Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga

by Trevor Melanson

  “That sounds depressing,” said Asha, twirling a lock of her dark hair. She bit her bottom lip then added, “So, you think life is just random and meaningless?”

  They turned the corner, Mason’s house popping into view.

  “Random, sure,” he said. “But meaningless? No. We don’t need God for that. Hell, I think our lives are more meaningful without God.”

  “How so?” she asked.

  Mason hesitated. “It means our experiences are earned, not just given to us,” he said. “If God is up there plotting our lives, then we’re basically carts on a rollercoaster. This moment, us walking together in the rain— all part of God’s plan.

  “Or,” he continued, “maybe there is no track. Maybe we’re the drivers. Maybe you’re here because you want to be. Because I want to be. Because we got to know each other. Because you thought I should have cake, and now we’re having this conversation under my piece-of-shit umbrella.” Its metal spine had been disfigured in a windstorm.

  “The way I see it, we made this moment,” said Mason. “It’s ours.”

  They stepped onto the veranda, Asha’s heeled boots clicking on the wood. Mason collapsed his piece-of-shit umbrella and walked to the front door, leaving a trail of raindrops behind him. He turned the lock and stepped through.

  Asha followed him inside. “You’ve got a way with words, Mason.”

  He led her to the kitchen and tossed their grocery bag of ingredients onto the counter. “You can put your jacket wherever,” he said.

  She wrapped it around the back of a wooden table chair and left her purse on the seat. “Nice place.” She peered around the room. “It’s big.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe too big.”

  “I thought you said you lived alone. How do you have a huge house like this?” she asked. “Are you, like, super rich or something?”

  “I wish,” he replied. “It’s family-owned. Well, it’s mine now, but it belonged to my dad. He used to teach at Carwin.” Mason spotted sympathy in her eyes at the mention of his father. “Right. So, how about this cake?”

  Asha pulled the box of cake mix out of the bag and scanned it for instructions. “Do you have a cake pan?” she asked.

  “I… umm. Hmm. Let’s find out.” Mason sifted through cupboards then checked under the stove. “Will this square thing work?” He held the pan over his head, his body bent over the stove drawer, his eyes scanning hers for approval.

  She nodded. “Just got the one?”

  “Looks like it.” He handed it to her.

  “Let me guess: you don’t know the first thing about cooking.” Asha poked him. She was more comfortable with touching than Mason was used to, not that he minded.

  “Clueless as the day is long. I’m not really a hands-on type of guy,” he said. “But I can follow instructions. Well, I can try.”

  “We need eggs.”

  He checked the fridge. “I have egg-zactly seven.”

  She tried not to smile at that one but failed. “You’re so fucking lame.”

  “Jeez, it was just a yoke.”

  Asha snatched the eggs from him. “Mixing bowl?”

  Mason grabbed a metal one and handed it to her. She cracked the eggs into the bowl, flawlessly, handing him the discarded shells one at a time. After that, she added a bit of water, a bit of olive oil, and, last but not least, the cake mix. As she stirred them together, Mason asked if there was anything he could do. Asha reminded him that it was his birthday, but the oven needed to be preheated to 350 degrees if he didn’t mind. For a few seconds, Mason made himself useful.

  Once Asha slid the uncooked cake into the oven, there wasn’t a whole lot left to do, not for a while anyway. Mason busted out some wine, a chardonnay.

  About halfway through the second glass, Asha made a confession. “I don’t know what to do, Mason,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  She sighed. “It’s Josh. You know how you can really like someone, but, I don’t know— you hit a wall with people. Most people. This point where you’ve said all you have to say to them, and everything from then on feels like… filler.”

  Mason could definitely relate. “Sounds like most of my relationships.”

  “He’s great, though,” she said. “Josh. He really is. People love him. At the start, it was a lot of fun. I mean, it still is sometimes. It’s just… it’s all the in-betweens. And I don’t know if it’s specifically our problem, if maybe we’re too different from each other, or if it’s simply something every couple goes through— this lull. I don’t know. I really wish I knew, Mason.”

