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Terminal City (Book One in the Terminal City Saga)

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by Trevor Melanson

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ABOUT THE BOOK GENRE:   Dark Fantasy   Contemporary   Paranormal   Urban   Literary   New Adult     KINDLE     KOBO     NOOK     i-BOOK     google PLAY     AMAZON.COM     AMAZON.CA E-BOOK: ISBN: 9781770530843 EPUB, MOBI $5.99 US Paperback: ISBN: 9781770530836 Trade Paperback 5.5" X 8.5" $12.95 US $15.95 CDN 256 pages BISAC:   FIC009070   FIC009010   FIC009050   FIC009060   FIC019000   FIC027240

Terminal City (Book One in the Terminal City Saga) by Trevor Melanson Copyright © 2016 by Trevor Melanson Chapter One Jacob Stockwell never made himself the center of attention. Traveling from city to city one tavern at a time — befriending lonely strangers in the dim corners of America — Stockwell was, at first glance, a wholly unremarkable man. And perhaps that worked in his favour. For sooner or later, he would tell these strangers all the same tale. "Have you ever seen the devil?" he would ask. Because he had, he’d say. And not just through the deeds of wicked men— he had seen the devil’s magic. They called themselves necromancers, Stockwell would tell them, and he’d been tracking them all over this country to find out just how far the poison of necromancy had spread. They were possessed, he explained, made into Satan’s minions. He’d seen them destroy a man’s soul with only a thought, watched him drop dead. "Now just imagine there were more of them,"wrote Stockwell in a letter to one of his recruits. "Imagine they came after you or, worse, your children, setting them on the path to Hell. There’s a sickness spreading under America’s feet, in her soil, in her roots. If good men like you and I don’t fight back soon, it will be too late." And so some of them did. Thus, 1876 marks the birth of the modern inquisition. The rest, as we know only too well, is history. —Samuel Benedict, The New Necromancer * * * It was Friday night in Manhattan and people were traveling in packs, laughing, yelling, women’s heels clamoring like hooves on cobblestone. Simon Paisley was middle-aged, overweight, and all but invisible to everyone around him. He caught a whiff of perfume as a group walked by, reminding him of the last time he’d been close enough to smell a woman. It had been a while. In his mind, where Simon spent most of his life nowadays, he was planning the rest of his night in thirty-minute intervals. He figured he’d arrive home at about 10:30 — it had been another late night at the office — and that he would eat dinner until 11:00. Something microwavable. Then he’d take a half-hour bath. At 11:30, he would put on a movie, though he hadn’t decided which one yet, and afterward he’d go to bed, assuming he didn’t fall asleep on the couch. That was happening more and more. Simon had grown increasingly fond of routines. He took pleasure in compartmentalizing his days, his life. But there’s a problem with plans, and it’s that they have one hell of a natural enemy: chaos theory. A single moment in time, a single event— that’s all it took to undo everything. Simon had learned that lesson the hard way. The street light turned red. Stepping briskly, Simon crossed the intersection, car engines humming on either side of him. He was already sweating through his dress shirt; fall was just around the corner, but summer had decided to go out with a bang. With his free hand, Simon loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. Heat never used to bother him like this, but he’d put on some extra pounds over the last few years. Divorces could do that. Simon turned the corner, his Upper East Side apartment popping into view. It was modest, all he could afford in Manhattan with the costs of child support. He didn’t mind making the payments, though. He loved all three of his kids, more or less equally, and unlike their mother, they still reciprocated that love. It was too bad she didn’t want them living with a necromancer. He’d been a necromancer for twenty-six years now, Simon— a fact he regretted revealing to his ex-wife. It happened five years ago. He’d forgotten to lock the bottom drawer in his desk one day, and Sharon had bumped it open the next. Curiosity took care of the rest. She confronted him about the books she’d found, confused, and Simon, well, that’s when he did something stupid. He told her the truth. He told her he was a necromancer. He explained that he used spirit energy to make things, to fix them, that he could communicate with the dead. He