“That’s what I’m trying to decide, dear, but you’re not making it easy for me,” said Victoria. “On the one hand, you did kill our worst enemy, for which we and God are eternally grateful. On the other, well, by doing so you’ve proven just how dangerous you already are… and at such a young age.” She sighed. “It’s one heck of a big ol’ Texas-sized pickle.”
Since Mason couldn’t say anything nice, he said nothing at all. It was his best bet.
“I suppose we could pardon you this once,” she continued, “but not unconditionally. Though I may come to regret it, I will let you walk tonight if — and only if — you swear to leave necromancy behind. Invite God into your heart instead. Fill that void in your soul, son, before it consumes you. Promise me you’ll do this, that you’ll seek salvation, and against my better judgement… you’ll be free to go. But we will always be watching you, Mason.”
“That’s it?” he asked.
“That’s it,” she said. “Just give me your word.”
It should have been an easy decision. All he had to do was say a few words and get the hell out of here. He accepted this, and yet his mouth stayed tensely shut. Just say you promise, he told himself. Just say those two simple words— you don’t have to mean it. But giving them the satisfaction, submitting to them— that’s what he couldn’t bear. That’s what stood between him and life or death: damn pride. And a whole lot of anger. These men and that woman were responsible for his father’s death. For Lester’s too. Still, it was an easy decision, and yet even after a night like this, it felt like the hardest one he’d ever faced.
“I don’t have all night, darling,” said Victoria, eyeing him suspiciously.
Mason was red-faced and trembling, his hands forming fists, every unwise urge bearing down on him like gravity. He would give them his empty promise, though. It was the only rational option. He knew his heart’s protests were in vain. Better a lie than his life. And Victoria was right: he would make them regret their mercy, if that’s what this was. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak.
“Necromancers!” It wasn’t the voice everyone was waiting for. An inquisitor ten feet behind Victoria stumbled backward, his bloody nose dotting the floor with red constellations. He gasped once then fell down dead.
In a flash, all eyes abandoned Mason. He took the chance to flee, finding cover behind the makings of a brick fireplace. He couldn’t identify any of the new guests, but they were welcome company as far as he was concerned. Anybody was better than these guys.
The gunshots were going off like popcorn again, chaotically if not aimlessly. One of the bullets chipped a piece of brick by Mason’s leg. “Shit.” He scooted backward.
He counted four of them, necromancers that is, none of whom he recognized. Two looked middle-aged, the tallest one and the woman beside him; the others were maybe thirty. He couldn’t have guessed why they were here, but clearly it wasn’t by accident.
Everyone was taking cover now, the inquisitors having retreated to the west end of the floor, the necromancers fortifying their position on the east. Mason, meanwhile, was stuck in no man’s land, waiting for the battle to end, once again hoping he wouldn’t get shot.
But hiding wasn’t always an option: An inquisitor was moving toward him, sprinting from cover to cover along the northern wall, trying to get a better vantage point. Until finally, he was running toward the fireplace Mason was hiding behind, though he didn’t see him there— at least not yet. Mason knew he had to act now, to use his advantage or lose it. With his back against the bricks, he twisted his torso and fell onto his forearm, into the open, setting his sights on the inquisitor. Quick as rain, Mason tore spirit from body and watched the latter topple mid-stride, rolling over twice before flopping to a full stop.
He was getting too good at this. Already, his kill count for the night had reached four— and this last one had come easiest. He hadn’t even gotten a good look at the man’s face. Who was he but a nameless threat, a boulder bearing down on him, an inquisitor?
In any case, he was dead, and he wasn’t the only one. Mason could see only five inquisitors left, including Victoria. They were guarding her with their lives. It looked less like a fight now and more like a retreat. The necromancers, it seemed, were winning.
“Stand back,” one of the inquisitors yelled, waving his pistol at them — for all the good that would do — as he positioned himself in front of Victoria. The five of them were huddled together, easing their way backward into the stairwell out of here. They fired a couple warning shots and then turned sharply and booked it.
The last one through the door didn’t make it very far, however; a necromancer, the woman, marched forward and focused all her might on the man unlucky enough to be trailing behind. The necromancer’s eyes were red with rage. It took her a second longer to kill him than it would have taken Mason, but she got the job done. And then she collapsed to her knees.
Two others charged ahead of her.
“Just let them go,” she muttered somberly. “It’s not worth anyone else dying.”
Hesitantly, they heeded her words and stopped the chase. “Where’s the kid?” asked the youngest-looking one.
Mason resented the term. That guy’s barely older than I am. Still, he stepped forward on the assumption that these fellow necromancers meant him no harm. “Hi,” he said, drawing their attention, but had nothing to add.
The woman returned to her feet and cleared her throat. She wiped the sweat from her forehead as she approached him, stopping at a safe distance. “Who are you?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m… one of you,” replied Mason. “I’m a necromancer.”
“Are you now? My name’s Joan. This is Jack and Victor. What do they call you?”
“Mason,” he said. “Mason Cross.”
She paused. “You’re not related to John Cross, are you?”
