Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga

by Trevor Melanson

  The bar was close to home so getting here had been easy enough. It was a casual place and no stranger to graffiti, nor spilled beer. Basically, a dive bar, which quite honestly he preferred. According to a flyer pinned on the wall beside him, Tuesdays were open mic nights. Mason knew a few chords and a couple songs, but quickly thought better of it.

  “Mason.” It was Asha, twenty minutes late. “Hey. Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  “No, no. Just got here,” he replied, holding up the nearly-full pint he’d been nursing as proof.

  “Cool. We’re over here.” She gestured him to follow.

  She led him to a long, people-packed table out on the patio. He didn’t mean to check her out from behind, but it somehow seemed impossible not to. He told himself that, since he respected her, it was okay. Asha was on the tall side, maybe an inch or two shorter than he was. Mason was an average-sized dude, who, like all average-sized dudes, would rather have been six feet tall. Reality being what it was, he made sure not to slouch.

  Mason relaxed when they took their seats across from one another at the end of the table. She began introducing him to her many friends, all of whom seemed like normal enough people. As usual, Mason wasted no time forgetting their names.

  “Craig,” the guy to his right reminded him a minute later. “Craig Patterson.”

  “Mason. Mason Cross.” The two men exchanged a sloppy handshake.

  “Shit, man.” Craig slapped the table, beer splashing his hand.

  Mason looked confused and then toward Asha, who looked confused too.

  “Your name,” said Craig, “is so fucking cool. Mason fucking Cross? I wish I had a name like that. You should be like a fucking, I don’t know, superhero or some shit.”

  Briefly, Mason wondered if being a necromancer would be anything like being a super hero. Then he thought of Lester. “The Super Hero Academy rejected my application,” he replied. “So here I am.”

  Asha was the first to laugh. In his mind, Mason did one of those victorious fist-pumps. Craig, meanwhile, started talking to some other guy.

  Good.

  In an attempt to loosen up, Mason gave a little more love to his pint of beer. He craved a cigarette — beer had that effect — but worried Asha would disapprove. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  “Do you live on campus?” he asked her.

  Asha nodded. “Got one of those studio apartments,” she said. “It’s super small. My mom and dad live like an hour away, but I couldn’t, you know, stand living with them. As much as I love them, my parents can be a bit overbearing.” She grinned and added, “I told them I couldn’t study on the bus, said I’d have more time to buckle down if I lived here.”

  “Beerology is one of my favorite subjects,” said Mason. They clinked glasses.

  “Cheers to that.” Asha downed a mouthful.

  Man, she was cool. “What do you take here?” he asked. “What’s your major?”

  “Classical studies.”

  “Really?” He sounded surprised.

  “Yeah, I know,” she replied. “Don’t tell my parents.”

  “Well, I was going to call them,” he said, “but if you insist.”

  “What about you, smarty-pants? What are you studying?”

  “That’s a very good question.” Mason looked up to the night sky for an answer. “Honestly, I have no idea. Whatever I end up hating the least, I suppose.”

  “Sounds practical,” she said.

  Mason sipped his beer slowly, tilting his glass just so as he racked his brain for a witty reply, but he came up short. Instead, he put the crosshairs on her: “What about you? What are your big life plans once you get out of here?”

  “Worst question ever,” replied Asha. “I guess I kind of want to move someplace I haven’t been. You know, just for the hell of it.”

  “Sounds nice,” he said.

  “Are you also itching to explore?” she asked.

  He set down his drink. “Just itching to start.”

  This time, it was Asha looking at the stars. “For me, it’s not about one place. Terminal is nice, but I want to see the world.”

  “And save it along the way, right? Ms. Guilt-aholic.”

  She returned her wandering gaze to Earth and then toward Mason. “You got me,” she said, her smile splitting the night like a beautiful scar. “I’m such a cliché, I know.”

