put her out of your mind."<br/>
<br/>
But it's very hard to do that, and not until your third ejaculation do you spend yourself into sweet oblivion.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Sunday is the big day: You finish your mask, seal it, and bind a mind-strip to it. Now you can use it to copy any person you wish.<br/>
<br/>
"I've been thinking," you tell Blackwell, as you rub your fingers against the burnished metal strip. "I can copy somebody and become their perfect duplicate with this. But how do I get the original person out of the way?"<br/>
<br/>
"How?" he asks darkly.<br/>
<br/>
You smile. "I'll rephrase. I want a state in which the original is not around."<br/>
<br/>
"Good. But I've told you that the logical form cannot include a negative predicate."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm thinking out loud. Give me a break. I want the original to be ..."<br/>
<br/>
"Dead?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. That's what I'm trying to avoid."<br/>
<br/>
"You still have scruples?"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe I want them to come back."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah, a practical reason. Good."<br/>
<br/>
You think long and hard. "I want them to be hidden. Can we fold space around them? Cloak them? Disguise them?" You sit up very sharply. "Disguise them! Yes. Disguise them as another person." Then, almost instantly: "Disguise them as me! Then my disappearance is also hidden!" Your face falls. "Oh, but if I put a mask of myself on them, then they would know everything I know, which would fuck me up totally." <br/>
<br/>
You chew your fingernail. You are aware that Blackwell is saying nothing. He wants to see how far you get toward a solution, and that's what you want to see too.<br/>
<br/>
"They must be like a golem," you say slowly. "They must know only what the mask knows when they are wearing it. They must forget everything the mask has shown them when it is removed. They must obey a master."<br/>
<br/>
You are conscious of a heavy breathing coming from Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
"I could put them inside a golem," you muse. "Put them inside a golem and then put the mask on the golem. Wait! I could put the golem inside the mask, and then both would go onto the person when I put the mask on them." You turn to Blackwell. "That is what I want. The golem is bound to a mask, and the golem binds itself to the person who dons the mask."<br/>
<br/>
You see him swallow.<br/>
<br/>
"Brilliant," he says in a very quiet tone of voice. "In fact—" He turns several pages in the <i>Personae</i>. "You have just described this ... one quite advanced spell. Which even I have not yet attempted."<br/>
<br/>
"Whoa!" You seize the book and pore over the ingredients. "We've got all this stuff already! We can make it right now!" You start to turn the page, but he stops you.<br/>
<br/>
"You still have not learned how even to make a golem."<br/>
<br/>
"I know what I want," you tell him bluntly.<br/>
<br/>
His eyes flicker and lower. "Very well."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It is a very easy spell to prepare, and despite Blackwell's protestations you bulldoze ahead and quickly complete it.<br/>
<br/>
"It's the hair that determines the master, so we'll use mine," you tell him, brushing aside his attempt to use his own clippings in the spell. When he tells you that it takes many days to burn the impurities from a golem, you snort. "It's obvious the spell uses the victim's body for the bulk of the golem's mass, and that doesn't need to be purified. In fact, it only casts a thin shell over the victim, to prevent the mask from binding directly to the victim. If four hundred pounds of graveyard dirt takes four days, then two ounces of graveyard dirt should take only a few minutes, if that."<br/>
<br/>
And so, an hour later, you have all the ingredients prepared. "I need to use the mask we made of me," you say, and you're thinking so quickly you are almost feverish, "so I can hide my victim inside a replica of myself." It will also prevent anyone from using that mask to snoop into your head—anyone who dons it will be turned into your golem-slave—but you don't mention aloud this side benefit.<br/>
<br/>
"You've got it nicely figured out," Blackwell says, and his tone is pinched. "But who is your victim to be?"<br/>
<br/>
"One of the alpha dogs," you shrug. Of course, you can't get close to them. Even if they moved in your social circle, they are too afraid of you to let you get close. You'll have to use a bridge.<br/>
<br/>
That means using one of their friends; or using a girl.<br/>
<br/>
Or a teacher?<br/>
<br/>
Or ... one of their parents?</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112121
author_id: seuzz
title: Bully for You!
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You call the "back-up William Prescott" out to Blackwell's so you can modify its mask, sprinkling its insides with a special mix, some of your hair, and a bit of earth taken from one of the graves in the back corner of Blackwell's lot. You set it alight and, as you'd calculated, it burns only briefly. The inside of the mask is now the color of a golem's skin. You set it back on the golem. The latter was made to obey only Blackwell, but your modification should override that when it is wearing this mask. You set it a few humiliating tasks to confirm your calculations, and then send it home with orders to return early Monday morning so you can switch out and go to school yourself.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Thanks to Blackwell's "gypsy curse" you're not really afraid of trying to capture one of the minor bullies at the school. Mostly, you worry that the curse will keep you from being able to corner one. <br/>
<br/>
You have your heart set on Lester the Molester, but it's David Kirkham who wanders into your line of sight: you're late for third period and hurrying through the hallways when you see him swagger out of Mr. Gelding's science class and into the bathroom across the way. As Mr. Gelding is one of the hard-ass teachers, that bathroom is strictly for business, and so you know Kirkham isn't ducking in for a smoke or to hang out with friends. You swing in after him, and sure enough he's already in a stall. <i>Well, better to take over his body after a shit than before,</i> you reflect.<br/>
<br/>
You position yourself in front of the stall so that he'll run into you when he comes out, and sure enough he quails like he's been hit when he sees you. But it's dangerous to try cornering him, for Kirkham, though small, is a skilled and dirty fighter, and he might really hurt you if he tried to get past you. So you instead feign fear.<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't got money for you today," you tell him with as much of a quaver in your voice as you can muster. He looks up at you over the tops of his shades, which he never takes off, even when indoors. Miserably, you jerk your newly made mask from your backpack. "Um, I've got this, though, and you can probably sell it for a lot of money." This is humiliating, now that it comes to it, but it's the strategy you've chosen, and grimly you stick to it.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want your lame-ass shit, Prescott," he says guardedly, and flinches as you hold the mask out to him.<br/>
<br/>
"Come on, Kirkham, it's all I got," you whine. "It's, like, an antique that my grandmother gave me. It's worth money. Just shop it around at some of the stores."<br/>
<br/>
With infinite loathing, he takes it, and holds it so gingerly that you can't believe that it doesn't slip from his quivering fingertips. <br/>
<br/>
"Alright, fine, you're paid up for the week," he mutters. "Fuck, you're paid up for the year, if it's worth what you say it is."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure it is," you reply. "Look, there's even a layer of gold on the inside." He glances down, and as his head bends toward the mask you sweep your hands up so as to knock it up against his face. For a split second you panic, thinking that his sunglasses might interfere with the mask, but it vanishes into him. He topples back, hitting the porcelain bowl.<br/>
<br/>
This is a public bathroom in a major high school, and you are not about to try switching clothes with him while sharing a stall. So you wedge him up between the toilet and the divider so that he faces the stall next door. You take that stall, and watch with bated breath until the mask clatters onto the tile. You then lay flat on the floor so you can reach under the divider to press the mask of yourself onto Kirkham.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Jesus," a familiar voice whines. "I'm sitting in piss."<br/>
<br/>
"Just get undressed and pass your stuff over here," you order. You're already getting your own clothes off. <br/>
<br/>
"These aren't the Molester's things," your double observes. "They're too small."<br/>
<br/>
"They're Kirkham's, and will you shut up? I don't want anyone to hear us if they come in." <br/>
<br/>
He accedes, and you sit on the toilet and put Kirkham's mask to your face. Everything goes dark.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your heart is still hammering in your chest as you pull on his jeans and polo shirt, and you wipe your forehead with the back of your arm. Kirkham must have steel-reinforced willpower to have stood up to what you put him through. You've only the memory of the horror, and even then you have the feeling that you're only getting an echo twice removed. Something truly awful envelops William Prescott, like a cloak, and Kirkham can barely stand the sight of him, and would go mad if forced to touch him. <br/>
<br/>
So after you're dressed you splash cold water on your face and rub it hard until rosy redness returns to your tanned cheeks. You are soon calmer, but still take time to study your new face in the mirror: small mouth with big lips set between a strong chin and strong cheekbones; stubby, upturned nose; small, characterless gray eyes. Not a handsome face, and rather pinched, especially since Kirkham's eyes naturally settle into a squint. But putting the shades on ... And smoothing your dark brown, rakishly cut hair so that the tips touch your eyebrows ... Standing back and bending so that the short sleeves of your black polo bind on your smooth, strong biceps ... You slip a toothpick from your front pocket and wedge it between cheek and gum. "Fuckin' A," you murmur admiringly to yourself, and swagger out, past Gelding's gay class, to one of the distant wings where you know some guys will be hanging out back—including Lester Brown.<br/>
<br/>
"You smell like piss, Kirkham," the Molester jeers as you lean up against the wall next to him. You wheel around smoothly and slug him in the chest with a knuckle just slightly extended, so that it will really hurt him in the ribs. In a fury he strikes back, catching you hard in the jaw, but you're not so rattled you can't grab and swing him around, kick at the back of his leg so that his kneecap slams hard into the wall, and drop him. A fancy set of moves, but Kirkwell's reflexes are yours now.<br/>
<br/>
As is his amazing capacity to withstand and master pain. Your jaw hurts, hurts like it's been cracked in two, and you can taste blood, but you keep your face rigid. "Next time it'll be both your knees, motherfucker," you taunt him. The sight of the Molester's face, flushed red like a fire engine, and his mouth split open in a silent rictus, is more than enough compensation for the pain in your own mouth. In fact, it gives you a bit of a boner.<br/>
<br/>
You glance up at Pozniak and Maddox, who are pale and looking everywhere but at you and Brown. There'll be no trouble from them, not today, anyway.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, shake it off, pussy," you tell the Molester roughly. "Get up. You're not hurt." He glares at you, and shaking all over he pulls himself up to a sitting position, where he is forced by the pain to stop. "So it was good for me. How was it for you?" You put your hands on your hips and gaze around at the world as though it well and truly bores you. What will be your afternoon plans?</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121211
author_id: seuzz
title: David Kirkham
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The bell that rings sends you to the cafeteria for lunch, where you shove your way to a place at a table just next to where the alphas sit. The Molester, Dalton Douglas and some of the other minor bullies are sometimes able to join them. But not Kirkham, who you realize now is regarded even by them as a psycho on a par with Jason Lynch. So how come you don't get to be an alpha? What's he got that you haven't? <i>Oh, yeah. He's an athlete,</i> you reflect bitterly as you stab at the glop you picked up in line.<br/>
<br/>
Still, they have to respect you. You're pretty much one of their creations. You went to the same middle school as Lynch and Black and Patterson, and tried out for the same teams. They bullied you, hard, for three years, which only had the effect of shaping and honing you into a dirty fighter. Of course, you acted out your frustrations at being persecuted by carving out a violent niche of your own and persecuting those below you. That and your hard-won ability to withstand punishment and deal out searing hurt of your own earned you a grudging respect from them, and they mostly leave you alone now. But you still hate them, have stored up a bottomless cistern of hatred for them ...<br/>
<br/>
You smile grimly to yourself to recognize that Kirkham would glut and glory in the humiliation of Black and the others just as much as you would. Hell, yeah, you and the mask you wear are both gonna enjoy this.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The rest of the day isn't filled with much excitement, even after you hook up with Mendoza and Thomason and Evans in the parking lot after school. They are supposed to be Kirkham's "friends," but only because he's known them forever, and they're afraid of him, and he won't let them go.<br/>
<br/>
"What are you ladies up for?" you ask in a bored tone.<br/>
<br/>
"We could hit the mall," Mendoza suggests. <br/>
<br/>
"Okay, one vote to go shopping," you sneer back.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck, I was thinking about scoping out the girls up there."<br/>
<br/>
"You want jerk-off material? Stick to the girly magazines," you taunt. "The bitches in those don't have to look at you staring at them. Anyway, if I wanna look at something soft and feminine I can always rest my eyes on you guys."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, what the fuck do <i>you</i> want to do?" Thomason asks peevishly.<br/>
<br/>
You let your gaze drift slowly up to him, and he flinches. You pull a fresh toothpick your front pocket and slip it between your cheek and gum. "What's your sister doing, Thomason?"<br/>
<br/>
He flushes. "That's not funny."<br/>
<br/>
"Did I say I was joking?" He says nothing. "Well, let's check up on her, then," you say. "Thomason's place it is. Evans and Mendoza, you're with me."<br/>
<br/>
Actually, to be technical, it's you and Evans with Mendoza, who has the car. You call shotgun and drum your fingers on the car roof as you drive along. Occasionally you give the finger to other drivers. Mostly it's a quiet drive. <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Fuck, man," you groan after your smoldering stares have driven Thomason's fifteen-year-old sister clean out of the house. "If I lived here I'd be up in her room every night. Take a jar of honey with me and spread it all over the backs of her thighs and ass and lick it all clean." Thomason's cheeks blush concentric circles of red and white, like bulls' eyes, which only inspires you to continue. "Then I'd spread her against the wall. Shit, she ain't got any tits worth talkin' about, so I'd just shove her face-first against the plaster. Take out my cock—" you scrape your palm down your crotch "—and take her up the ass. If she wanted some pussy action I'd turn her around and give her a couple of fingers—" you kiss the tip of your middle finger "—cos she's smokin', but she's gotta know who's being served and who's doing the serving, y'know? And if anyone came in, like your mom and dad, interruptin'?" You mime a gunshot. "Cap 'em in the head." You hold Thomason's eyes, which are practically vibrating in their sockets. "So when you gonna have me out for a sleepover?"<br/>
<br/>
He stalks from the bedroom. It's enough to goad Evans into challenging you. "You're a fucking douchebag, Kirkham," he fumes. "You're a sick fuck."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just teasin'," you snigger, "and Thomason knows it. He knows she's got a nice ass, but she's a dog and I wouldn't fuck her for money."<br/>
<br/>
No one says much after that. You root through Thomason's porn stash and spend thirty minutes belittling his taste and implying that even the trash that turns him on is too good for him—which is true—while Evans and Mendoza mutter and ignore you. The magazine exhausted, and Thomason still gone, you bully Mendoza into driving you home.<br/>
<br/>
Your mother isn't home—she works late on Thursdays—and you trod heavily up the stairs to the bedroom of Kirkham's thirteen-year-old brother, Tad. The door is open and you lean in, staring hard at the back of his head as he plays on his game console. He flinches when he notices you.<br/>
<br/>
"Done your homework yet," you ask. <br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," he says, and kills an enemy soldier.<br/>
<br/>
"Is it perfect?" He glares over his shoulder. "Lemme check."<br/>
<br/>
He hunches, says nothing, and then as you take a step into his room he leaps over to his desk to grab up some notebook paper and thrust it toward you. You hurl Kirkham's backpack at him, catching him full in the chest. "You can do my math homework while I look over yours."<br/>
<br/>
"Do your own fucking homework!"<br/>
<br/>
"I already did, in study hall. I wanna see if you can hack it."<br/>
<br/>
He snarls but reluctantly obeys. You take his own papers back into your bedroom and drop down at the cluttered desk. Impatiently you click at a red pen, anxious to find errors, but in fact he's done his algebra both neatly and perfectly. Both the Kirkham boys are stellar mathematicians, it nettles you to recognize.<br/>
<br/>
Then there is nothing to do but stare out the window for a bit while fighting a powerful urge whose nature fills you with dismay. That, you are discovering, is the downside to having such an immediate intimacy with his mind and reflexes: you too are feeling the pull of the things that attract him. For instance, he has a weakness for chubby girls—not fat, just nicely padded all over—and your eye keeps wandering over to the image on his computer desktop, of a very naked but well-upholstered blonde. It's not the direction your native tastes incline, but you try concentrating on her, in preference to the activity you really want to indulge. You're grateful when a very sulky Tad appears in the doorway. <br/>
<br/>
"I can't figure out anything after number 10," he says.<br/>
<br/>
You chew the inside of your cheek and beckon him over. Patiently you explain how to do it; he is soon nodding along; when you are through, you give him a hard shove to restore the normal fraternal tension and send him back to complete the assignment, while gleefully wondering what he'll do when he hits number 22.<br/>
<br/>
With nothing else to do—except that one thing you are trying to resist—you go down to the kitchen and put together the lasagna so that it will be ready when Margaret Kirkham gets home. That takes a good hour, and is a welcome distraction, but it means you are even sweatier with banked desires afterward. You feel your own will break as you mount the stairs, and back in the bedroom yield in despair as you yank the closet door open and shove shirts aside to grasp the thing that leans against the back wall. In the bedroom proper you drop down into the chair, cradling the thing between your legs and running your fingers gently up and down its neck. You grip the other instrument in your right hand and began to stroke and grind. You are hoping for ugly noises that will break the spell, but you are betrayed by long practice, and actually feel a thrill at the growl. And then light-headed relief and pleasure wash over you. A few loose scales and arpeggios, just to warm up, and then you lose all track of reality as under your expert fingers you unspool one of the Bach cello suites into the warm bedroom air.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
That David Kirkham plays the cello isn't a secret around school, exactly, but he doesn't advertise the fact, and you didn't know it before donning his disguise. But he is good enough that he takes lessons from the faculty cellist at the university's music department. It is one of the two things—the other being an equation given an elegant solution—that give him a genuine sense of peace, and it is with a sense of exhaustion and exhilaration an hour later that you finish practicing, and you feel limp as you put the cello away.<br/>
<br/>
You eat supper and then take a walk around to your secret place for a smoke. Pretty soon you'll have to head back to Blackwell's. Then your cell phone rings. It's Gary Chen, who is less a pal than a peer of Kirkham's, inviting you over.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121212
author_id: seuzz
title: Bully Shit
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>As you sit by yourself in the cafeteria you realize the it will take some ingenuity to use Kirkham as a bridge into the alpha club: He's unpopular even with them, less because he's a bully than because he won't knuckle under to them and try sucking up, the way Dalton and Pozniak and a few of the others do. <br/>
<br/>
You do make a stab at impressing them after school, though, when you find yourself near Lynch and a few of the other baseball players out in the parking lot. "Fucking Prescott," Lynch glowers as your replacement crosses his eye line on the way to his truck. "I'm gonna fuck him up, I swear."<br/>
<br/>
"So what's stopping you," you taunt him. He glowers at you. "What are you, a pussy?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll fuck <i>you</i> up," he retorts.<br/>
<br/>
"Promise to suck my cock and I'll fuck him up for you, you're such a pussy."<br/>
<br/>
You see him ball a fist as his eyes blaze, but with a sneer you step to the side, turn and swagger off toward Prescott. "Yo, dipshit," you call; and you snigger as several people turn guiltily. But you concentrate on your doppelganger.<br/>
<br/>
He hunches as you saunter up. "Kiss me," you softly order him.<br/>
<br/>
He pales, unslings the backpack from his shoulders, and fumbles toward you. You grab his arm and bend his hand back, hard. He gasps and sinks toward the ground. "Not here, you homo. Take me home, and I'll make a whore of you." You push him away and follow as he slinks to his truck. You jump in the passenger seat.<br/>
<br/>
"Who's my bitch," you call to Lynch, leaning out and grinning at him as the truck slides slowly past. He seethes, and you laugh softly to yourself as you reflect on the real identity of the person under the Prescott mask.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Blackwell's eyes shift between you and your replacement. "Who's this thug?" he asks, "and why is he defiling my domicile?"<br/>
<br/>
"Charmed to meet you too, Professor," you sneer. "David Kirkham, thug, asshole, bully and all-around reprobate."<br/>
<br/>
"I suppose you know your business, but I've nothing to teach you while you're in that form," Blackwell says firmly. "Pray restore yourself to a civilized state."<br/>
<br/>
You shrug and shove Prescott, who compliantly follows you upstairs. There, in the bedroom, you undress, and remove Kirkham's mask and hang it on Blackwell's golem. Your back is to it as you slip into Jared's clothes preparatory to putting on Jared's face, and you flinch and wheel as you sense a malicious presence behind you. Kirkham glares at you but says nothing. "Come on, hurry up," you tell it, so eager to get out of its presence that you don't even put on a shirt, let alone Jared's face. Sullenly, it dresses and follows you downstairs, where Blackwell waves at it dismissively.<br/>
<br/>
"Remove it," he says to your double. Prescott glances inquiringly at you, and you nod. "Go," Blackwell repeats, and Kirkham follows. After the front door closes behind them you hear a yelp and a squeal; your duplicate, you guess, is going to have a hellaciously unpleasant ride home.<br/>
<br/>
"Not that I'm unhappy to see him go," you say, letting out your breath afterward, "but couldn't he have been useful around here?"<br/>
<br/>
"How?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Give him chores to do? Come to that, why don't you make up a bunch of golems to help out around here? Do the library work and scut work, like cleaning masks, while we do the real stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"You mustn't come to rely upon golems too much, Will," Blackwell admonishes you. "It is true that they have their uses, but they can be extremely shifty, especially when they are imitating the treacherous and the base. I advise you very strongly not to lean too heavily upon your new assistant. You will find him a broken reed, and he will pierce your hand."<br/>
<br/>
You remember the glowering looks Kirkham gave you upstairs, and nod thoughtfully. "But you could still make yourself an assistant—"<br/>
<br/>
"Let's make that today's lesson," he says, and turns toward one of the bookshelves. "As you have now acquired a golem of your own, and have done so without going through the usual steps, let us study their nature."<br/>
<br/>
You sag a little at the size of the grimoire he drops onto the table before you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Upstairs, that night, as the house creaks and thumps in the most-midnight hours, you toss in your bed, straining to see a way through the problem. But it seems no use: the proofs, even after triple and quadruple checking, were quite clear. A golem obeys its master because it contains a little bit of its master's essence; and if the master makes too many golems and spreads himself too thin ... The results are nonlinear and unpredictable, and the consequences obscure, but if the golem-making goes too far it will result in a catastrophic collapse of control, with possibly fatal consequences to the warlock who made them. No magician has ever used golems to take over the world, for the very good reason that he probably couldn't make enough to take over a small university department.<br/>
<br/>
You smile crookedly at the thought of how vexing Blackwell must find that.<br/>
<br/>
You turn onto your back and drum your fingers on the mattress. If you could find a force-multiplier for one's essence ... Didn't Archimedes say that given a large enough lever and a fulcrum and a place to stand he could move the world? You smile grimly to yourself; magical essence, you suspect very strongly, is the most advanced possible topic there is. You'd likelier be more successful at turning your 12th-grade education toward mastering quantum theory.<br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes and drift off toward more immediately practical aims, like using Kirkham's lean body to thrust your way into tight but yielding female flesh. Though you quickly fall asleep the fantasies must have continued, for you wake in a puddle of your own emissions.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I take the bus to school every morning, fucker." Kirkham's tone isn't just insolent, it is gloating. "No fucking way I can make it out there to you."<br/>
<br/>
You glance over at Blackwell, who with coat and satchel is watching you from the kitchen doorway with an arch expression.<br/>
<br/>
"A little transportation problem," you mutter to him, and bring the phone back up to your mouth. "Well, can't you get a ride from someone?"<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham laughs. "I can try. Call you back in twenty?"<br/>
<br/>
You bite your lip as you slap the phone shut. "I'll get it sorted out," you tell Blackwell curtly without meeting his eyes. He hangs in the doorway a moment, then shrugs and leaves for the university.<br/>
