The Foul Mouth and the Headless Hunny (The King Henry Tapes)

by Raley, Richard

  My eyes drifted upward.

  My lips formed into a half-snarl, half-grin.

  “Want some smokes?” the cashier asked. “Need ID.”

  Yeah, I want some smokes. Don’t got no ID though . . . Nostalgia. Why not?

  I started pooling in preparation. “Nah . . . used to, but got sent to a boarding school. Was impossible to find a pack to bum, so I had to give it up. Now I just like remembering . . .”

  “Big Tobacco got you young, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  “Boarding school?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ceinwyn poked her head around the corner, peering in through the automatic glass doors every ShopsMart used.

  I just nodded at her and waved.

  She still had the phone up to her ear, but now her attention was focused on me instead of on the call.

  I pointed at the forming mound of food bags and gave a thumbs-up.

  Ceinwyn squinted back at me.

  I shrugged at her.

  She gave me one of her eye-see-you signs before walking back around the corner.

  Who needs words for a conversation?

  The cashier went at my twenties, giving back a handful of change. “That your, uh . . . mom?”

  There was a loaded question. Technically, Ceinwyn was nothing to me, yet . . . she was kind of everything to me too. “My aunt,” I said, being as I called her Auntie Badass anyway. “She’s taking me on a business trip to learn the trade.”

  “What, uh . . . trade is that?” the cashier asked.

  “Talent scouting.”

  “Like Hollywood?”

  “Nah, like . . . brilliant student type shit.”

  “Huh.”

  “Mind if I take a few trips with all this stuff?”

  “Sure . . .” The guy could care less what I did; it was another look at Ceinwyn that he was after, preferably of her ass given the way he’d stared the first time around.

  I picked up all the drinks first, carrying them back to the car. Ceinwyn still hadn’t moved it from in front of the gas pump—how fucking inconsiderate of her—but no one had driven up to take any of the seven other slots. This area of town seemed pretty quiet. I couldn’t imagine the number of people making the drive from Reno to Denver was high. Better to go south, Las Vegas, make a stop to see the Grand Canyon, then head north.

  More people that way.

  Wasn’t anyone in our direction but the Mormons in Salt Lake City—Mormons wanting lots of space between them and other people on account of all the noise their nagging fifteen wives make.

  Actually have a Mormon girl from Provo in my class, