# chapters

path: 112211111112122221222121121122122111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Man in the Book
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Nash has laid the <i>Libra</i> on the bed. It's an incongruous resting place: centuries-old book of black magic, bound in leather, laying on a chintzy yellow bedspread made of cheap, synthetic fabrics in a twenty-first century hotel room. He's also opened the curtains. The bright Kansas City skyline blocks the horizon and most of the sky, but the Moon will have just risen. It's almost ten-thirty.<br/>
<br/>
You look down at the <i>Libra.</i> Sure enough, spidery, silvery writing has appeared on the normally blank pages at the front of the book. You shiver at the invitation the inscription extends to adepts of Sulva: to "explore within" and make of the <i>Libra</i> a domicile.<br/>
<br/>
You'd felt pleased only a week ago, at the thought that the <i>Libra</i> had come looking for you. How flattering it had felt, how special. Now it feels like a monster that has been stalking you, wanting to devour you.<br/>
<br/>
It's already had you once, and eaten part of you. You no longer have an <i>imago</i> of your own, unless it's the form of a petrified homeless man. It even ate up half of your <i>essentia.</i><br/>
<br/>
So why are you now planning to dive back into it?<br/>
<br/>
"I'm afraid I've only got looking-glass logic for you, son," Charles had said when you'd asked him that at lunch. "Sulva is a mirror, and <i>Libra</i> is too, of a kind. You went through the looking-glass once, to whatever is on the other side--"<br/>
<br/>
"And got back out again. What if I don't come back, or even less of me comes back? That moon-writing, it talks about the <i>Libra</i> as a 'home'."<br/>
<br/>
"It's not an ordinary book," Charles had replied. "I doubt it's an ordinary mirror. Some magic mirrors are like that. It's a kind of magical pun. You have to go through twice in order to come back once."<br/>
<br/>
"What kind of magic mirrors are out there," you'd asked. Maybe it was curiosity, and maybe it was a desire to change the subject away from a topic that frightened you.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, various kinds," he'd said. "There was Mr. Vane's mirror, that let him into a world where he met Lilith. He went in and thought he came back out, but he hadn't. He had to go into it again before he could come back out for good." This cryptic little anecdote means nothing to you. "I won't tell you a fairy tale, son," Charles had continued. "You may find it a maze on the inside, as Mr. Vane found in his, and have the devil's own time getting back out again.<br/>
<br/>
If you could have felt even less confidence in the proposed scheme, you would have after the warning about a "maze." But you don't feel any confidence at all.<br/>
<br/>
But it would be impolite to reject Charles Brennan's suggestion out of hand, and you'd just said you'd think about it.<br/>
<br/>
And you had. Your confidence never rose above zero. But back in your hotel room you had taken Joe's mask off and stared at yourself in the mirror. Even if you became trapped in the <i>Libra,</i> could it be worse than being a golem? And exile from reality--a reality that you've cocked up so badly for yourself and for others--might be a fitting punishment.<br/>
<br/>
You remember what it was like being there before. It had seemed blank, and that wasn't so bad. A place of rest. Of meditation. Of penance? Father Ed had suggested your need for such.<br/>
<br/>
You'd sat very quietly in your room, and the numbers on the digital clock had seemed to speed up as you'd thought patiently through things. And at the end you'd gone to Charles and said that you'd hazard it.<br/>
<br/>
"I s'ppose ya jes' lay down onnit," Nash says, and gestures vaguely at the <i>Libra.</i> He tweaks a cigarette from behind his ear, then puts it back. It's a non-smoking room.<br/>
<br/>
"Should I take the mask off?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Prably best," Nash says. "We'd like to keep it, in case--" He doesn't have to finish the sentence.<br/>
<br/>
You take a deep breath. Your last breath in the form of Joe Durras? You don't know whether to hope that it is, or to hope that it isn't. You pull the mask off, and stiffly crouch over the <i>Libra</i>, but before you can turn over to lay on it, Charles grasps you by the arm. His eyes are like deep pools, and though they are still and clear, you can see a universe of emotions in them. Pity and worry are there, as you'd expect. But strength is there, too. And through his grip and into your stony limb you feel a surge of confidence and fearlessness.<br/>
<br/>
For a moment, as you gaze back at him, you no longer see the little old man who welcomed you into Olympia, and who with gentle cheer has carried you along through this unexpected crisis. You see a king: old but hale, and sage. Like a cloak he wraps you in his protection. As you fall back onto the <i>Libra</i> you feel the serene confidence that no harm will come to you, for you are under the care of Glundandra: the King of the Planets.<br/>
<br/>
You fall and fall and fall ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There's a floor beneath you, and you scramble to your feet. The light is pale and soft and shines all about you, as though the air itself is glowing. You look about. There is no ceiling and no walls. You turn this way and that, but there are no features. <br/>
<br/>
The only thing worse than finding yourself lost in a maze, it occurs to you, is finding yourself with no maze to get lost in. For a lack of anything better to do, you start walking. <br/>
<br/>
You've only taken a few dozen steps when something comes into view: a little dot that seems quite far away. But it grows rapidly bigger as you approach. Impossible though it seems, did you choose the right direction after all? Probably you'd find this thing no matter what direction you set off in.<br/>
<br/>
It's a man, sitting in a rough chair, and bent over a tripod. He's dressed in a white surplice and is staring into a bowl balanced on the tip of the tripod. He looks up as you approach. His cheeks have deep folds, and there is a deep crease between his eyebrows. He is bald but for a few strands of white hair atop his scalp.<br/>
<br/>
A thin shadow of a smile appears on his face. "Wanting your clothes back, are you," he says as he straightens up.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Your clothes?</i> But the question dies on the back of your throat. This world, whatever and wherever it is, seems to belong to this man, who even now is limping toward you with his hands clasped behind his back. You feel no compulsion or warning, just the firm certainty that only he has the right to speak here.<br/>
<br/>
He gives no sign as he looks you up and down, and walks around you in a circle. "Yes, the one who sent you knows his business. Best to give him what he expects, then." He has made a full circuit, and looks at you with eyes that are a pale but intense blue. But there is no flicker behind them, no depths, only emptiness, and for a moment you wonder if he is blind. "I pray your pardon, son," he says softly. "I shouldn't speak at all. Be kind when you speak of me."<br/>
<br/>
His expression had been as blank as his eyes up to now, but now a little shadow appears in it: a shadow of amusement, and of melancholy.<br/>
<br/>
The memory seizes you: You saw him before, on your first visit to this place. Before the sigils had appeared. He had risen from his seat and had asked you your name, and with a croak you had given it to him. Why didn't you remember?<br/>
<br/>
The man limps back over to the tripod, and you totter after him. The tripod and its bowl are much larger than they had appeared--or they have gotten larger--for it looms gigantically, and you peer into it, you find yourself gazing down into what seems to be an enormous pool.<br/>
<br/>
At the bottom, under what seems an immense depth of water, is a human body.<br/>
<br/>
It's your body.<br/>
<br/>
You're seized by vertigo, and fall toward it ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You gasp, as though rising up through deep water, and open your eyes. There's a ceiling here. You're laying on a bed, and something is prodding you in the back.<br/>
<br/>
A hand seizes yours, and you look over to find Charles peering down at you. "Will?" he says with a smile. "Is that you?"<br/>
<br/>
You blink and look down. His hand encloses yours: a hand of flesh and bone. It's connected to a skinny arm. You sit up and look down. You've a body: lanky and pale, with a little bit of baby fat. Feeling no shyness you scramble off the bed with Charles's help; Nash steps out of the way with a grin as you run for the bathroom. You flick on the light and look in the mirror--<br/>
<br/>
It's your face! A huge grin breaks across it. Your hair is a mess, and you've got those thin whiskers at your chin and lip and cheekbones, but it's your own bony, stupid face!<br/>
<br/>
Charles and Nash smile expectantly as you return. "Will Prescott?" Charles asks again.<br/>
<br/>
"That's me, sir!" The fact of your nakedness doesn't bother you in the least.<br/>
<br/>
"Everything where it should be?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think so, sir!" You duck back into the bathroom and give yourself a more careful going over. You push your hair this way and that, and tilt your head around, and flex all your joints. Yes, everything seems to be there and in perfect working order. "Yes sir," you repeat when you re-emerge. "How long was I gone?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not long," Charles says. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."<br/>
<br/>
But there is something subdued in his demeanor. "Is something wrong, sir?"<br/>
<br/>
He hesitates, and then shrugs weakly. "I don't know, Will," he says, and his smile turns lopsided. Your heart suddenly pounds. "You look whole and healthy. It seems too good to be true."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Too good to be true?</i><br/>
<br/>
"We'd like to make shuah, Will," Nash says, and again tweaks the cigarette from behind his ear.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222212221211211221221111
author_id: seuzz
title: Frankenstein and His Monster
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"But I feel fine," you protest. "I feel just like I felt before."<br/>
<br/>
"Ya would," Nash says with a grunt and a grin. He flicks another lens into place and peers back down into your palms. "Gotcher <i>imago</i> back, and that meens <i>physically</i> yer right as rain."<br/>
<br/>
"But metaphysically?" The subtle emphasis on "physically" hadn't escaped your notice.<br/>
<br/>
"Yer stitched togedah all wrong. Didn' getcher Kenandandra back neither. An' dose sigils're still theah." He glances over at Charles. "Stunnin' piece o' wack, Chazz. Even more impressive 'an what he was befoah."<br/>
<br/>
"But everything is what it was before," Charles asks quietly. "No substitutions?"<br/>
<br/>
"None I can make out." Nash pulls your head down and tousles your hair, peering at your scalp. "Maybe the <i>Liber</i> didn' know how to put 'im all back togedah right, but it sent back ever'ting we sent <i>in,</i> jes' wrapped up neatly in Will's <i>imago.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"He said something about giving me my clothes back," you blurt out.<br/>
<br/>
"He?" Charles echoes sharply. "Who?"<br/>
<br/>
What with the examination you'd not had a chance to tell them what you'd seen inside the <i>Libra.</i> As carefully and completely as you can, you describe it to them: The old man and the tripod, and what he'd said. "And I don't know why, but for some reason I'd forgotten, like I had amnesia. But I saw him before, on my first trip into the <i>Libra.</i> He asked me my name, and I told him. And then the sigils came."<br/>
<br/>
Charles's expression clouds over. You look between him and Nash, but the latter just busies himself with minute examinations of your body.<br/>
<br/>
"Sir, what is it?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Hmm? Something I'll have to think about," Charles says. "I'll leave you with Nash. Would you like some clothes, son?"<br/>
<br/>
"Eventually, before I have to go back to my room." Charles says he'll bring you some. He's very subdued as he leaves.<br/>
<br/>
"Do you have any idea what it's about, Nash?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"'At's above my pay grade," Nash says. "Leave it to the boss man t'chew oveh."<br/>
<br/>
You hunch your shoulders. You don't like the mystery, and you don't like the suspicion that there will be some secrets about yourself that are not likely to get shared with you.<br/>
<br/>
But Nash doesn't hold anything back when you ask for details on what he's finding about you. His explanation is at a high order of technicality, but you're able to follow him.<br/>
<br/>
You're still a golem, he explains; in fact, you're still the golemized homeless man. And you've still got those sigils wound about you. So how is it that you appear normal?<br/>
<br/>
"Yer a golem <i>and</i> a mask," Nash says. "Yer <i>imago's</i> sittin' on ya, sittin' reel purty, too. But it's sittin' on ya the way it sits on a mask." He gestures at Joe's mask. "In fackt--" He grins a grin that you've grown to recognize: a grin of admiration at some particularly cunning bit of magical engineering. "Yer like a TV. Ya gatta pitcher inside yas, pitcher 'at looks like Will Prescott, and yer projectin' it. Whereas me, I gatta skin. Diff'rence is, I can't change my skin, but you prably can change yer pitcher. If ya can get new pitchers to projeckt."" He takes a step back and cocks his head. "Yer prably ganna find all kans o' sehprises inside ya once ya stat t'len howda meditate."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"Meditation. Stack 'n trade o' the <i>Stellae.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"I know about meditation. I've been playing Joe for a few days now, remember? I mean, what kind of surprises?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. 'At'll be f'r <i>you</i> to tell us." He points at your face. "But when you get statted, wunna the fest t'ings ye'll fine is 'at face o' yours. Ye'll be lookin' at it from th'inside. Look like a buncha sigils wen you getta good look at it.<br/>
<br/>
"Is this something I'm really going to want?" you ask in alarm.<br/>
<br/>
"'S'not a mattah of what you want, kiddo," he says. "It's what ya gat, and what yer ganna <i>do</i> widdit. 'At's sumthin' fer Chazz and the padre to tack t'ya'bout."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Great. Another talk with Father Ed.</i><br/>
<br/>
"I'm like a shapeshifter," you say dully. "Like a chameleon."<br/>
<br/>
"It's what yer built like," he agrees. "Don’ let it getcha down, Will," he says, and claps your shoulder. "We aluvus gat somethin' special. 'At'll be yer trick."<br/>
<br/>
"Because of something the <i>Libra</i> did to me," you say dubiously. "Something the <i>man</i> in the <i>Libra</i> did to me."<br/>
<br/>
"Like I said," he says gravely. "It ain't where it comes from. It's what ya <i>do</i> widdit dat counts. An' it could be a useful trick. You know the kinda wack Rick does?" You nod. "T'ink how useful quick-change attistry could be fer him."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean I might become a spy?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno, kid," he shrugs. "Ye'll hafta tack to Chazz."<br/>
<br/>
But Charles is still preoccupied when he does show up again with some clothes for you, and says he'll talk to you in the morning. He remains to talk with Nash while you return to your room.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your sleep is restless and full of dreams that you remember being vivid, but which are lost to you when you wake the next morning. You roll around in bed for a bit, then get showered and changed into some of Joe's things. They hang limply off your frame, but you don't wish to be back in his mask. It's true that you feel completely "normal", but you still feel the horror from talking to Nash last night, and know that your face and body, which seem so solid when you look at them in the mirror, and when you press them with tentative fingertips, are only an extraordinarily solid and convincing illusion. <br/>
<br/>
You make some coffee in your room, waiting for a call from Charles, and when it doesn't come you take a chance on heading down to that restaurant for some breakfast. You're munching on eggs and toast and bacon when you look up to see the head of the <i>Stellae</i> approaching. He sits down next to you without asking for an invitation. "How did you know I'd be down here," you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
"You're not hard to find, son," he says. "I just followed the trails of self-doubt and fear."<br/>
<br/>
You grimace. "Do I seem that bad?"<br/>
<br/>
"You've nothing to worry about, Will," he says, and clasps your hand in a firm and reassuring grip. "I'm sorry I left you last night. It made you worry. I may not tell you everything, Will, and I may not tell you right away. But I will always tell you as much as I can, and I will always be honest with you. I had to meditate last night, before I could tell you anything."<br/>
<br/>
"About me?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, not about you," he says with a gruff laugh. "As Nash says, you're as right as can be expected. We'll talk about you and your situation later. Not that there will be much to talk about, except how to go about training you. You still want to join us, don't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I thought I had."<br/>
<br/>
"I thought so too. Oh, certain formalities will occur." He waves his hand dismissively. "But I had to meditate on the <i>Libra</i>, and what you saw inside it."<br/>
<br/>
"The man."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. The man." He pauses and stares at the table. "His name is Hieronymus von Gerssdorff."<br/>
<br/>
The name means nothing to you, but your skin still prickles. He has a name. Somehow that makes him more real, and it's not a pleasant reality. "Who is he?"<br/>
<br/>
"He's the man who wrote the <i>Libra.</i> The man who made it, and the spells it contains."<br/>
<br/>
"He's inside the book?"<br/>
<br/>
"Apparently. It's a real surprise." A waitress comes over, and Charles orders some coffee. "Yes. He vanished, centuries ago. Maybe we should have expected to find him inside his own creation."<br/>
<br/>
"What's he doing there?"<br/>
<br/>
"Living there, after a fashion. Do you know what a phylactery is, Will?" You shake your head. "Sometimes they are called 'soul jars'. Places to hide the spirit so you don't leave this world after you die. If I interpret your experience correctly, it was his master coup, turning the <i>Libra</i> into a phylactery for himself."<br/>
<br/>
"It seems like an awful thing to do," you say after the silence has become awkward. "I mean, I guess I understand not wanting to die--"<br/>
<br/>
"I doubt that's the reason he did it," Charles says. "He wouldn't have been afraid of death. He would have had other purposes. He would have wanted to hide himself."<br/>
<br/>
"From who?"<br/>
<br/>
"From lots of people. The German Emperor, for one. He was tired of chucking von Gerssdorff into prison. The Church, for another. And from us, most of all."<br/>
<br/>
"The <i>Stellae?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes." Charles suddenly looks very old and tired. "He was one of us. One of the most powerful <i>Stellae</i> there ever was. But he went bad. 'Retrograde', we call it. He used the spells he'd created to hide from us, and to fight us. We finally lost track of him, apparently because he hid himself from us inside the <i>Libra.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Are you going to go inside it and get him?"<br/>
<br/>
Charles looks up at you sharply. "He made the <i>Libra,</i> Will. No one has power there except him. None of us would dare, even if we could. And only an adept of Sulva can get inside."<br/>
<br/>
"Like I've been inside," you say, and your voice shakes.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," Charles says. "You're the only one we know who could get inside it. Probably you're the only one who could come out, too."<br/>
<br/>
"Why me?"</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212222122212112112212211111
author_id: seuzz
title: Past and Future
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Why would he let me into his hiding place?" you ask. "Why would this von Gerssdorff person let me into the <i>Libra,</i> and then let me out? He did something to me." Blood rushes to your head, and you feel faint. "He's the one who--"<br/>
<br/>
"Hush, Will," Charles says, and again clasps your hand. "Yes, we now know what's happened. It's not the <i>Libra,</i> it's the man inside the <i>Libra</i> who did it to you. Though perhaps it's a distinction without a difference. You met him in mind and spirit, but you carry his body around when you carry the <i>Libra</i>." Your flesh ripples with disgust; you never again want to touch the thing. "But you're alright, Will--"<br/>
<br/>
"Alright? Nash says--!"<br/>
<br/>
"I know what Nash says," Charles says soothingly. "To look at you, no one would know what's happened to you, and you yourself don't feel any different. You've said so yourself. Remember that, and don't fear for yourself." You swallow, but nod. "I do not know what purposes von Gerssdorff has. No one could fathom his mind, for he was always subtle, and at the end he was so twisted no one could see him for the coils he had twisted himself into. Yes, he did something to you, and even stole one of your <i>ousiarchs,</i> but he let you go. I suspect--" He smiles wryly. "I suspect he let you go because you are not even yet a student or novice. He knows you inside and out." Charles's smile turns grim. "You gave him your name, and he has taken you apart. I doubt he found anything useful, and warlocks such as von Gerssdorff are more practical than they are malicious. That is why I said that only you, probably, could have escaped the <i>Libra,</i> for I doubt you have anything he could want."<br/>
<br/>
"Except maybe my <i>ousiarch.</i> Kenandandra."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," says Charles slowly. "That is a point."<br/>
<br/>
He looks as though he has fallen into meditating again, but you ask him anyway: "Why would he want it, sir?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hmm? Oh, I don't know," Charles says, retrieving his attention from very far away. "As I say, it is very difficult to penetrate his thinking. None of my predecessors could, and centuries have passed since then. But he was always interested in such things. In <i>essentia,</i> and the metaphysical constituents of the universe. He was a kind of vivisectionist, you might say. He liked to take people apart." His voice falls into a hush. "And then send them back out again, with empty places where once they had ... vital things."<br/>
<br/>
You shiver.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," Charles says. "It's better to talk of such things in the bright morning than in the dark night, but it rather spoils the light and air. So let's talk about--"<br/>
<br/>
"Who were his <i>ousiarchs,</i> sir?" you blurt out. You dread the answer, wanting no kinship with this monster.<br/>
<br/>
"Arbol and Kenandandra," Charles says after a fractional hesitation. "The planets of theoretical knowledge, and practical application and organization. A very powerful combination. Our last member to have them-- Well, he killed himself, rather than let his gifts be perverted. He also had political ideals, and great physical courage."<br/>
<br/>
"Perverted by who?"<br/>
<br/>
"Never mind. The twentieth century was full of perversity, not all of which it was our business to combat. You'll learn much of it during your studies."<br/>
<br/>
"If von Gerssdorff had Kenandandra for an <i>ousiarch--</i>" You resent the shared relation, but are glad that you don't share Sulva with him, as it's the planet you can still claim for your own. "Why would he take Kenandandra from me?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's a mystery to me, Will," Charles sighs, and something in his manner tells you that you'd better desist before you begin to try his patience. "He liked cutting things up. Perhaps even in his phylactery he grows bored."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Centuries, locked away inside that nothingness. If he is bored, maybe you should be glad he contented himself with only the few amputations you suffered at his hands.</i> You let Charles change the subject.<br/>
<br/>
"I'd much rather talk about you, Will," he says. "I like you a lot more than von--"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes sir. Thank you, sir. What are you going to do with me? And about Joe and Frank?"<br/>
<br/>
"Joe and Frank are our business," he says. "Leave them to us. I hope they never will be your business, for I hope they will be back with us before long. So put them out of your mind, at least for now. As for you and your training--" His manner warms considerably. "I said I would always try to be candid with you, so I will. There are several paths we might take. Actually, you would have to take all of them, but the order and the emphasis can be different. It depends upon what suits you."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know what would suit me, sir."<br/>
<br/>
"Of course not. That's for me to decide. But what you prefer, and what I decide, will likely coincide." His smile is shrewd.<br/>
<br/>
You're not sure what he means by that, so you just ask about these different "paths."<br/>
<br/>
"There are three," he says. "Book learning, practical learning, and, for lack of a better word, character building." You must have grimaced at the latter, for he laughs softly. "Your own father must have talked to you about 'character building' at some point, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes sir. Oh, speaking of which--!" In all the bustle and excitement of the last few days you've not even thought of your family. "What are we going to do about--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Your family? We'll do something. At the moment, Rick says, no one has missed you. Joe and Frank left your own doppelganger in place."<br/>
<br/>
"But it's under their control!"<br/>
<br/>
"Probably. Not for long, since we have you and the <i>Libra.</i> Would you object to leaving a fake version of yourself in Saratoga Falls?"<br/>
<br/>
"It would be a little weird." You scratch your head. "Of course, it's been a long time since, you know, I've actually been home."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, we can decide that later. But as for your training. What do you remember of <i>Stellae</i> training from your time inside Joe's mask?<br/>
<br/>
You blink. "Not a lot. It fades when you leave a mask behind. Mostly I remember anything similar to stuff I already know."<br/>
<br/>
"Then I'll explain it to you. By 'book learning' I mean something very similar to school work. You would start with Kali Valentine, who is very good at designing courses of study. You would live with her, and would study the theory of sigils, the history of the <i>Stellae,</i> and about the planets and the various metaphysical bases of what you and all of us can do. You would learn how to meditate, and would become much more closely acquainted with Sulva. You would study yourself as well, and learn how the theory is practically realized within yourself. You would study and develop the powers you are left with, and those that you have picked up as a result of your encounter with, uh, the <i>Libra.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"That sounds like the 'practical training' you were talking about."<br/>
<br/>
"No, the 'practical training' is more like 'on the job' training. You would not be undertaking full-scale missions, but some of us would take you into the field, to see what you can do and what you are adept at. You would travel about, living with various members of the order and helping them with their tasks. Instead of learning about yourself intellectually, as you would with Kali, you would learn through experience about yourself. I won't mince words, Will. We would be throwing you into the pool, and seeing what kind of strokes you make."<br/>
<br/>
That sounds more appealing than school work; now that you think of it, you realize what a relief it is to be out of a classroom. It would also probably be better than-- "And what is 'character building'?"<br/>
<br/>
"The subtlest of them all. You would hardly notice it."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay. What would I be doing?"<br/>
<br/>
"Chores around the house for me." Charles turns quite pink in the face as he laughs. "Yes, you would come and live with me."<br/>
<br/>
"As what, a house boy?" You never liked chores.<br/>
<br/>
"More or less. When you got tired of me, I'd send you to Russia for a similar stint with an old friend of mine. Then to England, to help care for an old invalid. Father Ed would probably also get a lot of work out of you. So would the rest of the <i>Stellae,</i> by helping them take care of their more mundane concerns while they are doing <i>Stellae</i> business."<br/>
<br/>
"But I wouldn't be helping them on the <i>Stellae</i> business."<br/>
<br/>
"Not at first. I told you, Will," he says, and leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. "These courses are not mutually exclusive. You would be doing all of them, eventually. It's a matter of where you would start, and where the initial emphasis would be. We would start you where you would be most comfortable, and gradually work around to and through the others."<br/>
<br/>
You lean back, but you can't really think clearly, not with Charles watching you. School work? Adventure? Chores?<br/>
<br/>
As you turn over the possibilities in your head, you begin to see what Charles is getting at with each of them, and how they might suit you. In a sense, the school work would be the most familiar, since it would pick up somewhat where you left things at Westside, with getting an education.<br/>
<br/>
Adventuring around sounds a lot more exciting: Getting your hands dirty, and learning directly what you can do and how to do it. But you've had a lot of excitement recently. And being in the field-- Well, it might remind you too often of what else is out there in the field: the perverted Joe and Frank.<br/>
<br/>
And that brings you back to the "character building." Father Ed asked if you really felt sorry, and what you were going to do about it. It occurs to you that what Charles means by "character building" could easily double as "penance", by helping the <i>Stellae</i> whose lives you've disrupted by corrupting two of their colleagues.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112122221222121121122122111112
author_id: seuzz
title: Regrets? Yeah, You've Had a Few
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"If the choice is up to me, sir," you say, "I'd like to get to work right away. I was never really good in school."<br/>
<br/>
"Kenandandrans," Charles Brennan chuckles. "Haters of idle hands."<br/>
<br/>
"I thought Nash said I'd lost the ... the <i>Kenandandra</i> stuff inside the book," you reply, feeling a little irritated.<br/>
<br/>
"Old habits die hard," he explains. "And we can replace what you've lost. I think. I'd have to do some meditating of my own. But I imagine there are ways." He looks at you thoughtfully.<br/>
<br/>
"You mean get the Kenandandran back out of the book?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. Your <i>essentia</i> is specially charged. Nash can explain it better than I can, though he'd be very technical about. You want, you <i>need</i> to have two <i>ousiarchs,</i> Will. It's just a matter of getting you entangled with a second one. It could be Kenandandra again." He cocks his head. "You're also Sulvan," he says softly. "That's interesting. We don't have a lot of experience with Sulvans. They are hard to find. We were training one a few years ago--" He stops cold, and his eyes cloud over.<br/>
<br/>
You doubt you want the answer, but you ask anyway: "What happened?"<br/>
<br/>
The old man shrugs stiffly. "We're in a dangerous line of work. You're prepared to face that fact, aren't you? Not every <i>Stellae</i> goes into the field, but most of us have to go to dangerous places and do dangerous things."<br/>
<br/>
There's no denying it: His words make your heart beat faster and harder. True, you've been in some sticky situations already, and made it out alive. But you didn't know that you were dancing on the precipice of extinction. It's a bit harder to go into it with your eyes open. But--<br/>
<br/>
"That'd be part of my training, wouldn't it, sir? Learning how to face dangerous situations?"<br/>
<br/>
"Part of it, though training can only take you so far." But he smiles and grips your hand. "But you've got nerve, Will, and you've already done some pretty brave things."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Some pretty stupid things,</i> you're inclined to think, but accept his cheerful encouragement.<br/>
<br/>
"But as I was saying," he continues. "We don't have a lot of experience with Sulvans. But I wonder if being Sulvan won't make it easier for you to find a second <i>ousiarch.</i> The Moon is a mirror, and you've already-- Well, you've already picked up something of a talent for imitating others."<br/>
<br/>
You redden at the reminder of your changed physical being.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, if we're finished eating," Charles says. "We should start packing. Our conjunction is breaking up, and Rick's already gone."<br/>
<br/>
"Can I ask where?"<br/>
<br/>
"Certainly you may ask. I might not always answer, but never be afraid of asking me anything, Will." But that's all he says, and you don't press it.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
As you put your things into the suitcase, you ponder what might be next. It was too much to hope that you'd get paired with Rick, to go off and hunt for Frank and Joe. You're sure you could help him, since he'd have to start by looking for them in Saratoga Falls. But Charles would certainly think it too dangerous. <br/>
<br/>
And if you're not going to help there, you're not sure you want to start off by having an "adventure." You don't feel prepared for anything, and you don't feel the same burning desire to chase generic "bad guys" (whoever they might be) that you feel about chasing Frank and Joe. <br/>
<br/>
But do you want to be a "house boy" for Charles? It would feel like running away.<br/>
<br/>
You close up the suitcase and slowly pick up Joe's mask. Since you traveled here under his face, you have to leave under it. You grimace as you put it to your face.<br/>
<br/>
You don't pass out, but simply merge seamlessly with the assumed body and persona. The world seems much brighter, happier, more golden. A cheerful sense of power washes over you.<br/>
<br/>
And it leaves you feeling worse, and you try to thrust Joe's personality from you. But he still sits in the back of your head, chattering inanely. <i>Buck up, fucker,</i> he seems to say. <i>It'll be okay. I always land on my feet.</i> Your mouth twists up sourly. You assume you're frowning--you feel like you're frowning--but as you turn you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. You're actually grinning. You have to force the smile from your face.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Kali Valentine is closing her door as you step into the hallway, and you both pause, looking at each other sidelong. But she's the first to move. She smiles as she approaches, but her eyes flick only briefly over your face. As she passes, you blurt out her name: "Kali."<br/>
<br/>
She turns with the same quizzical smile. "Mr. Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"Kali, I--" You swallow and take a deep breath. "We haven't talked. But I want to say that-- I'm really, really sorry about all this. About what I've done."<br/>
<br/>
"I know, Mr. Prescott. I hope you don't think I hold it against you."<br/>
<br/>
"You should," you blurt out. "I mean, I wouldn't blame you if you did." You twist miserably inside your fake skin. "I don't like walking around like this. I don't like standing here and talking to you while--" You wish for an earthquake, something that would bury you in a deep hole with many tons of rubble over you. But the universe is cruel, and only leaves you gasping under her cool eye. "I know you liked Joe. I mean, I have the impression that--" Her expression grows very amused, which embarrasses both you and the Joe Durras persona. "He really liked studying with you, and thought you liked having him for a student."<br/>
<br/>
Her smile fades only a little, and she looks over your shoulder. "It occurs to me, Mr. Prescott," she says, and her accent turns very Scotch. "That this <i>incident</i> presents a rather rare opportunity for me to tell 'Joe' exactly what I thought of him, and for him to tell me exactly what he thought of me."<br/>
<br/>
You gasp, and redden, and feel deeply, deeply mortified. <i>What they thought of each other? Is it possible that--?</i><br/>
<br/>
Without meaning to, you grapple with the knob to your room, and slip the key card into it. Every nerve screams against inviting her in for just that kind of exchange of confidences, but somehow you can't help yourself. It must be the "Joe" inside you doing it. <i>Because he wants to hear what she would say? Because he wants to speak? Or because he wants to put </i>you<i> on the spot?</i><br/>
<br/>
Kali is still smiling as she closes the door behind her. Your arms hang limply at your sides as you gape at her. At least, you assume you're gaping at her. After what you saw earlier in the mirror, you might be grinning like a madman.<br/>
<br/>
Kali tilts her head. "Yes, Joe was an excellent pupil. Not the best I've ever had, and he wasn't even as diligent as Frank--"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, well, <i>Frank</i>," you exclaim before you can stop yourself. "He <i>has</i> to work hard."<br/>
<br/>
Her lips twitch. "Ye're having a hard time of it, aren't you, Mr. Prescott, controlling Joseph's personality."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, yeah, well, he's kind of irrepressible." <br/>
<br/>
"You express feelings of guilt and remorse. I'm gratified, and accept them. What does <i>Joe</i> say about them?"<br/>
<br/>
An awful question, because the answer will sound awful. "He seems bouncy. Tells me not to worry about it." With a jerk, you turn away.<br/>
<br/>
"He was always generous. Perhaps you should listen to him."<br/>
<br/>
"But it's not <i>him!</i>" you protest. "It's just a bit of fakery. I can make him think whatever I want."<br/>
<br/>
"Can you make him think badly of you?"<br/>
<br/>
You pause. It's very hard to. An illusion or not, the "Joe" inside you feels like  he's alive and inside his own body, which may be why the persona seems so forgiving. But then you find the key: "I don't think he can be angry about what I did to him. I think he can be angry about what I did to Frank. And what I've wound up doing to you. And to Charles." <i>Yes, now there's a sense of anger inside you.</i><br/>
<br/>
"Mm. Well, you don't have to worry about Charles. He can take a very large view, and large views tend to be magnanimous."<br/>
<br/>
"And you?"<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes sharpen as they dart to your face. "I suspend judgment, Mr. Prescott. I always do."<br/>
<br/>
"You know, Kali, I don't just have Joe inside here with me. I've got-- There's another man in here. He got turned into a statue. I don't know if he's alive or dead, but-- I don't exist anymore, Kali. I'm just an illusion riding around on top of an innocent man that I've hurt."<br/>
<br/>
Her expression grows grave.<br/>
<br/>
"You can talk to Nash about how it works. But I don't think I can fix him or give him his life back, without destroying myself. I don't want you to think I'm selfish, or to feel sorry for me. But I did really bad things, and I want to fix them. And after I help you get Joe and Frank back--"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't speak of such things, Will," she says sharply. "You are not ready to speak of them, and I'm not the one you need to speak to. But I will tell you this much." Tentatively, then gently, she puts her hand on your arm. "I will treat you kindly if you treat me kindly."<br/>
<br/>
You nod fervently, and want to embrace her. But you just let her leave, and then go to Charles's room.<br/>
<br/>
He lets you in, but he's on the phone. Sort of. He's actually holding it several inches from his ear, for a loud voice is booming from it. He smiles as he replies. In Russian, you realize with surprise.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, he puts the phone to his chest. "If you want to get your feet wet, son, I can send you to England. Or you can come home with me."</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222212221211211221221111122
author_id: seuzz
title: Some Uncomfortable Facts
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Charles's eyes twinkle as he holds the phone to his chest. Even with it so muffled, you can hear the booming voice on the other end of the line. You can't tell if the person is angry or joyful, but whatever the emotion, he seems to have a lot of it.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fyodor?</i><br/>
<br/>
That's Joe's thought. But what would the old Russian be doing in England?<br/>
<br/>
"What's in England, sir?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Fun." The old man's expression turns even more mirthful.<br/>
<br/>
Under other circumstances, that would sound very inviting. But after talking to Kali, you don't feel like you deserve "fun."<br/>
<br/>
"Fun sounds like fun, sir," you reply. "But I already decided I want to go back to Olympia with you."<br/>
<br/>
Charles tweaks your elbow lightly--a nice little gesture of appreciation--and returns to the phone. It takes him a few moments before he can interrupt the stream of words from the other. <i>Yeah, it's got to be Fyodor.</i> That is Charles's closest advisor, and the only <i>Stellae</i> older than the old man. They are both Glundandrans--there are never more than two Glundandrans in the <i>Stellae</i>--and <i>Fyodor</i> would have been the head of the order if the job hadn't devolved onto Charles. Fyodor, Joe has heard, never tires of telling Charles how lucky he (Fyodor) feels at having dodged that bullet.<br/>
<br/>
"Something is weighing on you, son," Charles says as you walk down the corridor to the elevator.<br/>
<br/>
You have the compartment to yourself, so you tell him about your talk with Kali--and about the golem you are carrying around inside you.<br/>
<br/>
"You're quick at seeing things, and seeing through them," Charles says quietly. "Nash and I weren't going to say anything to you about that. Not yet."<br/>
<br/>
"Sir, if there's a way of getting him out, of returning him to life--" Your breathing becomes labored. Do you mean what you're about to say, or are you only saying it because it seems like the right thing to say? "And if the only way to save him is to--"<br/>
<br/>
"Hush, son," Charles says, and grips your arm. "I know what you mean to say. Don't say it. Words have a way of fixing thoughts and intentions."<br/>
<br/>
"But shouldn't I--?"<br/>
<br/>
"There's the right thing to do, but there's also the right time to do it. Knowing what to do is not the same thing as knowing when to do it, and many good men have destroyed themselves unnecessarily because they had a poor sense of timing. Do not speak of it, Will. This is not the time."<br/>
<br/>
You hang your head, ashamed of your sense of relief. "So long as you know, sir, that--"<br/>
<br/>
"I know, son. And that's enough."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
And that's all that gets said that day. The flight back is relaxed--Charles is good at creating a merry atmosphere when he wants--and the two of you play cards on the plane. You win, and he grumbles good-naturedly about Joe's talent for "card counting"; you let yourself grin.<br/>
<br/>
The weeks pass uneventfully. Or they seem uneventful. Winter is fast coming to Olympia, and Charles sets you to yard work, putting the garden and lawn to rest, and fixing up the house against the snows that will come. A middle-aged woman, name of Laverne, helps out too. "Daughter of an old colleague," he tells you, though you already know her history, thanks to Joe's memories. "We don't have any secrets from her, but she doesn't like hearing of them." You help Laverne with laundry and food preparation and housework, and Charles sends you to her house to help her out.<br/>
<br/>
Christmas comes, and Charles hosts a festive, week-long party for those <i>Stellae</i> who can make it. Father Ed drives up from Denver; Kali flies in from California; others come in from overseas. You've long since laid aside Joe's mask, but it's not hard to glean, from comments dropped in conversation, that the others miss having Joe and Frank around. It would leave you feeling glum, but the buoyant merriment created by Charles keeps your spirits from sinking unduly.<br/>
<br/>
Rick shows up in time for New Years. He's not been able to find any trace of the wayward Frank and Joe. When you have a moment with him, you ask about what's going on with the "Will Prescott" that you left behind. He just shrugs. "That's not really my business."<br/>
<br/>
"But what if they tried getting in touch with it? They know it's a golem--"<br/>
<br/>
"And they know you ran off to find us," he grunts, and gulps down most of his glass of whiskey. "At any rate, they know you're not their friend anymore. They're not going to say anything to that fake you left behind."<br/>
<br/>
The party breaks up a few days later, but Nash remains behind at Charles's request, and the three of you huddle for a week. Nash has been examining the <i>Libra,</i> and he's got some tests to run on you. "Yeah, I'm good at my job," he drawls afterward with a sly smile. "Yeh wanna getcher self set up, Will, I can help ya."<br/>
<br/>
"Like how?"<br/>
<br/>
"Remember what I told yeh, that yer like a TV that can put up diff'rent pitchers? I can show yeh how t'do it."<br/>
<br/>
You look nervously at Charles. "I'm not sure I want to," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I should still tell you an' th'boss man what you can do. If y'evah wanna do it. Yeh know you got those sigils inside yeh, right? Well, it's sim'ly a questioniv unlockin' 'em."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?" Again, you look over at Charles, but he just smiles gnomically and leaves the conversation to you and Nash.<br/>
<br/>
Nash grasps your hands. "Right now yeh just got one of 'em unlocked. The fest one, the one 'at makes masks. Yer can make a mask, jus' wit' dese mitts o' yers." He grips your wrists to keep you from flinching back. "Yeah. We get sum supplies, make up a blank, put 'em in her pams here, and yeh can finish it yerself. More'n that, though," he continues, as though that isn't enough. "It'd take a little experimentin', but I t'ink yeh could use 'em t'capy summon's <i>imago</i> direc'ly inta yerself. Chuck been teachin' yeh howta meditate?"<br/>
<br/>
You nod. Yes, after only a few weeks you've gotten quite good at it and are quite familiar with what you can find within yourself. The Moon, usually, but also a constellation of stars that is your own <i>imago.</i> And that damnable sigil Nash is talking about.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, if yeh can capy summon, yeh'll get a capy of dare <i>imago</i> t'go witcha one yeh gatev yerself. Then yeh should be able to switch between 'em. Prab'ly dat'll unlack the nex' sigil, too. Yer bilt like the <i>Libra,</i> Will," he says, and shuts one eye to peer at you sharply from the other. "Unlack one sigil by usin' it, an' yeh'll get aksess t' the next'un."<br/>
<br/>
You twist away, throwing yourself backwards into the chair. Fury--at the <i>Libra,</i> at the universe, at yourself, and even at Nash and Charles--boils up within you. "Is that all I'm good for?" you yell, and hot tears spring up in your eyes. "Is this the reason I'm trying to become a <i>Stellae</i>? Am I just that goddamned book? Am I just supposed to go around, <i>stealing</i> faces?"<br/>
<br/>
"'At's not <i>all</i> you are," Nash says mildly. "If it'll meck yeh feel bettah, I spotted anotheh wunna yer talents inside yeh."<br/>
<br/>
"The one he uses when he doesn't want to be found?" Charles asks wryly.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, yeh noticed that?" Nash asks with a grin.<br/>
<br/>
You look between them. "What are you talking about?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sometimes you disappear on me," Charles says. "Haven't <i>you</i> noticed?"<br/>
<br/>
"Noticed <i>what?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
He laughs. "Yes, I think that's one prodigy, as Kali likes to call them, that needs leashing and developing." He fixes a gleaming eye on you. "You have a talent for going unnoticed, son. I think you used it a lot over Christmas. Especially around Father Ed."<br/>
<br/>
"I hardly talked to him."<br/>
<br/>
"Exactly. He kept looking for you, but never found you. You kept hiding on him."<br/>
<br/>
"I wasn't hiding--"<br/>
<br/>
"Not deliberately, Will. But you can turn yourself invisible. Well, not literally. But I've noticed you can make yourself ... inconspicuous ... even in plain sight. I might be looking directly at you, and yet not see you."<br/>
<br/>
You sit back, dumbfounded. "How does that work?"<br/>
<br/>
Nash grasps your hands again. "Well, lemme show you, kid."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's fascinating, and it does make you feel a little better about yourself, for it's a talent that doesn't come from the <i>Libra</i>: Though Nash can't show you how to use it deliberately, he has found a little bit inside of you that can make you disappear from people's conscious vision. "It's like when yeh putcher hammeh down fer a bit," Nash explains. "An' then when you look fer it again, yeh can't find it." He shrugs. "Then, suddenly, it's there again, right where yeh t'ought you were lookin'. In yer case, yeh should be able to turn it off an' on. Wit' trainin'."<br/>
<br/>
And yet you don't feel ready yet to explore it. Charles asks you to explain your reluctance. "I want to be a <i>Stellae,</i> sir, and I want to help out however I can. I've not forgotten about wanting to help find Joe and Frank. But the last few weeks, with you--" You break off, trying to find a way of putting the inchoate feelings into words. "I don't feel like I've accomplished anything, but I do feel like I've been helpful." Charles smiles. "It hasn't been fun, but it's been ... restful." You sink back, and your gaze grows distant. "I feel like I've been in a hospital, and I've been recuperating."<br/>
<br/>
"It's a good feeling, isn't it?" Charles murmurs.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes sir. I don't want you to think I'm slacking--"<br/>
<br/>
"You haven't been."<br/>
<br/>
"But I'd like to continue being helpful. That way."<br/>
<br/>
The old man smiles broadly. "I think you've found your second <i>ousiarch,</i> son. I think it's time you visited Margaret Dillon."</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212222122212112112212211111221
author_id: seuzz
title: Continue
chapter_content:
<div><span style="font-size:1.47em;"><div> <span>To continue in the present with a visit to Margaret Dillon, click "Continue" below.<br/>
<br/>
To flash forward in time: "<a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914/action/view/chapter_map/12111" target="_top" title="Interactive Story Chapter in Item # 1942914">The Vampire and the Snowman</a>" <a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914/action/view/chapter_map/12111" target="_blank" title="Open in new window."><img border="0" height="12" loading="lazy" onmouseout="$(this).css('opacity', '.4');" onmouseover="$(this).css('opacity', '1');" src="https://www.Writing.Com/nw.gif" style="opacity:.4;" width="12"/></a></span></div></span></div>


path: 112211111112122222
author_id: seuzz
title: The party
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Okay," you say, releasing her arm. "Just remember the favor I did you."<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't do me any favors."<br/>
<br/>
"Then just remember me anyway." You walk her to the door and watch the sway in her hips all the way to the gate.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Saturday morning you go looking for the <i>Libras Personas,</i> but apparently Blackwell took it with him. That's too bad: you wanted to study up on the mind-bands but now you'll have to wait. Instead, you rig up a new toy that you've been playing with in your spare time: a little disc that, when glued to your thumbnail, can be flicked like the action of a lighter and cause a small flame to erupt and dance on the end of your thumb. If Will Prescott is going to walk around with a reputation as a creep and a weirdo, let it be earned. You summon your doppelganger by cell phone to the house.<br/>
<br/>
"God, I'm unpopular," he moans when he arrives.<br/>
<br/>
"Not your fault," you tell it as you push it into a chair and take its hand. You peel the new sigil from your own nail—where you've been practicing it—and glue it firmly to the nail of your twin. "What about Caleb and Keith?"<br/>
<br/>
"Still avoiding me. I mean, they run when they see me."<br/>
<br/>
You suck on your lip as you concentrate on the sigil. "Could be they rubbed up against some of those bills I—or we—or you—were passing out." You explain your suspicions; it nods thoughtfully. "Things are going to get a little worse for you, too. Just try to enjoy yourself." You explain your plans for the evening, and then show it how to work the flame sigil. <br/>
<br/>
"This is so freaking cool!" It looks at you jealously. "I wish I could make shit like this."<br/>
<br/>
"I'll be keeping you supplied," you say. You have vague ideas forming in your head. "Just use this stuff only as a last resort."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
After "Will" goes back home you call Yumi; Meghan Farris's party will be starting in about an hour. "I'm stranded at Blackwell's and need a few supplies. I need you to drop everything and bring them over."<br/>
<br/>