<br/>
You glance at the clock. Seven-fifty. Twenty minutes will be cutting it close as far as getting to school, and it doesn't even allow for changing into Kirkham's form. You loiter in the library for a spell, but the greasy atmosphere in that room just makes you even more jittery. By eight-fifteen you've still not heard from Kirkham, so you call him again. "Where the fuck are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm at school, douchebag," he replies. "Where else would I be?"<br/>
<br/>
"You were supposed to come out here to Blackwell's!"<br/>
<br/>
"I said I'd try, but fuck you, I lied. I even came a little afterward, it felt so good."<br/>
<br/>
You ionize the air. "I gave you a direct order!" you scream.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you," he replies, and he's very calm. "Why do I gotta do what you say? I'm not your bitch."<br/>
<br/>
"You have to because--!" And then it hits you. The mask doesn't carry a golem seal inside it, and it is sitting on Blackwell's golem. That means it only has to obey him.<br/>
<br/>
You slam the phone shut and sink down at the kitchen table. Well, it would be simple enough to call Blackwell and have him call Kirkham and issue the order for you. He can even change Kirkham's disposition so that he won't be so rebellious toward you. But it would be embarrassing to have to admit that you fucked up so badly on your first time out.<br/>
<br/>
You look through the kitchen doorway, to the corner of the library that is just visible. Maybe you should just spend the day doing research. Blackwell won't be home until after you'd be due back from school anyway, and you won't have to admit what happened.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212122
author_id: seuzz
title: The Sorcerer's Two-Headed Apprentice
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Luckily, Blackwell has left the <i>Libras</i> up in the workroom at the house. You start to take it down to the library but then think better of it; if he should happen to come home and catch you, he will be in less of a temper if he doesn't find you poring over that treasure. So instead you perch on the cabinet with some paper and carefully copy out all the sigils you can. Your interest is piqued when you notice that the book appears to be damaged. Most of the pages will not open, and the last readable page has had its entire bottom half torn out; the next page, visible where the gap is, shows only a blurry script that hurts your eyes to look at. You wonder if Blackwell has put some kind of protection on the book to prevent your snooping into it, since the available spells cover all and only those he has already shown you how to perform.<br/>
<br/>
Down in the library you make a face at the cyclops vampire-monkey and set up a little research stack. The main book is the grimoire on golems, but you also fetch down one book you know of, <i>De Essentia</i> that, though highly advanced, may yield some clues about magical essences and how they interact with golems. You pile up a few more books nearby, and tuck the copied sigils out of sight in a pile of scrap. Then, one at a time, you take them out to study closely. <br/>
<br/>
You have spent enough time now with Blackwell that you are able to tease out the meaning of each elements in each sigil, even those he has not explained, and to see how they lock together. You are soon overcome with admiration for the skill that their author displayed. It is not enough that each sigilistic element has its own meaning and function; or that they are arranged so that their actions flow into each other. They interlock with each other so that some sigils operate simultaneously and in concert with each other, yielding more powerful and complex sigils over and above their elements, and these follow on each other in chains of actions that operate on an entirely different level from the elemental chains. They are almost like independent melodies that nonetheless coincide to form progressions of even more powerful chords.<br/>
<br/>
But comprehension and admiration are still not the same as mastery. You doodle out variations and transformations over and over again, and you are still not able to advance beyond a basic understanding of how the spells you already know actually work. You only begin to advance after you start consulting the grimoire and the book on essences. In the former a detailed search finally turns up a new basic sigil that Blackwell had not taught you, the one for formless matter: <i>materia.</i> It seems familiar, so you search again through the mask sigils and discover that it is hidden, like an acrostic, inside the spell that creates a golem, as a final complex of transformations. Following up on a hunch you then search <i>De Essentia</i>, and easily find the sigil for essence on the frontispiece as a decoration. You find it again inside the spell that binds a golem-shell to a mask, also hidden as a transformation sequence. Slowly, laboriously, you take apart the full sigil associated with that spell, studying each complex transformation, and are thunderstruck to find that the final transformation state takes the form of a fusion of the <i>essentia</i> and <i>materia</i> sigils. An entanglement of bare form and unrealized essence: of course that is what a golem would be!<br/>
<br/>
Excitedly, you rush back up to the workroom to check the <i>Libras</i> again for any further clues, but are sidetracked by an odor from your room. Ugh, the remnants of last night's bout of nocturnal pleasure. You make a face and detour to sweep up the sheets so you can put them in the wash. You have the copied sigil for the golem-mask spell in your hand, and lacking a better a place to put it as you fold up the bedspread you set it in the middle of the mattress.<br/>
<br/>
At first you think there must be a draft in the room, for the sheet suddenly begins to flutter, and then flies up into the air. You reach out to catch it, but it eludes your grasp. Slowly, horribly, it dawns on you that it is not caught in any current of air; it is fluttering madly through the air of its own power, until it begins to bump into the ceiling. You manage to chase it into a corner, and then, leaping from the edge of the bed, you snag it.<br/>
<br/>
It jerks in your hand like a living thing until you take it firmly by its edges in both your hands. The white paper has darkened to brown, and the sigil marks writhe on the page. Breathing heavily, you sit on the edge of the bed to study it. You feel a prickle on the back of your neck, and slowly turn to look: the stain you'd left on the sheets is completely gone.<br/>
<br/>
Somehow, your semen has been absorbed into the paper and brought it to life.<br/>
<br/>
Two thing occur to you, almost simultaneously. The first is that in soaking up that ... that <i>essential fluid</i> of yours, the page has acted almost exactly like a mask that has been placed on the <i>Libras</i> sigil when you are executing a spell. The spell only calls for hair, but of course it could use most any matter drawn from your body, and semen would likely be even more powerful than hair. The second realization, which nearly leaves you swallowing your own tongue, is that this copy is not a dead thing but a live sigil.<br/>
<br/>
And that should not be. Blackwell had emphasized that only the sigils in the book should be alive, because its author had bound them into the book; the copy, being dead, should be no more capable of transmutation than any other bit of regular matter. Does Blackwell know this? Has he been lying to you? You doubt it. You briefly have the urge to telephone Blackwell, to tell him of this discovery of yours.<br/>
<br/>
And then you abruptly change your mind. No. This will be your little secret. It will free you from relying on the book, and you'll be able to craft any number of spells from the <i>Libras</i> while Blackwell thinks it is safe from your grasp.<br/>
<br/>
Back in the library you consign the wayward sigil to a fire bowl—a little invention of yours that lets you turn paper into air, thus destroying any magical scraps that would be dangerous to leave lying around—and do a lot of hard thinking.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I wanna go get a burger," you tell Blackwell shortly after "Will Prescott" has shown up for his putative two-hour work shift.<br/>
<br/>
He looks at you over his glasses. "By all means. Will you ask your other self to oblige by fetching them? I could use one myself."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, but I wanna go with him." Blackwell looks at you carefully. "He called me this afternoon, said he was having some trouble at school. I wanted to talk to him about what to do."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell leans back. "You could always just press his mask to your own face, and impart your advice that way."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not sure my advice is for the best," you say, improvising quickly. "Two heads are better than one. If we talk about it, maybe it'll be better than if I just tell him what to do."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell continues to regard you evenly, then shrugs and turns back to his own book. You and your twin dash out to the car, him as "Prescott" and you as Jared.<br/>
<br/>
At the drive-in you slouch down into the well of the truck and pull off the Jared mask. You then twitch the Prescott mask off the other, exposing the unconscious David Kirkham. He doesn't wake during the time it takes you to plant your memories into the mask and return it to his face.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, haven't we— I mean, <i>you</i> been the clever little scholar," it says peevishly. "By the way, you know, I <i>am</i> having trouble at school."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know why the Kirkham golem isn't being affected by the curse," you tell it brusquely, for of course you have picked up its memories as well. "Do your best to avoid it."<br/>
<br/>
"Can't <i>you</i> go school and let <i>me</i> work in the library tomorrow?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because it won't make a difference but will still piss you off," he and you chant in unison. It gives you the finger.<br/>
<br/>
"Draw me a golem-mask sigil," you order it, but it has already anticipated your request by hauling out a school notebook. The burgers arrive and start to grow cold while he's working, but when it's done you spit on the paper and are satisfied to see that the sigil is dead. You'd been pretty sure it would be, as golems, no matter who they are imitating, are unable to perform any kind of magic. That will make things safe.<br/>
<br/>
"Copy out the sigils and study them tonight—"<br/>
<br/>
"I know! I know!" he says as he starts up the truck with a roar. "We'll talk tomorrow." He grins. "Two heads are better than one. Two cocks are better than one." He grabs his crotch.<br/>
<br/>
"Let's just pray two assholes don't turn out to be dirtier than one," you snap.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
These "consultations" continue all week, as you shift the mask back and forth during its afternoon visits when Blackwell's back is turned. By Friday you are ecstatic at your progress, and on the progress to come. You meet your twin at the gate. "Awesome news! Blackwell's going out of town this weekend. We'll have the run of the place!"<br/>
<br/>
"More research," your replacement says glumly. "I'd rather use the time to finally take care of that rogue golem."</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112121222
author_id: seuzz
title: Vital Solutions
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Semen is the only stuff strong enough to get through." You toss the pencil down onto the table and turn the proof around to show your twin. "It'll totally blow his mind," you snicker evilly.<br/>
<br/>
Will Prescott looks up at you from under his eyebrows. "Dude, he's not gonna let you take him up the ass. For lots of reasons."<br/>
<br/>
You shrug and roll your tongue around in your cheek. "I know, not all of them having to do with him. It'd be a dirty job, but I'd be willing to do it."<br/>
<br/>
In truth, you'd not written out the proof because you thought it a good plan; you'd written out the proposal merely out of malice. And because it represented a serious breakthrough in your research. Friday night had been good, and Saturday morning, now that Blackwell was gone, promised to be better.<br/>
<br/>
"A mask spell binds <i>materia</i> and <i>essentia,</i>" you explain as you lead your twin step by step through the proof. "Of course, in the case of regular masks like Kirkham's, the <i>essentia</i> is only a <i>simulacra,</i> and the spell for creating a golem shell adds the missing elements to form a complete but hybrid <i>essentia,</i> marrying the magician's <i>essentia</i> to the mask's <i>simulacra.</i> That's why it must obey the master. It resonates to his presence."<br/>
<br/>
"All I know is that I feel sick when I look at you," your doppelganger jokes.<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up. Or rather," you hastily add as the golem clamps its mouth shut, "just stop talking until I finish." You open up <i>De Essentia.</i> "Last night I found a nice little chapter on the properties of <i>essentia vitalis,</i> and cross-referenced it with what we know about golems." You tap the proof. "If introduced into a mask that's being worn, it will have the effect of completing the <i>simulacra,</i> turning it, for all intents and purposes, into one of those masks that has a golem inside it. That will give the person whose <i>essentia</i> it is control of the golem." You lean forward and waggle your eyebrows lasciviously. "And guess where you find <i>essentia vitalis</i> in a human male?"<br/>
<br/>
"So, if you cum inside a golem, you get control of it?"<br/>
<br/>
"As long as the mask doesn't already have a golem-shell inside it, yes. It would work even if there was a person and not a golem underneath the mask. You will have turned it into your slave, the same kind of slave that <i>you,</i> my brilliant other self, already are!"<br/>
<br/>
Prescott studies the proof carefully, turning it around several times so as to follow the flow of transformations. You grin as he frowns. Several times he opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. He puts his hand in his chin. He drums his fingers. And then he looks up at you sadly.<br/>
<br/>
"You forgot to carry a 2."<br/>
<br/>
Your face falls and you snatch the paper back, to stare hard at the spot he'd pointed to. "Goddamn it!"<br/>
<br/>
"So even if you could blow a wad up his ass it wouldn't be powerful enough," he observes.<br/>
<br/>
"If I had a thaumic amplifier," you mutter crossly, reaching for the <i>De Essentia</i>.<br/>
<br/>
"And if we had some ham we could have ham and eggs, if we had some eggs," he says. "Speaking of which, I'm hungry."<br/>
<br/>
"Aw, fuck it." You slam the book shut. "We'll just use your mind strip trick."<br/>
<br/>
"Easy is always good."<br/>
<br/>
"But it's so inelegant," you cry. "Besides, I really was looking forward to the chance to royally screw with that asshole. So to speak," you hastily add.<br/>
<br/>
You snatch up a newly minted mind strip; all you have to do is get it onto the Kirkham golem's forehead. Your double proved earlier that morning that interference patterns between it and the mind strip embodied in a mask should immobilize a golem long enough for it to be stripped of its mask.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Kirkham's expression, hidden as usual behind his sunglasses, is completely unreadable, but you doubt he's happy to find you standing in his doorway. "You drop by for a good fuck?"<br/>
<br/>
You snicker. "That was my original plan, but then I remembered how ugly you are." The toothpick shifts in his mouth. "Seriously, we need to talk. In private."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?" His belligerence is unmistakable.<br/>
<br/>
You lean in close. "You <i>know</i> who Blackwell is and what you've got to do if he asks you to do it. And let me tell you, he is harboring plans you want no part of." The golem stares back. "I don't want any part of them either. We have to work together."<br/>
<br/>
White spots show in his cheeks. "What makes you think you can help me?"<br/>
<br/>
"I can help you stay out of the way," you say. "Come on, let's chat."<br/>
<br/>
You walk back out to your truck; halfway there, you turn to look back at him. He's leaning against the door. Then with a jerk he comes to life. "Be back in a bit," he calls back into the house. His mother's reply is indistinct, but he follows you regardless.<br/>
<br/>
In the truck you quickly strike to put the strip against his forehead, but he grabs your wrist and twists. You gasp. He twists harder. "Okay, uncle," you cry. You drop the strip.<br/>
<br/>
He picks it up off the floor. "The fuck is this?"<br/>
<br/>
You grimace, but he still has a grip on you. "Shit, okay, you got me, it was a booby trap."<br/>
<br/>
"Fucking asshole," he snarls, and pops you hard in the face. It's only a glancing blow because it is with his left hand, but it's still enough to cause your skull to ring. You glare at him as he opens the door to get out.<br/>
<br/>
Fortunately, you'd prepared for just such an eventuality. The other Prescott had leaped lightly from the bed, and as Kirkham opens the door your twin pops a second band onto his forehead. Then he pushes Kirkham into the cab, squeezes next to him, and the three of you drive off to Blackwell's.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You roll the toothpick around in your mouth. "Goddamn, but that Kendra is fine," you gloat. "Breasts like scoops of chocolate ice cream." You kiss your fingers. "But salty."<br/>
<br/>
"When did you see her naked?" Prescott is vibrating.<br/>
<br/>
"You mean when did I <i>taste</i> her naked. Last night." You roll your shoulders. "Chelsea invited me over to her place. You know, after inviting me to sit with them at lunch. Kendra was there, and she was all there for me. Told me I was the only one with balls enough to get Prescott to quit the school. Said Lynch was a pansy and that Patterson was thinking real hard about bailing out." You grin nastily. "Kendra was just an appetizer. Black's as chickenshit as Lynch and Patterson, and Chelsea might be thinking of making a switch herself." You show him your teeth. "All I gotta do is fuck you up until you run screaming to another high school."<br/>
<br/>
He stares at you evenly, then glances back meaningfully at the proof you'd prepared. "I'll let you—if you let me fuck you up the ass first."<br/>
<br/>
You laugh good-naturedly. You don't mind. There's a party tonight, at Meghan Farris' house. You'd really like to go, as Kirkham, naturally. But you're also excited by the results of your research and aren't keen to lose any more time while you have the run of the house. You can send Kirkham back safely home, now that you've golemized the interior of his mask with your own essence.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112122
author_id: seuzz
title: A Yumi Choice
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You call your doppelganger and have it drive out to Blackwell's so you can modify its mask, sprinkling its insides with a special mix, some of your hair, and a bit of earth taken from one of the graves in the back corner of Blackwell's lot. You set it alight and, as you'd calculated, it burns only briefly. The inside of the mask is now the color of a golem's skin.<br/>
<br/>
You place it against your own face, giving yourself the memories it has picked up since Friday—oh, you're gonna make Robert pay for adulterating your body wash with Tabasco sauce—then put it back on the golem. The main golem itself was made to obey only Blackwell, but your modification should override that when it is wearing this mask. As a test ...<br/>
<br/>
"Suck my fat fratboy cock, you twig," you roughly order your duplicate. It pales, but kneels and pulls down your shorts. You wait until it has sucked at it for almost half a minute before breaking it off. "Don't worry, we won't be doing that it again," you assure it. "Let's go check out the clubhouse."<br/>
<br/>
The "clubhouse" is the old abandoned elementary school near your house. It houses a rec center in one of the wings, but under another wing is a basement accessed via an outside door. A few years ago you broke the lock off and explored the dusty, junk-filled spaces. As a lark you put your own lock on it, and discovered that apparently no one ever goes down there. You and Caleb and Keith sometimes hang out down there. <br/>
<br/>
You're pleased when you arrive to see that your lock is still on the door. It will be the perfect place to make a switch. <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's Monday after school, and you linger near your truck until you see her crossing the parking lot. "Hey Yumi," you call, springing out. "Wait up, do me a favor!" Her face is taut and she steps back as you jog up to her.<br/>
<br/>
"I need a huge favor," you gasp. "My truck won't start and I can't get anyone on my phone. Can you give me a ride home? Please?"<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes dart and don't meet yours. "Yeah, sure."<br/>
<br/>
"That's swell. Everyone else just gave me the stink eye."<br/>
<br/>
Her smile is tight and humorless as you get into the car.<br/>
<br/>
"Say what's up with that anyway," you ask with genuine curiosity as she puts the car in motion. "I know I'm not the most popular guy in school, but lately everyone's been treating me like I've got zombie farts or something."<br/>
<br/>
"You must be imagining things."<br/>
<br/>
"You're doing it to me now. Where's the girl who used to smile when I bounded up to her locker and asked for answers on the math quiz?"<br/>
<br/>
"Where's the guy who—?" She stops herself with a snap. "What was the deal last week, in the cafeteria? You know, with Gordon and Chelsea and them."<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Me telling Black I wasn't gonna let him kick me around? Don't tell me that's what's got people pissed, that I stood up for myself."<br/>
<br/>
"No, it's— What did you <i>do</i> to him, Will? Gordon doesn't—" Again, she breaks off.<br/>
<br/>
"Gordon doesn't what? Let guys like me stand up for ourselves?" This is fucked up, even for an A-list cheerleader. "So you think it's— What? Weird and wrong that I didn't get my face punched out the back of my head?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not—! Look, Will, I know what Gordon is. He's an asshole and a bully—"<br/>
<br/>
"And you love to hang out with him," you mutter under your breath.<br/>
<br/>
"—and so, yeah, it is weird— Not wrong, but <i>weird</i> for him and the others to— Well, to freak out when you show up."<br/>
<br/>
"So you're freaking out because they're freaking out?" You snort. "That's nice of you. What were you doing when they were slamming me against lockers? Feeling mildly concerned on my behalf?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't, Will." She is very red in the face, and her jaw clenches and unclenches. "Look, it isn't even like you stood up for yourself, so don't start bragging. You gave them money to leave you alone, which is a ... a ... a <i>pussy</i> thing to do." She must feel strongly, to throw such an uncomfortable word out. "They were all bragging about it, you know, showing the bills and passing them around."<br/>
<br/>
"Did you touch one of those bills?" you ask sharply. You have a sudden hunch.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, so? They were passing them all around the table at the cafeteria. In class. So like I say, don't go bragging about how tough you are."<br/>
<br/>
"But they're scared of me now. How come? You're scared of me too, it sounds like."<br/>
<br/>
She gives you a sidelong glance. "No offense, Will, but suddenly there is something kind of ... creepy about you."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I don't want to invade your personal space any more, then. You can just drop me off here."<br/>
<br/>
"Will!"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I mean it. Just pull up there. I gotta pick something up here anyway."<br/>
<br/>
You didn't mean to pick a fight with her, but it is pure serendipity that you can end the conversation and pull her up next to the old school all at the same time. You ask her to wait a moment, and run over to unlock the basement door. That prepared, you run back and kneel next to the driver's side door. She rolls down the window. <br/>
<br/>
"I got something I want to show you," you say brusquely as you unzip your backpack. Her attitude might have something to do with those twenties you were passing around, some second-order effect of the curse, but you're still pissed at her and feel no regret about what you're about to do.<br/>
<br/>
"I want you to like me, Yumi," you say as you draw out the mask. You lean in the window and show it to her. "So I'm going to give you something."<br/>
<br/>
She flinches a little at it. "What is it?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's a mask. Oh, did I say 'give you something'? My mistake. I meant 'take something from you'. Everything, in fact." You shove it into her face.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
She's small, but a deadweight, so it's a massive strain to lift and carry her lithe body into the basement. You haven't much time, so you lay her on the broad, dusty conference table that dominates one side of the basement, stripping her of shoes and stockings and skirt, her sweater and the light blouse beneath it. Her bra defeats you, though, and you're still fighting the clasps when you hear a clatter and see the mask fall off her face. Shit, she'll wake in no time, what with you fumbling around her undergarments. You snatch up the other mask and drop it onto her face.<br/>
<br/>
The effect is nearly instantaneous: her body bows and flexes and suddenly it's not Yumi Saito but Will Prescott laying on the table. He blinks and looks around. "So what did I miss, boss?" He looks down, to see the now limp bra and his cock slipping out from behind the skimpy thong underwear. "Ooh, kinky!"<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up, and you didn't miss anything," you retort. "Get out of that stuff." Your double slips the garments off while you also strip.<br/>
<br/>
"Do I at least get to see her naked?" he asks as he pulls on your shirt.<br/>
<br/>
"No. She's pissed at you, and you're walking home from here. In fact, you'll need to find a way back to school to pick up the truck." You take another mask out of your backpack—another mask that you made yesterday and which needs polishing. "And when you get back home, here's your homework." It groans. "Don't tell Blackwell. He doesn't like these things leaving the house, but I say every slave should earn its keep."<br/>
<br/>
"Lemme just see her boobies. All work and no play makes Will a dull boy."<br/>
<br/>
"My Will, my way. After we start getting the school reorganized we'll get you something."<br/>
<br/>
"You sound like Dad. 'Maybe later'." He shakes out his hair, slaps your ballcap on, and trudges from the basement with the homework you've given him.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You twirl in front of the dusty mirror, admiring the way the soft, pleated skirt spins up to briefly flash your shapely thighs. You pat down the front of your sweater; your bosom is small and pert, but bouncy. You put a dimple in one cheek and strike a cheerleader pose, then follow it up with a quick and easy back flip. "Too stiff my ass," you mutter. "Suck it, Chelsea."<br/>
<br/>
You bounce back out to the car on the balls of your feet—your new sneakers are just <i>so</i> adorable—and check your purse for the cell phone. Three messages since leaving school. One from Jenny Ashton, one from Lin Pol, one from Paul Davis. You make a face at that last one. Paul would be cute if he didn't look like a carsick puppy every time he tried asking you out on a date.<br/>
<br/>
