“Shoot.” They just couldn’t catch a break, thought Victoria. “Suppose that means we can’t come at him from both sides.”
“No, ma’am,” added Mitchell, still standing beside her.
“He’ll knock us down like dominoes if we all come out from the same stairwell,” said Mr. White. “That’s assuming he’s even up there.”
“Where else would he be, sugar?” Victoria was thinking. “Believe you little ol’ me, he’s up there all right. Waiting, just waiting, because he’s old and patient. Waiting for us to file in, one after the other, like sheep. Exhausted sheep. No doubt that’s his plan.”
“Then what’s ours?” asked Mr. White.
Victoria didn’t like his tone. “Perhaps you could learn something from our enemy. A bit more patience would suit you well, Mr. White, or did your mother not teach you that?” She let them chuckle before continuing. “Let’s regroup with the others first, down on this here floor” — she pointed to the exit beside her — “so as not to be overheard.”
Before she could step through, the same handful of inquisitors scanned the floor to make sure it was safe. They returned with nods of assurance. “It’s clear,” said Mr. White.
Victoria walked ahead of the others to the biggest room she could find. Everything was still metal beams and concrete, dimly lit by the city lights outside. All two dozen of her inquisitors formed a circle around her, standing shoulder to shoulder, as she placed herself in front of a window. Or at least where a window would be; without any glass, it was just a gaping hole into the red storm.
The men’s eyes were all on her now. Their oppressive gaze, always a few inches north of hers, just enough to look down at her. She stared back bravely, as she’d gotten good at doing. Appearances were everything.
“All right, fellas,” she began. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We can’t catch him by surprise, but we can make ourselves invisible. Even Rowland needs to see his targets before killing them, so we ain’t gonna let him. What we will do is throw a smoke grenade up those penthouse stairs. Because we have something our necromancer friend does not.” She paused for a second. “We did bring two pairs of thermal goggles, correct?”
“We did, ma’am.”
“Wonderful. Now who are our two best shots?”
Nobody spoke up. While not faint, the praise would certainly be damning— a possible death sentence, and they all knew it. But Victoria followed their eyes, and most of them landed on Mr. White.
He seemed to notice too. “Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Mr. White. “I’ll kill the fucker.”
“I certainly do hope so,” said Victoria. “And in your opinion, Mr. White, as you are apparently our foremost expert on the subject of shooting, who among your brothers in arms is our second best?”
Mr. White shrugged. He clearly didn’t want to volunteer anyone for this either. “I’m not sure. Maybe Mr. Reid or Mr. Jackson. Mr. Banks is good too.”
“I see. Well, are there any volunteers?” She moved her gaze between the three of them.
“I’ll go,” said Mr. Banks, a little too confidently. “It would be an honor to kill this piece of shit.” He was the youngest among them, eager and violent, vices that, in this instance, could prove themselves virtues.
“It’s settled, then,” Victoria confirmed. “Mr. White and Mr. Banks will, as you so elegantly put it, Mr. Banks, have the honor of killing this piece of shit. Indeed, Rowland is our worst enemy, the most evil necromancer of our time. Maybe of all time. It really is an honor. I’m proud of you boys, and I’ll be prouder still when I see him dead. But don’t savor it, ya hear me? Kill the bastard the second you see him. You might not get two seconds— not with Rowland. In this instance, you’re encouraged to be impatient, Mr. White.”
They chuckled again, but this time uneasily. The silence took over quickly, save for the faint rhythm of wind and rain drumming the tower’s jagged edges.
“We won’t let you down,” said Mr. Banks, arched upright like a soldier.
In her heart, Victoria didn’t believe him, but she wouldn’t let it show. She never did. “Now then, where are those fancy goggles?”
* * *
“Just don’t shoot me with that thing,” said Mr. White, taking the lead.
“I’ll be careful, sir,” replied Mr. Banks.
