The pages inside were yellow and looked old. They smelled old too. The first one was blank, but on the second, written in ink, were three words: The Necromancer’s Grimoire.
Mason was immediately baffled. It didn’t sound like anything his father studied— at least, not anything he was aware of. He turned to the next page, a table of contents. The book had eighty-six chapters in all. He read a few of their titles: Chapter VII: Incantations, Chapter XXV: The Spirit Realm, Chapter LXVI: Summoning. Mason began flipping through the book’s many pages. It was biblical in size, but size was about all it shared in common with the Bible.
Somewhere in chapter eleven he found a picture of a deformed human being. The caption said it was a reanimated corpse. He shook his head.
“What the fuck am I looking at?”
On the bottom of the same page were two lines written in a language Mason couldn’t understand. But come to think of it, the alphabet looked familiar, like that writing he’d found on the basement wall. That couldn’t be a coincidence. He continued scanning the book, finding more lines of the same strange language every few pages. The inscription was always dark, jagged, indented— almost carved into the page. He didn’t know what to make of it, or anything in this book for that matter.
Meanwhile, it was only getting later. Mason had to accept that he wouldn’t find the answers he was looking for tonight. Hesitantly, he closed the book, figuring he ought to be awake for his first day of university.
He slipped back into bed and stared at the ceiling. Opening the book had only added to his confusion. But not for long, he told himself. He’d figure out what this book meant— and what it meant to Dad. When Mason put his mind to something, he seldom failed to find the answer, even when it wasn’t the one he was hoping for. That was something else he and his father had in common.
As tiredness overtook him, Mason closed his eyes. His brain was an impatient animal, always nudging him with its nose, raring to go, when all he wanted to do was sleep. But even the hungriest beasts tire out after a time. Slowly, Mason’s clear thoughts turned to mud, until finally he fell from reality and into the chaotic world of dreams.
Chapter 4
With the book still fresh on his mind, Mason went to his first class of the day tired and about five minutes late. Perhaps he had smacked the snooze button too liberally, or maybe he should have just gone to bed earlier. His hair was still wet from the shower when he arrived.
Thankfully, that class ended early. Mason hunted down the campus café, Scholarly Addictions, and shuffled into a long, snaking line of uncomfortably sober students. It seemed he wasn’t the only one recovering from summer hours. He bought the largest, a twenty ounce, and headed to his next class, philosophy, realizing, shit, he was going to be late again.
“Where the fuck?” Mason’s watch struck 11:03 a.m. He was having trouble finding the right building: Sherwood Hall. He’d written directions on a folded piece of paper, but they were failing him. Finally, he asked a nearby student, who, by the looks of her, was late too. She told him the building was on University Avenue, three blocks that way. He jogged, slipping along the way. The rain had stopped, but the ground was still wet, the sky still overcast.
11:07 a.m.: Mason found his lecture hall and pushed open one of its heavy wooden doors with his right hand, spilling coffee on his left.
“You’re late,” said the professor, a good-looking woman in her thirties. She eyed him over the rim of her red-framed glasses. For a teacher — a notoriously dishevelled lot, as Mason had learned from his father’s friends — she was uncharacteristically fashion forward.
“I’m sorry,” said Mason. “Got lost.”
“You’re forgiven,” she replied. “Take a seat.”
Mason sat down near the front of the class, but not for the better view; rather, it was the most isolated seat he could find. He didn’t like sitting close to people. Most people, anyway.
The professor handed him a syllabus. It was printed on orange paper. Mason scanned the reading list then his professor’s name, Dr. Alicia Rutherford.
“All right,” she continued. “Now I want you to break into groups of, hmm.” She began counting the number of students with her index finger; there were about thirty. “Let’s say five. Break into groups of five.”
Damn it — Mason hated group activities. And there he was, all by himself on his own little island at the edge of class. Hesitantly, he stood up and began roaming the room, shoulders slouched, failing to take further initiative, until eventually — inevitably — he was the only person left standing. Alicia met his gaze and pointed to the one group still short a person. He wandered over.
“Hi.” Mason stole a seat and shifted into the circle.
There were two other guys, both about his age, an older woman, and a beautiful one. They all shook hands, Mason forgetting each of their names in turn— except the one.
“Asha,” she said. She looked Indian, roughly his age. Her eyes were big and brown, but her smile was bigger still. She kept her hair unstraightened, voluminous black waves flowing over her shoulders and down her back. Mason liked that. Hell, there wasn’t much not to like from where he was sitting.
“Looks like we’re good to go.” Alicia clapped her hands to get their attention. “Okay,” she said, “now imagine this. There’s a train barreling past you. Suddenly, you notice five people are tied to the tracks ahead— presumably by an evil man with a twirly moustache.”
They laughed. She’d obviously told that one before.
“You’re next to a lever,” she continued, “which can redirect the train to a different set of tracks— away from the five people. But there’s a problem. Another man is tied to the divergent track, only he’s all by himself. With no time to stop the train, you’re left with just two options: do nothing, be a passive observer, and watch five people die or pull the lever to save them— but you’ll have killed the other man in the process.
“So, what do you do?”