You buckle yourself in and scope yourself out one last time in the rearview mirror. Then you relax. The mind of Yumi Saito—the limp but detailed sock puppet you'd pulled over your own mind when you put on the mask—drops away, and without shame you grab and squeeze an apple-like breast. "Oh God, Yumi," you moan. It is her voice.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell is expecting you at the house within the hour, but he has to understand that your first adventure under a mask can't be cut short. You could easily go hang out with your new friends until you have to go home, and only then run back to Blackwell's to switch out with a golem for the night.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222
author_id: seuzz
title: A Yumi Life
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Well, there will be plenty of time tomorrow for your new friends. Besides, you were never the type to break your new toys after only a day by playing with them too hard.<br/>
<br/>
"You like?" you exclaim as you bounce into Blackwell's library. You do a handstand on the table he is sitting at, walk on your hands, then do some slow forward somersaults. You end by doing the splits across the gap between two desks, and grin back mischievously at him.<br/>
<br/>
He claps with delight. "Talented <i>and</i> beautiful. I highly approve. So you decided to go for a queen bee rather than one of the athletes."<br/>
<br/>
"No, Yumi is just a stepping stone." You hop onto your feet. "It's the only way to get close to one of the guys I'm really targeting. I need to make one more mask, for him, and probably a second in case I need two stepping stones." Possibly you'll have to switch with Chelsea in order to get to Gordon Black, captain of the basketball team, who is your first choice.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell's face slackens a little. "That will take at least a week. She will miss that week when you release her from the golem-mask you made."<br/>
<br/>
"I know." You shrug. "But what can she say or do?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hmm. Perhaps you're right. You'd better change now, though."<br/>
<br/>
You skip upstairs—an easy run—and pull off your clothes while admiring yourself in your bedroom mirror. With a sigh you pull the mask from your face and when you wake again you slap it against the golem in the corner. It swims and reappears as a naked Yumi. She recoils at the sight of you.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, give it up," you say. "You know where you are and what you are." You hurl her clothes at the thing. "Get dressed and go talk to Blackwell so he can give you orders." She pulls them on in a hurry and runs from the room as though being chased.<br/>
<br/>
You yourself slap on the Jared mask and don the clothes Lucy Vredenburg had bought: jeans and a polo shirt. She even bought a Keyserling ball cap, which you pull down low over your brow as you saunter downstairs. Yumi gives you a look of loathing as you enter. <br/>
<br/>
You ignore her, though. "Why don't we get her a job working here," you suggest to Blackwell. "We can set it up through my duplicate. He can quit his job here, recommend it to Yumi. She can come to work here, say, two hours a day."<br/>
<br/>
"Eager to stay in her skin, are we?" Blackwell asks with a light leer.<br/>
<br/>
"No, I'd dress out like this." You pick up discarded books, glancing at their titles and returning them to their places on the shelves. "But we could use extra hands to polish masks."<br/>
<br/>
"An interesting suggestion," he concedes, "but two hours work a day isn't going to hurry things along appreciably."<br/>
<br/>
"Over time they would." You make a mental note to check out the book you're holding—it's about curses—when Blackwell isn't around. "Anyway, why don't you make up a full-time golem to do chore work around here? It would free us both up for more research."<br/>
<br/>
He dismisses Yumi, who exits with a scowl in your direction. "Two reasons," he tells you. "First, the chore work is part of your training. You may not have noticed, but you are picking up knowledge subliminally by working in here. It's one reason why magic books are kept locked away. They can leak." <br/>
<br/>
You slide a book onto a shelf using only the very tip of your finger.<br/>
<br/>
"Secondly ... Well, let's make that today's lesson. Let us examine the golem sigil."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You grimace over the results, but you've triple and quadruple checked them, and the proofs are quite clear. A golem obeys its master because it contains a little bit of its master; and if the master makes too many golems and spreads himself too thin ... It doesn't matter if it is a large golem like the one inside the fake Yumi, or a mask-golem like the one that now encloses the real Yumi and pretends to be you. The results are nonlinear and unpredictable, and the consequences obscure, but if the golem-making goes too far it will result in a catastrophic collapse. <br/>
<br/>
No wonder no magician has ever used golems to take over the world. Unless he is very good, a magician probably couldn't take over a city council.<br/>
<br/>
You sigh and consign your proof to the flame bowl. The latter is a small thing of your own design and making—a toy, really, for turning paper into air—but it had impressed Blackwell, and he praised your perception in seeing that magical proofs, scratch work, and exercises had to be disposed of with the utmost care.<br/>
<br/>
Whatever your plans, you should limit yourself to no more than three golems; one of which you have already made.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Well, look who graces us with her presence for lunch." You look up as Carson Ioeger settles down onto the grass next to you. "Getting tired of your snooty friends finally?"<br/>
<br/>
You suck the yogurt off your spoon and scrunch your face at him in the way that James tells you drives Carson wild. "Chelsea was asking about you, Carson," you say, and his eyebrows rise. "She was wondering if you ever wash that bandanna."<br/>
<br/>
He glowers and resettles the rag that covers his scalp. It <i>is</i> filthy. "I think he gets them pre-dirtied," Jenny jokes. You cross your legs beneath you—and catch Carson scoping out your thigh—and turn back to the homework you're doing with Jenny.<br/>
<br/>
Jenny Ashton, Carson Ioeger, James Lamont, Paul Davis—sigh; yeah, that Paul Davis—are the guys you would rather hang out with than the head table crowd. Outside Yumi you know them only a little, but Yumi has been good friends with Jenny since grade school, and through them she has grown to know and appreciate the others as a crew of smart, clever, and mischief-loving kids: not wild, exactly, but not "good" either; sarcastic, suspicious of authority, mocking toward the upper crew. It has gotten them into trouble with Lynch and Black in the past, and Yumi has to carefully navigate the tension between the group she would like to hang out with and the crowd she is too terrified to drop. With Jenny and her friends she pretends to be a double-agent spying on the top kids and passes along tittle and tattle. With Chelsea and her friends she sneers at the kids that she secretly likes. And to make sure no one learns her double game she tells each group that the other is wildly jealous of them and likes to spread malicious gossip to turn them against her.<br/>
<br/>
"So what's the latest from Olympus?" Carson asks. "Anyone had an abortion recently?"<br/>
<br/>
"Kendra had a scare." <i>Safe enough to use,</i> Yumi's mind tells you; Kendra is always having scares. <br/>
<br/>
"You find out any more about what's going on with Black and them?" Jenny leans in eagerly. "You were talking to Will yesterday after school."<br/>
<br/>
"I gave him a ride home, that's all."<br/>
<br/>
"Who'd you give a ride to?" James Lamont plops down next to you.<br/>
<br/>
"Will Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
James shudders. "Why? That guy gives me the creeps."<br/>
<br/>
"Why is everyone suddenly coming down so hard on his ass?" Carson asks. "I don't see it."<br/>
<br/>
"He's got, like, Columbine written all over him," James says. "He's a goatfucker. I bet he's pushing drugs down at the grade school."<br/>
<br/>
Carson throws up his hands. "On the basis of what do you say this?"<br/>
<br/>
"It reeks off him. Can't you sense it?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. He's moody and he looks like he's got a special secret, but I've seen you looking the same way, dickface. Remember that clothes fetish you had last year?"<br/>
<br/>
"Clothes fetish?" You turn to James in surprise. He reddens and gives Carson the finger, but it doesn't stop his friend.<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't know about that?" Carson hoots. "We caught him stealing clothes out of the gym locker, trying them on. Then Paul and me noticed some of our t-shirts were gone from our closets. We found them in his bedroom. In his <i>bathroom</i>!"<br/>
<br/>
"Is that why I don't remember leaving my leather jacket at your place?" Jenny asks him narrowly.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm going to fuck you up so bad, Ioeger," James says.<br/>
<br/>
"My point is that whatever is wrong with Prescott, it's gotta be nothing worse than a kinky sex thing he's working through. He's clearly not getting any."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you getting any, Carson?" You dimple at him.<br/>
<br/>
He swigs from his soda. "No. That's how come I know what I'm talking about."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So James has also been afflicted by the curse that Blackwell attached to you. That's too bad. You like James.<br/>
<br/>
Luckily, that curse attaches to the image of Will Prescott, not to <i>you,</i> so your golem is the one that draws the odium. But since Yumi, like James, is also under its influence, you get a sense of its effects as well. The difference is that you are immune to its effects, so you remember how his presence affects her, but you don't feel it when you are actually around the fake Will Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
It takes the form of an ineffable aura that surrounds the person so that they come to seem loathsome. Your nerves shout that there is something wrong with them; you find yourself feeling impatient and irritable in their presence; you feel relief when they leave. And yet you cannot put your finger on what is wrong with them. <br/>
<br/>
It must be a residual side effect of those bills you gave the bullies: the bills effect them much more strongly, but others who touch them pick up a kind of second-hand poison.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212221
author_id: seuzz
title: Of Curses and Even Worse Things
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You skip Yumi's seventh-period class and hide out in the orchestra room, where Mrs. Heinz, the conductor and teacher, occasionally lets Yumi study when she doesn't want to be found. You have retrieved one of the marked twenties from Will, and you press it between two clean sheets of papers so that when you sketch a "copy" sigil over the top sheet the mark that Blackwell put on the bill materializes on the bottom sheet. You touch the copy lightly; there is no "spark," so you know that it is dead and cannot cause any harm. <br/>
<br/>
You examine it closely and are able to decipher some of its elements but not enough to understand how it works. Only the complex symbols for "air," "guardian," "bind," "reveal" and "chain" are readable.<br/>
<br/>
He said it was a "gypsy" curse, so you spend the afternoon, before you are due at your mentor's house for the evening, visiting various fortunetellers. You have little hope of success. One tells you it is a love sign. Another tells you it is an omen of fortune, but for good or ill she cannot say. Another says it is meaningless but asks to copy the "very pretty" design. (You refuse her.) But the fourth fortuneteller draws back and will not touch the paper on which the design is made. <br/>
<br/>
"From whom did this come?" she asks in thick, regal, continental accent.<br/>
<br/>
"Um ... a boy I know?"<br/>
<br/>
"This boy. Do you like him? Does he like you?"<br/>
<br/>
It sounds like she might know what this is about, and you decide to skirt as close to the truth as you dare. "He's my boyfriend. He said he didn't make it. Some other guy gave it to him. He showed it to me because he thought it was cool."<br/>
<br/>
Her eyebrows go up. "Your boyfriend. Is he with this other boy friends?"<br/>
<br/>
"N-no," you improvise. If you want to know what's up with the sigil, you need to keep close to the truth. "They don't like each other. In fact— My boyfriend, he kind of, like, messes with this other guy?"<br/>
<br/>
"I see. And why do you think this has anything to do with those on the other side?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I've been feeling kind of freaky lately. Like, this guy just creeps me out when he's around. I feel like there's a hex on me."<br/>
<br/>
She thinks long and hard. "The lifting of this hex from you is beyond my ability. Your boyfriend must stay away from this other boy. He is dangerous, and he will come to a bad end."<br/>
<br/>
"What about me?"<br/>
<br/>
She shrugs. "If he does not bear you a grudge, you will be safe."<br/>
<br/>
"Is this hex like a famous thing? Because you're the first fortuneteller who doesn't sound like she's trying to, you know, scam me."<br/>
<br/>
She regards you carefully, and when she speaks again her Hungarian accent vanishes. "Honey, lemme tell you. Ninety-eight percent of everything's a scam, and I ain't no exception. But I know this shit, and this thing is bad news. Try not to piss this kid off. Your boyfriend?" She shrugs. "He'll be okay if he keeps his head and doesn't get in a corner with this other kid."<br/>
<br/>
"Why don't the other fortune tellers know about it, then?"<br/>
<br/>
She laughs "Because only one out of a hundred are even a little bit legit. But anyone who knows anything knows what this is, and it's bad news for everyone. The kid who made it? He's just screwed his life up good and hard. You don't pass this thing around lightly. In fact, you better leave it with me before it causes any more harm."<br/>
<br/>
Since the sigil is dead you have no qualms about letting her have it. You pay her and leave in a thoughtful mood.<br/>
<br/>
If a strip mall psychic knows all about this curse, and if she thinks the boy passing it out is fucking himself up ... There is a 500% chance Blackwell knows its full effects too. <br/>
<br/>
He's trying to isolate you from your friends. He's already seduced you into cutting off your family, you realize.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
At Blackwell's you hide your growing doubts about him. You also keep alert for anything he might say that you can use to worm additional information out of him. You see your chance when he mentions the thing that prowls the hallways at night, calling it a "guardian."<br/>
<br/>
"There are different kinds of guardians," he explains in answer to your query. "Some are, oh, policemen. Some are sentries, some are spies, some are what you might call bodyguards, and some are simply made to misdirect the unwary. Their essential aspect, you see, is to keep something safe. From harm, from snoopers, from molestation." The last word catches your ear, though he seems not to have noticed the echo off Lester "The Molester". <br/>
<br/>
"So the thing you got watching your house—?"<br/>
<br/>
"That is a very powerful one, and you must never open your door after it has begun to walk. You might think of it as a very powerful Doberman. At any time before midnight it is possible to stand up to it, even to defeat it, if you have the courage, coolness of head, and skill. After that, you had best be right with anything that is waiting for you on the other side."<br/>
<br/>
"What does it do to you?"<br/>
<br/>
He smiles mirthlessly. "Suffice it to say that it is hungry but it will not eat you. It will do something much worse."<br/>
<br/>
"But there's other ... things ... like it but less powerful?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, to any degree you like. These are created things, like the golems, and you can craft them to a great fineness. In my own school days I set one to guard my peanut butter from my housemates."<br/>
<br/>
He continues, and much of what you saw in the sigil begins to make sense: the most powerful are conjured of air; they must be bound to a place or a time or an object; they can be made visible or invisible; and they have various modes of power. Some are able to physically harm human beings; others are only able to induce fear or lust or revulsion or some other emotion that will inhibit or cripple those who draw too near them. <br/>
<br/>
You quietly rejoice when Blackwell draws down a very large tome about them. His excuse is that you should know more about the thing in the hallway; your secret excuse is to learn more about the curse. You stay up very late in your room reading about guardians while polishing your new mask. You do this, even though it is extremely unpleasant to listen to the guardian romp through the house while reading about what it can do to the unwary.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You run into Cindy Vredenburg on your way into school the next morning. Since Blackwell has been preying on your mind, you ask her about Lucy.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't see her much, even though she's supposed to be living with us," Cindy says with a shrug. "She's got, like, tons of friends at the university to hang out with."<br/>
<br/>
"Lookin' fine, girls," a male voice calls as you pass.<br/>
<br/>
"Put a sock in it, you perverts," she yells back. "Honestly. But anyway, you know she's on the cheerleader squad out there, so she's like totally popular, so I can't complain."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you going to join the college squad when you get out there?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, totally. Unless I go to State, which is really where I really want to go. I've seen all the boys in <i>this</i> rathole." She gags. "And Seth's going to State," she adds as an afterthought. "But why the sudden interest in my sister?"<br/>
<br/>
"I was at the campus library the other day and saw her. She looked like she was studying hard, which— I mean, I'm not saying she didn't study when she was here—"<br/>
<br/>
Cindy laughs. "Oh yeah, she's got some hard-asses for teachers. There's this one <i>shit heel</i> she just hates. He was going to bring her up on, like, misconduct charges, but she talked him out of it, you know." She winks. "She pointed him out to me afterward. Fat old bald guy, face like a dog, and she was like, I was so grossed out, but I did it, and he was, like, slobbering over me he was so grateful?"<br/>
<br/>
"I thought all the professors out there were fat old bald guys."<br/>
<br/>
She grabs your arm excitedly. "Yeah, except this one! Omigod omigod omigod." She jumps up and down and closes her eyes in ecstasy. "He is such a total hottie! I am so going to major in French lit if I go to Keyserling!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your talk must have put Lucy on Cindy's mind, because during practice she gets in a screaming match with Chelsea over a routine, which ends with Cindy bragging about how her sister used to be captain of the squad. Chelsea seems to let it go, but you—or, rather, Yumi—have watched Chelsea long enough to recognize the signs. So even though Chelsea seems very calm and chipper afterward, you sidle up to her.<br/>
<br/>
"I should tell you that Cindy and Lucy had a huge fight last night," you murmur to her. "Lucy told Cindy that she won't ever be good enough for the Keyserling squad. So, she's feeling like really jealous and stuff and lashing out. She doesn't mean what she said at practice."<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea stares at you, and then tears of tenderness spring into her eyes. "Oh, you are such a good friend to her," she coos, and she puts her arms around you in a light hug. "You're such a sweet person, Yumi. People really should say nicer things about you." <br/>
<br/>
You suppress the urge to vomit down her front, but it was probably worth the humiliation, for the blow-up you anticipated never materializes.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, your purposes are not altruistic. You don't want Cindy's life upended because you are seriously thinking about switching into her, not one of the alphas, at the end of the week, so that you can get close to Lucy: you are desperate to know what the relationship is between Blackwell and a girl who professes to despise him but seems quite content to run errands for him. The trouble is that, if Cindy is correct, then she hasn't got a lot of contact with Lucy. It might be better to put your newfound knowledge about guardians to work instead.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112122211
author_id: seuzz
title: Mom's the Word
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You don't sufficiently trust your ability to craft a guardian to take a gamble on that approach; the next best way is to get close to Lucy. Your guise as Yumi at least puts you close to her sister, Cindy.<br/>
<br/>
You stay up very late Wednesday working to finish the new mask, and the next morning after cheerleader practice you ask Cindy if she can stay late with you to work on a routine. You lay the flattery on so thick she can't help but agree.<br/>
<br/>
Later in the day you're walking between classes in the company of Chelsea and Maria Vasquez when you pass by your old locker, where your replacement is changing books. You contrive to bump into him and slip a note into his pocket. "Don't touch me, you pervert!" you scream, wheeling away from him after you make the drop. You ostentatiously shudder, and Chelsea puts her arm around your shoulders. "The guy is so creepy," you exclaim, tugging on your skirt and running your fingertips over your thighs. "It feels like he's touching me even when he's not around." You shudder again.<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea coos sympathetically and glares over your shoulder at the bemused Prescott. "I keep telling Gordon that he needs to do something about the sewage running through the halls," she says in a loud voice. "He says he's getting a work crew together."<br/>
<br/>
"Never mind Gordon," you retort. "<i>We</i> could take him."<br/>
<br/>
"Take him where?" Maria asks in her distracted voice.<br/>
<br/>
"For a good beating," you reply. Maria sometimes takes her "airhead" act beyond the realms of believability.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Chelsea is actually kind to you most of the day, and insists on your sitting next to her at lunch. Prescott is the subject of abuse on her part, and she recounts your challenge that the girls could "take" Prescott. You catch Patterson giving you a dead-eyed look of hostility. The meal ends with Chelsea calling her mom and telling her that she (Chelsea) and the rest of the cheerleading squad will be meeting after school; she tells everyone at the table that they'll be settling on a course of action to deal with the "Prescott problem" once and for all.<br/>
<br/>
This doesn't bother you so much as it puzzles you, and when you run into Chelsea in the hallways before last period you ask her if she really intends to deal with Prescott herself. She rolls her eyes and leans in close. "Don't be such a ditz. Even Maria didn't ask me that. All that talk's just to get Gordon and those guys off their goddamned asses. I mean, honestly, you'd think they were actually scared of the prick."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh," you say in relief. "In that case do I have to go to this, uh, 'meeting'? Cindy and me were going to stay after school and practice some routines."<br/>
<br/>
"That's terrific!" Chelsea exclaims, and her eyes shine. "It's so great that you're putting in extra work! You'll have so many pointers you can show each other." She then hears someone calling her name, and she turns and runs off.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div> <br/>
Cindy is waiting inside the girls' room when you go in after last period, but you have to wait for the last class of girls to clear out before you can do anything. So you share some random gossip until you have the place to yourselves. "Thanks for meeting me like this," you tell her when it's finally safe for you to unzip your kit. You rummage around until you get the new blank mask free. "I guess Chelsea told you that 'meeting' this afternoon is a fake."<br/>
<br/>
Cindy clucks her tongue. "She's so transparent. I guess Gordon must be, like, really lazy or something if he hasn't taken all the hints yet."<br/>
<br/>
You snicker. "That's Chelsea. She thinks she's so clever. She just insulted you and me and thought I wouldn't notice." You tell her what Chelsea said about getting pointers from each other. <br/>
<br/>
"You'd think a girl that smart wouldn't go off without her cell phone," Cindy smirks, and nods with her chin. You look over: sure enough, Chelsea's cell phone is sitting on the bench, still open. "You know," Cindy says brightly, "I think I'll go tell her she forgot it!" With a sly wink she runs from the room—without taking the phone with her.<br/>
<br/>
But you feel a little cold, and you creep up on the phone. The line is engaged, and you recognized Kendra Saunders number on the screen. You lift the phone and hear breathing.<br/>
<br/>
<i>The little bitch is spying!</i> You close the call and continue getting ready.<br/>
<br/>
It's only a few minutes later that you hear approaching footsteps. You sidle up to the corner, and without looking slap the mask against the face of—<br/>
<br/>
Your first clue that it's not Cindy is that the clothes are all wrong. You try to hold the girl up but then collapse under her weight. You squeeze out from underneath and stand up again. You look down and recognize Chelsea's mom, passed out cold on the floor. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Yikes!</i> You run out into the gym, and spot Prescott in the far bleachers, looking down. He cocks his head in puzzlement when you gesture him to get lost, and holds up the note you slipped him. You draw your finger across your throat. He twirls his fingers, indicating that you are crazy. You flip him the bird. He grins and trots down the bleachers and into the boys' locker room, probably to find a bully to freak out.<br/>
<br/>
A few seconds later Cindy comes back in. "Did Cheslea's mom come in to pick up her phone?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
You gasp: "Is that what she's doing here? Because she fainted!" <br/>
<br/>
Cindy blinks and hurries after you into the changing room. "Omigod!" she cries over the limp woman. Both of you lean down to chafe Mrs. Cooper's wrists. <br/>
<br/>
But you need to get rid of Cindy, though, before the mask reappears. "Go get the school nurse! I'll stay here with her."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe I should get some water?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, just go get the nurse!"<br/>
<br/>
Cindy runs from the room while you continue to watch Mrs. Cooper carefully. Not long after, the mask reappears, and you tuck it back into your kit. You gently bring Mrs. Cooper round.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"It's the funniest thing," she says afterward, as she is surrounded by you, Cindy, Chelsea, Maria, and the school nurse. "I came in because Chelsea said she'd left her phone in here, and then ..." She puts her hand to her face uncertainly, then shakes her head. "I don't know. It was like I just came over all faint."<br/>
<br/>
"You better let Chelsea drive," the nurse says. "Are you subject to fainting spells?" Mrs. Cooper shakes her head. "Well, you just take it easy tonight. You'll probably be alright."<br/>
<br/>
Nothing gets said about the phone after that, and you and Cindy cancel your practice plans. <br/>
<br/>
You're quite thoughtful on the way back to Blackwell's to make the switch for the night. Yumi's own mother isn't involved in her school activities, and the other parents haven't been on your radar either. But Mrs. Cooper is a major presence in Chelsea's life. You've been concentrating on bullying the kids who control the school. Maybe it would be neater and more gratifying to bully them inside their own homes—using their own parents? It would be a shame to let the week's mask, now imprinted with Chelsea's mom, go to waste.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Mother of My Enemy Is Me!
