Part 1:
This particular summer heat was the worst thing Jude had ever experienced.
It was oppressive like an overbearing mother, or the workload of a project you had a month to do and only started doing it twelve hours ago. It pushed on the skin, shrank your favorite band shirt so that it stuck to your back and you had to roll your shoulders every five fucking minutes to make yourself be able to breathe without feeling it crinkle and pinch the skin on your back. It hugged you and didn’t let go. It overheated technology so that, on the walk over to the empty football field of your high school, you didn’t know if you’d be made to wait for your friend or if they had been waiting for you.
It also broke your air conditioner so that there was no release from the heat even in the comfort of your own home.
He was melting in this outfit. Jean cut-off shorts, dark denim, and a black shirt of a band he didn’t know but his father had told him he’d love if he ever gave it a go. He never had, of course, but it was on his to do list.
There were a lot of things on his to do list, of course, and that came with being a high school kid. Some things he’d been ignoring; tests to study for, projects that needed to get done, that stupid book he hadn’t picked up since he’d gotten it from the library. Others, he’d forgotten to do. All that had really seemed to matter this summer was meeting Darian a couple miles from his house so they could talk about video games, drink stolen beer, and share a joint as the sun descended behind the bleachers of the Visitor’s side.
Right now, he supposed, was one of those times that mattered
Jude cut through the parking lot, the heat from the darker, newer parts of the pavement sending up their distress in visible waves. In the summer time, the school looked more exciting. The oppressive emptiness of the hallways seen through the windows, the abandoned parking lot, and the school grounds were all pleasantly silent, save for the wail of cicadas.
He was surprised and a little bit disappointed that the rubber soles of his shoes didn’t melt to the pavement like he thought they would. They didn’t even have the courtesy to stick.
Behind the school was the small football stadium, tall and worn, the metal bits glinting in the afternoon light. Jude shielded his eyes, and squinted at the field.
He moved closer, through the rusting fence. There were bottles and cans here and there, and a few stray used napkins were caught on the corner of the abandoned concession stand. The small building was locked, the white walls of the outside looking grimy and cracked. The bleachers his all sorts of telling things as well, including a bag of semi-decent marijuana Darian stashed for “when he was low on cash and was really jonesing for a good smoke,” a few abandoned pizza boxes, and a random scattering of backpacks stuffed with the contents of cleaned out lockers.
He scanned the area rather quickly.
In the center of the fields, the very center, there was a body, lying on it’s back with one leg propped up and the other crossed over it. They were dressed in black jeans and boots, and a dark shirt. He couldn’t see the arms but he had no doubt that they were behind the figure’s head and that around both wrists were leather bracelets that had “healing runes” carved into them. Most likely he’d have his Mohawk spiked in that weird, retro-punk way that always got him into trouble during school hours.
“How the hell are you in jeans? You’re making me hot just looking at you,” Jude called, quickening his pace to meet his friend.
Darian rolled onto his side and stretched out. “Yeesh, Jeebs, at least take me to dinner before saying nasty shit like that.”
Jude huffed, plopping down on the grass a few feet away from him. “Jeebs,” was short for his first name, Jude, and his last name, Bane. Darian had a way with nicknames that very few ever did; if he gave you a nickname, it stuck. No matter the amount of corrections Darian heard or bitching and complaining the victim did.
“Seriously. How are you not boiling in that?” Jude asked, raking his hand through his hair and dragging it out his face. It tangled and matted where the sweat had soaked into it.
Darian sat up, and Jude noticed the cigarette the older boy had tucked between his lips, the smoke curling lazily upward. “Because I’m laying directly on a ley line, man. The weakest point between the land of the living and the land of the dead; it’s always colder on a ley line.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Jude groaned.
Darian was older that Jude by a few years, becoming a senior officially in the next two weeks while Jude was becoming a sophomore. Back when he’d first met Darian, the kid had just been in his lunch period gym class. After gym, he’d watch Darian leave the building through the back entrance to take a smoke break, and would admire his guts to just step off school property like that.
He hadn’t started taking the smoke breaks with him until dodge ball day, when they’d both purposely been hit so they didn’t have to participate.
Until then, all he’d seen of this older guy had been a cool, collected confidence surrounded by an aura of thin smoke. And then he’d opened his mouth, and asked if the kid knew anything about the arcane arts.
The kid was strange, it seemed, and in the weirdest way. Talking constantly about exorcisms, hauntings, ley lines and where to find them, possible weakening between dimensions in certain spots around the town, the power of certain rocks, the power of the moon, voodoo. The kid knew it all. And what was worse, he actually believed it.
