Speaking of Lester, he must be here too, thought Mason. He wondered about the other dead people he knew, like his dad. Were they as lost as he was? Would he ever find them? Would they find him?
Right foot.
Left foot.
Never-ending darkness.
On the plus side, he wasn’t growing tired, not even a bit— so apparently there was at least one perk to being dead. Right foot. Left foot. He could do this forever, and perhaps he would. That was a depressing thought.
Mason stopped. He had an idea. Maybe walking wasn’t the best way to navigate the Spirit Realm. Perhaps moving meant something else here. If that were the case, he figured he should have an advantage as a necromancer— should be more adept at whatever the hell he ought to be doing. But what did this place require of him? Well, what had necromancy required of him?
Think, think, think.
The first step, he decided, was figuring out where he wanted to go. That part was easy. He had to find his father, assuming his dad still existed as the man he’d known. Could you lose yourself in the Spirit Realm in just ten months? Maybe. Probably. Mason hadn’t a clue.
The next step, getting there, proved a little more difficult. He searched for that familiar feeling — the one he knew from necromancy, the one that signaled success — but down here, without his library, he didn’t have the words to weave. He didn’t have the pieces for this particular puzzle.
But perhaps he had all the time in the world.
Mason kept trying, pushing the limits of his intelligence, until finally he felt the Spirit Realm map onto his mind. He couldn’t quite explain it, but he could feel it, just barely, flickering, on the verge of being lost again. He had to stay focused. He couldn’t lose this feeling. He wasn’t sure where he’d found it in the first place, and he was too smart, too determined— he would find his father. The Spirit Realm had the answer, and goddamnit, he’d have it too.
Truth be told, Mason couldn’t say how exactly he’d found him, but there he was— or at least some part of him. His dad. Mason moved toward him like a feeling bubbling to the surface.
A bright flash, a dull sting, vertigo. Mason flinched, closing his eyes and clenching his teeth, then fell to his knees. A moment later, the world calmed and felt… warmer.
Mason reopened his eyes. At last, some light. And more— so much more. Everything around him glimmered and shifted like a monument to lawless physics. There were houses here, but they existed as broken 3-D renderings, each wall refusing to conform to the next. Translucent chunks of earth floated overhead in lieu of clouds, light shining through them from seemingly nowhere. Above him, the sky was purple, but as Mason trekked down the neighborhood’s winding brick path — as Dorothy might, with a little less pep — the clouds cycled through colors like an ocean changing reflections.
His father was in one of these houses, he knew, though his eyes couldn’t find him. His mind might, however. Then a door opened behind him, and out stepped a ghost. Dad.
“Son,” said John; he’d never called him that before. “You shouldn’t be here.” He paused. “When?”
“Just now.” Mason turned to face his father. “I think.”
John approached his son and hugged him. Hugs weren’t as warm or firm down here, but there was no shortage of love in his father’s embrace. In that regard, it was probably the best one they’d ever shared.
John looked down at his feet. “How long has it been since I—”
“About ten months,” said Mason.
“How’s your mother?”
“Lonely. And more religious.”
John cracked half a smile. “Oh well. I suppose religion could use more people like her.” He sighed. “And you… Mason?” Suddenly, he sounded embarrassed, frustrated, as if it had taken him a few seconds to remember his son’s name.
“Well, I’m dead, Dad, so… you know. I guess things were going pretty well before that, all considering.”
“Right, right.” John had never been very good at consoling people. He was much better at fixing things, but some things couldn’t be fixed, and men like John weren’t built to deal with that. His son was the same way.
Indeed, Mason was equally at a loss for words. The two of them were left staring at one another in stunned silence. They both had lots to say, but neither knew where to start. It gave Mason a second to observe his father’s new form. He looked mostly the same— but not entirely. He was different in a way Mason couldn’t quite put his finger on, just like he himself had been in the mirror Lester had shown him.
Oh yeah. That reminded him: Lester was somewhere down here too. Maybe that’s where he should start.
“I wasn’t the only one,” he said, breaking the increasingly awkward silence. “Who died, I mean. They got Lester too.”
“They?” John raised an eyebrow.
“The inquisitors.”
John didn’t take that well. Mason could tell from the tense expression on his father’s face. John never fumed— he was better than that. Rather, he turned into human steel, jagged at every edge. “That makes three of us, then,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked Mason.
“I mean me.”
“But you died in a car accident. You drove into a tree.”
“Who do you think drove me into that tree? I was trying to escape them. You know what, it doesn’t matter now.” Yet even as he said the words, John sure as hell didn’t look like a man who thought it didn’t matter. “But” — he bared his teeth — “you… why you? I can’t fucking believe it.” His anger was visible, a red aura that intensified around his fists and eyes and heart. “No. I can’t let you die like this.”
Mason looked sympathetically incredulous. “Dad, I’m already dead.”
But John wasn’t listening. “You said it just happened, right?” he asked. “Your… crossing over?”