“He was my dad.”
“I see. My condolences. He was a brilliant man, your father.” Her gaze wandered from his toward something or someone around the corner, hidden from Mason’s view. “Is that why you’re here, then?” Her voice cracked. “Revenge?”
“No.” Mason shook his head. “Nothing like that. I came here to talk to someone.” He pointed toward Rowland’s lifeless body. “Him.”
Joan’s exhausted expression regained some of its former intensity. “Is that…” She approached the corpse— one of many in the room. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “They killed Rowland.” The others looked no less surprised.
“No, it wasn’t them,” Mason clarified. “It was me. I killed him.”
“I find that hard to believe,” she replied. “I mean no offence, but you don’t look very… seasoned. And I thought you just came here to talk.” She sounded defensive.
“That was the plan,” he said. “I thought maybe Rowland would listen to me, which was stupid on my part. Anyway, the inquisitors took out the floor beneath us and we fell through. Rowland conjured a barrier around both of us. He kept me from being crushed. Then he started killing them, one by one, with his back turned to me. I knew I’d never get another chance like that.”
“And that’s when you killed him?” asked Joan.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s when I killed him.”
She still seemed skeptical. “Why?” she asked. “If he saved you, like you say, why would you kill him?”
“I didn’t want to,” replied Mason, “but it seemed like the right thing to do. I hope it was the right thing to do.” He caught a glimpse of empathy in her stare.
“I suppose it was,” she said, “although I still find it hard to believe— someone as young as you killing the most powerful necromancer in the world.”
As Mason considered how to respond to that, he became suddenly aware of just how many dead bodies surrounded him, two of which he was responsible for. It was like those war mov
ies he’d seen. The action flicks never showed the aftermath, but this was the part he would remember. He wouldn’t forget those three men piled against the wall behind Joan, riddled with bullet holes, their blood leaking into the same red pool. They were all the same now, all faceless— one of them almost literally.
“I’m like him,” Mason finally said. “Rowland, I mean. Two nights ago, I was killed by an inquisitor.” He made his hand into the shape of a gun and pointed the barrel at his chest. “I took a bullet right here and woke up in the Spirit Realm. I found my father pretty quickly then told him what happened. Of course, my old man was too stubborn to let me die, even though I was already dead. He took me to some big talking head that said it was the Spirit Realm, and then he pleaded for my life.”
Mason couldn’t tell if they were buying any of this, but frankly, he didn’t care. “At first, the Spirit Realm wouldn’t play ball, said that every once in a while some necromancer like me would come along and beg for his life back. And every time the Spirit Realm gave them the same answer: no. You see, it regretted the last time it sent someone back. It regretted Rowland.
“So, I made a promise,” he continued, “to kill Rowland. My father convinced the Spirit Realm that things here had gotten so bad that intervention was necessary. I would be a sort of silver bullet. I would do everything in my power to kill Rowland for as long as we both lived.
“That’s not why I killed him, though,” he added. “I did it because if I didn’t, he would have killed a lot of people— more than you probably know. It wasn’t because of the promise. It was my decision. Good or bad, it was mine.” Mason felt that was important to say. “But it made it easier, coming back from the dead. It made me more powerful, more like him.”
“That’s quite a story,” replied Joan, still skeptical, though now it seemed like she wanted to believe him. “Perhaps it’s my turn to open up. I’m what’s called a guardian.”
“I’ve heard of you,” said Mason. “Not you, specifically, but I know the term.” He’d read a paragraph about guardians in one of the books Lester had told him to read.
“Then I’ll cut this short,” she said. “We knew Rowland and a large group of inquisitors were coming to Terminal City. We wanted to… defuse the situation.”
Mason nodded. “That’s what I was trying to do.”
“In the long run,” Joan said after a pause, “I think you did.”
But even in death, Rowland still seemed imposing, thought Mason. Still impervious. As if the world itself might tilt ninety degrees so that he would be standing again, making fools of them all.
“We paid a steep price tonight,” she added, walking around a corner.
Mason took that as a cue to follow, trailing behind her with Jack and Victor.
“This is Samuel.” Joan bent down so that she could touch his face— while it was still warm. “Samuel Benedict,” she said. “He was a guardian too and a better person than I will ever be. He believed people like us had a bright future, even when everything seemed dark. I rarely admitted it to him, but some of that rubbed off on me.”
Though she remained stubbornly eloquent, tears streamed down Joan’s cheeks unchecked. “I loved him very much,” she whispered. “I’ll miss him. I’ll really, really miss him.”
Samuel had a bullet in his chest, not unlike the one that had killed Mason, but he looked like the man Joan described. He looked strong, just like her.
“I’m sorry,” said Mason. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”
She gave him a bittersweet smile. “Indeed.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, no,” she said. “You’ve done more tonight than we could ever repay you for. We’re going to destroy these bodies and take Samuel’s with us, but you should leave now. Use an invisibility spell if you can. If it weren’t for the rain, police would already be swarming this place.”
“Okay.” Mason nodded. “It was good meeting you.”
