Page 39 of The Teras Trials

London and the University have stood for centuries. I forget how old the city is; old age is such a luxury. But as I walk through the grounds that night, letting myself be drenched in rain, I must consider it. I run my hands along the big stones of the buildings and look up at the sky. The gleam of the ward stones’ barrier flickers in the rain.

Something dark flies through the air.

Instantly, I drop to the ground. The gun is in my hand, my sparker is out. I feel everything in me tense—a teras has gotten in. Somehow, somewhere, a tear in the barrier exists.

I look up, trying to scan the buildings for shadows in familiar shapes. Everything looks like an enemy suddenly, and I force myself to push through. I have hunted before. I have sat in the bodily remains of victims. I can do this.

A scream sounds from a window that pushes me into a run. Something must be climbing up the building. I want to shout at them to close their window, to cut off its access, but I can’t afford to draw attention. Back flat against the wet wall, I drag myself along with the gun and sparker raised, breathing hard, blinking rapidly as the rain clouds my vision. Edging closer, I make out the dark mass curled around itself on the grass. Faintly, I hear its wheezing groan. An echoed cry sounds above.

“Dean Drearton! Get the dean! Get the fucking dean!”

Commotion and rattling sounds in the apartment above. Heavy footfalls and a crashing ring out. A door slams open, but they don’t come around. I pause, tense, waiting for the beast to rise up and stalk this new exposed prey.

There is no movement.

I hesitate, then gently lower the sparker. Gun still trained, I walk towards the wheezing form.

At first I don’t know what I’m seeing. There’s a mess of tangled bone. The bloody, meat covered end of a spine punctures through the black mass. I assume it's fur until I’m close, and I see it’s a wax coat. And then it all resolves. Two arms splay at awkward angles. One leg broken, bone piercing through flesh. Gooey, red-black blood pooling from a head that’s half caved in. The moaning, wheezing cry of a suicide still alive.

I gawk. God, I just stand there, because this isn’t what I thought. I expected a monster, not a man, and I don’t know what to do.

“H. . .” the man exhales. I get closer, because I’m a Christian, I’m a good person, I am not disgusted by the sight. I force myself to get down on my knees, as if in prayer, as if to propitiate his pain.

“What have you done?” I say, and I hate that I sound admonishing when I mean to sound sad. I put a hand on his shoulder which entices another gurgled sound. He won’t have much longer left, but I can’t imagine this pain. I cock my gun. I place the barrel to his brainpan. I do not squeeze.

Tears are in my eyes. “What have you done?” I say. “You made it. You passed the trial. You. . .” And I trail off, because who am I even talking to? I know why he’s done it. I know what turmoil is in his heart. What I don’t know is his name, or his family. Is he a Londoner? A xenos? A worker? Will his family ever know what became of their son?

“Good lad.”

I hear grass crunching behind me. When I turn, the dean is stalking toward me. Some bereft person—a friend, a roommate—vomits violently at the shadowy sight of the mangled man.

“Go on, go up to bed,” the dean says, far softer than I thought him capable. “Have a good strong drink. Here, take this.” He pulls a bottle of something heady from his coat and taps the crying man’s shoulder. I watch the roommate take it and stagger back to the door, barely conscious. He manages to hold on, though. Keeps the bottle in his fingers. That’s enough for me to think he’ll be alright.

“Ah, now,” the dean says. He stiffly lowers himself down to his knees and inspects the near-corpse at our feet. He peels back the eyelids to inspect the dying man’s eyes.

“Who is he?” I whisper my question.

The dean glances at me, pulls a face. “Not sure I recall his name, I’m afraid.” He sits back on his haunches and gestures to me. It’s all light conversation, all brevity. The death means nothing to him. One less prospective Hunter, sure, but also one less mouth to feed. “What are you doing out here, Mr Jones? It’s raining. You’ll catch a cold.”

“Trying to find God,” I say, more bitterly than I mean to. A droplet of rainwater slips over my eye. My hand is shaking. I tease my finger off the trigger. Vaguely I’m aware that I’m holding contraband but the dean says nothing about my gun.

“The chapel?” the dean questions. Either he didn’t hear or he doesn’t care for my dig. He sniffs and waves vaguely into the night. He’s no longer looking at me when he says, “I’ll take you, when you’re done here.”

I blink. “When I’m done here?”

Now he looks. “Go on, Mr Jones. Be a good lad. Put the poor thing out of his misery.”

I freeze, not because I haven’t heard him, but because I have. There is no mistaking the cadence, the tone, the enunciation: the dean speaks clearly and truly, and in doing so imparts on me a role.

I don’t even think about saying no to him. It is not an order, but it’s also not a question—I am to be this suicide’s executioner, and I don’t even know his name. Sweat prickles the back of my neck despite the cold. Is this my punishment for having a gun? I’m too much of a coward to ask.

I have killed teras. I have killed monsters pulled from myth. I have never killed a man.

Why does it feel like the worse sin of all, even when I see in his eyes the desperation and the pleading? He wants the pain to end. I have a gun. I can end it.

What kind of coward am I that I can’t ease his suffering?

“Mr Jones,” the dean speaks slowly. I glance up, realising I’ve been shaking. The look on the dean’s face is as if we’re at a party. He smiles, gives me an encouraging nod, and gestures back down to my task as if all that’s before is a game of chess.

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