healed the paper cut on her index finger as proof, but proof made it worse. Proof made it unforgivable. At least he got a good joke out of it. "How do you get a Catholic to file for divorce?" he’d say. "Ya tell her you’re a necromancer." Just then, Simon noticed a white, mostly windowless van idling out front of his apartment building. He wondered if someone was moving in. The van’s back door slid open. A man stepped out. He was much taller than Simon and dressed in a black suit. His eyes were fixed on him, and then so was the rest of him. "Can I help you?" asked Simon. "You need to come with me," replied the tall man. "Excuse me?" "You need to get in the van." He grabbed Simon’s shoulder. "Right now." "Get your hands off me." Simon stepped back. "What do you think you’re doing?" The tall man, it turned out, was not a patient man. "No more warnings," he said. "Inside. Now." Simon wasn’t going to comply. If anything, he was going to run, but the tall man must have seen flight in his eyes. Before Simon could go anywhere, he was pinned against the passenger door, easily outmuscled. When it dawned on him to call for help, the tall man covered Simon’s mouth with one large, rough hand. Simon made a muffled cry. Then he felt something sharp prick his neck. He bellowed another muted howl and tried to wriggle free, but his strength was diminishing. The world around him started to spin. "See you soon, Mr. Paisley," said the tall man, removing an empty syringe from Simon’s neck. Simon hit the pavement. * * * The sound of a dripping pipe. Footsteps. Voices, but he couldn’t make out the words. Simon was coming to. He lifted his head and opened his eyes. He was indoors, someplace he didn’t recognize. The lighting was dim. Cracked concrete comprised the floor; rusty copper pipes lined the low ceiling. He couldn’t see the walls— lost, like he was, in the distant darkness. Simon was sitting in a rickety wooden chair with his arms behind his back. His wrists were bound together with duct tape, his legs and torso tied to the chair. His head was pounding. He tried to recall what had just happened and it took him a minute to remember. The white van. The tall stranger. The needle. What had happened after that, Simon hadn’t a clue. How much time had gone by, he couldn’t say. "Our friend is awake," said a man behind him. Simon could hear two of them, but only one stepped into view. Simon didn’t recognize him. He wore a black suit not unlike the tall man’s. "I hope you slept well," he said, an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. He reached into his coat pocket and fetched a silver matchbox; it was embossed with a crucifix. "I’m Mr. Huxley." He swiped a match along the strike strip. "Behind you is Mr. Underwood. Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Paisley?" Mr. Huxley was an ugly man— a lived ugly, not born ugly. His dark brown hair was greasy and slicked back, exposing the corners of his receding hairline, and his hook nose looked like it had been broken more than once, probably for good reasons. Simon already hated him. "No," replied Simon, "I don’t." But he did. He knew exactly why he was here and who these men were too. It took him a second, but now there was no mistaking it. They were inquisitors. He’d never seen one before now, an inquisitor that is, but he’d heard about them. Every necromancer had, and every necromancer watched out for them. Like necromancers, they kept their existence secret, and thus the war between them remained all but invisible. For Simon Paisley, however, it had just come into plain sight. "I said I don’t know why I’m here," repeated Simon, even less convincingly this time. "I don’t know what you want with me." Mr. Huxley stared at him disapprovingly, sucking on his cigarette, listening to the pipe drip. Another minute passed. "For God’s sake, I don’t know anything." Simon raised his voice, spit flying from his lips. "Whoever you’re looking for, it isn’t me." The grim reality of his situation was sinking in: they would torture him unless he confessed, and if he confessed, they would kill him. "I hear you." Mr. Huxley was apparently back on speaking terms. "But I’m not sure I believe you. Do you, Mr. Underwood? Do you believe our friend here?" "Can’t say I do," said Mr. Underwood from somewhere behind Simon. It all sounded very rehearsed. "That’s two against one." Mr. Huxley looked amused. "So what is it you’re not telling us, Mr. Paisley?" "How many times do you want me to say it?" asked Simon, shrugging, shaking his head. He leaned forward and whispered his words this time: "I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about." "Interesting," replied