“And you, Mason,” replied Joan, standing to shake his hand. “Perhaps we’ll meet on better terms next time. I’ve no doubt we’ll be seeing each other again.”
On his way out, Mason glanced over at Rowland’s body one last time. Then he spoke two words in a whisper so quiet that only the dead might hear them.
“I’m sorry.”
Chapter 32
Cross, John
John Cross passed away suddenly on January 2, at the age of 52. John was a professor of Latin and linguistics at Carwin University and the author of seven books. A highly influential man in his field, John will forever live on through his writing, his groundbreaking ideas, and the countless students he taught over the past two decades, always with unwavering passion. John is survived by his wife, Julie Cross, and their son, Mason Cross.
—The Terminal City Chronicle
* * *
Mason fulfilled a second promise that night: returning the stolen car. He was careful not to be seen, or at least as careful as one could be driving a stolen vehicle back to its owner. The rain had returned to its natural color, and though it was late, people were re-emerging from the safety of their homes.
The red water had mostly vanished by the time Mason rolled up his neighbor’s driveway. He made sure all the windows were dark — they were — but didn’t waste a second running from the scene of the crime, his head held down as if it made a difference. He stopped trying once he reached the end of the block, meandering the rest of the way home with a cigarette between his lips.
Mason nearly swallowed it turning the corner into his cul-de-sac. Five cop cars were parked outside his house. There was yellow tape too, stretched across his front lawn. He stopped in his tracks and took a long drag off his cigarette. “What the fuck?” His words were laced with smoke.
Mason’s heart assumed the worst, but his mind couldn’t figure out what that might be. There was no question that he’d broken more than a few laws tonight, but he’d gone unseen. Besides, the yellow tape meant his home was the crime scene. That didn’t make sense. Lester’s body was gone, his blood cleaned (Mason had mopped the floors before heading to Asha’s). This had to be something else. Maybe something that didn’t involve him.
If it did, well, he figured they would find him one way or another. Best get the truth out now. At any rate, he didn’t have the willpower to run. He was an exhausted shell of himself, sleep his only desire. And so he marched on home.
As Mason stepped onto his driveway, one of a handful of cops approached him.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I live here,” he said.
“Oh.” She took a second to think. “Wait here, sir.”
He had nowhere else to be. Two minutes later, she returned with a man in dark jeans and a black button-down shirt. As he neared, Mason spotted a bandage on his cheek; the wound underneath was still red and purple.
“I’m Detective Stark.” He shook Mason’s hand. “But call me Clayton. Constable Smith tells me you live here.”
“That’s right,” said Mason.
“Do you know what happened here tonight?” asked Clayton.
Mason shrugged. “No idea.” It was the truth. “It’s been a strange night.” That was equally true.
“You’re telling me,” replied Clayton. “Well, I’ll be straight with ya. A man was shot and killed in your house.” He paused to let the information sink in.
Mason was more confused than shocked. “Do you know who shot him? Or why?”
Clayton nodded just once. “Yeah,” he said. “I did. A gunfight broke out between us after I followed him into your house. It happened about two hours ago. I was turning my car around and saw him breaking in.”
“I see.” Mason wondered if an inquisitor had come to kill him— but they’d all been after Rowland tonight, not him. “Thanks, I guess. Is there anything I can do to help?” It seemed l
ike the right thing to say.
“You can come down to the station, answer a few questions for us. And if you don’t mind, take a look at the body.” Clayton checked his watch. “Not tonight, of course. Sometime next week.”
“Okay,” said Mason. “But I’m not sure how helpful I’ll be.”
“Even if we just cross off a few possibilities— it’s all useful to us. Do you live here alone?”
Mason had to remind himself that Lester was dead. “Yeah,” he replied.
“Is there anywhere else you can stay tonight?” asked Clayton.
“Umm.” Mason looked down at his feet. His first thought was Asha, but she wasn’t exactly happy with him right now. He didn’t want to mess things up even worse, which he would undoubtedly do in his current state. That meant he really only had one option. “I guess I could stay at my mom’s place, but it’s kind of far.”
“Where does your mom live?” Clayton scratched his chin.
“Sanford,” said Mason.
“Do you have a car?”
Mason wasn’t willing to steal one this time. “No, I don’t.”
Clayton surveyed the scene behind him. “I can give you a ride,” he said. “I’m done here anyway. There’s no traffic this time of night. Won’t take long.”
“You sure?” asked Mason. Because he wasn’t. Something about being in a cop car on this particular night made him nervous. But what other option did he have?
“Yeah,” replied Clayton. “It’s no problem. To be honest, I could use the drive too. Need to clear my head.”
“All right.” Mason shrugged.
Clayton said his good-byes before leading Mason to his car, a cobalt blue Ford. Mason slid into the passenger seat as Clayton started the engine.
“Before I forget.” Clayton popped open the glove compartment and dug out a small leather notebook. “Can I get your full name and number?”
“Mason Cross. Spelled like the crucifix. Six, zero, four, five, five, five, seven, seven, five, three.”
Clayton read back the number.
Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga Page 25