"Can't you get your own guy to do it," she asks in an aggressively unfriendly tone.<br/>
<br/>
"He mouthed off to his dad and he's grounded. You're the only one who can help. And I don't have time for backtalk, either. I got a real situation here." You give her a short list of ridiculous but easily obtainable items. Gracelessly, she agrees to bring them over.<br/>
<br/>
The moment she appears you scoop her up over your shoulder and carry her upstairs. She shrieks but you ignore her—except for the appreciative squeeze you give her firm ass. "I haven't got time," you tell her when you get her to the bedroom. "Take your clothes off."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you freaking dare—" she spits.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, put a sock in it. I need your mask to get into the party, that's all. Jesus, you think I wanna remember Jared's hairy dick up my cunny the next time I wear you? Gimme a break." She glares but disrobes, and once she's naked you strip the mask off her, turning her back into a bare golem. You change: once the mask is on, you "remember" that you have to pick up Lin, so you're quick about it too.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The street leading to the Farris home is clogged with cars, some double or even triple parked. Her parents are well off, so it's a big house some distance from the other houses in the subdivision. Lucky, that, since Meghan is spoiled and the noise is loud. It's early, but underdressed guys and girls are already milling about near the front. You laugh and bump hips appreciatively with guys in the crowd; you grin and gossip with girls; you do a little light dancing in place; you make special care to flirt heavily with Lynch, Patterson and Javits in provocative fashion. You even smile widely at David Kirkham, who seems to be positioning himself as the lower caste's Jason Lynch: an utter psycho.<br/>
<br/>
And as you do all this, your antennae sweeps every room you pass through, exploring the various nooks and crannies for hiding places and out of the way corners. You finally settle on an upstairs bedroom that has an interior bath. <br/>
<br/>
It's almost nine by now, so you return to your car and fetch your bag. The timing is terrific; Will Prescott is sauntering up the street toward the house. You beat him back and are in the foyer near Gloria Rea when he hits the front door. <br/>
<br/>
"The fuck are you doing here, Prescott?" Your compatriot is being blocked by a guy neither you nor Yumi know; Will is becoming truly infamous.<br/>
<br/>
Gloria turns at the name and pales. "Oh God," she mutters. <br/>
<br/>
You turn to follow her gaze, and grip her arm. "I can't believe Meghan invited <i>him,</i>" you gasp. <br/>
<br/>
"Something wrong, asshole?" Will innocently asks the guy. He puts a cigarette in his mouth and lights it with his thumb. He casually brandishes the flame before blowing it out. <br/>
<br/>
The guy steps back; his lip curls.<br/>
<br/>
"You can't smoke in here, Will," you shout at him in a shrill voice. "Lose the ash or lose your ass."<br/>
<br/>
He holds your eyes, then shrugs. He taps out the cigarette and slips it into the front shirt pocket of the guy at the door. "Keep that safe for me."<br/>
<br/>
You dart forward and pull him in. "Get in here before someone punches you." You hustle him into the living room; the crowd seems to spontaneously part as you push him through, and those nearby shrink back from the chair you shove him into. "You wanna make yourself useful? Watch my stuff." You drop your purse into his lap—he gives you a bemused look—and hurry way.<br/>
<br/>
"What the hell are you doing?" Lin hisses at you. "Meghan will kill you if she finds out you let him in."<br/>
<br/>
"Fine, you tell him to get lost," you hiss back. "You didn't see what he did at the door to get in." Her head jerks a little. "Besides," you continue, "if there's a snake around, I want to see where it is. The only thing creepier than Will Prescott sitting inside a house is Will Prescott circling around a house and looking through the windows."<br/>
<br/>
"She's still gonna kill you."<br/>
<br/>
"Just keep an eye on him. I gave him my stuff to keep him still for the moment. I have another idea, but I have to find someone to help me."<br/>
<br/>
You're not sure who exactly that person is, though. It depends on who is available. Your choice target is Chelsea Cooper, but she has been surrounded all night long by a pod of suck ups desperate to avoid joining Cindy Vredenburg's fate. And sure enough, when you spot her again she is in the kitchen with a very frightened-looking Eva Garner and a few other girls whose backs are to you. <br/>
<br/>
On the other hand, near the door to the dining room, Patterson is slouching casually against a wall and chatting lazily with Kim Walsh. He catches your gaze, and returns it with a lascivious grin and a wink.<br/>
<br/>
Who do you switch with?</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222221
author_id: seuzz
title: Chelsea Cooper
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You spot Gordon Black just inside a second living room and force your way through to him. You have to stand on a piano bench to reach his ear, and you have to repeat it three times before he understands your low-decibel message: "Chelsea wants to do it in Meghan's room. On her bed." You give him a pinched, unhappy look—what a humiliating message to have to deliver!—when he looks back wonderingly at you. He cocks an eyebrow and grins.<br/>
<br/>
You then go into the kitchen, to linger impatiently in a spot where you can see the foot of the stairs. But Gordon comes into the kitchen to find Chelsea. <i>Shit!</i> He leans over and murmurs in her ear. Her eyes go wide and she gives a little jerk. Then she covers a wicked smile with the back of her hand and nods at him. He goes out and up the stairs. <br/>
<br/>
Perverts. You've chosen your victims well.<br/>
<br/>
You storm back into the living room and snatch your purse up from Prescott. "Why don't you go find Gordon, see if he can teach you some manners," you yell at him. "I think he's upstairs." He laughs softly to himself, and you pretend to quail as he brushes past you, to swagger upstairs after Black.<br/>
<br/>
With a sigh of relief—the hard part is over; now comes the tricky part—you lean against the wall near the foot of the stairs. Ben Kleema, one of the band guys, sidles up to you. "So, I saw you chewing out Prescott," he says. "I like a girl who can handle jerks."<br/>
<br/>
"I'll kick your ass too," you snap. "I'm so sick of freaks tonight." His face falls, and with a mumble he slinks away.<br/>
<br/>
You grasp at Chelsea as she brushes past. "I dunno what's up, but Gordon said to tell you, um, 'the master bedroom'? Because Prescott's in Meghan's room?" <br/>
<br/>
She pulls away but doesn't reprimand you, and she doesn't say anything as you follow her up. Down the other leg of the hall you can see Prescott draped across a bedroom door and smiling into it. He's smoking a cigarette: Man, what you wouldn't give to see how freaked out Black is. He might jump out a window.<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea steps into the master bedroom and looks around. You squeeze in behind her and quietly shut the door. You've got the mask out and are about to reach around with it when she wheels on you. "This is bullshit. What's going on?" You slam the mask hard against her; she gives a short squeal and takes a shorter fall to the ground.<br/>
<br/>
You drag her around behind the bed where she can't be seen and quickly pull her dress off her: luckily she's wearing only a short, tightly-fitted, one-piece sleeveless sack and undergarments. That done you rush back to the door and pull it open a crack. Prescott was watching you too, and is already guarding the door to the master bedroom; he slips in and you shut and lock it. "Into the bathroom, quick," you hiss. "Get your clothes off." You start pulling your own off as well. <br/>
<br/>
So many things to coordinate: you take Prescott's clothes and drop them next to Chelsea just as the mask reappears on her face. Crap: that was too short. You hurl your clothes into the bathroom at the naked Prescott, who is now stretched out on the tile floor. Carefully, you lift the mask from Chelsea's face; she doesn't wake. You rip the mask off Prescott, revealing a naked and unconscious Yumi, who will wake to find herself suddenly transported from her car to a bathroom in a strange house; that should be fun for her. You quietly close the bathroom door on her and drop the Prescott mask onto Chelsea. The change there is instantaneous, and he wakes with a start. You motion him to hush, and quietly tell him to get dressed and get over to the door; you think you heard the locked knob jiggle. Finally, you rip the Yumi mask from your face and toss it to Prescott, who tucks it under his jacket as he ducks out the door; you then press the new Chelsea mask to your face. <br/>
<br/>
You fight to keep awake, but briefly pass out from the excruciating pain of feeling yourself crushed into much smaller frame. That pain is gone when you awake a few seconds later, though. You are a little groggy and haven't got time to give your new body an appreciate going over; instead, you just pull your new dress over your head ... only to realize that the zipper is in the back.<br/>
<br/>
With a gulp, you sit down on the bed. How are you going to explain this?<br/>
<br/>
A movement at the door draws your eye; it's Gordon, and his face is an ugly mix of chalk-white and green. "I just saw Prescott come out of here," he says numbly.<br/>
<br/>
You burst into tears and run over, throwing your arms around him. "He got me in here, Gordon, and then he ... he ...!" You scream and bury your face in his stomach. <br/>
<br/>
He is very still as he takes in your unzipped state, and the bra and panties that are lying on the floor. Heavily, he pats you on the back, and clumsily he pulls up the zipper on your dress. <br/>
<br/>
"I'm going to kill the fucker," he says in a thick voice. <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Of course, there is no question of staying at the party after that. You swear Gordon to secrecy, but he insists on driving you home. He wants to walk you in, but you bravely insist on going in alone. "I don't want my folks to know." You snuffle and sniff and sob uncontrollably, give him a long hug, and then crawl from the car. You compose yourself on the front porch before entering the house.<br/>
<br/>
"You're home early," your mother observes with surprise. She hasn't even changed into her night gown. <br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes. "It was the most lame ass party, like, <i>ever</i>. Meghan has no business throwing those things. I'm going to take a bath."<br/>
<br/>
It's in the bathtub that you finish getting acquainted with the most lusted-after body at Westside High. And it is even more glorious when it's yours, because you know where to stick your fingers to make its fibers vibrate like the string section of a metropolitan orchestra. You warble along with your throaty soprano.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake late the next morning from soft dreams to find yourself at the center of the biggest clusterfuck in Westside history. Your Facebook page is scrawled-over with condolences and outrage; you have over a hundred text messages on your cell phone. <br/>
<br/>
Everyone knows that you were raped at Meghan's house by Will Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
Your first thought is to kill Gordon for talking. Further reading discloses that it's Yumi's fault. Prescott was seen exiting the bedroom; then you were seen being hustled out by Gordon; then Yumi, in a disheveled and confused state, appeared. She has no memories from the past week, so everyone leaped to a conclusion that she herself then embraced: The weird, threatening, drug-dealing Prescott had done something to her, something so loathsome that she was blocking it out. That was enough to get Gordon jump in too. <br/>
<br/>
You need to think. Actually, you need to get back over to Blackwell's house before you are cornered by the sympathetic mob. You quickly dress—nothing special, just jeans and a sweater—and then remember your car is at Meghan's. Or is it? Your mom tells you that Gordon dropped it off this morning. Did he say anything, you ask. She shakes her head absent-mindedly. So you snatch up your keys and dash off.<br/>
<br/>
This is bad, you think to yourself. You don't care especially about "Will Prescott," except insofar as he represents damaged property. You pretty much have no intention of returning to your old life. But this mess will damage Chelsea's. If you admit nothing happened the reputation of the girl you stole will be ruined so much she'll have to change her name and move to another state. If you insist something did happen, even to the point of pressing charges, then you'll be at the center of a circus that won't be any fun.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe you should bail out of Chelsea's life real quick. Yumi was an amnesiac; Chelsea's behavior last night could be excused on the same grounds, if you brought her back this afternoon. The life of "Prescott" would be ruined, but you don't care about that.<br/>
<br/>
Or ... What if "Will Prescott" vanished? What if he vanished spectacularly, in a terrifying manner? You grin. What a punctuation mark to your sad, sad high school career. You could continue as Chelsea. Why, being a victim of a horrific crime at the hands of a ... <i>of a warlock</i> would make her unassailable in the school. The circus would turn into an endless line of girls and boys unable to do anything but suck up to you.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212222211
author_id: seuzz
title: Abandon Chelsea.
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You quickly call Prescott. He's frantic when you answer. "What the hell is going on? I'm getting death threats!"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know. Meet me over at—" You slam on the breaks and do quick U-turn in the middle of the street. Cars and trucks swerve and blare their horns at you. "Meet me at the clubhouse."<br/>
<br/>
You're not much farther down the street when another thought hits you. You make another U-turn—thank God there are no cops around, but all the drivers on the street are probably cursing you out—and rush back to Blackwell's long enough to pick up Jared's mask and clothes.<br/>
<br/>
The switch-back at the clubhouse goes smoothly enough, though "Will Prescott" has to squeeze into Chelsea's clothes and into her car beforehand. When he's positioned, you rip the mask off, putting the real Chelsea back in commission, and hightail it down into the basement before she wakes. There, you change into Jared and set off back for Blackwell's, using a combination of hiking, bus rides, and cabs. You're worn out with stress by the time you get back.<br/>
<br/>
Upstairs, you fall onto your bed and groan. You have the Prescott, Yumi, and Chelsea masks, all of which are now useless. (You also have a set of Prescott clothes.) You could put the Prescott mask on the golem in the corner and send it home, but that's Blackwell's golem. You drum your fingers and think impatiently through the possibilities. <br/>
<br/>
Stick Prescott's face and clothes on some random person? Who? A homeless guy? That seems like the best possibility, and easy to accomplish. There are scads of them downtown, lurking in alleys. But it's a waste of a mask. You'll never retrieve it, and it would stink to lose one of the three golems you've budgeted yourself. Maybe Prescott should just disappear—not even with a bang.<br/>
<br/>
You're turning over these possibilities when you hear a noise downstairs. You sit up, listen, and then bolt over to the stairs. Lucy Vredenburg is coming up.<br/>
<br/>
"Christ, don't you ever check the messages," she asks peevishly as she passes you. "Blackwell's been calling you. You're supposed to let me in." You gape and hurry down to check the house cell phone. Sure enough, he's called multiple times, each time telling you to let Lucy go about her business. He doesn't sound angry, but he doesn't sound happy, either.<br/>
<br/>
The big problem with getting downtown is, well, getting downtown. You used all the cash from Prescott's pockets just getting back to the house, and there's no money in house. If you're going to put the Prescott mask on a homeless guy, you'll have to ask Lucy for a ride downtown and for cab fare back.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112122222112
author_id: rugal
title: Sit it out.
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Blindly rushing into action probably isn't the best idea. Say Lucy agrees to give you a ride downtown and you find some bum or wino to throw the Prescott mask onto... then what? You've honestly got nothing and anyway you're short on masks so assuming another identity right now is out of the question. Jared's a decent form, but as him you are basically cooped up all day in Blackwell's, and that's not something you want.<br/>
<br/>
Your attention wanders back to the useless masks upstairs. It would be nice if you could erase the images from them so you can recycle them. You don't know any spells that could do that, and Blackwell has the <i>Libras</i> with him. Still there must be a way to do that ...<br/>
<br/>
You're still standing on the stairs lost in thought when Lucy reappears. "I'm leaving." she states coolly, "Remember what Blackwell told you."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah yeah, I know." you reply waving her off. You're suddenly, however, struck with the urge to ask her for a little bit of help. Not monetarily but advice. "Hey Lucy, wait. Any idea how to fix my situation?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
She stops and turns around, an unpleasant look on her face. "What situation?" It's not so much a question as her saying she doesn't care.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno, I just kind of fucked things up for me." you say before adding, "The real me. Will Prescott practically has a bounty on his head."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, that." she answers, "Yeah, Cindy told me. It's your own fucking fault though; you completely deserve it." her words are blunt and hit you like a brick, "If you're asking me for advice... fix your own damn image. Yourself. Man up and stop using everyone else for your own business like some kind of sociopath."<br/>
<br/>
With that she turns on her heel and vanishes out the front door. Fix it yourself she says. Well what does she know, that bitch? She's never been the unpopular one. You have. Can you be blamed for wanting to strike back and maybe going a little overboard? You don't think so. Although what she says may have some merit. <br/>
<br/>
But you put her words aside and flop down at a desk in the library, where you take out some paper and draw a mask sigil from memory. It's useless for making masks, of course, but studying it might reveal possible modifications that you could use. Anyway, you've nothing else to do but extend your studies.<br/>
<br/>
You stare at the sigil and doodle and think and stare off into space, concentrating. As you do so you drum your fingers, and—<br/>
<br/>
Yow! You pull your hand back: there's a scorch mark on your middle finger. You look down in amazement at the sigil, which had been resting under your hand. The thing should be dead, just a design on a piece of paper, because only the sigils in the book are active. But this one just snapped back at you like a living thing.<br/>
<br/>
The first thing you do, of course, is administer first aid to yourself from Blackwell's magical medical bag: you don't want your finger to fall off or grow a miniature version of your own face or whatever else might happen. That done, you rush the sigil upstairs to the workroom, mix up the ingredients for a mask, and ... How about that. It actually works. You have a new mask to play with!<br/>
<br/>
This success raises a lot of questions. Was Blackwell lying when he said that only the sigils in the <i>Libras</i> would work? Was he mistaken? Should you tell him about this discovery of yours?<br/>
<br/>
You can decide on that later. The point is that you have a new mask—one that requires a lot of polishing, so you get right to work. As you polish, Lucy's words come back to you. Fix your image huh? As you look at the mask you're polishing, you begin formulating a plan that could do just that.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
As it becomes late you head up to the bedroom.  Completing the mask will take forever but you figure you can try something to speed it up.  You grab the Yumi mask and throw it onto Blackwell's spare golem.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh god, you're really gonna do it now," she states.  "Great, may as well get it over with."<br/>
<br/>
"What?  No!" you exclaim shaking your head.  You then hand her the mask.  "I'm going to bed and I want you to polish this mask for me that's all."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah, I'm sure you want SOMETHING polished all right," she says with a roll of her eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"Keep it up and I'll have your mouth around my dick in no time," you retort with a slight smirk.  "No, really just polish the mask.  We have someone working on it all the time and it gets done faster.  That's it.  That's all."<br/>
<br/>
With a sigh she finally relents.  "Yeah, sure.  Whatever," she says.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
She was a reluctant worker—she's under Blackwell's control, not yours—but diligent, and between the two of you get the mask polished by Sunday evening.  And during this time you've come up with two possible solutions to your woes. You were able to create another mind band from scratch (it's not just the basic mask sigil that you can duplicate outside the book) to go with the new blank mask.<br/>
<br/>
Lucy said you need to fix your image, but you wonder if Westside is just too far gone. Maybe you could get into Eastman High School, though: your Yumi mask would be useful there, since she has cousins that attend that school, and she knows some students over there.<br/>
<br/>
On the other hand, you've never been one to run from a challenge. Fix your image? With the right people at Westside "helping," that could be done. You look at the Chelsea mask. <i>I don't want to </i>be<i> you anymore, Chelsea Cooper,</i> you think. <i>But it would sure be nice if I had you under my control ...</i></span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222221121
author_id: rugal
title: Become Maria Vasquez
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You decide that Maria would probably provide the easiest time.  So to that end, you remove the Jared mask and then throw the Chelsea mask on.  Once the change is complete, you give yourself one last look over.  Chelsea is as pretty as she is bitchy and even in Jared's larger and looser clothes she looks fantastic.  It's a shame you didn't get to do as much with this mask as you wanted but right now restoring what image you had is more important.<br/>
<br/>
You head downstairs and, using the cell phone Blackwell keeps around the house, dial Maria's number.  "Hey, Maria?  It's me.  It's Chelsea." you say once she picks up.<br/>
<br/>
"Chelsea?" she asks, "I was wondering who it was.  I didn't recognize the number."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, about that..." you start while formulating a story.  Luckily for you, lying comes naturally to Chelsea.  "I was out driving and my car just broke down around the college.  So like I came across this house that let me use their phone."<br/>
<br/>
"Wait, driving?" Maria asks suspiciously, "Like, weren't you all sick or something and didn't even want to get out of bed?  That's, like, totally what you said when I called you earlier."<br/>
<br/>
Crap!  Well this would throw a small wrench into your plans if Chelsea's ability to fabricate stories wasn't available to you.  "Oh, yeah.  Well I mean I just can't stay stuck in my room all day.  I had to get out." you state, hoping that Maria buys your story.<br/>
<br/>
"Ooooh, well yeah.  That makes total sense." she states.  Luckily for you she IS a ditz.<br/>
<br/>
With that, you proceed to give her Blackwell's address and ask if she can come buy to pick you up and take you home.  She agrees to and says she can be there in about fifteen minutes.  "Alright, good.  Oh, you remembered to write the address down right?" you add.<br/>
<br/>
"Duh, of course!" Maria exclaims, "I'm not stupid you know."<br/>
<br/>
"Could've fooled me." you mutter under your breath before saying goodbye and hanging up.  You head upstairs to grab the stuff you'll need for when Maria arrives.<br/>
<br/>
You hop up off the couch when you hear the doorbell ring and immediately rush over towards the door.  When you open it, Maria is standing there.  An informal poll went out among the male population of the school a few months back asking who the hottest girl was and Maria won handily.  It's really not hard to see why either: her toned legs, decent-sized (not large but not small) chest, lovely face and long, smooth black hair all worked together to form a girl that would send tongues wagging like some sort of cartoon wolf.<br/>
<br/>
"Chelsea, hey!" she says stepping in, "You look... um..." she's trying to watch what she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know.  It was raining earlier remember?  My clothes got soaked so I had to borrow some from the owner's grandson." you explain.<br/>
<br/>
"Ooooh, is he hot?" she asks with a smile.<br/>
<br/>
You eye her oddly.  "The owner?  No, he's some, like, really creepy old guy." you state much to her confusion before laughing.  "Hahaha, I'm just messing with you jeez.  Yeah he's hot.  Not as hot as Gordon mind you but maybe you could score him." you say before bitchily adding, "Well... maybe not with that pimple."<br/>
<br/>
"Pimple?!" Maria exclaims, concern on her face.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, right above your left eyebrow." you state, an insincere smile on your face.  "Oh, don't worry.  I'm sure he wouldn't notice it.  It's kind of small."  There's no actual pimple of course but telling her there is one will make your job easier.  "I can help you out though."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh god, please?" she asks, a desperate look on her face.  "I... I need my looks.  That's... that's all I've got.  That's all anybody wants.  I can't... Chelsea, help me out."<br/>
<br/>
"Maria, honey, calm down.  You don't have to beg.  I'll help you out." you say producing the mind strip and mask.  "Look, I was up at the mall earlier and got these beauty products.  Brand new and guaranteed to help." you hand her the band, "First you're going to need to put this on."<br/>
<br/>
She takes it from you and eyes it warily.  "What's this do?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, it works in conjunction with this facial mask." you explain holding the mask up, "There's something in the band that will react with the mask to help cleanse your pores.  Truth be told I looked even worse when I first got here but my face looks great now right?  That's after using this."<br/>
<br/>
Maria eyes the band and then places it on her head; she immediately goes limp and you catch her before she falls to the floor completely.  You then get to work, removing your clothes and start to remove Maria's, getting about halfway done before the band reappears.  You grab it, then grab the blank mask and shove it on her face while removing the rest of her clothing.  You then remove the Chelsea mask, surprised that you're not out for as long as you usually are.  You come to just as the mask reappears and acting fast, take the Chelsea mask and place it on Maria's face before she has a chance to recover.  You then manage to get the mind strip onto the Maria mask and place it onto your face...</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212222211211
author_id: rugal
title: Become Maria Vasquez, pt. 2
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Hey, c'mon!  Ugh, god, get up!"<br/>
<br/>
You awake to see the beautiful, nude form of Chelsea Cooper smacking you on the face in an attempt to wake you.  "Oh man," you say groggily, "kiss me because I must be dreaming."<br/>
<br/>
To your surprise, Chelsea cups your chin, leans down and kisses you.  Deeply.  With tongue.  You begin to kiss back before getting a bearing on your surroundings and pushing her off.  "Oh god, what's going on?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"You told me to kiss you and you're the boss, so..." Chelsea starts.<br/>
<br/>
It's the golem.  Well the golem mask but still.  That must mean... you look down at yourself to see the (what your memories tell you) C-cup size breasts and tan skin.  "It worked." you say, a light accent to your voice (Maria and her family lived in Puerto Rico until early middle school).  "Holy shit, Chelsea Cooper and Maria Vasquez were making out." you grin.<br/>
<br/>
"So, like, you want me to do it again then or what?" Chelsea replies rolling her eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"No," you shake your head, "I need to you to get dressed in these while I get dressed too." you say tossing her Jared's clothes.<br/>
<br/>
After doing so, you grab Maria's purse and rummage through it until you find her cellphone.  You remove it and give the real Chelsea Cooper a call stating that you're actually a little worried so you plan on coming over to see her.  She says she'd appreciate that and you wonder whether she's sincere or not.  You and Chelsea then head out into Maria's car and drive over.<br/>
<br/>
Once there, you tell her to wait in the car while you go and throw the Prescott mask onto the real deal.  Chelsea mentioned on the phone that her parents were out having dinner so she had the place to herself for now so you don't need to worry about disturbing them.<br/>
<br/>
You then head up and knock on the door, she eventually answers wearing pajama pants and a tight, sleeveless pajama shirt and she looks fantastic.  Before she even has a chance to say a greeting however, you jam the Prescott mask onto her face.  You call the Chelsea golem over and the two of you move the unconscious queen bee into the house and close the door.  Once more you remove her clothes although the changes finish before you're complete: the underwear is still on and Will looks rather goofy naked except for the thong Chelsea had been wearing.  As he comes to, you order Chelsea to remove Jared's clothes.<br/>
<br/>
"Man, you girls sure are kinky." he says grinning as he removes the underwear.<br/>
<br/>
"Ugh, I don't really need any lip from you." you state while rolling your eyes.  You motion for Chelsea to hand Jared's clothes to Will and get dressed in Chelsea's nightwear.  "Just put these on."<br/>
<br/>
Once the two golems are dressed, you go over the plan for tomorrow.  Chelsea is to tell everyone that in fact Will did nothing wrong.  At the party she passed out and Will, who had been walking by, saw her and managed to wake her back up.  Chelsea, freaked out by what had happened to her, instantly assumed the worst along with everyone else and pinned the blame on a guy who, while weird, was completely innocent.<br/>
<br/>
Will, meanwhile, will attempt to act like less of a creepy weirdo and approach Chelsea at lunch who had told him to come so she could apologize in front of the jocks and cheerleaders.  Maria, that is you, will then begin to take an interest in him and start spending time with him in public.  Rumors will then begin that there's something going on between the two of you and you will do nothing to outright refute them before eventually outright confirmation of your status is confirmed with a little bit of PDA.<br/>
<br/>
You're a bit surprised.  You had vague ideas of the plan last night but with Maria's mind, you became much more focused and were able to get a much clearer view of what needed to be done.  Maria, it turns out, is actually quite smart.  Her grades are always extremely good and most everyone assumed it was due to her dad, the head of the county school board, pulling strings.  But no, she's actually that smart.  It's due to Chelsea's manipulations of her insecurities, telling her that people would be too intimidated by a girl with both the looks and the brains she possesses, that she plays the role of bimbo.<br/>
<br/>
Well you certainly picked a good one you think.  Now comes the job of telling Blackwell.  You think that perhaps you should give him a quick call to tell him about what's going on.  He will need to know eventually.  However, why bother?  You're going to school as her tomorrow anyway so you can just talk to him after you get out.  If he has a problem, well, tough shit.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222221122
author_id: rugal
title: Bail on Westside; see what you can do at Eastman
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"You can meet me at the mall right?" you say into your cellphone as you pull into a parking space.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, yes.  But..." replies the voice on the other end.<br/>
<br/>
"But what?" you ask before turning to Chelsea Cooper, "Stay here." you say to her.<br/>
<br/>
"What was that?" the other person asks.<br/>
<br/>
"It's nothing." you answer, "Just talking to my sister.  Anyway, you threw a 'but' into there."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, right.  It's just that I wasn't expecting your call, is all." comes the reply, "It's left me a bit... flustered, I suppose."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it has been awhile since we talked." you say, "Anyway I'm here now so I'll be waiting for you in the food court.  That alright?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's..." there's a brief pause, "Yes, that's fine." and then there line goes dead.<br/>
<br/>
Pulling this off is going to be a bit tricky and has been complicated so far.  You decided that Eastman was the better option due to Westside being a lost cause and after a coin flip it was decided you would take the place of someone Yumi knew from the school.  Her relation with two students and her generally nice attitude meant that she knew quite a few people there, although it's not like the student bodies didn't intermingle (Jessica Garner, for instance, was dating a member of their basketball team).<br/>
<br/>
To do it would require some maneuvering.  You got to work, applying the Chelsea mask and calling Yumi over to Blackwell's with a story about your car breaking down around the college and some old guy letting you use his phone.  Yumi said it would be about an hour before she arrived which was fine as it gave you time to golemize the Chelsea mask.  Once she arrived, you quickly pressed the mask to her face and what was left was a copy of Chelsea that was a slave to your will.  However, you felt uncomfortable leaving her at Blackwell's and so ran upstairs grabbing a robe of Blackwell's as well as some of Jared's clothes.<br/>
<br/>
You then applied the Yumi mask and after some consideration about who to use, called your intended target upon arriving at the mall.<br/>
<br/>
Your target, you had decided, would need to be someone connected.  There were plenty of candidates to choose from of course.  As a cheerleader, Yumi had gotten to know a few of her Eastman counterparts.  One in particular that stood out was a girl named Alyssa Randall who, according to Yumi's cousin Dana, was the de facto ruler of the school due to controlling an information network that would make the CIA blush.  Yumi's own memories revealed a girl that, while perhaps a little haughty, was personable and charismatic from the few times she had hung with Alyssa's little group.<br/>
<br/>
And while Alyssa would make a prime catch, being that far up on the food chain might be a case of too much too soon.  However her friends, a group that was semi-derisively referred to as the Rumoratti according to Dana, had much better candidates.  There was one in particular who had seemed to quite enjoy Yumi's company and that might make her the easiest to get.<br/>
<br/>
A smile came across your pretty, borrowed face as you saw your target walking in your direction.  So far everything was proceeding without a hitch.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<br/>
"I appreciate you calling me out here.  It's been fun." says the target, there's a certain tone to her voice that makes you question the authenticity of those words but you feel it best to believe them.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, it's not a problem at all." you reply, giving her a smile.  "I hadn't talked to any of you guys in awhile and I kind of had nothing going myself, sooooo..."<br/>
<br/>
She shakes her head.  "No, I understand.  I've been meaning to talk to you for awhile myself.  You're our little mole; our conduit to all the happenings at Westside."<br/>
<br/>
"So that's it?" you say, a bit of an offended tone in your voice.  "I'm just a tool for information?"<br/>
<br/>
Your friend seems a bit taken aback by that.  "Oh no." she replies defensively, "Don't think... we appreciate your friendship, of course.  <i>I</i> appreciate your friendship.  However knowledge is power and Alyssa, or any of us, would be dumb to pass up a good source of info." A small smirk appears on her face, "You can't tell me you don't have a similar view of us."<br/>
<br/>
"I... a little I guess." you say sheepishly.  "But I have my cousins for that as well."<br/>
<br/>
"But they're not as connected." she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Well no, but so what?  Yeah I appreciate the info from you guys but I just like, I dunno, making friends." you say looking around... and then your eyes light up.  "Oh hey!" you exclaim pulling a shirt off the rack, "This would look totally great on you."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you changing the subje--" she's cut off by you practically shoving the shirt into her hands.<br/>
<br/>
"Trust me, it'll work great with your figure." you say shooing her into the dressing room.  "Go go go!"<br/>
<br/>
A minute or two later you hear her call out for you, wanting you to come in and judge it for yourself.  You smile as you reach into your purse, glad that Yumi had brought her larger one.  As you grab hold of the mask, you prepare to enter the dressing room.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<br/>
"Hmm, not bad." you state as you stand in your (new) bathroom, checking out your underwear clad form.<br/>
<br/>
With her thin frame, her smallish b-cup breasts were the only impressive, a term you're using loosely, of Lisa Rickover's figure.  Not to say that she was ugly as she wasn't.  It's just that she lacked the figure most of her other Rumoratti cohorts, especially Maddy Caron, had.  However her dirty blonde hair, cut into a short pageboy style, and piercing steel blue eyes worked with the rest of her face to give her an interestingly attractive, in a bit of a classical way, look.<br/>
<br/>
But looks weren't why you were now interested in Lisa Rickover.  Her position in the Rumoratti was as essentially Alyssa's right-hand girl.  She was popular but not overwhelmingly so and had a keen ability to slip between social groups and ferret out information.  Her mind was sharp and she was every bit the schemer and manipulator and was always able to find ways to get what she wanted to know.  She wasn't above using her body to get that information either which, in a way, made her seem like a bit of a classic femme fatale.<br/>
<br/>
"Let's see who all you've shared a bed with Ms. Rickover." you say as you plunge into her mind.  "Sammy Orson, ugh he's so self-absorbed though.  Scott Bridges... not a surprise.  Oooh, Hector Armijo!  A bit of a nerd but good looking enough and with enough social skills to fit in with the non-nerds.  And... oh my!  Well isn't that something!  So she's... well that must be why she was... I see."<br/>
<br/>
Though Lisa was scheming to eventually take Alyssa's spot for herself, at the moment she was content to stay where she was and slowly erode away at Alyssa's influence within the group and school.  As her, it would be in your best interest to do the same.  Perhaps even back off completely on any plans of usurping the throne... for now at least.  Getting settled into your new life, even with all of the memories and personality available to you, will still take time.  You should probably concentrate on doing that.<br/>
<br/>
Your journey through Lisa's mind, however, has been quite illuminating.  Especially in certain areas.  Her ability to gather information is second-to-none and you wonder if maintaining some connection to the goings-on at Westside would be a good thing.  Lisa, of course, is now you and is having to deal with your problems.  Yumi is back to being herself as well, though she was very confused on how she got to the mall.  Still, there's a connection there between Lisa and Yumi and it's a connection you might look into strengthening in order to keep up to date on the happenings of your old school.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212222211222
author_id: rugal
title: Work on settling into Lisa's life
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"So you were with Yumi yesterday?"<br/>
<br/>
The question is asked by Maddy Caron, a raven haired beauty quite admired for having a chest that's smaller only than her snarky, cynical attitude.  Like Lisa, Maddy is a member of what most students call the Rumoratti: A group of six girls who essentially control all forms of gossip and general rumormongering, having a lockdown on most of the information and whispering passing through the student body at Eastman.  Maddy, much like her friend (and fellow member) Tina Branson, is something of a reluctant member of the group and tends to let her more cynical attitude shine through because of it.<br/>
<br/>
"Last night, yes." you state plainly.<br/>
<br/>
"Anything juicy?" asks Natalie Dawkins.  Natalie is a bouncy, perky brunette who while part of the group most everyone is reluctant to share information with.  She's not nasty or mean but she tends to speak before thinking and can also be very mischievous, something that has earned her the occasional nickname of Loki.<br/>
<br/>
"Well nothing really.  We just talked and hung out." you say, before adding a hanging "Actually, there was ONE thing..."<br/>
<br/>
Natalie quickly takes the bait.  "Aww man, you're gonna tell us right?" she asks excitedly.<br/>
<br/>
"Naturally." you state, "It seems that there are problems at Westside right now."<br/>
<br/>
Maddy, in response, roles her eyes.  "When are there not?" she asks rhetorically, "That's a place that could definitely be called a wretched hive."<br/>
<br/>
"It's a little different this time." you smirk, "It seems one of the lower tier students there is causing quite a shake up.  Some dork has been generally acting like a weird creep in an... unsettling way.  He's got the jocks and cheerleaders watching their asses every time they come to a corner."<br/>
<br/>
"So how's that affect us?" asks Maddy impatiently.  "You know Alyssa's not going to care otherwise."<br/>
<br/>
You shake your head and smile, "Don't you get it?  There's the possibility of it spilling over here." you dig through Lisa's memories, trying to remember something you told her as Yumi last night.  "It's gotten so bad that one of the lead assholes there, a basketball player named Steve Patterson, is thinking about transferring."<br/>
<br/>
"Transferring?!" Natalie and Maddy say it both almost in unison causing Natalie to giggle.<br/>
<br/>
"Right." you nod, "He's apparently so freaked out that this guy might go all trenchcoat mafia on him that he wants to get the hell out of there." you say before adding, "Which would mean..."<br/>
<br/>
"He'd screw the whole thing up." Maddy finishes your thought, realization spreading on her face.  "Alyssa's done a good job of keeping most of the pricks and troublemakers marginalized but this guy coming in could upset everything."<br/>
<br/>
"Very good.  No wonder you're part of this group."  You find that a backhanded compliment here or there from Lisa is a nice way of working out some of the stress you've been building up.<br/>
<br/>
"Bite me." Maddy replies glaring at you.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno, Mads." Natalie says perking up, "She just--" she stops when she notices you glaring at her.  "Er, nothing."<br/>
<br/>
"We really should tell Alyssa about this." Maddy states, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.<br/>
<br/>
You shake your head. "It's only maybes and what ifs right now.  Without anything concrete it would be useless." you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Really." Maddy shoots back.<br/>
<br/>
You give a shrug as the bell for first period rings.  "I can probably talk to Sienna tonight." you say, referring to Sienna Goldman, another Westside student Lisa knows.  "I'm not playing an angle right now, though, whether you believe me or not." you say as you head off to class.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<br/>
You find that settling into Lisa's life isn't quite as difficult as you'd have thought.  A well-timed compliment here, a bitchy backhanded one there and you're more or less set.  Dealing with Sammy Orson is a pain in the ass and you're grateful that he was out sick today.<br/>
<br/>
Todd Bridges, on the other hand, is different.  For a time he and Lisa had a physical relationship that ended recently when he started dating Jessica Garner.  She still, however, uses him as a source of information about both Westside and the basketball team and you had decided to make use of him.  Sure you had Sienna and Yumi but the more options the better and, after planting the seeds of Patterson's transfer, you convince him to ask his girlfriend about it.<br/>
<br/>
At lunch, too, you manage to grab hold of the key to the Makeout Closet, an unused former janitor's closet and through some more finagling set up an "appointment" for 6th period which you skip.<br/>
<br/>
"You... usually don't do this.  Here at least."<br/>
<br/>
You look at Amber Morneau as she shifts a bit uncomfortably.  "Well, I figured... why not spice it up a bit?  Although first..." you let that linger for a moment, "You wouldn't happen to know anyone over at Westside would you?"<br/>
<br/>
She shakes her head explaining that she did until that person moved away, she then mutters an apology.<br/>
<br/>
"No need to be sorry, it's fine." you say with sympathy.  You reach and brush a bit of her now loose strawberry-blonde hair out of her face and admire her bright green eyes.  Amber was a friend of Lisa's since middle school and one of the few people that Lisa actually had any sort of respect for.  It's why Lisa knew why Amber, despite being pretty and popular, had never been seen with a guy.  "Besides, you're very pretty right now." you smile.<br/>
<br/>
With that, you pull her in and embrace her in a passionate kiss.  Amber's closeted nature was both a point of frustration for Lisa and one of convenience.  She genuinely cared for Amber and wished that she would gather the courage to come out.  However, despite being openly bisexual, Lisa also knew the benefits of keeping their relationship a secret; any feelings of exclusivity would mean one less tool for the cunning Ms. Rickover to use..<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<br/>
"I see that you've acquired a new mask." Blackwell says as he paces back and forth in his living room.<br/>
<br/>
"<i>Two</i> actually." you state as you pull out the Yumi mask and place it on the table.<br/>
<br/>
"Hmm, yes." Blackwell says picking it up.  "And what was the point if I may ask?"<br/>
<br/>
"I've gotten into some very deep shit due to the curse." you explain, "Or rather, Will Prescott has.  Seeing it all... it's backfired horribly.  I couldn't stand seeing what was happening to him.  To my old life."<br/>
<br/>
"So you decided to take the life of..." Blackwell starts.<br/>
<br/>
"Lisa Rickover.  Professional information broker at Eastman High." you say extending a hand, "Charmed I'm sure."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell, however, doesn't take.  Instead he looks at you with what looks like frustration on his face.  "And being this Lisa Rickover has caused you to miss watching over my home last night." he says, "William, if you are to be my apprentice I cannot have you distracted.  You must be devoted to your studies and my teachings one hundred percent."<br/>
<br/>
"What?!" you exclaim, shooting up in surprise.  "But I <i>have</i> been doing everything.  It's just that every so often I want a little bit of a break."<br/>
<br/>
"Laziness, William, leads to the situation you are in right now however." Blackwell states, "Now head into the library and get ready for tonight's lesson."<br/>
<br/>
You do so, however after a few minutes Blackwell doesn't show and impatient you head back out to the living room surprised to see Yumi dressed in Blackwell's loose-fitting clothing.  "What the hell?" you say astonished.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Will!" she replies in shock.  "I... I can explain.  Your doing all of this behind my back left me wondering at what else you'd been doing.  Out of curiosity I slipped that mask on and... well..."<br/>
<br/>
You couldn't believe it.  You knew he was a bit of a paranoid bastard but <i>this</i> paranoid?  Seeing Yumi standing there, knowing that underneath her beautiful form was that corpulent dick's one... it made you shudder.  And worse, he now knew what you knew.  His paranoia and invasion of your privacy, as well as dictating what you can and can't do, has made you want to tell him where to stick it and walk out.  However given what's happened, it might be best to just stick around for the time being until he's placated.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112122222112221
author_id: rugal
title: Stay on as Blackwell's assistant
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Leaving right now could potentially piss Blackwell off.  As it stands, angering him is not something you want to do at the moment.  He's so obviously whacked out that who knows what he'd do.  Thus your more cautious nature is able to override your feelings of anger and betrayal.<br/>
<br/>
"Look." you cross your arms and let a little bit of Lisa's condescension into your voice, "You've obviously done a lot for me.  Taught me things that I may not have ever known on my own.  However..."<br/>
<br/>
"You are NOT going to lecture me, are you?" asks Yumi, the tone is rather indignant.<br/>
<br/>
You hold up your hand, a sign indicating her to be quiet, and continue without missing a bit.  "However, I need time away from here.  Especially as I am now.  That's why I'm proposing the idea that I can have a couple of days off a week."<br/>
<br/>
"Days off?!" comes the astonished response.<br/>
<br/>
"Three days." you state plainly.  "Any three that I choose."<br/>
<br/>
"I can't..." she starts, seemingly unable to form words, "Three days?!  Will, are you freaking kidding me?!  You need to be constantly learning!"<br/>
<br/>
"Three days." you repeat, "It's that or I walk right out that door and you never see me again."  You give Yumi a bit of an evil smirk, "Just think.  I know how to make masks.  Why do I need anything else?  I really don't need anything more than that to enjoy life and have a good time."<br/>
<br/>
Yumi glares at you.  "Not without the book you can't." she says.<br/>
<br/>
You give a snort trying not to let out a laugh.  "The book 'found me' once.  Who's the say it can't happen again?  Or..." you pause, "Or perhaps I don't need the book.  I know the process.  I know the sigils like the back of my hand.  Maybe I could sketch something out and it could work."<br/>
<br/>
"Impossible." Yumi replies shaking her head, "The sigils won't work outside of the book.  I've never been able to do it and there's no indication that they do either."<br/>
<br/>
"That's the thing." you state, "I can always try.  If it doesn't work, so what?  I've got a new life now anyway."  You leer at Yumi letting the next words hit like a dagger.  "Face it, you need me as your apprentice far more than I need you as my master."<br/>
<br/>
There's a tension in the air.  Undoubtedly you've come across as completely bitchy and arrogant but you felt that letting Lisa's personality shine through would be the easiest way to get what you want.  You're hoping you get it too.  Yumi stands there silently... obviously there's no counter for what you've said but is that enough to ensure a concession?<br/>
<br/>
"Will..." she starts and then lets out a sigh.  You smile.  You feel like the predator who has just caught their prey.  You've won.  "I... admit that there's truth in what you say, even if the way you said it was..." she pauses and shakes her head.  "I would like for you to stay on as my assistant.  If giving you three days off means that'll happen, well, I guess I can't really object can I?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hmph.  Thank you." you say as you walk past her.  "By the way, one of those days off may just need to be today."<br/>
<br/>
"What?!" she turns around, unsure of what she just heard.<br/>
<br/>
"You heard me." you state, not even turning around yourself to acknowledge her.<br/>
<br/>
"All of that trouble and you're going to do this?"  The disbelief continues to grow in Yumi's voice.  "Ugh, it obviously has something to do with Lisa's personality."<br/>
<br/>
You ignore that last bit.  "Look, I have plans for the rest of the day.  People I need to meet.  Being the righthand girl of the gossip queen of Saratoga Falls is practically a full time job after all."<br/>
<br/>
You're going to stay as Blackwell's assistant, at least for a little while longer.  As you said, however, you hold all the power.  And maybe it is part of Lisa's personality but you're enjoying watching his cute little borrowed form squirm as you put the screws to him.  And just to screw them a little tighter you feel that you should go through with what you have planned for the rest of the day and completely blow off today's lesson.<br/>
<br/>
Of course there's a part of you, a very small part but it does exist, that thinks you've fucked with him enough for the day.  That perhaps you should have a change of plans, and heart, and work on studying today.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212222212
author_id: seuzz
title: Goodbye Will!