Mr. White felt responsible for the young man. It wasn’t because he was the better shot or the more experienced inquisitor. It was his face: Mr. Banks looked like a kid to him. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. He was a big man, sure, but fresh-faced, unwrinkled, unscarred. Mr. White wanted to keep him that way, at least for the rest of the night.
The two of them were alone on the bottom floor of the unfinished penthouse. From here, there was only one storey above them. Ms. Westcott was convinced Rowland would be up there, but Mr. White was less sure— hell, a good part of him hoped he wouldn’t be.
He’d caught a glimpse of Rowland once before, way back when he was still green. Rowland had ambushed their headquarters in Dallas, and Mr. White had been one of three inquisitors to make it out alive. Now, two decades later, he was the most senior inquisitor among them. Some of his colleagues said it was a sign, said God was watching over him. But not Mr. White. He’d lasted this long precisely because he didn’t think like that, because he knew he could die. All it meant was that he was getting old and pushing his luck. If only he knew how to retire.
Mr. Banks, meanwhile, displayed no hesitation, like he was impersonating a robot or something. Was he truly that brave — that ignorant — wondered Mr. White, or was his confidence only for show? Perhaps he’d find out soon enough.
Mr. White approached the rough, wooden stairs at the north end of the floor— the only way up. With one foot on the bottom step, he peered through the opening above, his gun matching his gaze. Mr. Banks stood right beside him, waiting to hand over the smoke grenade. After examining all that he could, Mr. White gave him the nod. The younger inquisitor smacked the grenade onto his palm. It was time to roll.
Being a good shot didn’t make Mr. White a good pitcher, unfortunately, but he figured this shouldn’t be too hard— so long as he got the damn thing up there. He flicked on his thermal goggles, signaled Mr. Banks to do the same, took a deep breath, and then tossed the smoke grenade upstairs. It landed with two hard bounces and a roll, spewing out grey smoke wherever it could.
Wasting no time, the two inquisitors sprinted upstairs into their misty veil. Mr. White led the way, Mr. Banks covering him from behind. He scanned the room, stepping slowly now. And then he spotted him through his goggles: an orange and red silhouette of a man, standing idly amid the smoke some thirty feet away. Mr. White recalled Ms. Westcott’s sound advice: don’t waste a second, or it could be your last. He took aim with his pistol and shot the ghostly figure through its head.
But Rowland didn’t fall— or even move, for that matter. He stayed perfectly still and statuesque. Did he miss? Mr. White fired again, and this time something did happen, but not what he was expecting: the silhouette dissipated like steam, fading to nothing. That was not Rowland— the realization settled in like cancer. That was Rowland’s illusion.
Mr. White whirled around to check on Mr. Banks, but the young inquisitor was nowhere to be seen. What the fuck? It didn’t make any sense. He was there a few seconds ago, right beside him. Mr. White’s heart was racing now. Realizing that he was no longer the predator, he started making his way back to the staircase. Not that he thought he could actually get out of here alive, but his body was bent on trying.
And then he found him, or at least it looked like him— it was hard to tell through the goggles. Mr. Banks stepped out from behind a concrete wall, almost too casually. Mr. White waved to him. The two stepped forward to meet, Mr. White with his gun aimed and his skepticism loaded. Once they were close, he flipped up his goggles to get a better look at — yes, thank God — Mr. Banks
. And for a brief second, he sighed relief.
It was short-lived.
Now, the smoke no longer obscured Mr. Banks, who was bleeding in no small amount. Blood poured from his nostrils, his mouth, his ears, his eyes— his red fucking eyes. In all his years of service, Mr. White had never seen anything like it. Rowland had made Mr. Banks his puppet— or at least the shell of him. The big, young, stupidly eager inquisitor who’d followed him up here was dead. Some protector he was.
This time, Mr. White hesitated, but he still got off the first shot, putting one right through the zombie’s heart. It staggered backward, but only from the force of the bullet. Mr. White fired again, his hand shaking now, tearing off a piece of the puppet’s ear.
The third shot came from a different gun.