But Jude had stuck with Darian, the kid offering protection and advice when he could, and Jude, in turn, provided him with a partner in crime when it came to the paranormal. They’d become fast friends.
The school seemed to think they were both crazy. At least part of the gossip was false; Jude wasn’t crazy. Darian, on the other hand…
“You still with me bro?” Darian asked, he eyes hooded and looking elsewhere, bored. He was back to laying down with his hands tucked behind his head and his eyes closed, enjoying the “coolness” of the realm in between. Apparently, Jude had missed whatever come back his friend had conjured up.
“Were we doing something today? Or are you planning on sweating in the heat for a few more hours?” Jude complained.
Darian took another pull and let out a slow breath before answering. “Black Market Books got some weird shipments in a few days ago. I wanted to go in and check it out. Might be something there.”
“Again?” Jude whined. “You know, I really think Alan is sick of us. We’re there all the time.”
“We are his number one customers,” said Darian, matter-of-factly.
“No, we aren’t.”
“Oh?” Darian’s eyes opened, flicked to Jude, and then shut again. It was very cat like.
“Customer usually implies that we actually buy something,” Jude ground out, finally laying back onto the sun warmed playing field.
“I don’t see the difference.”
Jude snorted, and Darian joined in the light laughter. The older boy took out another cigarette and offered it to Jude.
Silence descended on them shortly after as they smoked, absorbed in their blissfully normal abnormal.
+++++
Black Market Books was strange little shop located between a small convince store called Nickels and Dimes, and a barbers shop called Old Blues Cuts. The shop only advertised its existence by the black and brown sign hanging just over the sidewalk. It was shaped like a raven’s head, it’s beak opened terribly wide, proclaiming to all that this was, in fact, Black Market books. On the door, there was a laminated parchment sign that read “OPEN,” in swooping, curling, graceful calligraphy.
Though the outside looked plain, the inside, was decorated with more than a few woven wreaths of lavender and sage on the wooden walls and dozens of wooden wind chimes hanging from the raftered ceiling. Wooden bins held every rock one could think of; quartz, rose quartz, amethyst, turquoise, unakite, onyx, hematite, and much more, even a bin a fools gold. Incense sticks and cones and holders for both occupied the shelf near the door. There were large chunks of amethyst geodes against one wall, and a wall of bracelets – wooden, leather, and metal – with druid protection ruins carved into them. There were also woven hemp mats that had on them the Tree Of Life. Next to those were prayer beads and a statue of Buddha that had tapped to his belly, “NOT FOR SALE.”
Near the back, there were bookshelves and a long table with a few chairs to sit and read at. Around this area were healing plants like rosemary and lavender and basil. A large aloe vera plant rested next to a tall shelf that proclaimed:
“USED EXORCIST TRANSCRIPTS— USED SUMMONER’S MANUALS.”
From the rafters in the back, regular potted ferns hung and draped over themselves like a mistress over her emperor.
The original owner of the shop was long dead, but his son had proudly taken ownership. He was tall and gangly, with knobby fingers that were clumsy with the early onset of arthritis. His eyes were large and dark, which was fortunate, his father used to say in his thick Romani accent, in finding a wife. What was unfortunate was how much he had actually resembled the raven sign out front. His nose was long, pointed, and angled oddly, like it couldn’t decide if it was up or down, broken or straight. His face was too long and his neck and shoulders were thin. His hair was swept back and out of his face using mostly gel, but the way it stuck out on the ends and curved upward toward the back like the gentle swoop on a raven’s wing made it look so much more unmanageable than if he didn’t gel it down.
The sleigh bells and silver bells attached to the frame above the door rang beautifully as Jude and Darian entered the store. Immediately the scent of sandalwood and sage flew up his nostrils, and he sneezed.
“Afternoon, Riggy!” Darian called, waving to the cashier counter.
“Riggy,” was Alan Smith, the raven-like owner and seemingly only employee. Of course, his constant presence was mostly because Alan lived above the shop.
But, according to Darian, Alan Smith sounded like a fake name; too common for a man to own a store that catered to the arcane magic voodoo he loved so much. So, due to his stiff, boney hands, and his stiff, sullen humor, Darian had dubbed him, “Riga mortise,” or “Riggy,” for short.
Said man slowly poked his head out from the back of the register. Jude waved. The man nodded.
“Bless you,” Riggy said slowly, eyeing Darian. “Doing some back to school shopping?”
Darian was poking about in the bins of rocks, taking some out to inspect them closely. “Something like that,” was all he said.