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>If Will Prescott is going to disappear, you're going to have to get your hands on him before the mob does. Even before you reach Blackwell's you call him and tell him get over there. "Bring all your money, too."<br/>
<br/>
"You sending me to Mexico?" he says. "I hope so. I'm getting death threats."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, something like that," you cryptically reply. <br/>
<br/>
At Blackwell's you quickly change out of Chelsea and into Jared. Onto the inside of her mask you slap the rest of the golem-goop you'd made up and put it on the spare golem. Chelsea is a knockout—those flashing green eyes; that taut stomach; that rich, blond hair; that rounded ass; those prodigious breasts; that heart-shaped pussy—when she emerges, and it's all you can do to not order her onto the bed so you can ravish her. But you changed out of her because you've got work to do and need to send a placeholder back.<br/>
<br/>
"Take care of all those assholes with the messages for me, okay?" She nods as she pulls on the jeans. "Tell your parents what supposedly happened, too. I don't want to have to through all that bullshit with them." She rolls her eyes and nods again. "And remember, you got seriously molested by a weirdo last night." <br/>
<br/>
"I know what to do, Will. Like, duh."<br/>
<br/>
"Then where are the waterworks?"<br/>
<br/>
She doesn't react for a moment, and then tears explode out of her eyes and she starts wailing. "I know, I know," you say comfortingly and pull her to your chest. "It's okay." Snot runs all down your t-shirt, and she begins to hiccup. After a few minutes of this you become sufficiently concerned that you lift her head and ask if she's really that upset.<br/>
<br/>
"You're so gullible," she sneers, shutting off Niagara for a few seconds. "Remember last night with Gordon?" <i>Whoa.</i> You had no idea she—and hence you—were that good last night. No wonder she's got Black twisted up so bad.<br/>
<br/>
She's sobbing again, hard, when you get her downstairs, but at the gate she turns and gives you a brave, brave face. She looks so pathetic that you want to cradle and hold her forever.<br/>
<br/>
You can't wait to get back inside her so you can use her awesomely manipulative powers yourself.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Prescott arrives only a few minutes after that, and you have him hide the truck behind the house. Once he's inside you put him to work finding and pulling down every book in the library that has something about fire spells. You're going to have to keep him out of the way until you can figure out how to get rid of him permanently—and find something to do with the real Chelsea, who is currently hidden inside him—but you might as well get some work out of him first. <br/>
<br/>
You've just sat down with the first book when the house cell phone rings. <i>Dammit,</i> you forgot to check the messages. You snatch the phone up. <br/>
<br/>
"Finally!" Blackwell exclaims on the other end. "I've only been trying to call you since yesterday."<br/>
<br/>
"Sorry," you mumble. "I took a break and hit a party."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, Lucy Vredenburg is on her way over. Give her whatever help she needs. Also, when I'm gone, she has free run of the house. Do you understand?"<br/>
<br/>
"Is this about Friday night?"<br/>
<br/>
"There was a miscommunication there, yes."<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't sound angry, but he doesn't sound happy either. Before you get too deep into this research, perhaps you should tell him what has happened and see if he concurs with the idea of "disappearing" Will Prescott.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112122222121
author_id: imaj
title: Help From an Unexpected Source
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“Uh, professor, uh, sir,” you say hesitantly.  “Would you mind if I asked your advice about something.”<br/>
<br/>
“Of course not William,” he says smoothly.  “What kind of a mentor would I be if I refused such a request?”<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks, I think,” you respond.  You marshal your courage before continuing.  “I, uh, kinda fucked up.”<br/>
<br/>
“William Prescott,” says Blackwell primly.  “Do try to mind your language.  Words have meaning.  Words have intent and therefore words have power.  You simply can not afford to speak incautious oaths and curses.”<br/>
<br/>
“Right, uh, sorry.  I mean I made a mistake then.”<br/>
<br/>
“Better.  Now, explain.”<br/>
<br/>
And so you explain everything to Blackwell.  You explain the party, and how you separated Black and Chelsea.  You explain your switch from being Yumi to being Chelsea.  How Black found you, as Chelsea, in the master bedroom and ultimately how it was Yumi, and not Black, that revealed the ‘attack’ to the school.  Finally, you explain the consequences, the fallout and your plan to abandon your identity in a suitably dramatic gesture.<br/>
<br/>
The line goes silent.<br/>
<br/>
“Professor,” you call out, thinking that perhaps he has hung up, or the line has been cut.  “Are you still there?”<br/>
<br/>
“I see,” he says evenly after a moment.  “Did I not state that there would be consequences for releasing Yumi with a week missing from her life?”<br/>
<br/>
You concede that he did.<br/>
<br/>
“This is most vexing  William, most vexing indeed.  I shall need to think upon this and call you back.  Is your doppelganger present?”<br/>
<br/>
“I called him over once set a golem to clean up the mess around Chelsea.  His, my, truck is hidden behind the house.”<br/>
<br/>
“Then see that he remains with you until I phone again.  Do nothing until then,  and remember to grant admission to Miss Vredenburg when she arrives.”<br/>
<br/>
With that, he hangs up the phone abruptly.  You drum you fingers impatiently as the golem dumps a pile of books at the table beside you.<br/>
<br/>
“Books on fire boss,” it says cheerfully, attempting to lighten your dark mood.<br/>
<br/>
“Just put them all back for now,” you reply unhappily.<br/>
<br/>
“Boss?”<br/>
<br/>
“Put them back!  He says do nothing, we do nothing.  I’m in enough shit as it is without pissing the Professor off as well,” you explain.<br/>
<br/>
And then you wait.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
And wait.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
And wait.<br/>
<br/>
In fact, after a couple of hours you give up waiting because Lucy Vredenburg finally arrives at the house.  She waits patiently on the gravel of Blackwell’s drive as you swing open the heavy wooden front door, holding a bright pink umbrella up as protection against the soft rain falling from the sky.<br/>
<br/>
“Finally,” she says impatiently, pulling the umbrella shut.  She gives it a quick shake before pushing past you.  She dumps it into a stand by the door before turning back to face you, arms folded.  “Well?”<br/>
<br/>
“Well what,” you ask after you close the door shut, a little perplexed.<br/>
<br/>
“The problem you seem to have created for yourself William,” she explains patiently.  “I do hope you haven’t done anything rash.”<br/>
<br/>
“What,” you ask again, unable to process what Lucy has just said.  “He told you?  Why would he tell you?”<br/>
<br/>
“Of course he told me,” explains Lucy, walking up the stairs to the library.  You trail along after her.  “I had left very specific instructions about exactly when I was to be contacted.  I am quite disappointed that you have managed to find yourself in this mess so quickly and completely once freed of my supervision.”<br/>
<br/>
“What are you talking about, why are you talking like that,” the questions jumble out from your confused mind.  “You sound just like…”<br/>
<br/>
You absolutely still for a moment as your brain finally clicks into gear.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh,” you say.<br/>
<br/>
“Just so, my boy,” says the person who appears to be Lucy Vredenburg but who is actually, you are now sure, Professor Blackwell.  After all, you’ve spent the last week disguised as a young woman, there is no reason to assume that he would not be capable of the same.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh,” you say again, remembering how you had tried to blackmail Lucy for sex the night before the party. “Oh, oh oh…”<br/>
<br/>
“Come on Will,” says Blackwell from ahead of you.  You scuttle up after the disguised sorcerer and follow him into the library.  He sets his Lucy-form comfortably into the one of the chairs there before continuing.  “Tell me, is the situation as bad as you made out to my placeholder?  Is your life that unsalvageable.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m getting death threats,” exclaims your golem.  “You gotta get me out of town before I run into an angry mob.”<br/>
<br/>
“Apparently so, “ continues Blackwell.  “And where is the girl that you are alleged to have forced yourself upon.”<br/>
<br/>
“Under that mask,” you reply, pointing at the golem.  “I have a fake at her house holding down the fort right now.  Should I call it back?”<br/>
<br/>
“And the girl who made the accusation, the one you let out from under that mask?”<br/>
<br/>
“No idea,” you admit.  “What am I going to do professor?”<br/>
<br/>
“What we are going to do is ensure that you are properly supervised for the next sections of you education.  Perhaps you might learn a little more about how to properly exercise caution,” says Blackwell, keeping Lucy’s voice steady and even.<br/>
<br/>
“What does that mean,” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“It means you will be leading Miss Vredenburg’s life for a while William, so that I can properly keep and eye on you.”<br/>
<br/>
You smile slightly, being Lucy might not be that bad.<br/>
<br/>
“This is <i>not</i> a reward Will,” thunders Blackwell.  “Make no mistake about it, you will make amends to me for this mess.  When we are done you will wish you had been more careful.”<br/>
<br/>
“What about me,” asks the golem.<br/>
<br/>
“I shall be working on a suitably dramatic end for you,” explains Blackwell matter of factly.  <br/>
<br/>
“That’s my life you are talking about,” you shout angrily.<br/>
<br/>
“Which you have foolishly and irreparably damaged through recklessness,” replies Blackwell<br/>
<br/>
“And Chelsea? The real one under that mask.”<br/>
<br/>
“A regrettable necessity to sustain the illusion of you demise,” says Blackwell casually.  Chelsea might be a bitch, but you’re not sure that she deserves that.  On the other hand, better her than you.<br/>
<br/>
“The fake Chelsea?”<br/>
<br/>
“May prove useful later.”<br/>
<br/>
“Look, Professor,” you plead.  “Why not let me wear the Chelsea mask.  You can use Lucy to get close to Cindy and use a mask of her to keep an eye on me.  If you jump me into Lucy, I’ll miss out on a pile of schoolwork.”<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell has been keen to keep you attending Westside throughout your apprenticeship.  It makes sense to appeal to that notion.  It would be so unfair to have Chelsea slip from your fingers having worked to hard to get her.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell frowns, deep in thought.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112122222122
author_id: imaj
title: A Fiery Finale - Part 1
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“Was there something else William,” asks Blackwell.  For a brief second you consider confessing the mess you’ve gotten yourself into but think better of it.  What if he got angry or upset?  Worse, what if he insisted you try to <i>fix</i> it?<br/>
<br/>
Better to present him with a fait accompli when he returns.  “No, sir,” you say, trying to keep you voice even.  “I’ll let Lucy in like you say,” you finish, your voice cracking at the end of the sentence.<br/>
<br/>
“Quite,” he responds.  For a moment he says nothing.  <i>He knows, he knows everything</i>.  “I shall see you tomorrow evening upon my return then.”  There is a click as Blackwell puts the phone down at the other end.  You put the handset down carefully and wipe the sweat from your brow.  That was close.<br/>
<br/>
The golem dumps another pile of books on the desk beside you.  They totter and fall over into a disorganised mess.  “What are we looking for anyway boss,” it asks cheerfully.  “Please tell me it’s my trip to Mexico?”<br/>
<br/>
“No it’s not a fucking trip to Mexico,” you snap, still rattled from the phone call.<br/>
<br/>
“Canada?  My aunt and uncle in Bel-Air?”<br/>
<br/>
The golems chipper attitude is getting to you.  Not for the first time you find yourself wondering if you’re really that annoying.  You take a couple of deep breaths to try calm yourself and just for spite you decide to explain exactly what your plan is.  “No, none of these places.  Not unless one of them is a euphemism for dying that you’ve learned in the last week.  We’re going to look for a suitably dramatic end to my life that is going to pass into Westside legend.”  You pause for a second to catch your breath.  “And when I say ‘my life’, I mean yours.”<br/>
<br/>
The golem takes it remarkably well, all things considered.  “Um…” it says in a quiet voice.  “Isn’t that a bit drastic?”<br/>
<br/>
“A bit drastic,” you say a touch hysterically.  “I’m getting death threats.  You’re getting death threats.  One of us is getting death threats.  Death has been threatened.”<br/>
<br/>
“I think maybe you need to calm down a bit,” says the golem.<br/>
<br/>
“I am <i>perfectly</i> calm,” you reply, flying in the face of all the evidence.  “Ok, maybe not but I can’t think of another solution.  Either get beaten to death some random night by Black and his cronies or go out now in a blaze of glory.”<br/>
<br/>
“When you put it like that,” sighs the golem.<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t even <i>need</i> to put it like that,” you interrupt.  “I can tell you to help me.  You’re going to help me and you are damn well going to enjoy it.  Now get reading.  And remember,” you say waving a finger in the air.  “Dramatic.  I want people to be talking about this for years.”<br/>
<br/>
“Sure thing boss,” says the golem cheerfully, taking your instructions to heart.  It pulls a book from the bottom of what remains of the pile, sending a couple of books slipping down and onto the floor.<br/>
<br/>
You ignore them for now, instead pulling out your cell phone.  You try to call the Chelsea golem but you get dumped onto her voice mail.  It’s probably better not to leave a message, so you tap out a quick text instructing it to return to Blackwell’s house as soon as possible.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
Your original pile of books has shrunk over the last couple of hours as you’ve dismissed possibilities.  Some of the curses and hexes you’ve looked at simply haven’t been powerful enough to end your double’s life.  Some, well, some you don’t want to dwell on exactly how powerful they are and the collateral damage they would cause.  You strongly suspect you simply aren’t powerful enough to use them in any case.<br/>
<br/>
“This one has possibilities,” you say, tapping at the book you have open in front of you.  You pass the book to your golem.  “It’s a machine curse,” you explain.  “Slap it on the truck and you’ll have a fatal accident on the drive home.”<br/>
<br/>
“Aw man, not the truck” whines the golem as it looks at the book briefly.  “I love that truck.”<br/>
<br/>
“You’ll be dead,” you explain.  “It won’t matter anymore.”<br/>
<br/>
“Besides,” says the golem. “Auto accident isn’t very dramatic.”  It passes you the book it’s been reading.  “Now <i>this</i> is dramatic,” it grins.<br/>
<br/>
You look over the page it has indicated.  “Spontaneous combustion, are you serious?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah I’m serious,” it replies.  “Seriously epic!  Actually, you know what would be <i>really</i> cool?”  The golem pauses for a second to give you a chance to guess.  When you don’t respond it carries on anyway.  “Both!  Exploding car: boom!”<br/>
<br/>
“Cars don’t blow up when they crash,” you sigh wearily.  “Except on TV.”  Actually, your double has hit on something.  There’s no way you could pull off the spontaneous combustion hex on a person, but a little spark of fire in the right place at the right time would add some drama to an auto accident.<br/>
<br/>
Before you can flesh out the idea some more, your train of thought is interrupt by the doorbell.  You leave your double pondering the books and step quickly down the stairs to the door.  You swing the heavy oaken door aside to reveal Lucy Vredenburg, a bright pink umbrella her only protection against the early evening rain.<br/>
<br/>
“The professor said to expect you,” you say, gesturing inside.  “Come on in.”  Lucy steps through the doorway and gives her umbrella a shake before closing it.  “Um, about Friday,” you say wretchedly recalling your fumbled attempt to blackmail Lucy for sex.  “I was out of line.  Way out of line and I’m sorry.  Please don’t tell the Professor.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, I won’t tell him,” she says, smiling wryly.  <i>What does she mean by that?</i>  Lucy dumps her umbrella in a stand and bounces up the stairs, jiggling as she goes.  You’d let out an appreciative sigh, but that’s the kind of thing that got you in trouble in the first place.<br/>
<br/>
You catch up with her in the library, where you find she’s taken a sudden interest in your research.  Luckily your golem has had the presence of mind to close all the books.  “What are you doing,” Lucy asks.  You’re not sure if she’s addressing you or the golem.<br/>
<br/>
“Research,” you lie quickly.  “For <i>my</i> project, not yours.  Not that it’s any of your business.”<br/>
<br/>
“Really,” she replies, arching a perfect eyebrow.  Her gaze drills right through you, and you are certain she knows you are lying.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, really,” replies the golem, master of witty repartee.<br/>
<br/>
Lucy smiles wryly at you again.  “Well I’d better get on with <i>my</i> project then, hadn’t I,” she says before walking away and into Blackwell’s study.  She closes the door and there is an audible click as she locks it behind her.<br/>
<br/>
“What was…” the golem begins before you hold up your hand an motion it to be silent.<br/>
<br/>
“We’re going to sit here quietly till she leaves, ok,” you whisper.  The golem nods in assent.<br/>
<br/>
Fifteen very boring minutes later, Lucy emerges from the study with a couple of books tucked under her arm.  You escort her to the front door before returning to the library to hammer out the details of your demise.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222221221
author_id: imaj
title: A Fiery Finale - Part 2
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The Chelsea golem finally arrives and hour later.  It looks a mess – all puffy eyes and running makeup but the sneering expression with which it regards your double gives lie to that.  “Cops are looking for you,” it says with an unpleasant smile.  “What,” it asks when it spots the way you are looking at it.  “You told me to tell my parents.  Dad insisted that we went to the police.  So I had to go and be all upset.”  The change in the golem is instant and suddenly it looks vulnerable and afraid.  “That’s what took me so long,” it says, snapping back to sneering disdain.<br/>
<br/>
“Cops are going to find him,” you reply ignoring the stirring in your trousers.  “What’s left of him.”  You finished cursing the truck whilst waiting for the Chelsea golem, so you turn to your double and say:  “Get moving.  You don’t want to keep them waiting.”<br/>
<br/>
“Don’t I get to see her naked,” whines your double.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s what started this clusterfuck,” you reply.  “Go!”<br/>
<br/>
The Chelsea golem narrows its eyes.  “What do you mean ‘what’s left of him’,” it asks as your double leaves.<br/>
<br/>
“I mean he’s going to have a spectacular and fatal accident,” you explain.  “Look, it’s not important.  What is important is that you take all your clothes off now.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, ok,” says the golem without a second thought.  Once again you find yourself admiring Chelsea’s body.  The ample, firm, breasts that bounce freely at it peels off its tight fitting tee and bra.  The fine ass hidden beneath the jeans.  The hardness at your groin intensifies as you take in Chelsea’s naked glory.  It’ll all be yours soon enough.<br/>
<br/>
You hurriedly divest yourself of your own clothes and rip off the Jared mask you’ve been wearing all afternoon.  You stumble for a moment.<br/>
<br/>
“Are we going too…” the golem begins, tailing off rather than completing the question.<br/>
<br/>
“Tempting,” you say.  “But no.  Come over here so I can take that face off.”  The golem reluctantly steps forward.  Soft flesh turns to cold hard clay as you pull the mask away.<br/>
<br/>
You tremble as you lift the mask towards your face.  It’s a moment of triumph – the final step in your plan to reach the summit of the schools social pyramid (and having been inside Chelsea’s head already you have no doubt that it is she that is at the apex, not Black).  Once your double meets its end there will be no more obstacles to you smoothly sliding into place at top.  It’s almost disappointing that the only witnesses to your victory are a featureless grey statue and the cyclopean stuffed hairless monkey that squats menacingly in one of the library alcoves.<br/>
<br/>
Not that it matters, you’ll command the attention of the whole school tomorrow.  The room swims as you push the mask into place.  You stumble half blindly.  When your vision clears, you find yourself leaning on the desk where you were working earlier.  Waves of golden hair hang down, obscuring your vision.<br/>
<br/>
You laugh.  It is a throaty, melodious laugh with just a hint of some unpleasant harmonics.  It is Chelsea’s laugh, and because it is now <i>your</i> laugh, you laugh some more.  The sound echoes weirdly off the library walls, almost taking on a life of their own.<br/>
<br/>
You slip into Chelsea’s clothes with a little reluctance.  There will be time enough to explore your body once you get home.  They fit snugly against your now soft skin and are still a little warm from when the golem was wearing them.  Before you leave you hang the Jared mask on the golem.  It doesn’t have to follow your orders, but you tell it to tidy up anyway, reminding it that its master returns tomorrow.  Then you bounce down the stairs and out of Blackwell’s house and into your new life.<br/>
<br/>
The seat belt in Chelsea’s car sits awkwardly across your chest as you adjust the rear view mirror.  Chelsea’s eyes stare back at you, still red and puffy looking.  You reach for her persona.  For all its scheming manipulations and black rages, her personality is little more than a limp rag now.  You probe at it gently, settling in and surfing on top of the cauldron of her emotions.  They’re simply something you can direct as you see fit.  With a moment of concentration, your expression vanishes from the face in the mirror to be replaced with one of Chelsea’s habitual ones – a kind of smirking sneer.<br/>
<br/>
You sift through her memories, homing in the police interview she gave scant hours ago.  You can’t help but admire the way she manipulated the two detectives, embellishing her story and faking tears to make it more believable.  As an experiment, you try turning on the waterworks.  Instantly, the face in the mirror looks so pathetic that the little core of you that is still Will wants nothing more than to cradle her and tell her it will be all right.  Just as quickly the tears stop and the sneer returns.<br/>
<br/>
That could be useful, you think.  The students at Westside are more used to Chelsea’s games but another performance like that could have even her most hated enemies eating out of your hands.<br/>
<br/>
Or it might be seen as a sign of weakness.  Perhaps it might be better to try to continue on as normal and as if nothing has happened.<br/>
<br/>
As you ponder your decision a column of flame rises in the distance.  Somewhere in Saratoga Falls, something is on fire.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212222212212
author_id: imaj
title: Why Mess With Perfection
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Playing the sympathy card is tempting.  With Chelsea’s persona at hand you could play it very well too.  At the end it comes down to this:  Why mess with perfection?<br/>
<br/>
Tomorrow is the first day of your perfect new life as Chelsea Cooper<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
“Chelsea’s” perfect new life continues in "<a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914/action/view/chapter_map/11421" target="_top" title="Interactive Story Chapter in Item # 1942914">Lost Souls</a>" <a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914/action/view/chapter_map/11421" target="_blank" title="Open in new window."><img border="0" height="12" loading="lazy" onmouseout="$(this).css('opacity', '.4');" onmouseover="$(this).css('opacity', '1');" src="https://www.Writing.Com/nw.gif" style="opacity:.4;" width="12"/></a> in "<a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914-The-Wandering-Stars" target="_top" title="A secret society of magicians fights evil--and sometimes each other.">The Wandering Stars</a>" <a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914-The-Wandering-Stars" target="_blank" title="A secret society of magicians fights evil--and sometimes each other."><img border="0" height="12" loading="lazy" onmouseout="$(this).css('opacity', '.4');" onmouseover="$(this).css('opacity', '1');" src="https://www.Writing.Com/nw.gif" style="opacity:.4;" width="12"/></a><br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111121222222
author_id: seuzz
title: Steve Patterson
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Lin is nearby. "Go tell the freak I need my purse," you tell her. <br/>
<br/>
"You tell him," she retorts.<br/>
<br/>
"I need to stay here, which is why I need him to come to me. You can go hide in a closet or whatever after you tell him." She glares at you, but disappears.<br/>
<br/>
You return your gaze to Steve and slowly advance on him. "Hey, I've been looking you," you tell him. "Oh, hi, Kim." Your voice is much deader when addressing her. Back to Steve: "I need your help with something."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
"I've got an itch where I can't reach." You turn around. "If you could just—Mmm, yeah. That feels good. But lower. Lower. Oh, Steve, that's wonderful. But a little to the left. And lower."<br/>
<br/>
You look over your shoulder. Kim turns away with a disgusted look; Steve, being so much taller, is bending over.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, here, let's go where it'll be easier for you," you say. You move toward the stairs. "I'll just go stand on one of those, and then you can—" He's already touching you again. "Oh, yes. But to the left. Further. Lower."<br/>
<br/>
"You can't reach there?" he asks in a bemused tone. He pinches you, and you squeal.<br/>
<br/>
"Come on," you dimple over your shoulder at him. "Maybe if I stand on the top stair you can reach it."<br/>
<br/>
He snorts and turns—and freezes. Will is standing not far behind, gazing at the two of you with an amused expression. He has the first floor hallway all to himself, and Patterson won't be able to go back to the rest of the party without squeezing past him. He whirls back around and follows you up.<br/>
<br/>
There are people in the upstairs hallway, but there is no one in the bedroom when you peek in again. "Oh, this is the perfect spot."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think we're allowed in here," Patterson says. He follows you in anyway.<br/>
<br/>
"I need a private spot if I'm going to show you where I ... itch." You press up against him and look straight up. Your chin barely touches his breastbone. "I itch right <i>here</i>." You guide his hand to the front of your skirt. "Do you think you can scratch me there?"<br/>
<br/>
He rolls his eyes, with reason. This is a very un-Yumi performance. On the other hand, it's the kind of fantasy you've had about Yumi pulling on you, which should make it irresistible.<br/>
<br/>
He resists it. "Okay, what's going on? You lose a bet or something?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, please don't say that, Steve." You throw your arms around his torso and hug him. Behind him, you see Prescott watching from the doorway. But someone puts a hand on his shoulder and he turns around.<br/>
<br/>
"No, seriously. I don't mind the idea," Patterson says, "but don't fucking lie to me." He turns around and sees Prescott. The latter is now facing out into the hallway, blocking all egress from the room by draping his arms across the doorway. The guy confronting him glowers, and he repeats the trick with the cigarette and the "lighter." As he does so, he looks over his shoulder back at Patterson with an insolent stare.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck is going on?" Patterson mutters. <br/>
<br/>
You gasp and grip him tightly. "Come on," you urge. "Let's go in the bathroom. He won't follow us there." You pull a reluctant Steve back into the bathroom and shut the door, thanking your lucky stars you went with the Prescott-as-backup plan.<br/>
<br/>
After a few moments, you start to sniffle, and Patterson puts his hands on your shoulders. "He's been following me, or some shit like that," you sob. "Oh God, Steve, I'm so scared." You hug him, and he holds you ... though not too tightly, you notice.<br/>
<br/>
You snuffle into his shirt and then recover yourself. "Maybe he's gone," Steve suggests. He cautiously opens the door, and jumps when you shriek.<br/>
<br/>
"It's my purse!" you gasp, and point to the floor, where Will has set it down in front of the door. "I left it at home. How did--?" You snatch it up and push the door closed, narrowly avoiding catching Patterson's fingers. You rummage through it and groan. You draw out a blank mask. "Oh my God."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck is that?" Patterson asks.<br/>
<br/>
You stare down at it. "Don't you see what it is?" you moan. He bends down—<br/>
<br/>
--and you jam it up against his face. He falls like a tree.<br/>
<br/>
You whip open the door. Will is blocking the doorway and you hiss at him. He closes the bedroom door on the empty hallway and hurries into the bathroom; you close that door too, and it is suddenly very crowded.<br/>
<br/>
"Help me get him out of these things," you order. You pull off Patterson's sweatshirt while Will pulls off his shoes and socks; both of you pull his pants and underwear off. You then whip off your own clothes, glad that the golem who was wearing Yumi earlier had thought to put on something simple and skimpy. "Now you need to get out of your clothes," you order your twin as you undress.<br/>
<br/>
This is the tricky part, since you weren't able to research the spell you really wanted to use for this hand off. You drag the very heavy but still unconscious Patterson back into the bedroom to a spot where he is hidden by the bed and drop Prescott's clothes next to him. You order Prescott to lay down in the bathroom. When the mask reappears on Patterson's face, you rip the mask off Prescott, swivel on your heel, and drop it onto Patterson's face. He instantly transforms into Prescott. Good enough: When he wakes he'll know to dress and leave the party. You close the bathroom door and forget about him.<br/>
<br/>
The tricky part is in the bathroom: Yumi, now stripped of the Will-golem-mask, has now returned to her original form, and though she is still unconscious she is not likely to remain that way for long. You hide the Yumi mask under the sink and clap the new Patterson mask to your face. You fight to stay awake during the transformation, and you think you succeed, but it hurts like hell; it feels like your body is being wrenched all out of shape. A hard spasm hits you and you yelp. Then it is over.<br/>
<br/>
But your cry has woken Yumi. You see her eyelids flutter. You'd hoped to get dressed and away from her before this moment ...<br/>
<br/>
Thinking quickly, you lean in and begin sucking on her breast. You ignore the sharp intake of breath you hear and keep kissing until she pushes you away. You look up with a leer. "Come on, just give five more minutes and we can go again." You bend over her breast, but she slaps at you. "Ow! The fuck?"<br/>
<br/>
She looks around in wild confusion, as well she might: as far as she knows, she has been suddenly teleported from her car into a bathroom, and stripped of her clothes as well. "What--? What--?" she gasps. <br/>
<br/>
"Oh, come on," you sigh. You reach up to cradle her head, but she slaps you away. "Look, you want to try again or not? I can cum all night long, but maybe third time will be the charm for you." You grin at her.<br/>
<br/>
Her face turns an alarming mix of red and white as she scrambles to her feet. "Get away from me, you— You—" She peeks out into the bedroom and then looks around the bathroom. <br/>
<br/>
You reach up and pinch her ass. "Okay, if you're not ready yet, can you suck me off until you are?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll kick you in the balls if you touch me again, you fucker!"<br/>
<br/>
You snatch her dress off the floor and hurl it at her head. "Get the fuck away from me, you psycho bitch! Make up your mind if you wanna ride the Patterson rocket or not." Her face twists up and she runs from the room.<br/>
<br/>
You lock the door after her and lie back on the cool tile floor. There's hardly enough room for your now very long frame, so you stretch a long leg and rest it on the door. Nice calf, lightly downed with hair. Strong thigh. You peer down and cup your new balls and cradle your new cock. Nice length and girth, very proportional to your six-and-a-half-foot frame. A sufficiently defined six-pack. You close your eyes, lean your head in the crook of your arm, and fantasize about how nice it would have been to have Yumi for real. <br/>
<br/>
But after a few moments you get up and dress, pulling on your black briefs and long Levis; the ankle cut socks and sneakers; the sweatshirt. You pat your pockets; yeah, wallet, keys, loose cash, cell phone. You lean over and look at yourself in the mirror: gray eyes, straight teeth, small nose in the middle of a flat face. Not too handsome, but not bad on top of a trunk like you now possess.<br/>
<br/>
You check the clock on your cell phone: almost eleven. Plenty of time to score some real action before your two o'clock curfew, which is itself just a joke. On the other hand, if you don't head for Steve's bedroom, you need to get back to Blackwell's place before twelve, which is when the security system kicks it up to "high" and lets <i>no one</i> in.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212222221
author_id: seuzz
title: A Night and Day in the Life of Steve Patterson
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You slip out to your car long enough to drop the Yumi mask in the back seat and return to the party. Who do you want? Someone new; someone you didn't have to socialize with; somehow who'd be easy to ...<br/>
<br/>
Bingo.<br/>
<br/>
With a grunt you sweep a squealing Cassie Harper up onto your shoulder. It's a good thing she's so small, because even with Patterson's strength she's hard to hold up with one arm. <br/>
<br/>
"How's the air up there?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"It's great," she laughs. "How's it down there?"<br/>
<br/>
"Thick. Watch your head." You push through an outside door to a patio where lots of people are partying by the light of tiki torches. You go off to a far corner and with a soft grunt of relief drop her to the ground.<br/>
<br/>
She laughs as you lay down on the grass, leaning back on your elbows and spreading your legs invitingly. You pat your stomach. "Come talk to me."<br/>
<br/>
"Mmmm," she says. "I think I better keep my distance."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't bite."<br/>
<br/>
"That's not what I hear!" But she sits down nearby.<br/>
<br/>
You make no reply, just look her up and down thoughtfully. Cassie Harper is a slip of a thing. She's not popular, either, being a compulsive chatterbox. Not pretty, especially. But you can have your fun and throw her away after. She seems awed that you're paying attention to her. "You can touch me if you want," you tell her.<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe I don't want."<br/>
<br/>
"No? Not even a little?" She shrugs helplessly, and pinches the front of your shirt and giggles. "Oh, you can do better than that." She giggles again, and presses a fingertip against your stomach.<br/>
<br/>
"Let's play a game" you say, worming closer to her. "Wherever you touch me, I get to touch you. So ..." You take a tiny pinch at her blouse. You press a fingertip against her stomach. She squeaks. "You go first. You set the rules." You're being Nice Steve with her; she wouldn't like Nasty Steve. He'll come out to play later ...<br/>
<br/>
"Well ... " Her finger inches toward your chest, and then she flinches and blushes. "Ooh! That's not fair. There are more places on you than— Oh God!" She buries her face in her hands.<br/>
<br/>
You gently pull her hands down. "Touch me here." You brush the side of your nose. She grins madly and touches you. You lightly stroke her nose with your fingertip, lingeringly. Her face is covered in freckles. "How long does it take you to put those on in the morning?" She grimaces. "What's wrong? They're adorable. You need more of them. I wanna kiss each one."<br/>
<br/>
She throws her head back and rocks, her mouth open with delight. She comes in closer and puts her hand on your hip. You put your hand on hers. You soon have your arms wrapped around each other, touching each others' faces with your noses.<br/>
<br/>
"Yo, Patterson, rock on, dude!" a voice calls. You feel Cassie flinch and pull away. <br/>
<br/>
You hop onto your feet in a crouched position. "You lookin' to get yourself fucked up good and hard?" you call back coldly. It's Martin Gardinhire, one of the debate team dweebs who's always trying to act cool.<br/>
<br/>
He gapes and his friends turn away. "I didn't mean— I just—"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't mean, I just!" You jeer back. "You just thought you'd bust in and embarrass the girl I'm with."<br/>
<br/>
"No! I—"<br/>
<br/>
"You know what I did to the last guy who busted in on me?" You rise to your full height and loom over him. "I pulled his pants down, wrote 'Pussy' on his ass cheek with an indelible marker, and drew an arrow to his asshole. And then for a week I made sure he took a shower every day at the end of P.E." Actually, that's what Patterson and Lynch did to a chess club kid who made the mistake of not sharing his math homework with them, but whatever. "He was one my best friends, too. Imagine what I'm gonna do to you." He stumbles back and away. "Gardinhire! I know where your locker is, and we're not done with this!"<br/>
<br/>
You feel Cassie plucking at your side, and you wheel around and cradle her. "Come on, let's get out of here," you murmur. She is reluctant, and you have to tug her toward a side gate and out into the field next to the Farris'. Outside, she hangs back, and you gently press your hands against the sides of her head until she relaxes and lets you lead her back to your car.<br/>
<br/>
You climb in the back seat and are quickly able to escalate the makeout session until the clothes are off and cock and pussy have gotten acquainted. She loves the first time and the cuddle afterward. She's a little more reluctant to do it a second time, so afterward you loose Nasty Steve from his leash, to gnaw and worry and nip all over her. It gets her excited, but when you pry her legs apart for a third go she pulls away. <br/>
<br/>
"Well, if that's enough for you it's enough for me," you say with a sigh and start to put your clothes back on. She says nothing. "What, you're gonna wait till I throw you out to get dressed," you roughly ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Are we, you know ..." She stammers. <br/>
<br/>
"You're not bad, but you need more practice. I can give you the names of some specialists if you like."<br/>
<br/>
She sits quietly for a moment, then grabs up her clothes and jumps from the car. You wait until she's pulled most of them on and started running back to the house before climbing into the front seat. <i>They warn each other all the time about you, Patterson,</i> you think to yourself, shaking your head and grinning. <i>Why don't they ever listen?</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Sunday is church. Happily, Steve and his friends patronize Our Lady of Perpetual Pussy and Booze. That's the name for your Sunday morning sessions up in the loft over the high school gym. It's one of the little perks Coach Porter gives his star players: one key to the outside gym door and another to the storage space over the weight room. The administration knows about the first key—it's supposed to be for extra practice or something—but not the second. Presumably it's the coach who leaves the occasional bottle of Jim Beam up there for his boys, along with some of the harder-to-acquire porn magazines.<br/>
<br/>
Lynch and Black are already there when you heave yourself to the top and flop onto a dirty gym mat. "Faugh! Were you up here jacking off last night, Lynch? It stinks like you."<br/>
<br/>
"Bite me, Patterson." He jaw works, not over your taunt but over the pictures he's ogling. The intense blue eyes look like they're drilling laser holes through the pages. <br/>
<br/>
"How was Cassie?" Black glances up from his magazine to scrutinize the picture Lynch has turned to show him. He shakes his head.<br/>
<br/>
"Tight, man. Like, she was screaming and I was hurting. Not fun."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh." He hasn't been listening. He shakes his head over another one of Lynch's pictures. "Christ, I need fresh meat," he mutters.<br/>
<br/>
"Why don't you dump Chelsea, you moron. She's turning into more and more of psycho." You shake your head over the Cindy/Seth business. That was bad stuff; if Gordon were any more pussy-whipped ...<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up. I just need someone who isn't her." He reaches out to take the magazine from Lynch, and snaps his chewing gum appreciatively as he drinks the photo in.<br/>
<br/>
"So lemme set you up here again." You retrieve a warm beer from the corner. "That handcuff and blindfold trick was gangbusters. Irene still doesn't know it was you who took her between sessions with me."<br/>
<br/>
"You'd set <i>me</i> up if you weren't so gay for Black," Lynch mutters darkly.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, cram it with prairie oysters, Lynch." You crack open the beer and take a long swig.<br/>
<br/>
Gordon pulls the gum from his mouth with a lascivious slurp and presses it against the photo, between the model's cock-greedy legs. He shapes it with his fingers and thumbnail into a hairless pussy and clit. He sniffs it hungrily. Then he passes it back to Lynch. "There you go," he jeers. "That should be small enough she can feel you when you go in."<br/>
<br/>
It's an open secret that Jason Lynch has one of the smallest cocks anyone at the school has ever seen. He hurls himself on Gordon with a snarl. He's strong, and he's on top, and he soon has Black at his mercy. But Black says nothing, just sneers up into his face.<br/>
<br/>
"If you're done trying to cum against Black's leg," you tell Lynch in a bored voice, "you should get off him before I help him kick your ass. There's two of us and only one of you. Six of us and half of you, if you want to turn it into a cock-slapping contest."<br/>
<br/>
Lynch swears a blistering string and stalks off to the far wall, to sulk while staring out the window.<br/>
<br/>
"Lynch has a point," Gordon grins. "If we can't get him laid soon—"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you!" he shouts. He looks back out the window and does a double take. "Holy shit! It's Lucy Vredenburg!"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm gonna come over and knock your teeth out with my cock hammer if you don't put a sock in your shit," you yell. You snatch up a magazine impatiently; you are hungry to look at a girl.<br/>
<br/>
"Great," Lynch jeers. "Just more of her for me to stare at."<br/>
<br/>
You and Gordon exchange a quick glance and scramble over. Sure enough, Lucy Vredenburg is down in the parking lot. She carries an open bag from the top of which protrudes one of Blackwell's astrolabes.<br/>
<br/>
The fuck is going on?</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111212222222
author_id: seuzz
title: New Plans
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's easy to see over the heads of the crowd when you're six and a half feet tall and the guy you're looking for is also a giant. "Yo, the old man just called," you tell Gordon. "I gotta split."<br/>
<br/>
"Screw him." Gordon doesn't even look at you. He is too busy scrutinizing girls who are not his girlfriend.<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, somethin' about my granddad. I better go. Where's Meghan?" Gordon nods his chin toward the kitchen. "I'll slip her one for you too," you say, and slap hands with your best friend.<br/>
<br/>
You give Meghan your thanks, a good-night squeeze, and shove your tongue deep inside her mouth until she begins to gag. There's an extra swing in your swagger as you step out to your car and toss the Yumi mask, which you've been carrying unobtrusively under your arm, into the back seat.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You have a lot of work to do, so you disable the security system entirely. Up in the third-floor loft you pull down the rest of the golem-paint you'd made as part of your earlier batch and coat the inside of the Steve Patterson mask. Your argument with Yumi this afternoon shows you how difficult it can be to deal with a golem that is not under your control, and you don't want to put Patterson's mask on Blackwell's golem directly. A golem layer inside the mask will override that control.<br/>
<br/>
"Where you going now?" you ask Steve once you've got the mask finished and on the golem.<br/>
<br/>
"Home, I guess." He grimaces as it pulls on his socks. "Wish I was still at the party. Kim was being totally into me."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be such an egotist. She's like that with everyone. What time is practice on Monday?" Your "Steve" memories have faded.<br/>
<br/>
"Seven," he says brusquely and stands up with a grunt of satisfaction.<br/>
<br/>
"Then be here by six-thirty for the switch-off. Now show me your loyalty. Give me a kiss good-night."<br/>
<br/>
Steve hesitates for only a fraction of a second, then covers your mouth with his. You choke a little: you'd forgotten that for Patterson a good-night kiss always includes hard tongue action.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake to the ringing of the cell phone. It's Blackwell, and he sounds distracted and unhappy. "Lucy will be stopping by today. Please let her in and help her with whatever she needs."<br/>
<br/>
"She came by here Friday night, you know."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, I know. There was a miscommunication. You were very diligent. But in the future, please know that she has free passage into and out of the house."<br/>
<br/>
"Does she know about the security system? Because I might not be here."<br/>
<br/>
"Then please linger. I will call her and tell her you are waiting."<br/>
<br/>
You hope he's not too mad; you also hope that she hurries, so you quickly change into Jared. And she isn't long, entering just as you are sitting down to breakfast.<br/>
<br/>
"Sorry about the other night," you call out, and hurry after her.<br/>
<br/>
"It's okay," she says brusquely.<br/>
<br/>
"Can I help you with ... whatever it is?" She shakes her head. You catch her by the arm at the top of the stairs. "Look, I'm trying to make it up to you."<br/>
<br/>
She looks at you evenly. "I know who you are and what you look like under that thing."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not hiding anything. It brings out my inner beauty."<br/>
<br/>
Her tone is chilly. "Well it brings out <i>something</i> in you." You let her finish her errand without your help.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
After she goes you take a shower—even masks, when worn, pick up stench and dirt on their forms after awhile—and tread down wetly into the library. The vampire cyclops-monkey stares at you, malice glittering from its eye. You give it the finger. "Bite me. So you didn't get to eat anything last night. I'll pick you up a burger when I go out."<br/>
<br/>
You sit at the desk, chin in hand, drumming your fingers. Vague, inchoate, complex plans well up in your brain and sink back down again. Three golems you've budgeted for. You've used up two of your ration points, on "Will Prescott" and now on "Steve Patterson." You could use the third in another mask. You muse: If you made a "Jason Lynch" mask, you could trap Gordon Black inside it. You could then trap Jason inside the Patterson mask. A regular mask would then let you become Gordon Black, basketball captain. The other two triple-alphas would be under your thumb. Or maybe Chelsea instead of Jason. Anyway, some arrangement that would give you an iron grip on the social hierarchy. <br/>
<br/>
Or you could make as your third an all-purpose golem, like the one Blackwell has. That would short-leg your control over the school. Unless you brought in an ally? Despite Blackwell's warnings, you've been thinking about Caleb, and Keith too. They would be fun to work with, putting them inside the bullies. It's too bad the curse is getting between you guys.<br/>
<br/>
You sigh. One way or another, you're going to need at least one more mask. It irritates you that Blackwell took the <i>Libras</i>, since it means you can't get started today, when you have the house to yourself. At least you can do a little studying and practice.<br/>
<br/>
You pull out some paper and one of the special fountain pens and start drawing up a mask sigil. You have studied the elements of that sigil so thoroughly by this point that you can do it from memory, constructing it from its parts. You're curious to see if there is some way of erasing an image from a mask.<br/>
<br/>
An hour later you push away from the desk and get a snack from the kitchen. Without thinking, you set the sandwich down as fetch down one of the sigil codices. As you flip through it a movement catches your eye: smoke. You look up in time to see the sandwich burst into flame. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit!</i> You leap over an intervening desk and push the sandwich to the floor, where you quickly extinguish it. You look around: no scorch marks to the floor or the desk. Nothing to show that anything bad had happened. Good. The sigil, though, is blackened.<br/>
