Of course, practicing necromancy required a degree of privacy. In fact, Lester had said not to even consider casting spells outside the house, but he wasn’t the boss of him. Mason would settle for the woods, he decided. If he went deep enough, no one would be around, and there should be lots of bugs.
There was a small evergreen forest fifteen minutes from his house, bordering Carwin’s campus from the ocean. He followed a thin, well-worn dirt path, winding deeper into the woods, never once spotting another living soul. The day was cool and overcast, not exactly inviting, unless you were a loner necromancer.
Mason deviated from the trail and made his way to the ocean. He sat down on a large wet rock, maybe five feet from the water; fewer when heavy waves crashed against the rocky shore, spraying his boots. It was windy down here — he zipped up his jacket to its collar — but Mason savored the scenery, shivering peacefully. “I wonder if this’ll be good ambience for doing necromancy,” he said under his breath. It was either a joke or a good question.
Mason let the waves massage his mind a few minutes longer before returning his attention to the task at hand: finding a bug. He stood up and started hunting. “Here, buggy, buggy, buggy.”
Mason went back into the woods and knelt down on one knee, surveying the forest floor. He snatched a small twig off the ground and held it like a wand. For a while, he sifted through the dirt with his new weapon, poking holes and drawing smiley faces. Then he saw his first bug: a beetle, a big one. He stabbed at it with his stick, missing by an inch. The bug scurried away, but he kept stabbing, until finally— “Got you!”
Mason had cracked the insect’s shell in half. It was stuck on the end of his stick, split open, oozing. He went back to the rock and wiped off the corpse, smearing it along the stone like a condiment, mangling it further.
Mason threw his makeshift spear into the ocean and pulled out his dad’s notebook. He thumbed through a flurry of pages until he found the reanimation spell again. He read it carefully a few more times and then began the chant, holding his free palm over the beaten beetle. At first, he felt nothing, tripping over each word, unable to focus, unable to find that familiar feeling. It wasn’t until he’d read it through at least a dozen times that he felt any sort of spark. Still, nothing happened to the beetle. He tried a few more times, and then, finally, he saw its leg twitching, just barely. He kept his attention locked and steady, until his chant became background noise, like the waves crashing at his feet, but the beetle had reached its limit. He’d disfigured it too badly, he realized, feeling stupid for not seeing that sooner. But the spell was working — he was pulling it off — and that was enough to get him excited. Mason headed back into the woods.
No beetles this time, but he did find a worm. He picked it up between his index finger and thumb then dropped it down next to the beetle— his new sacrificial stone, apparently. He was a bit disgusted with himself, but he was far more curious.
“How the hell should I kill you? I can’t squish you.” Mason picked up a small, sharp stone, took a deep breath, and then sliced off part of the worm. It kept squirming, discarding its severed tail. “Oh right. Worms do that. Weird sons of bitches.”
Then he heard footsteps.
Mason peered down the rocky shoreline and saw a tall-looking man in the distance, walking toward him. Mason quickly tucked away his notebook and returned his attention to the ocean’s hypnotic waves. You win this round, worm.
But the stranger was slowing his pace. He stopped between Mason and the water, staring at him unabashedly. “You do not look very much like your father, Mason Cross,” he said, a little too nonchalantly.
“Do I know you?” asked Mason.
“No,” the stranger replied. “Nor I you.” He was a weird-looking man, that’s for sure. Pale, and going by his eyes, Mason might have thought he was stoned if not for his severely sober demeanor.
“Who are you?” Mason wished he still had his stick.
“I am a necromancer.” There was no hesitation.
“You knew my father?”
“Yes. I know most necromancers. He was… one of the few interesting ones.” The tall stranger looked down toward the rock Mason was sitting on. “What were you attempting?” He must have seen the disfigured insects.
Mason didn’t know if he should answer honestly. “What do you mean?” He stalled.
“I know you are a necromancer, Mason Cross.” It wasn’t a threat, but it wasn’t exactly a peace offering either. “That is how I found you. When you disturb the Spirit Realm, as all necromancy does, it leaves a trace. Invisible to most people, most necromancers as well, but not to me. There is no point in lying, necromancer.”
Mason couldn’t come up with a convincing counter-argument — convincing enough for this man, anyhow — but maybe it didn’t matter. Still, he wasn’t sure he was safe. The stranger’s gaze gave away nothing.
“I was trying to reanimate these bugs,” Mason finally admitted.
The stranger didn’t immediately reply. Instead, he walked into the forest and then went down on one knee and reached into the decaying stump of a fallen fir. He pulled out something small and black. As he approached, Mason saw it was a beetle— this one still alive. The stranger set it down on the rock with the other bugs. It tried to scurry away but then stopped dead in its tracks. Literally.
Mason saw red flash from the stranger’s eyes, but he’d heard no chant. He remembered something Lester once said: chanting only helps focus spells and isn’t actually necessary— in theory, anyway. He’d never seen Lester pull one off like that. Mason suspected this necromancer was pretty powerful.