Mr. White’s heart, it turned out, was not as resilient. The elder inquisitor fell to his knees, still in shock, his fresh-faced killer towering over him apathetically. And it struck him just then, in his dying seconds, a thing he’d known all these years but could never admit. Mr. White couldn’t be more certain of it now. Wherever he was going, it sure as hell wasn’t heaven.
* * *
The last gunshot had gone off five minutes ago. Neither Victoria nor her inquisitors had heard or seen anything since, save for their own uneasy glances, bouncing between them like guilty secrets.
“It’s been too long.” Victoria was staring at her thin silver wristwatch. “They should be back by now.”
“What should we do, Ms. Westcott?” asked Mitchell in almost a whisper.
“The only thing we can do, fellas,” she replied. “Take Rowland by storm. After all, we still have strength in numbers.”
Victoria could tell they liked that plan even less than her last one, and she couldn’t blame them. She didn’t like it either. “Let’s head up one floor and take another gander, boys. All of us now. Maybe we missed something before.” She doubted it, but they looked in need of a little false hope.
This time, Victoria headed up with them. They scanned the penthouse floor thoroughly, but it seemed all for naught. There really was only one way up. False hope, indeed. But then, finally, she had an idea.
The thought was interrupted. “They’re back!”
Everyone turned their attention north, toward the stairs. Grey smoke still billowed over the top steps — as if Satan himself had conquered the stairway to heaven — but now two pairs of legs had emerged. Mr. White and Mr. Banks walked out of obscurity, slowly and heavily, either exhausted or considerably worse. When the moment of truth finally came, at least one thing was certain: they were not themselves.
Mr. White had a bullet hole in his chest, pumping out blood, and Mr. Banks didn’t look any better. They were a gory sight, but it was their eyes that frightened Victoria most. They were solid red. She knew it was the necromancer’s witchcraft that made them this way. She knew Mr. White and Mr. Banks were dead.
Still, Victoria hesitated. They all did— but it was Mitchell who paid the price. Victoria was standing right beside him when the bullet from Mr. White’s gun flew through the young inquisitor’s thin, pasty neck. He seemed not to realize for a second. Then he tried to stop it — all the blood — but the bullet had struck an artery. It was a god-awful sight, Mitchell choking his own neck, red squirting from between his wiry fingers.
And as he collapsed to the ground, unambiguously done for, the bullet storm began.
A hand grabbed Victoria’s bicep from behind and pulled her backward. She resisted until she saw it was Mr. Trent, whom she’d always liked. “We need to get you into the stairwell— right now,” he said sternly, shielding her body with his. She peeked past him and saw Mr. White and Mr. Banks still standing, riddled with red splotches.
“They’re not going down!”
“Shoot ‘em in the fucking head!”
That seemed to work. Mr. Banks fell first, but he was joined by at least four more of her inquisitors, she realized— four more bloodied suits, all family men, all her friends. All faithful until the end. She didn’t have time to process it. Though she did notice one more thing before Mr. Trent led her into the stairwell. It was Mitchell, poor, sweet Mitchell, pushing himself off the ground, his eyes glimmering red.
Chapter 28
Deathspeak: Without it, necromancy would not exist. It is what links us to the Spirit Realm. Even then, only those who have died can truly understand its meaning. It is, after all, a language intended only for the dead, given to them by the Spirit Realm. It therefore resonates with power and purpose. You see, the dead do not move about as we do. The tools of travel in the Spirit Realm are intention and comprehension— in effect, Deathspeak. Its words have the power to weave spirit energy, even here in the Living Realm.
Stories are told of necromancers sent back to life, necromancers who truly understand Deathspeak— so much so, they need not even speak it aloud to cast spells. I know of only one man still living with this ability. For the rest of us, Deathspeak is a necessary means to an end.
—Samuel Benedict, The New Necromancer
* * *
Mason was looking for a way in. The smashed front door wasn’t exactly welcoming, blocked by a rather big inquisitor. Hell, he was big in every possible way someone could be— tall, fat, muscular. Just a lot of man. His suit didn’t fit him particularly well, and no suit probably ever would. He had the body of a bear.