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're reluctant to tell Blackwell what you're up to—you're afraid he might think it rather weird. So you just tell him that you screwed up on the mask you were making and need to prep another one. You also tell him that you'd like to spend the weekend playing Yumi; to your surprise, he encourages you to do just that, explaining that he will be out of town over the weekend and that you might as well use his absence as a holiday. <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Oh for Pete's sake, don't just stand there blushing on the front step, come on in!" Mrs. Cooper gestures you and Will into the house. "I declare, you just look prettier every day, Yumi. And who's the handsome boy in your company here?"<br/>
<br/>
"This is Will Prescott. He's just a friend," you hurriedly add. <br/>
<br/>
It's Friday afternoon. Blackwell has left town on his mysterious errand—he's told you it's a book-buying expedition, but you don't believe that—and you're putting your plan into effect. The first step was calling Chelsea, to confirm that she'd be out of the house getting ready for a party that Meghan Farris is throwing tonight. The second step was getting your ass over to the Coopers' house before Chelsea could get back to interfere.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you don't have to tell me who is and who isn't a friend of yours," Mrs. Cooper says as she leads you and Will back into a dining nook just off the living room. "Though you certainly could do worse. Couldn't she, Will?" She winks at Will, who true to character blushes.<br/>
<br/>
"So, Chelsea's out running around with her father's credit card," Mrs. Cooper continues after sitting down with a sigh at the table with you, "and I'm surprised you're not with her. Would you like some coffee?"<br/>
<br/>
"No thanks. And I wasn't looking for Chelsea," you tell her. "I just wanted to stop by and see how you were feeling after the other day, up at the school."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, aren't you just the most thoughtful little darling," Mrs. Cooper dimples at you. "I tell you, I just don't know what came over me in there!"<br/>
<br/>
"Excuse me, may I use your restroom?" Will interrupts. Your hostess gives him directions and he disappears.<br/>
<br/>
"Did you have any more fainting spells?" you ask Mrs. Cooper.<br/>
<br/>
She throws up her hands. "Not a one. I'm pretty certain it must have been the unhealthy air in there. Are you girls sure you're getting enough ventilation?"<br/>
<br/>
"We've never had a problem like that before," you say, truthfully. "I hope it isn't something like that, but I'm glad you haven't had any more attacks."<br/>
<br/>
She smiles. "Are you sure I can't get you a fruit juice or something? I was just about to pour myself a cup of something strong. Speaking of which." She beams at Will as he rejoins you.<br/>
<br/>
"All taken care of?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
"I couldn't find it."<br/>
<br/>
That's the prearranged signal, meaning that you have the house to yourself. "You are so hopeless, Will," you tell him before Mrs. Cooper can say anything. "Here, take this."<br/>
<br/>
You loft your kit to the table and pull out that mask you accidentally made of Mrs. Cooper. She only looks on in puzzlement and has no time to react before you smash it against her face. It vanishes, and she falls back in her chair with staring eyes.<br/>
<br/>
You and Will drag her into a downstairs bathroom—and she's a hell of a lot heavier than you were counting on her being—where you and he both strip. He slips on the over-large, floppy clothes you'd donned for just this switch, and then the two of you rapidly divest Mrs. Cooper of her clothes. Will lays down on the floor, squeezing up between Mrs. Cooper and the door, as you gather up all the loose clothes. When the mask reappears on Mrs. Cooper's face, you twitch away the golem's face, revealing the unconscious Yumi Saito. You then drop your mask onto Mrs. Cooper, and your double, having moved over by about ten inches, scrambles carefully up so as not to wake the still-slumbering Yumi. You both sneak out of the bathroom and close the door behind you. <br/>
<br/>
"You know," your double asks as he starts to pull on the pants and shirt you pulled off his earlier incarnation, "Yumi's not going to have any idea how she got here. Or why she took off all her clothes inside a bathroom at Chelsea's house."<br/>
<br/>
"It doesn't matter," you retort as you dig through your pack to pull out the sealant. "She thinks you're weird and creepy anyway, so she'll just chalk it up to more of your weirdness and creepiness."<br/>
<br/>
"Gee, thanks."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just saying you got nothing to worry about. Me, on the other hand." You glance down at your nakedness. "I gotta finish getting changed before someone does show up."<br/>
<br/>
"Wait for you in the dining room?" Will asks as you run to the foot of the stairs. You yell back an affirmative as you take the stairs two at a time to the top floor.<br/>
<br/>
There's five doors upstairs, but you've no problem picking out which is the master bedroom: it's the one with the forest-green wallpaper and the three dressers and the two vanity tables. The master bedroom has a toilet <i>and</i> a bidet (the latter you recognize only because you still carry the echoes of Yumi's memories in your head), plus a walk-in closet, a shower, and a long, deep bathtub with water jets (it looks like) in it. <i>This is gonna be nice,</i> you tell yourself. <br/>
<br/>
After closing and locking the door, you set Mrs. Cooper's clothes on the floor and clamber into the tub with the mask and sealant. You are shivering hard—the tub is chilly—by the time you finish applying a layer of sealant, and after wedging yourself down inside the tub you waste no time in pressing the mask to your face. But still the cold seems to penetrate your bones, even as a lovely feeling, as of being enveloped by a wave of warm, thick syrup, flows over and into you ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're chilled the bone when you wake, and your temples throb with what feels like an ice-cream headache when you pry your eyes open. You throw away a few seconds blinking and frowning at the white ceiling, trying to place yourself, then grab the edge of the tub and sit up. You groan and gasp: It's like being hit in the side of the head with a hammer.<br/>
<br/>
Almost as instantly the pain vanishes, but you're still shaky as you clamber out of the tub and onto your new feet. Your boobs wobble and hang, and your hair tumbles about your shoulders. Instinctively, you grab a fistful of it and pull it back behind your neck.<br/>
<br/>
You would like nothing more than to curl up on the floor in a fetal position and go to sleep, but the cold won't let you. Besides, you've got to get downstairs. Yumi will be awake and confused and probably barking at your doppelganger. At the very least you should make an appearance to let your replacement know it's okay for him and Yumi to leave.<br/>
<br/>
<i>It was nice of Yumi to stop by and check on you,</i> you find yourself thinking in a vague way as you pull on panties and wrap a bra around your bust. <i>I should get more involved with the squad, like I was last year.</i><br/>
<br/>
Oh, but last year Chelsea wasn't the squad captain, and couldn't tell her mother to step off. This year, she did. Your throat closes up briefly as you remember the bitter disappointment that Kelly Margaret Cooper felt at that. <i>My little girl gets to be captain of her high school cheerleading squad</i>—an honor that eluded Kelly Cooper in her youth—<i>and all I can do is sit in the stands and cheer along!</i><br/>
<br/>
For you've got Mrs. Cooper's memories, too. They were just laying there, waiting for you to pick them and throw them on, like a shawl and hood, to go with your physical ensemble.<br/>
<br/>
Speaking of which ...<br/>
<br/>
You can see where Chelsea gets her basic body. Her mother (herself a former high school cheerleader) is built along the same lines. Strong, shapely thighs and calves; wide hips; prodigious breasts (which, admittedly, have had a little work done on them); a wide, white, bright smile; and large, wide-set eyes. Blonde hair, too—which you paw into some kind of shape before putting it up in a sloppy bun—though Kelly's gets hers lightened at the salon.<br/>
<br/>
But you only give yourself a moment to study yourself in the full-length mirror that hangs on the inner side of the closet door. White shorts and a zebra-striped top were the only things to pull on over the underthings, so you give yourself a few seconds to appreciate the finished look. <i>Still not too bad,</i> you think, though the pounds are starting to creep on even as you work harder at the aerobics, the spinning, and the weights. <i>It's muscle,</i> you tell yourself, for the clothes still fit; but there's doubt and fear behind the self-reassurance.<br/>
<br/>
Downstairs you find a disheveled and confused-looking Yumi standing in the hall and talking in a low voice with Will while regarding him with an all too apparent loathing. "Well, that's much better," you exclaim. "A little freshness can just do wonders for a gal." Yumi returns you a blank look. "Are you sure you kids can't stay for lunch? I was just going to make up some tuna fish."<br/>
<br/>
Will shakes his head. "Thanks a lot, Mrs. Cooper," he says with quiet politeness, "but Yumi just told me she isn't feeling well. I think I better take her home."<br/>
<br/>
"She looks the very picture of health to me!" you reply. "But then she always does." You beam at her, then show them to the door. You watch from behind the glass screen, waving, until they drive away.<br/>
<br/>
Well, what now? <i>Laundry and ironing,</i> you think.<br/>
<br/>
<i>And then to figure out how to put Mrs. Cooper to work for me!</i></span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212221111
author_id: seuzz
title: Hanging with Mrs. Cooper
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>This is nice,</i> you tell yourself as you sweep through the house, picking up loose items—books, boots and bills; spoons and drinking coasters—and putting them away. <i>What a nice house. What nice things we've got!</i> <br/>
<br/>
What a nice position <i>you've</i> got.<br/>
<br/>
Kelly Cooper is on the cusp of forty. (In fact, she's been "on the cusp of forty" for a couple of years now, and for the last few she's been "on the cusp" only if a cusp is the sort of thing you can stand on and <i>look back at</i> what you've passed.) But forty is an age where with a lot of hard work she can still look good and feel, if not young, at least young-ish, while enjoying much nicer things than she had when she was in her twenties.<br/>
<br/>
So you find yourself humming lightly and running a soft, shaggy duster over the spines of the books on the top shelf of the decorative book case. No one in the Cooper family reads if they can help it (Kelly least of all), but the books—all the same size and thickness, bound in brownish-red leather and stamped with tiny letters of gold—look good in the cherry-wood case. The air of faux-literacy extends to the entertainment center, which is a refurbished library card catalog whose false, hinged front hides the giant flat-screen TV, cable boxes, and Blu-ray and game players. You smile on the end tables with the glass vases filled with polished stones and silk flowers; the framed art reproductions (bought from museum gift shops) that hang here and there on the walls; and the antique dining room set (inherited from a great-aunt) that is only used on Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas.<br/>
<br/>
Most of all, you smile at the feeling of shapely limbs and good muscles pumping inside the tight, button-up shorts and the starchy, sleeveless blouse as you bustle around the house. Only after your cheeks start to ache do you realize that you're beaming like an idiot.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are in the downstairs bathroom, tying your loose, floppy hair up into a bun, when you hear Rob coming in from the garage. Plastic bags rustle and rattle. You give yourself a quick glance in the mirror, straighten and firm up your boobs, then sweep out to help him unload the groceries. "I thought I lost you," you tell him. "You were gone awhile."<br/>
<br/>
He grunts. "I had to go to Wal-mart for the grapefruit."<br/>
<br/>
"I appreciate it." You hug him from behind and kiss him on the shoulder. "Love you."<br/>
<br/>
He grunts again. You give him a quick squeeze and let go before he can get the idea that you're interested in anything other than a hug.<br/>
<br/>
"Jordan not back yet?" Rob asks.<br/>
<br/>
"No. He texted to say he was getting supper with friends. We could talk to him again," you add as Rob mutters under his breath, "about moving in with Jack and his friends."<br/>
<br/>
"He needs to get a job. When I was his age—"<br/>
<br/>
"When <i>you</i> were his age," you interrupt, and push yourself up against him as instinct takes over, "you had a job, a live-in girlfriend, and a little baby boy. So it could be worse."<br/>
<br/>
Rob Cooper turns around and looks down at you. He's lost most of his hair, he's getting a paunch, and there's a little bag of fat hanging under his jaw. But under the mossy ruins you can still see the lacrosse player who banged Kelly Smith in the back of his dad's truck on their first date, and dropped out of college for three years to work two jobs in order to support her and him when she swelled and bloomed and dropped a little boy into his hands. He was a lot sexier then as a rugged lacrosse player than he is now as a marketing manager for the KountryFresh Restaurant Supply Corp. But it's the latter who pays for the house and furnishings that you were enjoying.<br/>
<br/>
Rob pulls you close. "If Jordan's not coming home till later," he murmurs. "And where's Chelsea?"<br/>
<br/>
"Out shopping. She should be back soon, but she's going to a party tonight. And Jordan'll be out with his friends till God knows when."<br/>
<br/>
"So, just us?" He bends to nibble and nuzzle at your ear.<br/>
<br/>
"We could go out too."<br/>
<br/>
"We could do it in the living room." He pinches your butt, and you gasp.<br/>
<br/>
"I want you to take me on a date," you tell him. "No reason the kids should have all the fun."<br/>
<br/>
"I was planning on having fun."<br/>
<br/>
"It's more fun if we go out. And if we start having fun now," you remind him as he takes the side of your neck between his teeth, "the milk'll spoil."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Well, thank God for Kelly Cooper's instincts,</i> you tell yourself later that evening as you pedal the exercise bike while Rob takes a nap on the sofa. Acting like a married woman, spur of the moment, isn't something you could have done on your own.<br/>
<br/>
Or acting like a mother—that's something else you don't think you could have managed on your own, despite seventeen years of being on the receiving end of it.<br/>
<br/>
"Chelsea?" you holler when you hear the door to the garage open and shut. "Is that you? Can you come in here a minute? I'm in the exercise room!"<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea, looking freshly made up and in an entirely new wardrobe, appears in the doorway. Her expression is carefully neutral.<br/>
<br/>
"What time are you going to your party tonight?" you puff as you push yourself into the last mile of your cycling routine.<br/>
<br/>
"Gordon's picking me up in half an hour."<br/>
<br/>
"You'll be home early?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, no." Her eyes dart. "We were going to go out with Maria and Steve, a few more people, afterward."<br/>
<br/>
"So what time will you be home?"<br/>
<br/>
Now a pink spot shows in Chelsea's forehead. "I don't know. Um ... midnight?"<br/>
<br/>
You don't believe it for an instant—it's been two years since Chelsea was back home from a party before three in the morning. But you smile at her, for she's just handed you a nice length of rope.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, honey, I'll wait up for you then. So can you make it closer to eleven?"<br/>
<br/>
Now alarm does show on her face. "You don't have to wait up—"<br/>
<br/>
"But I want to, I want to hear all about the party." You double your pace on the bike, racing toward the finish. "Also, can you give me the phone number of the parents? In case I need to call or text."<br/>
<br/>
"You can text <i>me!</i>" Chelsea exclaims. Now she looks frightened.<br/>
<br/>
"I know that, sweetcakes," you pant. "But maybe ... I don't want to ... <i>embarrass</i> you ... by texting you direct."<br/>
<br/>
Worse and worse— green tinge shows at her throat! The only thing more shameful than getting a text from her mom (as you well know) would be getting a mother's phone call via her host's own parents.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, okay," she stammers. "I mean, you can text <i>me</i>, you don't have to bother <i>them,</i> in fact I— Um—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes? Oh, whew!" you exclaim as the bike beeps, letting you know you've met your mileage quota for the day.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, nothing," she mumbles. "I'll go find Meghan's mom's number for you."<br/>
<br/>
"Thank you, Chelsea. You know, I just can't help <i>worrying</i> about you sometimes. Your father and I were talking this morning— Well, never mind." You wave her off as you pick a bottled water up off the nearby stand.<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea stares at you. Then, stiffly, as though treading barefoot across a field of broken glass, she ducks out of the exercise room.<br/>
<br/>
<i>She's not going to party,</i> you find yourself thinking as you catch your breath and rest your burning calf muscles. <i>The party's just a cover. She and Gordon are going to hang out up at the school, in the fuck room. That's what I would do if I was in high school again.</i><br/>
<br/>
Then: <i>Huh. If I was in high school again ...</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Saturday.</i> Chelsea ran out the door early, as though sensing that you had plans for her, and has been gone all day, and it's late in the afternoon before Jordan, the Coopers' college-age son, storms into the house looking unshaven, sweaty, bleary-eyed, and sick. After a quick shower upstairs, he stretches himself across the second sofa with his cell phone, and grunts a wordless negative when you ask if he's going out with his friends again tonight. His face is red and puffy, and he seems to have a hard time getting comfortable on the couch. <i>Hungover,</i> you think. <i>That must've been some party last night.</i><br/>
<br/>
Well, he can take it. He inherited his dad's physique, and his talent at lacrosse.<br/>
<br/>
But it puts paid to your and Rob's plans for the night. Which isn't a real loss, as far as you're concerned. You've got Kelly Cooper's twenty-plus years of memories to know what Rob Cooper's cock feels like when it's jammed up inside her.<br/>
<br/>
So you thaw out a pizza—low carb, so the crust tastes like construction paper—and watch a British import on Netflix while Jordan dozes while trying to watch a ball game on his phone. Rob is very tense, and you can tell he wants to yell at his son, but you coo and prattle and squeeze his knee to keep him distracted and docile.<br/>
<br/>
And, silently, you run down the options you've been toying with all day.<br/>
<br/>
Come Monday at the latest, you're going to have to tell Blackwell where you've switched into. He liked your alias as Yumi, but will he be happy with you set up independently as a housewife? He'd probably like it better if you appeared in a guise closer to Yumi's: as Chelsea or as Jordan.<br/>
<br/>
But you like the idea of not being dependent on him. If you secretly turned the entire Cooper family into fakes, you'd have that independence, and you'd be able to appear to Blackwell as one of the kids.<br/>
<br/>
You're also tantalized by the possibilities in an earlier thought: <i>What if Kelly Cooper was in high school again?</i></span></div></div>


path: 112211111112122211111
author_id: seuzz
title: Sunday Fixings
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Sunday morning.</i> "Pfeh," Chelsea grumbles from the back seat of the car. "How come Jordan doesn't have to go to church and I do?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because he's in college, sweetheart," you tell her. "He's on his own."<br/>
<br/>
"You wouldn't know it from all the time he spends passed out in our living room," she mutters. You pretend not to hear, and she says, "Nothing," when you ask her to repeat it.<br/>
<br/>
The Coopers aren't the most regular churchgoers in Saratoga Falls. (It would be a fine question: Are they churchgoers who miss a lot of services, or are they non-churchgoers who occasionally drop in to remind themselves of what they're missing?) This morning, though, you roused Chelsea with the news that this Sunday would see her in a pew. There was no missing the hell-cat gleam in her eyes as she glared murder back at you from under a tangle of bed-head.<br/>
<br/>
But you just smiled to yourself all the while you were making yourself up. Chelsea was in a surly mood when she got in last night and was fuming when you sent her up to bed thirty minutes later after probing her with a lot of nosy questions about Meghan's party, followed by a stern but sympathetic lecture on the importance of responsibility and modeling good behavior by a leader such as herself. Then to pile church on top of it? Well, you woke yourself up at four in the morning with the idea, and it so excited you that you almost couldn't get back to sleep.<br/>
<br/>
You have to wonder: <i>Did my own parents sometimes use church attendance to get back at me?</i> The thought had occurred to you in the past; and now the suspicion feels less like paranoia and more like insight into a parent's psychological character.<br/>
<br/>
But you've another reason to go to church. When services are over, you make a point of dragging Chelsea along as you go searching for Betty Vredenburg in the reception area. Chelsea and Cindy glower at each other while you catch up with Cindy's mom, and when Cindy makes like she's going to drift off, you lay hold of her and drag from her an impromptu report on how the cheerleader squad is doing. "Chelsea never tells me <i>anything</i> about it these days!" you complain. You draw the pain out as long as possible as Cindy, with eyes darting at Chelsea, lays on some very vanilla praise, and as Chelsea, boiling quietly in the background, listens. But all that is in the nature of a dividend. The real payoff comes when you ask Betty where Lucy is, and how she's doing, and how to get in touch with her. It's with a feeling of triumph that you carry off Lucy's number in your phone's contact list when you part with the Vredenburgs.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm so glad to hear that you and Cindy are getting along so nice," you exult to Chelsea on the ride back home. You glance into the back seat to confirm that Chelsea, with folded arms, is glaring hard out the window. "I was so worried that the two of you would have a falling out once you got to be seniors. You were such great friends your sophomore year, I remember. Like, besties!"<br/>
<br/>
No reply.<br/>
<br/>
"And I have to tell you, I was worried that Cindy wouldn't be so supportive on the squad. I mean, you know, with her sister being team captain when <i>she</i> was a senior, it would be so easy for Cindy to be jealous. Honey, have you thought about asking her to be co-captain with you?"<br/>
<br/>
"No." The word floats on the wave of Arctic air that comes rolling out of the back seat.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you should give it some thought. It would be a really nice gesture on your part. Of course, I'm sure you listen to all her suggestions. You do, don't you?" you press when she doesn't answer.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes."<br/>
<br/>
"Because you know you can't do it all on your own. That's another reason you should probably make her co-captain. You have so many responsibilities this year! By the way, did you look at that link to the UC-SD website that I sent you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you have any thoughts?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
You prattle on about San Diego, and California, and the climate and how nice of a place to go to school it would be. Chelsea only continues to stare out the window.<br/>
<br/>
Not until you're home, parked in the garage, and Chelsea has rushed ahead to get inside and get away from you, do you drop the biggest bombshell of all. <br/>
<br/>
"By the way," you call after her as she grabs the handle of the door leading into the house, "I want you to keep your after school plans flexible this week. I'm going to call Cindy's sister—you remember Lucy—and invite her out sometime this week. I want you there," you add as Chelsea freezes. "You really should get to know her, sweetcakes, she'd be such a valuable resource to you. You know, she's on the college cheerleading squad, and I bet she's just gotten <i>so much more experience now,</i> and I'm sure she'd love to help you out with ideas and insights."<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea practically wrenches the handle off the door as she rushes inside. Her feet thunder on the stairs, and a bedroom door slams upstairs. You smile to yourself, and wonder if Chelsea made it to the toilet before vomiting.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You got Lucy's number, of course, because you haven't forgotten your interest in her: What is her connection to Blackwell? You send her a long, chatty text, reminding her of who you are and asking her text or call you back at her convenience. But she was a prissy little bitch (Mrs. Cooper's memories tell you) even when she was in high school, so you're not real hopeful that she'll get back to you any time soon.<br/>
<br/>
"And where do you think you're going?" you demand of Chelsea when, twenty minutes later, she appears in kitchen with her purse over her shoulder. She's changed into shorts, a midriff-baring top, and flip-flops. With her sunglasses and her hair tied back, she looks like she's on her way to the beach.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm meeting Gordon for lunch," she says. "We're—"<br/>
<br/>
"You're having Sunday lunch here, with your family," you inform her.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"What?"</i><br/>
<br/>
"Don't get sassy with me, little miss. I'm fixing a fried chicken."<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea's jaw drops. "I can't have fried chicken!" she exclaims in a strangled voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Nobody says you have to eat it. Or you can pick the crust off."<br/>
<br/>
"Then what's the—?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's for your father, and it's also why you're staying to eat with us. He hardly gets to see any more of you, honey! Between his job and your extracurriculars—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Mom!"</i><br/>
<br/>
"—the only time he gets a chance to see his beautiful baby girl is on the weekends, and we don't even ask to see you on Saturdays! Is one hour, sitting across the table from him, on a Sunday afternoon, too much for you?"<br/>
<br/>
Jordan chooses that moment to come padding in: shoeless and shirtless in track pants, with his hair sticking out in every direction. "What's for lunch?" he asks as he pulls open the refrigerator door and studies the contents with a furrowed brow.<br/>
<br/>
"Take twenty dollars from my purse and get Jack to come pick you up," you tell him. You have to fight to keep your lips from twitching as Chelsea's eyes bulge. "Hop to, honeypot."<br/>