  “Yeah,” he replied, “you are. But so am I. So is Craig here.” Craig didn’t hear him. “There are, what, seven billion of us on this planet? Statistically speaking, it’s damn near impossible not to be cliché.”

  Asha’s grin grew just a bit. “Well, at least we’re self-aware. That’s gotta count for something.”

  Briefly, Mason contemplated whether self-awareness could be considered cliché, but his wit waned the second a stranger sat down next to Asha. He was a tall man, about their age, and handsome— in that objective sort of way. He had short blonde hair and olive skin, almost the same tone; the opposite of Mason, whose dark hair stuck out like black bark in a snowy field.

  The handsome man slung one arm around Asha and kissed her on the cheek. She was more of a passive participant. She didn’t say anything, but if expressions could talk, hers would have said, please, not in public, thanks.

  “Hey, babe.” He seemed oblivious to Mason’s existence.

  Asha’s smile looked forced. Pointing with all five fingers, she introduced them. “Josh, Mason. Mason, Josh.”

  The two men shook hands — Josh had a firm grip — if only because it seemed like the proper thing to do. Obviously, Josh could go fuck himself. He didn’t care much for Mason either, or at least that was the impression he gave. He skipped any semblance of small talk and went back to chatting up his girlfriend— some crap about his construction job. Mason figured he must be smarter than Josh.

  And yet he imagined he looked pretty pathetic just then, Mason did, staring down at his shoes, sipping away the last of his beer, thinking about stuff. So, Asha had a boyfriend. He quickly came to terms with this fact— a fact that made him uncomfortably sober. Needless to say, he was no longer enjoying himself. Sitting beside him, Craig was anything but sober, laughing, slapping the table, generally having a fantastic time. Mason resented him for it.

  He checked his watch. It was 10:16 p.m. The night was young, but already he wanted to leave. He was the only stranger at the table. If there had been other outsiders, lost like he was, Mason could have found common ground. But it was a table for friends, and he was just some dude with a cool name.

  Mason got to the bottom of his beer then made up an excuse. “I think I’m going to head home,” he told Asha. “I’m really tired. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Aww. Are you sure you don’t want to stick around a bit longer?” She looked disappointed. “Come on. Next beer’s on me.”

  “It’s okay.” Mason was already sliding on his jacket. “But thanks for inviting me out. First week, you know. Not used to the early mornings. Guess I haven’t really adjusted yet.” He pretended to yawn. It was too much. He was terrible at this.

  “Okay, Mason.” If expressions could talk, this one said, that’s bullshit, but I get it. “Have a good night.”

  “You too.” He waved. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Yeah. See ya Monday.”

  On his way out, Mason bought a shot of tequila. He hated tequila, but he felt like he deserved tequila. He’d smoke that cigarette he was craving too. Then he’d smoke another. He’d smoke as many cigarettes as he damn well pleased.

  * * *

  The walk home didn’t take long, but Mason powered through four cigarettes, just enough to make him feel even worse.

  “You’re home early,” said Lester from the living room. He was watching some nature show.

  “Yeah,” replied Mason, kicking off his shoes. Wit
hout saying another word, he went upstairs to his room and slammed the door.

  He sighed. Now what?

  Despite what he’d told Asha, Mason wasn’t particularly tired. Just a little sucker-punched and now suddenly bored. He considered studying or starting a new book, but he was too on edge to settle down. Instead, he began practicing the illumination spell again, as infuriating as it was. He figured he couldn’t possibly get any more frustrated, after all.

  Sitting on the corner of his bed, Mason began reciting the chant. He had it memorized now, but the words still sounded and felt like gibberish.

  He tried and tried again, until he proved himself wrong: it turned out his frustration knew no bounds. And then, when he was least expecting it, Mason felt something. It only lasted a second. It struck him like an idea making sense, an argument coming together. In his mind, he chased the feeling. His lips moved as methodically as they did mindlessly. After so many failed attempts, the chant had become second nature. He was lost in his head, doing everything he could to find that—

  And there it was, like snapping together the first two pieces of an enormous puzzle. Right before his eyes, a faint orb of red light faded into existence, illuminating the palm of his hand. It lasted for a second or two, disappearing when he paid it too much attention.

