Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga

by Trevor Melanson

  “I suppose not.” Mason was kneeling over one of the stacks, flipping through books at random.

  “There are more spells than any necromancer could ever remember,” Lester continued. “Think of necromancy like you would a paint brush. Painting won’t cure cancer, but there’s no limit on how many things you can paint. In layman’s terms, we’re painters of spirit energy. Necromancy can’t do everything, but there are an infinite number of things it can do.”

  “You sure like your artist analogies,” said Mason. “Speaking of cancer, can necromancy cure disease?”

  “Depends on the disease,” replied Lester. “As for cancer, it can help. Cancer’s a persistent son of a bitch, so it takes upkeep. With humans, everything does.”

  Mason stopped in front of a small, oval mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. It should have been unassuming, but there was something about his reflection that seemed off. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what.

  “What’s with this mirror?” he asked.

  “You tell me.” Lester obviously knew, but the old bastard enjoyed playing games.

  “Everything looks in place,” replied Mason. He checked his cheeks, his nose, his lips, his eyes and ears— they were all his. “You know when you see yourself on video from a strange angle, and it’s obviously you, but you feel like you’re watching someone else? That’s what this is like.”

  “An apt description.” Lester nodded approvingly. “That face you’re seeing isn’t real. At least, not in this world.”

  “Then what’s it doing here, staring back at me?” Mason rotated his face, analyzing each angle.

  “That mirror reflects perception,” explained Lester. “You’re seeing your face as you perceive it. That’s why nothing looks out of place. It just seems a bit off.”

  “Yeah,” replied Mason, still looking for a detail to disagree with, but the moles he remembered were all there.

  “The trick,” said Lester, “is to first observe a part of yourself in the mirror. Let’s say your hand. Look closely. Memorize details— moles, bumps, hairs. Then look at your real hand. You’ll see a difference. Just make sure you look at it in the mirror first. If you do it the other way around, everything you remember will show up in the mirror. You’ll perceive what you just saw. Perception is always changing, my boy. Hell, look at us. I’m almost starting to think you’re all right. Almost.”

  “That’s cute,” replied Mason. “This time tomorrow, we’ll be BFFs.”

  “What’s a BFF?”

  “Never mind.”

  “You know, on good days, I look about fifty in that mirror.” Lester seated himself on an old rocking chair in the corner of the room.

  “You look closer to seventy in that rocking chair, grandpa.” Mason was staring at his forearm in the mirror, counting the blemishes as per Lester’s instructions. “How old are you anyway?” he asked.

  “Older than you,” replied Lester.

  Mason shifted his gaze from the mirror to his flesh-and-blood arm. He immediately saw Lester was right. His real arm looked a lot different. It was uglier, for one, more speckled and bumpier than he had remembered. He’d also forgotten about a small white scar he got cooking a few years back (like Lester, Mason was no master chef).

  “I thought I knew myself better,” said Mason.

  “We’re more complex than we realize,” replied Lester. “Inside and out.”

  “Is that the point of this mirror?” asked Mason. “To show people how complex they are.”

  “Sort of.” Lester looked to be enjoying his chair, swaying slowly like a boat on calm water. “But it serves another purpose. That mirror shows you what you’d look like in the Spirit Realm. You see, Mason, when the body dies and decays, all that’s left is perception. How you remember yourself. How others remember you. That’s how spirits exist— like memories trying to remember themselves.”

  “Do they ever forget?” Mason met Lester’s gaze.

  “They all do,” said Lester, “eventually. It gets harder and harder to tell fact from fiction, your experiences from somebody else’s. Our memories are far from perfect. It’s reality that keeps us in check, old sport. But reality doesn’t exist in the Spirit Realm, not like it does here. The Spirit Realm is formed from perception. Some spirits fare better than others.”

  “And here I thought I’d live forever,” said Mason.

  “Everyone dies sooner or later.” Lester shrugged. “It just takes a little longer than most folks realize. We all fade away in the Spirit Realm. Even here, in the Living Realm, some of us get off to an early start.”

  Mason leaned onto a small oak table across from Lester. “I guess it’s good my dad didn’t go out that way,” he said. “He valued his mind above all else, as I’m sure you know. I suppose there are silver linings in every tragedy. Speaking of my dad, is it true what you said when you first got here? Did you talk to him— his spirit, I mean?”

  “Yeah, kid. I did.”

  “What did he say?”

  “It’s not easy talking to the dead.” Lester hesitated. “He still had his wits about him, but a lot gets lost in translation. It’s a difficult spell. I remember the big thing was you. He wanted me to show his boy the ropes. He wanted to live on through you.”

  “I see.” That should have bothered Mason, as adamantly independent as he was, but not this time. “Did he say anything else?”

  Lester stalled once more. “Nah. Just that.”

  Mason wasn’t sure he believed him, but for once didn’t feel like arguing.

  Lester changed the subject: “Speaking of living a long time, there are spells for that.”

  Mason cracked a much-needed smile and said, “That must be why you’re still around.”

  “Hah. Hah.” Then a little more seriously, Lester added, “It’s not a path I plan on going down, kiddo. I’m probably not smart enough to cast the necessary spells, for one. More than that, I’m just not sure it’s healthy. Living too long, that is. There’s this necromancer named Rowland— the guy refuses to die. He must be a few hundred years old if he’s not dead yet. Haven’t heard anything about him in a while. Anyhow, for all the years Rowland gained, that old bastard lost more and more of his humanity. I guess you could say parts of him have faded. He’s a smart son of a bitch, but he ain’t whole— not anymore.”

  “Is he one of those bad necromancers you mentioned?” asked Mason.

  “Yeah.” Lester looked him in the eyes. “The goddamn king of them.”

  Chapter 8

  Miles Huxley hadn’t always been an inquisitor. He’d once been a realtor, a pretty damn good one in his opinion. But above all else, he’d been a family man, a husband and a father of two. Both girls, six and four when they died.

  In a different life, Miles had had a tender soul. But sometimes people really do change.

  It happened ten years ago, and every day since it grew harder for him to remember how things used to be, how he used to feel. Now, he mostly felt hate. Whenever he tried to remember love, he was reminded of loss— of the night that changed everything.

  Still, Miles would force himself to remember Jennifer smiling at her last birthday party — she’d just lost her first tooth — until a crisper image of her lifeless, six-year-old body, lying face down in his old backyard, flashed cruelly into memory. When he tried to recall his wedding, it was the same thing: he saw his wife lying on their bed, her dead eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

  Miles remembered that night as if he had never slept since. It had been a cold November day, autumn leaves skipping down the pavement, caught in a frigid breeze that warned of winter. He’d just come home from work and another big sale. Up until everything went to hell, it had been a pretty good day. He was taking them all out for dinner.

  The first thing that seemed off was the quiet. He had two girls— his house was never quiet. Shut
ting the front door behind him, Miles figured he must be the only one home. He hung his jacket up and walked toward the kitchen, briefcase still in hand— but only for a second.

  He dropped it the moment he stepped into the room.

  Miles didn’t believe it at first. It was his four-year-old, Lisa, lying in a pool of blood.

  He fell to his knees and turned her over. His Lisa. Her glossy green eyes gazed through him, as uncertain as his own. Red lines ran from her mouth and nose, transforming into drops that fell from her chin.

  Without thinking, without comprehending, Miles lifted her weightless body out of the blood, trembling but clutching her tightly, as if she might fall from him forever— had she not done so already. And still, he didn’t really believe it. He could he? How could he believe his baby girl was dead? That sort of thing didn’t happen. Not in the suburbs, not to men like him.

  Miles would have held her until God knows when, but uncertainty struck him like a second bolt of lightning: where was the rest of his family?

  He could barely bring himself to set Lisa down, let alone back on the floor. Instead, he eased her onto the couch, resting her on her back, closing her eyes with his fingertips so that she might sleep. If only the nightmare had ended there.

  He found his second girl, Jennifer, lying on the pool cover outside. She must have tried to escape. She’d always been a brave girl, ever since she could walk. And until she couldn’t, it would seem. Miles carried Jennifer inside and set her down on the loveseat near her sister. He almost threw up. He felt sick and dizzy, sweating when he should have been crying. But the truth was toxic; his body wanted to reject it, not mourn it.

  He still had a wife to find, however. In what state— well, he didn’t want to think about that. Hell, he didn’t want to think ahead at all. Not about anything, not ever again. Light-headed, Miles marched upstairs, the only place left to look.

  He found Rosetta in the master bedroom, just as he’d expected, just as he’d feared— lying dead and bloodied on their bed. At least she’d had a soft landing.

  And there he was: the son of a bitch responsible for all this. The intruder was a short, scruffy man. He walked with a limp but no sense of insecurity. Quite the contrary. He stepped toward Miles, looking distracted, an aura of invincibility about him.

  Miles went to grab the man who’d murdered his family, but there was just one problem: he couldn’t move. He was stuck in space, a standing paraplegic. The intruder, meanwhile, was mumbling under his breath. Miles couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it didn’t sound like English. And his eyes, they were… unnaturally red.

  He remembered thinking in that moment that he wouldn’t mind dying. And only five minutes earlier, he’d been living the American dream. How quickly he’d lost it all, even the dream itself. Suddenly, nothing mattered, save one thing: the man in front of him. Miles would have killed him a million times over if only God had offered him the opportunity. But in that instant, he still couldn’t move, and for the life of him — literally — he didn’t know why.

  The stranger went quiet and walked forward until he was a foot from Miles. “Bad timing,” he muttered and sighed, looking past Miles. His breath smelled like sulfur.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Miles could speak, if nothing else.

  “Jared, obviously.” He certainly said it like it was obvious. “Okay, how should I do this?” It wasn’t a question for Miles. He spoke as if having a conversation with someone else in the room, as if Miles were interrupting.

  “I do apologize.” Jared finally made eye contact; the red in them had dimmed. “You see, I don’t like people very much. This conversation, even, I find it… uncomfortable. So I will have to kill you. Sorry.” He didn’t sound it.

  Miles was angrier than he’d known possible. “Or how about I kill you, you crazy son of a bitch,” he said, still unable to break free from his invisible bonds.