<br/>
Jordan blinks, then with a shrug pads back out.<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea whirls on you. "So how come—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Keep your voice down," you warn her, "and watch your tone with me."<br/>
<br/>
"So how come Jordan—?" she hisses.<br/>
<br/>
"Because your father's seen all together too much of him recently. I want a pleasant, Sunday lunch, like the kind your grandma and I used to have with <i>my</i> grandmammy and 'pappy. And that means having it <i>with</i> you and without Jordan. Sweetheart." You stroke her cheek. "You should be pleased and flattered that your parents want to see more of you. Because if you play your college applications right, well—" You sniff and pat the tip of your nose with the back of your hand. "Your dad and I only get to have nine more months with you!"<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea turns so pale that you can see the gray underneath her tan. With a lip curved with something like horror, she stumbles out of the kitchen, nearly bumping into Rob as she goes.<br/>
<br/>
Your husband glances back at her. "What's wrong with Chelsea?" he asks. "Did Gordon cancel on her or something?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, she's just hungry and I told it would be forty minutes before we eat. Fried chicken."<br/>
<br/>
A furtive gleam of cupidity creeps into Rob's eye. Then he frowns. "So is she eating with us? I thought her and Gordon—"<br/>
<br/>
"Of course she's eating with us. She can get together with Gordon later. Although I wish she wouldn't." You are very careful to <i>not</i> keep your voice down. "I don't like that boy," you grumble as you open the pantry to dig out the oil and flour for the chicken. "He reminds me altogether too much of Mark Grossman. You remember <i>him,</i> of course." Mark Grossman was a football player that Rob knew in college, who wound up in jail for spousal abuse.<br/>
<br/>
"First time you've mentioned this to me," Rob mutters as you bustle about, getting out the rest of the stuff for the chicken. Unlike you, he does keep his voice down.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I've been biting my tongue. We need to get more involved in Chelsea's life," you tell him. "We let things slide last year."<br/>
<br/>
"You're not going to try telling Chelsea who she can date!" Rob says, sounding shocked.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, why not? At the very least—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>At the very least we can stop letting Gordon spend so much time upstairs in her bedroom with her.</i> That was what you were going to say. But now you've got a much more wicked idea.<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea's grades aren't bad, but they're not so great you couldn't justify getting her a tutor.<br/>
<br/>
And you can think of one tutor who'd be perfect: Will Prescott, whose presence she is so allergic to.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222111111
author_id: seuzz
title: Instructing the Tutor
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>At lunch, Chelsea only picks at her food, but you don't chide her: you yourself only pick at it and for the same reason. A meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes with white gravy, green beans cooked in bacon fat, and biscuits—though delicious if you say so yourself—is not good for either a girl's complexion or her waistline.<br/>
<br/>
But Rob bolts down enough for all of you, which was something else you were rather counting on, for after he helping you and Chelsea clean up the kitchen, he totters into the living room to collapse in a snoring heap on the sofa. After he's passed out and the two kids have gone, you have the run of the things without distractions. You write Rob a short note, then grab up your keys and drive up to the mall. At a very long stoplight, you text Will Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"You're fucking with me!" your doppelganger gasps when you tell him the plan.<br/>
<br/>
"No, I'm fucking with Chelsea," you retort. "And keep your voice down. This is a high class place."<br/>
<br/>
You're meeting at Cafe Oro, a tea and coffee shop behind the mall. The Shoppes at Fell's Lake—as the cluster of boutique stores and eateries is called—is the toniest retail district in town. Arranged in a picturesquely crooked manner on the shores of what is either a tiny lake or an enormous pond, the green and red brick buildings with their black, sloping tile roofs look like something lifted out of Dickensian London, then buffed, polished, and bejeweled with bright glass windows and gleaming brass inlays. Cafe Oro itself is a hushed little cafe whose dark, cherrywood tables are covered with heavy, forest-green cloths and starchy linen napkins. You're enjoying a black tea flavored with peach syrup; your replacement is mindlessly guzzling a coffee that is at least three times more expensive than its equivalent at Starbucks.<br/>
<br/>
"She'll never go for it," Will mutters.<br/>
<br/>
"She won't have a choice. I'm her mother." You take a long sip from your tea, so your double gets a long moment to greedily drink you in before you snap his attention off your boobs with a sharp reminder. "And I'm your boss," you tell him. "You're not going to argue, are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Was that a question or an order? 'Cos you know I gotta do it if you make me, but I <i>think</i> I'm allowed to argue back."<br/>
<br/>
"But why would you want to?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because she's going to hate it."<br/>
<br/>
"That's why I want to make her do it! What part don't you get?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I get it, all right. But I hate it because she's going to make it awful for me too!"<br/>
<br/>
"It'll be ten time as awful for her," you retort, "so it'll be worth it. Don't forget, you've got that hex on you, and it's rubbed off on her. At least, she's picked up on a secondary effect."<br/>
<br/>
"And she won't sit still," Will objects. "We'll get up to the library and she'll just stomp off and go find Gordon, and the two of them'll— What?" He breaks off. "What are you looking at me like that for?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because I just got a great idea."<br/>
<br/>
"Shit." Will covers his eyes with his hands.<br/>
<br/>
You give yourself a full minute to luxuriate in the idea before you bother to explain it to your replacement.<br/>
<br/>
"First of all," you tell him, "you won't be doing it up at the library. You'll be doing at her house. In the dining room. Where I can keep an eye on her so she can't run off and she also can't do anything to you."<br/>
<br/>
"Wanna bet?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, hush. But here's the really great idea." You grin so hard your cheeks ache. "We'll get Gordon to come out for the study sessions too."<br/>
<br/>
Will's expression craters and all the blood drains from his countenance. It looks like the whole of his face might slide off the front of his skull. "Are you—?"<br/>
<br/>
"You'll be fine," you assure him. "Remember, he's got the whole force of that hex on him. That's what made me think of it. He'll barely be able to look at you, let alone touch you. It'll be torture for him, sitting at that table with you and Chelsea. He'll either have to sit there, all in agony, taking that ... <i>thing</i> ... full in the face, or he'll run away."<br/>
<br/>
"So he'll run away."<br/>
<br/>
You grin. "And what will Chelsea do to <i>him</i> when he runs off? See, we win either way," <br/>
<br/>
Will buries his face in his hands again. "Is that all I am?" he grumbles. "A voodoo doll you can use to—?"<br/>
<br/>
But you're not listening. The front door has opened and two women come striding in. They are dressed in power business suits: dark, gray skirts; trim, black jackets; bright white blouses. They would look sexy, except they're both in their mid-fifties and about forty pounds overweight between them. They carry heavy leather book bags.<br/>
<br/>
The one in the severe black bun notices you smiling open-mouthed at her. She flinches just a hair, then with a tight smile swerves over to your table. "Hello, Kelly," she coos in a voice as flat and metallic as a sheet of aluminum foil.<br/>
<br/>
"Sandra! You're not here on a business lunch, are you? It's Sunday!"<br/>
<br/>
"There aren't enough business hours in the day. And this isn't Jordan, is it?" she asks, turning a critical eye on Will.<br/>
<br/>
"No, this is my own business lunch. This is Will, he's a classmate of Chelsea's. I'm interviewing him for a, uh, tutoring job. For her!"<br/>
<br/>
Sandra Blankenship's eyes widen. "Oh, Chelsea doesn't need tutoring, does she?"<br/>
<br/>
"Every little bit helps. You haven't hired a tutor for Kelsey?"<br/>
<br/>
"She's getting some interview coaching online." Sandra beams. "She doesn't need any help with her grades."<br/>
<br/>
You feel the steel enter your spine. Kelsey's mother is just as bad as her daughter. "Well, I suppose she's got more time for it," you drawl. "Chelsea, bless her heart, doesn't have enough hours in the day, it seems like, between school work and cheerleading and her other extracurriculars."<br/>
<br/>
Sandra's smile sharpens. "Well, Kelsey's got her own extracurricular activities, of course. She's absolutely going to be taking home a tennis trophy at the regionals."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, that's wonderful for her!" Under the table you make a fist. "She was just the sharpest girl I think I ever met, takes after her mama that way! Well, I'll let you get on with your business." You flutter a couple of fingers at Sandra's companion, who is standing off to the side with a quizzical look. Sandra squeezes out one last, insincere smile and sweeps off to the most distant corner of the tea shop.<br/>
<br/>
"That was Kelsey's mother," you mutter at Will. "You know, Blankenship."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I figured that out."<br/>
<br/>
"You know, she was even more pissed off than Kelsey was when her little darling didn't get voted captain of the cheerleading team? That was sweet. How are Kelsey and her friends treating you, by the way?"<br/>
<br/>
"About the same as always, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't think they picked up the hex? That's too bad."<br/>
<br/>
Pink spots show in Will's cheeks. "Look, boss, if I'm still allowed to argue—"<br/>
<br/>
"You're not." You lift a finger to call for a ticket from the aproned waiter. "We need to set this up, first thing Sandra's going to do when she gets home is tell Kelsey that Chelsea's getting a tutor, so I need you to go on Facebook or someplace and put up an ad for tutoring services. Something I can show Chelsea when I tell her I've hired you."<br/>
<br/>
"What do I say in the post?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't care. Something about tutoring in English and math."<br/>
<br/>
"What do I tell other people who see it?"<br/>
<br/>
"No one else is going to hire you."<br/>
<br/>
"That's not what I meant! But if Caleb or Keith or—fuck me!—Carson and James see it, then—"<br/>
<br/>
"So get it posted this afternoon so I can show it to Chelsea tonight. Then you can take it down before anyone else can spot it! What?" you ask after you catch him squinting hard at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I'm just trying to figure out if turning yourself into Chelsea's mom made you so smart that I can't keep up, or if it made you so dumb that—"<br/>
<br/>
He shuts up when you lift a warning finger to him.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
After parting with Will you drive out to Blackwell's. <i>Does Kelly Cooper have some kind of sixth sense about places and people?</i> you wonder as you stride up the walk to the front door. Though it is late afternoon and the sun is shining through intermittent breaks in the soft clouds overhead, the villa looks and feels even deader and creepier than usual.<br/>
<br/>
Up in the work room you find the <i>Personae</i> and the supplies in the unlocked cabinet where Blackwell keeps them, and set to work making a <i>mens,</i> the metallic strip that copies memories and personalities. Your plan is to sneak the thing onto Lucy Vredenburg so that you can directly inspect what she knows and thinks about Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
But you've just cast the <i>mens</i> when you hear the sound of tires nearby, and look out the window to see an SUV pulling up on the east side of the house. The wall hides most of the vehicle from sight, but you instantly recognize the platinum-blonde hair of the figure that gets out. It's Lucy Vredenburg herself!<br/>
<br/>
Your heart instantly goes into your throat. What is she doing here? Is it okay for <i>you</i> to be here? What will she say if she finds you here? And what will she think when she finds the mother of Chelsea Cooper working away inside Professor Blackwell's house? You quickly shove your work back inside the cabinet.<br/>
<br/>
But some small courage returns as you race back down to the second floor. You have at least as much of a right to be here as Lucy does, after all. And what right would she have to challenge Kelly Cooper's presence in the professor's house?</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212221111111
author_id: seuzz
title: Dirty Deeds in Plain Sight
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's a big house, and there's no reason Lucy should suspect anyone of being in it. It seems easiest just to hide. You scurry into the bedroom Blackwell gave you, quietly shut the door and scoot yourself under the bed.<br/>
<br/>
Not until you have recovered your breath and are listening to the soft thump of the pulse in your ears do you realize that, if Lucy can't find you, still less will you be able to hear her. Long minutes pass as you strain to catch the hint of a footfall or other movement in the house.<br/>
<br/>
But never do you hear so much as the creak of a floorboard or the thud of a door.<br/>
<br/>
<i>How long is she likely to be here?</i> you wonder. <i>Did she stop by to see if Blackwell was back, and leave when she found the front door locked?</i> (You did lock it behind you, didn't you?) <i>Did she just come in to drop off a paper or pick up a book? Is she in the library now, reading and taking notes? Or is she up in the workroom, conducting a magical experiment of her own?</i> <br/>
<br/>
You've no way to tell.<br/>
<br/>
Your boredom and impatience soon mount. How long can you wait her out? How long have you been waiting already? You pull out your cell phone to check the time—4:12—and give yourself five minutes before going out to check the coast, but when 4:20 comes you give yourself yet another ten minutes. But by 4:35—by which point you've started to turn drowsy—you've come up with another idea. You squeeze your face between your hand, one hand cupping your chin and the other gripping your brow, and pull Kelly Cooper's mask off.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Oh, you're up," you exclaim when you enter the living room to find Rob watching the TV. "Did you find my note?"<br/>
<br/>
He grunts without taking his eyes off the ball game. "Is Chelsea back yet?" you ask. He grunts again, this time giving it a negative intonation. "Well, I guess I'll do my seven miles," you sigh, and stride off toward the laundry room, where your exercise clothes are. As you strip and change into shorts and a sports bra, you remember to check your phone (which you turned off inside Blackwell's and forgot to turn back on) and find a text from Chelsea telling you she's eating with Gordon and will be home late. With a spiteful satisfaction, you reply with a text reminding her that tomorrow is a school day.<br/>
<br/>
So the trip to Blackwell's turned into a total bust. You quietly emerged from the bedroom in your own face and an extra set of clothes to find the house completely empty, and Lucy's SUV gone when you looked out the window. A quick search of the house, from the library to the workroom, turned up nothing unexpected, so you're not even sure she came inside. Still, Lucy's visit spooked you enough that you didn't resume work on the <i>mens</i> but instead bugged out.<br/>
<br/>
But you didn't come home empty-handed. On your way in, you paused at one of the decorative bookshelves long enough to slide a dumpy old book into a gap next to a Bible (where, hopefully, it won't start any fires). No one in the Cooper household so much as looks at a bookcase, let alone pulls anything off of one, so it's the safest hiding place in the world for the copy of <i>The Book of Miriam</i> that you lifted from Blackwell's library.<br/>
<br/>
You've finished your workout and taken a shower before you hear Chelsea come in, but it's hard to miss her voice when she does. Her shrieks batter at your bedroom door from the hallway beyond: an inarticulate, screeching babble of angry words. <i>Great!</i> you think. <i>Something for me to yell at her about!</i><br/>
<br/>
"What in the name of all that's holy is going on out here?" you demand as you wrench your bedroom door open. Chelsea and Jordan, chest to outthrust chest, are glaring at each other at the other end of the hallway. "Chelsea, if you can't keep your tone done—"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't start it this time!" Chelsea yells. Her eyes are puffy and red as she whirls on you. "Jordan and—!" She presses a fist to her nose and runs into her room, slamming the door behind her.<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't do anything!" Jordan protests. "I was just standing up here with Elise when Chelsea comes up, and she says—"<br/>
<br/>
But he catches himself, and starts to turn as pink as a grapefruit. "What did Chelsea say?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
He makes a face and kicks at the carpet. "Oh, just something about, 'Taking it back to a dorm room.' But we were hardly—! Elise was just getting ready to go is all!"<br/>
<br/>
"Elise? I didn't even know she was here. Where is she now?"<br/>
<br/>
"She ran downstairs."<br/>
<br/>
Your jaw drops. "Then what are you standing <i>here</i> for?" You grab him by the shoulder. "Why are you arguing with your sister for when your girlfriend—?"<br/>
<br/>
That finally puts Jordan in motion, and thundering like a sackful of elephants he tumbles down the stairs after Elise Turner. You toss an exasperated sigh after him, then turn to Chelsea's room.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not knocking, young lady," you announce as you barge in. "Behavior like this is unacceptable! You don't just go storming off when I'm talking to you!" Chelsea, her face red and stained with tears, glares back at you from atop her bed, but doesn't answer.<br/>
<br/>
"Now, I am royally furious with you, little miss," you continue, "but I pride myself on being a fair and open-minded mother, and even though you've been treating me like a pile of your own poo these last few days, with sulks and backtalk and dirty looks—and don't think I haven't been catching them!—I will give you a chance to explain this little fit you threw before I drop the hammer. So what have you got to say for yourself?"<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea looks like she wants to belch fire, but she keeps her temper and answers in a low, trembling voice.<br/>
<br/>
"I was just coming upstairs, and Jordan and Elise were standing in his doorway. And they were—" She bites her tongue and glowers.<br/>
<br/>
"They were doing what?" you demand. "You have one chance to make your case, li'l darlin', so you better make it good. Jordan says he was telling her goodnight."<br/>
<br/>
<i>"He had his hand down the front of her shorts!"</i> Chelsea screams at the top of her lungs.<br/>
<br/>
You feel the fire blaze into your eyes, but you keep control of yourself as you push her door shut. "I told you to explain yourself, Chelsea. I didn't tell you to do it at the top of your lungs."<br/>
<br/>
"So is it okay if he does that?" she screeches. "In front of <i>me?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"He didn't know you were there. Did he?" you continue as Chelsea only glares. "Then it was just an accident."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, it was an accident," she sneers. "An accident that he had his finger up inside her— her—"<br/>
<br/>
"You don't know that and you keep your mind and tongue out of the gutter! That's your brother you're talking about!"<br/>
<br/>
"And it's his sister he's doing it in front of!"<br/>
<br/>
"Obviously he didn't know you were—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Gyuuuuhhhhh!"</i> Chelsea throws herself backwards onto the bed so hard she bounces. "So it's okay that he does it in the house, but it's not okay for me to accidentally come around the corner and see it! Is that it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Whether it's okay for him or not is between him and me and your father. What did you say to them? Chelsea?" You drop your voice to a growl when she doesn't answer right away.<br/>
<br/>
"I told them to go find a motel room. Okay?"<br/>
<br/>
You loose Kelly Cooper's most theatrical gasp.<br/>
<br/>
"Chelsea Courtenay Cooper, I raised you better than that! Elise Turner was a guest in this house, and you don't—"<br/>
<br/>
"If she was a guest in this house, why was she letting Jordan finger her in our upstairs hallway?" Chelsea's face, by now, is purple.<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't say she behaved like a perfect guest, but Jordan's the one you talk to, because—"<br/>
<br/>
"I <i>did</i> talk to him! I told him to <i>find a motel room!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You glower at her with your hands on your hips, but you keep your voice low and relentless.<br/>
<br/>
"Let me explain how you handle this kind of thing, Chelsea. You don't say anything to or in front of the guest. You see something like that, you look at them, you turn away, you ignore it. I know you probably wanted to make Elise feel like trash, but right now she's not feeling ashamed, she's just feeling angry with you. If you'd let her know you saw her but said nothing, you can bet your bottom pair of britches she wouldn't have let it happen again. She wouldn't even run the risk of letting it happen again! And then after she's gone, you go find Jordan and tell him what you thought of it. But you'd keep your voice low so no one else could hear you."<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea, whose complexion has been clearing up during this lecture, flushes again. "So you don't care about what goes on, you just don't want to know about it?"<br/>
<br/>
You feel your eyebrows shoot up. <i>This couldn't have gone more perfect if I'd tried!</i> you exult.<br/>
<br/>
"If you want me to care about it," you tell her, "then we'll put a new rule in effect. Elise can't come upstairs with Jordan anymore."<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea blinks and perks up. The corners of her lips jerk into a tiny, wary smile. You give her to the count of three to let her think she's won before you drop the hammer. <br/>
<br/>
"But it's the same rule for you. Gordon can't come upstairs with you anymore either."<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea stares. Then her face falls, and she gasps. "But Mom—!"<br/>
<br/>
"No buts! I trust Jordan with Elise about ten times more than I trust Gordon with you! From now on, you and him can study downstairs in the dining room, with your new tutor."<br/>
<br/>
It takes her a moment to catch on to "new tutor." <br/>
<br/>
And if you thought she was upset before, after she learns who her "new tutor" is ...</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112122211111111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Unhappy Warlock
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Oh, <i>God</i>! Yes! Oh ...!" You shriek and grip your husband's cock even tighter with your pussy. He's already pumping hard, but you just need a little more tickling, a little more teasing, a little more pulling. You gasp and dig your fingernails into his back. You throw your head back, gulp for air, and ...<br/>
<br/>
The front door below opens and slams; running feet hit the stairs and charge down the hall outside. You hold the moment in suspense, praying that it's just for a moment ... <br/>
<br/>
Rob tenses too ...<br/>
<br/>
"Mom!" an aggrieved male voice calls. "I can't find my kit! Did you put it someplace again?"<br/>
<br/>
You clench your eyes. "Look in the laundry room!"<br/>
<br/>
"I did!" Jordan knocks on the door, then rattles the knob. <i>I didn't raise you to be that rude!</i> you want to scream at him. <br/>
<br/>
Instead, you shout back, "You sure you didn't carry it off in your workout bag?" You grimace at the ceiling. Rob's rock-hard erection is starting to soften as the two of you, still frozen in place, grip each other.<br/>
<br/>
"Hang on!" Jordan shouts from the other side of the door.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Why he can't put two and two together?</i> you fume to yourself. His dad's car in the garage at lunch time; the house is empty; the bedroom door is locked... It's beyond you how a college student who is so obviously screwing his girlfriend can't read the obvious signs.<br/>
<br/>
Rob lets out a huge sigh, then pulls out and rolls off you as quietly as he can. You want to smack him. Instead you climb out of bed and pad into the bathroom to put on a dressing gown. As you try to compose yourself in the mirror, you hear Jordan running up the stairs again. "Never mind!" he yells through the door. "Found it!" And then he's off again, tumbling like a rockslide down the stairs. The front door opens, then slams.<br/>
<br/>
You give an exasperated groan; Rob pats his thigh invitingly, but you shake your head. "You have to get back to work," you remind him. "And I've got chores to do."<br/>
<br/>
"I've got time," he argues. "And I've still got—"<br/>
<br/>
"And you've still got just time enough to get cleaned up. If you need to finish up, finish up the shower, hon. I'm slow-cooking a roast for supper tonight, and I just remembered I got to get started on it." Rob doesn't move, so you cross over to clamber atop him and give him a deep kiss. "We'll try it again tomorrow," you promise as he clutches you by the elbows. "Jordan's got classes on Tuesdays that keep him up at the college."<br/>
<br/>
"Myers will schedule something tomorrow," Rob grouses. "This is the first time in two weeks I've been able to sneak home at lunchtime," he adds in an almost-Chelsea-like whine. <br/>
<br/>
"Sixteen days," you correct him. You scramble down to nip playfully at the bedspread where what's left of his erection is poking up. "I count them." He growls in the back of his throat, but you pull yourself off the bed. "I guess we'll just have to play it by ear then. Come on." You smack him in the side of the hip. "Hurry and get cleaned up."<br/>
<br/>
"We should change the locks on the doors," Rob mutters as he staggers to his feet. He catches himself and adds, "That's not a bad idea. If Jordan can't get in, maybe he'll finally move out. By the way, what was all that screaming upstairs about, last night?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just Chelsea pitching a fit because I told her I hired her a tutor."<br/>
<br/>
"You <i>what?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Hurry up, hon, you're gonna be late!" you call over your shoulder as you charge out the bedroom.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The great thing about a slow-cooking roast is that it frees you for the afternoon. You got the main Monday chore—cleaning the bathrooms—done before lunch, when you should have been downtown at the gym on one of the weight machines. But you are foregoing Kelly's workout routine today in order to get another project done.<br/>
