Mr. Huxley supposed there was more to the big man’s life than the simple stories he told, but he’d come to realize that Mr. Underwood was too dim to think outside the simple narrative he had created to explain himself. No matter. It served the cause well enough.
The two inquisitors stepped outside the airport terminal, a still stream of black taxis ahead of them. Before they could hail one, Mr. Huxley’s phone rang. His work phone.
“Hello, Ms. Westcott.”
“There’ll be a slight change of plans, sugar.” Ms. Westcott sounded out of breath; she sometimes made calls from the treadmill. “Lester Wright may have to suffer another night or two of his miserable life. A shame, I know, but we’ve got a lead on someone else in Terminal City, where you just happen to be. Unlike Mr. Wright, we have an address for this one, so let’s start there. Who knows— maybe the two are connected.”
“Who is he?” asked Mr. Huxley, pacing around his partner.
“She,” clarified Ms. Westcott. “What is it with you boys? Always so presumptuous.”
“Sorry.” Mr. Huxley rolled his eyes. “She.”
“Her name is Lisa Sharpe,” said Ms. Westcott. “She just appeared on our radar. We traced a suspicious blog post to one of her online profiles. Now, be careful what you say to her. She may not be the real deal. But she certainly knows more about necromancy than an innocent girl ought to.”
“We’ll pay her a visit,” replied Mr. Huxley.
“Yes. That is your job, Mr. Huxley. Just remember you’re dealing with a lady. A she. I know we’re not your forte, hun. I’ll message you her address.” She hung up.
“Bitter old bitch,” Mr. Huxley muttered as he snapped his phone shut. A woman walking past them shot him a mean look.
“Should we get a cab?” asked Mr. Underwood.
“Not yet. I’m waiting on an address. There’s been a change of plans.” Mr. Huxley reached into his jacket pocket. “Besides, we just spent half the day on a plane. I need a bloody smoke.”
* * *
Evening was setting in as Mr. Huxley and his partner marched down a long, fluorescent hallway. They had found the apartment— but not before taking a few wrong turns.
“What’s the number again?” asked Mr. Underwood.
“Three-fifteen,” said Mr. Huxley. “That’s about the fifth time you’ve asked.” In truth, it had only been the second, but Mr. Huxley was sleep-deprived, jet-lagged, and in a generally bad mood— even more so than usual.
“Here it is,” said Mr. Underwood.
“Yes, I see that.” Mr. Huxley knocked.
They waited and then knocked again, but still no one answered.
Mr. Underwood shrugged. “I guess she ain’t home.”
Mr. Huxley tried turning the knob— it was always worth a shot. Lo and behold, the door creaked open. “Well then, let’s find some evidence.”
The apartment was like a cave, its blinds drawn shut. The two inquisitors tiptoed inside, hands hovering over their guns. Their faint footfalls made the only sounds. Mr. Huxley felt a light switch around the corner and gave it a flick. The living room popped into view. It wasn’t pretty, full of mismatched furniture well past its prime. The walls were bare, but the floor was littered with crumpled clothing and faded magazines.
Then they saw the body: an elderly man’s, pale and gaunt, no more than a day dead by Mr. Huxley’s estimation. The corpse looked comfortable in its reclining chair, its hairless head resting on one shoulder, napping the night away— but Mr. Huxley knew a dead body when he saw one. He stepped forward and examined it more closely. No blood, no marks, nothing. The man’s death had no discernible cause. “Old age, I guess,” he said. “I wonder how long it’ll take for anyone to realize.”
Mr. Underwood emerged from the bedroom. “No one else home,” he said. “But it sure don’t look like a lady lives here, or ever did.”
“What a complete waste of time. It was a shitty lead— I thought so from the start.” Mr. Huxley sighed. “Well, screw it. Let’s go.”
But they didn’t make it very far. A fourth body revealed itself, this one living— though it could have fooled some people. He was tall and skeletal and, for a second, see-through, a ghost fading back to life in the dead air between the inquisitors and the way out of here. The first thing Mr. Huxley noticed about him was his eyes: they were red in a way eyes shouldn’t ever be.
