Everyone was outside, hushed and waiting for a man named David to speak. Everyone but Rowland, who was nowhere to be found, though it was rather dark. The area around Lester’s body — resting nobly on a simple stone bed with its arms crossed and eyes shut — shone softly beneath a sprinkling of small orbs hovering in the air like fallen stars. But little could be seen beyond the reach of their red aura.
It was snowing too, a light dusting. The setting was as surreal as it was beautiful. Mason counted eleven people, himself included, all standing, some shivering. Then finally, as the murmuring subsided, the slender man Mason recognized as David trudged through the snow toward Lester’s still body and turned to face the living. He was middle-aged guy, maybe Filipino, and he would have been handsome any other day. But right now, he looked utterly defeated.
David cleared his throat and began. “I consider you all family.” He spoke softly. “But Lester will always hold a unique place in my heart.” The wind was picking up, blowing the ends of his scarf sideways.
“I first met Lester nearly two decades ago,” he continued. “I was twenty-four and quite the strapping young lad, if I may say so. Lester was, oh, about my age now and not nearly as strapping.”
Everyone laughed. It’s funny how people laugh the hardest at funerals, thought Mason. Any excuse to silence the sorrow, he figured, even if for only a few fleeting seconds.
“I was on a beach in Terminal City,” said David. “I remember it was one of the first days of summer and absolutely gorgeous out. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the breeze was just right— everything you could ask for, and everyone was smiling. Everyone except me. I had my back against a log, my knees up to my chest, my head burrowed in my arms. I was bawling my eyes out and, despite my best efforts, not doing a very good job hiding it.
“I heard Lester’s voice before laying eyes on the man himself. ‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’ That’s when I looked up toward him, this unassuming little guy with a big toothy smile, and I didn’t know what the hell to say back. But Lester, he sat right down beside me anyway and introduced himself. I told him my name, and he asked what was wrong. At first, I wasn’t going to open up. After all, I’d just been cast out of my home for doing exactly that. But something about the way this man looked at me— I just knew it would be okay, that he wasn’t here to judge me.
“So I told him what had happened, that I’d come out to my parents, and that they’d responded by kicking me to the curb. I told him how I’d convinced myself they were going to love me no matter what, even if they couldn’t understand that part of me. But in the end, the only person who showed me unconditional acceptance was Lester, a man I’d only just met.
“Needless to say, we became immediate friends. He introduced me around to the community, and soon I had more new friends than old ones. Some of these friendships lasted years, some months. Some were quick flings, a couple turned into relationships. But nothing ever lasted— nothing except Lester. He was always there for me and never expected anything in return. I always knew he liked me, but he never let that come between us.
“But then something clicked. I had an epiphany, you might say. I’d just been through a rough breakup and Lester was— well, he was there for me, like he always was. I remember he came over to cook dinner. Nothing fancy— just some pasta, which he overcooked.”
Some more chuckles. Mason was reminded of all the nights Lester had cooked for him too, including his last. He was reminded of spaghetti sauce splattered across the kitchen floor. And of his last words to Lester: Your cooking sucks anyway.
“And then it hit me.” Now David’s voice was cracking. A tear fell from the point of his chin as he struggled to continue. “I realized I would never love anyone… as much as the man who had always loved me.” He wiped his cheeks with the coarse sleeve of his winter coat and turned to face Lester’s pale body, unembalmed and unmistakably dead as it was. “I don’t know how” — his voice broke into a keening falsetto — “I’ll go on now.”
Clarissa stepped forward and hugged him from behind, reaching under his shoulders to his chest. David embraced her hands in his.
Three more people spoke after David, including Clarissa, and each speech resonated with a similar theme— that of a man who undersold himself and earned his love through deeds. He was a complainer, sure, but in the end, he was the friend who never let you down.
When all was said and done, Pat and Roger once again lifted Lester’s body, this time carrying it to a freshly dug grave about a hundred feet away. Mason watched them from a distance. He spotted four neighboring tombstones, all aligned in a row. Once Pat and Roger started shoveling dirt onto Lester’s plain wooden coffin, which Pat had finished building only an hour earlier, people began filing into the house. Despite the stinging pain in his fingers and the cold wind blasting his ears, Mason lingered a while before wandering back alone.
On the way, he slipped off his right glove and fetched his cell phone from his pants pocket. The damn thing was nearly dead. He hadn’t charged it in a couple days, though it hardly mattered considering he couldn’t get a signal up here. He really was in the middle of nowhere. Just like Lester had said. Mason wondered if Asha had tried to reach him.
As he pocketed his phone, Mason heard footsteps crunching in the snow behind him. He whirled around and saw Rowland— for the first time in hours.
“Where were you?” asked Mason.
“Wandering,” said Rowland. “And thinking.”
“About what?”
“About you. About what I should do with you.”
Mason took a step back. “I don’t understand.”
“Sure you do,” Rowland said casually. “You have been tasked to kill me. Why else would the Spirit Realm send you back? I know they want me dead. And I know not a single necromancer has been sent back to the Living Realm since they sent me. Until you, of course, which is why I offered to drive you here.”
