Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga

by Trevor Melanson

  “More than anything, Ms. Westcott.” He was trying not to smile, trying to look serious. “More than anything.”

  “It’ll be dangerous,” she said. “Very, very dangerous.”

  “I’m not afraid of danger.” He was so sure of himself. “I’ve trained for this. I know the protocols. Mr. White has been an exceptional teacher.”

  “You should be afraid of danger, darling,” replied Victoria. “You’re young. Danger is what kills young men. But if your heart is set on this, well, we need all the help we can get right now.”

  “It is, Mr. Westcott.”

  “Very well.” She nodded. “But I still need you to make those phone calls. That’s your first priority.”

  “I’ll get right on it.” Mitchell nearly saluted her.

  And here Victoria had thought he couldn’t possibly get any keener. “That’s everything, Mitch— I mean, Mr. Crosby.”

  Mitchell nodded once more before marching out of the room like some Monty Python-esque caricature of professionalism.

  Victoria made her way to the window, far less sure of herself than Mitchell. Her steps were slow and cautious. She grabbed a cup of lukewarm green tea off her desk and breathed it in before taking a sip. She stared out at Houston, but her mind was already in Terminal City. Soon, the rest of her would be too. Rowland wanted a war, and she would give him one. But first, she had dinner plans.

  * * *

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Sarah.” Victoria hugged her daughter, her purse dangling from one hand, keys jingling in the other. “Sorry, I’m late, darling. Busy day at the office.” She unlocked the front door. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “Fifteen minutes maybe,” she replied. “It’s fine.”

  Victoria suddenly felt even worse. Sarah had wanted to cancel tonight, but Victoria had insisted. They had these dinners once a month— at least, that was the idea. They were busy women, both of them, Sarah at the law firm where she articled and Victoria— well, she didn’t tell her daughter what she did. As far as Sarah knew, she managed a corporate headhunting firm. That was the official lie, told by all inquisitors when asked what they did for a living. The headhunting part was sort of true.

  They stepped inside Victoria’s townhouse.

  Sarah dropped herself onto the leather sofa in the living room, exhaling. “My boss, Larry, is creeping me the hell out,” she said. “I keep catching him staring at my ass.”

  “In this gentleman’s defence, my daughter has a marvelous ass.” Victoria was flipping through her mail over the kitchen counter. “I would know.” She looked up. “I gave it to you.”

  “Do you want to just order in?” asked Sarah. “I don’t really feel like cooking.”

  Neither did Victoria. “How about Chinese?”

  “Sure.” Sarah was reading emails on her phone. “Get that lemon chicken stuff.”

  Victoria made the order and then brought over two glasses of wine. It was a French Pinot noir, about four hundred bucks worth. She’d been saving this bottle, not for any particular occasion— just the right time. She wondered if her daughter would notice.

  “This is really good.” Sarah set down her glass on the pine coffee table between them.

  Victoria smiled, sliding a coaster underneath. Sarah rolled her eyes. There were some things they would never agree on.

  “Did you go on another date with that guy?” asked Sarah. “I forget his name. Phil?”

  “He prefers Philip,” replied Victoria, “and no. He asked, but I didn’t think we had much in common.”

  “Mom, you always say that.” They’d had this conversation too many times. “First dates are like job interviews— people don’t let you see the real them. You gotta give these guys a few chances. I mean, look at you. You’re fucking gorgeous. I hope I look as good as you do when I’m your age. Don’t waste that.”

  “I don’t do it for them, hun.” Though she certainly appreciated the compliment. “The thing about this world, daughter of mine, and this is especially true when you’re a woman, is that everybody judges you. All the time. If I let myself go, folks would see it as a weakness. They’d think I couldn’t take care of myself and wonder what else I couldn’t handle. You can’t give them an inch, darling. Men resent powerful women. You can’t give them anything.”

  Sarah nodded knowingly. “I just want you to be happy is all.”