<br/>
Three things go through your mind simultaneously.<br/>
<br/>
First, you realize you must have set the sandwich down inside the sigil. You are always careful with sigils because of the danger of things like this. In this case, though, you'd been careless because the sigil should be dead. Because of the book's magic, only the sigils on its pages should be alive; the copies Blackwell made were only marks on a paper and needed no more special careful handling than a grocery list needs careful handling. That means ...<br/>
<br/>
Second, the sigil you made <i>was</i> alive. And that means Blackwell is mistaken about the <i>Libras</i>, somehow. What else is he mistaken about? And if you can make sigils without the book then ...<br/>
<br/>
Third, you can craft items from the <i>Libras</i> without the <i>Libras</i> itself—masks, at least, and maybe more. That means you can carry on making things outside of Blackwell's ken, if you dare.<br/>
<br/>
Your earlier ideas come crowding back; you need to use the day. If you want to lock down the alpha-goon squad you should concentrate on making masks. But if you want to bring Caleb and Keith in on this, you need to figure out that curse and see if there's a way of lifting it.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122
author_id: seuzz
title: Change of Address
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It must be a piss-poor security system if people can just walk around it, you reflect. Of course, you'd have to be crazy to want to prowl around this house in the dark after seeing the library. But then, if you broke in after dark, you wouldn't see the library, would you?<br/>
<br/>
But maybe it was Blackwell you heard. Maybe he was trying to get into your room. You toss onto your other side. The guy is creepy as hell, no matter how much he seems to be trying to work with you and mentor you. Maybe you should show him that you're not one to be fucked with.<br/>
<br/>
You slip out of bed and noiselessly sidle over to the door. <br/>
<br/>
You'll give Blackwell this much credit: the locks and hinges in this spooky old place are well oiled, so you make no noise as you pull the door open and look out. Both ends of the hallway vanish into gloomy shadows. <br/>
<br/>
Carefully you tread your way to the top of the stairs and look down, but it is a pit of blackness. You reach for the light switch, then catch yourself. No need to alert anyone who is downstairs.<br/>
<br/>
But you remember hearing a door close. It might have been Blackwell's door, and that reminds you that it might have been Blackwell. You return down the hall, past your room to his. His door is closed fast, but of course there's no way to tell if it has been opened or not. But there are other bedrooms on the floor.<br/>
<br/>
Before you can investigate them you hear the ceiling creak. Upstairs? Oh, yes, the narrow workrooms. Probably it is just Blackwell, and you have the sudden urge to spy on him. You trot down to the narrow staircase that leads upstairs. As you put your foot on the first stair you fancy you hear something heavy hitting the floor in the hallway behind you. But that's absurd; the noise must have come from above.<br/>
<br/>
You tiptoe to the top, but there are no lights burning at either the head of the stairs or from under the door to the work room. You put your ear to the door and listen. Absolute silence. Your heart in your throat, you slowly twist the door knob and press the door open. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Gah!</i> A shadow looms in the corner!<br/>
<br/>
The spasm in your chest makes you jump, and you narrowly stifle a cry. Your eyes bulge but the shadow doesn't move; and as your eyes become accustomed to the darkness you see it really is only a shadow cast by the failing moon shining through the yew tree. Relief washes over you as you step into the room and close the door behind you.<br/>
<br/>
The <i>Libra</i> is on the work bench, and you open it. In the moonlight the faces on the title page are sepulchral, and you can't stare at them too long without being overcome by the nauseating feeling that they are dead: corpses and skeletons shifting not through faces but cycles of decay. You quickly turn the page.<br/>
<br/>
The next page should be blank, but to your astonishment you find that it appears to be covered with a fine, silvery runic writing. You bend down close to it, blinking and staring, not sure if it is an optical illusion. As you bend closer, you hear a rustling sound, as of pages turning ... or of voices whispering.<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus," you mutter. You wonder if Blackwell knows. Surely he must; it's an old storytelling trope, even: pages whose ink is invisible except under moonlight.<br/>
<br/>
And as you peer at words they suddenly blaze forth, like milky fire. You blink; did you do something? No, you didn't do anything except breathe on them. Did that cause a change?<br/>
<br/>
Then out of the corner of your eye you notice that the shadows around you have deepened into utter, cthulhian blackness.<br/>
<br/>
You spin around. The door to the workroom has opened. Or has it vanished? Either way, you are staring into an inky darkness. It is not completely dark, though; looming in the middle is a single orb, glowing with a crepuscular light. It seems malignant; it seems to roll about; it seems to suddenly contract and brighten; and then you realize it has seen you. <br/>
<br/>
Because it is an eye. A single, enormous, blind-but-all-seeing eyeball.<br/>
<br/>
You press back against the workbench. The thing in the doorway exhales hungrily. Long, narrow black things—Oh my God, they're fingers!—clutch the edge of the doorway. One hand. Two hands. Three hands ... Five ... <br/>
<br/>
Eight hands.<br/>
<br/>
The room shudders. The doorway shifts. The thing gasps.<br/>
<br/>
And then it is inside the room with you.<br/>
<br/>
You throw your arms over your face and fall backwards.<br/>
<br/>
And fall backwards.<br/>
<br/>
And fall ...<br/>
<br/>
And fall ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The thing is gone. Somehow, for some reason, you feel certain it never even reached you. The world is no longer dark, but it isn't light, either. It is blank.<br/>
<br/>
Then the forms appear, emerging at first indistinctly and then with great, cutting crispness from the fog of nonexistence that surrounds you. They are designs of great intricacy and complexity, bending and turning and folding in great wheels. Some of them are merely bent into wheels, but others— Ow! You can't look at them, it hurts too much to actually <i>see</i> something that has more than five dimensions.<br/>
<br/>
They are sigils, joined together into a vast, interlocking clockwork thing rushing and turning all about you. You reach out to touch one, but it eludes you. <br/>
<br/>
And then either you are getting very big or they are getting very small, because they seem to tighten all around you. But they also seem to fade, so that soon they again disappear into nothingness.<br/>
<br/>
And you feel yourself disappearing into nothingness also.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake with a groan. <i>Goddamn this fucker,</i> you murmur to yourself. This is the third time he's pissed you off. Unless he starts coming across with something good real soon, you're gonna fuck him over. Or get Grandmother to fuck him over. Won't be anything left of him but a dry, crusty place on the asphalt once <i>she</i> gets through with him.<br/>
<br/>
You open your eyes and sit up, and are shocked to see that you are naked.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Alright, now it doesn't matter if he </i>does<i> come across with the goods.</i> You are gonna beat him until his brains run out his ears.<br/>
<br/>
You look up with a glower and ...<br/>
<br/>
<i>What the fuck?</i> That's <i>you</i> standing there. Standing there with a fucking stupid expression on your face, looking a little green, but that is definitely <i>you</i> staring back at yourself. But how come the other you is the one who gets to be dressed?<br/>
<br/>
Then you feel a little click in your head. <br/>
<br/>
That <i>isn't</i> you, and those <i>weren't</i> your thoughts.<br/>
<br/>
Slowly you get to your feet and stare at the stranger. He has lank black hair that sticks to his pale forehead and drapes loosely behind his ears to the top of his collar. His eyes are narrow and dark and gleam with suspicion. He has a long face dominated by a strong nose, strong cheekbones, and strong chin. He wears heavy, dirty work jeans, a dark denim shirt, and boots. You can tell by the way they settle over his frame that he is very strong.<br/>
<br/>
His name is William Shabbleman. You know that because you've got his mind and memories inside yours, and you recognize him and everything about him. Over his shoulder, at an angle, you catch sight of yourself in the bedroom mirror, and confirm what you already grimly knew.<br/>
<br/>
That you are also his physical twin.<br/>
<br/>
His jaw tightens and he clenches his fist. You know why, too, because you feel your own fists clench in sympathy. He wants to beat the shit out of this imposter—you. <br/>
<br/>
"And what do you think, William?" a voice rumbles behind you. You turn: Of course, it's Blackwell. Who is he addressing, Shabbleman or you? Does he even know that it is really you, William Prescott? "A perfect duplicate," Blackwell continues.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I guess," Shabbleman mutters. His voice is deep but insolent. "What's it for?"<br/>
<br/>
"To take your place," Blackwell says. "You told me you couldn't stay here, that you had to return home. Well, now that problem is solved. You will remain here as my pupil, and the golem here" —he indicates you— "will return in your stead."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean it can act like me, too?" Shabbleman asks.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell makes a wry face. "Where it counts. I think we'll find that it is altogether more pliable than you are. <i>It</i> will do as it is told. Won't you, William?"<br/>
<br/>
You realize Blackwell is addressing you.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111221
author_id: seuzz
title: Will Shabbleman
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>This is altogether too weird, and when weird things happen in a weird house like Blackwell's, it seems best to keep one's head low.<br/>
<br/>
"Whatever you say," you mutter. You feel no compulsion to obey anyone, but you can also tell that even a fake Shabbleman would be surly.<br/>
<br/>
The other one, the original Shabbleman, licks his lips, and his pale tongue disgusts you. "You sure no one'll figure out it's a fake?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, there are always ways," Blackwell says. "But the particular art associated with these masks is so abstruse that only a warlock of immense skill--and already on his guard against imposters--could defeat the illusion."<br/>
<br/>
You stifle a snort. <i>Unless the twin wants to discovered.</i> You catch yourself. <i>But probably I don't. Not yet.</i><br/>
<br/>
"So I'm just supposed to go home," you say aloud. The others jump a little; it appears they'd forgotten that you'd be listening to them.<br/>
<br/>
"The sooner the better," Blackwell says with a shrug. "If you will disencumber yourself of your wardrobe," he says to the real Will Shabbleman, "we can send your duplicate on his way. I'll have another set of clothes for you shortly." He then gives you a penetrating look. "Do not make trouble for the gentleman. Dress in his clothes, then come downstairs to the library." You shrug, and he leaves.<br/>
<br/>
Shabbleman glares at you. You glare back. But he slowly draws off his shirt, baring a wide, strong chest and flat stomach, and powerful shoulders and biceps. Yours, of course, are a match. You put on his shirt while he takes off his pants and everything else. Within a few minutes you are completely dressed. "Maybe I should take the cell phone too," you tell him.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you," he says. <br/>
<br/>
"Blackwell will tell you to give it to me."<br/>
<br/>
"Whose orders are you supposed to follow?" he snarls.<br/>
<br/>
You remember how Blackwell made a duplicate of you. "His," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
White spots show in the other's cheeks, and you know he feels both anger and great fear. He slaps the phone into your outstretched hand. You smile mirthlessly. As you turn to the door you have the presence of mind to swerve from his fist, which he hurls at the back of your head. It barely grazes you, and you grab and shove him into the corner of the doorway, spin him around, and drop him with a knee to the groin. It's quite satisfying to leave him gasping and spitting onto the floor, and you swagger happily down the staircase.<br/>
<br/>
"Did I hear fighting?" Blackwell inquires as you step into the library. <br/>
<br/>
"Not really. Asshole's not used to fighting someone as good as him." You cock your head. "So I wonder how come I won so easily?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't trouble yourself with paradoxes," the magician says. "You haven't the brain. Now, you are to return directly to Cuthbert. Go on with your life. But you are to telephone or email or text me with anything that strikes you as unusual."<br/>
<br/>
"What counts as unusual?"<br/>
<br/>
"You'll know it if you see it."<br/>
<br/>
You doubt Blackwell realizes just how "unusual" Cuthbert usually is.<br/>
<br/>
Shabbleman now appears, staggering a little as he comes down the stairs. You give him a wicked, lop-sided smile and a little salute as you saunter to the front door. You can already hear him and Blackwell starting to talk as you exit, but you know they won't say anything immediately interesting, and you won't be able to linger until they do.<br/>
<br/>
Your car is out front. Well, Shabbleman's car, but it's yours now, as his life is yours. That car, a livid green '73 Chevy Corvette, is the best thing he's got. The only really good thing, even. You slide in, turn the motor over, punch the radio up loud, and with a satisfying roar and rumble take off down the road while thumping the roof in time to the hard, driving beat. It's a good environment for very liquid thinking.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The fat man with the bald head had shown up in Cuthbert only a few days ago, and quickly made himself unwelcome with his not-very-subtle snooping around. You--or Shabbleman, for they are his memories you are paddling around in--had quietly rejoiced when the summons had come from the big house. Your lips curled in anticipation as Grandmother appeared in the front doorway and, leaning against her twin canes, lurched to the chair on the front porch and lowered her ponderous bulk into it. "You've seen that lowlander around here, ain't ya, Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"Want me to take care of him, Grandmother?" you murmured hungrily.<br/>
<br/>
"Nate can do that if it comes to it," she replied. (Nate, one of your uncles, is the town constable.) "Though I fancy it won't. He'll be leaving tomorrow." You muttered an oath, but she ignored it.<br/>
<br/>
Instead, she seemed to change the subject. "Your birthday's on Saturday. You'll be nineteen. A man, by our reckoning." You grinned. "The band will come off, and you'll be free to spend your seed."<br/>
<br/>
"Hope Rosalie can handle it. I've got about six years worth to jam into her," you smirked. Every muscle in your body had throbbed simultaneously. <br/>
<br/>
"You can spend it until she's with child. Then the band goes back on," Grandmother snapped.<br/>
<br/>
You turned to spit behind you, off the porch and into the dirt. That way Grandmother would know it was a gesture of frustration, not disrespect.<br/>
<br/>
"You know it's the rule," she said shrilly, and her sunken, watery eyes gleamed hard. "And there have been compensations, as you know. You are a fine looking boy," she added softly. "The handsomest, strongest, most cunning pup in the kennel. Without the band you'd be no better than the others."<br/>
<br/>
The others. The cousins and second cousins and third cousins, some of whom were also brothers and aunts and grandparents to each other. The polluted dregs of the generations. Some mad, most bad, all twisted. You'd never win a TV contract for your looks, but you alone, like your father and grandfather and great-grandfather, going back for many years, could pass in the lowlands as normal. <br/>
<br/>
So could Rosalie, your betrothed, though after six years of not even being able to relieve the engorged tensions of puberty you would madly fuck anything that had a plausible orifice. <br/>
<br/>
"I'm giving you your present early," Grandmother added suddenly.<br/>
<br/>
"Daddy's car?"<br/>
<br/>
"And another present. You can take it down into the lowlands for a spell. This fellow from the city wants to take you back with him for a visit."<br/>
<br/>
"What for?"<br/>
<br/>
"Science, he says." She waved her hand scornfully. "But I can tell it's business he's after."<br/>
<br/>
"Glad I'm not the only one who thought that," you said. <br/>
<br/>
She smiled nastily. "It fairly stinks off him, don't it? I wanna know what he's after. Find out, come back, tell me." She gave you a shrewd glance. "I would be most appreciative. There are, you know, <i>ways</i> of delaying a moment of conception. You would be happier, wouldn't you, if Rosalie didn't conceive for a good few months?"<br/>
<br/>
You'd almost fainted from desire.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
When Grandmother said "business," of course, she meant what others called "magic." She'd given you no talismans, but you felt her spirit near you, hovering like a cruel, keen-eyed kite bird, on the drive down to Saratoga Falls, you following the Professor Blackwell in your new ride. It felt so good to finally have it in your possession, and early too, after years spent maintaining it but never getting to drive it.  "Mercy," your granddad had nicknamed her. "Ruth," your dad had called her. You weren't sure yet what you'd name her, and Grandmother had encouraged you to wait until you'd made her fully your own before bestowing on her a name. "Names are powerful things," she'd said more than once. "Do you wonder why you are named Will?" She'd told you the answer to that riddle, of course, on your thirteenth birthday, when they had held you down and cauterized the band onto your cock. She'd explained a great deal more on each birthday after that, as you'd grown more and more powerful by straining with volcanic rebellion against the ever-heavier chains she'd placed on your mind and spirit.<br/>
<br/>
And so you had salivated when Blackwell showed you into his house, and showed you his library, and whispered what he wanted of you. You had agreed instantly to become his adept. Let the old bat back in Cuthbert keep her moonshine and parlor tricks. Once you'd mastered what Blackwell could teach you, you could squash her into bug jelly.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You smile grimly to yourself as you entertain these memories, for with William Shabbleman's mind and personality so close to yours it is not hard to be as inveigled by them as he was. And yet you also can't stop shuddering at the thought of what dangers might even now be bubbling inside Blackwell's villa.<br/>
<br/>
You stop at an intersection, still beating your hand in time to the music, when a familiar sound catches your ear. You glance over to see a truck pulled up next to you, and hear shouts of mirth from inside. <br/>
<br/>
It's your truck. That is, it's William Prescott's truck. And you recognize your best friend, Caleb, leaning out the passenger-side window and calling back cheerfully to the car behind you. You look in the mirror: Of course. Keith.<br/>
<br/>
Your own duplicate must have been living the life of William Prescott for the past week, you calculate, in the time since ... Since that thing happened in the work loft. You wonder what has been going on elsewhere.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112211
author_id: seuzz
title: When Will Met Will
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You drive around for about thirty minutes, so it won't look like you're following anyone, and then head over to your old house. You are briefly overcome by a feeling of déjà vu when you pull into the drive way and step from the car, as though you really have returned home and everything that has happened to you has been a dream. But catching sight of yourself in the reflective glass of the screen door—the dark, moody looks and clothes—brings back to you that you are now a stranger. You settle back and let Will Shabbleman's personality come to the fore.<br/>
<br/>
It's still a bit of a kick in the stomach, though, to have your mother answer the door and only look at you blankly. "Aunt Martha?" you say. She looks puzzled, and you smile lop-sidedly. "You don't remember me, probably, but I'm a cousin or nephew or something like that. Will Shabbleman. I'm down in town from Cuthbert."<br/>
<br/>
There is no recognition in her eyes, but she warms in a way that isn't obviously insincere. "Oh, er, yes. Will, how nice to see you again. Come in." She opens the door awkwardly.<br/>
<br/>
It's your house, it's your living room. And it's your dad stands up from his easy chair, muting the TV and looking at you with hooded curiosity. Your mom introduces you to your dad, who married into a family related to the Shabblemans. He isn't very friendly, but he asks politely about your business.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm transferring to Keyserling next semester," you explain. (Lying comes very easily to you.) "Eastern just doesn't cut it. So I'm in town to scope it out, check out neighborhoods and living arrangements. You know."<br/>
<br/>
The answer impresses your parents, and your polite, encouraging attentions to their advice and observations keeps the conversation going until you see a movement on the landing: Will Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
"Will," your mother says, catching sight of him. "This is one of your cousins from Cuthbert." She gives him a précis of your reasons for being in town before turning back to you. "Have you eaten dinner yet? We should take you out."<br/>
<br/>
You can read in Will's glance that he is not feeling friendly toward you—as indeed you wouldn't feel friendly to someone who looked like Shabbleman—but you need to get him alone. "Thanks much, ma'am," you say, "but I've eaten. I'll be in a town a few days yet, though, so I might take you up on it later." Her smile is quite sincere. "But I got some other questions about the town that Will here might be able to answer for me." You nod your head at him. "You know, like, what there is to do around here."<br/>
<br/>
Your mother smiles tightly; your dad, to your chagrin, makes a small snort and hides a private grin; your replacement looks discomfited. <br/>
<br/>
"So, cousin, can I take you out, treat you to an ice cream sundae or something, while I pick your brain?" Your manner is silky.<br/>
<br/>
He turns a little paler and looks pleadingly at your mother; she ignores him. "I think that's a great idea," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Mom, I have things I have to do."<br/>
<br/>
"You can take a break, sweetheart. You won't keep him out long?" She turns back to you. <br/>
<br/>
"Oh, back in an hour, I'm sure."<br/>
<br/>
Will sees defeat, and recomposes his expression of agony into one of resignation. He fishes his keys from his pockets, but you wave them back. "I'll drive."<br/>
<br/>
Outside, his eyes widen a little at the sight of your baby and slides gingerly into her passenger seat. You punch him good-naturedly in the shoulder as he buckles up, and gun the engine appreciatively when you start it. "Maybe I'll let you drive it back," you wink at him.<br/>
<br/>
"So you're coming out to school here," he says glumly. "I guess I'll be seeing more of you."<br/>
<br/>
You laugh nastily. "Nah, that was just a story for your folks. Pfft. Parents with teenagers love to eat that 'I'm checking out college' shit." He gives you a sharp, sidelong glance. "We ain't goin' out for ice cream, neither. I got some business to talk over with you."<br/>
<br/>
He says nothing, but it's a short ride, just over to the old elementary school. You park around back, where the shadows of the gathering dusk have already begun to fall. You lean back to gaze at him with even-tempered insouciance.<br/>
<br/>
"So, what's this business you want to talk about," he says with ill-disguised loathing.<br/>
<br/>
"Whaddaya think it is, sport? Drugs." You slap him slightly in the shoulder with the back of your hand. "I need a dealer down here. Best to keep it in the family. Whaddaya say to handling my shit in your school?"<br/>
<br/>
He swallows hard. <br/>
<br/>
You let the offer linger in the air, then laugh. "Don't be so gullible. I'm just jerkin' yer chain." You lean over to drape an arm around his shoulder; he tries pulling away but you tug him closer, and he's no match for your strength "Actually," you murmur in his ear, "I just need your face for a bit."<br/>
<br/>
You grip him tightly in one arm as you reach up to his face with your free hand. He twists hard as you grip at his brow and mutter the unbinding spell—odd that you can remember the phrase so clearly, though Blackwell only taught it to you once—and then with a ripping sound he turns into a golem.<br/>
<br/>
This is the moment of truth: You have no idea what exactly you have turned into, but your physical body seems to consist of a golem's body with a mask on it. Can you rip off your own mask? What will happen if you do? Luckily you have Shabbleman's own nerve to lean on, for you're not sure you could do it on your own. You put your hand to your brow, and unbind the mask.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There had been a brief white flash, and then you were holding two masks. Your hands seemed thick and malformed, and a quick glance in the mirror had disclosed that you were in fact a golem. But unlike those lifeless creatures, you are animate. You briefly donned the Will Prescott mask, long enough to confirm that you can change into your old form, and to learn what has happened in the past week.<br/>
<br/>
Not much, it turns out. Only once did the new Prescott hear from Blackwell, and that was a brief phone conversation suspending his putative job but telling him to not take on any commitments, for Blackwell might be in touch again. After that, silence.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Return of Will Prescott
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>This is either a chance to resume your old life, or a chance to spy on Blackwell from an unexpected hidey-hole; either seems preferable to going back to Cuthbert. So you fish the keys out of Prescott's pocket, unlock the door to the basement, and hide Blackwell's golem behind the detritus after stripping it of its clothes.<br/>
<br/>
The fact that you have this hiding place is a great serendipity. It's the basement of an old, abandoned elementary school, one wing of which has been converted into a recreation center. A few years ago you'd jimmied your way into the basement and turned it into something like a clubhouse for you and your friends, and had even gone so far as to hang a padlock of your own on the door. You are quietly astonished to find that the basement is abandoned to the extent that, though you've not been back to it in several months, your padlock still hangs on the door.<br/>
<br/>
As for Shabbleman's stuff: You hide his mask and clothes in an old backpack he has stashed under a seat, then drop his car off in a downtown parking garage. You fully expect it will be impounded and towed within a day or two, but that will be a safer place to deposit it than by leaving it by the side of the road; and you might have need of it at some point. You then catch a cab home.<br/>
<br/>
Your parents quiz you closely about Shabbleman, and you shrug them off by telling them it was kind of a boring conversation. "You don't know any drug dens, do you," your dad asks to your surprise. "No? Then you probably don't know anything that would interest him." Maybe your dad wasn't as taken in by the "I'm going to college" schtick as you'd thought he'd be.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
School the next day is miserable; you seem to have grown even more unpopular while your golem was pretending to be you. Even Caleb and Keith are avoiding you, and you find what refuge you can in the company of Carson Ioeger, Paul Davis, and Jenny Ashton.<br/>
<br/>
"You need a new look," Jenny suggests as you sit on the grass out front during lunch.<br/>
<br/>
"He looks like he always has," Carson retorts. "Like a scarecrow left out in the rain."<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, if he gets a new look, maybe it will shake people into treating him differently."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," Paul chimes in. His tone turns puckish. "Eyeliner. Blacken the hair. Black lip gloss and white pancake makeup. Go totally <i>Crow</i>."<br/>
<br/>
"The <i>opposite</i> look," Jenny says through gritted teeth.<br/>
<br/>
"Checkerboard suit," teases Carson. "Big bow tie. A straw hat at a jaunty angle."<br/>
<br/>
"Ignore them," Jenny tells you.<br/>
<br/>
"Were they talking," you ask with a smile. <br/>
<br/>
"Seriously, I can't figure it out," Carson says. "You're the same dipshit you were at the start of summer. I don't see a change."<br/>
<br/>
"It started up about the time you started paying off those bullies, I think," Jenny says. "I remember Yumi mentioning it, how she wanted to vomit every time she looked at you after you paid off Lynch. What were you <i>thinking</i> when you decided to do that?"<br/>
<br/>
"What were <i>you</i> thinking when you decided to tell me Yumi wants to vomit when she looks at me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, touché, but it's true. And I still want to know why you paid them off."<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. "I'd just gotten a sweet job and was bragging about the money. When I did it, it just seemed like an easy out."<br/>
<br/>
"How much money were you making?" Carson asks. You tell him, and he slaps himself in the face, he's so amazed. "Jesus! I'd eat Lynch's shit every day for lunch if I was raking in that kind of cash."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, well, I got fired."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck! What happened?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think I touched something I wasn't supposed to." You briefly describe your "cataloging" job, and what an eccentric Blackwell is. "I shoulda known I couldn't keep it for long, not working for a guy like that."<br/>
<br/>
"So he needs a new workstudy guy, huh," Carson says hungrily. "Where's he live?"<br/>
<br/>
You make a face and don't answer.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The rest of the day isn't so bad, and the late afternoon is positively delightful, as Umeko stops by to borrow some sheet music. "Hi, Umeko," your brother says dreamily as she steps from the car. <br/>
<br/>
"Hi, Umeko," you simper in imitation. He pushes you, and you hurl the basketball at his face. You're soon tearing at each other's clothes. But you stop when you realize she is watching you both with bemusement. <br/>
<br/>
"I was never turned on by having guys fight over me," she says. You and Robert shift a little, and let go of each other. But a gleam comes into her eyes. "But watching you two fight over me? Yeah, that makes me excited." She laughs. "So go back at it." But you're both too abashed to do anything until she goes into the house. And then you <i>really</i> start gouging at each other.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
And then, a little after eight, your phone rings. Blackwell is on the other end.<br/>
<br/>
"Come out to the house, Will," he says. "Give your parents an excuse to go into town. You will be back home within an hour, so it need not be an elaborate excuse." He waits for no reply, and just hangs up.<br/>
<br/>
Well, you're supposed to be his slave, so you obey.<br/>
<br/>
He lets you into the villa without any kind of greeting and simply motions you to follow him upstairs. Shabbleman is there, in the bedroom. He is naked.<br/>
<br/>
"This is your predecessor, Mr. William Prescott," Blackwell says. "He was insufficiently diligent in his studies, and failed to carry out my very clear instructions. He paid an awful price for his carelessness." Before Shabbleman can reply, Blackwell pulls the mask from your face. <br/>
<br/>
The world again briefly turns white, but then it comes back again. But now all the color is gone: it's an old black-and-white movie, though one a lot crisper and brighter than the old Hollywood movies on cable TV. Still, you can watch and listen, and you know that you can move. But you keep very still.<br/>
<br/>
"Here," Blackwell says, extending the mask to Shabbleman. "You will take his visage and his clothes and you will take his place. He works for me two hours every day, after school. That is the cover you will maintain."<br/>
<br/>
"Why can't I just stay and work here, like I did this afternoon?" Shabbleman demands.<br/>
<br/>
"For reasons that seem good to me and which I don't have to share with you," Blackwell snaps. The other glowers, but helps the magician divest you of your clothes.<br/>
<br/>
You have no breath to hold, and no heart to beat hard at your chest, but you feel suspense after Blackwell leaves, when Shabbleman dons your mask. He regards his new body with distaste and grimaces over his wardrobe. But you can tell he is also absorbed in getting to know you, because his face turns thoughtful as he dresses. And then, just as he is drawing on your jacket, he pauses.<br/>
<br/>
His eyes narrow and slide over toward you. Apparently he has stumbled over the mask's memories of meeting "Will Shabbleman," and the peculiar events that came next.<br/>
<br/>
Slowly he draws up to you and peers at you closely. Gingerly, he pokes you. He waves his hand in front of your face. He glares deeply into what would be your eyes. You remain utterly motionless.<br/>
<br/>
He licks his lips and looks around nervously. "Son of a bitch," he mutters. "What the fuck is that fat old cocksucker up to?" And then he jumps as the door opens and Blackwell steps in.<br/>
<br/>
"Ah, good, you're dressed," the magician says. "I was afraid you were ... entertaining yourself up here."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't even want to touch it," he sneers. "Just getting a feel for the new me." He shakes his hair back, and you catch a malicious glance in your direction.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, come along then," says Blackstone. Your replacement follows him out.<br/>
<br/>
It appears, luckily, that Shabbleman is so distrustful of Blackwell that he is not going to mention what he has "remembered" through your mask. But is also clearly suspicious of the golem—you—up in the bedroom, and he now knows all about your disposition of his own replacement. If he <i>does</i> tell Blackwell anything—<br/>
<br/>
Golems, you discover, can't shudder.<br/>
<br/>
Evening deepens into night. You hear Blackwell coming back upstairs, and you hear his door shut. The clock chimes midnight. You unstiffen and take a few tentative steps about the room, making far less noise than you'd feared you might. Should you explore? Even if you didn't have Blackwell's earlier reminder, you know all too well what happened the last time you ventured into the house proper after hours.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122112
author_id: seuzz
title: The Dream Life of the Faceless One
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You put the Prescott mask back on the golem, and it instantly revives: blinking, it looks back over at you, and its expression darkens. "What the fuck?"<br/>
<br/>
"Get out," you growl at it. "We got nothing to talk about." It gapes. "I said, Get the fuck outta my car, you little gay ass-wipe."<br/>
<br/>
Its cheeks crimson, and with a curse of its own it leaps from your car and starts to stalk back to your house. You turn over the engine; it glances back and gives you the finger, so you peel out hard, narrowly missing it. Yeah, you're being an asshole to "yourself," but after all that has happened to you, you're not sure you can even think of yourself as "Will Prescott" anymore.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You drive out to the seamiest side of Saratoga Falls and check into the cheapest motel you can find. You've got a couple hundred on you—traveling money provided by Grandmother—but you may need to stretch it very far. Night has begun to deepen as you fall onto the smelly bed, drop your arms across your forehead, and stare at the ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
Somehow you have wound up in the body of a golem. You know nothing about golems or how they work, and the only source of information you know of is Blackwell, and you don't really trust him. And even if you thought he was trustworthy enough to go to, he's got Shabbleman at his house now, and being inside <i>his</i> head, you know <i>he</i> is just about the least trustworthy person around. He has <i>plans.</i><br/>
<br/>
And yet you are stuck with his face. That gives you some advantages, for he's a sneaky, amoral, cunning son of a bitch, and you're totally on your guard against him. But that's also your weakness, for it makes you completely recognizable. How are you going to get into Blackwell's library looking like you do?<br/>
<br/>
You trace out labyrinthine possibilities, over and over, until they merge with each other. After awhile you begin to yearn for sleep, but you don't feel the least bit tired. Nor do you feel hungry. Do golems eat and sleep? They must, in order to maintain the illusion of humanity. Need they? Perhaps not.<br/>
<br/>
Still, you need out of Shabbleman's mind, if only to step away of the stink of it. You remove the mask, and everything goes black-and-white. Hmmm. Apparently golems can't see in color, insofar as they are capable of seeing anything when they are animate. It makes the feeling that you're trapped in a horror movie even more palpable.<br/>
<br/>
You feel no more relaxed outside the mask than inside it, but a certain peace descends. You feel no twitchiness or fatigue; indeed, you feel you could stay in this position for eternity if you had to. Your eyes drift over to the clock, and you are startled to see that the numbers are blinking rapidly through the minutes.<br/>
<br/>
You raise your head, and all at once they stop. But, according to the clock at least, six hours have passed since you checked in. You relax, and they begin to tick by more quickly, though not at the same manic speed. Another interesting discovery: you can alter your sense of subjective time.<br/>
<br/>
You lay back to stare at the ceiling, willing morning to come in an instant.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But maybe you need to practice the technique before you can master it. For instead of summoning morning, you summon inky darkness. All sense of weight drops from you. You are adrift: lying, standing, upside down or even inside out, you can't tell.<br/>
<br/>
And then the wheels of sigils reappear, all around you. They blaze like fire, and you wince. But then you concentrate, and they seem to freeze. The symbols are clear and easy to read, and wordlessly you take them in. And then, without realizing what you are doing, you grasp one of them, and it melts and vanishes. You grasp a second, then a third and a fourth and a ... a seventh. All is dark again. And yet you feel as though they are still present. You feel, indeed, as though they have never been away from you.<br/>
<br/>
You reach out to tear the darkness like a curtain, somehow knowing that that is the way to return home. But you pause, for you suddenly sense that you are not alone.<br/>
<br/>
Though it is so dark that it makes to no sense to say that you have "turned," you are aware that a pool of light has swum into view. It grows larger, as though you are advancing on it. Seated in its center is a man. He is staring intently down into a bowl that sits on a pedestal between his knees. It must be full of a liquid, for as you draw near ripples begin to form in it.<br/>
<br/>
He looks up at you, but he doesn't seem to see you. He is an old man, bald except for a fringe of curly grey hair around the back and sides of his head. His cheeks have deep folds, and there is a deep crease between his eyebrows. His eyes are a pale but intense blue color, and they flash from deeply beneath his eyebrow. His mouth is set in a sharp, downward frown. And yet despite his severe expression he does not seem unfriendly. Only stern.<br/>
<br/>
He rises, and you see he is dressed in long robes of white and gold. He is very short, and he rocks as though he suffers a limp as he steps around the pedestal to approach you. His hands are behind his back, and he looks up at you thoughtfully, though his eyes still can't seem to fix upon you. <br/>
<br/>
You say nothing as he seems to search for your face. But then he speaks. "What is your name, my son?" His voice is soft, but it has a rasp of authority.<br/>
<br/>
You feel no compulsion, but you know you have to answer him. "William Prescott," you reply, though your answer doesn't seem to take the form of words.<br/>
<br/>
And then he seems to see you. His eyes focus, and his frown deepens. He looks you up and down. His hands still behind his back, he walks around you, studying you. Then he returns to his stool and again sits, but keeps his eyes fastened on you. There is no contest of wills, but you hold each other in each other's gaze. Then again he speaks softly. "That will be all. You may return whence you came."<br/>
<br/>
He fades, and the ceiling, lit by the morning sun, appears.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You feel preternatural calmness until you don the Shabbleman mask again, and then a heart tries to hammer its way out of your chest. You want to flee, you want find the edge of the earth and throw yourself into the abyss. Your hand is on the door handle before you can stop yourself. You grit your teeth, and with infinite willpower unbend your fingers from the knob.<br/>
<br/>
That seems to break the spell, and though you feel shaky, weak, and more than a little sick, you have control of yourself again. You sit on the bed with your face in your hands. What is there to be afraid of?<br/>
<br/>
Not the man you saw; there is no horror in the memory of him. Nor in the memory of the sigils. You try to peel back the nature of your feelings and can discover no cause other than an inner compulsion. You seize the remaining residue of that fear, squeeze it ... and like a candle flame it suddenly vanishes. You wonder that you ever felt it.<br/>
<br/>
The mystery of the attack could have left you bemused, but you set it aside for other business, for you have a sudden hunch about the nature of the dream last night. Or, at any rate, about the first part of it. You pay for another night's rent of the room, and then, sticking to back streets as much as possible, drive around town and pick up the supplies you'll need to make a mask. You've never made one of course, but you know exactly what is needed.<br/>
<br/>
A few hours later, back in the hotel room, you finish making the sigil, pour out the ingredients in the prescribed manner, set them aflame, and then take up the face-shaped oval that results. You know that what you did should have been impossible: only the sigil contained in the <i>Libra Personae</i> should have worked, but somehow you knew that you would be able to work the spell without the book. Sadly, you also know it will take many hours of buffing to make it useful.<br/>
<br/>
So you set to work, slowly at first, and then with greater speed. Your arms and hands soon ache, so you divest yourself of the Shabbleman mask and resume work. In this disembodied state, you discover, you can work tirelessly, without fatigue or boredom. More quickly, too, and your stone-like fingers are soon vibrating with an inhuman speed. Intuitively, you realize it should take you days, as a human with the need to eat and sleep and take breaks from the tedium, to finish a mask; but you complete it in less than five hours of nonstop work.<br/>
<br/>
So, you reflect impassively, you now have a mask. But it needs an image. For some time you have been hearing noises from the room next door, seeping easily through the thin walls. It would be easy to take the form of someone here at this motel; anonymity might serve you perfectly well. But it might be easier to insinuate your way back into Blackwell's if you took the form of someone close to him ... or to the golem Will Prescott.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111221121
author_id: seuzz
title: Black Ops
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Resuming the façade of Will Shabbleman, you amble to the unit next door and knock on the door. There's a scrambling noise, and the door opens slightly. It's a black man, tall and burly, and he gives you a hostile glance. "Yo, man, you got any drugs?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck?" he says.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm serious, man, come on. Anything."<br/>
<br/>
"Get the fuck outta here." He slams the door in your face, but you wedge your foot inside. <br/>
<br/>
"Don't be that way, man. Be cool."<br/>
<br/>
He hurls the door open, grabs you by the collar, and pulls you in. You smile up as he snarls, swings a massive fist at you. You jerk your head to the side, and as his fist flies past you reach up and press the mask to his face. He collapses.<br/>
<br/>
Quickly you pull off all his clothes—black sweat pants, white wifebeater, sneakers—and gather up his belongings and hurl them into his small suitcase. You even gather up his toiletries from the tiny bathroom. There's not much, and you're able to stash them in your room and get back long before the mask reappears on his face. You pick it up and retreat into your room, and back into your own bathroom.<br/>
<br/>
Behind two closed doors you swap out Shabbleman's face for the stranger's. The mask, of course, carries no memories or personality, so you only know the new face that stares back at you—strong and heavy-set and definitely not to be fucked with—as "black dude." You're in his clothes and have just snapped his watch into place when you hear your own front door burst open. "Yo, motherfucker!" a really pissed-off voice calls. <br/>
<br/>
You smile briefly to yourself, then set your own face in stone before stepping back into the bedroom. Your victim—naked, of course—swings around when he hears you—<br/>
<br/>
And freezes—<br/>
<br/>
And to his immense credit does not faint dead away. But his features do sag, and the whites show around his eyes. "The fuck," he stammers.<br/>
<br/>
"Yo, you lookin' for a little fun, cocksucker?" you jeer. "I got your fun right here." You clutch your crotch.<br/>
<br/>
He takes two steps back and looks wildly around.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you wanna fuck, man?" you demand. "Come bustin' in here wi'out any clothes on. Come over here."<br/>
<br/>
He's back at the doorway now. His eyes fall on his things, which are strewed out on your bed. Some kind of realization—though nothing like understanding—breaks across his face, and he takes another step back, into the still-open doorway.<br/>
<br/>
You stare hard at him. "Get the fuck outta here," you tell him softly. "Before I <i>totally</i> fuck you up."<br/>
<br/>
He runs from the room.<br/>
<br/>
You chuckle to yourself after he's gone; ain't gonna be any fun being a naked black guy running down the street gibbering about shapeshifters, but you'll need to get away before anyone checks around. So you sweep up his stuff, find his car, and drive over to a motel two miles away and check in there; then you switch into Shabbleman mode, skulk your way back to pick up your car, and move it, too. By nightfall you feel safely out of reach.<br/>
<br/>
Out of a sense of curiosity only you snoop through your victim's stuff: nothing but clothes, a true-crime paperback, and sundries. His driver's license gives you the name Theodore Benjamin Smith, of Little Rock. You wonder briefly what his business in Saratoga Falls might be. There's nothing to suggest he's anything other than a regular but impoverished citizen.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wait until it's good and dark before venturing out, and then, having dressed in dark clothes, you drive out to Blackwell's. You park far down the street, behind a curve in the street, and make your way to the villa while avoiding the few streetlights out here in the countryside. The high wall that surrounds his house cuts off most of the light, but you can still make out a glow over its top.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell's car is the only one out front, but that doesn't mean he's alone. You skirt the wall around to the side that faces the library and lift yourself to the top. The curtains are open and lights blaze from the room. Blackwell sits alone at a table, surrounded by open books, reading and taking occasional notes. Quite often he sits back to stare thoughtfully, and more than once you shrink back in fear that he has seen you. But always he returns to his work.<br/>
<br/>
Your vigil continues for nearly an hour, but no one else appears. And at the end of it, Blackwell rises, stretches and pads from the room. A few minutes later he reappears, and though he is quite far away and separated from you by glass windows, you can see that he has a mask in his hand. He turns off most of the lights in the library, and leaves.<br/>
<br/>
You go back around to the front of the house and sneak onto the grounds close enough to peer through the living room windows. There is a glow that you recognize as coming from the TV, and the black blob near the window tells you that he is sitting on the sofa and watching it. He is almost certainly done with his research for the night.<br/>
<br/>
You are deeply curious to see what he was studying; and you'd like to lift a couple of books off him. Probably you can sneak into the library fast enough to make off with his notes, at least, and maybe a tome or two. But maybe you should play it safe and just go back to the motel.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112211211
author_id: seuzz
title: Two Chases