Alicia looked at her watch. “Take a few minutes to discuss the question with your group.”
After ten or so seconds of contagious silence, one of Mason’s group members — Jim or John, something with J — finally spoke up. “I don’t think it should be up to us to decide who lives and who dies,” he said. “You know, like, who are we to play God?”
“Okay. But then five people are going to die,” replied Mason, a little coldly. “If not you, then who else is going to save them? Who else is going to play God?”
“I don’t know— God?”
“You really think God is going to stop that train?” asked Mason. “When’s the last time God stopped a train?”
“Maybe he stops trains every day, and we just don’t know.”
Mason tried not to roll his eyes. “You want to bet five lives on that?”
“I see what you’re saying, Jason, but I think I agree with Mason,” said Asha, more politely than Mason had ever said anything. “Even if it shouldn’t be up to me, if I had the chance to save five lives— well, four if we minus the other guy. Anyway, with power comes responsibility— isn’t that what Uncle Ben said?”
Mason chuckled.
“So, why’s it okay to let one person die?” asked Jason.
“It’s not,” said Asha, “but sometimes there isn’t an okay. Sometimes you need to pick the lesser evil, do what’s best for the most people.”
“Very utilitarian,” added Mason.
“I try not to label myself.” She smiled.
“Yeah.” Mason leaned back in his chair. “I know what you mean.”
The others were already thumbing their phones.
“I take it you’ve all made up your minds.” Alicia faced the classroom like a captain on the bow of her boat, back upright, eyes surveying the sea of cellular devices. “So, what do you guys think? Show of hands: who would kill one person to save five?”
About half the students in the room put up their hands, Mason and Asha included.
“And who would do nothing?”
This time, only a handful of students volunteered their arms. There were a few abstentions.
“Interesting,” said Alicia, and then she asked why.
No one in Mason’s group weighed in, at least not willingly. Once the discussion had settled down, he figured he’d gotten off scot-free. But that hope dashed when he saw her staring at him.
“What about you?” She nodded toward Mason. “Mr. Latey McLaterson.”
Son of a bitch.
“Umm.” Mason took a second to gather his thoughts. “I would save the five people. It just, I don’t know, it seems like the adult thing to do, taking responsibility of the situation. No one else is going to step in and save the day. No one else is going to rescue those five people. It’s just them and me, right?” He shrugged, staring somewhat intensely at the wall. “That’s the reality. I can’t pretend I don’t have a choice when the lever’s right in front of me. Doing nothing is doing something. The rest is math, I guess.”
And that, apparently, was a wrap. Alicia assigned three chapters in the course pack before dismissing them. Mason, meanwhile, skimmed the syllabus a second time as students around him packed their bags manically, as if in a race to see who could leave first.
“Good answer.”
Mason looked up. It was Asha. “Not really,” he replied, “but thanks.”
“Do you ever feel, like… responsible for each and every person that maybe you could help in some small way?” she asked, with a look that suggested that, clearly, she did. “Until it’s kind of overwhelming.” She was packing her bag on the desk beside him.
“I’m more of a big-picture guy,” he said. “Or maybe you’re just a better person than I am.” Mason scribbled a sloppy spiral on his syllabus, knocking over his empty coffee cup with the butt of his pen. “Crap.”
“The problem with me,” replied Asha, “is that I am a hard-core, clinically diagnosable guilt-aholic.”
“Well, better that than the opposite— a sociopath or whatever.”
“Are you a sociopath, Mason?”
“Of course not,” he said. “But that’s probably what a sociopath would say. And I am a bit… you know.”
She shook her head.
“Strange,” he said.
“Because you sit by yourself?”
“Something like that.” Mason stuffed his binder into his backpack and zipped it shut. They were the only students left.
“Maybe,” she said, “but I don’t think you’re a sociopath. From what I understand, sociopaths are chronic liars. I got a B in psych 100, so I’m pretty sure I know what I’m talking about. You’re too honest, Mason.”
“It is a problem,” he replied.
“Baloney.” Asha wasn’t having it. “I’m sure your friends appreciate the real you.”
Mason shrugged and then replied nonchalantly, “Don’t really have a lot of those.”
“Friends?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Well, not lately. I just moved here like two days ago, so yeah, new place and all that. You know how it is.” He tried not to look as awkward as he suddenly felt. “See, I really am too honest.”
“You’re not,” she said, walking with him into the hallway. “Well, maybe you are— but I like it.” They stepped outside into the concrete courtyard. “I gotta head to my last class now.” She was twirling a thick lock of her black hair. “If you’d like, my friends and I were going to get together for drinks this Friday. You’re welcome to join us.”
Mason stalled but already knew his answer— what the hell else was he going to do? “Yeah, sure, why not,” he told her. “We have class that day, right?”
“Yeah,” replied Asha. “I’ll fill you in on the details then.” Her smile seemed genuine, like a friend’s. “Have a good one, Mason.” She waved and went on her way.
In truth, Mason was actually heading in the same direction, but he wasn’t about to spoil a good thing. He took the scenic route home, lighting himself a cigarette along the way. Some smokes were better than others, and this was one of them.