  The rim of her wine glass teetered on her lower lip. “Sorry. Sometimes I open up too much with people— like, way too much. It’s a bit of a problem with me.”

  “Well, I probably don’t open up enough,” said Mason, “or so I’ve been told. Point being, I’m in no position to judge.”

  “Thanks for listening.” Asha looked longingly toward her wine, swishing it around like a gentle tornado. “You’re a good guy.”

  “I’m okay.” Mason cleared his throat then stood up to check the oven. He turned to her. “I think it’s ready.”

  Asha leaned down beside him and peered inside. “Yeah, looks pretty good. Let’s pull it out.”

  With the cake finally cooked, it was time for frosting. Mason and Asha smothered it uncompromisingly. It was his birthday, after all.

  “I think I have sprinkles,” said Mason. He did. “Shit. Is that too many?” It was.

  Asha laughed. “Your cake, birthday boy.” She tore open the plastic bag of candles and began placing them around the cake in a circle, which turned into a spiral as she ran out of room. Mason really was getting old. He helped her finish, shoving in the last one like a spear through flesh.

  “Twenty-one. I don’t feel it,” he said, staring down.

  “Don’t look it either,” added Asha.

  “Hey, I got stubble.” Mason stroked his chin. “Well, kind of.”

  Asha nudged his shoulder with hers. “It was supposed to be a compliment,” she said. “Got a lighter?”

  He pulled one out from his pocket and started lighting.

  Asha plucked a lit candle out of the cake and helped light the rest. “You really shouldn’t smoke, Mason. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” She leaned toward him until they were touching. “I’m very perceptive, you know.”

  Mason wasn’t quite sure how to interpret that, but he could feel himself blushing all the same. He turned his head away from hers, hoping her senses were less keen than she claimed. They weren’t drunk, but they weren’t entirely sober either.

  “Make a wish,” she said.

  “All right.” Mason was sweating under his T-shirt, but it wasn’t from the fire. He made his wish and then blew out every candle in one good gust. She clapped for him as he took a deep breath, knocking back oxygen like a cold beer.

  “What did you wish for?” she asked.

  “I can’t tell you,” he replied.

  “Why not?”

  “Because then it won’t come true.”

  “Oh?” Asha looked incredulous. “You’re telling me you believe in magical wishes, Mr. Atheist? I don’t buy it.”

  Mason laughed. “Clever girl. Still, some things are best kept secret.”

  Her face was inches from his. He could feel her warmth. The wine bottle was sitting across the kitchen table, empty.

  “Do you have a lot of secrets, Mason?” Something in the tone of her voice washed over his skin like a warm bath.

  “A few,” he said.

  “You’re just so dark, aren’t you?” She poked his chest teasingly. “Dark and brooding. With your black hair and your pale skin. Like one of those emo vampires all the teenage girls are into these days.”

  He coughed up the last of his chardonnay, a grin
stretched across his face. “Well, that is what I’m going for.”

  “Tell me one of your dark secrets, emo vampire,” she said.

  Mason considered this. The necromancy stuff was entirely out of the question, of course, and hardly appropriate. He pondered some more. “Like most vampires,” he said, “I suppose I can get a little lonely.”

  She laughed— then stopped herself.

  “Yeah, maybe that’s obvious,” he continued. “But I’m not lonely in the way people think I am.”

  “How’s that?” Asha wasn’t just being polite; he could tell he had her full attention, that she cared.

  “Well, I can’t be out in the daylight, for one.”

  “I think the joke’s dead, Mason.”

  He sighed dramatically. “Just like me.”

  She shook her head.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, it’s a different kind of lonely,” said Mason. “It wouldn’t matter if I had a bunch of friends. You know how people get a boost of energy when they’re around others? At parties, concerts, whatever. I’ve never felt that. Like, probably ever. I get invited out to things, sometimes, and everyone seems to have fun, everyone seems to connect, but I never do. It’s kind of like being a picky eater. People tell me lobster is delicious, and I can tell they love it, but for the life of me… all I see is this disgusting sea scorpion.”