  “I have you. That’s enough.” Although Victoria wasn’t sure that was true.

  Sarah didn’t look convinced either. “I have this friend, Jill. Her mom’s a widow too. She said she changed her last name back, said it helped her reclaim some of her identity and move on. Maybe that would help. You still talk about him a lot, you know. I can barely remember Dad.”

  Victoria repositioned herself onto the couch beside Sarah. “I’m a Westcott, just like you, and proud of it,” she said softly into her daughter’s ear. “The way I see it, I was born with a man’s name until I adopted another’s. Difference is, I prefer the man I married. I know you’re just worried, and God bless you for it, but believe me: I’m already the woman I need to be.”

  Sarah nodded. “Okay, Mom.” She wasn’t going to push the issue further.

  Victoria took her daughter’s hand and kissed it. “The food should be here soon. Lots of lemon chicken, I made sure. I’m glad you came out tonight.”

  “Me too.” Sarah finally looked relaxed.

  It made Victoria happier than she let on. She couldn’t tell her daughter the truth, after all. She couldn’t tell her that this might be the last dinner they ever shared.

  Chapter 12

  Mason was procrastinating. It was the middle of the week, and he’d barely touched the homework in front of him. His laptop was flipped open, his notes stacked to his left, books to his right, but an hour had passed and he’d only typed up a single sentence, which he was probably going to delete anyway. That damn blinking cursor wouldn’t shut up.

  It was due tomorrow, his homework, but instead of working on sentence number two, Mason was trying to cast the invisibility spell over and over again, each attempt lamer than his last. He’d found the spell in his father’s library, just like Rowland had said he would. The Miraculous Necromancer— that’s what the book was called. They definitely weren’t talking about him. He’d so far managed to make his arm a little translucent, like a piece of him was holographic. It was neat— but not exactly life-saving in a pinch.

  Mason’s cell phone rang. It was Asha. They hadn’t spoken in days. He let it ring twice before answering.

  “Hey, Asha.”

  “Hi.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Umm. Can we go for a walk or something?” She didn’t sound quite like herself. “I just want to talk.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Of course. Do you want me to drop by?”

  “Actually, I’m pretty much at your place already. I was going for a walk anyway, so yeah.”

  “Okay,” replied Mason. “I’ll grab my coat and meet you out front.”

  “Kay.”

  “All right.”

  “Yeah, bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Downstairs, Lester was making dinner in the kitchen. “It’s almost ready,” he said.

  Mason told him not to wait up, that he might be a while.

  Lester shrugged. “More for me.”

  “Leave some in the fridge. I’ll have it when I get back.”

  “No promises.”

  “Whatever. Your cooking sucks anyway.” Mason was only half-joking.

  Lester didn’t take it personally.

  Mason put on his shoes and coat and grabbed an umbrella, not bothering to say bye or lock the door. Asha was waiting at the end of his driveway, this time with her own umbrella. Damn. He walked down to meet her.

  “Sure has been raining a lot lately.�
� She was looking at the sky.

  “Yeah, most days it seems,” he replied. “That’s what we get for living in Terminal City, I suppose.”

  They started walking. No one immediately said anything. Perhaps they needed to get the silence off their chests first, let the gravity of everything sink in. Meanwhile, it was coming down hard.

  After a block of silent meandering, Asha spoke first: “I broke up with Josh.”

  Mason focused intensely on not smiling. “Oh,” he said.

  “And it wasn’t because of, you know, what happened between us or anything like that,” she said. “It’s what I told you before— we just weren’t right for each other.”

  Mason nodded. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine, I guess.” She looked it. “Actually, I feel pretty good, but then I feel guilty for feeling good. I know he’s crushed, but I can’t help it. I’m relieved.”

  “I think that’s a pretty natural feeling,” said Mason, although he wasn’t speaking from experience. In the past, he’d only ever been the crushed one.