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Carefully you edge your way to the French windows that open into the library and rest your fingers on the handle. You feel a shock but ignore it as you silently pull the doors open. Then you are inside the library.<br/>
<br/>
You are reminded again of how uncanny the room is, with its ticking clocks and loosey-goosey geometry. But you put your feelings firmly behind you and tiptoe over to Blackwell's table. <br/>
<br/>
There are half a dozen books piled up, and a sheaf of notes. You twist your head to peer at the latter, but are rewarded only with a jumble of symbols. You pull some of the sheets back, disclosing only more symbols, but running along the top of one page is a single legible word: <i>Essentia.</i><br/>
<br/>
You frown and turn to the books. It is too much to hope that the <i>Libra</i> is there, though your ability to use the first seven spells without the book means you are more interested in robbing Blackwell of its use than in using it yourself. You carefully lift their covers to study their title pages; but most of them simply launch into hard-to-read text without preamble. But one of them does have a title page, and its title chimes with the word you saw in his notes: <i>De Essentia.</i><br/>
<br/>
You pick it up and tuck it under your arm. As you do so, you feel a prickle at the back of your neck. You turn.<br/>
<br/>
The vampire-cyclops monkey is staring at you. <br/>
<br/>
There's no other way to characterize it. The thing is always unnerving to look at, and it always gives the impression that it is watching the room and its occupants. But at this moment the feeling is so intense that you expect to see it shift on its pedestal.<br/>
<br/>
Something in your spirit cracks, and you run back to the French door.<br/>
<br/>
It is closed, and the handle will not turn.<br/>
<br/>
You lick your lips and try again. Still, it will not budge, even by a micrometer. You release it, and look back over your shoulder nervously. Can you make it out the front door without being seen?<br/>
<br/>
Then out of the corner of your eye you catch a movement. The handle has jiggled. It twists, and the door slowly opens. But though you have the light of the library streaming out from behind you, it opens into inky darkness.<br/>
<br/>
You can only be reminded of the blackness that engulfed the workroom door on the night that you ... that you ...<br/>
<br/>
Probably you should run the other way. But you got through it once before (didn't you?), so you duck your head and charge into the nothingness.<br/>
<br/>
There's a horrible chittering sound, and a snicker-snack like metal. Things, sharp things, like blades, brush against your bare arms. Blindly, frantically, you run on, faster and faster, feeling the soft ground give beneath your feet. Hard things bark at your shins, but you keep your footing. You weave and topple, and you lose all sense of direction, and then something solid smashes into your face.<br/>
<br/>
You look up and around. You are in the garden, and you've run face first into the wall. <br/>
<br/>
A hard light suddenly reflects off the wall, and you turn to see that the library lights have blazed on. You sprint off to the side, hugging the wall, until you come to the front gate. It won't give. A rustle, like leaves or thousands of wings, rises behind you, and you flee again. A small white building—the mausoleum—looms, and you duck behind it.<br/>
<br/>
You sag against it, facing the wall, which glows faintly in the light. Sounds of pursuit die away at first, and then you hear the crunch of feet on grass. They walk about, deliberately, then pause. More steps, closer, and another pause. They move off in another direction, and pause. A very long pause. Then they retreat until they are no longer audible.<br/>
<br/>
You would sigh in relief, but now something even more horrible appears.<br/>
<br/>
Shadows on the wall in front of you. A long limb with a claw-like hand. The limb bends, and bends again, and you gape to realize it has two elbows. Another limb appears. And whatever is casting those shadows is behind you, and reaching for you from both sides of the mausoleum.<br/>
<br/>
You hurl the book over the wall and leap after it, pulling yourself up. A hand with a grip like iron seizes your ankle, but you pull and strain against it, lifting yourself to the top of the wall. For a moment, as you raise yourself, you lose your balance, and the thing almost pulls you back down. But you kick with the heel of your free foot, and connect with something yielding. There is a snarl; the thing lets you go; and then you are over the wall.<br/>
<br/>
Pausing only long enough to scoop up your prize, you sprint back to your car.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You drove off quickly, to avoid any possible pursuit, until you got closer to town, and then you pulled up next to a tract house and leaned against the wheel until your nerves mostly stopped vibrating. Whatever the thing was back at the house ... Well, now you've got another grudge against Blackwell, for not telling you about it. Though maybe that is part of the design. If you knew what it was, it might be easier to face.<br/>
<br/>
And then you examine yourself. You fully expect to find gaping wounds in your biceps, blood, and flesh hanging in ribbons. But you've not even any scratches.<br/>
<br/>
So, you've escaped, intact, and you've even scored a prize. You just hope it's not of the booby variety as you drive back to the motel.<br/>
<br/>
The lights are on in the office and in a couple of the rental units, but there are no other cars except for Shabbleman's green Corvette. You don't park in front of your unit, though, since it seems better to not suggest which unit goes with the car you've stolen. You trudge back across the open lot, skirting the empty pool, with the <i>De Essentia</i> in your hand.<br/>
<br/>
And as you step up to your door with the key, the book begins to prickle in your grasp.<br/>
<br/>
You've no idea why you react as you do, but with a sudden instinct you jump away from the door and run off toward the street. You hear the door swing open behind you as you run, and a voice shouts something unintelligible. You don't look back, though, but instead dash out around the office and into an alley. A chain link fence looms and you clamber over it. Too late you realize that the trash dumpster on the other side has its top open, and you tumble in.<br/>
<br/>
But maybe that proves your salvation. From inside the container you hear running footsteps and the rattle of the fence; heavy footfalls then announce that the pursuit has dropped to earth just outside your hiding place. You hear panting, and two voices speak.<br/>
<br/>
"A <i>tree</i> could have heard you breathing, Frank," says one.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, bite me, Joe," says the other. "He probably saw you through the window."<br/>
<br/>
"The curtains were closed," the other voice retorts. "You were right next to the door. Maybe he smelled you. Don't you Mediterraneans ever bathe?"<br/>
<br/>
"When we get back to the room I'll let you lick me clean."<br/>
<br/>
Though the words are harsh, there is no malice in the voices.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, we must have the right place," the first voice sighs. "Something warned him off, and all ribbing aside, we definitely had the drop on him."<br/>
<br/>
"It was a good plan, Joe," the other says. "I wish I'd come up with it."<br/>
<br/>
"Just a variation on the ambush you pulled on the relic-traffickers back in Santiago, Frank. I only crib from the best."<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks, man." The second voice sounds quietly flattered. "I'd slip you some tongue but I only love you like a brother."<br/>
<br/>
Who <i>are</i> these guys?<br/>
<br/>
"Well, fuck," says the first voice with a sigh that yet manages to lack any suggestion of despondency. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Golly gee whiz and Mary Mary, quite contrary. Hokey smoke and gosh darn it to the barbecue grills of heck."<br/>
<br/>
"Careful, Joe," the other says, and there is a severe warning in its voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Alright," says the first voice, sounding genuinely contrite. "Let's check out his pimp-mobile and then, I dunno, pick up a whore for the night. Saving a soul would be just the thing to cheer me up after a long night running around with our cocks flapping in the breeze."<br/>
<br/>
Again, footsteps fade into silence.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112211212
author_id: seuzz
title: Hardy Har Har
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Your decision to get away from the house seems wise after an adventure at the wall. Avoiding the front gate, you'd trotted over to an empty space by the wall and leaped to grasp the top. But as you pulled yourself up your jeans snagged on something. You yanked and pulled, but you couldn't get loose. Fear suddenly seized you when you remembered that you chose a spot on the wall that had no bushes near it. Blackwell hasn't a dog, and you'd heard no barking. And yet something has seized you.<br/>
<br/>
Luckily, the form you have stolen is strong, and you manage to get your chest onto the wall despite the strong counter-tug. Once there you are able to pull yourself up further until gravity begins to help. There's a tearing and shredding sound as you topple over the wall, face-first, into the dirt on the other side, and then you're up and sprinting fast down the road back to your car. Only after you are back in town do you look down and find that your pants leg is torn completely away from the knee down.<br/>
<br/>
But you're away, though not appreciably wiser for your reconnaissance mission than you were before. It appears that Shabbleman is either not in residence at Blackwell's, or he is semi-confined to another room. Blackwell took greater interest in your education during your brief time with him; you are now thoroughly puzzled as to how he intends to educate Shabbleman ... if educating him is indeed his plan.<br/>
<br/>
You are mulling these thoughts as you open the door to your room and step in. You flick on the light. You find you are not alone.<br/>
<br/>
The other person grins at you from the far side of the room. He is young, scarcely more than a kid, with longish blonde hair, but he looks utterly self-possessed. "Hey Frank," he cheerfully says. "Check it out. We didn't fuck up for once."<br/>
<br/>
You open your mouth, and then something very dark and close goes over your head, and you know nothing more.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
No time seems to have passed, and you don't even feel like you have been unconscious, when the lights come back on. You find that you are sitting at the foot of your bed. Your feet are bound together, and your arms are also bound, at the wrists and at the elbows, behind your back. You blink stupidly.<br/>
<br/>
The blonde kid is sitting on the floor with his knees up by his chin and his arms looped around his legs. He grins up at you with an open and friendly countenance. Leaning on the wall beside him is another youth, dark-haired, with a rather more saturnine expression. As you shift on the bed, he casts aside a bag that looks like it is made of a silvery cloth and bends forward to study your face. Puzzlement turns to wonder and then to admiration. A smile creeps onto his face. "How does it come off?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
You blink and lick your lips. "How does what come off," you truculently demand.<br/>
<br/>
"This," he says, and waves his fingers in front of his face. "It's amazing."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck are you talking about?"<br/>
<br/>
The blond kid laughs, but there's no meanness in it. "You don't actually expect him to give up all his secrets, at least not yet, do you, Frank?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, there's no harm in asking, Joe," the other replies over his shoulder. "Besides, I'm actually paying him a compliment." He turns back to you. "It really is the goddamnest thing I've ever seen. You should be proud."<br/>
<br/>
"I might be, if I knew what you cocksuckers were talking about," you growl.<br/>
<br/>
The dark-haired one—Frank, apparently, is his name—studies you closely, and his face grows more grave. "You don't suppose we did cock it up," he says out of the side of his mouth to the other.<br/>
<br/>
The blonde one—Joe—pulls something out of his hip pocket. It looks like a little gold plate. It has no groove or marking that you can see, but a bead like quicksilver slides around its surface. He tilts it this way and that, making it trace out a complicated path, and watches it intently, pausing only occasionally to stare up hard at you. His concentration is such that his tongue soon protrudes from between his lips. Eventually the bead comes to a resting place and he makes a clucking sound. "It's gotta be him," he says with a sigh. "Unless he's actually under the bed."<br/>
<br/>
"Not likely, Joe," says Frank. "I looked there during our search, and though it was fucking disgusting there was nothing hidden under it. This motel, I may also say, doesn't seem like the sort to have trapdoors or other hidden crevices."<br/>
<br/>
"You can never be sure," Joe says from under arched eyebrows. "Remember that bed-and-breakfast in Amityville? If I hadn't pulled at that knothole those smugglers—"<br/>
<br/>
"What are you, the fucking Hardy boys," you interrupt. Your captors stare a moment, then burst out laughing.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I guess you could call us that," Joe grins. "We <i>are</i> fans, and sometimes we get a little <i>too much</i> in character. My name's actually Franz and my friend here is Giuseppe. Technically, that means I should be Frank and he should be Joe, but the Hardy names seem to fit us better the other way around." You blink; his smile fades not a bit. "And what's your name, sunshine?"<br/>
<br/>
"Theodore Smith," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
"Doubtful," Frank chuckles. "Extremely doubtful."<br/>
<br/>
"Fucking doubtful," echoes Joe. "That's not even your real face."<br/>
<br/>
"Then whose is it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Theodore Smith's?" Joe replies, and his smile widens.<br/>
<br/>
Frank sighs and pulls out a cigarette. He lights it, takes a drag, and hands it to Joe. The other takes a long drag, crinkles his eyes, and peers at you with a sharp though merry expression. "Try not to have too much fun," he says as he hands it back to Frank.<br/>
<br/>
His partner puts a hand on his knee and leans toward you. He touches your cheek with the burning tip.<br/>
<br/>
"Fucking hell," you scream, and jerk away. Frank takes another drag, blows the smoke sideways, and leans in again. You scramble away, but—though you don't see how he does it—he has the cigarette back on your cheek. Again, you yowl.<br/>
<br/>
"I gotta carton of these back in the truck," Frank says in a weary tone. "They're fucking bad for my health—" He passes it back to Joe, who takes another cheerful drag, leans back, and blows a long stream toward the ceiling. "But they're worse for yours. And I'm not talking about second-hand smoke.<br/>
<br/>
"So come on, <i>Theodore.</i> Be a pal and tell us how to take the mask off you."</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111221122
author_id: seuzz
title: A Fork in Your Plans
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Problem is, you don't have a mind strip, so you couldn't copy and convincingly replace one of your old friends or classmates ...<br/>
<br/>
But, glancing at your bag of supplies, you reflect that you could make one quite easily. The curtain rod could certainly be pressed into service for the basic strip, and a nail would do as well as a chisel at carving the runes ...<br/>
<br/>
But that would take time. You are feeling anxious to start making moves ...<br/>
<br/>
But you shouldn't go off half-cocked ...<br/>
<br/>
But why do you need the mind and personality of one of your classmates? All that matters is that Blackwell and/or Shabbleman take you for one of your peers, and for that you just need a plausible face ...<br/>
<br/>
And you don't even need to go to Westside to find a plausible form. Eastman High is only a few blocks away ...<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112211221
author_id: seuzz
title: Cops (?)
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You set to work without bothering to put the Shabbleman face back on, figuring that speed is of the essence. In actuality, you find that can't move that much more quickly through the new spells, for they require careful finesse. But your thick, stony fingers are surprisingly deft at the delicate runework, so you still keep to your bare golem form. It takes you almost three hours of unremitting labor to finish a mind band and attach it to the new mask, but now you have a device that will not only copy the form of another person, it will give you their memory and personality traits, allowing you to mimic them exactly.<br/>
<br/>
But who will you use it on?<br/>
<br/>
You didn't tell Blackwell much about your social life at school, and you doubt he has snooped through the golem's head to learn much about it. And so there wouldn't be much point to making off with the form and persona of your friends Caleb or Keith, or your brother Robert, or ... your ex-girlfriend, Lisa?<br/>
<br/>
Or would there? You mull the latter possibility. Being formerly your girlfriend means you might plausibly show up at Blackwell's in order to look for Prescott. More plausibly, you could use her visage to get close to the Prescott golem again and manipulate it into taking you to Blackwell's. And being your "ex" means there's little chance the real Lisa would show up to interfere.<br/>
<br/>
But maybe you're just using all these rationalizations as an excuse to get in her head and snoop around. Probably it would be better to approach Blackwell more directly by taking the form of one of his university students.<br/>
<br/>
You are sitting very quietly in the corner of the room, holding the just-completed mask and contemplating these possibilities, when the door suddenly bursts open. Before you can even twitch two figures roll into the room and unfold in crouched positions, brandishing pistols. They swing their guns this way and that, and one of them crabwalks over to take cover behind the bed. He hisses between his teeth and the other trots around to cover the bathroom with his gun.<br/>
<br/>
They pay absolutely no attention to you.<br/>
<br/>
You were so startled at their interruption that you didn't even move, and that was probably your immediate salvation, for you quickly realized that they weren't going to recognize the stone-like figure in the corner as a threat. And so, keeping stock still, you'd watched with growing bemusement as they acted out their SWAT team antics.<br/>
<br/>
Not that they seemed like amateurs; they moved with lithe and confident assurance as they swept the room. But they also looked very young: barely out of high school in the case of the dark-haired one, and maybe still in it in the case of the blonde one. Their clothing was also incongruous: loose khaki slacks, muscle shirts, and sneakers. The dark one sported a bandana. But they also didn't look like gangbangers. Undercover policeman, maybe? It's a sleazy neighborhood.<br/>
<br/>
Apparently satisfied that there are no immediate threats, the blonde one tucks his weapon into a shoulder holster and begins to search the room more thoroughly; the other keeps his gun out and carefully stands in such a way that he can cover his partner. They talk in light tones after the blonde one closes the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Any monsters under here?" he calls in a melodious voice as he kneels by the bed and twitches up the bedspread. "No, the tentacled horrors must be under the sink, but—Ewwwww! Tissues! Wadded up tissues!" He sweeps his hand under the bed. "Probably souvenirs left by a hooker who turned her last trick in the Carter Administration, but I s'pose we need to treat 'em as evidence anyway."<br/>
<br/>
"Better strip it too, Joe," says the other. "Remember when we found that fake Shroud of Turin stashed between those bedsheets in Bologna?"<br/>
<br/>
"Do I!" the one named Joe exclaims. "I was the one who had to wash the nocturnal stains off it after the archbishop found those firecrackers in my desk." He tears the sheets off. "Away foul demons of the night!" he cries. "Away succubae, incubi, and infernal imps, you know the ones I'm talking about, who that love to unhook hospital corners while you're trying to sleep off a hangover! Augh!" He claps his hand over his nose and mouth, and the other also winces. "Look at that mattress, Frank! If we cut it open we'll find the still-putrescent corpse of Judith Exner inside it, I just know."<br/>
<br/>
"We'll worry about that when the time comes," says Frank. "Check out the bathroom."<br/>
<br/>
Joe complies, to rummage and shout indistinct observations that Frank only answers with grunts. The latter turns his attention toward you, staring thoughtfully, when he isn't glancing at the door.<br/>
<br/>
Joe finally emerges from the bathroom. "Nothing," he says. "Even the 'Sanitized' strip, though obviously a lie, is still on the toilet."<br/>
<br/>
"I'd suspect we had the wrong room," says Frank, "but for the décor." He nods at you and gestures at the mask that you hold. "Halloween comes earlier and earlier each year, it seems."<br/>
<br/>
"You've noticed too? Glad I'm not the only one," Joe concurs.<br/>
<br/>
"You're coming earlier and earlier?" Frank teases. "Too much information, brother." Joe elbows him playfully in the arm.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I suppose even this guy has to step out for a burger or a coffee or a smoke sometimes," Frank sighs after a lapse in the banter. <br/>
<br/>
"Ambush, then?" Joe asks. "You behind the door, me by the bathroom to distract him as he comes in?"<br/>
<br/>
"I like the concept," Frank says. "But I'm thinking—" He nods at you. "Let's go ahead and stash his stuff in the truck. Save us time afterward."<br/>
<br/>
"We could study it while we wait," Joe says. "We don't often make this rich a haul in a raid, and these masks are obviously a big score."<br/>
<br/>
Frank frowns as he shakes his head. "We're under strict orders just to bring him in. This guy is something out of the ordinary run. More necromancer than magician, by the sound of it. The masks are especially dangerous."<br/>
<br/>
"That's what makes 'em attractive," Joe grins, then shrugs sheepishly at the silent but sharp rebuke his joke has earned him.<br/>
<br/>
You will yourself into absolute immobility as, grunting heavily, they lift and carry you out to a white pick up, in whose bed they deposit you. They carefully pry the unmade mask from your grasp and set it and the Shabbleman mask by your head. <br/>
<br/>
"First thing he'll see is that his lawn gnome has wandered off," Frank observes. "That'll stop him in his tracks, and that's when I can pop him from behind."<br/>
<br/>
"Where will I be while you're earning yourself another commendation?" Joe asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Out here in the truck. You'll see him come in, and follow. If he resists, you can come in and help, and if gets away from me, you'll be able to intercept him at the door. Placement will be better that way, than with you on the same side of the exit as me."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay then. I'll just hop back here and catch some late afternoon rays." Dusk is well progressed by now, actually. The truck creaks as Joe pulls himself into the bed and slumps down beside you. He nudges you in the ribs. "Don't think I'm coming on to you," he chortles, "but <i>man,</i> you are <i>cut.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
He falls silent; presumably Frank is now inside your room.<br/>
<br/>
You haven't been able to glean much from the conversation. They don't sound like ordinary cops, but if they hadn't made a fuss about "necromancer" and your masks you'd have to conclude that they stumbled onto your room by accident while looking for a drug dealer or something. In fact, you still suspect that you (and they) have been the victim of some really unfortunate coincidence. <br/>
<br/>
But they're not going to wait at your room forever for its occupant to return. (Are they?) But when they leave they will probably take you with them. That would be one way of finding out what is going on with them. But you also have that mask, and one of them is sitting next to you, completely unaware that you are animate. You could use the mask to copy him and then make a quick escape. Yet that would mean you couldn't use the mask to get to Blackwell. And these guys might just only be street cops with a peculiar sense of humor.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112211222
author_id: seuzz
title: The Frying Pan, or the Fire?
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You drive over to Eastman and park in front of the strip center across from the main building. Class will have already let out, but all the clubs will still be going, and you figure that will actually make it easier to grab a face; less chance of witnesses.<br/>
<br/>
There are two knots of students out front, but you skirt around one of the wings, hoping to catch a laggard taking a smoke in a remote corner. There's no one behind the first wing; and no one behind the second; but then behind the third ...<br/>
<br/>
Good, a single student, male, crouching by the wall. You want a guy, because then you won't have to change clothes. He hears you coming, and a pale, dirty face turns up to scowl at you. He starts to rise, and he smacks right into the mask.<br/>
<br/>
You crouch next to him, shielding his prone body from any onlookers. There is nothing very special about his face or his clothes or his limp brown hair. In fact, the most striking thing about him is that he doesn't look like a stoner, and he is well dressed and groomed. Why is he lurking out here? You look more closely at him, and at the dark splotches under his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
It hits you: He'd been out here crying.<br/>
<br/>
Well, you've seen it before at Westside, so why should it be a shock to find it here at Eastman? A girl, a bully, a seriously bad grade, home life ... So many things.<br/>
<br/>
Still, in the larger scheme, it is almost certainly one of the more trivial things, whatever it is.<br/>
<br/>
The mask reappears and you tuck it under your shirt. You back away, turn around, and walk straight into a teacher.<br/>
<br/>
He's half a head taller than you, with a strong, no-nonsense glare on his face. "What are you doing back here?" he demands. <br/>
<br/>
"Uh, just cutting around one of the wings?" you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Where'd you just get out of?" He puts a strong hand on your shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh ..."<br/>
<br/>
His eyes freeze. "You a student here?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"You sign in at the office?" His grip on your shoulder tightens. Something about his bearing screams "ex-military," and hence not someone to try bolting around or fucking with. His mouth tightens at your silence. "Get to the office and explain yourself," he growls.<br/>
<br/>
You swallow and step around to and through the door he has just exited. A dozen steps down the hall, you look back to find him watching you, hands on hips. Head down, you search out the main office.<br/>
<br/>
Which, as it happens, is just around the corner.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm a visitor and I gotta sign in," you mumble at the secretary. She waves at you distractedly to sit down and turns back to jabber into a phone. You slump into a chair.<br/>
<br/>
A minute later the door opens and another man sweeps through. You try to catch his eye but he brushes past without a glance, to open and rifle through a filing cabinet. Only two people, and neither can spare a moment to get you to sign a piece of paper? Bureaucracy!<br/>
<br/>
You sigh and cross your legs, and glance up only briefly when the door opens again. A student in a basketball uniform breezes in and leans against the counter. "Coach needs the spare key to the supply room," he calls to the man at the filing cabinet.<br/>
<br/>
"Coach needs to remember to bring his own keys from home," the man barks in reply.<br/>
<br/>
"Coach needs to remember to not forget to remember to not forget to remember to bring his own keys from home," the ballplayer laughs. "It's too much for the man." The vice-principal (or whoever it is) glances over his shoulder with a wry look. "Anyway," the ballplayer continues, "he'll never learn until you stop enabling his forgetfulness." <br/>
<br/>
The vice-principal barks a quick laugh. "Take a seat, Durras," he says. "I'll have the key for the coach in about, oh, twenty minutes."<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks," Durras says. "He's got the others running laps 'til I get back. If they murder him, your problem and ours will all be solved."<br/>
<br/>
He plops down next to you, and you glance at each other. Roses blush in his cheeks from under a light tan, and his stiff, wiry blond hair sticks out in every which direction. There's a satirical gleam in his eye, but it doesn't rest on you long. He stretches out his legs—he's actually rather short for a ball-player—and taps absentmindedly on the arm of the chair. After a minute he pulls a little puzzle game from pocket and starts playing with it.<br/>
<br/>
You would hardly pay attention to him but for the fact that you keep catching his glances in your direction. At first it just seems like a tic, as though he's just raising his head from his game, but the stares become longer and more pronounced. Finally, you return one of his stares. He's looking at you with an intensely quizzical expression, as though your presence astonishes him. You glare back evenly, until he blinks and returns to his game.<br/>
<br/>
You look down at it. He holds a golden disc, not much bigger than a saucer, atop which plays a little silvery bead; he guides the latter over its golden surface by tilting the disc. You can only barely make out faint traceries on the disc, and it is these that the bead seems to be following. You can't figure out how the game works or what the object is, but Durras is completely absorbed in it—except for those moments when he gives a little exclamation and raises his head to stare at you.<br/>
<br/>
Soon you are completely unnerved. You leap to your feet and stalk to the desk. "I was supposed to sign in here and then sign out, but I can't wait for you fuckers to get your shit together, so I'm outta here," you snarl. The two bureaucrats look at you in surprise, but neither says anything. It's a satisfying moment ...<br/>
<br/>
Or was, until you look at Durras. <br/>
<br/>
His mouth is hanging open and his eyes are shining. He is staring at you hungrily. He grins.<br/>
<br/>
And then he raises his hand, shapes it as a pistol, drops his thumb, and mouths a silent "Pow!"<br/>
<br/>
You could swear you feel something like a BB hit you between the eyebrows.<br/>
<br/>
You bolt from the school.<br/>
<br/>
Back at the strip center you don't even pause to find your car, but duck into a comic book store, hide behind a shelf, and quickly change masks. You turn to leave the store in your new disguise but freeze as two figures run past. Both are dressed out as Eastman basketball players, and one of them is clearly Durras. <br/>
<br/>
You bury your face against a shelf of Marvel titles. You wait, you pray, you fidget—<br/>
<br/>
You wince at the sound of the bell on the door.<br/>
<br/>
"I am full of grace, my brother," a voice says from the front. You grit your teeth: Durras.<br/>
<br/>
"You're full of something, Joe," comes a reply. You turn, pretending that you are searching out the store, and see that, yes, it's the two ball players. The other one is a little taller than Durras, and he is much more darkly complected. <br/>
<br/>
"To have him walk into the school and sit down right next me," Durras says. His smile is manic, and his eyes roll heavenward. <br/>
<br/>
"You're always seeing miracles," the other snaps. He glances around, catches your eye, and gives a brief, familiar nod. "Remember the face you found in the tortilla?"<br/>
<br/>
"So it was Paris Hilton and not the Madonna," Durras shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
"And it was a marketing stunt."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah, but remember the ring we found in the fish we bought? The ring we needed to unseal that secret compartment?"<br/>
<br/>
"The ring that still had a finger in it. Even when your 'miracles' come off they always have a catch."<br/>
<br/>
You don't want to brush past these guys, since one of them seems to know the face you picked up, so you snatch a book off the shelf and hunch your shoulders.<br/>
<br/>
"We know he's close, Frank," Durras says. "Really, how miraculous <i>would</i> it be for him to walk into the school where we're operating under cover?"<br/>
<br/>
"If it's not too miraculous, then it's not a miracle."<br/>
<br/>
"Heads you win, tails I lose," Durras says irritably. "You're as bad as the Atheistical Scotsman."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, come on. Ain't no one in here but Black anyway. Even if he was here, he's long gone now. We need to get back to the gym and come up with an excuse for running out. By the way, you get the key for the coach?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like I sorta told Bennett, if White wants his post-practice booze, he needs to remember to not forget to remember to not forget to—"<br/>
<br/>
The bell on the door jingles again, and the voices are cut off.<br/>
<br/>
You let out a sigh of relief, and open your eyes. To your horror, you discover you've been holding a trade paperback of <i>Mary Worth</i> reprints.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You've no idea who those guys are, or why they unnerve you so much, but you are definitely aghast at the implication that they can recognize you even under a mask. It's almost enough to send you scurrying back to Blackwell, to get his protection from them.<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe it actually <i>is</i> enough.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122112221
author_id: seuzz
title: Role-playing Roulette
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You drive nervously around town for a bit, and actually catch yourself turning down the road that leads to Blackwell's, before you are able to think rationally and calmly. There was something uncanny about the pursuit from Eastman, but did it really have something to do with <i>you?</i> After all, you were wearing the face and form of Will Shabbleman, a person who comes from a sinister family in Cuthbert. Odd it may be that students from Eastman would recognize and give chase to him, but it is surely less odd than your initial impression that they had recognized <i>you</i> under a perfect disguise.<br/>
<br/>
That doesn't explain the one kid's odd remark about being "undercover" at Eastman; why would someone, even someone chasing Will Shabbleman, be undercover at Eastman, which has no connection to Shabbleman at all, even indirectly? But come to that, if they're after you, why would they be undercover at Eastman when you attended Westside?<br/>
<br/>
Either way, their reasons for pursuing you are completely opaque. Maybe it was just a case of mistaken identity on their part? Nothing to worry about?<br/>
<br/>
You drive back into town proper. There's no reason to work yourself into such a dither that you have to go running back to Blackwell for protection. But maybe you shouldn't forget about it completely, either.<br/>
<br/>
Your current mask has no memories associated with your victim, so you know nothing about the basketball team at Eastman or its players. Poor it may be, but you can think of no better starting point for an investigation than the library and its internet connections.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Since Shabbleman's face is known and of interest to everyone you are trying to avoid, you stick with the face of this "Black" person. It's still dangerous to be out in public, you feel, so you hunch down next to the furthest terminal in the computer room at the library.<br/>
<br/>
The Eastman website returns very meager information: a photograph of the current team, in which you recognize the two guys who chased you. They are identified as Frank and Joe Durras, both seniors. They look nothing alike, but the names argue that they are related. Perhaps one (or both) are adopted. You dig a little deeper into the Eastman site, but find nothing else.<br/>
<br/>
Next follows a Google search, which yields the shortest results pages you've ever seen: an insurance agent and a resident of Cocoa Beach; and the latter proves to be a mistake as the man's name is "Dumas." (The search even fails to return the Eastman High pages.) What self-respecting high school athlete-seniors even fail to have a Facebook page?<br/>
<br/>
You are drumming your fingers on the edge of the table and frowning when a shadow appears in the glass of the monitor. You start to find the targets of your search materializing next to you. "Hey, Black," Frank Durras says with friendly cheer. "Thought we'd find you here. You ready for Cussler's test tomorrow?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, well, kind of. Jerking off, actually." You quickly close the web browser window.<br/>
<br/>
Frank drops down into the chair next to you; Joe pulls up a chair from the opposite side of the room and wedges you in from the other side. "How're your notes," the latter asks. "I stopped paying attention 'round about the time of the Mexican War. Where's your stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
"Back over that way." You nod vaguely off toward the stacks. "Listen, I'm actually late, I gotta get home—"<br/>
<br/>
You start to rise, but Frank stops you with a heavy hand to your shoulder. "Listen, dude, I just wanna tell you we're really sorry to hear about you and Jenny breaking up," he says softly, and his eyes are warm with compassion. "It was a fucked up scene, and everyone is pretty pissed at her."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Ah. Was </i>that<i> the story behind Black's tears?</i><br/>
<br/>
"Miss Taylor's a tramp and you shoulda dumped her first," Joe says. You swing around in surprise. His voice is harsh, and his eyes are narrow and hard.<br/>
<br/>
You bite your lip. Role-playing this situation will be tricky; trickier still would be getting out of it without violating character. <i>Except you don't your character's character.</i><br/>
<br/>
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that," you say in an icy but guarded tone. You stand up. "It doesn't make things any better."<br/>
<br/>
Joe snickers—an ugly sound—and he and Frank rise in tandem to flank you.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, it's a fucked up scene," Frank says with a shark-like smile. "Especially since Jenny Taylor's been going steady with Kyle Lakewood for the past three years."<br/>
<br/>
Your heart skips. <br/>
<br/>
"Also, Cussler gave her test two days ago," Joe adds.<br/>
<br/>
"And you don't even have her for a class, you most fortunate son of a bitch," Frank says in the tone of a man driving the final nail into a coffin with a satisfying smack.<br/>
<br/>
You shift onto your right foot, ready to run, when you feel a nudge in your ribs. "Tell me, is that thing bulletproof?" Joe asks from behind you.<br/>
<br/>
You turn, and find he has a pistol pressed against the spot where your liver would be. You lick your lips. "What are you talking about?"<br/>
<br/>
"That mask you're wearing, asshole," Joe says. His eyes glint hard. "The one that makes you look like James Black. <br/>
<br/>
"How big a hole and how many of them would I have to blow in you it before it flew off?"</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122112222
author_id: seuzz
title: The Prodigal's Return
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Blackwell is very quiet for a very long while after you have finished telling your story for the third time. He is also very pale. His eyes wander about the library and his fingers twitch. Finally he wanders over to the far side of the room, next to the grandfather clocks.<br/>
<br/>
"This is a most vexing series of developments," he says at last, clasping his hands behind his back. "Oh, I don't mean your reappearing," he hastily adds. "I can't express how delighted I am to see you again, my dear boy, even if it takes this wholly unlooked for form." Nevertheless, he swallows. "But it makes life for all of us extremely complicated."<br/>
<br/>
Night has fallen, and your spirits have fallen with it. Not that you expected to be greeted with tears and cheers, but you are dismayed by the way Blackwell seems to be carefully judging every word and gesture. It appears he is trying to figure out how to <i>handle</i> you.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I've told you my story," you snap. You are sitting at one of his tables, still wearing the face of the student you accosted. "Can you tell me yours? What have you been up to since I took that detour?"<br/>
<br/>
He starts a little. "Surely you can deduce most of what I've been 'up to'," he says, and his tone is sour. "You have been inside Will Shabbleman's head—" He nods at the Shabbleman mask lying on the table next to you. "You know that I went to Cuthbert and returned with a new adept, who happens to be a distant cousin of yours."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, but why? It's not a coincidence, I'm sure."<br/>
<br/>
"Of course not," he retorts. "After you disappeared I took your loss very keenly. I realized I wanted an adept, particularly one of your skill level. These things tend to run in the family. So I did some research and decided that in one of yours cousins I might find what I wanted. I sought one out, and settled on Mr. Shabbleman."<br/>
<br/>
"He's an untrustworthy snake, you should know."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, that was apparent the moment I met him," Blackwell snaps, sounding offended, "but I am completely confident that I can handle him." And yet he stares at the mask, and you can tell he is sorely tempted to don it himself, to explore the recesses of Shabbleman's mind. "I do wish, Mr. Prescott," he says, his eyes still locked on the mask, "that you had announced your presence at the time instead of running off. It would have simplified matters a great deal."<br/>
<br/>
"I told you," you say, trying to keep your voice even, "that it took awhile for me to figure out who I was. At first I thought I <i>was</i> Shabbleman's golem." It's a total lie, but it's the only way you can explain yourself; you don't want to admit how much you mistrust Blackwell. "It's a lucky thing I'm not back in Cuthbert."<br/>
<br/>
"I suppose it makes sense," Blackwell says, though he sounds rather skeptical. "Disoriented, you just played along with the ruse." He sniffs. "And then, if I have digested your story right, you had a brief encounter with your own golem; found a motel and made a new mask; and had the adventure with these two students at Eastman. Am I correct?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. I didn't want to take a chance on running into Shabbleman, so I made myself up a disguise."<br/>
<br/>
"And made a number of discoveries in the meantime. Very interesting discoveries, too," he muses, rubbing his chin. "Very ... <i>suggestive</i> discoveries."<br/>
<br/>
"Like what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, this ability to execute the first seven spells in the book without its aid and without any training. It seems a side effect of the way you made your escape from my nocturnal guardian. That escape, though, is itself suggestive, but not in ways I'm prepared to speculate on at the moment."<br/>
<br/>
"And what about those two guys at Eastman? Who are they? It sure felt like they were after <i>me.</i> Not this guy—" You point at your face. "And not Shabbleman, either. <i>Me.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"I've no idea," Blackwell says. "Of course, there are other magicians in the world, even associations of them, and there are those who hunt them down. Oh yes," he says as you flinch in surprise. "Do you think the Church would turn a blind eye to such as us? She has burned witches and warlocks, and she is subtle and indefatigable even in this enlightened age. But until we learn more about them I am more worried about our present situation vis-à-vis Mr. Shabbleman."<br/>
<br/>
"You're going to get rid of him, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"And why would I— Ah, but magicians are like cats, and hate sharing anything with each other," Blackwell smiles. "And you, clever Mr. Prescott, are very much a magician." You flush. "But your point is well taken," Blackwell continues. "He is rather a third wheel now, isn't he? But these things must be handled <i>delicately.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
He ruminates for awhile. And then an odd light comes into his eye, and he smiles again at you. It's not a smile you like.<br/>
<br/>
"You say you felt a great compulsion to act as my golem when you first felt yourself under Mr. Shabbleman's mask?"<br/>
<br/>
"I said I was confused."<br/>
<br/>
"Change masks for me, please. I wish to make a test."<br/>
<br/>
Reluctantly you comply, taking comfort only at the way he marvels again at the fact that even in your bare golem form you are animate.<br/>
<br/>
"Scratch your nose," he orders. You scratch it. "Did you feel compelled to follow my instruction?"<br/>
<br/>
You blink. "Um ..."<br/>
<br/>
"Very well, we'll try again. This time, tell me how hard it is to resist. Fetch me a sandwich from the kitchen." You lean back, stretch out your legs, and cross your arms insolently. "Good," he says, sounding inordinately pleased. "How hard did you have fight?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not at all. No fucking way I'd make you a sandwich."<br/>
<br/>
He chuckles. "This is actually quite good. For you see, I have it in mind to place you as a <i>spy</i> in Mr. Shabbleman's company."<br/>
<br/>
"How do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you has already returned to your house, earlier this evening, wearing your face and clothes?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, and I told you how much I fucking hate that."<br/>
<br/>
"Please control your disposition to act like your cousin, Will. You are a much more pleasant young man."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you, but okay."<br/>
<br/>
"He already wants an 'assistant,' he has told me, and I'm inclined now to give him one."<br/>
<br/>
"An assistant?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, a golem of his own that he order around. He is jealous of the fact that I have several. Naturally, I demurred. Now, however—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I see." Your smile is sour. "You'll give me to him. He'll think I'm his slave—"<br/>
<br/>
"And you'll act the part. Except, of course, that you will secretly be allied with me. He needs controlling, and we must arrange our forces so that we can take him down at a moment's notice, if need be."<br/>
<br/>
You chew your lip. "And what about us? Am I still your adept? How can you give me training and lessons if I'm out being his spy?"<br/>
<br/>
"We will have to suspend your lessons for the time being."<br/>
<br/>
"I'd rather you give me an identity that lets me come out here so I can study with you. An identity as a university student, maybe."<br/>
<br/>
"But Shabbleman needs hobbling."<br/>
<br/>
You argue for some time, and end without a resolution. Instead, you remove the mask and go up to "sleep" in the bedroom, agreeing that you will come to a final decision in the morning.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're not eager to have another "dream" like you had last night, so you don't try to advance time toward the morning, and pass a mostly contented night by standing in the corner. You ignore the sound of something big and heavy running up and down the corridors; you also ignore the shouts that seem to come from outside the house at around two o'clock in the morning.<br/>
<br/>
Not long after dawn breaks, Blackwell, still in his dressing gown, enters the bedroom without knocking. "Shabbleman is on his way over," he says brusquely. "I need to know what to tell him."</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111221122221
author_id: seuzz
title: A Nervous Breakdown
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I want to see him," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell blinks. "What?"<br/>
<br/>
"I want to see him. I have to see him before I decide."<br/>
<br/>
"That would defeat the entire purpose of the masquerade!"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not going to talk to him. I just— I just have to see him. Look at him. Before I decide."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell stares at you with gaping incomprehension, but you brush past him, stalking heavily on your stone-like feet into the hall and down the stairs. You position yourself at a junction between the kitchen, the foyer, and the library, so that you have clear view of each. Blackwell, after following you, throws up his hands in disgust and returns to his bedroom to dress.<br/>
<br/>
You don't know what has prompted this sudden demand. Maybe it's because you are creeped out by the thought of spending your time spying on a "William Prescott" who isn't you, and you want a "sneak preview," as it were, of what his company will be like. <br/>
<br/>
Shabbleman shows up about fifteen minutes later. He is, of course, dressed out as you, but you hope it is Shabbleman himself who gives the teenager that insolent, chip-on-the-shoulder attitude he exudes. He stares at you—a golem—with frank interest, and tilts his head at you when Blackwell appears. "'Sup with the lawn gnome here?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's a new golem," Blackwell says evasively. "I haven't quite ... not yet ... decided what to do with it."<br/>
<br/>
"I could still use a playmate," Shabbleman says. <br/>
<br/>
Blackwell's lips disappear. He regards you for a long while without speaking. Shabbleman soon notices his lack of response, and shifts to watch the magician closely and curiously. When Blackwell stirs again he still leaves his eyes on you.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," he says slowly. "I've been giving it some thought, and it is a possibility. Perhaps not this golem, which is ... special."<br/>