Mr. Huxley, "because your ex-wife thinks otherwise." He was smiling victoriously, but like his words, Mr. Huxley’s emotions felt practiced. "We inquired about you. She had lots to say, Sharon did, and it wasn’t, well… particularly flattering. But she was quite helpful, a good God-fearing woman too. We liked her, didn’t we, Mr. Underwood?" "We did." "She’s a liar." Simon was now as furious as he was frightened. He wanted to kill these men almost as much as he wanted to save himself. Unlike his present company, however, he’d never killed anyone before, but he got thinking that he knew how, at least in theory. "Seemed like an honest woman to me," said Mr. Huxley. Simon had heard enough. He closed his eyes and dropped his head to his chest. Then, no louder than he breathed, he began to chant. Mr. Huxley didn’t hear him, too busy listening to himself. Mr. Underwood, too deaf, listened to his partner as well, like an eager elementary school student. "Would be a weird thing to lie about," said Mr. Huxley. "Still, we’re thorough people. You’re not here because of something your wife said. At least, it’s not the only reason. We’ve scoured your apartment, Mr. Paisley. You’re a man with many secrets, but you cannot hide them from us. We know who you are. We know what you are." Simon’s incantation was now a whisper, its words crystallizing with clarity. Though not comprehension: Only men and women who’d died could truly understand Deathspeak, the language of the dead— the language of necromancy. Mr. Huxley, finally taking notice, furrowed his brow and took a step back. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?" Simon reopened his eyes. They were red — solid red — and aimed squarely at Mr. Huxley. The inquisitor fell to the ground choking, streams of blood pouring from his mouth and nose. But unfortunately for Simon, his attack ended as quickly as it had begun; a large, familiar hand covered Simon’s mouth, silencing him and stopping the spell. Mr. Huxley was on his hands and knees, moaning and grunting, spitting out mouthfuls of dark blood. "Son of a bitch!" A string of reddened saliva dangled from his bottom lip. Slowly, he picked himself back up. His face was whiter than heaven, but he managed to stand, if only barely. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, red seeping into his sleeve, then looked back toward Mr. Paisley, less confidently than before— but far more angrily, and that was worse. "That was a very bad idea," he said, panting. "A very. Bad. Idea." "Would that count as a confession?" asked Mr. Underwood. "Yeah," said Mr. Huxley. "That would count as a confession." Simon stared at Mr. Huxley with irreconcilable hatred in his eyes, but the red had faded from them. "Any last words?" asked Mr. Huxley. Mr. Underwood released his hand from Simon’s mouth but kept it close, ready to mute him again. "Fuck you," said Simon. "You’ll get what you deserve. Sooner than you think, you bastards." "You don’t say," replied Mr. Huxley, unimpressed. "Care to elaborate?" "Rowland— he’s back. He will kill you, you know. You and your oversized partner. And there’s nothing you can do to stop him." "Rowland’s dead." Mr. Huxley lit another cigarette and walked past Simon, who was still bound to his chair, unable to see either of his captors. "You wish," uttered Simon. "Not even necromancers are immortal, Mr. Paisley, as you’re about to find out," said Mr. Huxley. "Rowland’s no exception, and neither are you. I’d recommend asking God for forgiveness right about now, although I’m not sure God will believe you. I wouldn’t blame him. He calls necromancy an ‘abomination unto the Lord,’ did you know that? Deuteronomy eighteen. Not that you would care." He stepped back into Simon’s field of vision with a red gasoline jug in hand and a roll of duct tape around his wrist. "You’re not God," said Simon. "Neither are you," replied Mr. Huxley, stepping forward. "But your kind, you have trouble understanding that." He pointed the jug at Simon; it made a swishing sound. "You act as if, well, you seem to think your magic makes you like him. But it doesn’t, Mr. Paisley. You’re not a god, certainly not the one true God. At best, you’re a pebble with mountainous delusions. It’s kind of funny, don’t you think?" No one laughed. Mr. Huxley coughed, took another drag off his cigarette, and then looked like a man gathering his thoughts. "I’m sure you know the story of Adam and Eve," he said. "Even a necromancer like you. It’s a… cultural touchstone. Now, my friend, what do you think the story of Adam and Eve is all about?" "I’m not your