Grimoire

“You understand; death does not absolve us of our debts. Your uncle amassed an astonishing pile of them over the last several years.”

Without raising his eyes, the solicitor opened the maroon folder on his desk and paged his long, bony fingers through the foxed papers, tallying, once more, the extent of the debt. Thin, bloodless lips screwed in a private moue of distaste, he continued, answering the question Jimmy hadn’t yet known to ask. “The house and the property were liquidated to discharge them and, of course, my own fees.”

Jimmy shoved an unruly shock of dingy brown hair out of his eyes. He thought perhaps he should have gotten a haircut and then decided it didn’t matter. No one ever noticed him anyway. He cleared his throat. “Umm. Well. Sure. I guess?” The old armchair creaked as he nervously shifted his weight. The cast iron radiator behind the solicitor’s desk gurgled and ticked. Its radiant warmth woke a fat, lazy fly that launched itself mindlessly against a smeared windowpane. Metal blinds winched to the top of the window frame swayed in a draft and clicked tunelessly against the glass. Dust motes glittered in the midmorning sunlight that shafted between them.

“How did he die? Umm. I mean; this is kind of a surprise. I didn’t know my uncle very well.”

The solicitor lifted his watery gaze and stared down the length of his paperknife nose at the chunky, nondescript young man before him. “What an indelicate question. Your uncle took his own life. Westin Stanwick was an unremarkable man. Not surprisingly, you remind me a great deal of him.” The solicitor palmed the maroon folder shut and withdrew a blue-bound trifold of parchment from beneath it. “Let us skip the formalities and finish this, shall we?” He unfolded it, flipped the first several sheets up and over, skimmed a page, cleared his throat. “Blah blah blah….To my nephew, James Miles, son of my beloved sister, Esther, I bequeath the entirety of my estate and all my worldly goods. Right; then.” He refolded the parchment package. “As we have already established, the entirety of your uncle’s estate and all of his worldly goods have been sold to cover his debts.”

Blinking in confusion, Jimmy prepared to extricate his benumbed ass from its uncomfortable perch.

“However,” the solicitor opened the narrow top drawer of his desk. “Westin Stanwick took an insurance policy on his life. With astonishing foresight, he paid for a suicide contingency rider so the policy was not voided by his undistinguished demise.” With two fingers, he pushed a pale pink check across the mahogany expanse of his desktop. “So it would appear you have won the prize, a consolation prize to be sure. Nonetheless...”

Jimmy leaned forward to retrieve the check, squinted at the amount. “$20,000?”

“Indeed. Try not to spend it all in one place, Mr. Miles.” The solicitor widened his pale blue eyes and arched his brows in a macabre simulacrum of levity. The short laugh that caught in his throat was the dry rustle of a half box of crackers. “Oh, yes. Mustn’t forget this gem,” the man muttered. From the lowermost drawer of his desk he withdrew a large brown envelope. Apart from a lump at one end roughly the size of a deck of cards, the envelope appeared otherwise empty. The solicitor sliced his letter opener along a short end. With a forefinger and thumb, he picked the envelope up by an opposite corner and shook it. A small notebook tumbled out. Jimmy watched his uncle’s supercilious solicitor stifle a quiver of fear.

“Pick it up, please. It belongs to you now. You may will it to a beneficiary as your uncle has bequeathed it to you, but you may not give it away while you live.”

“What the…” Jimmy shrugged, reached for the book. “Is it like…a map? Or a Bible, maybe?” He couldn’t figure out what use he might have for either, but if there was one thing Jimmy was good at, it was doing what he was told. He picked it up.

Skinned in an oddly smooth leather, it was fine-pored, almost fatty, soft and unseasoned as his own pasty belly but dark; black – a blackness that seemed to siphon both light and air from the space it inhabited. The book felt warm and a bit clammy, but Jimmy put that down to his own sweaty hands. He thumbed the cover, riffled the edges. The stuffy solicitor’s office warped and straightened so quickly it might not have happened. Jimmy caught a faint whiff of burnt flesh.

“DON’T OPEN IT IN MY OFFICE!” The solicitor fairly shrieked. He gripped the edge of his desk with whitened knuckles as he collected himself. “I don’t know what it is; nor do I wish to;” he gritted. “Put it away, Mr. Miles. Take your money and leave.