<br/>
"How so?"<br/>
<br/>
"But perhaps a golem of your own," Blackwell merely replies.<br/>
<br/>
You still say and do nothing.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, the things I could do with one o' them." Shabbleman's tone begins to wax rhapsodic. <br/>
<br/>
"Yes, they are quite useful," Blackwell abruptly interrupts him. "But give very careful thought to how one might be useful. They must answer to a lot of different purposes, and you should not use them casually or fruitlessly."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I'll think about it," Shabbleman says carelessly. "Was that what you needed to tell me?"<br/>
<br/>
"What? Er ... Oh, yes. That will be all. Off to school with you, and I'll see you this afternoon."<br/>
<br/>
"And I'll have some ideas for you. You know, for my new friend."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell rubs his pate nervously after Shabbleman has left. "If you wanted to interrupt you could have," he says defensively. "I gave you plenty of opportunities if you object to my little plan."<br/>
<br/>
"No, it's alright," you brusquely reply. "I'll do it." You brush past him and return to your bedroom.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You expected to be repulsed while watching and listening to Shabbleman. But what actually shocks you is how unshocked you felt. You felt cold, but it wasn't a chill of fear or disinterest. It went deeper than that. It was with a profound lack of any emotion—sympathy, horror, fear, or curiosity—that you regarded the fake Will Prescott. Even the word "indifferent," with its intimations of boredom or ambivalence, couldn't apply. You simply felt completely and utterly alienated from him and from everything he had been, might have been, or could have been. It was like watching a background character on a TV show. <i>Who is he? Who cares.</i><br/>
<br/>
You glance around the bedroom with mild irritation. Your disembodied state, perhaps, is beginning to grate on your nerves. Except you don't have nerves. Well, whatever it is, it bothers you. You feel like a blank; even your connection to "Will Prescott," you now recognize, seems more conceptual than real, and it unnerves you to realize that you've been walking around with this feeling for quite some time without knowing it.<br/>
<br/>
You don the mask of the Eastman High student.<br/>
<br/>
And all at once you go to pieces.<br/>
<br/>
You collapse on the bed, burying your face in the pillow and huddling up in a fetal position. You are seized by vertigo and a deep sense of loss, and your mouth stretches in a silent cry. It is some time before you are even able to organize your thoughts.<br/>
<br/>
You start by trying to recapture your sense of purpose and history. You concentrate on how you first came to this house: the excitement (and then horror) at opening the <i>Libras</i>; the sense of curiosity and ambition that led you to become Blackwell's adept; the sense of frustration as your school life turned very dark. It is all still there, and it is all still coherent. But it feels distant, as though you are remembering someone else's story and not your own. <br/>
<br/>
You shift your focus, concentrating on what has happened since your encounter with Blackwell's pet monster. But that is even worse. You remember events but not feelings; you remember what you did, but only dimly can you rationalize why you did it. You remember being watchful, wary; not frightened, exactly, but hyper-alert. It comes to you that you never really <i>thought</i> about what you were going to do—for instance, you never consciously <i>decided</i> that you were going to stay in Saratoga Falls. You have the impression that you were being tugged along by intuitions—your eyes shift over to the mask of Will Shabbleman—and that maybe they weren't even your own ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I'm certainly glad you chose to tell me all this," Blackwell says. He is home from the university for lunch, but neither you nor he are eating anything. Two masks—that of Shabbleman and the Eastman student—lay on the dining room table where he is sitting and beside which you are standing. He regards them and you thoughtfully.<br/>
<br/>
"Of course, when dealing with magic one must be careful not to make too many assumptions based upon received scientific wisdom," he continues. "But it is a commonplace amongst the medical community that a great many of our emotions derive from our body chemistry. You, now, lacking a human body ..."<br/>
<br/>
"I think I can feel emotions," you snap. You are, in fact, feeling rather irritable. <br/>
<br/>
"You are clearly capable of rational thought, too," Blackwell points out. "And that normally requires a human brain. As I say, we must be wary of making assumptions based upon our knowledge of physiology. And yet," he adds with a sigh, "we mustn't lose sight of the fact that chemistry must have its effects." He folds his hands. "A human being who wears a mask may have his own body as an anchor. You, on the other hand, lacking one may be more susceptible to the masks you wear, even to their subconscious minds. You said you felt prompted by intuition, more than conscious thought?"<br/>
<br/>
You try to nod. It's not a success, so you croak out a "Yeah."<br/>
<br/>
"I think I can safely confess now that the story you told me yesterday filled me with disquiet," he says soberly. "We have not been acquainted long, but it seemed out of character for you. It doesn't exactly set my mind at ease to think you were actually acting under the invisible promptings of Mr. Shabbleman's reptilian brain. And yet it would make sense."<br/>
<br/>
You are both silent for awhile. What is Blackwell thinking about? You've no idea. You are examining your own emotional state. The emotional "crack up" that you felt when you put on the Eastman mask didn't evaporate when you took it off, but it diminished, so that now you only feel echoes of it. But that mask didn't have a personality strip in it, so how is it that it could influence you? On the other hand, when you put it on it was like being punched in the gut.<br/>
<br/>
You puzzle and puzzle over it, and you follow multiple trains of thought in lots of directions, and when you finally speak again it is about your erstwhile replacement. "If I'm gonna start acting a whole lot like the people I'm pretending to be, shouldn't we be careful about, you know, putting me in as Shabbleman's sidekick?"<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell shrugs lightly. "I've been pondering that question myself. I can only hazard that, yes, we should be careful." He drums his fingers. "I will call him, and tell him to bring me <i>ideas</i>, not people. You and I will choose from his proposals."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are upstairs when your replacement shows up later in the afternoon, and you can't make out the words he exchanges with Blackwell. The latter appears about ten minutes later, though. "He has two candidates," he says quietly. "The first is a classmate named Kim Walsh."<br/>
<br/>
You know Kim, though not well. Student council president. Reasonably popular, naturally, with connections all over the school.<br/>
<br/>
"The other," Blackwell says somberly, "is your own father."<br/>
<br/>
"Can we get any other candidates?" you ask. Neither is terribly appealing. <br/>
<br/>
He shakes his head. "He says these are the only two that will work for him. He says he took to heart my advice about choosing carefully, and it <i>must</i> be one or the other." He smiles grimly. "Naturally, he'd prefer both."</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222
author_id: seuzz
title: The Vessel
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Actually, I'm not feeling really obedient," you reply. "I'm feeling kind of pissed off."<br/>
<br/>
"A natural response," Blackwell sniggers, "but I assure you that you will do exactly as you're told."<br/>
<br/>
"And I can assure you I'll do exactly as I please," you retort. Blackwell looks startled. <br/>
<br/>
"For instance, I'd be extremely pleased to tell you that there's been a colossal fuck up in your plans, whatever they are. Sure, I look like this asshole, and I could play him perfectly if I had to." You gesture at Shabbleman, whose demeanor has turned very black. "But my name isn't William Shabbleman." You tilt your chin and gaze meaningfully at Blackwell, whose mouth is hanging open by this point. "It's Prescott. William Prescott." <br/>
<br/>
There is a moment of absolute silence before Blackwell clears his throat. "Um— Uh-hegh. What did you say?"<br/>
<br/>
"I said my name is William Prescott. You remember, the kid who bought the <i>Libra Persona</i> and then sold it back to you. The kid you took on as an adept. I guess I've been gone for—" You do a quick calculation in your head. "I guess it's been a little more than a week now. Well, I'm back, and I'd sure like to know how the fuck I managed to wind up <i>here.</i>" You slap your hand against your naked torso.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell has turned a very pale shade of green by this point. He glances over at Shabbleman and quails beneath the latter's murderous stare. He sinks, to sit the edge of the bed. <br/>
<br/>
"This is," he gasps, "a most unexpected reappearance, William."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You and Blackwell are up in the workroom, where he stands helplessly flipping pages in the <i>Libra</i> while you glare at him with your hands on your hips. The professor had to make some very dark threats before he could shake off Shabbleman and lead you up here. You suspect he'd like to make some very dark threats against you, but he is far too puzzled—and maybe even frightened—to say anything more than "I don't understand."<br/>
<br/>
You tell him the story again, of leaving your room and making your way up to the workroom, where you found the <i>Libra</i> and the strange writing on the now-blank page. He peers at it closely. You tell again of the thing in the doorway. "The gwarcheidwad," he murmurs. "I <i>told</i> you to stay in your room, for your own safety." You tell again of falling backward into a blank world of sigils, and of disappearing into it. His lips compress. When he glances up at you again there is a fearful light in his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"I can't be certain, Will," he says, "but it sounds very much to me as though you managed to escape my guardian by passing into the book itself." You see that his hands are trembling. "I do not know how such a thing is possible. I had no notion that the book was capable of acting in such a way. Certainly, and I hope you'll take no offense, I do not think you have the capability yourself of executing such a maneuver."<br/>
<br/>
"No offense taken."<br/>
<br/>
"But the manner of your reappearance ..." He tugs at his lip. "It could be— Of course I had to use the book to make the mask for Mr. Shabbleman. It was the first time that I used it since, er, your accident."<br/>
<br/>
"And what is up with him?" you interrupt. "And what have you done about <i>my</i> life since I've been gone?"<br/>
<br/>
"One question at a time, Will, I beg you! I must <i>think!</i>" He presses his palms against his temples. "You must have passed <i>through</i> the book somehow. It took you in, and then, when, like a portal opening, it—" He gives you a penetrating glance, and his breathing, though loud, is shallow. "If you will permit me to make a small test," he says. "I have a hypothesis."<br/>
<br/>
"What are you going to do?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm going to take your face off."<br/>
<br/>
"What?! What'll happen?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's what I have to find out. Permit me?"<br/>
<br/>
You really hate the suggestion, but if it's the only way ... You nod.<br/>
<br/>
Gingerly, he reaches up, and you flinch as his fingertips touch your brow. He murmurs some words, and the world briefly goes white.<br/>
<br/>
And then it's back. But all the color is gone. It's like being trapped in an old Hollywood movie.<br/>
<br/>
Like a Dracula or Frankenstein movie. You half expect to hear thunder and see lightning.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell peers closely at you, then studies the mask in his hand. "Well, at least that shut him up," he mutters nastily.<br/>
<br/>
You rumble gutturally, inarticulately, and Blackwell quails as you grasp the mask and wrench it from his weakened grip. As you raise it to your face you notice that your fingers are thick, stubby things.<br/>
<br/>
There is a rush and a roar, and the world returns to normal. You glare at him. "Nice trick," you snarl, "but we won't be doing that again."<br/>
<br/>
The professor does the last thing you expect of him. He starts to giggle. The giggles bubble and build on each other. Then he starts to hiccup. Hiccupping and giggling, he bends double, and his knees buckle, and he falls to the floor. This is no laughing matter, but you can tell from his stricken face that he is not laughing from pleasure. He is in a very bad way. This is an attack of some kind.<br/>
<br/>
"It's a phylactery," he finally gasps. "It can't be anything else." He starts giggling again, hysterically. "God in heaven, the lad used the <i>Libra</i> to create a phylactery for himself! Impossible! Inconceivable, or the word has no meaning! The grail of every warlock for the last thousand years ... and <i>a goddamned high school student with the brain of bird is the one who manages it!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You slap him, less for the insult than to sober him up. He buries his face in his hands and slumps.<br/>
<br/>
"I do apologize," he says when he raises a very pale face again. The madness is gone; instead he looks almost infinitely sad, as though someone has taken his favorite toy away from him, forever. "I am simply so ... struck ... by what has happened."<br/>
<br/>
"What <i>has</i> happened?" you ask. "What is a ... a phil ...?"<br/>
<br/>
"A phylactery. In magic of our sort, it is a container for the soul. You've heard of warlocks who can't be killed because their soul is hidden in a secret vessel?" You nod. "That vessel we call a phylactery."<br/>
<br/>
"And I've made one?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think so." He points. "Beneath that mask is a golem. An animate golem. It seized the mask from me and returned it to its face."<br/>
<br/>
"I did that."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I see." He nods. "Yes, I suppose that would be one way of executing it." He takes a deep breath. "I thought perhaps the book had lodged you inside the mask. I suppose it did, but now I see that you then passed through the mask itself and into the golem. Probably a roomier and hence more congenial environment."<br/>
<br/>
"So if my soul is now inside a golem—" You shudder at the thought. "Where is my body?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," he admits. "Destroyed, possibly. Or still trapped inside the book. I'm afraid this is a technique as far above my abilities as nuclear physics are above yours."<br/>
<br/>
"So what do we do about it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Do?" He seems shocked by the question. "Why should we do anything? You have a nearly indestructible body now. Ageless, too. You are immortal. Good God, what do we do about it? Nothing! You've accomplished only what so many others have striven for and failed to achieve!"<br/>
<br/>
"I still want my life back."<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs. "Your golem is still out there pretending to be you. We can retrieve it and return you to your life. Or—" Something of his old spirit seems to be returning. "We can find you another situation. I had to find another adept after you disappeared, you know." He catches himself, then gives you a smile that is meant to be fatherly but only makes your flesh creep. " But now that you're back, why can't you continue where you left us?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, tell me who that other guy is, and why you had to find another adept."<br/>
<br/>
"All in good time, Will," he says soothingly. "But I think Mr. Shabbleman will be easier to deal with if you're not done up to look like him. Quickly now, what do you want? To return to your old life? I can have your replacement out here lickety-split. Or I have Jared. You can wear him, permanently or until I get you a replacement."</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221
author_id: seuzz
title: Your Life as a Dog
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>After the disorientation of the last ... How long exactly have you been gone?<br/>
<br/>
Well, that's another reason to run for home. You crave the familiar. Blackwell nods at your choice. "Yes," he murmurs. "Quite the wisest thing to do at the moment." He hurries out the door.<br/>
<br/>
Twenty minutes later you are dressed again as yourself. "So, can you tell me what I've missed?" You jerk your head in the general direction of the bedroom. "Like, who he is?"<br/>
<br/>
"Tomorrow," Blackwell says. "We'll be free of his company then, with luck, and can regale each other with our adventures and investigate the details of what has happened."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I'm back," you shout as you swing through the kitchen door. "Groceries are on the counter."<br/>
<br/>
"Put them away, please," you mother shouts from the living room. "Dishes too."<br/>
<br/>
"Fine," you groan. "Did Caleb call while I was out?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Did anyone call?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why would they call here? Didn't you have your phone with you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but they're all morons," you grumble.<br/>
<br/>
It had been an awful day at school—well, it had been an awful day for your golem, and now you're walking around with his memories. Caleb and Keith have totally dropped you as friends. People in the halls hiss as you pass. Even Carson Ioeger and Jenny Ashton, who were sticking with you for a few days, have started to avoid you; though Jenny has the ill-considered grace to take you aside and, with infinite sadness and sympathy, explain that it is only because everyone has been giving them shit about still being friends with you. The only person in the entire school to treat you decently is Justin Roth, who you tripped over behind G wing while stumbling along between classes. He'd picked up his cigarette from the dirt and brushed it off and given you a lopsided smile and suggested you hide out with him for the period. He'd listened attentively as, to your own surprise, you'd unburdened yourself of your woes. "Fuck a duck," he'd rumbled in his resonant baritone when you were done. He'd offered no suggestions, other than that you start hanging out in the back with him more, and that was so close to being the perfect thing to say that you'd nearly burst into tears.<br/>
<br/>
Upstairs you bang the wall to get your brother to turn down his music, and he bangs on it back. Supper passes quietly, and you shrug off all talk about school. During the evening you do your homework and surf the internet out of boredom, and turn in early.<br/>
<br/>
Your adventure—brief as it was—seems to evaporate like smoke. Only a peculiar sense that you are being <i>watched</i> remains.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"My ointment doesn't work on golems, I fear," Blackwell says with a frown as he puts it away. "Who gave you the shiner?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just some guy," you mutter. "Don't even know him."<br/>
<br/>
"Those marked bills haven't solved your bullying problem?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think they've made it worse." You describe what it's like at school. "You could have warned me."<br/>
<br/>
"It's not an effect of the magic," he retorts. "The people you used them on. They aren't <i>merely</i> bullies?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, they're also the top jocks and stuff," you shrug. "You know, the basketball players, the kind of guys who date the cheerleaders and all the popular girls."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah," he says knowingly. "If I had known that then I <i>certainly</i> would have thought twice about using that technique. They are using their popularity to make <i>you</i> unpopular."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know," you snap back. You tell him about your brief conversation with Jenny. "Is there any way to take the curse off? Or to make myself popular?"<br/>
<br/>
"Could you acquire some popular friends, who are <i>not</i> affected by the hex?"<br/>
<br/>
You shake your head. "Chelsea and her crew don't tolerate rivals. Speaking of people whose faces I can't stand," you continue as Blackwell strokes his cheek thoughtfully, "what happened to whatsisname?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mr. Shabbleman? I sent him back to— To the place he came. Sent him off with a flea in his ear, I'm afraid."<br/>
<br/>
"Sacked him, huh? Who was he, anyway?"<br/>
<br/>
"Another adept," Blackwell says. "I discovered that I liked having a pupil." <br/>
<br/>
<i>Shabbleman,</i> you think to yourself. You have cousins named Shabbleman. Ugly, inbred hillbilly types whose company you loathed during those brief times you had to meet up with them. <i>Interesting coincidence.</i> But you say nothing.<br/>
<br/>
"Well," says Blackwell in a business-like tone. "Shall we pick up where we left off?"<br/>
<br/>
"Should I change into Jared? Aren't we going to send, you know—" You point to your face. "Back home?"<br/>
<br/>
"And how would we do that?" Blackwell asks with amusement.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you have a golem?"<br/>
<br/>
"I did. But then <i>you</i>, ah, requisitioned it for your own use." <br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh. Right.</i> "Can you make another one?"<br/>
<br/>
"Of course."<br/>
<br/>
"Can you show me how?"<br/>
<br/>
He claps his hands in delight. "A capital suggestion, my boy. Let us begin at once."<br/>
<br/>
He leads you outside to the whitewashed mausoleum. "To start with," he says, "we need earth taken from a graveyard. Fortunately, my predecessors at this villa thought their dust too refined to mix with the common clay." He points to a trench-like depression in the ground and the wheelbarrow that stands beside it. Then he hands you a shovel. "When you've filled the barrow to the rim on all sides, come find me. I'll be in the house, watching cartoons." You glare at his retreating back.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The week that follows is hellish. You take Justin up on his offer, with the result that you get caught and sentenced to detention for skipping classes, and your dad gives you holy hell. Then someone trashes your truck in the school parking lot; it has to be towed off for repair, and that puts you at the mercy of the jeering crowds on the school bus in order to get to and from school. You are only able to get to and from Blackwell's because Justin, who despite (or maybe because of) his stony reticence has become a rock of support, gives you rides when you summon him. The third trip out you catch him casting an amused glance at Blackwell's villa. "So what's it like working for Dr. Frankenstein?"<br/>
<br/>
"What makes you say that?"<br/>
<br/>
"This place is creepy as hell."<br/>
<br/>
"You should see it on the inside," you joke. He takes it as an invitation and hops out. With a shrug, you lead him up the stairs and inside.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell, clearly, isn't happy that you've brought a visitor, especially when Justin finds the library. Which he doesn't enter, only stands on the lip staring into it. "You get used to it," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"If you say so." Justin laughs quietly to himself. "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah, Nietzsche," says Blackwell, who is looming behind you. "What does a ragamuffin like yourself know of the great philosophers?"<br/>
<br/>
Justin's eyes flicker. "I read stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"Lots of things," you add, coming stoutly to your friend's defense. "Justin's flunking all his classes, but he's the smartest guy I know."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah." Blackwell gets a hungry look. "An autodidact who studies for pleasure and self-improvement. A rarity these days. Care to spend the afternoon with us?"<br/>
<br/>
Justin demurs. "I got beers to drink." He claps you on the arm. "Pick you up at six?" You nod. He smiles back, and after briefly casting a satirical eye up at Blackwell, trudges to the front door.<br/>
<br/>
"Sorry," you tell Blackwell. "I probably shouldn't have brought him in."<br/>
<br/>
"It's alright," Blackwell says. He is looking thoughtfully at the front door. "You've found a friend, and he seems like a good sort. It pleases me." He shakes himself, and then ushers you into the library.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Would you trade your life for someone else's?" you ask Justin that evening. Instead of going home, you'd asked him to hang out, and you're down by the river with beers.<br/>
<br/>
His glance brushes over your face, showing a mix of hooded curiosity and disinterest. "A life isn't something you can trade," he points out. "It's not like a car."<br/>
<br/>
"But if you could."<br/>
<br/>
"It still wouldn't be the same. It'd be like trading your footprints for someone else's. It's not yours if you don't make it yourself."<br/>
<br/>
"So you step into someone else's footprints. Walk where they were walking," you insist. "Like, they're standing in a different place. A better place."<br/>
<br/>
He takes a drag on his cigarette. "Everyone is fucked up somehow."<br/>
<br/>
"But some are fucked up worse than others."<br/>
<br/>
"Look, man, you don't like what's going on at school? I don't blame you. But fuck 'em. You think in five years it'll matter? Five years? Wait five months. Wait till you graduate. It'll all change."<br/>
<br/>
It sounds like wisdom, and you are only milliseconds from being convinced, when he ruins his own point by adding a thought: "It'll change, if you let yourself change."<br/>
<br/>
<i>If you let yourself change.</i> Yes, change is good. Change is life. Especially when it is the change into someone else's life. For just that afternoon, Blackwell had made the suggestion:<br/>
<br/>
"Why don't you take over the life of that young man who drove you out here? That would solve your bullying problems. Or perhaps we could put you into someone at the other high school."<br/>
<br/>
Yes, change is what you want. You will change into ...</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211
author_id: seuzz
title: Waxing Roth
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"What would we do with the original?" you'd asked Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
"There are a number of possibilities," he replied, ambiguously.<br/>
<br/>
"I like him. I don't wanna do anything bad to him."<br/>
<br/>
"You have qualms, though you're talking about stealing his life?" Blackwell snickered, but described a possible method.<br/>
<br/>
You nodded slowly. "At least it wouldn't be--" You took a deep breath and plunged on before you could change your mind. "How soon till we can make the switch?"<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell had padded upstairs, to return with a half-polished mask. "As soon as you have rubbed all the white from this mask."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's grinding work, and it's not until the following Wednesday that you finish. By coincidence, this is also the day that the golem you began preparing is also finished. Blackwell has it in the mausoleum, and shows it to you. "Can I use it for something?" you ask him. He replies, rather archly, "You're already using one of my creations. <i>Ah. Yes. Point taken.</i><br/>
<br/>
You call up Justin. "I'm supposed to get my truck back on Thursday," you say with pre-emptive defensiveness. "Gimme one more ride to my job?" In his gruff, low-key way, he cheerfully accedes.<br/>
<br/>
"Professor Blackwell was talking about you yesterday," you say on the drive. "You really impressed him."<br/>
<br/>
Justin laughs softly. "What is he, some kind of manic-depressive? First he calls me a slob and then he gets all impressed 'cos I can quote Nietzsche?" He flips the bird at a driver who cut him off. "Gimme a break."<br/>
<br/>
"He asked if you'd be interested in working for him."<br/>
<br/>
That does provoke a bark of laughter. "Oh, fuck me," he sighs. "You won't catch me working there. There's probably mummies in his basement." He laughs at his own joke.<br/>
<br/>
"Yard work?"<br/>
<br/>
"Zombies."<br/>
<br/>
"What are you, scared?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck, yeah! I ain't embarrassed to say it. That's what keeps animals alive in the wild, you know, a healthy sense of fear." He laughs again.<br/>
<br/>
"It's not that bad. Just come in and take a look around."<br/>
<br/>
"Would we be working together?"<br/>
<br/>
"Kind of, maybe." You feel a jab of anxiety in your gut. "You're not-- It's not because--" If possible, his grin gets even wider as he turns to stare at you. You redden. "Fuck you, I'm not gay. I'm not trying to come on to you."<br/>
<br/>
That does send him into deep, rolling hysterics of laughter, and he barely keeps control of the car. "Oh, Jesus," he gasps raggedly. "You're funny. You're the funniest guy I know."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you're saying I <i>amuse</i> you?"<br/>
<br/>
Snot comes out his nose. "Yeah, I am. No, I know what you mean." He punches you in the arm. "I'd love working a job with you. Just not for Doctor Dracula."<br/>
<br/>
Still, he agrees to take another look inside the house, and Blackwell welcomes him cordially. There is some small talk; and you grow more and more antsy as Justin becomes more and more impatient to leave, all while Blackwell makes no move toward detaining him. Finally, Justin waves you a curt farewell and goes back to the front door. You shoot Blackwell an exasperated look, which he returns with a glance of blank bafflement. The front door opens, and you are about to explosively demand a "what the hell and why the hell" from Blackwell, when there comes a loud crash. He smiles and gestures you to follow. Justin has collapsed in a heap on the foyer floor. "Booby trap," says Blackwell as he wipes the handle of the door knob with a handkerchief. "A trap for boobies."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Ah, fuckin-'a," you groan, stretching an arm and massaging a shoulder. "I fucking hurt. My brother came down for the weekend with his bow. Made me work hard."<br/>
<br/>
"Fucking Robin Hood here," Adrian Semple jokes, jerking his head at you and grinning at the others. "You wear green tights? Little cap with a feather in it?"<br/>
<br/>
You laugh good-naturedly, but Kim Walsh makes a face. "You actually shoot animals with it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck yeah. We're goin' out this Thanksgiving, bag some elk."<br/>
<br/>
"That's horrible," Mindy McAdams says. "I couldn't ever kill an animal."<br/>
<br/>
"You eat meat?" She says nothing. "Oh, so you'll eat 'em but you won't kill 'em." She makes a face, and you impatiently slap the wall of the school. "If I don't shoot 'em they'll get eaten by a mountain lion or die of old age. They wind up in the same place."<br/>
<br/>
"Would you like it if someone was hunting you?" Kim challenges.<br/>
<br/>
You laugh in her face. "You mean, like if an elk started walking on its hind legs, and came after <i>me</i> with a bow and arrow?" You double over with laughter as she turns bright red. "Oh, Jesus, yeah, I'd love that. Gimme a choice between dying of old age and that, fuck yeah, that's the way I'd choose to go."<br/>
<br/>
"Why don't you hunt them with a camera?" Mindy says primly.<br/>
<br/>
"You're not fucking serious."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?" Her chin tilts.<br/>
<br/>
"Because it's a fucking stupid thing to say, and you're too smart to say things that fucking stupid." Her expression tightens. You rub your eye with the heel of your hand. "Look, you can't eat a fucking photograph."<br/>
<br/>
"You <i>eat</i> them?" Kim is horror struck.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh Christ, what do you think we do? We skin 'em, butcher 'em, bag 'em, carry 'em down the mountain, drive 'em home, and put 'em in the freezer. Whaddayou <i>think</i> we do?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's a hell of a food run," Adrian observes. The bell rings. "Come on." He leads a muttering Kim away.<br/>
<br/>
But Mindy stays behind. Not that you're surprised, given the way she's been acting. She is red, and her nostrils flare. She holds your eye. You hold hers. And after a few seconds you reach over and undo her top blouse button. She flinches a little, but says nothing. So you undo the next button. A flush rises up her bosom to her throat. You grin at her, lick your finger tip, and lightly rub a small spot just where her boobs come together at the top of her chest. You lean in close to her face and waggle your eyebrows suggestively.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Can you get an STD while wearing one of these things?"<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell looks up at you from under his eyebrows. "No."<br/>
<br/>
"What about getting a girl pregnant?" He shakes his head. "Oh, so it's like a full-body condom."<br/>
<br/>
"In a manner of speaking. Why? Got your eye on someone?"<br/>
<br/>
"I got a blow job before coming out here." You start to tell him about Mindy, but he waves you silent before you can reach the climax. "Anyway, good to know."<br/>
<br/>
"Still, one should be careful--" He catches himself, and smiles indulgently. "No, there's nothing for you to worry about. Except breaking the poor girl's heart."<br/>
<br/>
"Eh, she's a slut."<br/>
<br/>
"Is that why your mind hasn't been on your work? Please complete the sigil as I asked."<br/>
<br/>
You look back down at your half-completed work, and with a grunt take up the pen again. You trace out a much more complicated design than he'd asked for, which shuts him up, and lets you return to your actual distraction: the <i>Libra.</i><br/>
<br/>
It's open to the page of the spell you'd used to modify the Will Prescott mask before setting it on the real Justin Roth. Blackwell, you'd realized after looking it over carefully behind his back, hadn't told you the complete truth about how it worked. He had used a bit of his own hair in the formula without telling you why, but you can see it now after deciphering the sigil: It put your replacement under his control.<br/>
<br/>
Well, it's not like you had any bits of your own hair you could have used. But it bothers you that Blackwell hadn't told you.<br/>
<br/>
Luckily, Justin Roth has won hundreds of dollars at poker, and you doubt your expression at any time has betrayed the qualms you feel about your mentor's honesty.<br/>
<br/>
"What's the deal with the chimp?" you ask, for Blackwell has risen and is fiddling with the vampire-cyclops monkey.<br/>
<br/>
He starts a little, for you've only been watching him out of the corner of your eye. "We had visitors out here again last night," he says brusquely. "You'll need to leave early, as I'm letting him loose early. Hopefully to catch them. Or worse," he adds in a nasty undertone.<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe that Shabbleman asshole's back and sneaking around?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Just attend to your work."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"What about the hills around Drury?" You cradle the phone between your shoulder and ear so you can type in the new url, bringing up a new map.<br/>
<br/>
"Shit, ain't nuthin' up there but scrub," Brand says.<br/>
<br/>
"Thought maybe we could do a nature hike. Was readin' up on some interesting plant life up there."<br/>
<br/>
"I wanna shoot something, not pick wildflowers."<br/>
<br/>
"I guess I could go out on my own."<br/>
<br/>
He sighs. "If I'm gonna make another trip down this weekend--"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, who says you gotta come down, cocksucker?" <br/>
<br/>
"You really going camping?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Maybe. I got some work I should do."<br/>
<br/>
"Mom says you're not going to graduate."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, either way I'm not going to school next year, so fuck it."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, lemme know what you decide. Later."<br/>
<br/>
You continue to stare at the screen. Drury is nearly four hours from Saratoga Falls. But it's only twenty minutes from Cuthbert. Which is chock full of Shabblemans. Who are related to the Prescotts. If the Shabbleman you met briefly is anything like the others in the clan ... There's no way Blackwell could have just sent him packing.<br/>
<br/>
The computer powers down, leaving you to stare at your dim reflection in the screen. The face of Justin Roth gazes back at you, serene mistrust playing across its features.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112
author_id: seuzz
title: The Paper Chase
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Running around Cuthbert by yourself is a bad idea; even if Brand, Justin's brother, were along—and even if he knew what you were up to—it would still be two humans against hordes of shoggoths. False courage is foolish courage.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The next day is Friday. Mindy is avoiding you, but it's not like you're looking for her. You doodle in your notebook in class, putting sigils together into possible new spells. These deeply impress Morgana Hollis, who watches your work during Hoagland's class. It would interest her: Her real name is "Sandra," and she donned "Morgana" about the same time she started wearing black, flowing blouses and skirts. You are careful to keep your work away from her.<br/>
<br/>
You do show it to Blackwell, though, who is extremely impressed. Maybe even a little scared, for the whites show around his eyes. "Please be careful with these," he says. "They are missing certain key elements and will behave in unpredictable ways. In fact," he says, blanching a little as he peers closely at one. "I think we had better destroy them. <i>Now.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
Maybe your eyes are playing tricks on you, but your sheets of scrap paper seem to want to leap out of the fireplace, and he has to shove them deep into the embers with a poker.<br/>
<br/>
"You're progressing quite nicely," he says when he is finished, "far more quickly than ever I would have hoped. I notice you have made a quite deep study of the spells in the <i>Libra.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Not really," you admit, folding your arms and clasping your elbows. "You won't let me look at it. Remember?"<br/>
<br/>
"Are you sure you haven't been looking at it behind my back?" You shake your head. "Because the sigils you made employed some of the design work from them."<br/>
<br/>
That's something you've wondered about mentioning. "I'm not sneaking peeks at your shit," you insist. "It's like I see them in my head." You dig inside your ear with your index finger. "Well, maybe it's them. Maybe it's something else."<br/>
<br/>
"Please go on."<br/>
<br/>
You describe, haltingly, but in more detail, what it was like to pass through the book, and the wheels of symbols that seemed to appear. "Since then ... Well, it's not very often, but when I relax, it's like I can see them again." You hold your palm out, as though touching a screen. "It's not like a hallucination— Or, I dunno, maybe it is." You rub your eyes, and twitch. "Like, maybe it's the drugs." Justin is no stranger to pharmacology.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell regards you evenly. "Do you think you could sketch them?" You shrug, and he hands you a pen.<br/>
<br/>
Ninety minutes later the two of you are comparing your work to the first seven spells in the book. They are an exact match. "Spooky," you smile.<br/>
<br/>
"Though perhaps not surprising." He is pale. "You must be careful with these copies."<br/>
<br/>
"I've copied them out before," you point out. "Only the ones in the book actually work."<br/>
<br/>
"That's true," he says slowly. "But we may be in unexplored territory. Still—" He gives you a piercing glance, and suddenly slams the book shut. Taking up a piece of paper, he scribbles down some words. "What can you make of this?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I can make a broach. Or a hat. Or a pterodactyl—" He doesn't smile as you play with the sheet, so you sigh and lay it out on the table again. It's a list of ingredients and a single line of doggerel Latin. Another spell in the book?<br/>
<br/>
You study it. Think about it. Scribble out elementary sigils corresponding to each ingredient. Combine them and recombine them. Sketch the outline for a progression that might use the bit of Latin. Sketch out a few more progressions when the first progression doesn't seem to conform to the sigils. You turn the paper this way and that. There <i>is</i> something familiar about it, like a melody that you can't quite hum and can't quite place. You close your eyes and let your mind drift.<br/>
<br/>
The seconds seem to slow.<br/>
<br/>
Your hand seems to be moving.<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes snap open. Blackwell is staring at the paper. You look down, to see a rough and clumsy sigil. One glance tells you it's incomplete—almost empty of detail—but it's like seeing the missing, vital clue in a crossword puzzle. Quickly, confidently, you start filling in the blanks. Your hand tears across the page, but each stroke is decisive and clear. <br/>
<br/>
At one point Blackwell interrupts you. "No, no, the translation should be 'My use is the solution'." "Bullshit," you snap. "It's 'Use me to solve me'." He holds his tongue after that.<br/>
<br/>
When you are done he takes a ragged breath. "Thank you, Will," he says. "Most ingenious. You may go home now."<br/>
<br/>
"Do I get a prize?" you ask, only half in jest.<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't answer. Without looking at you, he sweeps the page and the <i>Libra</i> from the table and goes upstairs. Ten minutes later, after he hasn't reappeared, you let yourself out.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The night has one odd sequel. When you unload your backpack at home you find one of your afternoon doodles at the bottom. You flatten it, and recognize it's one of the variations on a golem sigil that you'd played with. There's a smudge in the middle, and you lick your finger to sponge it off. You should destroy it, but the browser has just opened to show an email from Brand, and idly you set to folding the sheet while reading over his suggestions for the Thanksgiving hunt. (He can't be serious about some of those peaks; you'll freeze your asses off!) You set it aside to tap out a reply, and only then notice that you have folded it into an origami bird. It's cute and you chuckle to yourself. You—Justin—haven't made origami since middle school. <br/>
<br/>
Halfway through your email a movement catches your eye: The bird is hopping along the desk. At first you think it's caught in a draft, but no. It is definitely hopping, and pausing, and even turning as though looking for something. A prickle runs up your spine. You snap it up between your fingers—it tries to dodge!—and with a flick of the lighter from your drawer turn it into ash.<br/>
<br/>
You'll figure out later what the deal is. After tonight's performance, you're not telling Blackwell about it.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The next day, instead of camping, you go out at the university archery practice range. It's surprisingly crowded, probably (you mordantly conclude) because of an impending SCA meet up, because the archers there all <i>suck.</i> But after twenty minutes this one guy takes up the station next to yours. He's tall and dark-haired and confident, and you can't help but be impressed at the way he can score precise shot after precise shot, quickly and with little seeming concentration. At one point he catches you staring, and smiles self-deprecatingly.<br/>
<br/>
You return to your practice, and notice that he has started to watch you. "Pretty good," he says when you pause. "How long have you been doing this?"<br/>
<br/>
"Six months," you shrug.<br/>
<br/>
"Your stance could use a little work," he says in a friendly way. He directs you to move your feet and bend in a slightly different fashion, and you're rewarded with a greater sense of ease and power. That leads to more tips and more small talk. He is patient, generous, and unfailingly warm with his critiques, and you are soon chuckling like old friends and sharing horror stories about the first time you each picked up a bow. When he suggests getting together with him and his brother for a coffee, you agree.<br/>
<br/>
But a few minutes later your mom calls and asks you to pick up the dry cleaning, and you have to cancel the "date." Your new friend is disheartened, and suggests a rain check.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122
author_id: seuzz
title: The Hero and His Reward
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>But the moment has been shattered. (You even have the weird impression that a bubble has literally burst somewhere nearby.) So, politely, you demur. <br/>
<br/>
But there is an odd sequel. You have to pass through a locker room on the way out, and on the far side a blonde kid about your age steps out of nowhere to block your path. He starts to speak, but is then distracted by something over you shoulder. You glance back, to see nothing but a cleaning woman who has just stepped into the room with a wet-vac; and a moment later your archery pal appears. He takes in the scene with a glance, but ignores it and you in favor of a locker. You turn again to the blonde kid; he grins back at you, slips something back into his pocket, and brushes past, bumping you hard in the shoulder. <br/>
<br/>
"Watch where you're going, asshole," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"Wanna make something of it?" He turns to gloat. Behind him, your acquaintance is deeply absorbed with the knot in his shoe, and you wonder why, in spite of his earlier friendliness, he hasn't involved himself.<br/>
<br/>
You just flip off the blonde jerk, and exit. You expect him tackle you from behind, and you tense, but nothing happens.<br/>
<br/>
Only afterwards do you wonder, both at the fact and at the fact that it didn't register at the time: the blonde kid had his right arm in a sling. And he was <i>still</i> spoiling for a fight? Weird.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Monday's excitement starts at the break between fourth and fifth periods, when your attention is attracted by a knot of students at the junction of two main corridors. You feel a nasty prickle of suspicion, and slip your way through the crowd. Sure enough, Will Prescott is involved. He has Patterson cornered by a water fountain, and is milking it for all it's worth. You've read up a bit on that hex, and you shiver to think what Patterson must be going through to have Prescott that close. It looks like he's trying to climb up the wall, backward.<br/>
<br/>
"Moving to Eastman, huh?" Prescott chortles. "Can't hack it here anymore? Betcha never thought someone could scare <i>you</i> into changing schools."<br/>
<br/>
An angry murmur runs through the hall; the apparition of faces in this crowd: scales on a wet, black beast. A voice by your ear shouts "Fuck you, Prescott!" Your eyes lock briefly onto those of Jenny Ashton, on the other side of the crowd. She looks sick.<br/>
<br/>
It's not your life anymore, but ...<br/>
<br/>
You grab Prescott around the neck from behind and, with his head locked next to your chest in the crook of your elbow, drag him back into and through the crowd, which hoots and jeers appreciatively. He flails, but Justin Roth hasn't been working a compound bow for six months without results, and Prescott's squirming does him no good. You kick open the door to the restroom, toss him inside, and push the door closed against the surging crowd. "The fuck are you doing?" you roar at him.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck did you get in my way for?" he shouts back. "I was having fun!"<br/>
<br/>
"You were gonna get yourself killed." You kick shut the door, which has opened briefly behind you.<br/>
<br/>
"Like that matters to you!"<br/>
<br/>
The real Justin Roth is under the fake Will Prescott's facade, and so it does matter. Of course, you can't say that ...<br/>
<br/>
"This isn't like you. You don't just go around asking to get your ass kicked. You're only lucky <i>I</i> was around to—"<br/>
<br/>
The door flies open, and you turn with a snarl to shove it closed again, but Prescott charges you from behind. You duck away from his fist, which glances off your ear but still sets your skull ringing. You punch him hard in his exposed midriff. "Gwooff!" All the air explodes from him, his eyes bulge and he bends double. To the cheers of the crowd behind, you slam your bent elbow into the side of his skull, and he collapses onto the floor.<br/>
<br/>
You get detention, but you're a hero.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
How much of a hero you don't realize until school lets out. It's hard not to notice the heads that turn your way as you press through the halls, and you slouch against the stares. You're neither happy about nor proud of what you did. But then outside, as you pass the gym—<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, Justin!' a sweet voice calls. It's Cindy Vredenburg, calling over from a knot of cheerleaders loitering near the door. Her eyes gleam. "Wanna come watch us practice?"<br/>
<br/>
No one of that class has ever paid attention to Justin Roth before. You suck on your cheek as though torn by indecision, then with a shrug swerve to trudge up to them. The girls exchange shining glances with each other, and peek at you from the corners of their eyes as they swarm around, leading you inside the gym. Cheerleader practice occurs in the morning; this is a special show they've arranged just for you.<br/>
<br/>
And it's very nice, too, though you're made twitchy by the knot of ball players who sit not too far away on the bleachers. There's no missing the slit-eyed glares they cast at you, or the hiss of their voices.<br/>
<br/>
When practice is done you get up to leave, but the flushed and perspiring Cindy calls you down. "I need a ride home from here. Give me a lift?" <br/>
