Fweee!

  My kettle goes off, ripping me out of my daze. I was standing back in the living room, staring at the cover page of The Hermetic Key: Secrets of Grimaldius Magosmegistus.

  I lay the book on the coffee table. I head into the kitchen and pull the crying kettle off the burner. It quiets. I grab a mug and pour the hot water into it over a bag of black, Tender Leaf tea.

  Hope this doesn’t keep me up too late. It’s still early afternoon. I should be fine.

  I set an egg timer for two minutes. After the timer dings, I pull the bag out and drizzle in some honey, then stir. Next, I halve a lemon and squeeze in all the juice from a slice. Couldn’t forget the lemon. I rinse my hands in a rush of cool tap water, then dry them on a towel.

  Stirring again, the metal spoon scrapes and clinks against the porcelain mug as I scrape what’s left of the undissolved honey off the bottom.

  With the hot tea in hand and the pleasant scent of lemon lingering on my fingers, I head back to the living room, turn on the warm glow of the lamp next to my reading chair, shut off the ceiling light, and sit next to the window, sinking into the warm, cozy armchair I use just for reading.

  The whole apartment is rather dim except for the lamp’s electric shine. Outside, it’s gone from a somber drizzle to a steady, dark gray and foreboding downpour, the modest glow of city lights gently reaching in the window through the smack and and patter of the rain.

  With a pen and a notepad on the table beside me, I flip the book back open to the title page. The Hermetic Key: Secrets of Grimaldius Magosmegistus elegantly sprawls across the page in medieval calligraphy. Well, she was right about the title. Whoever produced this sure worked hard at making it authentic.

  As I turn the page, my stomach sinks. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My nerves tingle and whisper in the back of my head, telling me I’m being watched.

  I dismiss the notion entirely; it’s completely absurd to me. My chair sits in the corner of the room next to a window that’s four stories up. I know I’m only imagining things because of the stresses involved with this case.

  I turn around anyway, giving in to the feeling just to shake it off my back. See? Satisfied? No one’s there. Stupid monkey brain.

  I go back to the book and begin reading. The introduction is long. It reads as follows:

  In the annals of time, amidst the swirling fog of the High Middle Ages, there flourished a man of considerable erudition and mystical prowess, known to history as Grimaldius Magosmegistus.

  Born in the bosom of the Holy Roman Vulfreich, it was in the learned halls of Bologna that young Grimaldius first drank deeply from the well of true knowledge, where he encountered the arcane arts transmitted from the Saracens in the blood scrawled pages of that numinous tome the Necronomicon, the writings of the Mad Poet, Abdul Alhazred, and the venerable Hermetic doctrines which guided the many mystics of the Orient for centuries.

  His peregrinations across the splintered land of Europa, united only vaguely by that great and wondrous faith of shepherds and beggars, were not without purpose; from the vast libraries of Constantinople, replete with ancient wisdom, to the enlightened courts of Moorish Spain, where he conversed with luminaries like Avicenna and Maimonides—or so sayeth the legends which recount his mastery over life and death and propose even that he had forged within himself the sacred Philosopher’s Stone, though many skeptics, notable and worthy scholars in their own rights, propose that mystic master merely handed down his name and secrets to a student, thus creating the illusion of transcending that eternal, inevitable end called death.

  Stolen story; please report.

  It was during these travels that Grimaldius composed what would become his magnum opus, The Hermetic Key, penned in the sacred language of Latin around the year of our Lord 1190. This tome, enshrouded in mystery, was said to encapsulate his profound synthesis of Christian mysticism, Islamic esotericism, Grecian hermeticism, Judaic kabbalah, and the ancient arts of the Pharaohs, coded in such a manner that only those versed in the celestial arts and alchemy might unlock its edifying secrets.

  By other legends, upon the blessed departure of Grimaldius from this mortal coil, which some claim was wilful as he had transferred unto his students all that which he had to offer, while others claim that this was only a retreat into the confidential and recessed corners of society for the pursuit of even more arcane learnings, the manuscript fell into the hands of a clandestine order, who, with utmost secrecy, guarded it from the prying eyes of inquisitions and the covetous hands of rival practicers of the Arts, all during an era fraught with increasing peril for those who dared delve into the occult.

  As history marched forward into the Late Middle Ages, whispers of this manuscript reached the illustrious Medici of Florence, those patrons of both arts mundane and mystic, who would have given much to possess such a relic. Indeed, it is conjectured that scholars like Marsilio Ficino, in their quest to bring forth the wisdom of Hermes Trismegistus, might have stumbled upon the shadow of The Hermetic Key, influencing their own Hermetic translations and interpretations.

  Yet, the manuscript, if it survived the ravages of time and persecution, was more often rumored for its potent effects rather than its precise dictates. Said to harbor the secrets of eternal life, the transmutation of base metals into gold, and communion with the divine, these tales fueled the imaginations of alchemists and magicians alike.

  By the dawn of the 16th century, The Hermetic Key had transmogrified into myth, a spectral presence in the works of luminaries like John Dee and Agrippa, whose own treatises might well reflect echoes of this lost text. In our own enlightened era, it has become a mythical beacon for those who tread the path of the arcane, though no true copy has ever come to light, leading one to ponder whether it was ever more than a figment of collective desire.

  Thus, The Hermetic Key remains an emblematic narrative, a lost key to the treasury of forgotten wisdom, a whisper from the past that continues to inspire the minds of those who dare to dream of the unfathomable secrets of the ancients.

  But, dear reader and seeker of power: all this changes for you now. You hold in your hands a printed text revealing to you portions of the one and only Hermetic Key, translated for your benefit into modern English, that you might begin to master the secrets of the acclaimed magus and delve deeper into the Arts.

  Read carefully the exhortations within, for these are but portions of the teachings of the great master himself, hand-chosen by worthy practitioners, masters, and disciples all to make simple and possible the next steps of your journey toward occultic power. Go forward knowing that the road will be dark and arduous, and there are few who have gone before you, yet many of them have turned back to light your way that the practice may endure and that the Arts may enchant the minds of the worthy.

  When you have exhausted your study and research of this tome, return to those who lent it to your hands that they might lend you further aid on your journey.

  With sincere austerity,

  Geralt Ozymandias

  High Magus of The Serpents’ Circle

  I look up, letting what I read sink in while I bring the steaming mug of tea to my lips. The heat brings me back to reality; I blow on the surface of the brew for fear of burning my tongue. I wait to drink.

  What an introduction. I don’t recognize half of those names. I guess I’m not as read up on my occult theory as I thought. What am I getting myself into? Just a bunch of nonsense, I suppose.

  Of course, I don’t buy a word of this drivel, but I can see how some kids would be sold on it hook, line, and sinker. The funny thing about these occult practices: it doesn’t really matter whether I believe in them or not. There are people who do, people who are willing to go to extreme lengths to engage in them. Maybe they’ll cut the head off of a chicken and sprinkle its blood everywhere. Certainly, there are those who would go even further. How much financial and political power would they amass to fulfill their dreams of pretending to be an ancient sorcerer bartering with baleful spirits? If Abraham was willing to sacrifice his son, whose children are these lunatics willing to sacrifice?

  Alright. I’m done with that stupid introduction. Let’s turn the page and see if Grimaldius’s secret, transcendent legacy really lives up to the hype.