  “Yeah, my mom and sister said the same thing,” replied Asha, “but I still feel, I don’t know, sick. Like, not physically sick. Existentially sick, I guess.”

  “It’ll get better. It always does.”

  Her smile was a bittersweet one. “How have you been?”

  “I’ve been fine,” said Mason. “Busy with school and stuff.” And busy thinking about her, but he left that part out.

  “That’s good,” she replied. “Yeah, I’ve been pretty busy too.”

  They strolled past Sherwood Hall, where they had philosophy together with Alicia Rutherford. Inside, they saw the silhouette of a studious student. Either that or a procrastinator, like Mason, with a looming deadline and a long night ahead. Probably the latter.

  “How are you liking philosophy?” Asha nudged him gently with her elbow.

  “Quite a lot,” replied Mason. “I think I might make it my major. Well, that and a few other things, but it’s on the list.”

  “You should,” she said. “You seem to really get it. Definitely more than most of us.”

  “Maybe, though sometimes I’m not sure I even agree with half the shit I’m saying.”

  She laughed. “Then where do you get the confidence to say it?”

  “Don’t know.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t feel like confidence, I guess. When I’m focused on something, I sort of forget about everything else. I think that’s the trick to confidence— forgetting.”

  “Maybe you should write a self-help book,” replied Asha. “I know how much you love those.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “What about when you can’t forget?” she asked. “Where do you get your confidence then?”

  “Good question.” Mason smirked. “Booze, maybe.”

  “Speaking of which.” She bit her lip; he loved it when she did that. “I think we should talk about, you know, what happened between us.”

  “Ah. The kiss.”

  “Yeah. The kiss.”

  “That one was all booze,” said Mason.

  Asha chuckled. “You don’t give yourself enough credit,” she replied. “Anyway, I’m sorry for lashing out at you like that. But after you said those nice things, I don’t know… something came over me. I was a bit tipsy, I guess, but it’s more than that. I mean, it was a pretty big deal, me kissing you.”

  It certainly was to Mason.

  “And I do like you,” she added. It was music to his ears. “Else I wouldn’t have done that. But it’s complicated, even still. I’m single now, but I’m not ready for anything yet, and I feel like I’ve led you on. I’m not saying I’m not interested in something eventually, but I can’t dive into anything right this moment. I need to come up for air first.”

  Mason nodded, unsure if he was being rejected or given the green light in a roundabout way. Still, he said, “I understand.” It seemed like the right thing to say.

  Asha looked him in the eyes. “I appreciate it. I know I’m not being entirely fair. I know I’m sending mixed messages.” She paused for a second. “If you don’t want to hang out or whatever, I understand.”

  “Of course I want to hang out.” Mason said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Take all the time you need. I’ve got nowhere better to be.” That was certainly true.

  She hugged him. It felt more like a friend’s hug than a lover’s, but he’d take what he could get. After all, it signaled that he meant something to her, and that meant something to him.

  “Like I told you before, you’re a good a guy,” she said.

  If wanting her made him good, then sure— he was Mother fucking Teresa. “If you say so,” he replied.

  “Walk me home.” It was an invitation, not a request.

  “All right.”

  It was a fifteen-minute stroll to her place. Their conversation veered into trivial territory — school, upcoming movies, and tentative weekend plans — until they arrived at the front door of her apartment building, a white stucco low-rise. Asha lived on the opposite side of campus, where there were more students and fewer houses like Mason’s. She kissed him on the cheek and said thanks. He nodded, feeling more or less pretty good about the whole situation.

  “See you tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Let’s go see a movie or something.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” But did it sound like a date? He wasn’t sure; she probably wasn’t sure either. They both said goodbye, and then Mason headed toward home.

  Once he was around the block — and Asha out of view — Mason pulled out a cigarette. There were five left in the pack. He thought maybe he’d take a stab at quitting when he ran out. All the more reason to enjoy this one. Mason inhaled deeply and tuned into the sound of rain drumming on his umbrella. Twenty minutes later, he was out front of his house. He walked up the driveway, up the porch steps, and then inside. The door was still unlocked.