“I think so,” replied Mason. “It feels that way.”
“Good.” John was pacing, lost in thought, looking very much like the man Mason remembered him to be. Then he stopped, shifting his gaze back toward his son, and said, “We need to move fast.”
Mason didn’t like being left in the dark. “For what exactly?”
“There may be a way to bring you back.” His dad approached him. “There’s no time for details. Grab my hand.” He extended his right one until, somewhat reluctantly, his son took it. John squeezed tightly.
The red aura around Mason’s father intensified again, this time reaching around both of them. John stood up straight, eyes shut, his chin dropped to his chest. And then the world blurred and faded, bit by bit, until eventually everything was gone. They both lost their balance at the same time. Mason quickly realized he’d just traveled again.
John was first to his feet. Mason took in his surroundings before standing; ahead of him, a steep staircase reached upward — at least a hundred feet — to a large archway. Red emanated from the entrance, spilling onto the top steps, but the rest remained obscured in darkness. Indeed, the world around him was back to black, save for the path ahead.
“Come on,” said John.
The two of them started up the steps.
“Where are we going?” asked Mason.
“You’ll see. Easier seen than said— that’s a saying down here.”
“Whatever.” Mason was growing annoyed with his father — it never took long — but maybe he was right this time. After all, what did Mason know about this place? The logic that governed reality here was still freakishly foreign to him.
They reached the archway together, and then John led the way. Inside was even more impressive than outside: a sea of see-through pillars reached upward into what looked like a star-studded sky. They stretched left and right, row after row of them; the single pathway of light Mason and John traveled on was all that broke the repetition. They followed the lone trail
, pillars popping into then falling out of view, until finally something appeared on the horizon. At first, it was unintelligible— a bright ball of light that should have been visible when they’d first walked in. That is, if physics made any sense here. It didn’t. Now, the orb towered over them, twenty, fifty, a hundred feet high. It grew and grew and then morphed into a giant genderless face that stared down at both of them at once. The face spoke a single word, its booming voice like a choir carried by a million versions of the same man: “Yes?”
John stepped forward, craning his neck to look up into the giant eyes peering down at him. “I have a request,” he said. “My son, Mason, beside me here: he’s been dead for maybe an hour. As I understand it, there’s still time to send him back to the Living Realm. His body, his brain— they should be intact enough for a proper resurrection.”
The giant face had more words this time: “We do not send people back. We have not for hundreds of years.” The voice filled the endless chamber, echoing off walls Mason couldn’t see. “You should know this,” it continued, “so why is it you think your son ought to be the first exception in centuries?”
“The inquisitors killed him, an innocent twenty-one-year-old,” replied John. “He didn’t deserve that fate.”
“Every minute, people who don’t deserve their unfortunate fates end up here, but we do not send them back. Not even the necromancers.”
As his father brainstormed better rebuttals, Mason interjected. “What are you exactly?” he asked the towering entity.
“We are the Spirit Realm,” it answered. “Just as you are now. You are new here and thus perceive yourself as an individual, as you were in the Living Realm, but everyone here fades, eventually. We are the collective consciousness of all who have faded, of billions, and we have learned from many past mistakes. That is why we cannot accept your father’s request.”
Mason nodded. “Dad, it’s okay.” It wasn’t, really, but what could be done?
“No.” John shook his head. “It’s not fucking okay.” He took a deep breath, calmed himself, and then continued a little more eloquently. “Things in the Living Realm are getting out of hand,” he said. “This war between inquisitors and necromancers is not what it used to be. Even you must see that. It’s the good necromancers who are dying disproportionately— the ones who just want to learn things and play no part in this war. Necromancers like my son. And the ones least likely to be killed by inquisitors? Necromancers like Rowland. Necromancers who want and come prepared for a fight. They’re the best survivors. Are they to be the torchbearers of necromancy into the future— our most violent, our most selfish?
“Necromancers are the living connection to the Spirit Realm,” John finished. “You of all — whatever the hell you are — you must care about the future of our kind.”
“We do,” said the Spirit Realm. “Let us think.”
Mason faced his father, admittedly impressed, but John didn’t look back, too busy analyzing the ponderous inflections of the giant face looming over them.
“We have considered your request,” it said after only a few seconds, “and have decided to grant it— but only under one condition. And it is a heavy one.”
“Anything,” John answered for his son.
“The last time we sent someone back to the Living Realm was hundreds of years ago, and that someone is the reason we have sent no one else since,” explained the Spirit Realm. “We see that you are aware of him, but you know little about his history. Like Mason, Rowland was murdered by inquisitors when he was still young, still relatively innocent. Certainly, he was not the man that he has become. The most powerful necromancers are those who have been to the Spirit Realm. Those who have died. They inherit a closer connection to us than could otherwise be achieved. So you see, we are partly responsible for Rowland. While his choices have been his own, by sending Rowland back to the Living Realm, we enhanced his power— power that kept him alive and ultimately corrupted him.
“This is where you come in.” The Spirit Realm moved its gaze from father to son.