  Mason wasted no time starting from scratch. His second attempt proved even more successful: it took him under a minute and the orb glowed brighter than before. It stuck around longer too.

  Mason repeated the spell three more times, always with improvement. Finally, he decided he should show Lester and headed downstairs.

  Lester was still watching TV, some late-night show now, shaking his head at the screen. “Can’t say I recognize any of these so-called movie stars,” he said as Mason entered the room.

  “That’s because you live under a rock.”

  “Maybe so.” He didn’t seem offended. “In my day, it was all Charlie Chaplin and James Dean.”

  “You’re not a hundred,” replied Mason. “Those guys aren’t even from the same era.”

  “Indeed,” said Lester. “I was testing you. What’s up, boy?”

  “Right. Just look over here for a second.”

  Lester was hardly married to the screen.

  Wasting no time, Mason bathed the room in bright red light. The spell lasted until he decided to end it.

  Lester looked impressed — hell, his jaw dropped a little — and Mason looked proud. He wasn’t feeling frustrated anymore, not one bit. It was a rare sensation, indeed.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” said Lester, wide-eyed. “Maybe your father was right about you. I mean, you’re a brat and all, but holy hell. I’ve never seen a necromancer learn their first spell so fast, or that well.”

  “So, I’m a necromancer now?” asked Mason. He tried to sound tongue-in-cheek, but the truth was he wanted to be one. He wanted Lester’s goddamn validation.

  “I guess so,” said Lester. “Not really a fan of labels, though.”

  “Right. They’re superfluous. Like the word date. Got it. Any other pearls of wisdom, master?”

  “You really are a brat.”

  They were both smiling, more so like friends than ever before.

  Lester pushed himself off the couch. “Come on.” He cleared his throat. “I have something to show you.”

  “What is it?” asked Mason.

  “You’ll see. It’s in the basement. Or should I say it is the basement.”

  Chapter 7

  At some point, every necromancer is bound to wonder when and where necromancy began. While no one can say for sure, there are tales are theories— though little is proven.

  In one of the more popular stories, a woman dies, comes back to life, and discovers necromantic powers. Isidora, an Athenian slave in Ancient Greece, is impregnated at fourteen. Her young body does not handle the birth well, and while her son lives, Isidora dies.

  She awakens in the Spirit Realm, unready for death, unable to handle the thought of her child sharing her fate as a slave. Isidora pleads with the spirits to give her another chance at life— a wish that is ultimately granted.

  Fearful of slave traders and distrustful of humanity, Isidora begins her new life in the mountains, but a piece of death lingers with her: Deathspeak. With it, Isidora discovers how to channel, and eventually control, energy from the Spirit Realm.

  Newly powerful, she returns to her former master, killing him and retrieving her son. The two flee back to the mountains, where she teaches him what she has discovered, until he too can perform spells. Thus begins the tradition, the passing down of necromantic knowledge.

  That, of course, is just one version of the story.

  Others say necromancy always was, a faint noise in the background just waiting to be discovered. Until, like fire, we learned to harness its power. The theory goes that Deathspeak was learned not from revelation but over thousands of years of trial and error. That like every other language, it too evolved, only in history’s shadows.

  And that is precisely where necromancy has always existed — somewhere unseen — and why we may never know where this strange, wonderful, terrifying force came from. Was spirit energy a gift from the Spirit Realm, or was it a resource we humans discovered, dug up, and began burning like oil from the ground? Was it given, or was it taken?

  —Samuel Benedict, The New Necromancer

  * * *

  Mason and Lester were standing in the former’s seemingly small basement. The room was lit this time, though rather poorly, by an old light bulb hanging from the ceiling, swaying and flickering.