<br/>
<i>The Book of Miriam,</i> which you took yesterday when you left his villa, is one of Blackwell's prize possessions, for his copy is one of only a hundred still left in the entire world—or so he has told you—and so you need to get it back into his library before he has a chance to notice it missing. It is an exposition of alchemical magic, centuries old, with a long chapter about the kind of guardians that you have been interested in, and so contains variations on the "hex" that Blackwell himself put on you. You doubt you'll be able to master the magic in the course of an afternoon, but at least you'll be able to get a start. You put on a pot of coffee and take the <i>Miriam</i> with you into the dining room.<br/>
<br/>
It makes for absorbing reading, and you doodle out copious notes and sketches as you pore through the chapter. At least half your attention is on the theory of the thing—what exactly a guardian is and how to conjure one—but the other half of your attention busily schemes along in the background, inventing ways of using one against Chelsea. Your original idea, to attach to her the same kind of hex that Blackwell put on you, so that she can see what it's like to be on the receiving end of hatred, fear, revulsion, and abuse, is quickly superseded by ideas that are both nastier and more subtle. By the time you put the <i>Miriam</i> back on the shelf and move to the kitchen to work on the rest of dinner, you have half a dozen ideas knocking around.<br/>
<br/>
But they are interrupted by a text from your doppelganger: <i>Blackwell's looking for you.</i><br/>
<br/>
You cuss aloud. Though you hadn't exactly forgotten that he was due back in town today, you had managed to completely ignore it while you were working. You put off replying until after you've chopped the ingredients for a vegetable medley. Thirty minutes pass before you text back, <i>Have you told him where I am?</i><br/>
<br/>
The riposte is swift: <i>Blackwell here,</i> it begins. <i>When you have a moment, please come out to see me.</i><br/>
<br/>
You cringe. <i>I have a family to feed,</i> you tell him.<br/>
<br/>
<i>That is precisely why I need to see you, as soon as conveniently possible,</i> he replies, and you can practically see the ice congealing on the screen of the phone.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"What the devil do you think you're doing?" Blackwell roars as he lets you into the villa. He is in a gray turtleneck sweater and pants, and his beard seems to bristle with electricity. "Your placeholder has been alarming me with some quite ghastly reports of your actions and intentions!" he continues as, in stockinged feet, he leads you deeper in the house. "As the creature has some insight into your psychology, I have indulged its attempted excuses for your behavior, but I prefer to hear them from you directly. I will also find greater satisfaction in delivering a sharp smack across <i>your</i> mouth than across <i>its!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
Your double is waiting for you in the dark, suffocating living room that Blackwell has led you in to. You glare at the thing, and glare at it all the harder for the undisguised glee that it betrays at your discomfiture. <i>So much for loyalty,</i> you grumble to yourself.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, like I told you before you left town," you tell him. "I messed up on one of the masks and had to make a new one. I messed up by accidentally making a mask of this woman." You point at your face. "Her name's Kelly Cooper, and her daughter—"<br/>
<br/>
But the words seem to catch in Kelly Cooper's throat, and you have to force them out: "And her daughter's the biggest cunt in the high school."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell looks unimpressed. "I thought you had settled on the Miss Saito as your impersonation."<br/>
<br/>
"I saw a chance to get back at Chelsea, using her mother. I've been making her life miserable. You know." You put a hand on your hip and flip your hair back. "As only a mother can."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell freezes, and his frown deepens. "You didn't inform me of this change of impersonation."<br/>
<br/>
"You were out of town. I changed out on Saturday."<br/>
<br/>
Instead of arguing, Blackwell put his hands behind his back and starts to pace. You wait as he trudges the length of the room.<br/>
<br/>
He speaks slowly after he has returned to where you are standing. "Malice, Mr. Prescott," he says. "Malice and spite. Those are the intentions—I gather from you and your placeholder—with which are acting out this impersonation. Am I wrong?" You feel yourself impaled on his sharp glance.<br/>
<br/>
"No." You grind the word out. It's an ugly admission, but you'd have a hard time arguing otherwise. You flinch, expecting your mentor to blaze forth in a hot, harsh lecture.<br/>
<br/>
But he doesn't. Instead, he says, "Is this girl, this ... cunt." His mouth twists around the word. "Is she the only one for whom you nurse these malefic impulses?"<br/>
<br/>
"If you mean, is she the only one I want to get back at ... Well, no. Not by a long shot."<br/>
<br/>
"Is this ... this ... mother of hers," Blackwell says, gesturing at you with a wave of his hand, "the only position from which you can revenge yourself?"<br/>
<br/>
"No," you admit again. "But it's a pretty sweet one. She can't get back at me, for a start."<br/>
<br/>
"But similarly, I have a very hard time getting to you myself," Blackwell retorts with a grimace. "I'm sorry, Will, but much as I empathize with your position and desires, I think you had better find a different target or a different blind from which to strike. We cannot continue your education while you have a household—a household with a husband and children—to manage, and it was to give you an education that I agreed to take you on."</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222111111113
author_id: seuzz
id: RX9JNS4V8
title: The Mother of Invention
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>"Okay, how about Lucy Vredenburg's mother?" you blurt out, thinking fast. <br/>
<br/>
Blackwell blinks. "I beg your pardon?"<br/>
<br/>
"Lucy Vredenburg's mother. Betty. She—"<br/>
<br/>
"What on earth?" Blackwell frowns.<br/>
<br/>
"She's the mother of one of my classmates," you explain. "Another one I'd like to get back at. And she's Lucy's mother. Lucy comes out here, she works for you, so she'd be a way of—"<br/>
<br/>
"Under no circumstances, Mr. Prescott!" Blackwell thunders, and his face blackens. "I am not— I have not undertaken your education— <i>What is possessing you?</i> I need you out here at least six hours a day, spending the night— These are arrangements that can easily be made if you are impersonating the correct classmate! But as the— the <i>parent</i> of a classmate—!"<br/>
<br/>
"Betty's an adult like Kelly!" you retort, and lightly touch your breast. "She can come out here any time, pretending to run errands, so I can switch, like when I switch when I come out after school. And I'd have a more flexible schedule!" you continue as you warm to the idea. "As Yumi, or whoever, I can only come out in the afternoon to switch. As someone's mother, I could sleep here, work here in the mornings, then go home as her in the afternoons, if that would work better. Or work here in the afternoons and go home in the mornings. And Lucy—"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I will not hear of it," Blackwell says, and raises his hand. "I will give you one more day and night as this— this woman," he says with faint distaste, "in order to wind up your affairs and arrange for her return to this mortal circle. But then you must return to Miss— to your earlier impersonation. Unless you can propose an alternate impersonation. One," he concludes very archly, "that is not certifiably insane!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So you're in a bad mood that evening, not least because you have to tell Chelsea that the tutorial sessions you had arranged for her fell through. (There's no point in pushing your doppelganger on her when her mother will be returning with no memories of arranging the sessions.) Rob wants to get cozy with you after going to bed, but it's no lie when you push him off with the excuse that you've got a headache.<br/>
<br/>
The next morning you are mulishly plotting out how to make the transfer back to Yumi's mask when you get an unexpected text from Blackwell, asking you to come meet him at his office at ten-thirty. Almost you give him the same excuse you gave Rob last night—a migraine—but bite your tongue and agree to come. The result is a very pleasant surprise.<br/>
<br/>
"I spent the night turning over in my mind the suggestion you made to me," he informs you in a dry yet plummy tone once you are seated in his office with the door closed. His university office, like his house, is stacked deep with books. But the desk and the carpet are worn and shabby, and the sunlight that pours through the Venetian brightens the place  considerably. Except for an impression of shadows that hang like cobwebs off the bookshelves, the place feels <i>normal.</i> "And I have decide that your proposal has ... more merit ... than was immediately obvious at the time you made it."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, isn't that just too sweet of you," you exclaim, for Kelly Cooper's personality is still riding hard upon you. "Sorry," you add when Blackwell's mouth sags into a frown. "Can I ask what made you change your mind?"<br/>
<br/>
"Your animadversions on the flexibility of scheduling that you achieve in the guise of, er—" He indicates you with a loose gesture.. "Flexibility in your schedule would nicely complement flexibility in mine." He tugs at his lip. "So, if you wish to continue in the guise of, erm—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'd still like to change places with Betty Vredenburg," you say, for you're thinking of how well that would fit in your desire to spy on Lucy.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm afraid not, Will," Blackwell crisply declares, and his visage darkens again.<br/>
<br/>
"But through Lucy—"<br/>
<br/>
"That is why I must veto the suggestion. Lucy would hardly be pleased to discover that I had made a, um, substitution in regard to her mother—"<br/>
<br/>
"So don't tell her!"<br/>
<br/>
"—and she would hardly be more pleased to learn that her mother had also become involved in my work."<br/>
<br/>
"So don't tell her!" you repeat.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell smiles tightly. "Then of what use would it be that you had Lucy as a, ah, 'connection' to me, if we must keep secret that you and I are connected in any way through the personage of Lucy's mother? No, I'm sorry, the suggestion is most impracticable." He shuts his mouth with a snap, and his smile is like a steel ribbon.<br/>
<br/>
"Alright," you sigh. "But there might be some other, um, people I might want to change places with."<br/>
<br/>
"Such as?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know yet. There's a lot of people I want to get even with, and after I've had some fun with Chelsea—"<br/>
<br/>
"I understand. We shall have to see."<br/>
<br/>
"Could I make up another mask? To have on hand in case I—"<br/>
<br/>
"In case you impulsively wish to make an exchange?" Blackwell mulls this. "Yes, you have my permission to cast a new mask."<br/>
<br/>
With that, he dismisses you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But you don't wait to prepare for another move, for you are still feeling inquisitive and even more than a bit rebellious. From the university you drive out first to your house to pick up <i>The Book of Miriam,</i> and then make a dash for the villa. There, you replace the book on the bookshelf, quickly cast a new mask, fetch the <i>mens</i> you had started to make, and mix up some <i>ludius</i> paste. Then, after releasing the guardian (which you had caged on entering; Blackwell had shown you how before leaving for the weekend), you go home in time to resume your household chores.<br/>
<br/>
The week that follows is less revolutionary than it had promised to be. Only on Saturday does Blackwell summon you out in mid-morning to the villa, to switch into Jared's face for the afternoon; then (to your surprise) he sends you back home as Mrs. Cooper for the evening and night. Every other day, you make the switch late in the afternoon, under cover of making a trip to the grocery store. The only real change—and it's a disappointment—is that you don't have the chance to directly persecute Chelsea, but must leave it to the fake Mrs. Cooper to do your dirty work for you.<br/>
<br/>
The control you exercise over the fake Mrs. Cooper is another mark of your growing alienation from the professor. When you were Yumi, the practice was for you to hang her mask onto his golem and send it to school. This, however, put the fake girl under his control, not yours, and you are loathe to do the same with Mrs. Cooper. That is why you prepared a <i>ludius</i> paste which, when fired into the mask with a bit of your hair, puts the <i>pedisequos</i> under your control no matter who controls the golem it is set upon. You don't tell Blackwell what you have done. If he never learns of the deception, so much the better. If he does learn of it, you will have an excuse prepared (that you wanted the flexibility to set the mask on to anything or anyone in an emergency). You also command "Mrs. Cooper" to tell you if the professor (thinking that he controls it) takes it aside for an interrogation. But she never reports that he does.<br/>
<br/>
Meanwhile, every night, for three hours after supposedly retiring to your bedroom, you work on the new mask, and have it done by the following Sunday.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Well, I wish you had told me this before!" Betty Vredenburg exclaims. She sets her coffee cup down and frowns out the dining room window.<br/>
<br/>
It is Monday morning, for you needed the house to yourself to prepare for the next stage in your plan. You invited Betty over, ostensibly to discuss cheerleading matters; and because she didn't seem interested you had to tell her that Chelsea and Cindy were <i>not</i> getting along. That got her out to the house, and you have just spent ten minutes over coffee improvising a story about how you found out from Chelsea about the dissension on the squad.<br/>
<br/>
"I told you," you say, "that I only found out about it myself yesterday. So you know it almost as quick as I do. If it makes you feel any better," you continue as Betty sighs, "I gave Chelsea a real stern lecture about not being a bitchy little bossy-boots."<br/>
<br/>
Betty looks startled—probably on account of your vocabulary—then goes back to staring out the window.<br/>
<br/>
"It can't be easy for Cindy," she says with a distracted air, "not being able to— Well, to follow in her sister's footsteps. I know it isn't, because I've seen and heard enough from her. And I'm sure," she continues as you rise to duck into the kitchen, "that she's taken at least part of her frustrations out on Chelsea."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, whatever the explanation," you call back as you open a drawer and touch the prepared mask you'd hidden there, "what are we going to tell them? Because I assume—"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe if Lucy had a talk to her."<br/>
<br/>
You pause, your fingertips grasping the mask without lifting it.<br/>
<br/>
Your original plan had been to secretly switch places with Mrs. Vredenburg, at least long enough to eyeball Lucy and make a plan for putting some kind of watch upon her. More cautiously, you had also given thought to simply enslaving her with a mask, and ordering her to watch her oldest daughter.<br/>
<br/>
Now it occurs to you what should have occurred to you long before: that the quickest way to find out what is up with Lucy is to copy her into a mask and replace her yourself. It would only take a suggestion from you to Betty to get Lucy out here.<span class="ejnjuszMT"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212221111111131
author_id: seuzz
id: WLKLH7RDL
title: Being Betty Vredenburg
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span><i>Fuck it,</i> you tell yourself. <i>If I want to switch places with Lucy, I can do it after switching places with her mother—that'd be easier! And if I enslave Betty Vredenburg, I might as well just move myself under her face so I can do her jobs direct.</i><br/>
<br/>
You run the risk of getting in trouble with Blackwell by disobeying his orders. But the whole reason you're thinking of putting a watch onto Lucy is because you don't trust him.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I don't see much point in getting Lucy involved," you tell Betty as you come back in from the kitchen with the mask in your hands. She looks up at you blandly, and if she notices the mask she gives no sign. "Not when it's just—"<br/>
<br/>
But then you're upon her, pressing the mask to her face before you can finish the thought. She goes limp as the mask vanishes into her, and you have to catch her before she can face-plant onto the dining room table.<br/>
<br/>
You study her for a moment, then with a grunt and a grimace you slide your arms beneath and through her armpits and hoist her from the chair.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Well, Kelly, I'm so glad we were able to get together and have this talk." You give Kelly Cooper your most ingratiating smile, and even reach out to squeeze her arm. "But I don't think we should tell the girls we had this little chat."<br/>
<br/>
Kelly Cooper returns you a crooked and discomfited smile of her own. It bothers you enough that you add, in an undertone, "I'm just trying to get in character before I go." If anything, that makes Kelly's smile even more lopsided, so you growl, "Just be ready with those excuses for Professor Blackwell." You then turn and march off toward your car.<br/>
<br/>
It wasn't a lot of fun making the switch, but at least it wasn't as fraught as when you switched from Yumi to Mrs. Cooper. After hauling Betty Vredenburg into the living room, you ducked into the guest bathroom and dropped to the floor to pull Mrs. Cooper's mask off. You fought to stay awake, but failed, and the new mask was resting on Mrs. Vredenburg's face when you emerged, groggy, in your own form and inside Mrs. Cooper's loose and sloppy workout clothes. But she was still unconscious when you lifted the mask from off her face and placed the enslaved mask of Mrs. Cooper there. The new woman woke with a start and a pale expression. You didn't spare her, and ordered her to follow you upstairs so you could change clothes with her. Then, once you had Betty Vredenburg's clothes, you returned to the guest bathroom to seal up the new mask, put it on, and get into your new impersonation's wardrobe.<br/>
<br/>
After that, it was a matter of some instructions for Mrs. Cooper—excuses she could use and embroider and embellish to keep her out of Blackwell's villa for a day or three.<br/>
<br/>
And now you're on your way home as a new woman.<br/>
<br/>
Well ... on your way to finish her errands before going home. It gives you time to acclimate.<br/>
<br/>
Elena Elizabeth "Betty" Vredenburg is closing in on fifty, but she's doing a pretty good job of pumping the brakes. Exercise and a careful (but not overly strict) diet has kept the waist from ballooning; but she is not so self-denying that her hips haven't expanded, and that has kept her face from shriveling up. Which is good, because with her narrow chin, cheekbones, and nose, hers is a face that could easily turn witch-like.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe that's also why she favors pinks and peaches in her wardrobe: to soften her appearance while augmenting the pale-gold hair that she bequeathed to her daughters. (Unlike them, though, she wears hers in a short but stylish cut that only covers her ears and lower jaw.) She is also clever and careful with the blush that softens her features further.<br/>
<br/>
She doesn't wear much jewelry, though, aside from a wedding ring and the occasional bracelet. But she shops at expensive boutiques, and you are feeling very chic and stylish as you make a stop to deposit some checks. You're rocking a hip-hugging silk dress that cinches tightly just below the knees, and high heel sandals that click smartly on the tile-and-marble floor as you march into the bank. You glance around the lobby with a lifted chin, only vaguely aware that you are searching for a particular face ... until you see him. He gives you a hot flash and a twinge.<br/>
<br/>
There are other tellers who are closer, but it's his station that you stride over to. You reel a little, dizzily, because you can't quite believe you are letting Betty's instincts catch you up this way. <i>I've got a character to play,</i> you tell yourself as you fetch up helplessly at the counter.<br/>
<br/>
"Good morning, Dylan!" You greet him with a smile that feels too desperate even to you. You try to dampen the enthusiasm Betty instinctively feels for this handsome and virile young man by digging into your purse for the parcel of checks. But your eyes keep being dragged back to his face. He has dark eyes and dark hair, and the faintest shadow of a beard on his chin and upper lip. "You're growing a goatee, aren't you?" you blurt out before you can stop yourself.<br/>
<br/>
"Thinking about it, ma'am," he says as he takes your checks. Dylan is always professional, and he never flirts back. But he never acts embarrassed, either. If anything, he always acts a little flattered when Betty Vredenburg accosts him this way. If he didn't, she would probably be too embarrassed to continue her flirtations with him. You're feeling too embarrassed, but you've committed already and let yourself be dragged helplessly along by Betty's persona.<br/>
<br/>
"What's your girlfriend say about it?" you tease.<br/>
<br/>
He glances up quickly, and shows some very white teeth. "I'll ask her when I get one."<br/>
<br/>
"Oooh!"<br/>
<br/>
You rein yourself back while he concentrates on the checks. Still, you can't stop yourself from raking your eyes over his trim form under the gray suit jacket, the white shirt, the silver-spangled tie. If he hasn't got a girlfriend to help him dress, he's certainly got taste. Briefly, you wonder if he's gay.<br/>
<br/>
"Thank you, Dylan!" you sing out as you scoop up the ten twenty-dollar bills he has returned to you. "And don't waste any time getting an opinion on the beard! You're cheating more people than just yourself if you don't get someone who will give you one!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shut up,</i> you tell yourself as you totter out the bank, feeling much less poised than when you entered, and you can tell that it's partly Betty who's yelling at you for being such a desperate flirt. <i>Yeah,</i> you tell yourself, <i>if he hasn't got a girlfriend he's got to be gay.<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe he does have a girlfriend and he just doesn't want to toss it in my face,</i> someone else inside you tries to counter. You push her down, and let out a heavy breath once you're back in the car and gripping the wheel. But she won't keep quiet: <i>If only I was twenty-three again, and I knew then what I know now.</i><br/>
<br/>
You flinch.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The house is empty, as you'd expected, when you get home, but you've only time to put the groceries away, to get changed into a more comfortable pair of slacks and a loose-fitting blouse, and to hide in the piano bench the notes you'd made from the <i>Book of Miriam,</i> before the door bangs open and Cindy comes running through.<br/>
<br/>
"Hi Mom," she gasps as she goes past, running for the stairs, "I'm just back for a minute!"<br/>
<br/>
"Where are you off to?" you call, but she's upstairs before you finish the question. You plant yourself in front of the door to stop her when she comes flying back down. She stops short in front of you, her eyes wide.<br/>
<br/>
"Are you going to be home for supper?" you demand.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno," she stammers.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I need to know if I'm going to know how much to fix!"<br/>
<br/>
Her face twists up. "Can't we keep it for leftovers?"<br/>
<br/>
"Where are you running off to in such a hurry?"<br/>
<br/>
"Seth's waiting for me?" she says, making it sound like a question rather than an answer.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, where are you—? Fine!" You step aside with a shake of your head.<br/>
<br/>
"Mom! I don't know how long we're going to be out—"<br/>
<br/>
"You can stay out as long as you want, as long as you're back in time to do your homework."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay!" She bolts for the door.<br/>
<br/>
"And tell Seth he's got to feed you!" you call after her. She waves back at you from the front sidewalk.<br/>
<br/>
You sigh, and return to the living room to flop onto a sofa. Instinctively you feel for the TV remote, then catch yourself at the thought, <i>You'd think you'd have learned it all after dealing with Lucy at that age!<br/>
<br/>
Lucy.</i> There's an off-pitch tenor to your thought of the oldest Vredenburg daughter, but you can't quite put your finger on what's wrong.<br/>
<br/>
Not until you remind yourself of your interest in her: <i>What has she got to do with Professor Blackwell?</i><br/>
<br/>
And that question now raises a very different kind of chill up your back.<br/>
<br/>
Betty Vredenburg knows her daughters, and she knows Lucy pretty well (she thinks). Lucy has always been one of the "popular" girls, one of the alpha girls. A girl who chases hunky boys and flaunts her womanly attributes at them. She skated by academically only by the skin of her teeth, and has never been one to crack open a book, let alone to digest one.<br/>
<br/>
So there is nothing she would see in a plump old turd like Professor Aubrey Blackwell, and there is nothing in his work—even if it is wound up in magic—that would attract her. It would all look moldy and ugly. Nor has she ever been one to try to get or hold down a job.<br/>
<br/>
It's not like Lucy, in other words, to associate with the professor.<br/>
<br/>
So doesn't that suggest that it's not really Lucy anymore?<span class="ejnjuszMT"></span></span></div></div>


path: 112211111112122211111111311
author_id: seuzz
id: DTDDJ8YVJ
title: Being Betty Vredenburg, Part 2
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>The longer you contemplate it, the chillier you feel: the girl who looks like Lucy Vredenburg probably isn't. She's probably a <i>thing,</i> the same kind of <i>thing</i> like you left back in Mrs. Cooper's place. There is no way the real girl—the girl that Betty Vredenburg has raised and tussled with—would have anything to do with Professor Aubrey Blackwell, or the kind of stuff that he's involved with.<br/>
<br/>
(Not because Lucy would be allergic to magic. But because she's allergic to anything that requires work and intellect.)<br/>
<br/>
You find yourself pacing the house in a distracted and horrified state of mind. You know what it is, of course: it's Betty Vredenburg's horror at the thought that her oldest daughter isn't really her oldest daughter anymore.<br/>
<br/>
And you have to sit down when an even worse thought occurs to you: If you can switch between your own face and that of Kelly Cooper—sometimes leaving Kelly Cooper to execute your orders, and sometimes executing them by <i>being</i> Kelly Cooper—well, Blackwell could do the same with Lucy.<br/>
<br/>
Now you do feel ill, because it all makes sense: His opposition to your becoming a Vredenburg, and his warning you away from becoming involved in any way with Lucy.<br/>
