Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga

by Trevor Melanson

  The benefit was twofold. First of all, it would draw their attention— hell, it would get everyone’s attention, but the inquisitors would know it was him. And second, it would turn the tide of battle in his favour. Wherever they fought, so long as it was raining, he would have an edge. Spirit energy would be everywhere, pouring over everything. He would be even more powerful than usual, and all he had to do was infuse the clouds. Nature would take care of the rest. This was Terminal City, after all; it rarely stopped raining long enough for the ground to dry this time of year.

  The only step that remained was finding a vantage point— a place to make his stand. A place to slaughter inquisitors. And Rowland believed he had just found one, right in the heart of downtown.

  The Apex was to be the tallest skyscraper in Terminal City. It already was, in fact, even in its uncompleted state. In all, the tower would have seventy storeys, sixty-seven of which had been erected thus far. Although they were not all finished; panes of glass covered the bottom half of the Apex, but the top remained unsheathed, a giant concrete spine.

  For Rowland’s purposes, the skyscraper was ideal. It would be abandoned at this time of night, and it was the highest vantage point in town— perfect for sending a signal to the many inquisitors down below, no doubt prowling the streets to find him.

  To this day, Rowland had still never used a cell phone.

  The construction site was locked up, but he found an opening between two chain-link fences that didn’t squarely meet. He passed through the foot-wide break shoulder first, stepping in a puddle of mud that had turned red from the rain.

  It was pouring even more than he’d expected. Rowland had a small barrier erected over his head, acting as a sort of invisible umbrella, which did little to protect his legs. It looked as if he’d walked through a shallow pool of blood, but at least it wouldn’t stain. The redness was only temporary; infused spirit energy left no residue.

  If there had been a security guard here, the rain had scared him off. Rowland was all alone, free to scale the tower— or find an easier way up. He was in no mood to climb sixty-seven flights of stairs. Luckily, he spotted a construction elevator around the corner of the tower. He trudged toward it, stepping over concrete blocks and piles of rebar.

  Inside the small metal elevator box was a panel. A panel in need of a key. He didn’t have one of those, but he did have something even better: just the right spell. He shocked the panel with a jolt of spirit energy, which had a unique, and in Rowland’s opinion under-studied, relationship with electricity. His first attempt was a bit off, but one more jolt did the trick. The light on the panel flickered green as the elevator began to hum. Slowly but surely, the lift creaked upward, toward the top of Terminal City and its low-lying crimson clouds.

  * * *

  No one would ever know what Rowland had really done during those twenty years he was gone. He would be sure of that. He hadn’t died, of course, as many had speculated— and no doubt hoped for. He had just… taken a break of sorts, or at least that’s how he looked at it now.

  The truth was more complex and buried in Rowland’s past. Some things no one can escape, even after three centuries.

  Rowland had felt lost without Uilliam in the years that followed his execution. It wasn’t just his guidance he lacked but his love too, though he would seldom admit that, even to himself. But it was the truth. In the Spirit Realm, it was Uilliam who had pleaded for Rowland’s life over his own, a favour that Rowland could never repay and would never forget.

  He had summoned him once, after he learned how to do that, but it wasn’t the same. Uilliam had resigned to fade away quickly. He was hardly himself. The charming intellectual he knew and loved was lost, preserved only in Rowland’s memory. And, perhaps, in his son.

  Yes, Uilliam had a son back in Ireland. He had even been a good father, or at least he’d always claimed as much. It was never his intention to abandon his child, anyhow, which would have been a point of contention for Rowland.

  But Uilliam had been found out. His wife, a good-hearted, homely woman whom he liked more than loved, would have stood by her husband. But not the townsfolk. He would curse them all, they thought, if they didn’t burn him first.

  In the end, Uilliam killed three of them, people he once thought were his friends, making his escape in the middle of the night. That his wife wouldn’t forgive him for, though he’d never know for sure. He left her what money he could and used the rest to buy passage on a ship to America— to start his new life.