fucking friend." Simon glared at him disdainfully. "And I don’t care. It’s a fairytale." "Actually, it’s a story about evil," said Mr. Huxley. "Evil is not a fairytale. On this, I hope we can both agree. Adam and Eve’s story is about the form that evil takes here on Earth. As the story goes, Satan, disguised as a snake, tricks Eve into eating forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, which angers God, who in turn kicks man and woman out of Eden— yada, yada, yada. "But why did God forbid them from eating that fruit in the first place?" he asked. "God’s a smart god, the smartest a god could be, so he must have had a good reason. Was he just toying with them, testing their obedience? "No," said Mr. Huxley, crouching down so he and Simon were eye level. "God doesn’t play games, Mr. Paisley. "God wanted us to understand that evil knowledge is harmful. He hoped that, all by ourselves, through our wisdom and humility — the virtues he was gracious enough to give us — we would triumph over the temptation of evil knowledge. That’s why he gave us the choice, necromancer. Because he believes in free will. But we made the wrong one, and we continue to make wrong choices. You especially, Mr. Paisley— you’ve made a lifetime of wrong choices." Mr. Huxley finished his cigarette and flicked it to the floor. "Evil knowledge is a plague," he said. "It pollutes your soul from the inside, destroys your goodness, your innocence, your faith, until all that’s left is a shell, scraped clean like a hollowed clam. The man you were, the man made in God’s image— gone. Which is bad enough, but you’re also contagious, Mr. Paisley. Your wonderful wife had the strength to resist, but what about your children— will they? Just how many more souls would you corrupt if we let you walk out of here tonight? "That’s what we’re fighting against. Isn’t that right, Mr. Underwood?" Mr. Huxley held his gaze on Simon. Mr. Underwood stepped into view and nodded his big head. "Need to keep it contained," he said. Simon forced a sharp laugh. "Justify it however you like," he replied. "At the end of the day, you just like killing people." Mr. Huxley looked at him for a couple long seconds, swiping a drop of sweat from Simon’s brow with his index finger as if to sample it. Simon was drenched in the stuff, his clothes clinging to his arms and legs. "Ali Kazmi," said Mr. Huxley, staring over Simon’s shoulder, staring as if there was something behind him worth staring at— though Simon suspected there wasn’t. "Good kid. Lived in Toronto with his mom and dad and his older sister, Maryam. He liked hockey and video games." Mr. Huxley’s tone had changed. "Ali was just twelve years old when Jared Snow paid him and his family a visit. But Jared didn’t care about Ali. He didn’t care about Maryam or Mom and Dad either. Jared only cared about two things: himself and necromancy. Everything else was… sustenance, a resource for the taking. Every person, every home. He would kill and steal and kill and steal— over, and over, and fucking over. He felt nothing. He couldn’t. The necromancy had… numbed his humanity. It had consumed him, Mr. Paisley, and in doing so came to consume Ali. He was just twelve years old when Jared Snow murdered him and his family. Murdered him because that bastard needed a place to stay for a week." Mr. Huxley bit off a piece of duct tape and slapped it over Simon’s mouth, locking in his last words. "I’ve let you say your piece, my friend," he said in almost a whisper, "but you’ve got it all wrong. It’s necromancers who like killing people. I’ve seen too many innocent men and women — children — die at the hands of your kind in ways you can’t imagine." He spoke softly. "I’m sorry it’s come to this. I don’t want to kill you. I don’t like killing people, Mr. Paisley." Then he stood back up. "But you give me no fucking choice." Mr. Huxley stepped forward, lifting the jug of gasoline over Simon’s head, and began to pour. He showered his hair, his shoulders, drops splashing Simon’s face, and then the rest of him — his arms and legs, his fingers and feet — until the jug was empty and every part of Simon was slippery and smelled like gasoline. Then Mr. Huxley dropped the container, and it was time. The gas was painfully pungent. Worse, some had seeped into Simon’s mouth. It tasted like it smelled— like poison. He didn’t want to die, but he knew this was the end. The thing was, deep down Simon had always figured he was immortal. He didn’t think about it— he didn’t want to think about it. He just felt it, and left it there. Now, for the first time in his life, his immortality had abandoned him, and