The inquisitors were frozen in place before they even thought to reach for their guns. Just like that, the necromancer had them in his spell. Mr. Huxley hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t heard him chant. He’d met a lot of necromancers, never on good terms, but this was a first.
“Do you know who I am?” the stranger asked.
Mr. Huxley had never seen the necromancer before, but there was no mistaking him. He’d heard all about Rowland. “Imagine a demon fucked a corpse and the two had a kid,” his colleague, Mr. White, had once said. “That kid would grow up to look like Rowland.” Mr. Huxley more or less agreed. What concerned him more than appearances, however, was that other thing he’d heard about Rowland: that if you ever run into him, make peace with God.
Perhaps no one had told this to Mr. Underwood. More likely, he just hadn’t listened. “You’re gonna get it, you ugly freak.” The hulking man growled and grunted, but his body didn’t, couldn’t, move.
“I am afraid not,” said Rowland. “For you see, I am rubber, and you are glue. That which you say bounces off of me and sticks to you. Consequently…”
It was like Rowland had flipped a switch and that was all it took. Mr. Underwood collapsed like an unplugged android, his head hitting the carpet with a soft thud. He was dead even before the blood began dripping from his nose.
“And then there were two.” Rowland looked up.
It was the angriest Mr. Huxley had felt in a decade. Probably the most hopeless too. After all, Rowland wasn’t Jared Snow. Mr. Huxley tried to convince himself otherwise, but there was no having it. There wouldn’t be an opening this time. Rowland was good at many things, chief among them staying alive. No one on Earth had done a better job evading death— or serving it to others, for that matter. No, Rowland wasn’t Jared Snow. Rowland was the devil himself— at least some people thought as much.
“Just kill me already,” said Mr. Huxley, trembling in his invisible shackles. He peered down at his partner, his only friend. “Just get it over with.”
“Interesting,” said Rowland. “Most people beg for their lives before conceding them.” He took a slow step forward. “Alas, for the time being, your request is denied. I will kill you eventually, however. You have my word. But not until you have passed along a message for me. To your fellow inquisitors. To Victoria Westcott. Especially Victoria Westcott. Tell her to bring her war to Terminal City. Tell her I will be waiting here. Tell her I will kill her this time. And that goes for the rest of you as well.
“Only then, inquisitor, will I kill you.” Rowland squeezed Mr. Huxley’s shoulder. “Just like I killed your large friend. The next time we meet— I promise.”
A red stain had formed beneath Mr. Underwood’s head. It was spreading and sinking into the carpet.
“What makes you think I’ll tell them anything?” asked Mr. Huxley. He would tell them, of course — he had every reason to — but right now he’d have said the moon was made of cheese just to be difficult.
“You kill countless weak and innocent necromancers,” said Rowland, eternally emotionless, “because you think — incorrectly — that they could turn into me. You will tell them, inquisitor, because you believe I am the reason people like you need to exist. Because there is nothing you want more than to see me dead. And because I will kill all of you regardless. In the end, it makes no difference whether I go to you or you come to me.”
“Then why do you care if I tell them anything?” Mr. Huxley snarled.
“It is the fastest way
,” replied Rowland. “Tracking you is tiresome. Writing fake messages on the internet is not my preferred method of acquiring your attention, although I will admit it was effective. Here you are, after all.”
“You’ll regret this,” spat Mr. Huxley, but his threat felt empty. He stopped short of saying he’d see the necromancer dead, as his partner had done. He wagered Rowland was still made of rubber and that he, like Mr. Underwood, was a man of glue.
Rowland inched forward, just close enough to look down on him. “We are done here,” he said. “For now.” With one hand, he covered Mr. Huxley’s face, consuming it like a carnivorous maw.