The man stood to his full height, dusted off his hands, and said, “Are you actually going to buy something, Darian, or do I have to chase you out after you try to explain to me again that the three bottle caps you keep in your wallet are family heirlooms that used to belong to Elvis and that those should suffice enough when it comes to payment?”
“He told me Ozzy Osborne had owned them, the last time he took them out,” Jude inserted.
Riggy smiled and chuckled. “Before that, it was Madonna, and before that, for a good few weeks, I think it was Houdini.”
“Why would Houdini collect bottle caps?” Jude asked, loud enough for his friend to hear over the sound of his rather loud rock inspection.
Darian answered without missing a beat. “He was trying to collect enough to send in and win the grand prize.”
Jude and Riggy exchanged baffled looks, and shrugged.
He was an odd one, that boy.
“So what are you here for today? Is it really just window-shopping?” the shop owner asked, his voice taking on its natural quietness once again.
Jude shrugged again. “I don’t actually know this time. He said you had a new shipment or something come in a few days ago, and he wanted to check it out.”
Something in Riggy’s eyes flickered, and his mouth was briefly set into a grim line. It made Jude’s stomach feel cold, even in the heat of the day. The man’s arms crossed, and he looked toward the back of the store, near the books. But he didn’t say a word.
It was funny though, since it looked like he wanted to.
“Over there?”
Riggy nodded once, and it was sharp and stiff, and despite that being what he was most know for, it wasn’t normal.
Jude didn’t understand, and it made him uneasy. But he moved forward nonetheless.
The back of the store smelled more like dust, leather, and old books than it did of incense, and it was quite refreshing compared to the earlier assault on his senses.
Though he didn’t believe in any of this goofy stuff, the shelves also held a few history books about Russia, put on the shelves by order of the late owner’s will, which he’d perused on occasion. The table was usually cluttered as well, with papers and envelopes and storage information that Riggy had to look over to manage this business. There would also be books from the shelves for laying open on the table top, and crates of them brought in and sold by other customers occupying a few chairs.
Today, it was cleared, save for one closed book.
It was thick, and bound in dark, soft-looking leather. The front was carved with a single ruin with something in Latin written under it, neither of which Jude could comprehend. The pages were yellowed with age, and curling at the edges.
It was big enough to handle like a novel, but looked too heavy to handle with one hand alone.
Without thinking, he reached out for it, moved it closer, and ran a careful finger along its tired-looking spine. The book seemed to hum underneath the touch. Purring like a cat. He felt himself tremble in response, and a knot of ice and dread force its way from his stomach to this throat, felt it as it rerouted and plummeted all the way down to his shaking legs.
Everything about this book was wrong. Everything.
“What’d’ya have there?”
Jude could not help the embarrassing screech of surprise that left his mouth and he dropped the book – he hadn’t even recalled actually picking it up – with a loud thwump! noise onto the table.
“What’s that?” Darian asked again, peering over Jude’s shoulder. “Did you finally decide to read something else besides those god awful histories Riggy keeps in here?”
Jude scowled, and took a few steps backward. The scowl covered up and sense of worry in his brow, and the tight set of his mouth kept it from trembling. That was why Riggy had acted strange when he’d talked about the new shipment; that book must have frightened him badly.
“Riggy!” Darian hollered, picking up the book and turning it over as if to read the back cover. With every turn of examination, Jude’s stomach turned as well.
The shop’s owner took careful, quiet steps to the back. His arms were still crossed, his mouth still grim. “Find something?”
“Is this new?” Darian asked, turning around to offer the book.
Riggy didn’t take it. “Yes.”
Darian’s face split into a smile. “No shit. When did you get it in? It’s in pretty good shape.”
“A few days ago,” Riggy murmured as Darian started to flip the book back to front, pausing at the pages that had large illustrations written on them. “Some middle aged man came in around twilight and gave it to me wrapped in paper. Said he wanted to get rid of it, but no store would take it.”
Darian only hummed, slowing his flipping a bit, his brow furrowing as he concentrated.
Riggy continued. “He didn’t ask for a certain amount of money for it, and he left before I could give it a proper appraisal and figure an estimate. Just wanted to be rid of it, I think. It’s not in the best shape so I—”
“Is it for sale?” Darian interrupted, and the sudden excitement in his voice as he stopped on what looked to be a list of something – maybe the table of contents? –was shocking
The man was slow to answer. “Yes. It is. Do you plan to…buy it?”
Jude shot a desperate look from Riggy and back to the book. If he could have said something, he would have. Maybe a no, or an I’m not, or something else that protested the indulgence of his friend’s strange hobby and forbade the owning or selling of this even stranger book. But all he could manage was a look that neither men saw.