Mason knew he couldn’t lie to him. “I made a promise,” he admitted, “but I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m a little… in over my head.”
“You think?” Rowland cracked half a smile— it didn’t suit him.
“So, what are you going to do with me?” asked Mason.
“Nothing,” said Rowland. “For now. You could not kill me even if you tried a thousand times and I did not kill you first. But you will be more powerful someday, perhaps even a threat. After all, you are like me: you have been to the Spirit Realm and back. You are smart as well, maybe too smart for your own good.
“No— I do not wish to kill you, Mason Cross,” continued Rowland. “Not yet, anyway. But I do want to leave you with something to think about. Your mentor, Lester Wright, was killed by an inquisitor. So was your father, I expect. Throughout my long life, I have killed over two hundred inquisitors — significantly more than any other necromancer in history — and in doing so have undoubtedly saved hundreds of necromancers from an untimely death. Now, ask yourself this: would the world truly be a better place without me in it?”
Mason shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Either way, it doesn’t justify you killing that cop. It doesn’t make you a good person.”
Rowland scoffed. “So-called good people rarely make a difference, Mason Cross. They like to show off, but it is people who see the world for what it is and do what must be done— they are the ones who leave a mark. Think about that. Think about my question. And above all else, do not let yourself be a tool for the Spirit Realm. You have a mind and will of your own— use them.”
Before Mason could reply, Rowland stepped past him, in the opposite direction of the house. “I will return in the morning,” he said and then disappeared, his black overcoat bleeding into the night.
Mason couldn’t help but think he’d caught a spark of sorrow in Rowland’s eyes.
Chapter 19
“Sit th
e fuck down.”
The inquisitor sat. There was just the one wooden chair, old and rickety, a relic of some 1970’s dining room set that, four decades later, had somehow found itself in an interrogation room deep underground, located God-knows-where. Anton Leroy had been unconscious for at least a day and, like the chair he was sitting on, had been taken far away from where he ought to be.
There wasn’t much light in this windowless room, but somehow it seemed to be all directed at him. He was hot, sweating even. He could feel his dress shirt clinging to his skin. He hated that, but right now it was the least of his worries. In all likeliness, he’d be a dead man before he got out of here. Guess that’s why he was sweating so much. His body knew what was coming, whether or not he wanted to admit it to himself.
Anton took a deep breath and stared disdainfully at the two men standing over him, both necromancers, one of whom he recognized. He was the necromancer Anton and his partner, Mr. Wallace, had been assigned to kill. Clearly, things hadn’t gone as planned.
It had been a trap. Anton and Mr. Wallace were in Toronto at the time, and their target, Jack Ross, must have spotted them first. They found Mr. Ross at night — he walked right past them in a restaurant — and so, of course, they followed. He led them back to his home. That’s where they would make the kill; they knew he lived alone, in a quiet place out in the suburbs. But Mr. Ross wasn’t the only man waiting for them — and waiting he was — when they arrived. There were four necromancers in all. Mr. Wallace had his spirit ripped clean out and died on the spot; Anton, meanwhile, was immobilized, beaten, and finally sedated.
That was yesterday. Presently, well, he didn’t know where the hell he was now, nor the identity of this other necromancer.
The only door to the room squeaked open. Two more people walked through, a tired-looking man, probably in his fifties, and a middle-aged woman. She shut the door behind them.
“Hello, Mr. Leroy,” said the man, stepping in front of him. “My name is Samuel Benedict, but you can just call me Samuel. Or Sam, if you prefer. Unlike your colleagues, we don’t go by last names here. Beside me is Joan Worthington.”
“Just Joan is fine,” said Joan. They were mocking him.
“What do you want?” asked Anton, immediately embarrassed by the obvious tremble in his voice.
“We’ll be asking the questions,” said Joan. “I know you’re used to it being the other way around, but bear with us.”
“Just don’t kill me,” said Anton, “and I’ll tell you whatever you want.” He wasn’t lying. Anton had been on the fence about his work as an inquisitor for at least a year now, and this was just the push he needed to get on with his life. “I swear. I don’t even want to do this anymore.”
“Do what?” asked Samuel.
“Be an inquisitor,” replied Anton.
“I see. Why did you become one in the first place?”
Anton shook his head. “I don’t know. I guess I thought you were bad people. They said, the inquisitors, they told me you were murderers. I thought I was doing a good thing.”
“Do you still think you’re doing a good thing?” asked Samuel.
“I’m not sure,” admitted Anton. “I think maybe it’s more complicated than I was led to believe.”
“Life usually is,” said Joan.
“Indeed,” agreed Samuel. “Now let’s see if you can help us out, Mr. Leroy. Tell me, does Victoria Westcott have any big plans in the works that you’re aware of?”
Anton nodded obediently. “I’d say so,” he said. “She’s going after Rowland.”
“Then I take it he’s made his comeback known,” replied Samuel.
“He killed one of our guys and sent his partner back to deliver the message.”
“What message?”
“A message to come and get him.”
“And Ms. Westcott listened?” Samuel raised an eyebrow. “She thought it would be a good idea to go after Rowland when he’s most expecting it?”