Mr. Huxley fell unconscious in an instant, his body folding in on itself before hitting the floor— just as his partner’s had. And there they were left, two suits sprawled over an old man’s garbage and a young man’s blood. But only one of them would ever wake up again.
Chapter 9
“Do you have any siblings?” Asha was staring out the window.
“Nah,” replied Mason. “Don’t think my father ever really wanted kids. My mom, on the other hand, she was probably hoping for three or four. I suppose I was the compromise.” He let out a single chuckle. “What about you?”
“Two sisters.” She turned and met his gaze.
“Are you close?” he asked.
“Very,” replied Asha. “We’re on the phone every day. Same with my parents. We’re a bit codependent, I guess.” She smiled. “Well, they are. It’s more for them than me— at least, that’s what I tell myself. What about you? You talk to your parents much?”
He took a moment to consider his answer. It was lunchtime and they were sitting in the cafeteria, a small table between them. Mason tore off a piece of his sandwich and chewed it leisurely like a cow, stalling for time.
“I love my mom very much,” he said finally, “but we don’t communicate too well. Different wavelengths and all that. We’re close in our own way.” He took a slow sip from his cup of orange juice. “And my dad, he’s, umm. He’s dead. When he was alive, I guess he frustrated me sometimes, but other times— other times were good. People tell me we’re a lot alike.” He shrugged. “Might be true.”
“I’m so sorry, Mason.” Asha rested her hand on his.
“It’s… it’s nothing. I mean, it’s something, but people all over the world deal with much worse, you know?” Mason didn’t do well with sympathy. “He died in a car crash nine months ago, almost ten now. Anyway, it’s been almost a year. I’m fine.”
Asha decided to change the subject: “Have you picked up your student card yet?”
“Not yet,” he said. “I suppose I should. It hasn’t really been priority number one. What about you?”
“I picked mine up a few hours ago,” she replied, “but it pains me to look at it.”
“Bad picture?” Mason was absent-mindedly twisting his straw into a hypnotic circle.
“The worst,” she said, “in the history of humankind.”
“That’s a bold claim.” Mason released the straw and watched it expand like a mini Big Bang. “I’ll need proof. Let me see. I’ll tell you if I’ve seen worse. Bet I have.”
Asha hesitated. “It’s really bad.” She said it like a warning.
He considered giving her a compliment — you’re too pretty for bad pictures — but knew he didn’t possess the nonchalance to make it fly.
Asha sighed and reached into her purse. “I’m going to regret this.” She shuffled through leather, plastic, and tissue until she found her wallet. She flipped it open and slid out her student card. Then she held it out before her, frowning like a disappointed artist, and finally handed it to him.
“It’s not so bad,” he said without hesitation, though to be totally honest, it was pretty unflattering, which surprised him. He really had thought she was too pretty for bad pictures. But pictures lie, he knew.
Mason lied too— not often, but when it was the right thing to do, or occasionally, when it spared someone’s feelings. “Really, it’s not that bad,” he told her again. “Asha Sarai,” he said, reading her name aloud.
“Good job,” she replied. “You pronounced it right.”
“Lucky guess.” Mason handed her back the student card. “My driver’s license is ten times worse.” It really was.
“Your turn, then.” Asha poked the table.
Mason didn’t put up a fight, but he did offer a disclaimer. “It’s really old,” he said. “The picture, I mean. A lot of the information on it too, I think.” He unfolded his wallet, took out his license, and dropped it into Asha’s eager, open hands.
She looked at it without saying a word, but her smile said enough.
“See,” said Mason.
Then Asha furrowed her brow, her smile dropping as if suddenly hitched to a sinking anchor. She looked at the license a second longer before returning her eyes to the real him— not the one in the picture. “Mason,” she said with emphasis. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”
Because I couldn’t care less, he thought. He figured she’d probably want a better answer than that, however. Damn. He forgot licences showed birthdays. Meanwhile, the lunch rush was over and the cafeteria had turned quieter than he would have liked, at least at this very moment.