<br/>
Seth Javits, her boyfriend, steps forward. "What's wrong with my ride?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not talking to you," she replies, not taking her eyes from yours. "I'm asking Justin. I don't have to hang out with you <i>every</i> day, Seth."<br/>
<br/>
Something seems to churn through his knot of friends. "Come on, Cindy," Gordon Black says. "Don't be a cunt."<br/>
<br/>
"Gordon!" That's Chelsea Cooper. She flashes steely eyes at her boyfriend; in fact, all the cheerleaders seem to be staring hard at the jocks. Patterson's face blackens.<br/>
<br/>
"So, how 'bout it? A ride?" It's like a little shock to feel the tip of Cindy's forefinger against your shirt.<br/>
<br/>
Well, there is no way out of this. Even if you prudently turned her down, Javits and Patterson and Black and the others would haul you off and beat the shit out of you, just for showing them up over Prescott. Your only hope is to impress the girls, who have the boys on a choke-chain cast of steel links. But more inviting, of course, is Cindy herself: The long legs and smooth calves and pear-like breasts; the platinum sheets of hair and the blue eyes and the flat, dish-like cheekbones. <br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, happy to," you grin.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Eemph ... eemph ... eemph ..." She squeaks like a squeeze toy, biting her lip as she bounces lightly up and down. You're trying to stifle your own groans of anticipation, and concentrate on thrusting your way up into her. It's not just the pleasure of being inside her that draws you up, or the promise of expended tension; the car seat presses your lower back in a bad way, and you really do feel like you'd be more comfortable if you could fold up backward like a penknife and thrust yourself, torso, legs, head and all, up inside her.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, incongruous images like that are one reason you are having such trouble finishing things up.<br/>
<br/>
And then, with a growl you can't stifle, you <i>are</i> pistoning away inside her. Her tone changes too, to a thrilled and surprised-sounding purr.<br/>
<br/>
You gasp and sink back, but discover that's a bad idea, so you raise your pelvis again, to support yourself inside her. She lets out a long sigh, puts her hands on your shoulder ...<br/>
<br/>
And then pauses, to cock her head and regard you from under half-closed eyes. <br/>
<br/>
"Something wrong?" you ask. You can't imagine she was disappointed. <br/>
<br/>
"Hmm," she says. "Hmm," she repeats. She tilts her head in the other direction. "This is ..." <br/>
<br/>
Her head lolls, she tips, and she face plants right into your kisser. <br/>
<br/>
You put your arms around her, supporting her against your torso, and listen. She is breathing, raggedly and heavily, but steadily. In fact, she's got a little bit of a snore. "Hey," you say, shaking her lightly. "Hey, come on, wake up." Isn't it the guy who's supposed to crash after coitus?<br/>
<br/>
You look out the car window. She'd suggested a drive, which took you away from the center of town; and then she'd suggested some fucking, which took you out to the country. In fact, by chance, you're not far from Blackwell's. <br/>
<br/>
And then, just as suddenly, she's awake again. She blinks and stares at you, and then bursts out laughing. "What's your problem?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, nothing. But if you could see your face." She hops off your lap and scrambles back over into her seat. Still giggling, she pulls her panties back on. "For that matter, if you could see <i>my</i> face."<br/>
<br/>
"I <i>can</i> see your face." <br/>
<br/>
That provokes more laughter. "Not this one, you dingaling," she chortles, and leans toward you with a mischievous grin. "The other one. I don't know why I'm telling you this. I really don't, except that I think I've fallen in love with you. My <i>God</i>, you're a stallion."<br/>
<br/>
"Did you take a hit of acid or something before we came out here?"<br/>
<br/>
She smiles. "Go on. Take my face off. You know how. Just put your fingers here—" She takes your stiff hand in hers and puts it to her forehead. "Now say the magic words." She repeats them to you.<br/>
<br/>
Your tongue is taut and clumsy as you mumble them out. You tug at her face, which tightens and then comes off in your grasp. Numbly, you look down at the mask you are now holding. And in the car seat, still dressed up as Cindy Vredenburg ...</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221
author_id: seuzz
title: The Man in the Cindy Mask
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's Will Shabbleman. Luckily, he seems to be asleep.<br/>
<br/>
You look at the mask in your hand and turn it over. Cindy's name floats in burning letters over its inner face, which is gray. That means it has been golemized. But who has enslaved the mask? Is this how Blackwell got rid of Shabbleman? Or has Shabbleman somehow returned and wormed his way into the school?<br/>
<br/>
You examine the interior of the mask more closely. Spidery cracks, like silver threads against the gray surface, run over it. You suck thoughtfully on your lips. Your first thought—that you broke the mask with the mighty power of your thrusting cock—is altogether too comical to be entertained ...<br/>
<br/>
Your cousin stirs, and quickly you press the mask back onto his face. Cindy returns, and bursts into a gale of laughter when she sees your stricken expression.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, what's this all about?" you demand roughly of her.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," she says. "I really don't. You took the mask off, right? Is he still there?"<br/>
<br/>
"Who?"<br/>
<br/>
"The guy. What's his name?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you know?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not any more," she shrugs. "It's like a weird dream. He got inside me somehow, and he's been making me do things." She tilts her head thoughtfully. "I can sort of remember what happened, but it's faded, like I've woken up from a dream. He was inside me, but then after you and I—" She bites her lip and smiles and runs a fingertip up your bare thigh. "Well, suddenly it was like he fell down a deep, deep hole. I can't feel him anymore. And everything I knew while he was in me, well, I think it disappeared after you took the mask off."<br/>
<br/>
"Where's the real Cindy?"<br/>
<br/>
"The real—? Oh. Yeah." Her eyes fall and she puts her hands against her face, and a look of deep sadness settles over her features. "I don't know. I should know. I think I used to know. But like I said ..." She sags. "It's like a dream, and it's all gone, or going away." She looks up at you with a pleading expression. "Will you hold me? I feel kind of scared."<br/>
<br/>
You put your arm around her shoulder, even though you don't like touching her, and you stiffen as she nestles close to you.<br/>
<br/>
"What <i>do</i> you remember?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I remember everything clearly up until last night, when Lucy took me out to this house," she says slowly. "I can remember up until that point, and a little after. There's this professor who lives there, and she needed to stop there. Something happened, I don't remember what, but I think ..." She trails off and her eyes go far away. "I think I was talking to the professor. I don't know about what. I left, and I went home, and I went to school today. I was talking to my friends like everything was normal, I know that much. But it's all just pictures, no sounds or thoughts." She trails off and her eyes focus on something either very far away or very deep inside herself. Then she shakes herself. "Everything didn't become real again until just a little while ago. After, um ... Well, suddenly I felt like <i>me</i> again."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you remember cheerleader practice this afternoon?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah. You were there. I asked you to watch." Her eyes widen and she sits up. "Isn't that funny? As soon as you asked me about it, it just came back. You were so sexy, sitting up there watching us."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you remember what you were thinking?"<br/>
<br/>
She shakes her head. "I just remember talking to you. Everyone—Chelsea and Kendra and the others, I mean—we were all so happy you'd finally smacked that Prescott creep down."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you remember <i>why</i> you asked me to watch?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because we thought you were so cool?" Her tone suggests she's only guessing.<br/>
<br/>
"What about those words you told me, the ones I used to ..." You touch her forehead.<br/>
<br/>
She flinches, and frowns. "No. That's one of the things that's gone. But I know there were things I wanted to tell you. Things I needed to warn you about. I think I couldn't find the words, though, and that's why I told you to—" She swallows.<br/>
<br/>
Golems are shifty, untrustworthy things, capable of lying to anyone and everyone—except one person.<br/>
<br/>
"Do you have a master?" you ask. She looks up at you. "Someone you have to obey."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," she says, snuggling closer. "You. I'd do anything for you." She lifts her face, and there is fear in her eyes. "You— You'd do anything for <i>me,</i> wouldn't you?"<br/>
<br/>
She's not real. She might even be lying—because a golem can also <i>tell anyone</i> that he is its master. But you grunt out your assent. "Yeah. I'll take care of you."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You question her closely, trying to shake her story, and to glean more information. But it's patchy. You would have given up, but you'd begun to notice a pattern. If it was a place where you were both present—and she knew you were present—she could remember it, clearly. But if either of you were absent, the scene remains "dream-like." Naturally, this raises your suspicions, until her cell phone rings. It's Kendra Saunders, breathlessly wanting details on what has happened between her and you. Cindy declines to answer and tries to hang up, but gets trapped in a conversation about school. She speaks fluently about the day's events—mostly. <br/>
<br/>
"This is so weird," she exclaims after dropping the phone. "Kendra started talking about lunch, and I remembered it, totally. But when she asked me what happened in seventh period, because she had to skip, I couldn't remember anything."<br/>
<br/>
"Was Kendra there during lunch?" Cindy nods. You pull your lip. It fits the pattern: her memories unfold when prompted by a witness to the scene. Otherwise—at least she claims—it's a blank.<br/>
<br/>
"You know," she says, "if I weren't here, and if I didn't remember what it was like to ... to wake up ... I don't think I'd believe any of this was real. I'd just go home."<br/>
<br/>
"And no one would know anything was wrong," you muse. You look at her long and levelly, hoping to catch a chink in her gaze, something would suggest that this is all a very strange and malicious head fake by the man beneath her mask. But there isn't even a flicker. You remove her face again ... And he is still asleep.<br/>
<br/>
You replace it, close your eyes, and let the <i>Libra</i> sigils come back to you; after last night, they are almost like intimate parts of your own psyche, instantly interpretable. You take them apart and study them and ponder the way they work and how they might be made to function in a different way.<br/>
<br/>
The only thing you can conclude is that in the act of fucking her you managed to golemize her mask. Except that doesn't make sense. Disguises, whether worn by golems or by human beings, do not leave physical traces behind—they dematerialize. Furthermore, you are trapped inside a golem, so it's not like your own effluvia could have been the vehicle. You'd dismiss it as an unprofitable fancy, but for the behavior of that origami bird on Friday night. You turn that sigil over in your mind. Yes, now after having made a deeper study with Blackwell, you can see the hole, the one that would have let <i>essentia</i> in to complete it and to animate it. But your understanding of <i>essentia</i> extends only to its functioning inside <i>Libra</i> spells. <i>What</i> it is and how it works—other than the obvious, that it comes from the mask's maker via his hair or other bodily detritus, like semen or saliva—is still a mystery to you. Even more mysterious is how you could have imparted any <i>essentia</i> into Cindy's mask when your own native body is ... Well, you don't know where it is.<br/>
<br/>
You're brought back to earth by a sigh. "Are we going to stay here all night?" Cindy asks. "I'd like that, but our parents might wonder about it."<br/>
<br/>
If you're right, it should be safe to put Cindy's mask on yourself. In that guise you could approach Blackwell, who seems to be in back of the plot, whatever it is. But it would be dangerous, and you'd have to find some way to restrain or get rid of Shabbleman while you had the mask off him. You don't like the alternative, which is to let this possible ally but possible traitor out of your sight.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211
author_id: seuzz
title: Inside Information
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>There's nothing else to do with Shabbleman except bind him up. You drive far enough into town to find a hardware store, where you pick up a couple of locks and chains. Back out in the countryside you have to drive around for nearly thirty fruitless minutes before you find a lane screened by bushes where you can do the change-over. You have Cindy strip and climb into the trunk of your car, where you tie her up extra tightly with padlocks and bicycle chains. You then remove her mask and tie a gag around Shabbleman's mouth. He wakes as you do so, and he looks up at you with murderous anger. Naturally, he struggles, but you're pleased to see that he can barely move. You slam the trunk shut on him, and then climb into your car to change into Cindy.<br/>
<br/>
You pause again as you look inside the mask. Those spider-web-like cracks, they can't mean anything good. You should be extra cautious, you shouldn't be putting a possibly broken mask to your face. But you're all ready to go.<br/>
<br/>
It would be a heart-in-the-mouth moment when you hold the mask up to your face—if your golem body had a heart and a mouth for it to leap into ...<br/>
<br/>
... And then you feel much smaller. But you still feel like yourself, albeit with Cindy's memories and personality laying over your own.<br/>
<br/>
You are pleased to have carried out the experiment, for you have access to those memories she hadn't recovered, including her brief, post-capture conversation with Blackwell. It doesn't give you everything you want and need to know, but it's enough, you think, to let you bluff your way through a meeting.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"It's this girl's fucking boyfriend," you cluck your tongue peevishly. "<i>My</i> fucking boyfriend." You make a face. "I kept telling Prescott it was okay, that I was going to dump Seth's ass, but he still wouldn't do it with me. Wouldn't even let me suck him off." You toss your hair back. "I wonder if he thinks I'm pretty enough."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell grimaces as he paces the library. "I doubt that's the problem. Though, frankly, I'm now also beginning to doubt that story he spun last week about carnally taking a girl he barely knew." He snorts. "The boy he is currently impersonating— Well, let's just say he strikes me as little more than a lout and quite a bit more than a braggart, and Prescott has been channeling too much of his personality." <br/>
<br/>
"I was breathing all over him, up and down," you whine. "He wasn't missing any signals. He even had to push me away at one point."<br/>
<br/>
"Then he must be up to something," Blackwell muses darkly. "He called a little earlier, you know, saying he wouldn't be able to make his lesson tonight." He shoots you a sardonic look. "He said he was 'gettin' beezay' with a cheerleader. And yet here you are."<br/>
<br/>
"Jerk. He must've called after he dropped me off at my place."<br/>
<br/>
"He's been extra diligent in his studies up to this point," Blackwell mutters, more to himself than to you. "I wonder ..." He trails off.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, <i>assuming</i> I can suck it out of him, how soon do I need to get his stuff to you, did you say?"<br/>
<br/>
"His <i>essentia</i>? In normal cases, within the hour, but this is not a normal case. Indeed, he may not deposit any."<br/>
<br/>
"What, you think there might be something wrong with Justin's equipment?"<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell sniggers—an uncharacteristic and ugly sound. "That would explain a great deal, wouldn't it, and it would be just our luck. I suppose in that case we would have convince Prescott to switch hosts, and we would have to repeat the experiment again. Just to be sure."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not sucking him off more than once if I can't be sure there's a payoff." <br/>
<br/>
"You will do as you are told," Blackwell snaps. "Your cousin has acquired keys that may unlock a great many mysteries. I am employing you—quite against my better judgment, I don't mind admitting—for the sole purpose of acquiring those keys."<br/>
<br/>
"So what exactly are you trying to get out of him?"<br/>
<br/>
"There may be no limit. But that is not your affair. I will pay you handsomely on the terms we agreed to."<br/>
<br/>
"Even if there isn't a payoff? What happens if, like you say, he doesn't leave any cum inside this mask I'm wearing?"<br/>
<br/>
"Then we will have to find some other way of extracting it from him. It's not like I can give him a magazine and a cup. <i>Essentia</i> doesn't pool. It <i>inseminates.</i>" He rounds on you sharply and jabs at you with a finger. "And you keep that mask on. Don't take it off without getting my permission, or you'll ruin everything."<br/>
<br/>
"How so?"<br/>
<br/>
"Never mind." His voice is a snarl. "I had to specially prepare it as a proper receptacle. We can't have any seals broken until after you've acquired some of his emissions. And as I said, be sure to get out here with his seed within an hour of your tete-a-tete. The seed from a regular human lasts only that long inside a mask. He may only leave some of Roth's behind, in which case it will dematerialize much faster. And if it comes in any other form ..." Blackwell again trails off.<br/>
<br/>
You don't know how much Shabbleman understands of <i>essentia,</i> or how Blackwell thinks their little scheme will work; after all, you only have the memories of what got said while he was wearing Cindy's form. But you decide to gamble on his ignorance: "What else could he leave except Justin's shit? It's not like there's a human being under that mask."<br/>
<br/>
"But not a normal golem either," Blackwell says. "That is one of the reasons I am willing to gamble that he <i>can</i> transmit <i>essentia</i> through the usual means."<br/>
<br/>
"You have other reasons?"<br/>
<br/>
He gives you a hooded glance, and you worry you've miscalculated. But his reply suggests Blackwell only means to play coy. "As I said, he holds the keys to many mysteries. That is enough."<br/>
<br/>
Your interview concludes shortly afterward, with Blackwell's exhortation that his confederate redouble his efforts to bring their object of interest to climax.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
A most unsatisfactory interview, you reflect grimly as you walk out Blackwell's door. He wouldn't tell you much more than you already knew. He wants some of your <i>essentia</i> for secret purposes of his own. A mask is the only way of capturing it. A specially sealed mask, too. You lightly brush your cheek: those cracks—did you break that seal? Or did Shabbleman? Or do they have nothing to do with the seal at all? And why the skullduggery? Why won't Blackwell just ask you to squirt something into a specially prepared golem? As you slide into Justin's car—which you hid some distance away so Blackwell wouldn't see whose vehicle you drove out in—you glance in the rear view mirror. Maybe it has something to do with Shabbleman himself. It's pretty clear Blackwell isn't telling his confederate everything that he is up to.<br/>
<br/>
Round and round you chase these thoughts as you drive back to that changing spot. You now wish you hadn't used the "gettin' it on with Cindy" excuse to back out of your previous appointment with Blackwell, for what will you tell him when you see him again? Probably better not to raise the subject. <br/>
<br/>
You insert the key into the lock of the trunk, open it—<br/>
<br/>
It's empty. <br/>
<br/>
Empty! No Shabbleman. No chains, no padlocks, no gag. You grab the edge of the trunk as a wave of panicked dizziness washes over you.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit, Justin's stuff!</i> You rush back to the passenger side of the car. His clothes are gone, as is his mask. Shabbleman must have taken them.<br/>
<br/>
But how did he get out of a locked trunk? He shouldn't have even been able to escape his restraints.<br/>
<br/>
Your knees weaken, and you have to sit down to think. Justin's mask isn't golemized—as you're a golem, there's no way to golemize a mask to be your slave. If he escaped, why didn't Shabbleman come into the house, either in or outside of Justin's disguise? You tremble. <i>He</i> must be playing a game of his own too. <br/>
<br/>
Eventually you decide you've no choice but to go home. You ditch Justin's car in a remote location and call a cab to take you back to Cindy's—there's nothing else to do.<br/>
<br/>
Or is there?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I'm going out with Brenda tonight!" That's Lucy's voice, calling from downstairs. Mrs. Vredenburg says something, and Lucy says something back. Then you hear her pass your bedroom, and her door closes behind her.<br/>
<br/>
It's clear that Lucy is also a fake—though how Blackwell got ahold of <i>her</i> is as murky as everything else. (But then, Lucy is a college student.) She may be a golem or she may be worse. The safe thing to do is to stay in Cindy's form, go to school, and see what shakes out. But you feel so many dangers pressing around you that you doubt that the "safest" thing to do is safe at all. Taking the mask off Lucy might reveal some vital clues. Wearing her instead of Cindy ... it would be a different hiding place, and you'd have Cindy back as a confederate after making the switch.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111
author_id: seuzz
title: Secret Agents and Hidden Agendas
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Dealing with Cindy's life means dealing with the aftermath of her "date" with Justin. "So, how was he?" Eva Garner asks after you log in to Skype.<br/>
<br/>
"He was sweet," you say cautiously while squirming girlishly. "He was goofy. He was ... affectionate." You giggle. <br/>
<br/>
"So do you have a thing for him now?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know." Something in her tone carries a warning. "Should I?"<br/>
<br/>
It's Eva's turn to squirm. "I don't know what Chelsea will think."<br/>
<br/>
"She was egging me on."<br/>
<br/>
"That's because of Seth, not because of Justin. I mean, honestly, can you see him at Chelsea's? With Gordon and the other guys around?"<br/>
<br/>
"He's really cute, and he has great legs."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but he's not ... you know ..."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know." You cup your chin in your palm and lean on the desk. "But can I really go back to Seth now?"<br/>
<br/>
"Seth isn't the only guy on the basketball team. What about Darren?"<br/>
<br/>
"Green?" You make a face. "I don't know. Maybe I should just break up with Seth and see what happens?"<br/>
<br/>
"What you oughta do," Eva says guardedly, "is tell Seth he has to prove himself."<br/>
<br/>
"Like how?"<br/>
<br/>
"Pretty obvious, isn't it? Deal with Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, what is <i>wrong</i> with everyone," you whine. "That scene today with him and Steve? Beyond fucked up."<br/>
<br/>
Eva leans in close, as though imparting a confidence. "Look, I was talking with Kendra earlier—" <i>Figures,</i> you think to yourself. <i>That's what this is about. Chelsea telling Kendra to tell Eva to tell you ...</i> "—and Chelsea is, like, going out of her mind. I mean, Steve quitting Eastman to go to Westside? Everything is, like, totally drama, and not like the way Chelsea likes. She's freaked. This is supposed to be her perfect year, and suddenly everything is all fucked up. Her and Gordon are fighting all the time, and not in that 'I'm going to make you behave' kind of way."<br/>
<br/>
"Are they going to break up?" you gasp.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, please." Eva rolls her eyes. "But she needs someone to solve this for her."<br/>
<br/>
"Like who?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like Seth?" Even with the fuzzy image, Eva looks very knowing. <br/>
<br/>
You groan. "So I'm elected? I'm supposed to tell him to man up?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think you put yourself out there," Eva says primly. "All that talk about how awesome Justin was, and how you were all, like, hot for him after he beat the shit out of Prescott. You crawled out on that limb yourself, honey, and Chelsea just climbed out after you with a handsaw."<br/>
<br/>
Your phone dings, and you wince to see it's a text from Chelsea herself. "So I'm <i>not</i> supposed to hook up with Justin," you ask as you open it. There's an attached photo, which you also open. <br/>
<br/>
"That's what I think, and I think that's what you should think too."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Okay,</i> you mutter to yourself. <i>So why is Chelsea sending me a cell phone snapshot of Cindy and Justin after cheerleader practice today, along with a note saying "2 cute!!!!"?</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"So, you seen Justin Roth around today?" Chelsea's eyes glint. <br/>
<br/>
It's Tuesday, and you're in the locker room after first-period practice. You'd been dreading dealing with Chelsea directly, and it's like she could smell the funk of terror coming off you, because she'd ostentatiously avoided the topic all during the workout—only to spring it on you now, when you've had maximal time to figure out the correct thing to say and minimal time (during the break) to say it at length.<br/>
<br/>
"I wasn't looking for him," you say casually, "and I think he hasn't been looking for me."<br/>
<br/>
"You know, if you want someone else, you know, a friend, to talk to him, you know, to find out ..." Chelsea trails off with a smile. <br/>
<br/>
You watch the room out of the corner of your eye. Everyone is ignoring your little conference. "I don't think he'd talk to you, Chelsea," you murmur.<br/>
<br/>
"Why?" Her smile turns violently upside down. "Is he stuck up or something?"<br/>
<br/>
"He doesn't seem like the type to talk about it, with anyone."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, no one has to talk to him about it, I mean, not <i>it</i> it, you know?" Her smile reappears, and now it is wicked. "Anyway, he just seems like an interesting guy. You wouldn't mind if <i>I</i> talked to him, would you?"<br/>
<br/>
"He's not my <i>boyfriend,</i> Chelsea." That was the wrong thing to say: her eyebrows shoot up. "What I mean is, anyone can talk to him. I'm just surprised you're interested in him."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh?" Her tone acquires the playfulness of a cat that has just trapped a particularly arrogant mouse and decided to have some fun teaching it humility. "Do you think <i>I'm</i> stuck up or something?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, but <i>you</i> have a boyfriend." Her eyes freeze. <i>One point for the mouse ...</i><br/>
<br/>
"Well," she replies, "I'm very interested in what happens. You're just so cute together, and he could be a real breath of fresh air around here. Speaking of which, <i>when are you going to change your perfume, Lin?</i>" She rounds on the unfortunate Ms. Pol. "It stinks like a Shanghai cathouse in here!" Then she stomps out.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Actually, you had been looking for Justin, though with the firm expectation that he would not be found. So imagine your reaction when you round a corner after second period and smack right into him. You leap and squeal.<br/>
<br/>
He hitches his backpack a little more firmly onto his shoulder, and bends over you with a smile. "What are you doing after school, you little vixen?"<br/>
<br/>
"Ummmmm ...."<br/>
<br/>
"Yesterday was too much fun. Today, could we keep it, like, in first gear?"<br/>
<br/>
Your breath is coming in quick gulps. "I really don't feel like getting together with you again."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," he drawls. "Except you really want to, right?" He lightly pinches the top of your breast. "I don't have to tell you what you'd be missing."<br/>
<br/>
You feel the color rising in your face. "I think I'd <i>rather</i> miss it."<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, you're already playing a dangerous game— Will you fucking stop pushing me?" he snarls over his shoulder at the passing throng. He turns back to you, smarm re-engaged. "You took a pretty fucking big risk yesterday after our little session. Why are you suddenly so cautious?"<br/>
<br/>
"Someplace public," you say, thinking quickly. "The bleachers out by the practice field."<br/>
<br/>
"Three-thirty. See you there." You hold each other's eyes, watching over your shoulders, as he passes on.<br/>
<br/>
You turn, to find Seth watching you angrily from nearby. It's the first you've seen of <i>him</i> today too—How perfect!—and you sniff and turn your head and pass him by.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Do me a favor?" you ask Eva as you exit the cafeteria together after lunch. "I'm meeting Justin out by the practice field after school, and I want someone there to keep an eye on us."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because I don't want any more stupid rumors getting started. Can you bring Jeremy along?"<br/>
<br/>
Eva stops dead in her tracks, her eyes wide. "Jesus, why would I do that? Besides, he has basketball practice then!"<br/>
<br/>
"So he can be late! And I want him to see because he's, like, Seth's best friend."<br/>
<br/>
"What's gonna happen?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," you admit. "But if Jeremy can watch and report on it to Seth, it would be better for everyone, you know?"<br/>
<br/>
She shifts uncomfortably, but agrees.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your real reason for arranging for witnesses—and as you sit down on the benches at three-twenty you are relieved to see Eva and Jeremy already sitting on the grass of the practice field, pretending not to be watching you—is in case "Justin" gets rambunctious. Jeremy is a big guy, and should be able and willing to intervene if he sees anything untoward going down.<br/>
<br/>
Still, you draw back as Justin approaches, trodding heavily from bleacher to bleacher with his eyes down as he ascends. When he reaches you, he pauses, to gaze down at you with an ambiguous expression, before dropping with a sigh by your side. "Well, this is pretty fucking awkward, isn't it?" he says.<br/>
<br/>
"So, what do you want to talk about?"<br/>
<br/>
"You're a smart guy. What do you think?"<br/>
<br/>
"All cards on the table," you cautious ask.<br/>
<br/>
"More like masks off, and I mean that literally."<br/>
<br/>
"Not here," you gape. "And I'm not going someplace alone with you."<br/>
<br/>
"Aren't you curious to know what's under my face?" He smiles mischievously.<br/>
<br/>
"I can make two good guesses."<br/>
<br/>
"Bet they'd both be wrong," he says with a grin.<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes narrow. <i>The hell is going on here?</i><br/>
<br/>
"Okay, you won't go off with me alone," he sighs. "I can dig it. How about this, then?" He squeezes under the bleachers, to drop onto the ground below. You bend over to watch him as, shielded from the gaze of all observers, he puts his hand to his brow and begins to mutter. He tugs.<br/>
<br/>
Your first guess would have been "Will Shabbleman," but it's not Shabbleman who turns to look up at you. Nor is it Aubrey Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
It's the guy you met at the archery range a few days ago, and it unsettles you further to see that he hasn't passed out—as usually happens when a mask comes off. <br/>
<br/>
"Maybe you don't remember me," he says with a shrug. "But we've met. And your friend over there, the beanpole who's doing a really bad job pretending not to spy on us? He'd definitely know who I am.<br/>
<br/>
"So if you don't mind, I'd like to put Justin's face back on, and then maybe we can go off someplace private to talk?"</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111
author_id: seuzz
title: A Game of Questions
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Well, this makes no sense at all, which is actually a pretty good argument for figuring out what's going on. You haggle over where to rendezvous, and settle on the Crystal Cave—an intimate but public coffee bar. You separate, and as you leave the bleachers you shrug noncommittally at Eva and Jeremy, who by now are openly staring at you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"You didn't say you'd be bringing company," you bluntly tell the-guy-who-had-been-pretending-to-be-Justin. With him is the blonde kid who hassled you in the locker room that day at the archery range. You'd have recognized him from his grin even if his arm weren't still in a sling.<br/>
<br/>
Your new acquaintance turns his palms up in a shrug. "What can I say? My brother's been hanging off my ass since we were little." They exchange friendly, fraternal glares.<br/>
<br/>
You just snort and drop into the booth with them. "So, how is this supposed to work? We just start talking about shit?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, to start with, <i>Cindy,</i>" the dark-haired one says, "you still have us at a disadvantage. I took <i>my</i> mask off."<br/>
<br/>
"Like that tells me anything," you retort. "Besides, it's not a good idea, me taking this thing off."<br/>
<br/>
"How come?" the blonde kid laughs. "You don't look good in a dress?" His brother nudges him.<br/>
<br/>
"Who the fuck are you guys?" you demand. "Is this some kind of shake down? You find my stuff and think you can get something for it?"<br/>
<br/>
The dark one smiles thinly. "First, let's over the rules of the game." He folds and rests his hands lightly on the table. "Rule 1: Each side takes a turn, asking one question each turn. Rule 2: Anyone can decline to answer a question, but then the questioner gets to ask <i>two</i> questions. Rule 3: Liars go to hell, and I'm serious when I say that." He holds your gaze until you have to glance away. "Rule 4," he then resumes. "We continue until one side says stop. Then the other side gets to ask <i>three</i> questions, which have to be answered. And then we see what happens."<br/>
<br/>
They both smile faintly, and their eyes gleam. "You've done this before, haven't you?" you grunt.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. Now it's our turn."<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"I said it's our turn to ask a question." He smiles. "And now you're up by two questions. You've leaped our turn, and we get to ask you two questions before you can ask a third."<br/>
<br/>
"But I didn't--! Oh, never mind." You cross your arms and look darkly into the corner of the room.<br/>
<br/>
The blond one chuckles, but his brother looks at you searchingly. "Are you wearing perfume?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>The fuck?</i> "Yeah."<br/>
<br/>
"Yours or Cindy's?"<br/>
<br/>
"Cindy's."<br/>
<br/>
He laughs softly. "Okay, now it's your turn." You stare at him. "Yeah, I threw our advantage away," he says. "You're right, you didn't know we'd started. Besides, it's only fair to show you need to be careful when playing against us." He relaxes confidently against the back of the booth. <br/>
<br/>
"Okay," you mutter through twisted lips. "Who are you jerks?"<br/>
<br/>
"My name is Frank Durras," he replies as the blonde one barks out a laugh. "This here is Joe." The latter nods his head and continues grinning like an idiot. "What name do <i>you</i> go by when <i>you're</i> not wearing a mask?"<br/>
<br/>
You run your tongue over your bottom lip. Already you are not liking this game, and even though you've not been "yourself" in quite some time you feel shy enough to reply, "I'd rather not answer that."<br/>
<br/>
Frank cocks an eyebrow. "Okay. Now I get to ask you two questions. First, is your name, when you're not wearing a mask, Aubrey Blackwell?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh. And when you're not wearing a mask, how old are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Seventeen." That seems safe enough, until you notice Joe's eyes brighten. You drum your fingers. Maybe the best way to deal with them is to play follow the leader. "Since we're asking personal questions, how old are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Me, I'm eighteen," says Frank. "Joe's still seventeen. You didn't ask, but I'll tell you we go to Eastman. We moved here about a week after school started. We take classes, go out for sports--"<br/>
<br/>
"Kiss girls," Joe adds. "And if you're not Aubrey Blackwell, what <i>is</i> your relationship with him?"<br/>
<br/>
That's up in the air, isn't it? "I guess I'm one of his students," you say. "What's <i>your</i> relationship with him?"<br/>
<br/>
"None," Frank says. "Seen him at a distance, but never met him." His eyes narrow in amusement. "After you answer our next question, you should ask why we're <i>interested</i> in him."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you. Just ask me what you want to know."<br/>
<br/>
"Where did Cindy pick up the perfume?"<br/>
<br/>
"I said fuck you. Stop treating me like a baby. And you don't get to ask two questions now, because I'm not refusing to answer. She got it at Nirdlinger's. Now, what do you <i>really</i> want to ask me?"<br/>
<br/>
Frank sighs. "How did you become Blackwell's student?"<br/>
<br/>
"I ran into him at— Well, someplace. He offered me a job. I took it. One thing led to another. Why are you interested in him?"<br/>
<br/>
"We're interested in him mostly because we're interested in you," Joe says. "We thought you might <i>be</i> him, but you say you're not. Is it our turn now?" You grimace but nod. "Thanks. Why were you so keen on taking over the life of Justin Roth?"<br/>
<br/>
You blink at the corkscrew turn, and can only guess it's part of their technique. Then you realize it's not a question you can explain without explaining a lot of other things. That was probably the point. "I don't want to answer that." You expect them to instantly claim two questions, but Frank only watches you expectantly. "Okay, let's just say I had personal reasons," you blurt out. "They had nothing to do with him. He was just, well, he was the only person I could pull off a switch with." You look between him and Joe. "Is that good enough? I decided to answer after all."<br/>
<br/>
"Was it home life, like parents? Or school life?"<br/>
<br/>
"School life, I guess. Well, also health issues, maybe you could call them." <i>Being a damn golem.</i> "I should get two questions now, you know--" Frank nods, which surprises you. "Okay, why are you interested in <i>me</i>?"<br/>
<br/>
The brothers exchange a long glance. "Come back to that question later," Frank says. "We're not refusing to answer it, but we want to ask you a few more things first. Give us another one."<br/>
<br/>
You sigh. "Alright. So, are you, like, friends or family with Will Shabbleman?" They look puzzled. You lick your lips. "The guy I had tied up in the trunk. I assume you're the ones who let him out." <br/>
<br/>
They stare at you, then Joe bursts out laughing while Frank rubs the bridge of his nose. "No, we're not friends with him," the latter says in a tired voice. "In fact, we've got a bit of a bone to pick with him. Yeah, we let him out. That was a colossal fuck up."<br/>
<br/>
"What happened?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's your second question," Frank reminds you. "He stole our truck, left us stranded in the middle fuck nowhere. How's that for gratitude?" He chuckles—a deep, dry sound. "Didn't bother to tell us anything, didn't even bother to put on any clothes. Just saw a chance and grabbed it." <br/>
<br/>
And suddenly, just like that, you feel a connection with them. Everyone at this table has been victimized by that son of a bitch ... "Okay, your turn."<br/>
<br/>
They seem to sense the change in your mood, for they both relax. Joe puts his arms on the table and leans forward, ducking his head deferentially. "These health issues. Did you have them before you went to work with Blackwell? Or after?"<br/>
<br/>
"After." Joe's smile is meaningful, but sympathetic. "If you won't tell me why you're interested in me, can you tell me how I got on your radar screen?"<br/>
<br/>
Joe lets out a long, low whistle. "That's a good question, it'll get you a long, complicated, <i>informative</i> answer," he says. "Can we just say that we started off being interested in the <i>Libra Personae</i>, and that one thing led to another? Yeah, we know about the <i>Libra</i>," he says to your querying glance. "We didn't just trip over your shit yesterday."  He pauses to let the consequences of that confession seep in. Then he leans forward again. "Next question: Are you willing to let Justin or Cindy have their lives back? Like, this afternoon?"<br/>
<br/>
Another corkscrew question, and one with a stinger in the tail. "Not in principle, no," you say carefully. "It might be hard to pull off, though. I know where Justin is, and I guess we can turn him loose. But I don't know what's happened to Cindy." They stare at you. "Blackwell did something with her," you say with a stammer. "I didn't even know she was, you know--" You point to your face. "Not until yesterday." They continue to stare at you in an unnerving way, even after you ask, "So how do you know about the <i>Libra</i>?"<br/>
<br/>
Again, they look at each other, but they don't seem to pondering your question. "Look, we know about all kinds of strange and creepy shit," Joe says impatiently. "And we'll tell you more about all that later. I think we've got only one more question for you, and then you get your final three." His gaze becomes very serious, and you feel his will pressing down heavily on you. "Are you starting to regret your relationship with your mentor?"<br/>
<br/>
The answer, of course, is yes. Explaining why, though, would mean taking them into your confidence. Of course, you'd have to demand the reciprocal.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211111
author_id: seuzz
title: A Game of Answers
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Yeah," you reply slowly, and can't keep your face from screwing up in a grimace. "Yeah, things have gotten pretty fucked up. It's not-- Well, I didn't know what to expect when I got into it, but I wasn't expecting this kind of stuff." They regard you patiently. "Look, you know I'm not going to give you details until I know more about you two."<br/>
<br/>
"Fair enough," Frank murmurs. "You now get three questions we have to answer."<br/>
<br/>
You draw a deep, slow breath, feeling conscious of the way they outmaneuvered you so easily earlier. "Why are you interested in the <i>Libra</i>?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's a dangerous book," Frank says casually. "It has to be taken out of circulation." He smiles at your skeptical glance. "Does that make us sound like goody-goodies? That's okay." He shrugs. "But you saw what happened to Cindy and to Justin. Have you been a victim too?" Again, you give no answer, but he seems not to expect one. "We really do just want to put it someplace where no one can use it ever again."<br/>
<br/>
"What are you, FBI agents or something?" you snort. "You said you're in high school. Or was that a lie?" You tilt your chin.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, it's true," Joe says lightly. "I'm seventeen and Frank is eighteen. Alright, Eastman is kind of a cover story. As for our real jobs ..." He thinks a moment. "You know what a coven is?" You nod. "Whatever the opposite of a coven is, that's what we're part of."<br/>
<br/>
"You're like demon-hunters?" You don't hide the mockery.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't laugh," Frank says, and his expression is grave. "No, we don't hunt demons. I've never met one, and I don't want to."<br/>
<br/>
"Our Aunt Gertrude met an angel once," Joe chuckles. "Something on <i>our</i> side, and she said <i>it</i> was scary enough. And she doesn't scare easy." He shakes his head and laughs again.<br/>
<br/>
"We mostly deal with magic and magicians," says Frank. "Pretty tame work, usually, but specialized."<br/>
<br/>
"You're not magicians yourselves?"<br/>
<br/>
Joe starts to answer, but stops. Frank looks thoughtful. "Magicians are basically arsonists," he says. "We're more like firefighters. We know how fire works, and sometimes we have to set a fire to fight a fire." He eyes you carefully. "I said that book has to be taken out of circulation. Magicians have to be taken out too. You know, before they burn something down."<br/>
<br/>
He sounds like he's being as honest as tact will allow. "So what are you going to do about <i>me</i>?" You're not going to let him off the hook he's sat himself on. "Or have I asked more than three questions already?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, you're basically still on your first one," Frank says. "As for you, well ... There are lotsa ways to take out a magician. Sometimes they just need a good talking to." He cocks his head. "I could give you a better answer if you told me how a seventeen-year-old guy named Will Prescott got mixed up with the <i>Libra</i> and Aubrey Blackwell."<br/>
<br/>
You draw a sharp breath. "You figured out who I am just from those questions?"<br/>
<br/>
"We only had to narrow it down," Joe explains. "Rule out Blackwell, Roth or Cindy, and it has to be Prescott, right?" <br/>
<br/>
"So tell us your story," Frank gently urges. "Convince us you're just a guy who's way in over his head."<br/>
<br/>
You make a face and you mumble and you drum your fingers, but they just keep still and watch you with patient gravity. You silently untangle your feelings. It would be nice to be rid of so much secrecy, to have someone else who knows your story. Even if these guys can't help, or if they don't want to help ... Well, there's no one else you can really turn to.<br/>
<br/>
And so, in fits and starts and with more than a little backtracking you sketch your history: Finding the book at Arnholm's; your deciding to return it, and meeting Blackwell there; your taking a job with him and gradually coming into his confidence. You don't mention the hex that ruined your social life, though, and you wrap it up before getting to the misadventure that sent you through the book and into a golem's body. Frank and Joe look grimly unconvinced as you sputter to a stop. "You're not telling us everything," Joe says bluntly. "You haven't even talked about Justin yet."<br/>
<br/>
"Look, I've made some mistakes," you say hotly. "I've done some things ... Well, I guess they're pretty bad. But I didn't realize what I was doing." They just stare at you. "Okay, do you guys have bullies at Eastman?"<br/>
<br/>
"There are bullies everyplace," Frank says quietly.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, they're crawling all over Westside. What am I saying, you've been inside Roth's head, you know. Well, I got the shit beat out of me one day after I went to work for Blackwell. He showed me a little trick to play on them. Except, actually, I didn't know it was a trick." You describe the hexed money, and how Blackwell got you to use it without your knowing it was an honest-to-goodness hex. "After that, I'd have done anything to get out of my life."<br/>
<br/>
"Even steal another one, huh?" Frank says grimly. "Well, that's how these guys get you. From what you say, he already had you lying to your family by making up a fake version of yourself."<br/>
<br/>
"I told you I fucked up."<br/>
<br/>
"So you took over Justin's life." Joe shrugs. "And stuck him in yours."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, something else happened there," you insist. "Though I'm damned if I know what." You take another deep breath, and start to describe the night you got transformed.<br/>
<br/>
But they stop you before you finish. "You got sucked into the <i>Libra</i>?" Frank asks, not bothering to disguise his incredulity.<br/>
<br/>
"That's what Blackwell thinks happened."<br/>
<br/>
"Tell us that part again." You comply, and they ask you to tell it a third time, pressing for and cross-checking details, especially about the thing that cornered you in the workroom. Then they pull a fourth telling out of you. After that they let you continue, though they don't seem to be paying close attention, even when you get to the bit about being trapped in a golem's body.<br/>
<br/>
They're silent for a bit. "When did this happen?" Frank asks. He's staring at the palms of his hands. <br/>
<br/>
"The night I fell into the book? Two weeks ago, a little more? I've been trapped in this golem about ten days."<br/>
<br/>
"It fits the timeline," Joe murmurs to his brother. He looks at you. "What was Blackwell's reaction to this golem business?"<br/>
<br/>
"He was excited at first. Since then, well ... It's been back to business, being his student. Except for this Shabbleman guy."<br/>
<br/>
"Who's he, exactly?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Blackwell says he brought him in after I disappeared. Then he said he sent him back home. But he used the <i>Libra</i> to disguise him as Cindy. Look, wouldn't it be easiest if you just put on her mask and got the details directly?"<br/>
<br/>
Frank shakes his head emphatically. "I put on Justin so I could find you, and because I thought it would be bad if he just disappeared. You just tell us in your own words what happened." <br/>
<br/>
So you share the fragments you gleaned from tricking Blackwell last night. "He's after this <i>essentia</i> stuff of mine," you conclude. "Whatever that is."<br/>
<br/>