  The only time Rowland ever saw Uilliam cry was when he told him of Ireland. And after a decade on his own, Rowland had grown determined to find the boy he’d heard so much about. Peter, his name was. The last living piece of Uilliam.

  Finding his late mentor’s son, however, was not as easy as he’d hoped. Rowland traveled to Ireland with only a name and an age. But he was a necromancer and could see what others could not. Or rather, feel what they could not. Two months into his trip, in a pub in Dublin, a wave of déjà vu hit Rowland from behind, as if Uilliam were about to walk up to him as he had so many times before. Instead, it was a young man, eighteen maybe, and handsome. Rowland struck up a conversation and eventually the kid told him his name. It was Peter.

  The two of them didn’t have much in common. Peter was a farmer who liked drinking and girls, and little else that Rowland could surmise. But he was Uilliam’s son— there was no doubt about that. And he seemed to be doing well, which Rowland was glad for.

  Two more times in Peter’s life, Rowland returned to Ireland to check on him, though he never again said hello. He watched from afar, nothing more.

  Peter died at age forty-eight of pneumonia, leaving behind a widow and two daughters, one of whom moved to America, not far from Rowland. And so, like he did with Peter, Rowland dropped by her house from time to time, but not once did they speak. Rowland only watched. She eventually had children of her own, and Rowland watched them too. It became a habit, something he neither looked forward to nor dreaded but couldn’t stop doing— watching over the generations that Uilliam had left behind.

  It wasn’t until about twenty years ago that Rowland finally felt compelled to introduce himself to one. At the edge of the world, in Christchurch, New Zealand, Rowland found Ethan, a descendant of his mentor who looked more like him than any of the others ever had. Even his mannerisms reminded Rowland of Uilliam.

  Ethan was in college, twenty years old, and popular. Rowland didn’t approach him at first. Indeed, he’d never planned to at all. But he couldn’t get Ethan out of his mind— or was it Uilliam? In his head, they became one and the same. After watching him from a distance for two months, Rowland saw his chance to say hello in a coffee shop downtown and couldn’t resist.

  Ethan was reading Plato, after all, Uilliam’s favorite. Maybe they weren’t so dissimilar— or maybe it was just for school. Seeing that he was reading The Republic, Plato’s most famous work, Rowland asked him what he thought about the philosopher’s view on art— that it was emotionally manipulative, harmful to society, and best used as a tool by those who knew better.

  Ethan shrugged and looked taken aback. Of course he did, thought Rowland. He wasn’t Uilliam.

  None of them were. None of them ever would be.

  Rowland didn’t bother Ethan again. He also gave up watching him. All of them, he decided. His descendants were no more his mentor than a stranger on the street. Any trace of Uilliam that remained existed in one man alone: the only person who remembered him. The only person who still cared about him. In other words, he was on his own.

  Of course, Rowland already knew this. He always had. Yet for some reason, the knowledge stung like never before, even though he shouldn’t care. Gods were solitary by nature— inevitably separated by their power, inevitably alone. And still, he fell into despair.

  For most of Rowland’s two-decade disappearance, he did very little. He wander
ed, explored, learned a few new tricks, and watched the world change around him more quickly than ever before, but none of it interested him. Nothing these humans did interested him. He was as bored as he was depressed. And for a long while, it seemed there was no going back.

  Until finally, he had an idea.

  There was something left in this world for Rowland, after all, an idea so bold it seemed fanciful even to him, but he couldn’t remember the last time anything felt so… exhilarating. For a man like Rowland, a lonesome god, there was only one thing left to do, he realized. If the world and its people would not change for the better, then he would just have to change things himself.

  That was what Uilliam had always dreamed of— a better, smarter world. A world that wouldn’t have exiled him from his home, a world that wouldn’t have killed him. Rowland couldn’t bring Uilliam back, he knew that, but just maybe he could turn their shared dream into a reality. Just maybe he could still find meaning in his endless existence.