*****

Jimmy caught the bu; s and stopped at the bank to deposit his check. With his luck, he figured it would be at least a week before it cleared, but it would take him that long to figure out what to do with it. He made it just before closing. He thought, in fact, that the bank was closed as a pretty teller was just turning the key in the lock. She saw him, though; turned the key back with a smile and opened the door. Maybe his luck was changing. He slipped a hand into his front pants pocket to stroke the smooth, supple leather and wondered what was wrong with his uncle’s solicitor. It seemed like a very nice book.

The teller frowned briefly at his pink check as he slid it under the window. She looked closer and seemed to see him again, smiled and gave him a pen. “Endorse it, please?” She ran the check through, pressed a button and gave him his receipt. He glanced at it and saw that his funds were already clear. Jimmy touched the book briefly again. His luck had definitely changed. He turned back to the teller. Why not? Auburn curls, green eyes and skin as soft as his little book – the kind of girl who usually looked right through him. She winked.

“Um…I’m kind of celebrating tonight. My uncle died. I mean that part’s sad, I guess; even though I didn’t know him.” Jimmy realized he was babbling. She was surely going to tell him to fuck off. “Anyway, that money is part of my inheritance so I wondered…”

The pretty teller widened her lovely green eyes for him. “I would love to have dinner with you.”

*****

Her name was Kelly. Jimmy Miles had never felt so alive and in charge of his life. He changed into his second best suit. The best one didn’t fit anymore. Well, he could afford it now; maybe he’d join a gym. He considered, as he looped a Windsor knot in his Dr. Who necktie; perhaps he ought not bring the book on a date. Somehow it ended up in his pocket anyhow, and Jimmy was glad. He massaged it gently as he waited for Kelly to answer the door and imagined it purred beneath his fingers.

They both drank too much champagne and took a cab after dinner to her place. “I don’t usually bring a man home on a first date.” Kelly hiccupped sweetly and giggled as she flicked on a living room light. “S’just somehow you’re different, Jimmy.” She wrapped her hand in his Dr. Who tie, pulled him close for a kiss. She tapped a pink-lacquered fingertip on his flushed, freckled nose. “You wait riiight here, Jimmy. I’ll be riiight back with a leetle more wine.”

Jimmy parked himself tentatively on the edge of a white velvet couch, pondered the irony as well as the girlie décor. Maybe Kelly didn’t bring home her first dates, but he’d never been a first date. Perhaps his inexperience wasn’t obvious? Perhaps all that champagne had smoothed his rough edges? Whatever it was, he felt sexy as hell. His new lucky book felt as if it had grown; adding to the excruciatingly pleasurable sensation in his pants. He couldn’t help himself; while he waited for Kelly, Jimmy slipped the book from his pocket. He hadn’t had time yet to peruse the contents. He leaned on a frothy pink throw pillow to better position his book beneath an end table lamp and peeled back the cover. Something sharp, like a tooth, caught his finger, and he snatched it away. A stale exhalation blew through the pages, and Jimmy smelled sulfur and incense and rancid meat. Before the cover snapped shut, he briefly glimpsed arcane hieroglyphics and dancing demons. The book growled. It jumped from his grasp, fell to the floor, and sprawled with covers akimbo. Jimmy watched his book pulse and flutter and expand to eclipse Kelly’s sofa in size just as she teetered down the hall in a lavender negligee with a sloshing goblet in each pink-lacquered hand.

“FEED ME.” Kelly tripped; lost her balance; fell into the book, and it closed on her. Jimmy heard muffled screams but had no clue what to do. He’d always relied on inaction. Besides, he knew it was too late so he sat, stiff and silent, as masticating, yummy noises drowned her dwindling cries. After several long minutes, the closed book belched discreetly and shrank its sleek covers to pocket size.

*****

Jimmy grabbed his new gym bag – the one Julie had sold him before he’d asked her on a first date. He tucked his black book in his pocket; he told himself it wouldn’t happen again. At the gym, he changed into the stylish new sweats Sandra had told him complemented his eyes. He’d bought her a protein shake before she insisted on driving him home. He’d sworn once again he wouldn’t let it happen, but he loved his book like a naughty child. It was just a book, after all. How could it know right from wrong? It made him happy. It made him attractive and popular. He just wished it would let him get laid.

HUNGRY, JIMMY;” the book growled.

“Not today.” Jimmy scolded, but the tawny, buff blonde working hand weights caught his eye as she leaned low enough to telegraph him with her cleavage. “Hey, big, strong and handsome; come and spot me on the bench.”

“FEED ME, JIMMY.” The crotch of his sweatpants tented alongside the supple heat of his book.

Jimmy shrugged. If there was one thing he was truly good at, it was doing as he was told. He patted his pocket and strolled over.