* * *
Mason arrived home with a half-empty Scholarly Addictions coffee cup in hand— just a twelve ounce this time. He left the cup on the kitchen counter and dropped his backpack onto the nearest chair. It landed with a thud. He cracked his neck with a pop.
“How was school?” Lester asked from across the room. He was bent over the stove, sipping the end of a reddened wooden spoon.
“It was fine,” replied Mason, glancing at him curiously.
“Meet any cute boys?”
Mason smiled in spite of himself. “Unfortunately, no. Just a cute girl.”
Lester shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Mason dumped his lukewarm coffee and poured himself a glass of tap water. “What exactly are you making?” he asked.
“Dinner,” said Lester, “and there’s enough for two. Your timing was impeccable.”
Mason decided he should help, or at least give off the appearance of helping. He set down some plates and made makeshift napkins out of paper towel. “So, you like to cook?” he asked.
“Nope,” replied Lester, switching off the stove element. “That’s why I made spaghetti. You should learn, though. I hear pretty girls like men who can cook. I wouldn’t know.” Peering over his shoulder, he added, “I do like to drink, however. There’s a bottle of merlot behind you.”
“Ah.” Mason grabbed the wine and poured two glasses, stopping just before the rim.
“Nice pour,” said Lester. “Guess I’m not the only one who likes to drink.”
“Nor are you the only one who likes spaghetti,” replied Mason, sitting down to an empty plate.
“You kids nowadays— always so impatient.” Lester was taking his time straining the pasta, banging the plastic strainer against the edge of the sink. Finally, he pointed to a pot on the stove and said, “Pasta’s here. Sauce is there.”
Mason took generous portions and Lester took only a bit less. Finally, they both sat down, eye to eye.
“How’s Julie?” asked Lester, spinning his spaghetti like yarn.
“My mom’s fine.” Mason left it at that. “I was wondering,” he said after a mouthful, “where exactly did you come here from?”
Lester downed half his glass of wine in one fell swig. “From up north,” he said. “A big house in the middle of nowhere.”
“Sounds like where I come from.”
Lester smirked. “Not quite. My home, sweet home is a little more… nowheresy. Trust me. It’s good, though. I like it. As I’ve always said, there’s nowhere to lose yourself in the middle of nowhere.”
“Clever,” replied Mason. “Is it lonely? Don’t get me wrong, I like my alone time, but that seems a bit much.”
“I live with the people I care about,” explained Lester. “Only reason I’m down here — only reason I would come down here — is for your dad.” He reached for the wine then topped up his glass.
“About that.” Mason set down his fork. “I still don’t know what the hell you were talking about yesterday. I appreciate this dinner and the wine and everything, but you still owe me a proper explanation. Why are you here, man?”
“Why is anyone anywhere?” Lester extended his arms and gazed up to the heavens.
“Oh, come the fuck on.” Mason wasn’t impressed.
“That’s no way to speak to a man you’re trying to get answers from.” Lester was already helping himself to seconds— that pudgy figure of his wasn’t going to maintain itself. “You should work on your interrogation skills.”
They matched hostile eyes then went back to eating. Mason could hear Lester chewing from across the small kitchen table.
Generally speakin
g, Mason didn’t initiate conversations. With most people, he simply didn’t care enough. With pretty girls, he cared too much. But with Lester, Mason had an agenda. As of yesterday, he had a lot of new questions, most of them about his father, and he was hoping this oddball of a man would have at least a few answers.
After a couple more minutes of uninterrupted slurping and fork-scraping, Mason muttered, “My dad left me a book,” still with food in his mouth. He didn’t look up from his plate. “This really old, weird book. I mean, like, really weird. It was sealed shut with one of those combination locks.” He twirled together the last of his spaghetti.
For once, Mason could see he had Lester’s full attention. The old man’s air of nonchalance had been whisked away like a leaf caught in a cool breeze.
“Well, I got it open,” continued Mason, “just last night, in fact. You’d never guess what it was called. The book, I mean.”
Lester didn’t try.
“The Necromancer’s Grimoire,” said Mason. “It was full of these weird drawings and this fucked-up language. I couldn’t make any sense of it.” He paused to catch Lester’s gaze, which had grown increasingly defensive. “Really, really strange stuff. I was thinking, you two were pretty close. Did my dad ever show you anything like that?”
Lester looked tense. His leg was bouncing beneath the table. “Well.” He dropped his fork. “To hell with it.” He sighed the words. “I guess now’s as good a time as any.”
“Good time for what?” Mason sounded wary.
“For the truth, of course,” he replied. “I was hoping I could ease you into it or something, but I suppose you’re not going to believe me either way— at least not at first.”
“Okay…”
“Right, then.” Lester exhaled every ounce of oxygen in his lungs. “Let’s just do this, kid. Your dad: he was a necromancer. I too am a necromancer.” He paused, cringing like a man preparing to take a punch. “What’s a necromancer, you ask?”
Mason hadn’t asked.
“Let me tell you. You see, your dad and I, we can communicate with the dead— more or less. We use something called spirit energy to perform spells of a sort.”
Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga Page 4