  “So, you’re introverted,” said Asha.

  “Super introverted,” replied Mason. “I took that Myers-Briggs personality test online and got literally one-hundred per cent on the introvert part.”

  “Do you feel lonely right now?” she asked.

  “Like, this very second?”

  “Yes, Mason. This very second.”

  He could have just said no. It was the truth, after all. Instead, he got reckless, like everybody else always did, but not him, never him— except at this very second. “I’ve got another secret for you,” he said.

  “Two dark secrets?” Asha slapped her cheeks like that kid from Home Alone. “I don’t know if I can handle two.”

  Maybe it was the booze. “Too bad. Because I think you… Asha… you are… ridiculously beautiful.” Maybe it was her. “Like, in every conceivable way.”

  In any event, Mason immediately regretted it. His confidence flew from him as quickly as it had found him, and he turned even redder. “I’m sorry.” He took a step back. “I didn’t mean that. I mean I meant it, but I didn’t mean to mean it. No, that’s not what I mean either. Ah, fuck my life.”

  But Asha didn’t look displeased. She looked serious, the good kind of serious, and she wasn’t going to let him walk away. She grabbed the neck of his T-shirt and pulled him forward until he fell into her. She kissed him, or he kissed her— it didn’t matter. Mason felt doubly drunk. He pulled her pelvis toward his, but then she pushed back. She stopped kissing him— it was definitely her this time. Now the expression on her face was the bad kind of serious.

  “I’m sorry.” Asha yanked her hands from his chest as if he were suddenly contagious. “I can’t do this. I know what I said, but I still have a boyfriend.” She stood up straight, sounding clinical. “This is wrong.” It was a matter of fact. She turned around and started for her coat.

  “I’m sorry.” Mason didn’t know what else to say.

  “It’s not your fault, Mason. It’s mine.” The jacket was on now. “Anyway, I should go.”

  “You sure you don’t want some cake first?” he asked. “You’re welcome to cake around here a bit longer.” She didn’t find that one funny, and neither did he. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  Asha grabbed her purse then went for her boots. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ruined your birthday with my unresolved bullshit.” She was fighting with her footwear now.

  It was a lot of sorrys. They were both being very Canadian.

  “You didn’t ruin anything,” he told her. “You made my birthday way better. Trust me.” Admittedly, the bar hadn’t been set too high.

  Asha stood up, boots on, coat buttoned, purse snug around her shoulder. “You’re sweet, Mason,” she said. “Happy birthday.” She left out the front door.

  “Good night.” Mason wasn’t sure she heard him. He stumbled back into the kitchen then looked at his cake. “Fuck it.” He cut himself a hefty piece.

  As he set down the knife, the front door swung back open. For a fleeting moment, he thought it was Asha, thought she had changed her mind. Boy, was he disappointed.

  “Happy birthday, kiddo.” Lester sniffled. “Mmm, cake. Cut me a slice, will ya— a big one.”

  “Whatever.” Mason did as he was told, too annoyed with life to be annoyed with Lester, then grabbed a couple plates from a high-up cupboard. He slid them onto the kitchen table. “How’d you know it was my birthday?” he asked.

  “Great question!” Lester said it like some horribly chipper professor. “I uncovered the moment of your birth by casting a mind-bogglingly complex necromantic spell that reveals… birthdays. Also, your dad may have mentioned it once or twice.”

  Lester sat down first. Good cake, they agreed. Mason credited Asha and blamed himself for the sprinkles.

  “No such thing as too many sprinkles,” said Lester, still chewing. “Speaking of sprinkles, I have something for you. Actually, it has nothing to do with sprinkles.”

  Mason swallowed before speaking. “What is it?”