The bear-man was rotating his gaze from left to right, rhythmically like a slow-motion sprinkler. No doubt he was on the lookout for— well, someone like Mason.
But Mason preferred not to be seen. Problem was, he couldn’t find any other way to get inside the tower, which meant he needed a plan to deal with its oversized gatekeeper. At first, he considered throwing a rock to distract him, but the big man might see where it came from— and probably wouldn’t be in the mood to play fetch.
Mason pondered some more. Come on, he was a necromancer. He could do better than a rock. Finally, he had an idea.
Mason had experimented with light before, having conjured up more than a few red orbs, but he’d never manifested anything from a distance. For his plan to work, he would need to create a bright point of light at least a block away, something to encourage the inquisitor to inquire away from Mason.
Finding spirit energy at a distance is like finding anything from afar— it takes a bit more effort. But not this time. It might have been the rain, but more likely it was Mason. It struck him then, staring out at his radiant red creation, that he was a very different necromancer now than he had been before his death. The Spirit Realm had told him it would happen. He had a special connection to it now, a connection that would make him more powerful than before, more powerful than other necromancers— well, save for the one he was on his way to meet.
The distraction seemed to be working. The husky inquisitor lumbered away from the building toward the next intersection, squeezing his thick body sideways through the thin break in the fence, his gun held ahead of him like a bowsprit. Mason moved the red orb further and further away. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep it up, but the bait had done its job well enough. Now he needed to do his. He stepped out from behind the car shielding him and then hopped the chain-link fence barring his way.
“Fuck.” He had cut his hand in the process. The wound was bleeding, but this time his healing spell worked. A little impressed with himself, Mason tiptoed through the mud, as quickly as it would let him, toward the Apex’s fancy marble lobby, looking over his shoulder once more before slipping inside.
Bits of broken glass crunched under his heel. It was dark in here. Mason stepped carefully. He could barely see where he was going, but he didn’t want to risk drawing attention to himself, so he kept it that way. His shiny distraction had likely faded by now, and he didn’t want to give the big guy another target to chase.
Now, to find a way up.
“Hey! You there. Yo
u can’t be in here.”
Shit.
Mason spun around. It wasn’t the same inquisitor, but an inquisitor it was. This one was ugly and bald and about his height. He was carrying a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other— pointed right at Mason.
“Why are you here?” asked the inquisitor.
“Just trying to get out of the rain,” replied Mason, hands raised. “What are you— security or something?”
“Or something.” He was stalling, wondering what to do with Mason.
Mason was wondering what to do with him.
Before either of them could decide, his heftier colleague stepped into the lobby.
“Find anything?”
The big one shook his head. “Nah, but it looked like necromancy. That light… it was the right shade of red, ya know?”
“Indeed, I do,” said the bald one. “And what about you?” He turned his attention back to Mason. “Do you know?”
“Know what?” Mason forced a shrug.
“What he’s talking about.”
“No.”
His captor looked torn. “What to do with you,” he wondered aloud.
“He’s one of them,” said the big inquisitor, grimacing like a dog. “I can tell.”
“Now, now. We have a process.” The bald one fancied himself the voice of reason. “They’re all innocent until proven guilty.”
“Then let me go,” said Mason, “if I’m innocent.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did. Literally two seconds ago.”
“You misunderstood me.” He sounded flustered.
“Do I at least get a lawyer?” replied Mason.
The inquisitors exchanged a glance. “He’s a smart-ass,” said the big one. “These fuckin’ Canadians, I tell ya.”
“We’ll wait for Ms. Westcott,” said the other with a calming hand wave.
“Can I go?” asked Mason.
“No. Turn around.”
Mason did as he was told. There were still two guns pointed at him, after all. The bald inquisitor stepped forward, grabbed Mason’s wrists, and then bound them together with a zip tie as tight as he could.
Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga Page 22