  “I’m back,” said Mason, “and hungry.” He could smell dinner from the hallway. Spaghetti again, not that he minded.

  But there was no answer from Lester. Mason stepped into the kitchen and then stopped in his tracks. Tomato sauce and pasta were splattered on the floor like a puddle of bloody intestines. There were bits of broken glass too— Mason’s favorite plate.

  “The fuck?” said Mason. “Lester?” Still no answer. “Lester?” he said again, a little louder this time. Nothing.

  Mason checked the living room. The TV was on, muted, but no Lester. He headed down the hall and noticed the basement door was open— as a rule, it generally wasn’t. He pushed it fully ajar, its brass hinges creaking, and then stepped inside. He was reminded of the first time he’d walked down these steps. The air was hot and heavy with dread.

  “Lester?” Mason’s voice was half a whisper. Step by step, he made his way down. The light was on, its dim halo reaching up the stairs. Finally, he lumbered off the last wooden step onto the cold cement floor, and there was Lester.

  He was face down, lying in a growing pool of dark blood and something else— it smelled like gasoline.

  If Mason had any words to say, he would have choked on them, but he didn’t. He just stood there, dumbfounded, waiting for the world to make the next move, and then it did. He felt a thin metal barrel poking into his back, squarely between his shoulder blades.

  “Don’t move,” said a man from behind him. “Who the hell are you?”

  Mason didn’t reply. He had to think. He had to keep his shit together. But his heart was beating so hard he felt as if he might throw it up. Mason swallowed it back down and almost answered the man’s question, but then he stopped himself. His brain was working again, like a computer that had just been rebooted. He should lie.

  “Josh,” said Mason. He honestly didn’t mean to use the name of Asha’s ex, but it r
olled off his tongue.

  “Josh, is it?” The stranger pushed his gun deeper into Mason’s back. “Well, Josh, you can call me Mr. Huxley.”

  Chapter 13

  The light bulb hanging from the basement ceiling flickered as it always did, swaying, adjusting their silhouettes.

  “Mr. Huxley,” repeated Mason. “That name doesn’t mean anything to me. Who are you, and why the hell did you just kill my friend?” Mason’s voice, no longer lost to shock and awe, now trembled with rage. “Who the fuck are you, man?” He growled his words this time, shaking with fear and fury— the pistol pressing into his back only made him angrier.

  “I’m Mr. Huxley. That’s all you need to know.” The inquisitor — Mason had determined quite quickly that’s what Mr. Huxley was — sounded equally on edge. “And who the fuck are you, Josh? How do you know Lester Wright? Who is he to you?”

  “He’s fucking dead.” Spit flew from Mason’s mouth. “Dead because you fucking killed him.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Huxley. “He is dead because of me. I bear that burden.” He twisted and pushed the barrel of his gun harder into Mason’s spine. “Your name isn’t Josh, is it?” It wasn’t really a question.

  And Mason didn’t offer an answer, too busy searching for his own. What was the plan here? There was a gun stabbing his back. How would he ever get the upper hand? Then he realized he was thinking like a layman, not a necromancer. Mason considered what he had in his repertoire, what he could do that others could not, what would turn the tables on Mr. Huxley, a man Mason thought he might be ready to kill— if, in fact, he was ready to kill men. He racked his brain for something, anything, that might catch this stranger off-guard.

  There was one spell, he realized. He’d performed it only once before, and rather poorly at that. It induced a sort of burning pain. Of course, Mason didn’t fancy himself a sadist or a masochist, so he’d only burned himself a little. Could he really make this man burn a lot? There was only one sure way to find out.

  “What’s your real name?” asked Mr. Huxley.

  “My name…” Mason trailed off.

  “Well? Speak.” Mr. Huxley spoke to Mason like he might a misbehaved dog. “No? Turn around. Let me see your face.”