Chapter Seven
“I’m ready,” I said to Ayaz, rolling up my sleeves. “Show me the book.”
It was Sunday, the day of rest. Only I would never rest again. Yesterday, after I left Trey in the library, he remained there for the rest of the day. I went back to his room and played Playstation with Greg and Andre and Quinn in an effort to avoid having to talk about Trey’s book’s spontaneous combustion. Ayaz bakedlahmacun(flatbread spread with minced beef, salad, and lemon juice) and set out homemadebaba ganoushandtzatzikithat tasted divine.
It felt weird to act like a proper teenager for once, hanging out and eating snacks and trash-talking each other, even if it was on a sofa which probably cost more than my mother ever earned in a year while eating food from a country I’d never be able to visit.
Today, the charade was over, for me at least. Greg and Andre were playing air hockey in Quinn’s room – they must’ve made an impression on him, since he’d allowed them free rein in his man cave for the week. Trey and Quinn left for ‘break’ – in order to keep up appearances for the scholarship students that everything was fine and dandy, most of the Miskatonic students needed to pretend to be off on ski vacations or in Paris with their families. In reality, they were shepherded into a series of luxury cabins deeper in the woods, where a week-long party raged.
At least that got them both out of my presence for a week. I didn’t know how much longer I could deal with Trey’s penetrating gaze and Quinn’s easy smile and the tension that stretched between us.
This year, Ayaz had opted to stay behind, which was why I now sat across from him on his Scandinavian sofa, about to get a crash course in Parris’ occult practices.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this? That book can be pretty dark.”
“I’ve already looked at it, remember?” I tapped my knees. “Bring it. I’m not afraid of paper cuts.”
Ayaz frowned. “Are you going to take this seriously?”
“As serious as this coffee,” I said, lifting the tiny cup of Turkish coffee to my lips.
“I don’t have to help you with this, you know. I could be enjoying a party in the woods with undead girls who fuck like they have no future instead of sitting here trying to help you on your futile quest for freedom.”
“This is your freedom, too,” I pointed out.
Ayaz rolled his eyes. “I’ve been through all this before. This deity has controlled the most powerful people in the world for the last five hundred years. But sure, we’re going to figure out how to defeat it and bring a bunch of Edimmu back to life in just a few months.”
“Of course we won’t with that attitude.” I pounded my fist on the table. “Bring on the book.”
Ayaz went to the bathroom, returning a few moments later with the book. I noticed he’d removed all the scholarship students files he’d kept hidden inside it. “It’s the one hiding place the cleaning staff doesn’t look,” he said. “None of them want to touch anything in a guy’s bathroom. We have to clean them ourselves. The faculty thinks it teaches us personal responsibility.”
“Oh, sure. Because cleaning a bathroom is totally one of life’s horrific hardships. What’s this binding?” I ran my fingers over the rough cover. “It feels like leather, but, like, not the stuff used to make jackets—”
“It is leather, made from skin,” Ayaz said. “Human skin.”
I jerked my hand back. “Is there anything at this school that isn’t horrifying and gross? Any idea whose skin it is?”
“Parris, of course. He had his disciples make the binding from his skin after he died. Apparently, it imbues the spells inside with additional potency.” Ayaz opened the cover and flipped through the pages.
“How did you come into possession of Parris’ diary, anyway?”
“It’s called agrimoire. It’s less of a diary and more of a… spellbook, for want of a better term. It contains magic rites and sigils Parris worked on, as well as notes about some of the rituals his group performed – those are in a diary format. I got it from Trey’s dad.”
“Why would Trey’s dad give this to you?”
“That’s a long story.” Ayaz opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of paper and pens. “In my home country, parents with enough money often pay to send their children to receive their schooling in the West – usually in the United Kingdom but sometimes in America, Australia, or New Zealand. My father is a low-level diplomat, and there had been some political turmoil in Turkey they didn’t want me mixed up in. My family had some business dealings with the Bloombergs, and they wanted to solidify their ties with the US. Vincent wanted a way into the oil and shipping wealth of our country during a time the US was staging attacks on Turkey in the First Gulf War. To improve his reputation he offered to have me stay with his family and to sponsor my admission into Miskatonic.” A darkness passed over Ayaz’s face. “My parents were only too happy to leave me in his care.”
“Your parents just let you live with a stranger who’d publicly admitted prejudice against your faith?”
“It’s not at all uncommon.” Ayaz brushed it aside, but the darkness in his eyes told me he wasn’t as cool with it as he pretended to be. “If they refused to do business with Islamophobes, they’d never do business at all. Besides, I’m not a Muslim any longer. There’s nothing like being raised from the dead into a living nightmare to make you lose your faith in Allah. My parents trusted Vincent because he was rich and powerful, and he could give me a better life.”
“Was this before or after the fire?”
“Before. I lived with the Bloombergs since I was ten years old. Vincent took me under his wing. It started out as political posturing for him – a way for him to stand up to people on the left who opposed him and say, ‘Oh, I’m not a racist or an Islamophobe. I’m a good person. Look, I’m lifting this poor Middle Eastern kid up from the gutter.’ When really, I was a middle-class kid maneuvered into a strange country to further two families' political aims. But after a while, I fancied Vincent really did like my company. Not as much as Wilhem – that boy could do no wrong in his eyes. But he saw something in me he didn’t see in Trey. Or maybe, he saw too much of himself in Trey, and he didn’t like that. I took an interest in the occult and the Eldritch Club, and so Vincent gave me this book my first year at Miskatonic. I never understood its significance until after the fire.”
“If Trey’s so desperate to please his father, then why doesn’t he hate you?”
“Who’s to say he doesn’t?” Ayaz shrugged. “Trey’s always been good to me, but for all I know it’s a calculation – a chess move in the game he plays against his father.”