“If you aim to use the body, it is best to keep it intact,” said the stranger. “Necromancers need not use sticks and stones. Simply tear out its spirit. Now, try your reanimation spell again.”
Mason found it difficult to regain his focus, and his first few attempts were fruitless. The stranger’s stone-cold stare was a relentless distraction. But after a while and enough failure, he found that feeling — that sense of control — and watched his beetle crawl, slowly in aimless directions.
“Now guide it,” said the stranger. “Give it motivation. Give it a goal. Bend it to your will.”
Mason tried to do what he said, but stress once again got the better of him. His concentration broke, and with it his spell.
“Try again.” The stranger looked as if he’d expected that to happen.
Mason wasn’t sure he wanted to, but he gave it a shot anyway. This time, he managed to make the beetle move in one direction — away from him — before losing control for a second time.
“Better,” said the stranger, though it hardly sounded like approval. “There is no point in creation without control. Without it, your creation could just as well turn against you.”
Mason nodded. It’s not like he knew better.
“How long have you been a necromancer, Mason Cross?”
“About a month, I guess.”
If the stranger was impressed, he didn’t show it. “So, Lester Wright taught you. Not your father.”
It was a statement of fact, not a question, but Mason still nodded.
“Have you noticed anyone suspicious lately? Anyone who might be following you?”
“Besides you?” asked Mason.
“Yes. Besides me.”
“Then no.”
“I see,” he said. “Have you learned the invisibility spell yet?”
Mason shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
“If you mean no, then say no.”
“No.”
“Learn it.” The stranger looked down the length of the beach. “Find the spell in your father’s library. Invisibility will save your life one day. An invisible man always gets the first strike, and if you are good, the first strike is all you will need. Invisibility is every necromancer’s most important spell.” He turned
back toward the direction from which he’d appeared. “Every necromancer but me.” He started walking. “Be wary of men in black suits.”
“Why?” Mason stood up to brush off his jeans. “Am I in danger?”
The stranger stopped, turning to face him this time. “You are a necromancer now, Mason Cross.” His thin white hair was thrown sideways by the ocean wind. “You will always be in danger.”
He didn’t look back again.
Chapter 11
To my wife, Victoria, I leave everything: my property, my money, and my passion. I know she will make me proud in this life as I watch on from the next.
—The Last Will and Testament of George Westcott
* * *
Victoria Westcott became her own woman the day she met Rowland— the day he killed her husband, George. She’d watched him do it. The strangest thing about that night was how weak George had looked. As surreal as everything else had been, that was the most unsettling. George had always been the toughest man she knew, an anchor, not just for her but for all his inquisitors. Under George, the inquisition had grown stronger than ever before. Under George, they were going to win this war and save the world from necromancy once and for all. How quickly their inflated hope had popped.
Victoria had seen her husband die from the hallway, standing still in its shadows like some unwilling spectator, her body frozen from fright. The show didn’t last long. Rowland played the butcher, George the chicken, darting around his den, ducking behind chairs, throwing staplers and pens.
In the end, Rowland showed him no mercy. He wasn’t a victim, after all— he was his enemy. They were both killers in their own way. George commanded troops, though he seldom ventured onto the battlefield.
She remembered George stumbling in and out of view through the doorframe, Rowland tossing him from wall to wall like a stringless puppet, knocking books and medals off their shelves. Before long, his head cracked open. Bloodied and bruised, George might have collapsed for good, but Rowland wouldn’t release his ghostly grip. She wasn’t sure if it was because he was having fun or if he simply wanted to be sure the job was finished.
Victoria figured her husband died before Rowland was done killing him. It was hard to say; he was certainly dead by the time she reached him. She remembered checking his breath and pulse. She remembered how slippery his skin was with blood.
But more than anything else, she remembered that look Rowland gave her. She was still trembling in the hallway when he walked over. She had assumed she would meet her end too, and then she’d see George in heaven. It wouldn’t be so bad, really, so long as dying didn’t hurt too much, and death was all he had in store for her.
But no. Rowland had no plans to kill or rape her. He didn’t even open his twisted mouth to speak. That dismissive look in his eyes had said it all: you’re just the wife. She was nothing, not even worth killing. He left her to clean up his mess.
Well, fuck him. That would be the worst mistake he ever made. As God as her witness, Victoria knew in that moment that she would get her revenge at all costs. And no one — no one — would ever look at her that way again.
Two decades had passed since that fateful night, but her anger hadn’t aged a day.
* * *
Inside her office, Victoria had a photo of her late husband erected on one side of her desk. George watched her now as he always did. It was a small picture in a modest wooden frame— appropriate for a man who believed in cause over money and luxury. Though they’d always had plenty of that too.
But money brought Victoria little happiness these days. Then again, in her life happiness wasn’t supposed to enter into the equation. There was only what needed to be done and what didn’t. It required a certain degree of order.
Lately, everything was crumbling under the heavy hand of chaos. Mr. Underwood, one of her best, was dead, and his partner, Mr. Huxley, had gone rogue. Victoria remembered his panicked call well.
* * *
He’s dead. He’s fucking dead.
Who, sugar— who’s dead?