“I don’t know, to be honest.” Anton shrugged. “But pretty much every inquisitor on the continent is flying to Terminal City at this very moment to confront him. I figure she wants to end this once and for all. Otherwise, he’s just going to pick us off one by one. He said as much. Better to strike him together, no?”
“You have no idea what he’s capable of, do you?” Joan was shaking her head.
“I’ve heard stories, you know,” replied Anton. “We all have.”
“Well…” Samuel sighed. “To be fair, I don’t think anyone quite knows what Rowland is capable of these days.”
“Now, please,” begged Anton, “that’s all I know. I don’t have the details. I just know everyone is going to Terminal City, even Ms. Westcott. I was going to fly out last night. If you’re after inquisitors, that’s where you’ll find them.”
“You’re a hundred per cent sure that’s all you know?” asked Samuel.
“Yeah, like I told you, that’s it. I swear to God.”
“God isn’t here, Mr. Leroy,” said Samuel. “It’s just the five of us. And not for much longer.”
“What do you mean?” The blood drained from Anton’s face.
“You didn’t think we would let you go, did you?”
“But I told you everything I know!”
“Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t,” replied Samuel. “But that hardly changes the fact that you’ve killed, tell me, how many necromancers?”
Anton shrugged and shook his head. “I… I don’t know, but please, I’ll change, I swear. I want to change!”
“What a convenient epiphany.” Samuel, who was already tall, straightened himself until he towered over him. “Only just yesterday you were willing to kill another necromancer. Now you tell me you’ve killed so many that you don’t even remember the number. Is that possible? Most people can tell you at the drop of a hat how many people they’ve slept with, and you can’t tell me how many you’ve killed? That’s worse than any number, wouldn’t you say?”
Anton was shaking, sweating, and sobbing all at once. “S-Seventeen,” he stuttered. “I helped kill seventeen, but I only ever pulled the trigger twice. I let my partner do it. I n-never liked killing them. But I know that doesn’t make it any better.” He sniffled. “I know what I did was wrong.” His plea had turned into a confession. “Maybe I deserve this. I don’t know anymore…. I don’t know.” The desperation had faded from Anton’s voice; now he sounded depressed and defeated, a lost cause even to himself.
“You do deserve this, Mr. Leroy,” said Samuel, “but I will show you a degree of compassion. I won’t make you suffer. I could, believe me, but I won’t.”
Anton nodded, tears streaming from his eyes, accepting his death as much as any man in his thirties could. “Okay,” he whispered.
Samuel nodded. “Close your eyes. You won’t feel a thing. I promise.”
Anton dropped his head to his chest and prayed silently to whatever god would listen. He heard Samuel muttering a spell, and then he grew too tired to remember reality. The chant became the sound of a crackling fire.
In the seconds before he died, Anton dreamed he was home again— his real home, not that condo he slept in. Mom and Dad were in the next room, preparing dinner. And there was Misty, warming herself in front of the fireplace, her paws stretched out as far as they could go. She looked so comfortable. God, he’d strayed so far from comfortable. But not this time. Anton joined her, slipping off his chair and landing belly down on the cold cement floor.
* * *
They were back at Samuel’s place, lying naked together in his king-sized bed.
Joan sighed. “I guess we’re heading to Terminal City.”
“Perhaps we should think about it some more first,” replied Samuel.
“What’s there to think about?” She leaned into his broad chest. “We’re guardians. There’s a war br
ewing between our worst enemies and the worst necromancer the world has ever seen. It’s a recipe for the apocalypse. The whole reason we exist is to prevent something like this from happening.”
“But what can we do, just the two of us?” Samuel kissed the top of her head. He liked doing that; she liked it just as much. “There’s no time to gather the others. Abah is back in Lagos. Camila is in São Paulo. Hiroshi is— who knows.”
“You’re right,” admitted Joan, “but it’s still our duty to show up, even if it’s just for damage control. In this case, I don’t know what that entails. I suppose we’ll see when we get there.”
“I still think we should weigh our options,” said Samuel.
“There are no other options.” She didn’t like it any more than he did, but it was the truth. “What that inquisitor just told us is all we have to go on, and if he’s right, and I sensed he was telling the truth, then there’s no time, like you said. We need to leave tomorrow. At least Jack and Victor can come with us. Four is better than two.”
“Not much.” Nonetheless, Samuel nodded grudgingly. “Very well.”
“I wish we didn’t have to, believe me, but—”
“I know,” said Samuel. “You’re right. Goddamnit, you’re right.”
“Goddamnit, indeed.” She burrowed her head deeper into his chest, face-first, and made a whining moan. “This was supposed to be my vacation.”
Chapter 20
“One day, you will have to kill someone.” More words of wisdom from Rowland, who was sitting beside Mason in his Cadillac.
“I’m not like you,” replied Mason.
“Well, you will have to be more like me. That is, if you want to live long enough to see your hair grey. They know who you are now— the inquisitors. Once they realize you are not dead, they will come back for you. You can count on that. Understand this, Mason Cross: Even if I killed every inquisitor on the planet tonight, the spirit of the inquisition would live on. Ignorance and fear are simply human nature.
Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga Page 16