"You've a better idea of what it is than you're letting on," Frank says in a caustic tone. "But I don't blame you for being jumpy." He sighs, and he and Joe lapse into another one of their "telepathic talk" acts. They fidget awhile before Frank sighs again. "Alright, you've really fucked yourself up, but you're not the villain in this story." <br/>
<br/>
"You're more like the MacGuffin," Joe snickers.<br/>
<br/>
"Seems to me you'll be okay," Frank says. "You'll have to go back to being 'Will Prescott,' but you can do that with the mask you made of yourself. Your life will suck for awhile, but you have to live with what's happened."<br/>
<br/>
Part of you reluctantly agrees with him; but another part of you bridles.<br/>
<br/>
"Right now we need to start returning things to the way they were," he goes on. "You put Roth under the Prescott mask, right?" You nod. "Can you get out to your house and collect him?"<br/>
<br/>
"If you can give me a ride."<br/>
<br/>
He makes a face. "Our truck got stolen, remember? We had to hitch rides out here ourselves. What about Cindy's car?"<br/>
<br/>
"She hasn't got one. I took a cab here."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck. Okay, where's Justin's car?"<br/>
<br/>
"I ditched it at an apartment complex on the other side of town. It should still be there."<br/>
<br/>
"So we'll split a cab out there, then collect Justin at Prescott's house. Take him out some place and release him."<br/>
<br/>
"He'll notice he's missing a couple of days," Joe points out.<br/>
<br/>
"Dude's brain is half-fried by drugs," Frank snaps. "He'll be okay. He's got bounce. What do we do about Cindy?"<br/>
<br/>
"Find out what happened to her when we hit Blackwell's place," Joe says. "We have to do that anyway."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but not till daybreak. You remember when we tried a night raid." Joe winces and slips his injured arm under the table. "So who gets to be Cindy tonight?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm already being her," you point out.<br/>
<br/>
"It'd be healthier if you switched back to your own self as soon as possible," Frank says.<br/>
<br/>
"So one of you will get to be Cindy for a little while?" You don't hide the cynicism in your smile. Frank actually turns red.<br/>
<br/>
 Joe makes a snerking noise. "Dude's got a point. Tell you what," he says with a grin. "To show we trust you, <i>you</i> pick who gets to be Cindy tonight."</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112
author_id: seuzz
title: A Double Cross
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"There's always ups and downs in these things, right?" You speak cautiously. "I mean, he's the teacher and I'm just the student. There's a lot of things he's not going to tell me." Frank and Joe bore holes in you with their eyes. You shrug. "I mean, this is all new to me."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you trust him?" Frank asks.<br/>
<br/>
You think long and hard, not about the answer (which is <i>NO!!!!!!!</i>), but about whether to share it with them. You decide not to. "You've already asked your last question, so I don't have to answer."<br/>
<br/>
They say nothing, and then Joe shrugs. "Okay. You get three questions now. We have to answer them."<br/>
<br/>
It's like the floor has dropped out from under you. They're not even looking at you any more. They look bored, even. You're not going to get anything from them.<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, why are you interested in the <i>Libra</i>?"<br/>
<br/>
"We wanna get our hands on it. Dur." Frank's tone is openly contemptuous.<br/>
<br/>
Yep, you're going to have to settle with crumbs. "You said you know about all kinds of creepy stuff. Like what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Werewolves. Mummies," Frank says. "You know that North Dakota has more vampires per capita than any other state in the Union? The lack of sunlight."<br/>
<br/>
"He doesn't want your bullshit, Frank," Joe retorts. "He wants a demonstration." He fixes his eyes on you. "<i>Tesull sumej</i>" he says. "What do you say to that?"<br/>
<br/>
You blink, and try to sneer out a retort. But your tongue doesn't want to move. You swallow and try again. But no words will come. In fact, you can't even think of any to say.<br/>
<br/>
Joe sniggers. "A little trick I use when a girl has a luscious mouth but won't stop talking long enough for me get a taste of it." He waves his hand and mutters another phrase. "What's your third question?"<br/>
<br/>
"You guys know magic?" you croak.<br/>
<br/>
"We know a few things," Frank says. "Like, you noticed I'm <i>supernaturally good</i> with a fucking bow." He sighs. "Well, this has been a pointless conversation--"<br/>
<br/>
"Hang on," you interrupt. "You said you'd tell me why you were interested in me."<br/>
<br/>
Oddly, that does seem to surprise them. Or maybe they're waiting for the other to say something, for their glances are now furtive. "Kinda obvious, isn't it?" Frank says. "Blackwell has the <i>Libra.</i> Can you get it from him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why would I do that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, he's not sharing it with you, is he?" Joe snorts. "You get it from him, you could share it with us, maybe?"<br/>
<br/>
"We could make it worth your while," Frank says. "Or even form a partnership. Three people stand a much better chance with it than one. Easier to trap people if you want to steal their body."<br/>
<br/>
"You want a goddamned offer?" Joe asks. He lowers his voice. "There's this guy at Eastman. Tall, popular, good looking, great at ball. Has a girlfriend, button cute. She's half his height, so imagine how tight her pussy is around his cock." He groans. "And the killer app? His dad's a millionaire."<br/>
<br/>
"Like, hundreds of millions," Frank adds.<br/>
<br/>
"We're on the Eastman team," Joe says. "We could get him for you. Or his girl, if, you know--" He leers. "That's the side you're interested in."<br/>
<br/>
You swallow. This is pretty bald talk. "I thought you guys were talking about rescuing people earlier. Like, rescuing Cindy, letting Justin loose."<br/>
<br/>
"Wanted to see if you have a conscience," Joe says coldly. "You're no good to us if you're a pussy."<br/>
<br/>
"We oughta let Roth out, though," Frank says. "He's a fucking loser. I could give a shit, but I don't like loose ends. Me and Joe both like things tight." He fixes his penetrating gaze on you. "So what do you say?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's tempting," you temporize. "But I'd have to think about it."<br/>
<br/>
Frank grunts; Joe says nothing. "Well," Frank says. "I suppose I can play Justin Roth one more day. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Same place at Westside?" You nod. "One more thing. Where's Justin's car?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? Oh. You know the Briarwood Apartments? I left it in the lot. It should still be there." Again, he nods distractedly. Awkwardly, you rise and leave.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a short cab ride home, which doesn't give you much time to do anything but rehearse the many reasons for distrusting the Durras brothers. That would settle you against working with them, except you have almost equally weighty reasons for abandoning Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
"There you are," Lucy says in a sulky voice as you get out of the cab in front of the house. "I've been looking for you all afternoon. Give me a hand?" She gestures at the back trunk of her SUV, which is open.<br/>
<br/>
Still preoccupied, you go see what she needs. She points to a box in the back. "It's too heavy for me," she says. "Little help?" She follows as you crawl into the SUV. As you turn to ask what this stuff is, she puts a hand to your forehead--<br/>
<br/>
It's like a hot spike driving deeply into your skull, and you don't even feel your legs and arms collapse ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I'm most disappointed in you, Will," Blackwell says. His pendulous lower lip droops in a terrible frown. He clasps his arms behind his back. The click-clack of the library clocks jabs at your ears.<br/>
<br/>
You're out of Cindy's mask, and out of her clothes, so the world is in black-and-white golem-o-vision against. Shortly after regaining consciousness you found yourself on the ground in front of his villa, with Blackwell and Lucy looking down at you. Your teacher had brusquely ordered you upstairs to change, and you'd only the strength to obey, not argue or fight back.<br/>
<br/>
And now here you are, stripped and bare to his wrath. Your only consolation is that Shabbleman is similarly disencumbered of disguise; Lucy's clothes and mask, like Cindy's, are on the desk in front of you. But he at least is dressed.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, most disappointed," Blackwell continues. "Though I should also confess myself impressed by your ingenuity and <i>nerve.</i> It must have taken a lot of gumption, to come here last night and pretend you were Mr. Shabbleman. Or maybe it was the false courage that comes from being a teenager."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, bite me," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"Recovering nicely, I see," he acidly observes. "Well, I also shouldn't have been so blind as to overlook certain possibilities. I knew it was theoretically possible for you to shatter the protective spell I put on Miss Cindy's mask, but I didn't credit it as an <i>actual</i> possibility." Shabbleman starts at Blackwell's words, but the magician's next words recapture his attention, as well as yours. "I should also take some comfort in the demonstration of your, ah, virility. It has definitely made my decision for me. <i>You,</i> Mr. Prescott, are to be my true protege."<br/>
<br/>
You would blink if golems had eyelids.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck is this about?" Shabbleman demands of Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't forgotten our bargain." Blackwell hands your cousin a package. "Here is your payment. You will find it most useful in dealing with your grandmother. You may go now."<br/>
<br/>
"First, I want a goddamned--"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>I said you may go!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
Shabbleman curses a blue streak, then grabs the package and stomps from the room. A moment later comes the sound of the front door opening. But it doesn't close. Instead, there is a heavy thump. Blackwell turns smoothly to pull an ornament on the bookshelf, and one of the bookshelves swings open noiselessly on a set of hinges. <br/>
<br/>
"Do fetch your recumbent cousin, Will," he says over his shoulder. "Drag him in here and throw him down there." He points to the gaping doorway.<br/>
<br/>
It takes you a moment to recover from your surprise. Then you stagger out the library and into the foyer. Shabbleman lies in a heap on the floor. <i>Ah, the same trick Blackwell pulled on Justin ...</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Now that <i>that</i> little charade is concluded, I can give you a proper explanation and an apology," Blackwell says after you have hauled Shabbleman down into the secret basement at the bottom of a flight of circular stairs. Now his tone is much kinder, though it is still condescending.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, I'm afraid I've been playing a double game against both of you," he says. "The fact is I wasn't sure <i>which</i> of you I wanted as a pupil. Also, I found it impossible to shake Mr. Shabbleman off. I had to pit you against each other in a secret struggle. I'm actually relieved that it was you who came out on top, although--" He strokes the inside of Cindy's mask. "Although the scale of your victory was rather breathtaking."<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't have to send him back as Lucy to kidnap me," you growl. "I'd have showed up on my own."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell smiles crookedly. "After he returned last night--naked as a jaybird in his humiliation--he was hot for vengeance against you. I let him have his way, calculating it would blind him to the subsequent double cross. Again, I apologize."<br/>
<br/>
"So, that's what this was about? Not trying to get my <i>essentia</i>?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, we still need <i>that,</i>" he says, "if we are to restore you to your proper form. We'll just have to find a different way. The, ah, usual methods of obtaining it are clearly inadequate." He grimaces as he continues to rub the shattered inner surface of the mask. <br/>
<br/>
"Well," he says, shaking himself. "Let us tie up the loose ends before continuing. Shall we send the Vredenburg sisters back while you resume the persona of ... what was his name?"</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111121
author_id: seuzz
title: A Plan Goes to Plan
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"That's gonna be tricky," you reply. "Did Shabbleman tell you how he escaped from me last night?" Blackwell looks at you sharply. "Someone let him out while I was ere with you. He took off, but the guys who rescued him wound up with Justin's mask."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell frowns. "This is very bad news, and I don't mean that a very valuable artifact has gone walking. If others find out about the <i>Libra</i>--"<br/>
<br/>
"They already know about it." His eyebrows shoot up. "In fact, I think they knew about it before they found Shabbleman and my stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"You'd better make yourself completely clear," he says quietly.<br/>
<br/>
So you tell him about your meeting with the Durrases. He questions you closely, and when you are finished he grips his chin and rocks back and forth. "Possibly they only stumbled upon your belongings and made some deductions," he reflects. "But you said one of them did a bit of 'magic'?" <br/>
<br/>
You describe in more detail the trick that robbed you of speech. <br/>
<br/>
"That is <i>most</i> alarming," he says, and passes a hand over his brow. "You hardly have the background to grasp the power it suggests they command."<br/>
<br/>
"So who are they?"<br/>
<br/>
"Someone we must become <i>better acquainted</i> with."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Are you all gross and slimy under that mask," Joe asks the next day as he slides into Justin's car. "Like a lich? Those things are totally nasty, you know. You don't wanna wind up as one."<br/>
<br/>
You're back in Justin's form, having swapped with Frank at the school. The plan--the Durrases believe--is to break into Blackwell's house and find the <i>Libra.</i> But Joe seems more interested in bantering. Only after he's torn a couple of tongue-twisters from you does he settle down. "Tell me about where we're going," he says. "The inside. I know all about the outside."<br/>
<br/>
You give him a nervous, sidelong glance as he leans back insouciantly. "Usual rooms downstairs, bedrooms upstairs. The library is the spooky thing, there must be thousands of books in it. Secret room behind one of the bookcases--" You catch yourself with a start. <i>Why'd you mention that?</i><br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
"And there's a kind of attic upstairs, a workroom. That's where the <i>Libra</i> is." Again, you've surprised yourself.<br/>
<br/>
"He has it just sitting out? Fuck, what do you need me along for? I'll wait out in the car and you trot in to scoop it up."<br/>
<br/>
"I bet it's booby trapped," you retort. Sweat spring out on your brow. <i>Why don't you just tell him all about the  trap you and Blackwell have laid for him?</i><br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, they like to do things like that, don't they?" Joe snickers to himself. "Well, I wouldn't want to sit out in a hot car anyway. I wanna see this place. I bet there's just all <i>kinds</i> of nasty little surprises inside." He turns a gleaming eye on you. "You're sure he'll be at the university?"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, he always works late on Thursdays. Unless he's got a--" No, this time you catch yourself, and close your mouth with a snap.<br/>
<br/>
"Unless he's got a what?" Joe asks slyly. "A double of his own, that he sends out when he doesn't wanna teach?"<br/>
<br/>
"I-- I don't really know. I mean, he's got that book," you stutter. "He always could--"<br/>
<br/>
Joe pulls out his cell phone. "Yeah, hey, we're almost there," he says cheerfully into it. "Blackwell still in class? Uh huh? Fuck you, it's prob'ly a double." He speaks very quickly in a string of syllables you can't catch. He laughs. "Yeah, you won't believe the way he's shitting himself. I'll keep you posted." He puts the phone away and claps you on the shoulder. "Frank says not to worry."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not worried."<br/>
<br/>
"You're a bundle of nerves." He grips your shoulder reassuringly. "It'll all go to plan. Just watch." He grins, and his sharp smile almost sends you to pieces.<br/>
<br/>
And your trepidation only increases after you arrive. The gate and door are both locked, and you have to fumble long at them to get the key to work. Inside, you look around. "The thing, the guardian shouldn't be a problem. I'll look in the library, just in case. The staircase to the work room's at the end of the upstairs hall." He just nods and runs up the staircase. <br/>
<br/>
Once he's out of earshot you hurry over to the hidden door and open it. You hiss Blackwell's name, but there's no reply. You take a few steps down, but the room is empty. The fuck?<br/>
<br/>
"Dude, up here!" Joe's voice carries faintly. You take a deep breath to steady yourself and run up to join him. He's in the workroom, with arms folded. He nods a chin at the book on the work table. "The pot at the end of the rainbow. Pick it up."<br/>
<br/>
"Why don't <i>you</i> pick it up?"<br/>
<br/>
"I bet it's booby-trapped," he grins, and leans back against the door frame. You blink at his pitch-perfect imitation of Justin's voice.<br/>
<br/>
You swallow. Of course the book is booby-trapped. But clearly he's not going to touch it, so you advance on it slowly. Your palms break out in a sweat as you reach out to grasp it ...<br/>
<br/>
... and as soon as you touch it everything goes dark.<br/>
<br/>
A sting in your cheek brings you back to consciousness, and you open your eyes to find Joe hunched over you. "Man," he chuckles. "That's powerful stuff he smeared on it. I had to slap you hard a dozen times to bring you back around."<br/>
<br/>
"What happened?"<br/>
<br/>
"You touched it and fell over." He taps a cloth-wrapped package under his arm. "I got a towel for it. We're okay now."<br/>
<br/>
"You're okay," you grumble as you try to sit up. "I'm still dizzy."<br/>
<br/>
"Shake it off," he orders, and pulls you to your feet. He puts a strong hand on your shoulder and pushes you toward the door. "You go first. I'll cover the rear."<br/>
<br/>
Again, you swallow. If the book didn't take him out, Blackwell was supposed to cover the hallway with a sleeping web. Hesitantly you lead Joe back downstairs, but the way seems to be clear. <i>Where is Blackwell?</i> a voice keeps screaming in your head.<br/>
<br/>
At the front door Joe stops you, and uses another towel stolen from the bathroom to twist the knob. He pushes you out the door but doesn't follow until you turn and raise a quizzical eyebrow. "Okay," he says. "Let's just take an easy walk back to the car." Again, he pushes you along from the rear.<br/>
<br/>
Your footsteps become heavier and heavier. If Blackwell doesn't materialize soon, Joe will get away ... and then it will be up to <i>you</i> to somehow stop him and retrieve the book. He stops you once you reach the car, though, and stares at it. Then he pushes you over to the passenger side. "I'll drive," he says. <br/>
<br/>
Once inside the car, he tosses the book into the back, and throws his head back and howls with laughter. He grabs the steering wheel and turns to you with an expression that mixes mischief with malice. But before he can speak, his eyes glaze over, his hands slide off the wheel, and he topples over into your lap.<br/>
<br/>
You stare, and then a movement outside the car catches your eye. Lucy Vredenburg steps out of a shadow next to the wall. "It's me, Mr. Prescott," she says in an uncharacteristically plummy tone. "You can take great satisfaction in having played your part perfectly."<br/>
<br/>
You stare. Then: "You booby-trapped the car while we were inside!" She ducks her head in acknowledgement. "Why didn't you tell me that's what you were planning?"<br/>
<br/>
"I knew perfectly well you stood no chance against an adept of Viritrilbia," she retorts. "You'd have given everything away. As no doubt you actually did," she adds dryly.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are back in the library: a naked Joe Durras lies spread-eagled on one of the tables. You too are naked, even of Justin's mask. A glow appears on Durras's face, and Blackwell hands you the new mask. "I will stand guard over our guest," he quietly explains. "He is quite dangerous, as you will quickly learn, and will need careful watching. You will return to his partner and arrange to bring him to me."<br/>
<br/>
Your joints seem to creak as you take the mask, but you hesitate only fractionally before putting it on.<br/>
<br/>
A brilliant golden light suffuses your being. It burns hotly, and your flesh and bones seem to billow into ash that dances in the light, flashing like diamonds. You laugh with delight, for you still remain. Or do you? Quicksilver cords seem to erupt within you, binding you with thoughts and intentions that are not your own. But then you are free of them, plucking them and trembling to their vibrations. Where the web ends and you begin you are not sure, but you feel yourself again, at its center. <br/>
<br/>
Like a black spider. <br/>
<br/>
You open your eyes. "Yeah, all according to plan," you snicker. "Just someone else's."<br/>
<br/>
"Can you execute your mission?" Blackwell asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I can handle big brother Frank," you chortle. You stretch your good arm, feeling radiantly strong despite the other, bum wing, and snatch up Joe's pants.<br/>
<br/>
But you feel anything but confidence. The <i>Stellae Errantes</i> does not employ idiots, and fooling Frank will be no easy matter. No, the brothers are not who they claim to be, and now that you are inside one of them you are certain that you should not ally yourself with Blackwell. But neither do you want to ally with them. The puzzle that consumes you is whether the smart play is to catch Frank before rounding on Blackwell, or to reveal your deception to Frank and then double-cross him after taking out Blackwell.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122
author_id: seuzz
title: Dealing with the Durrases
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Go home disguised as Justin? That'll be impossible, given that Frank and Joe Durras still have that mask. but you can't explain that to Blackwell without explaining things that you'd rather not have to explain. So you tell him that you'll have to go back home as Cindy and swap back into Justin there. "What are you going to do with Shabbleman?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I have ways of handling him," Blackwell says. "Don't concern yourself." He doesn't inquire further into the logistics of your upcoming swaps, and when you ask about Lucy, he tells you that he will put her mask upon the golem that is waiting in the mausoleum.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
When you're back at the Vredenburg's you look for Frank and his brother by putting a call in to Justin. "Any trouble finding the car?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Nope, everything's back to normal around here," he replies in Justin's baritone. "We were going to talk tomorrow. Something come up?"<br/>
<br/>
"I was just thinking that I'll need to take Justin back before I see Blackwell again," you say. You press your hand against your forehead. You are now lying to both Blackwell and the Durrases, and keeping your stories vague but plausible is even harder because you're not sure which side you're going to land on. "Can we meet for a swap? He might call you, looking for me."<br/>
<br/>
"And what will we do with Cindy," he asks. "I'm not putting her mask on."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, someone has got to wear it. She has to go home at some point."<br/>
<br/>
"So where've you got the real Justin stashed? We'll hang her face on his."<br/>
<br/>
"He's-- He's under another mask. What will we do with that mask?"<br/>
<br/>
Durras breathes into the phone. "Bring everyone out to my place," he finally says. "We'll get things sorted out."<br/>
<br/>
That would mean revealing your true identity, and you hesitate a good long time before agreeing. So it looks like you're going to be working with the Durrases--at least until you get a better feel for the situation. "Alright," you sigh. "Where do we meet? Justin's?"<br/>
<br/>
He grunts a negative, and gives you a different address.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a modest house in rather rancid neighborhood just south of the Keyserling College campus—where it's mostly college students rooming . Justin's car is already parked out front, but it's Joe who answers the door. His eyes shine with mischief as he glances between you and "Will Prescott." "It was a good trade you made," he says. "You're a lot more kissable as a girl."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you and shut up." You brush past him; the Will-golem follows, a confused look on his face. "Your folks home?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, just me and Frank. Yo, sexy legs!" he calls, and Justin appears. Joe jerks his head at Prescott. "Your new look. Sucks to be you."<br/>
<br/>
"Wrestle you for him," Frank retorts. "But you know how it would turn out with that bum arm of yours. Start getting undressed." Joe makes a face and starts to pull off his shirt.<br/>
<br/>
"Hang on," you say. "I guess we're partners now, and I should play it straight with you. You can't wear Prescott." They both pause. "That mask has a special layer. You put it on, and you disappear. Justin's asleep or something under that thing. The same thing would happen to you."<br/>
<br/>
Joe and Frank look at each other. "Why didn't you see the problem?" Frank growls at his brother. Joe responds by shoving him hard. Frank flies at him, and only seconds later has him pinned to the ground. "You can be such a fucking moron sometimes." He glares down at Joe.<br/>
<br/>
"So what are we going to do?" you sigh.<br/>
<br/>
"As long as I'm down here you could sit on my face," Joe chirps. Frank slaps him hard. "Well, I don't know," Joe yells at his brother. "You're supposed to be the fucking brains in this partnership."<br/>
<br/>
"I want that book," Frank says, and he looks up at you with a terrible expression. "Can you get it for us?"<br/>
<br/>
You lick your lips. "I don't know where Blackwell keeps it. It's like the prize in his collection. But he works late at the college on Wednesdays. I guess I could go in tomorrow and snoop around for it."<br/>
<br/>
"You'll take Joe with you," Frank orders. "I'll just ignore any calls your boss puts in. You can have Justin after school tomorrow, and I'll hide your bitch's face until you get back."<br/>
<br/>
"Hide her in your pants, you mean," Joe mutters. Frank hits him again. Blood trickles out of Joe's nose. <br/>
<br/>
Frank rises from his brother's chest and stalks over to you, a fell light in his eyes. "You're working with us now," he says in a voice edged with steel. "Not a fat old duffer who mixes potions in his basement. You fuck with me and--" He snaps his fingers, and you choke. It feels like razor blades have lodged in your throat. You gasp and put your hand to your mouth, and when you look down find it covered in a fine red spray. You step back, staring at Durras with open-mouthed terror. <br/>
<br/>
"I love and respect my brother," Frank Durras says. "And I busted his arm myself as punishment when he fucked up our raid on Blackwell's. <br/>
<br/>
"So think about what I'd do to you," he adds in a whisper. "And be very afraid."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Whatever transpired between the brothers after you left seems not to have dimmed Joe's sunshine, for he's loose and chipper the next day when you pick him up at Eastman after school. "Are you all gross and slimy under that mask?" he asks with insolent familiarity after he's slid into Justin's car with you. (You're dressed out like Justin again.) "Like a lich? Those things are totally nasty, you know. You don't wanna wind up as one."<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't looked in a mirror in awhile," you mutter. <br/>
<br/>
"Did Frank see you?"<br/>
<br/>
"We changed in separate bathrooms."<br/>
<br/>
"You're no fun. Bet your real face would freak Frank out, and a fine Frank freakout, I frankly feel, would float my frigate."<br/>
<br/>
"You talk too much."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't talk enough. Try a tongue twister. 'Too tight tongues tell no tall tales, but loose-lipped louts slip lots of slop'." You grunt, but he goads you until you repeat it all back. He laughs at your discomfort. "Okay, that's enough goofing off. Tell me about where we're going. The inside. I know all about the outside."<br/>
<br/>
You describe Blackwell's house, with more detail than you'd realized you've picked up. Joe questions you casually but closely all the way out. Then he turns very quiet when you pull up to find an SUV parked out front. "I thought you said he'd be at the college."<br/>
<br/>
"I've never really come out here when he's not expecting me," you lamely admit. He gives you a penetrating look, which you're able to return only because you're telling the truth. Not the whole truth, of course, for you recognize the vehicle ...<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs. "Maybe it's the cleaning service," he says. "Only one way to find out."<br/>
<br/>
Lucy Vredenburg answers the door, which doesn't surprise you. "Professor Blackwell's not here," she says coolly. <br/>
<br/>
"Mind if we come in and wait?" Joe asks. Lucy stares at him, then stares at you, then steps aside. "Have we met before," Joe asks as he passes her. "I never forget a face." But he's staring at her bosom.<br/>
<br/>
"No," she firmly replies. "The living room is down there, around the corner."<br/>
<br/>
Joe saunters on ahead. You follow more slowly, and pause in the hallway to look back at her. She raises an eyebrow. "I'll get us something to drink," you call to Joe, and duck back down another hallway into the kitchen. Lucy steps in after you.<br/>
<br/>
"Who is he and why did you bring him here?" she asks point blank.<br/>
<br/>
"I assume talking to you is like talking to Blackwell?" you quietly ask. She gives only the smallest nod of her head.<br/>
<br/>
Frank's warning flashes vividly through your head. To double-cross Joe--even to pretend to double-cross him, which may be necessary in the circumstances--is a terrible risk, but it seems the only way to explain this visit.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111221
author_id: seuzz
title: Mo' Joe
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"He's my new disguise," you say. "Justin can't work here anymore," you add, thinking quickly. "Besides, you don't like him."<br/>
<br/>
"You can't just dance in here and expect I'll have a spare mask to give you."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you?"<br/>
<br/>
Her nostrils flare. "This is the absolute last move, Will," she says. "You have this fellow, you stay in him." She dismisses you after you nod.<br/>
<br/>
"Where's those drinks?" Joe asks as you enter the living room. "Cindy's sister fetching them?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. And yeah, that's her sister. Blackwell's workstudy student or something. She's a fake, but harmless. Totally docile."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh," he says dryly. "Where's the head?"<br/>
<br/>
You point, and he exits the room. A moment later Lucy flashes past the doorway, following him. You pace nervously for a moment, and then dash out when you hear your name. Lucy stands over Joe, who is sprawled on the floor. She brushes her hand on her skirt. "Drag him into the library."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You stretch a hand toward the ceiling and smile. Joe Durras's radiant self-confidence courses like liquid gold through your veins. "Fucking shame about this arm," you say lightly as Blackwell binds the soft cast around it. "It's my jackoff hand."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be disgusting," he says. "And keep that trouser snake down. I disencumbered myself of Miss Lucy because your boys are entirely too randy."<br/>
<br/>
"I thought it was so you could complete the spell," you reply. "Yo, Roth, get those shoes tied." The mask of Justin is now golemized and sitting on the real Joe Durras, but it is under Blackwell's control, and you want out of the house as fast as you can before it decides to say anything to him. It just returns a hooded glare.<br/>
<br/>
"I will see you tomorrow at the usual time?" Blackwell asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Coach expects me at basketball practice, even with the arm, so I'll have to push the time back."<br/>
<br/>
"We have your condition to discuss."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh?" You are listening carefully, though you affect to be absorbed in your new body. You lightly brush the thin golden hairs on your strong, bronzed calf. "z'Long as I'm looking like this, I don't really care about my condition."<br/>
<br/>
"But I do," Blackwell says. "Your case is most intriguing."<br/>
<br/>
"I got a case of beer that's more intriguing at the moment, and you didn't want me and my new persona out here anyway," you retort. "But I'll check in. Roth, you're with me." It hesitates between you and Blackwell for a moment, then follows you out the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't look so glum," you laughingly reprove him as you get in the car. "What's eating you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Boss ain't gonna be happy," he growls. "Are we still playing on the same team?"<br/>
<br/>
You punch the roof of the car with your fist. "If we weren't, you and Blackwell would be little smudges on the floor of his goddamned library right now," you chortle. "Instead, we're gonna go back and get Frank, and then we're gonna surprise our boss with the greatest prizes he's ever dreamed of." You grab his neck in the crook of your arm and drag him close. "I'm sittin', on top, of the world, yes I am!" you sing, then shove him back behind the wheel. The rest of your chatter on the way back is just as inane.<br/>
<br/>
It has to be, for you are thinking furiously, and even with Joe Durras's brain and guts it's all you can do to keep from shitting yourself.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Get a rope and tie this asshole up!" you call out as you swagger in through the front door with Justin's golem in your wake. The latter frowns at you--but of course he hasn't understood a word you've said, for you shouted your command in the private language that only Joe and Frank can speak. Your erstwhile brother cocks an eyebrow, then slides over into the kitchen. You distract Justin with a wink and a grin, then turn your attention to Will Prescott, who is sitting quietly in a corner, watching you carefully. "So you're here too," you exclaim. "Awesome. Gonna be a real party."<br/>
<br/>
You turn at a gasp: Frank has thrown a loop of nylon cord around Justin, and with a few deft moves--and a knee to the small of the back--he drops the golem to the floor and ties him up securely. "What happened?" Frank asks. "You didn't call."<br/>
<br/>
"No time. Cocksucker tried a double cross." You cock your head. "Well, sort of. It's complicated. Point is, we need him secure until I can explain things."<br/>
<br/>
"Get the <i>Libra?</i>?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nah. Blackwell was there, dressed out as a cheerleader. Oh, by the boobs of Beatrice, she was a looker." You affect a brief moment of erotic ecstasy--which Frank will expect and indulge--then sigh. "Anyway. Prescott panicked. He couldn't think of anything better to do except pretend that I was to be his latest victim, and told Blackwell he wanted to get inside my body."<br/>
<br/>
Frank's eyes narrow, but he only grunts.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, things got kind of sticky after that." You suck your teeth. "You have to understand, it wasn't a <i>real</i> double-cross. Prescott just figured he'd get inside me, and then he could get the both of us out of there before Blackwell spotted something wrong. Kind of a Matryoshka double-cross, one nestled inside the other." You hold Frank's gaze. "You know, kind of like we were planning with him."<br/>
<br/>
"Cut to the chase, Joe," Frank says darkly.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it all turned out okay, except there was the business of Justin's mask. Blackwell had to add a special layer to it, and it turned Justin into Blackwell's slave. So, that asshole right there, who's listening to us--" You point to Justin "--he's not to be trusted. Not until we get the mask off him. That's how come you needed to tie him up first."<br/>
<br/>
Frank's eyes remain locked on you. "And who am I going to find under it after it comes off?" he asks in a narrow whisper.<br/>
<br/>
You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Just remember," you say, and not even all of Joe's reserves can keep the ragged quaver from your voice. "If it were a real double-cross, we wouldn't even be having this conversation."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Feeling has begun to return to your jaw, which actually makes talking more painful. Frank was smart enough to keep his temper in check after you took Joe's face off, and if the sight of your naked, golem body fazed him, he didn't show it. He just handed you the mask of Cindy, which you'd dutifully put on, and directed you to get the mask off his brother. After that, that's when he'd punched your ticket. You'd awoken to find yourself trussed neatly up. So you are now wearing Joe's clothes over Cindy's' form, while the restored Joe perches on the arm of your chair while still wearing Justin's clothes. He gazes down into the mask of himself with a gnomic expression. He has just taken it from his own face, and is entirely up to speed on the afternoon's complicated evolutions.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be so hard on him, Frank," he says softly. "It was a smart play. He's good in a corner. I'd've probably done the same thing."<br/>
<br/>
"It was nearly a disaster," Frank snaps. "If Blackwell had put it on--"<br/>
<br/>
"But he didn't and he wouldn't've," Joe interrupts. "I'm not his type. Prescott knew that instinctively. Didn't you?" He winks at you.<br/>
<br/>
"I was just improvising," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"Like I say, instincts. You don't wanna rely on them, but you want them when you've nothing else." <br/>
<br/>
"And suppose once he was inside you he'd decided he <i>liked</i> his new situation?" Frank asks darkly.<br/>
<br/>
Joe laughs. "Yeah, that was the real temptation, wasn't it?" He pulls you close and kisses the top of your head. "Good thing you had <i>my</i> instincts too, eh? Knew you shouldn't fuck with Frank."<br/>
<br/>
"Bite me."<br/>
<br/>
"Besides," Joe continues, "he's set things up nicely for us. Who is Blackwell expecting to show up tomorrow? A guy who looks like me. And who better to play a guy who looks like me than ... me?" He drums his chest and laughs.<br/>
<br/>
"What if he asks you to take off the mask?" Frank objects. <br/>
<br/>
"Not gonna have a chance," Joe retorts. "You think I can't handle that fat old fraud once I'm inside?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't underestimate him," you murmur.<br/>
<br/>
"What were you saying about Prescott's instincts?" Frank asks with a bitter smile. "Listen to him."<br/>
<br/>
"Anyway, Blackwell is expecting me," you continue, "so I should be the one to go."<br/>
<br/>
"<i>That</i> would be fucked up," Frank says. "If a fake Joe is to go out there, it ought to be me."<br/>
<br/>
But you've warmed to the argument, and the three of you go round and round, posing decisive objections to each others' ideas. It only ends when Joe plays referee. <br/>
<br/>
"I stand by what I said about Prescott's instincts," he says. "Let him decide who goes out to Blackwell's tomorrow. I'll vote with him." His declaration, clearly, forces Frank to swallow his anger.<br/>
<br/>
But you don't have any instincts. And preying on your mind is Blackwell's hint that he can get you out of the golem shell--something that you doubt the Durrases can do even if they were inclined. And you doubt they are so inclined.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112211
author_id: seuzz
title: A Night with Frank Durras
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"He's expecting me to show up, and he wants me to bring the mask of Cindy," you say. "It's safest if he gets what he's expecting. I can try to find out what he's done with Cindy and Lucy."<br/>
<br/>
"Joe would be more persuasive," Frank starts, then breaks off at Joe's look. "Alright," he accedes. "It's not like Joe has any secrets from you now." He starts to untie you.<br/>
<br/>
"What do we do about Justin?" you ask as you rub your wrists. "We can't let him go."<br/>
<br/>
"Can't let the <i>fake</i> Justin go," Frank corrects you. "Joe will take the original into town--" he nods his head at the fake Will Prescott "--and release him."<br/>
<br/>
"So who goes home as Cindy? You? Frank?"<br/>
<br/>
The latter shakes his head. "You're stuck with her until tomorrow."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, who goes home as me, then?"<br/>
<br/>
"Turnabout's fair play," Joe laughs, raising his hand. "Hope you have some good porn at your place, Prescott. Frank won't let me keep any in the house."<br/>
<br/>
You blink. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Look at him," you say, pointing at Prescott. "He doesn't know who he is. You put that mask on and the same thing will happen to you."<br/>
<br/>
The brothers look at each other. "I'll still put it on," Joe says. "No reason to make your life any shittier by getting you trouble with your folks."<br/>
<br/>
You gape and turn to Frank. He fixes you with a piercing glance. "That's Joe for you, always thinking of others," he says. "But in that case I want you to stay here with me, tonight and tomorrow. I want you wearing Joe's mask, too, in case Blackwell calls."<br/>
<br/>
Now it's Joe's turn to protest, but Frank cuts him off. "In that case, make sure I've got Cindy's mask with me," he grumbles. "I won't be able to put it on, but I know what trouble you'll try getting up to if I leave it here with you and a fake me." He grins through narrowed eyes. "You're a sick fuck, Frank."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Midnight.</i> "Look, I know what you're up to," you sigh, and toss away the cigarette lighter you've been fiddling with. "You don't have to wear these things long to get totally inside a person. Franz has known you almost your entire life, <i>Giuseppe.</i> He's a smart guy, he knows you inside and out, and you're not hard to figure out anyway."<br/>
<br/>
"So what am I up to?" Frank asks.<br/>
<br/>
"You're going for total honesty. You know you can't string me along with threats and half-truths anymore, not after what I learned this afternoon. You're hoping I'll give myself up of my own free will after I've sunk myself good and deep inside Joe's mind."<br/>
<br/>
"If you're gonna sit here and say these things while looking like my brother," he says sharply, "I'd rather you let <i>him</i> do the talking." <br/>
<br/>
"Okay. But he'd change the subject. He'd tell you that Prescott's just a kid, just a dumb kid who stumbled into something way too big for him. He's just doing his best to survive. But he's not that smart, and that's his tragic flaw."<br/>
<br/>
"What's so tragic about being dumb?"<br/>
<br/>
"Better hope you never find out," you retort, "because you're almost as dumb as him."<br/>
<br/>
"And whose opinion is that," he asks quietly. <br/>
<br/>
"You're a muscle-bound moron, which is why Dad put us together," you snort in a language that only the brothers can speak. "Does that answer your question?" He smiles and stares at the coffee table. "If Prescott were half-smart, he'd have gotten rid of the <i>Libra.</i> If he were even a quarter-smart, he'd have run from Blackwell. Even kittens are smart enough for that. He's just smart enough to be fascinated by Blackwell, and by us, but not smart enough to commit one way or the other."<br/>
<br/>
"That's not being dumb. That's suffering a fatal lack of character."<br/>
<br/>
"He's never had to exercise character, which is why he has to rely on smarts and instinct, neither of which he has in good supply."<br/>
<br/>
"You said you liked his instincts."<br/>
<br/>
"I was talking about something else, something there isn't a word for. We both know he's got what we've got. If Dad had found <i>him</i> instead of me, it might be you and <i>him</i> trying to stop <i>me</i> from doing something stupid. You and Will Prescott stopping Franz Liebesspruch, I mean, in case you're having trouble tracking my pronouns. My <i>ousiarch</i> knows <i>I</i> can barely keep a grip on them." You clutch your head; your own sense of identity is wobbling as Joe's thoughts spark and skitter like a compound of lightning and quicksilver.<br/>
<br/>
"Alchemically sensitive <i>essentia</i> is not instinct, and there <i>is</i> a word for it," Frank retorts.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not talking about the ability to grab a star and be steered by it," you retort in turn. "It's his connection to the <i>Libra.</i> He speaks its language. That's what he navigates by, though he doesn't know it."<br/>
<br/>
"It's a treacherous guide, a damnable thing. What you say, though, it makes me wonder: If he'd wound a member of the <i>Stellae</i>, whose would he be?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sulva's, obviously. He's a wanderer. That's why he's always looking for a new face and why the <i>Libra</i> exercises such a fascination over him."<br/>
<br/>
"More misfortune for him," Frank quietly reflects.<br/>
<br/>
"Says the one whose stars are <i>doubly</i> unfortunate," you snort. He smiles wryly.<br/>
<br/>
"You're wrong about one thing," he says, straightening with a sigh. "I didn't want you in that mask because I wanted to be honest with you, Prescott. Or even because I wanted you to be honest with me. I wanted <i>Joe</i> to be honest with me. He never speaks so freely or plainly."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you."<br/>
<br/>
"I shoulda kept Cindy around," he laughs. "So, Prescott, are you willing to meet our dad?"<br/>
<br/>
You cross your arms and legs. "He scares the shit out of you guys. How do you think <i>I'd</i> feel about such a meeting?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>The next day.</i> Blackwell's front door is locked, so you rap at it and ring the doorbell. This is odd; you know he's expecting you. Your scalp prickles and you brush your hair back. Something sticks to your hand when you pull it away, and you frown into your palm. White threads, like a cobweb, stick there. You feel dizzy, and the world fades from view ...<br/>
<br/>
Yet you don't pass out. Though you can see and feel nothing directly, you sense a presence, and have the impression that you are being led along somewhere. Something plucks at you, and the world reappears. But it is in black and white, and you look down to find that you have been stripped of your mask and are standing nakedly as a golem--albeit, as a golem dressed in Joe Durras's workout clothes.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell regards you with gleaming eyes and lightly fingers the mask. "Good of you come," he says coolly. "Have you Miss Cindy's mask?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? Yeah." You drop Joe's backpack from shoulder and fish it out. He takes it.<br/>
<br/>
"And what have you done with the individual who was wearing it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Justin, you mean?" you ask, thinking quickly. "I left him tied up someplace. Figured you didn't need to handle him."<br/>
<br/>
He grunts. "I spent the night at the Vredenburgs last night," he says. "I hoped to examine her mask there and spare you the trouble of bringing it out. But she never came home. Her parents, too, were most displeased."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, yeah." Your face cracks into a grin. "I kept her out all night, having fun with her body with my new one."<br/>
<br/>
"Was it a satisfactory coitus?"<br/>
<br/>
"Awesome." You point to Joe's mask. "Guy can really handle a girl."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh." He looks down at her mask. "Would you step over here, please? I've something to show you."<br/>
<br/>
His attitude alarms you, but you follow. As you step next to his desk something seems to snap around your leg. You tug, but you are stuck to the floor.<br/>
<br/>
"I have treated you with great kindness and generosity," he says. "So it pains me to have caught you in so many falsehoods."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
He shows you Cindy's mask. "You will note its interior. Do you see anything significant about it?" You stare, then slowly shake your head. "It's blue, Mr. Prescott." He traces his fingers over its interior, where Cindy's name floats. "You left your <i>essentia</i> in it when you were with the unfortunate Mr. Shabbleman. But it has since dissipated, and the one who wears it would have slipped from your control. And your supposed night of passion has, oddly, failed to reestablish your control." He smiles sourly. "Perhaps Mr. Roth was so frightened by what was happening to him that he failed to register a complaint? Or perhaps your new persona was so seductive he gave himself over entirely to pleasure."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh ..."<br/>
<br/>
"Pray do not compound your earlier lies with fresh ones."<br/>
<br/>
Golems do not tremble, which is the only reason you are not trembling now.<br/>
<br/>
"For reasons of my own, I am still eager to help you," he says quietly. "But that will not be possible unless you are entirely honest with me, Mr. Prescott. What have you been up to?"</span></div></div>