Mr. Underwood. He’s dead.
What! How?
…
Mr. Huxley?
Rowland. Rowland killed him. He let me live to tell you. To tell you that he’s waiting in Terminal City for us. He said… he said he’s going to kill you this time. He said he’s going to kill all of us.
You should come back, dear. Forget Lester Wright for now. Come on home and we’ll figure this out.
No.
What do you mean no?
I mean no. I’m not coming back. Not now. I have a job to do, necromancers to kill. This is war, damn it. I’m not… I’m not abandoning my brothers.
You’re not mentally sound, Mr. Huxley, and you have no partner. You know how we operate. You know the rules.
Fuck the rules.
Miles—
It’s Mr. Huxley.
We need to be careful.
Don’t tell me what I need.
*Click*
* * *
Two weeks had passed since the phone call. Victoria hadn’t heard from Mr. Huxley since he’d hung up on her, and she was growing worried. Of course, it wasn’t just Mr. Huxley that worried her. Far from it. Sure, this had been the moment she’d been waiting for — Rowland’s return — but that didn’t make it any less terrifying. Even after twenty years of thinking long and hard, she hadn’t the faintest clue how they’d stop him. Only that she needed to, more than she needed anything. Plus, it was him or them— he’d made that much clear.
Still, this was personal. Victoria prayed that her feelings wouldn’t cloud her judgment. She was also worried about what she didn’t know. Where had Rowland been all these years, and just what the hell was he doing? He’d disappeared a few months after killing George, and they hadn’t heard so much as a peep from him since. No one knew where or why he’d gone, not even his fellow necromancers from what she could gather. It wasn’t the first time he’d stepped off the scene, but two decades? That was new. One could almost be forgiven for forgetting he was still out there. In fact, some of the younger inquisitors had, but not her. Not for a second. She knew he was biding his time, that he’d come back. But that’s all she knew. Was she really ready to face him?
It didn’t matter. Her time was up. Rowland had made the first move, declaring all-out war. What choice did she have now? She had to fight back.
Victoria punched three numbers into the phone on her desk. It rang just once.
“Hello, Ms. Westcott.” It was on speakerphone. “What can I do for you?”
“Mitchell. Come see me.” She hung up before he could reply.
Not a minute later, her assistant, Mitchell, stepped into the room. “Good afternoon, Ms. Westcott.”
“Good afternoon, Mitchell.”
Behind Victoria’s skeletal silhouette, Houston’s blocky skyline shone through the window in all its entrepreneurial glory. It was a new office; their last one had been in Dallas. They changed locations often — paranoia was part of the profession — though Victoria always insisted on Texas, her home.
The high inquisitor — that was her official title — pushed herself up from her seat and stepped around her desk. As a point of pride, Victoria said what she needed to say face-to-face. She was dressed in all black: a black skirt, a black blazer, black heels, black nylons. Her usual attire. Victoria could be mistaken for a woman coming from a funeral any day of the week. Around her neck hung a large silver crucifix, a gift from her husband and a promise to God, George, and herself— her holy trinity.
It wasn’t a promise the Church officially sanctioned, but there were enough men and women (well, mostly men) who supported their cause, always in secret. Victoria knew well that it wasn’t the number of supporters you had that won wars— it was the number of dollars. Luckily, many of her backers were wealthy people who understoo
d that the price of fighting evil was a high one. They kept the inquisition afloat, but sometimes only barely. If there was a silver lining to Rowland’s return, it was that news of it had opened a few more wallets.
And then there were men like Mitchell: broke but relentlessly devote. It always seemed to go that way. He was waiting like an obedient dog for Victoria to tell him what to do, what to think. He looked just as he had the first day she’d hired him: soft-faced, neatly groomed, his posture perfect, his eyes expectant. Young and determined, Mitchell was. But too small to be a tough inquisitor and too naïve to be a smart one, though that didn’t discourage him. Victoria had come to realize he’d never stop trying to join their ranks. He idolized them and her especially. Maybe Mitchell should get his shot. Desperate times and all that.
Victoria paced back and forth for a good minute, Mitchell’s gaze following her each way like a slow pendulum. She was trying to assure herself that the order she was about to give was the right one. The wise one, not the emotional one. She wondered how George would have played this. Not that he’d known better than she did now, not after all these years. It was simply something she always asked herself, a step in her thought process. But the time for thinking was over; she’d made up her mind the second she invited Mitchell up here.
“I have a task for you,” she said finally. “Clear whatever is on your plate and do this first. I need you to get a hold of every inquisitor on the continent.”
“Every single one?” asked Mitchell.
“That is what every means, sugar,” she replied. “Yes, every one you can, and tell them this: wrap up whatever assignment they’re on and head to Terminal City. I want everyone there in two days tops. Further instructions will follow.”
“Sure thing, Ms. Westcott.” Mitchell nodded sharply. “Is there anything else?”
Victoria measured him with her eyes, from feet to face, squinting pensively. “Yes. Just one more thing. Do you still wish to be an inquisitor, Mitchell?”
Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga Page 10