he was left feeling like some animal meeting its inevitable end. Like he’d been so stupid for not seeing it sooner, for not believing in death even as he practiced in it. Mr. Huxley reached into his pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He flicked the lid open and looked inside. "Last one," he said, fetching his matchbox, the silver one with the cross. Mr. Huxley lit the cigarette. But not Simon, not yet. "I know it might seem unnecessarily cruel," he said, "burning you alive." He took a long drag. "But they say if you don’t burn a necromancer, if you don’t get rid of the body, they might come back from the dead. Not sure I believe that myself, but I like to think the fire is… cleansing. That maybe it can burn the corruption out of you, give you hope for Purgatory. But I’m not God." Then Mr. Huxley lit a second match and took a step backward. "Farewell, Simon." He flicked the small flame forward. Simon watched the match spiral through the air, wondering if it might go out before it reached him, not that it mattered now. The rest happened so quickly. The fire landed on his lap then raced toward every trace of gasoline, engulfing every part of him, until the inferno was all he could see or smell or inhale, until fire was his universe and death his best friend. They had taken everything from him: his world, his dignity, his life. Everything but his thoughts. Those were still his, at least for a while. Like everyone who dies and goes to the Spirit Realm, Simon would fade into nothingness, into less than a memory. He would fade, and he would fade alone. But for now, even as the fire scorched his flesh, even as he screamed unconsciously, he held onto his mind. In the end, it was his ex-wife he thought about. Sharon, who had betrayed him. Sharon, for whose folly he was dying. Sharon, who was still the love of his life. And so he remembered the good times and forgave her for the rest. * * * Simon Paisley’s body was no longer recognizable, melted into a black and red sculpture that could have been any human being. They all looked the same afterward, thought Mr. Huxley, standing five feet away with an empty bucket in hand. The fire had been put out, but the body was still sizzling. Still hot with life. Mr. Huxley slid a cell phone out of his pants pocket and dialed the only number on the contact list. After four rings, a woman answered. "He’s dead, I hope." "Simon Paisley’s been taken care of," replied Mr. Huxley. "Good, good. Glad to hear it. Keep up the good work, hun." She suddenly sounded pleasant, if not a bit condescending, exaggerating her Texas accent as she often did. "But our work never ends, now does it? Your next target is Lester Wright. Mr. Wright has been on our list for quite some time. We have reason to believe he’s somewhere in Terminal City. An informant of ours claims she saw him on a bus." "Terminal City," he said. "So, you’re sending us to Canada, eh? It’s been a while." "Very funny, Mr. Huxley, but I wouldn’t quit your day job. I’ll email you the details." "There’s one more thing." Mr. Huxley hesitated. "Spit it out, sugar," she replied. "Well, it’s probably nothing, just an empty threat, but Mr. Paisley, he said that Rowland had… returned or something." "Rowland? You’re sure he said Rowland?" She sounded concerned. Mr. Huxley was surprised. She never sounded concerned. "I’m sure, yeah." "That is… interesting. Well, don’t worry your little head about it. Just focus on your job, Mr. Huxley." She hung up. Mr. Huxley pocketed his phone a little too aggressively. "Between you and me, Mr. Underwood," he said, "Ms. Westcott really pisses me off sometimes." "Why’s that?" asked Mr. Underwood. "She can be really disrespectful, you know? Not just with me but everyone. She always seems so — what’s the word — dismissive, I guess." "Oh." Mr. Huxley rolled his eyes. "Never mind," he said. "Can you go fetch the bags? I’ll wait here." Mr. Underwood nodded before wandering off into the darkness. Mr. Huxley listened to his heavy footsteps clanking up the metal staircase at the far end of the room. He listened until he couldn’t hear them anymore. And then Mr. Huxley keeled over, planting both hands on his knees, and began to dry heave. Ooowack. "Not again." Ooowack. "You’re saving lives." His voice was low and raspy. "You’re doing God’s—" Oooooowack. Mr. Huxley burped, exhaled, then spat on the ground. After a minute of slow, deep breaths, he stood back up, reaching into his coat for another cigarette. When he flipped open the pack, he remembered he was all out. Mr. Huxley sighed. "Goddamnit."

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