  * * *

  The elevator refused to go any higher. Rowland looked out the window, now nearly atop the tower. He stepped off the lift and onto the Apex’s third highest floor, a sub-penthouse that would probably look a lot nicer when it was done. He climbed a set of unfinished stairs to the exposed roof. The blood rain was pouring on him now — his barrier had faded — but this time he embraced it. Embraced the water running down his face, dripping from his nose.

  He took a deep breath and stared down at the slim glass towers beneath him, shooting skyward like a monolithic crown. For his plan to work, the first thing Rowland would need to do was eliminate his enemies. Once the inquisitors were dead, it would be easier to build an empire of necromancers. Necromancers who would have him to thank for their safety.

  It was time to let the inquisitors see where he was. Time to send out a signal. Time to begin this battle and time to start a revolution.

  With one hand, Rowland reached toward the clouds, his fingers curling into a claw, crimson running down his forearm. Then he released a burst of red so bright that all the towers down below shone like sirens. They couldn’t have missed that.

  Patiently, he waited.

  Chapter 25

  At first, Mason thought it might be lightning — red lightning in a red storm — but the flash lingered too long. He traced it to its source, a bright spark atop the Apex. The crimson light washed over downtown like a small sun and then retreated, fading back into darkness. No thunder trailed behind.

  Rowland.

  Mason had left Asha’s apartment five minutes earlier, determined but directionless. He was wandering aimlessly across campus, through the red rain with his black umbrella, when he saw Rowland’s beacon. Now at least he had a destination, and it was the tallest tower in town. But getting there would prove its own challenge. It was on the other side of the city, and he was in a bit of a hurry, to say the least. Problem was, no cars were on the road. Everyone was in hiding. There were no busses either. No cabs. No way for him to get downtown in a timely fashion.

  Well, no legal way. Mason had always been a law-abiding citizen, more or less. Certainly, he’d never broken any of the really serious ones— like grand theft auto. Of course, even if he could work up the nerve to steal a car, it’s not like he knew how to hot-wire one. He was smart, not street smart.

  But for once in his life, Mason caught a lucky break. Parked crookedly in a driveway not far from his own was a small blue car with its side door half ajar. The light inside was still on too. Somebody must have been in a panicked hurry to get inside the house. Some poor person more worried about safety than security. Some decent fellow human being who, given the circumstances, was understandably forgetful.

  Even the bloody keys were still in the goddamn ignition. As he approached the vehicle, Mason sighed with relief and shame. One man’s gift from God was another’s stolen car. He promised himself he would return it, assuming he could.

  Quickly, Mason collapsed his umbrella, slipped into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut, hoping no one was watching. He turned the key until the car hummed and then rolled backward out of the driveway. With no time to waste, he sped down the street, double the speed limit, and took a sharp turn onto University Avenue— all the while feeling like the worst neighbor in the world.

  Mason didn’t pass another car until he drove off campus. He had never seen the city so deserted, as if transformed by some apocalypse, only everyone had their lights on. And they were all watching, waiting for it to stop— or for something else to happen.

  With no traffic to contend with, Mason was running red lights and zooming toward downtown in record time. That is, until he nearly smashed into another car. Two cars, actually. The intersection at Broadway Avenue and Burrard Street, one of Terminal City’s main arteries, was blocked by a violent crash. A grey pickup truck and a small car, red like the rain, were kissing bumper to bumper under a shower of broken-glass confetti. Mason skidded to a halt, just in time. He’d had his fill of car crashes for the day.

  Cautiously, he placed his foot back on the gas pedal and circled around them— and then stopped again. Only this time, it wasn’t for his sake. Mason had spotted a woman inside the car, unconscious— or worse. Forgoing his umbrella, he ran outside. The driver’s door was locked, but its window was broken; he reached through, careful not to cut his forearm. Unlocking the door, however, was not enough. It was stuck. He pondered for a moment, rain bearing down on him, then planted his right foot on the back door and, after a couple failed attempts, successfully yanked open the front one. He leaned inside.