  “A birthday gift.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Hold that thought.” Lester reached into his blazer and pulled out the gift in question. It was even wrapped. Not well, but still. Mason was impressed. Lester slid his present down the table toward Mason. “Happy birthday, little necromancer.”

  “I’m like four inches taller than you.” Mason ripped off Lester’s crude wrapping paper, which was covered in snowmen and candy canes. “A book.” He held it up. The book was small, black, and leather-bound— though not nearly as old as The Necromancer’s Grimoire.

  “Not just any,” chimed in Lester. “Your father’s. He used that notebook for all his favorite spells, including a few he worked out himself. They’re mostly complex spells. I doubt you’ll be able to perform any of them, but hey, something to strive for, right?”

  Mason flipped through the pages, his dad’s penmanship and prose illuminating every line, every margin. He imagined more work had been put into this small book than all his father’s other works combined. “Thank you.” Mason meant it.

  Lester nodded. “You’re welcome. Just remember that’s complicated necromancy in there. Some of it’s very dangerous, so be careful. Don’t, you know, shoot your eye out.”

  Mason flipped a page, his gaze glued away from the conversation. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be careful.”

  Chapter 10

  They finished with a hug. Mason hadn’t grown used to hugs, never had to, but now, every time he said good bye to his mother, they seemed obligatory.

  “Love you,” she told him. “Glad everything is going well. If Lester is making you uncomfortable, you can ask him to leave, you know. This is your home, Mason.” She shivered. It was an unusually chilly day in early October. “Don’t feel that you have to let him stay. He’s a bit of an oddball, that one. Your dad liked him well enough, I suppose, but that doesn’t mean you have to.”

  “Mom, it’s fine.” Mason stopped her. “Really. I know it’s my house. And my decision.”

  “I know, dear. I’m just trying to look out for you.”

  Mason knew she meant well but didn’t like being looked out for. Still, he said, “Thanks. I’ll be all right.”

  She nodded, hugged him, and then stepped into her car. “I love you,” she said a second time, looking for confirmation that he loved her too. Mason said he did, and he did. She started her engine and then backed up sl
owly before idling at the tip of his driveway to wave goodbye. He waved back, and then, finally, she drove off.

  Mason went back inside the house. No one else was home, which is to say he didn’t know where Lester was— the little man could be quite elusive. Of course, Mason enjoyed his alone time, though he didn’t know what to do with himself now. It was Saturday afternoon, and with no imminent deadlines, he knew he wouldn’t be able to muster the willpower to study. He wasn’t even going to try.

  Then he remembered Lester’s birthday gift, his father’s notebook. His mother had bought him some books too (and a gift card), but Mason was feeling that necromantic itch— something he felt increasingly often.

  He fetched the notebook from his bedroom and began flipping through pages, pacing up and down the hallway. He was looking for something he could try. Something interesting yet doable. But just as Lester had forewarned, many of the spells seemed incredibly complex, some with chants that filled the length of a page. Mason crossed those ones off his mental list, perusing page after page for the shortest spells he could find.

  There were a few shorter ones, as it turned out, and a couple that caught his eye. There was one spell that used spirit energy to help heal superficial wounds, but he had no injuries (nor the desire to give himself any). There was another for making static orbs of light, like the ones in the basement lab, but he’d already seen those. Finally, there was the spell that interested him most— it said he could reanimate corpses.

  At first, Mason figured it wouldn’t be feasible, practically or ethically. He didn’t have a corpse lying around and certainly didn’t plan on digging one up. But then he read on: it didn’t have to be a human corpse. Even an insect’s would do. He had no qualms about killing bugs. He did it all the time.

  And so the hunt began. Mason looked for insects in every room of the house, with no luck. He thought he’d find one or two in the basement lab if nowhere else, but he came back upstairs disappointed. Bastards only show up when you don’t want them to.

  Mason slid on his jacket and a pair of boots before heading out the front door, locking it behind him. He tucked the notebook into his inner coat pocket — it was just small enough — determined to find a bug. He wouldn’t mind going for a walk either. Mason liked walks.