  “That’s not likely.” Jared shook his head, looking away from him again. “Not likely at all.” Whatever was holding Miles in place, it held Jared’s attention too. “If you want to say something quickly. I don’t know. Some quote or whatever it is you people say at times like this. Just be quick about it. I have things to do.”

  That’s when the pigeon hit the window.

  It struck with a loud crack. Both of them jumped, Jared spinning sideways. Miles, meanwhile, realized he could move again. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew there was no time for questions— this was his chance. He reached into his jacket pocket and felt for his pen, the one that had sealed his last sale. He pulled it out like a knife and lunged toward the intruder.

  Jared turned just in time to face him— and the consequences. Miles drove the pen through the side of his neck, twisting it deeper and deeper into his throat, until Jared couldn’t breathe or speak. It hadn’t hit an artery, but he was as good as dead; without his voice, Jared couldn’t chant, couldn’t cast spells. He was back to being his old self: a powerless predator. Not to mention the pen in his neck. Of course, Miles didn’t know any of this at the time, and he wasn’t taking chances. Nor was he offering mercy.

  Jared stumbled backward, grabbing the dresser beside him for balance. It didn’t stop Miles from knocking him to the floor with a brass candlestick.

  “Not likely? Not likely!” Spit flew from Miles’s mouth, spattering Jared’s bloodied face. “I’ll show you what’s fucking likely.” He wasn’t making sense, but Jared probably got the gist when Miles knelt over him and swung the candlestick again, this time bashing his right eye. Jared threw blind punches, hitting Miles once on the nose. After that, Jared never hurt another living soul.

  Miles couldn’t say how many times he’d swung that candlestick. By the time he stopped, the bones in Jared’s face were broken, his teeth shattered, his skin torn, his identity mashed into a gory pulp.

  Slowly, Miles’s rage simmered, and he remembered his wife.

  He ran to her then clasped her palm with one hand, holding her head with the other. That’s when it really hit him. He was the only one left. There were five bodies in his house but only one beating heart. Bent on his knees, Miles rested his head on her chest, letting sorrow finally take hold. He sobbed on her stomach for what might have been twenty minutes or two hours.

  Miles would later find out the intruder had been a necromancer named Jared Snow. He’d killed hundreds of people, the inquisitors claimed. Families, they said. Children. Jared Snow would kill them all. He was a vagrant who drifted from one home to the next, murdering and pillaging. He was a modern-day Viking.

  Miles hated the dead man with every ounce of his being and couldn’t shake his desire to kill him again, if only he could. The inquisitors took notice.

  It was two days after news stations began airing Miles’s story — or a version of it, anyway — when the two men who called themselves inquisitors showed up on his doorstep. They were careful with their words. There was only so much they could tell him, they said, unless he came with them. They told him he had great potential, that he’d killed Jared Snow before they’d been able to. They told him they had a cause worth fighting for.

  They mentioned the pigeon too. The dead bird was still lying in his backyard beneath a spider-web of window cracks, its neck broken, its wings spread out like an angel’s. That bird was sent by God, the inquisitors said. God had saved Miles, and God had brought them together.

  Miles slept on it. The next morning, he told them he’d join.

  Miles spent the next year of his life training. He learned the inquisitors’ ways and about necromancers. He learned how their power corrupted and turned them into evil men and women. Even the young ones— it was only a matter of time, they told him. And if Miles knew one thing, it was that he wouldn’t let another Jared Snow wander this world. He’d pay any price to make sure of that. He would fight the dark. He would be God’s hand here on Earth, snuffing out evil until the day he co
uld be with his family again.

  Over a decade had passed since Miles transformed into the man better known as Mr. Huxley — or James Harris, if you believed his passport — and he’d yet to change his outlook. But he had grown tired. It showed in his eyes.

  Mr. Huxley glanced over at Mr. Underwood. He and his partner were walking down a long corridor at the Terminal City International Airport, minimal luggage in tow. They’d grown comfortable with not speaking when they were together, which was often. The two of them had already connected as much as they were going to connect. They’d shared as much as they were going to share. Mr. Huxley sometimes resented his partner for not being as smart as he was, but after eight years of working together, he loved the big oaf as much as he loved anyone left in his life. Indeed, Mr. Underwood was all he had. Well, besides his cause. He always had that.

  Mr. Underwood didn’t share his partner’s ideological bent, though sometimes he feigned it. He had other reasons for being here, for being an inquisitor. He’d found unconditional acceptance among them. Mr. Underwood had been in and out of jail most of his life, but that all changed the day a couple strangers saw something in him. Despite his bear-like stature, Mr. Underwood was a modest man, and he’d told them straight up: he wasn’t good at nothin’, ‘cept crime. The inquisitors would prove him wrong. Strictly speaking, they didn’t operate within the realm of legality either, but they downplayed this technicality. Instead, they talked of God and forgiveness. He’d be a new man, they told him— one with a place and a purpose.

  Mr. Underwood was a veteran now, having joined three years after Mr. Huxley, and not once had his devotion ever come into question. Mr. Underwood was a true hand of God: he moved without asking questions.