“If we are to release you from us and send you back to the Living Realm, Mason, you must do everything in your power to return Rowland to us. I assume you know what that entails. Promise us this — we will know if you are lying — and then, only then, will we revive you, assuming that is still possible.”
Mason nodded. “If Rowland is as bad as everyone says he is, then I suppose someone should stop him. Having said that, I’m a novice. What chance do I have of actually succeeding?”
“A small one,” the Spirit Realm admitted, “and it may take you a lifetime. But you will be the only other necromancer in the Living Realm who has been here, to the Spirit Realm, and already you show more promise than most. We believe you have the potential to one day compete with Rowland. We just hope you do not become anything like him in the process. It is a calculated gamble.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Mason. “Never.”
“We believe you are sincere in your conviction, but time warps people. And while you are a good man, Mason, your contrarian nature could lead you astray. In fact, it is a quality you share with Rowland— and your father. You fear acceptance. You fear it will compromise your intellect. You feel you must remain an outsider to see the world for what it really is.”
“I guess,” said Mason.
John looked more offended by the accusation.
“But that’s because I want to do the right thing,” added Mason. “I can’t do the right thing if I don’t know what it is. Every action begins with knowledge, or ignorance, or some combination of the two.”
“In this you are correct, although you are not without emotion,” said the Spirit Realm. “Your noble intentions are what separate you from Rowland. Rowland saw himself as a victim when he arrived here. He believed the whole world had wronged him. He believed humanity was essentially rotten. And so he fights against the world rather than for it. But you are less cynical, Mason. That is why we are giving you this chance.”
“Thanks.” Mason didn’t know what else to say.
“Do not thank us yet,” said the Spirit Realm. “Before we send you back to the Living Realm, there is one more thing you must know. You will never be as you were, Mason. It is not only increased power that you will bring back. Because you have been to the Spirit Realm, death will weigh heavily on you for as long as you live. Physically, you may never look quite the same. Worse, your capacity for happiness will be marred. It will be even harder for you to find contentment, which has never been your strength. Life is a far, far heavier burden than death, and yours will be exceptionally heavy. But you must not fall into despair. You must not isolate yourself as Rowland did. In your endeavour to kill him, you will need to find balance. Everyone has a breaking point. Even you, Mason.”
“I understand,” said Mason.
“Then we are ready to begin,” replied the Spirit Realm.
Mason looked to his father, whose red anger had dimmed with sorrow and relief.
“I’m proud of you,” said John. “I wish I could do more. I wish I could be there. But you don’t need me, never did. You’ve always been your own man, Mason. You can do this. I know you can.”
John was fighting back tears and failing; they dangled from his eyelids like clear gems. “I’m so sorry I brought you into this mess,” he said. “I asked Lester to teach you, to help turn you into a necromancer. That’s on me. Had I not, you’d still be alive.”
“Dad, it’s not your fault I’m down here,” said Mason. “You didn’t kill me. You let me see the world in a way I never would have otherwise. Don’t ever apologize for that.”
John forced a smile and gave his son a second, final hug. “We shouldn’t waste any more time. I love you, you know that?”
“Yeah,” said Mason, “I know. I love you too, Dad. When you find Lester, tell him… just thank him for me.”
Joh
n nodded. “One more thing.” He said it under his breath, said it like a secret. “Rowland is beyond hope, but he’s not evil. He’s just wrong about a few things— a few big things. Do what you must, Mason, and be careful. I don’t want to see you back here tomorrow.”
“We must begin,” interjected the Spirit Realm with its booming, impersonal voice.
“Okay.” Mason stepped away from his father. “I’m ready.”
The Spirit Realm bowed its giant head. “This may… sting.”
Mason hadn’t thought he could feel pain down here. But soon, he wasn’t just here anymore. He was there too, in the Living Realm, but not entirely, not yet. He was stretched between this place and home, like an elastic band pulled across the universe— and it hurt more than anything on Earth. His senses screamed, his world blurred, but then…
Then came the moment of truth.
Chapter 16
Mason was screaming before he realized it, before it dawned on him that he was alive again, back in the Living Realm.
A raindrop fell through the distant evergreen ceiling looming high overhead, landing on his cheek. It was still night time. The overbearing pain had stopped, but now he felt a new sting in his chest. The bullet, he remembered— it had pierced his heart. Mason rolled off his stomach onto his back, lifting his head to look down; his shirt was encrusted with dried blood. He reached under the torn cloth and touched his chest and then his stomach, where the first one had gone, but couldn’t find a bullet hole anywhere on his body. Grunting, he rolled onto his side. The blood on his skin was still wet, still a bit warm.
After a few minutes resting on his elbow, Mason made the effort to stand. He nearly lost his balance in the process but ultimately prevailed. Oddly, straightening his spine was the hardest part, or at least the most painful. “Fucking ouch.” He barely recognized his own voice. It carried an uncharacteristic rasp of dehydration.
Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga Page 13