  The woman was lying face down on the steering wheel, hidden under a tussle of auburn hair, her right arm reaching desperately across the dashboard, her left dangling limply from her shoulder. Gently, Mason pushed her back into a sitting position. She didn’t twitch, or move, or anything. He brushed the bloody strands of hair off her face — they clung to his fingers — and looked for a sign of life. But her eyes were closed, her face covered in cuts and a stream of blood that trickled down from her forehead. It was worse than he’d thought, worse than he’d hoped. And no one else was coming.

  But if he could, Mason was going to save her. He had learned a simple healing spell two weeks ago, although he’d only ever used it to mend a paper cut. The spell was easy enough, in theory; he just needed to infuse her wound with spirit energy, speeding up the healing process to a few seconds. If he could seal the gash on her forehead, he could stop her from bleeding out. At least, that’s what he told himself.

  He chanted the spell, his hand hovering over her wound, but nothing came of it. He tried once more, then again, faster, and again. “Fuck.” Once more. “Fuck, fuck, fuck— come on!” But nothing happened, and nothing would happen. She was already dead, and not a thing he could do at this point would change that.

  Mason checked her pulse to be sure, but he already knew the truth. He could feel it, in fact: her spirit, it just wasn’t there. It was like Rowland had described in the car. Ever since coming back from the dead, Mason could feel the warmth of spirit energy and the coldness of its absence. And she was cold, even though her blood was still warm.

  He stood back up and closed the car door. It felt wrong leaving her, but nothing more could be done. At least not for this woman. There was, of course, something he needed to do. He wasn’t quite sure what it was yet, but it began with finding Rowland.

  Mason walked back to his stolen car, took a deep breath, and continued on his way, circling around the accident and onto Burrard Street. The Apex was just across the bridge. Burrard Street Bridge, that is. He could see the ruins of Granville Street Bridge in the distance. Traffic into the downtown peninsula was already bad enough, save for tonight; Mason couldn’t imagine what it would be like going forward. The fire had been put out, but the sight of Granville Street Bridge, broken in two, seemed no less unreal— especially in this weather.

  Things got no
isier as he rolled into downtown. He could hear people yelling from their balconies, some worried, some entertained. He counted himself among the former. As Mason passed through an intersection two blocks from his destination, he spotted a corner store that looked open. More or less open. The lights were on and there was a clerk inside, but he was probably feeling nothing if not trapped.

  Mason decided to park here. After all, it had been a while since his last cigarette — days, in fact — and if ever he could go for one, it was right now. Maybe he would quit tomorrow, but tonight he had more pressing concerns. Although it probably wouldn’t be the last one he’d need. Mason turned off the ignition and stepped outside, this time with his umbrella. The clerk eyed him incredulously as he crossed the street and entered the store.

  “Hey.” Mason approached the man, a portly red-cheeked forty-something who looked equal parts worried and wary. Mason flipped open his wallet to check how much cash he had left. Not a lot. He asked for the cheap smokes.

  “ID?” said the clerk, even at a time like this. He was sitting on a stool behind the counter, periodically glancing back at the small TV beside him. He was watching the news, just like everyone else in Terminal City.

  “Sure.” Mason showed him his driver’s licence.

  The clerk nodded and fetched the cigarettes. “You should probably head home, buddy,” he said, ringing up the sale. “Could be dangerous out there.”

  Mason nodded. “I’ll be careful.”

  “It’s seven-fifty.”

  Mason handed him a ten.

  The clerk gave him his change then peered out the window. The rain was still coming down hard. “Stay safe,” he said.

  “Thanks. You too.” Mason pitched his umbrella as he walked out, the door chiming a goodbye. He headed down the sidewalk toward the Apex, tearing off the plastic wrap from his new pack of cigarettes before reaching for his lighter. The first puff was always the best, but unlike usual, it offered little comfort this time. And to think, smoking and walking in the rain were his favorite meditations. But right now, each step felt heavier than the last.