<br/>
Because sometimes <i>he</i> is Lucy.<br/>
<br/>
And now here you are, having maneuvered yourself into Lucy's family. What are you going to do about it?<br/>
<br/>
The only saving grace is that you've got time to think before you have to act. Lucy is hardly ever at home.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You've got the house to yourself for the next hour or so, but you distract yourself by concentrating on dinner. For all her chicness, Betty Vredenburg is a very bland and untalented cook (as she herself even recognizes), and for supper you prepare nothing more complicated than pan-fried beef strips, home fried potatoes, and green beans. You make enough for three, in case Cindy comes home early, but when you put the last of it on the table, it's only you and Frank.<br/>
<br/>
Your husband is a finance manager for the city of Saratoga Falls, a position which pays quite well and is the reason the Vredenburgs can live so comfortably with Betty acting as full-time housewife and mother. He's a pudgy man in glasses who has just turned fifty, but at least he still has a full head of hair, and his gray beard is still streaked with black. He glances around now at the empty table with the puzzled air of a man who doesn't know if he should say anything.<br/>
<br/>
So you answer the question he isn't asking. "Cindy's doing something with friends."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Well, she's missing out," he says as he scoops out some beans.<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate, then ask, "Has Lucy told you anything about an after-school job she's taken?"<br/>
<br/>
Frank looks up. "No. Did she get a job?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. I was just talking with someone, and they were asking me— Well, I had the impression they thought she's got some kind of work-study position at the university."<br/>
<br/>
"Who were you talking to?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, it's not important, I probably misunderstood. I just wondered if you knew anything about it."<br/>
<br/>
And that is all you meant by it: Maybe Lucy had let drop something to her father about doing work for the professor. But asking about it out loud has done one thing: It has reinforced to you just how janky is the idea of Lucy voluntarily doing any kind of work for a creepy, stuffy, bookish man like Aubrey Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The rest of dinner is taken up with Frank telling you about his day, and while you're cleaning up the kitchen Cindy comes home, which suits you fine because Frank was starting to get kind of a randy look in his eye, like he does every time the house is empty. After everything is in the dishwasher, you and your husband nestle on the sofa to watch some TV. You don't pay much attention to it, or to Frank, even as he snuggles closer and drapes a bear-like arm around your shoulders. Later, upstairs, as you're getting ready for bed, he hovers near you in the bathroom.<br/>
<br/>
"You," he bluntly declares as you're taking off the makeup, "are looking really sexy tonight."<br/>
<br/>
You tense all over, then force yourself to drop back into Betty's personality. <i>You did it with Kelly's husband,</i> you remind yourself, <i>so you can do it with Betty's.</i><br/>
<br/>
"I thought I always looked sexy," you tease him back.<br/>
<br/>
"Well—"<br/>
<br/>
"I better <i>always</i> look sexy to you!"<br/>
<br/>
"You do!" he stammers. "Just tonight, you— I—" He runs a fingertip up your arm, like a shy high schooler.<br/>
<br/>
"Go wait for me in bed. I won't be a minute."<br/>
<br/>
He growls appreciatively, and kisses the back of your neck. You re-center yourself after he's padded out, and try to put yourself into one of Betty's erotic moods.<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't work—you feel yourself striving too consciously for the effect—and so put things off by getting in the shower.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Frank is such a sweet man,</i> you remind yourself as you soap yourself all over. He was never sexy, he was never a stud. Not like Robert Cooper, Kelly's husband, who was a lacrosse player and who—<br/>
<br/>
You frown and pause in mid-lather. <i>It's mostly gone,</i> you realize now: your memories of Kelly Cooper's life. You remember them being very vivid and present when you were being her, just as you have very vivid and present memories of Betty Vredenburg's life now. And you retain certain "facts," such as that Robert Cooper was a college lacrosse player. But what he looked like then, and how he was with Kelly, you have no real memory at all, save the knowledge that Kelly thought him very sexy, and thrilled under his touch.<br/>
<br/>
Betty never thrilled under Frank's touch, even in college. He wasn't a nerd, but he was a very numbers-oriented guy even back then. He was a business major, but not one of the hard-charging ones. Just a guy who was good with accounting software, and thought that the way to a woman's heart was by teaching her how to balance her checkbook. There was something very sweet about that.<br/>
<br/>
Betty herself wasn't a stunner in either high school or college, not like their daughters. (Where did <i>their</i> genes come from? Betty has often wondered.) She was pretty but sober, and was pursuing an English degree in an offhanded kind of way. She dated some guys—one of whom was on the college baseball team—but things never progressed beyond some really heavy petting, and she pushed them away when anything threatened to go farther. Not that Betty was virginal. She was just nervous.<br/>
<br/>
She and Frank shared a business class their sophomore year, and he helped her through it. She started inviting him out to parties, because he never made any moves on her but his presence kept other guys off of her. They started hanging out more and more. He was sweet and funny, and the more they hung out the more she liked him. She's the one who finally made a move by kissing him out of the blue while they were sitting out on the quad on a sunny day in April.<br/>
<br/>
That's when he confessed he had been pining hard for her for the longest time. His confession almost made her melt.<br/>
<br/>
So love came first. Solid, comfortable, scratchy sex came later. They were married shortly after they graduated college.<br/>
<br/>
All that was in Iowa, and they moved to Saratoga Falls about fifteen years ago, just before Lucy was to start school, when Frank got a position with the city of Saratoga Falls. He has worked himself up the hierarchy with diligence and hard work, but it's pretty clear he's gone about as far as he's ever going to get—he just doesn't have the appetite to become city comptroller. Which is fine. He doesn't need the stress of that position, and a hundred and seventy thousand a year is more than what you and he actually need.<br/>
<br/>
<i>What he and I need.</i> You brush away your consciousness of the thought and just try to keep the thought itself as you finish drying yourself and pull on the bathrobe. <i>We are so happy together,</i> you remind yourself as you pull the belt tight. <i>So blessed. How many other women my age have a good and loving husband who thinks their wife is still sexy?<br/>
<br/>
And I am,</i> you allow yourself to gloat a little as you cast a quick glance back at the bathroom mirror before putting out the light. Your hair is wet and glistening, as though you've just stepped from under a waterfall. <i>And Frank makes me feel sexy!</i><br/>
<br/>
So you don't know whether to be relieved or crestfallen when you step from the bathroom, to find him snoring.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>The next morning.</i> You're sitting at the vanity and putting the final touches to your makeup while giving some thought as to which silk shawl to match with your dress when your phone buzzes with a text from Kelly Cooper. It's long, but the gist is that she successfully put off going out to Blackwell's last night, but that the professor expects you to be out at his place no later than three o'clock this afternoon.<br/>
<br/>
That gives you about six hours to figure out what to do about Lucy, and to put a plan into effect.<br/>
<br/>
You have to assume that the girl is a fake, a mask riding around atop ... someone or something. And either the mask or the thing beneath is enslaved to obey Blackwell's commands. If the former, then there is nothing you can do; and if you removed the mask, only to replace it, it would leave the thing with a memory of what you tried to do. If the latter ... Well, you could treat the mask to enslave it to your control, or slip under it yourself, at least briefly.<br/>
<br/>
It's an awful risk to take. Maybe you should just continue using your time to figure out how to put a spy on the thing instead.<span class="ejnjuszMT"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222111111113112
author_id: seuzz
id: F5TN8F4FS
title: Old Plan, New Target
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>Doing something with Lucy would be too risky, you decide. Besides, this evening you will have a chance while at the professor's to dig into the <i>Book of Miriam</i> again and continue your studies about the curse he put upon you, and that might provide another, safer way of learning what you want to learn.<br/>
<br/>
But then you find yourself scotched there as well. You're at the grocery store, picking up things for dinner, when you get another text from Kelly Cooper, passing along another message from Blackwell. Not only is he cancelling your study session with him tonight, he is also cancelling them until further notice. He gives no reason, save that he is going to be "busy with other matters" that will prevent him from meeting with you.<br/>
<br/>
Mysteriouser and mysteriouser!<br/>
<br/>
So you're a bit at loose ends, with nothing to do but carry on with Betty Vredenburg's life.<br/>
<br/>
And so, after thinking about it some more, you decide to resume the plans you had for Chelsea, but to switch targets to Cindy.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You have changed into a dusty-red silk dress and sheer black hose, and are striding along on your highest pair of heels, as you walk up to the office of Westside High. The purse dangling off your shoulder completes the implied "uniform." <i>I'm a student's mother, on her way in to have a brief word with the administrators.</i> You lift your chin high.<br/>
<br/>
You intentionally timed your entrance for the break between sixth and seventh periods, when the hallway out front would be bustling with students. After stepping in through the main doors, you pause to survey the shuffling crowd.<br/>
<br/>
<i>They have no idea who I am,</i> you gloat to yourself as you smile at them. <i>They think I'm just someone's mother. I could go up and talk to them, and they wouldn't—</i><br/>
<br/>
You are caught off-guard a little as James Lamont comes loping from the direction of the library. He doesn't so much as glance at you, but you watch him. <i>James, for example. I could go up and talk to him, and he would have to 'yes ma'am' me this and 'yes ma'am' me that, and he'd never know it was really me.</i> You follow him with your eyes until he disappears around a corner.<br/>
<br/>
"Excuse me, ma'am," someone says in your ear, and you turn with a start. It's a security guard, in dark pants, a gray dress shirt, and a pale tie. He's a young man with clear, tight skin; piercing eyes; hard, white teeth; and dark, close-shaven hair. "Can I help you?"<br/>
<br/>
The tone is polite but the question very direct; still, it takes you a moment to shake yourself from the momentary reverie you lapse into as you drink in his face. He is quite good-looking, and appears to be very fit. You'd bet that <i>he</i> wouldn't tolerate any bullying crap like you've suffered all through high school, and you'd bet also that he could take down even Gordon Black with a couple of well-aimed blows. (He looks like the kind of guy who could kill someone with a quick poke of his index finger to their windpipe.) So there's a gasp in your voice when you answer him with, "Um, the office?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's right here, ma'am." He indicates the glass walls of the administration office just five feet to your right. There is no rebuke in his clear gray eyes, and only a hint of amusement.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, yes, of course," you stammer. "I was just lost in the moment, I haven't been back here since— Well, it just seems so much smaller than I remember it."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, ma'am," he says, and by the way he claps his mouth shut you can tell that he's telling you to get a move on with your business. You gather up your wits and totter into the office.<br/>
<br/>
Betty Vredenburg has had some business at the office before, so not only do you recognize Barbara Meek, the chief administrative assistant who looks like a deranged prairie dog, but she recognizes you. "Mrs. Vredenburg!" she exclaims, and hustles up from her desk to elbow aside the student aide who is arguing with a freshman girl.<br/>
<br/>
"Hello, Barbara!" You smile back at her. "I need a favor from you."<br/>
<br/>
"You need to see Cindy?" Barbara's eyes are so big and round with a lunatic desire to please that you can see the whites all around the irises. Her head wobbles on her neck as she grins.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. But first I need to see—" You settle the purse on the countertop and dig inside it to find a loose sheet of paper, which you pretend to read. "Will Prescott?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mm-hmm? What about?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just a short talk. I was told," you add, "that he has a study hall this period—this is seventh hour, isn't it?" Barbara nods. "Oh, good! I was afraid—! Well, since I didn't know if I could just get him out of class, I wanted to—"<br/>
<br/>
"We can try to find him," Barbara chirps. "When they're in study hall, students are supposed to be in the library, but—"<br/>
<br/>
"I would so much appreciate it. It's about a tutoring job for Cindy."<br/>
<br/>
Barbara's eyes almost pop from her head. "Cindy needs tutoring?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, she doesn't <i>need</i> it, but any kind of brushing up— You know."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I see! Okay, I'll see if, um—? What's his name again?"<br/>
<br/>
"Will Prescott." You don't know whether to be pleased or insulted that your name carries no weight in the front offices.<br/>
<br/>
Barbara returns to her desk and picks up her phone. As you wait, another handsome man in his late thirties comes in from the back offices. You smile at him—<br/>
<br/>
—and are almost rocked off your feet when you recognize him as Mr. Staufford, one of the assistant principals. You were looking at him with Betty Vredenburg's eyes, and so only saw—<br/>
<br/>
You swallow a gulp.<br/>
<br/>
To Will Prescott, Mr. Staufford is the only administrator that one should be legit terrified by. He's a hard-ass, with a stony stare, a biting tone, and neither mercy nor humor. He also seems old. Okay, not "old" old, not like Mr. Dow, the other assistant principal, who with his cobwebby hair and gray pallor seems ready to fall back into the open grave that he would seem to have just crawled out of. But Mr. Staufford is at least as old as your dad, which makes him at least middle-aged, which to you is about as bad as being "old."<br/>
<br/>
But to Betty Vredenburg, Mr. Staufford is a mature but still-youthful man who can't be more than thirty-seven or thirty-eight (making him a dozen years at least younger than you are now), with a full head of dark hair, a trim stomach behind his buttoned-up jacket, and a steely gaze in a manly face. Definitely older than Dylan down at the bank, but much more plausible as a lover.<br/>
<br/>
He must have caught you staring, because after holding your glance, he comes over. "May I help you?" he asks, and like the guard out front his tone is polite despite the iron behind it.<br/>
<br/>
"Barbara's helping me," you tell him with a slight stammer. "I need to, uh, see my daughter. And another student. Cindy Vredenburg," you add, feeling stupid. Then you add, "I'm her mother, Betty."<br/>
<br/>
Mr. Staufford nods, then continues on over to a filing cabinet. You swallow your disappointment that he didn't seem to regard you with any more importance than if you were a delivery person.<br/>
<br/>
"I got the librarian looking for Will now," Barbara calls out from her desk. "And you want Cindy too?"<br/>
<br/>
"After I talk to Will. Um, is there a room where we could talk privately?"<br/>
<br/>
Barbara points down the hallway to the back offices, telling you to help yourself to the conference room on the left. You thank her, then pause to glance back out through the main doors.<br/>
<br/>
"The security guard out there," you ask Barbara. "Is he new?" Though you've never paid much attention to security at the school—and they seem to not pay much attention to anything at all—you don't remember seeing the guard who met you at the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Rick?" Barbara dimples. "Oh, you noticed him, huh? Yeah, he started last week. Temporary replacement for Jerry Larson." Her face falls. "He's in the hospital, poor guy."<br/>
<br/>
You nod vacantly, and go down the hall to wait for your appointments.<br/>
<br/>
Will Prescott is not long in appearing. Like a loose-limbed scarecrow he steps into the doorway, hands in pockets, and stops dead when he sees you. "Jesus Christ," he says as he stares at you from under his stiff bangs.<br/>
<br/>
"Come in, Will," you say, and on tottering feet he approaches and falls into a chair next to yours. "I'm Betty Vredenburg."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure you are, boss," he says. Then his eyes widen. <i>"Vredenburg?"</i> he says in a strangled voice.<br/>
<br/>
"That's right. Cindy's mom. And Lucy's. You remember Lucy. And you understand why I'm interested in <i>her.</i> But that's not why I'm here."<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus," he says again. After a pause, he asks, "What are you planning?"<br/>
<br/>
"Same thing we were going to do to Chelsea. You're going to be Cindy's tutor."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh God." He lays his forehead on the table.<br/>
<br/>
"So I need you to make a Facebook account or something and put up an ad so I can show it to Cindy."<br/>
<br/>
"You're gonna get me killed, boss. And then where will you be?"<br/>
<br/>
"No one's gonna kill you. They can't stand getting close enough." A shadow passes on the wall outside the door, and you straighten up. "Well, it's so nice meeting you, Will," you exclaim as Mr. Staufford goes past the doorway. "I know you're just going to be wonderful for Cindy!"<br/>
<br/>
Your doppelganger looks like he's going to throw up.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
At least he only looked like he was going to be ill.<br/>
<br/>
Cindy, when you talk to her a little later, actually does toss her cookies all over the conference table.<span class="ejnjuszMT"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212221111111131121
author_id: seuzz
id: BYSCFCV2P
title: The Persecution of Cindy Vredenburg
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>At first, Cindy only looked mystified when she entered the conference room to find you waiting. Her puzzlement only deepened when you told her that you and "her father" had been talking about her grades.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm doing fine, Mom," she interrupted.<br/>
<br/>
"We know you're doing fine," you assured her. "We're just concerned that you could do a little better."<br/>
<br/>
That's when she started to look dubious.<br/>
<br/>
"Every little bit helps on a college application," you went on. "Now, you do have some Bs and Cs from last year and the year before. Those can't be helped. But this year's grades— Well, we would really like to see straight As from you."<br/>
<br/>
Which is true enough. But Frank and Betty Vredenburg hadn't been giving any thought to pushing their daughter any harder than she was already pushing herself.<br/>
<br/>
So with that, Cindy started to look truly alarmed. "Why did you come up here?"<br/>
<br/>
"I came up to talk to the administration about tutoring services—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Tutoring?</i>" she shrieked.<br/>
<br/>
"Shh! Honey, keep your voice down!"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't need <i>tutoring!</i> That's for the kids in the remedial classes! I'm not in any remedial—!"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't say you were! And I wasn't talking about the staff tutors here. I was talking about a private tutor. Another student who could come over to the house and give you private—"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't need a private tutor! And I've got Seth to help me! We've got Chemistry together, he helps me in there, we work on our English—!"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't like Seth," you retorted.<br/>
<br/>
Cindy's eyes—those big, beautiful, blue eyes—nearly popped from her head, and it took her a moment to find her voice. <i>"You don't like Seth?"</i> she gasped when she did.<br/>
<br/>
"Cindy, if you can't keep your voice down—"<br/>
<br/>
"Since when do you—? What's wrong with Seth?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't trust him," you replied, and did your best to hide the glee you felt as you said it. "I don't trust him alone with you."<br/>
<br/>
Cindy's jaw dropped, and all the color drained from her face.<br/>
<br/>
"You—?" she gasped. "You don't trust—? You're saying you don't trust <i>me!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"I trust <i>you,</i> Cindy, honey! But I know boys like Seth, I know how they— I just don't like thinking of him putting you in a position where you have to— Well— Boys like that know how to put pressure on a girl—"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>Mom!"</i><br/>
<br/>
"And I bet he's something of a bully, too," you couldn't resist adding primly. "I've heard that there are disciplinary problems at this school, and when I look at Seth, I can't help thinking that he—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Oh! My! God!"</i><br/>
<br/>
"I think I've heard quite enough yelling from you, young lady! The point is that Seth is <i>not</i> going to be your tutor, and the school has already recommended one to me for you. His name is Will Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
Cindy gaped.<br/>
<br/>
And that's when she threw up all over the conference table.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So the janitor had to be hauled in to clean things up, and Mr. Staufford and Mr. Sagansky wanted to send Cindy to see the nurse, but you told them it was alright and that you were sorry for the mess and that you'd just take Cindy outside. So out on the quad in front of the administration wing, you had a long talk with Cindy about how this all was not open to discussion, that you had already talked to Will Prescott and set him up to be her tutor, and that it didn't matter how big of a fit she was going to pitch, it was all final.<br/>
<br/>
Also, you told her in your archest and most parental tones that you didn't think much of her attitude, that it didn't matter how much she hated the idea of having Will Prescott as a tutor, that he certainly did <i>not</i> strike you as being a "creep" or a "pervert" (as Cindy insisted he was) and that you were ashamed—<i>ashamed!</i>—of Cindy for talking like a snob. "I will not have you acting like a— like one of those <i>mean girls</i> like on the TV," you lectured her. "You will be a polite hostess and a good student with him. I don't want to think that I didn't raise you right, because I certainly tried!"<br/>
<br/>
She was pale and haggard when you let her return to the school, just in time for last period to start.<br/>
<br/>
After that—and after a little private gloating—you texted Frank and told him that you wanted him to take you out to dinner.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Cindy has locked herself in her room as you prepare yourself for an evening out with your husband. She texted right after school let out, telling you that she wanted to go do something with "friends," but you told her to come straight home. And once she was home, you told her again how disappointed you were with her and that she was grounded for the afternoon and evening so as to have time to "think about" what a perfectly obnoxious little pill she had been on the subject of Will Prescott. <i>How awful would you feel,</i> you asked her, <i>if someone was talking about you the way that she was talking about Will?</i> She retorted that if anyone ever did talk about her that way, it was because she probably deserved it. At which point you told her that she probably did deserve to have people talk about her that way, and sent her upstairs after first surrendering her phone.<br/>
<br/>
And if you know Cindy the way you think you know her, she has been spending the last hour or so screaming and sobbing into a pillow.<br/>
<br/>
Which put you in the best mood you've felt in a long time. <i>Why didn't I ever think before about using masks of their mothers to get back at the motherfuckers?</i> you ask yourself as you primp.<br/>
<br/>
You shower and scent yourself all over in just the way that a woman of mature years with decades of experience knows how to do, before slipping on the satiny foundation garments and pulling on a new silk dress. (This one is navy blue, with patterns of lighter blue and pale green, styled like falling leaves fluttering down the front and sides.) The hem falls to the middle of your calves, which you seal up inside dark hose, and you cinch your waist with a cord-like belt with a tiny golden buckle. You accent your right wrist with a thin, matching gold chain, and fasten another thin, golden chain about your throat. Then, feeling very pretty already, you sit down at the vanity table to apply powder and lipstick and eyeliner and eyeshadow. Then you spend a good quarter hour teasing out your hair into sharp, sweeping bangs and blade-like wings over your ears. A few lubricating eye drops give your smiling glance a glistening twinkle, and after strapping on some high-heeled sandals, you spend another five minutes turning around and around in front of the full-length mirror to admire the effect. You don't just feel sexy and desirable. You feel <i>confidently</i> sexy and desirable. <i>Betty,</i> you murmur to yourself, <i>when you are looking like this, you can </i>see<i> where Lucy and Cindy get their stunning looks.</i><br/>
<br/>
Speaking of the latter ...<br/>
<br/>
"Cindy!" You knock on her door, then continue when there's no answer. "Your dad'll be picking me up in a few minutes, and I don't know when we'll be back. You're grounded, but you're not confined to your bedroom, so you can come out when you feel like it and get yourself leftovers from the fridge." You pause to listen, but there's no answer. "Also, you can watch television after you're done with your homework. But I'm taking your phone with me. If there's an emergency, you can go next door to the Jeskoes. Cindy?" you call again, and knock.<br/>
<br/>
"Ye-es!" she impatiently calls back.<br/>
<br/>
"Just making sure you heard me. We're going to have a talk about you, your dad and me. You're making it very hard on us. If you want us to go easier on you, you need to go easier on us, and that means smartening up your attitude, particularly about this boy we've hired. I don't mind you being mad about having to have a tutor, that's something you'll get over. But this snobby attitude you're copping toward him—"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, already!" she shouts back. "I get it! I'll be nice to him!"<br/>