There was a bubble of tense silence, as if Riggy was wondering how to stop the exchange from happening. But the bubble of tension was burst before anything could be done.
“How much are we talking, Riggy?” Darian asked.
His eyes narrowed. “Twenty.”
Darian groaned, throwing his body into it and visibly sagging. “I’ll do ten. Ten bucks, I can afford that!”
Riggy rolled his eyes and uncurled one of his crossed arms to run his fingers through his hair. “And I can’t afford to lose merchandise to you and your bottle cap stories. Come to the register when you decide.” He spun on his heel and headed back to the front of the store.
Darian turned on him. “I need ten bucks,” he pled.
“Hell no,” Jude said, shaking his head. “Hell no. No way, I’m out. Keep your creepy stuff to yourself, dude.”
“I’ll pay you back!” he whined. “Come on! I’ve never lied to you about owed money. I’ll pay it back as soon as I can! Please, man, we have to buy this thing!”
Jude’s eyes narrowed and he aimed the glare at the book. “Why?”
Darian’s voice lowered a bit, and he leaned in closer to Jude. “You know what this is?”
“No?”
Darian opened the book to the first page and pointed. The letters on it were definitely Latin, but next to it, in pen, were items. It was a list of the strangest things; a knife, chalk, a goat or goats blood, dragons blood incense, dried cherry tree bark. “This,” he explained, “is a Summoner’s Guide. And not just any guide.” He flipped a few pages ahead to an inked picture of a cow’s skull with a symbol that looked to be of the same origin the one on the front cover was. “This guide is strictly for demons.”
Jude snorted and Darian pulled back. “Man, fuck that. Put the book down.”
Darian scowled at Jude, and Jude crossed his arms. There was no way in hell that book summoned anything but money into the store’s one cash register.
But Darian was persistent. “You don’t believe in demons? What about the thing we summoned with that Ouija board in March?”
“You were controlling the goddamned piece the whole time, man! That board was a joke, and this book is too. You’re spending money on something that is not going to work. I’m not loaning you jack shit.”
Darian stared at the book and back to Jude, and this time when he spoke, it was very different. No longer pleading, but lonesome. “Jeebs, buddy. This summer is the last summer I’m going to have as a free man. Next summer it’s work and then its college.” He pointed to the cow skull again. “This, right here, is just another Ouija board. We’ve gone to haunted places, I know you’ve seen shit, but you can remain skeptic. But, fuck, dude, don’t you wanna end this summer with a bang? How many people can say that their last weeks of summer were spent trying to summon a demon?”
“None.” Jude said, and though he wanted it to sound like a hammer coming down for the final word, it came out meek and unsure. The book was weird; he’d give it that. But perhaps random bouts of anxiety were just that? Random? Maybe the eerie feeling he got from the book was nothing.
“You got ten bucks?”
Jude stared at Darian for a long moment.
You’re being weird and paranoid. None of that shit actually works, you know that.
He reached into his pocket and fished out his weathered blue wallet with the peeling, faded Pokeball on the front. “You better hope this stupid book is worth the read, Darian, or I swear to god I’ll kick your ass.”
And that had settled it. They’d brought up the book, and Riggy had rung them out, all while eyeing Jude.
“Can you even read that thing?” Jude asked as Riggy handed the other a bag. “It’s all Latin, isn’t it? Or at least, mostly, I would think.”
“Nope,” Darian said, popping the “p.”
“So I did waste ten dollars on this stupid shit,” Jude complained.
Darian shook his head. “Hey, it’s my book. But I’m not going to be doing the summoning.” And then he pressed the black plastic bag into Jude’s chest, which he scrambled to grab before it could fall to the ground.
“Excuse me?”
Darian shrugged. “You took Spanish didn’t you? That’s Latin based. You may not know what it says, but your pronunciation is what we need, isn’t it?” He was backing out the door. “We’ll meet tonight, your old club house. You bring the book, I’ll bring the good shit.”
“I—“
“No backing out now! I’ll see you later, Jeebs. Bye, Riggy.”
And then the door shut with a clanging of bells, the sound now haunting, like the sound church bells during a funeral.
“Don’t worry, Jude,” Riggy said quietly. “It is an old book, with a dead tongue written on the inside. Nothing bad can come from that. Maybe a really bad paper cut. Maybe.”
But his words did nothing to ebb the sea of fear churning in his gut. He gripped the book tightly, and walked stiffly out of the store and into the warmth of the day.