  “Okay,” said Mason. “Now what?”

  “I’ll show you what.” Lester walked over to the far wall.

  With his back to Mason, Lester pressed his palm against the concrete. He was touching those carved letters Mason had found the first night he moved in.

  Mason now knew they were written in Deathspeak. “What do they say?” he asked.

  “It’s the chant that gets us through this door,” explained Lester.

  “What door?”

  “Hold your horses.” Lester began mumbling a spell, until a faint flash of red framed his silhouette. More startling, however, was the sudden appearance of a door.

  “Ah,” said Mason. “That door. Neat trick. I didn’t know we could conjure up, you know, doors.”

  “The door was always here,” replied Lester, “just hidden. Come.” He swung it open with one hand and beckoned Mason with the other. Behind him, the newly revealed room emitted a familiar shade of red.

  “I feel like I’m about to walk through the gates of hell,” said Mason.

  “Yes, yes, come now. The Dark Lord awaits.”

  Mason obeyed.

  The room was a lot bigger than its facade suggested and as weird as it was red, though that was to be expected. Something that looked almost but not quite like a black chandelier hung in its center, only instead of light bulbs or candles, its wiry arms supported hovering orbs of light.

  “Hey, I can make those,” said Mason. “But mine don’t last. How do you make them stick around like that?”

  “It’s complicated,” replied Lester, standing idly by as Mason took in the room.

  The place was messy and full of old books, like a library that was actually used. It had been his dad’s real den, Mason realized, unlike the fake one he’d grown so fond of as a kid. “Second question, then,” he said. “Why not just use regular lights? Those orbs are neat, I’ll grant you, but it’s pretty freaking dim in here.”

  “Indeed,” said Lester. “The light uses necromantic energy because— how should I put this.” He scratched his chin. “Because it’s good ambience for doing necromancy.”

  Mason looked a little humored.

  “It’s like when you want to write,” continued Lester. “You don’t want to be somew
here noisy and intrusive. You want to be somewhere quiet, maybe with music you like. Your old man, for example, when he was writing, I remember he’d always put on jazz and lock the door.”

  “I’m well aware,” said Mason. He got the analogy too. “So, what the hell is this place?”

  “It was our library. It was our lab. It was all things necromancy.” Lester sounded nostalgic. “We studied here, practiced spells, sometimes even discovered new ones. This was our safe haven. I guess it’s yours now, kid.”

  “Why do we need a safe haven?” asked Mason. “Who aren’t we safe from?”

  “Ah, yes.” Lester prepared his next words carefully. “Perhaps it’s time you learned about inquisitors. There’s another group out there that knows about us, and they’re not our biggest fans. Inquisitors, those bastards, their job is to— well, there’s no nice way to put this. They hunt us down and kill us, or at least they try. They do sometimes succeed. The inquisitors are religious fanatics. They think we’re corrupted, irredeemable. They think we deserve to die.”

  “We don’t, do we?” Mason smiled.

  “You tell me. Do you feel corrupted?”

  “I don’t know, sensei. Maybe I’m so far gone, I just can’t tell anymore.”

  “Well, try not to kill me in my sleep,” said Lester. “Anyway, there are bad necromancers too, Mason. Not that it justifies what the inquisitors do, but they’re out there. Power attracts the worst of us human folk.”

  On that note, Mason explored the room some more. The shelves and tables were dusty and battered, the books likewise. And Jesus, there were so many. Stacks of books veiled the floor where shelving had run out.

  “I never imagined so much had been written about necromancy,” said Mason.

  “Gotta maintain the knowledge somehow,” replied Lester. “This is just a small sampling. There’s an academy of a sort— I don’t know if I’d call it that. It’s a place where necromancers get together and study, a hidden oasis in the frozen wastelands. I went once. I dare say their library puts ours to shame. When you’ve got secrets to hide, you gotta go old school. Can’t exactly put this shit up on — what do you kids call it — Wikipedia.”