<br/>
"That's the minimum, young lady! You'll be studying with him here, at the house, so we'll see if you're a good hostess or not. What counts is how you treat him when you're not at home. I'm not telling you that you have to be his friend. But he's doing you a good turn, so you need to be respectful to him. You understand?"<br/>
<br/>
"Ye-es!" she groans, and the bedsprings squeak, as though she's thrashing herself around.<br/>
<br/>
"Good. I know it seems tough, but believe me, when you get out in the real world, you'll find that you can't get along by acting like a— like a little <i>witch</i> toward people you don't like. At least pretend that you like him, here and at school. Do that, and who knows? Maybe you'll find out that you really do like him, and then you'll have made a new friend!"<br/>
<br/>
A heaving and horking from the other side of the door suggests that you've come real close to making Cindy throw up again. You grin gleefully to yourself as you turn from the door and go downstairs.<span class="ejnjuszMT"></span></span></div></div>


path: 112211111112122211111111311211
author_id: seuzz
id: ZG3M2RYLJ
title: A Wife Has Her Ways
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>Frank looks startled when you walk into the garage just as he's pulling in, and he looks still more startled when you get directly into the SUV with him. "Well, I'm ready," you brightly tell him as you buckle yourself in.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't I get a chance to clean up and change first?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you always look fresh when you get home!" You lean over to kiss his cheek. "Besides, I'm starved! Where are you taking me?"<br/>
<br/>
Frank blinks dubiously. Then with a shrug he restarts the car and backs up.<br/>
<br/>
Probably he should get a fast shower and change into a nicer suit before taking you out. Certainly you are overdressed compared to him, in the baggy suit he wears to the office. But you don't want to give Cindy a chance to intercept him and weep about your cruel behavior to her. In the first place, she and her sister have always been little daddy's girls, and been pampered by him in return. In the second, you need a chance to work him into the idea that Cindy needs a tutor to polish her grades. You told her that's what you and he had been discussing, and he'd look bewildered if she dropped that on him.<br/>
<br/>
But you don't tell him any of this ahead of time, and just hold and squeeze his hand and get him to tell you about his day as you drive out to the restaurant.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He lets you choose, and you choose Le Metropolitain, a chic little restaurant in the northeast corner of town. There aren't any <i>really</i> great restaurants in town—Outback is most people's idea of fancy cooking—but it is a place where you can order glazed duck with sweet potato fries. It's one of the "Shoppes at Fell's Lake", a cluster of little shops that house a tea room, a pastry shop, and the best clothiers and jewelers in town. Betty does all of her shopping there.<br/>
<br/>
It's early, so you and Frank have the place mostly to yourselves, a fact he remarks on. "More intimate this way," you remark as you are seated at a small table draped with a heavy, emerald-green cloth. There are three kinds of drinking crystals at each setting, and seven kinds of utensils wrapped in each napkin. You smile at the waitress as she takes your drink orders—you ask for a glass of Cabernet, while Frank orders a Long Island Ice Tea—and wince a little at the wish that it was a handsome waiter instead.<br/>
<br/>
You let Frank settle in and relax before gradually introducing the topic of Cindy and her grades. You slide into it by remarking that Cindy is doing so much better at school than Lucy had done. "I really do think there's a chance of getting her— Well, if not into an Ivy League," you tell him, "then into a really good school somewhere."<br/>
<br/>
"I wasn't holding out for an Ivy League," Frank replies.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, but— Well, someplace better than a state college. Or Keyserling."<br/>
<br/>
"Keyserling's a good school."<br/>
<br/>
"I thought you've always said that Keyserling is an engineering college."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, yeah—"<br/>
<br/>
"Cindy's not cut out for engineering. Her best grades are in English." Cindy has, in fact, been taking AP English classes her entire high school career.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh-huh."<br/>
<br/>
"So what about trying to get her into a small liberal arts college? Someplace like ... Oh, I don't know. I'd have to look some up."<br/>
<br/>
Frank looks dubious. "Cindy isn't going to want to go to someplace small. She's going to want to go someplace where there's—" He shifts uncomfortably. "Someplace where there's a lot boys."<br/>
<br/>
"There would be boys at a place like—"<br/>
<br/>
"Boys like Seth."<br/>
<br/>
"Hmph. Well, now that you mention Seth, may I say that I don't much like him, and I'd rather see Cindy with someone else? And at a college where there aren't a lot of boys like him?"<br/>
<br/>
Frank reacts like you've slapped him, for Seth has always been a great favorite of Frank's, who despite his nerdish, number-crunching background has always liked sports, and sometimes acts like he has a crush on Cindy's boyfriend. "When did you decide this?" he asks, incredulous at your confession.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I've thought it for a long time. I just held my tongue. But I don't want to talk about Seth. I want to talk about Cindy's grades, and about how we can give her that extra edge that can get her into a good school."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So that's your segue, and with that preparation the talk that follows goes quickly and smoothly. Frank agrees that it would be worth investing a few hundred dollars in a tutor for Cindy, and further agrees to leave the hiring in your hands when you tell him that you've already got a recommendation from the school. You also prepare him for a sob story from Cindy—and why her seething distaste for the tutor ("A nice boy, but a little scruffy around the edges; reminds me of you when we met") goaded you into confessing your dislike of Seth—so that he won't buckle to her complaints when you get home. Dinner is delicious, and it puts Frank in a very mellow mood, so that when you leave (it is not yet eight o'clock) you are able to wheedle him into taking you to the movies. It's ten-thirty before you get home. The lights upstairs are out, so you figure that Cindy must have cried herself to sleep. But so as to nail Frank down in place, you lead him into the bedroom and let him slowly undress and caress you, warming you so that you will react appreciatively when he slides himself into you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The next morning, after you've washed and refreshed and dressed for the morning chores in loose slacks and a sweatshirt, you text your replacement with the news that he is now set to be Cindy's tutor, and that he should report to the Vredenburg residence at seven o'clock that evening for an interview and a first session with Cindy. You also warn him not to let Cindy intimidate him. The girl was mulish and uncommunicative at breakfast, hardly talking to her father and not talking to you at all, and she went out fifteen minutes early to wait for Seth to pick her up.<br/>
<br/>
You have just finished vacuuming the downstairs when your phone chimes. You are disquieted, but not completely surprised, to see that it is Kelly Cooper calling. "It's the professor," she tells you. "He wants me up at his place in fifteen minutes. What do I do?"<br/>
<br/>
There's no way you can make over to the Coopers' to change masks, and then make it out to Blackwell's villa, in that amount of time. So you tell her to tell him you can't make it on account of appointments.<br/>
<br/>
"He told me to cancel everything."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, tell him you can't."<br/>
<br/>
"I already told him I'd be there!" she whines. "He called me, he didn't text me!"<br/>
<br/>
You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to think.<br/>
<br/>
"Text him that you have to change first, and put gas in the car," you finally tell the <i>pedisequos.</i> "I'll be out to your place as fast as I can." You don't even stop to change shoes, but grab your keys and purse and hustle for the garage.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It takes you fifteen minutes to get to the Coopers', and another fifteen minutes once you're there to get switched over into Kelly Cooper's mask. That puts you nearly thirty minutes late getting out to the professor's villa, and you expect to find him in a temper, particularly as it is the middle of the day and he is himself probably on a tight schedule and needing to get back to the university.<br/>
<br/>
But he is pale and mute when you arrive, and he only gives you a pained look when you start to apologize profusely for being late.<br/>
<br/>
"It only matters that you are here, Mr. Prescott," he tells you, apparently not noticing or caring that you are wearing the face and body and clothes of Kelly Cooper. "The fact is, this meeting is much more embarrassing for me." He gestures you to follow him into the dark and oppressive living room, where he invites you to sit while he paces the floor anxiously.<br/>
<br/>
"I am," he says after clearing his throat, "under the circumstances, forced to make certain highly awkward confessions to you. The first is that, erm, you and I are <i>not</i> the only, ah, 'magic users' in this city. Saratoga Falls, I perhaps should make plain to you, is rather a, um, 'hotbed' of activities of the sort that some people might call 'occult'."<br/>
<br/>
You raise your eyebrows, less at this revelation than at the highly circumlocutory way he's going about making it.<br/>
<br/>
"I am, that is to say, the occupant of this house is," he continues with a sweaty nervousness, "loosely associated with a company of other, um, adepts of these arts. I shouldn't say 'associated'," he hastens to add, "in the sense that I am an associate member, but in the sense that I—that is to say, the occupant of this house—is forced to, erm, associate with them."<br/>
<br/>
The awfully precise way that he keeps correcting himself to say "occupant of this house" sets off a kind of alarm bell in your head. "Aren't <i>you</i> the occupant of this house?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, yes, certainly," he says, "which is why I must make this association. But any occupant of this house would be, ah, obliged to make the association. There are certain, um, properties associated with this, er, property, that would enforce it.<br/>
<br/>
"But the fact is," he continues after a heaving sigh, "that there is another reason I am emphasizing the, er, 'third-party quality' of the identification of the, um, house's occupant. I am not, in actuality—" He swallows. "I am not actually Aubrey Blackwell. I am a <i>pedisequos</i> who is occupying his position at the moment." He looks at you with worried, watering eyes.<br/>
<br/>
You can't say you're surprised. Instead, you ask, "Why are you telling me this? Where's the professor?"<br/>
<br/>
His mouth curls up into a sick and pained smile.<br/>
<br/>
"When I tell you where he is, you will understand why I am telling you all this. My original, you see, Mr. Prescott, is being held, erm ... against his will ... by those 'associates' I was telling you about."<span class="ejnjuszMT"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222111111114
author_id: freakydaughter
title: Insist that you can still make it work from beh...
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>    " Professor Blackwell...Sir," you start slowly while trying to mentally craft an argument that would allow you to stay put. " I don't think you are seeing the advantages to me staying where I am," you start as you allow Kellys' mind to take the forefront in forming your new plan. Quickly you begin spouting why you should stay as Kelly upon seeing a single eyebrow on the Professors face lift. Before he can retort you say " Yes it's true that as Kelly I am a stay at home mother with a household to run but she already had plans to change that in a few months anyway. It won't be long before my daughter graduates from high school and my husband and I will be empty nesters..." you trail off as you watch Professor Blackwell slowly tilt his head and begin to speak.<br/>
<br/>
    " That well may be true Mr. Prescott but your education as my apprentice takes precedence over having fun tormenting your tormenter." Blackwell responds.<br/>
<br/>
    " Yes , I admit it Professor, I am having fun and I do like living Mrs. Coopers life, but give me a second to make my case , please?" You plead. The Professor gives a curt nod of his head indicating that you should continue. <br/>
<br/>
    " Ah , okay, ah you see..." you stumble acting more like your old self rather than the self assured Kelly before shaking it off. <br/>
" I'm not just some sweet mother and a trophy wife. I have some intelligence here too!" You place one manicured finger to your temple. " And while I may have went to college on a cheerleader scholarship , even if I dropped out later because of pregnancy, I did finish up my degrees. " <br/>
<br/>
   " Where are you going with this Mr. Prescott? " The Professor asked exasperatedly.<br/>
<br/>
    " The point is that I can handle a family and school work too. Kelly finished the last year of university while taking care of an infant son , a randy husband , and her small household of the time. She even double majored. She was planning to find a job as soon as Chelsie went to college , but I can do it now instead. Maybe as an assistant to an archeology professor at Keyserling?" you throw the bait out knowing the big bloated fish was going to take it. Your daughter may be a schemer , but Kelly is a master manipulator who made sure not to teach her much in that area. " So what do you think Professor? Could we make that work? " You say as you begin to pace a four by four imaginary box , never taking your eyes off his and making sure the old pervert got a good look at your fit , mature body in the form fitting black dress slacks and and ruffled blouse you had worn for the effect the ensemble had on men. You and the Professor stare at each other for a few moments, the only sound made was the click clack of your heels on the marble floor of the houses foyer. <br/>
<br/>
    Finally the tension was broken by your golem as he made a groan and suddenly stood up and darted for the door, " I ah, gotta go. I think my Mom is calling me. " He said as he darted for the door while trying to hide a building erection. In a swift gust of wind caused by the large , ornate doors opening and shutting he was gone. <br/>
<br/>
    " W..what are Mrs. Coopers degrees in , if I may ask my dear?" Blackwell finally sputtered out while admiring your derriere. <br/>
<br/>
    " I'm so glad you asked Professor Blackwell. I have a degree in Psychology and Linguistics specializing in Latin roots from the University of Colorado. " You respond cheerfully. " I purposefully chose to stay at home and raise my children instead of pursuing a career. Now that they are almost out of the house I'm ready to put both of those to use. You do think they would be useful in our line of study don't you Aubrey? "  you allow the question to hang thickly in the air as you stop pacing.<br/>
<br/>
    " They would indeed be useful Mr. Prescott.." he began before for you cut him off. " I prefer Mrs. Cooper , Professor. That is if we are going to have a working relationship."<br/>
<br/>
   " Yes...of course Mrs. Cooper. There is a problem though. I already have an assistant. Miss Vredenburg. " Blackwell pointed out, obviously smitten with the act you have been putting on " <br/>
"How could I explain hiring another?"<br/>
<br/>
    " Are you telling me that you are actually paying Lucy , Professor? Or that that thing pretending to be Lucy is anything but a golem that will do anything you tell it whether you pay it or not?" You ask pointedly. <br/>
<br/>
     " Yes , well, it is actually Miss Vredenburg in a sense, " Blackwell hedged. " At least she is under there somewhere... and no I don't actually pay her." he admitted.<br/>
<br/>
     " Good ! " You say while clasping your hands together and rising up on your tip toes in a very Chelsie like manner. " It wouldn't be unheard of for a department head at a large university like yourself to have an intern and a paid assistant. It will give me a reason to cut back on the time I have to spend maintaining my house, and an excuse to be around Lucy when you need us to work together on something. I'm so glad you decided to hire me Professor Blackwell. " You say as you scoop up your purse and your car keys. " I'll tell my family tonight at dinner, and start bright and early at seven AM tomorrow morning. Where would you like me to report? Here or at your office at Keyserling? " You smile brightly as you stopped and turned with your hand on the front door.<br/>
<br/>
     Blackwell , to his credit, tried his best not to look like a man who had been bullied and bamboozled into something he didn't mean to get into and was trying to figure out exactly how it happened simply said, " Here will suffice Mrs. Cooper. I have plenty of work for you to do here while I am at work. " <br/>
<br/>
     " Thank you again Professor. I promise you won't regret it. We are going to make an excellent team. I just know it!" And with another predatory smile you open the door and leave in a flourish.<br/>
<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222111111115
author_id: rugal
id: V8PQD2L55
title: Miss Independent
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>"She's mostly a homemaker, Professor," you begin to argue. "But that's overstating it. Her husband works, her son is in school here at Keyserling. Her daughter is practically independent. If you want to reach me, then all you need to do is ask and if she decides to step out for the afternoon or evening, then it won't be a big deal. The Coopers aren't going to fall apart without their matriarch."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell can only grunt at that.<br/>
<br/>
"Besides, it's not just about revenge. I like the freedom that being older, that being an adult gives me. I like that I can just... do something and not have to answer to anybody. I like people having to listen to <i>me</i> for a change."<br/>
<br/>
"And yet, Mr. Prescott, an adult is not as free as you suspect. You say that you could take off to come out here but how often would you be able to do that?" he counters. "Would her children not wonder what their mother is doing? Would not her husband? And what if a suspicious husband begins to get ideas, William? Suppose he decides to check his wife's phone or follows her when she comes to my home? What then?"<br/>
<br/>
"Then it's a problem we deal with when, or if, it occurs," you shoot back. "You should have plenty of ways to deal with it, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"That is not the point," he replies with exasperation. "It should not even have to come to anything such as that and it wouldn't if you would just—" Blackwell pauses for a moment. "What was the issue with Miss Saito? She was popular was she not? And quite attractive."<br/>
<br/>
You scrunch your face up at that. "I guess so, yeah," you answer. "But the problem was that she was a rival to Chelsea but not really in much of a position to cause her issues beyond what she and her friends have already been doing."<br/>
<br/>
"Then a friend of her's perhaps," Blackwell suggests.<br/>
<br/>
That could work... except no. Because Chelsea doesn't have friends, she has underlings. Maria Vasquez, Kendra Saunders and Gloria Rea are all as gorgeous as Chelsea but none can put the screws to her the way you'd need or want to. Only someone like Gordon and Steve Patterson could but you actually feel aversion at becoming them because those are some of the guys you want to screw over. "Look," you answer, "I just think that where I am, as her mother, is the best place to strike back at her."<br/>
<br/>
"You are aware that revenge is neither the whole nor the main reason for my taking you on as a protege, aren't you Mr. Prescott?" he asks rhetorically. "You are to learn the arts, your prowess growing as we study and unlock the mysteries of the book. Avenging yourself upon your tormentors is merely a part of that."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm aware."<br/>
<br/>
"Then why are you so adamant about staying as this woman?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not—" you pause. "I just like it, okay? I like being in her body. Like I said, I like having the run of things, knowing that <i>I'm</i> the one in charge for once. That there's nothing Chelsea or any of the other assholes can do to me. I like the independence. And, I guess, I like that she's beautiful and that when I see this pretty woman every day I can stop and think that wow, that's me."<br/>
<br/>
"Independence?" he responds. "William, she runs a home!"<br/>
<br/>
"I can come out here on errands and then switch out while sending her home. That would let me work at night and potentially in the mornings. Or I can come out here for a while claiming I have errands to run," you explain. "As a high schooler, I can only come here in the afternoons. My schedule is a lot more constrained."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell grunts at that. "Be that as it may, Mr. Prescott, I would still prefer you in another guise."<br/>
<br/>
"I told you," you say defiantly as you cross your arms, "that I don't feel like being Yumi. She's less independent than Kelly."<br/>
<br/>
"I did not say that you had to become Miss Saito once more, I realize that would not work," he diplomatically concedes. "But if you wanted independence, then why not try the college?"<br/>
<br/>
"The college?" you echo. "I don't know, I don't know anybody from there."<br/>
<br/>
"William," he replies with some slight exasperation present in his voice, "I am a professor. Many students are currently in or have passed through my classes. I could gather a list of promising ones and let you have your pick. It would be quite easy for me to set up a meeting with one so a switch could be made."<br/>
<br/>
You realize that you're not going to win and so you decide that it's your turn to concede the argument to him, agreeing that it sounds like a reasonable compromise. He states that he will send to your phone a list of some, again he calls them promising, options. But it will take time to make up a new mask and so as own concession, Blackwell agrees to let you keep on as Kelly until it's complete but once it is, you <i>must</i> switch.<br/>
<br/>
While you're not happy to be giving up Mrs. Cooper's life, you've still got some time under her mask so you're feeling good enough that you decide to make the most of it. You give Chelsea a reprieve on the tutoring for the night and instead give her your card and tell both her and her brother to go out and get something for dinner. You're going to enjoy yourself the way that Kelly would like and so when Rob gets home, you're on him and leading him upstairs for a night of passionate lovemaking which thrills you and makes you scream.<br/>
<br/>
In fact, you feel so good after it that you can't contain yourself and decide to go again.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The next morning you're still in a mood to enjoy Mrs. Cooper when you receive a text from Blackwell asking to meet you with him in his office. So instead of having a quick solo go with her body, you're now getting dressed and making yourself look nice so you can meet the professor which, you admit, is a different sort of thrill; dressing up to meet someone that is, the professor is irrelevant to it.<br/>
<br/>
It's ten-thirty sharp in the morning when you knock on the slightly open door to Blackwell's office. He invites you to come in and tells you to close the door behind you and sit down.<br/>
<br/>
"I have had the opportunity to think about what you had said yesterday," he tells you in a manner that's very deliberate. "I suppose that your argument does have some... merit. If you wish to stay as... this woman, then I suppose I could allow it."<br/>
<br/>
"Well aren't you a doll?" you say, giving him a taste of Kelly's personality... much to his displeasure. "So what caused the change of heart?"<br/>
<br/>
"As I said, your argument about flexibility is... much sounder than I had originally thought. Especially after—" He pauses and shakes his head. "Forget it."<br/>
<br/>
"Something happen last night?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, well—" Again he pauses. "It is nothing important but I have reason to believe that hoodlums may be, what is the term, 'casing' my home."<br/>
<br/>
"That's all?" you ask in surprise. "You've got ways of dealing with anyone trying to break in."<br/>
<br/>
"I do, but... no, like I said it is not important. I have just not had reason to deal with burglars in quite some time. I suppose I am still just a bit thrown off, that is all."<br/>
<br/>
"If you say so," you reply. "So you're really fine with me staying as Chelsea's mom?"<br/>
<br/>
"I am not <i>fine</i> with it, Mr. Prescott; it is not ideal. But will <i>allow</i> it if you cannot be swayed. You did get what I had sent you, did you not?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
After you confirmed that you did, Blackwell asks you to think it over and get back to him by the end of the day. You also ask if you can make up a new mask in preparation, just in case you do decide to move after all and he gives you permission. So there's a lot of rushing around. First it's rushing back home to grab the book. Then you rush to the villa to place it back on the shelf, create a mask, fetch the <i>mens</i> and mix up some <i>ludius</i> paste.<br/>
<br/>
By the time you're done, it's past noon and you decide to take a breather and grab some lunch at one of the cafes near the campus. As you eat, you look at your phone at what Blackwell had sent last night. You hadn't looked at it but it's a list of students—ones that take his class you assume—and links to their social media profiles. It's all girls (as you'd indicated you'd like to remain one) and there's a wide variety, including some from the big sorority. It's almost too much choice and as you think of the blank mask, you wonder why not make many choices into one?<br/>
<br/>
Perhaps you could talk the professor into calling out a few girls one by one so you can copy them into a mask, creating an entirely new identity for yourself instead of assuming someone else's.<br/>
<br/>
But he also seems nervous and despite his attempts at downplaying it, something really seems to have the professor spooked. If the villa <i>is</i> being cased, is it really simple burglars? Or could there be people around who know what's in there and want something more than stuff to sell off for cash? An idea begins to take shape. You wonder if you should run it by him anyway? That being, use the new mask so that Blackwell could switch with Chelsea.<br/>
<br/>
You'd be close together and he could have a <i>pedisequoes</i> done up as him safely watch the villa. Maybe suggest <i>both</i> of you getting new identities? Like two people who are friends or something?<br/>
<br/>
You doubt he'd go for it though. Maybe you're fretting over nothing and maybe you should stop worrying about moving. He's letting you continue to be Mrs. Cooper which is what you wanted in the first place so why not just stay where you are?<span class="fmjggefeffn3711"></span></span></div></div>