“It just seems sort of weird, telling someone it’s your birthday,” he said to break the silence. “Like you expect them to give you something.” He tossed his hands into the air. “I don’t know.”
“Well, happy fucking birthday.” She handed him back his license. “Do you have any plans?”
“Not really. I think my mom might visit this weekend.”
“No party?” she asked.
Mason stared at her like she’d told a joke. “Who would I invite?” He figured Lester would probably come— he did now apparently live with him, after all.
“How about me?” Asha leaned forward. “We’re friends, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah.” At least until I profess my undying love for you and fuck everything up. “We’re friends.”
“Good.” She nodded. “Then let’s have a party. How do you feel about cake?”
“It’s good. Tastes nice.” He shrugged. “I like it about as much as the next guy.”
“Then cake it is.” She slapped the table. “We’re going to make a cake, Mason.” She wasn’t asking, she was telling. “And put twenty-one candles on it.”
If anyone else had insisted Mason bake a cake, he probably would have resisted. But this was Asha. He wouldn’t pass up a chance to spend time with her— well, so long as her boyfriend wasn’t involved.
“Okay,” he said after a moment of feigned hesitation, “but I don’t have any of the ingredients or anything.”
“We’ll buy them,” she replied.
“When?”
“No time like the present.” Asha stood up. “Your birthday is half over. We still have to bake this thing and make it look pretty. Let’s get to it.” She kicked his boot and nodded toward the exit. If Mason hadn’t known better, he might have thought she was flirting with him, just a little.
On the way out, they spotted their philosophy professor, Alicia, walking down the hallway with a stack of papers under her arm. Mason wondered if their essays were bunched in there. They’d only been in class four weeks now, but already Alicia had her students writing papers. She noticed them and waved. They waved back. Mason was quite fond of her. He figured Asha was too.
The first leg of their mission was pretty painless. This was because the campus had its own grocery store. Mason had grown to appreciate the convenience, if not the selection. It was a small place, but it did have most of the essentials, plus a wide array of Chinese imports he was too intimidated by to purchase.
It also had cake mix.
“Angel’s food or devil’s?” Asha had a box in each hand.
“I am an
atheist,” said Mason, “so we better go with devil’s.” Not to mention a necromancer.
“Good, because the only frosting they have is chocolate.” Asha shelved the angel’s food cake mix and fetched the last can of frosting.
Meanwhile, Mason grabbed a pack of one-hundred candles from the next aisle over. He doubted he’d ever use the seventy-nine spares, but it was all they had. Might be useful if the power went out again.
When it came time to pay, they both pulled out their wallets. Asha insisted that it was his birthday, and Mason just insisted. In the end, they split the bill, a compromise neither one of them found satisfactory.
On the way to Mason’s (it was closest), Asha asked him a question: “So, you’re an atheist, are you?”
“I guess I am,” he replied. “I don’t buy into the whole God thing, so yeah. Why do you ask? Does that surprise you?”
She didn’t look surprised. “No,” she said. “Not at all. You philosophy types usually are.”
“Suppose so,” he said. “What about you? What do you believe, or not believe?”
“I believe there’s something out there,” she replied. “Call it God if you want. My parents are Hindu. They probably think I am too. In my own way, I guess I am. I like to imagine different religions as separate rivers all flowing into the same lake. Does that make sense?”
Mason nodded. “It makes sense. I’m still an atheist, but it makes sense.”
It started to rain. Asha looked up toward the sky, unimpressed, holding one hand over her hair. Mason reached into his backpack and pulled out an umbrella. He popped it open; Asha moved closer to get underneath. Mason began hoping it would pour.
“Is it hard being an atheist?” she asked. “Is it hard not believing in anything?”
“I believe in things,” he said. “Just not God. We live. We die. We fade away.” The fading part was more literal than he would have imagined a few weeks ago. In truth, learning about the Spirit Realm had only reinforced his atheism. He now knew just how uncaring the universe really was, and that no one could ever be immortal. He knew that time ended everyone.
Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga Page 8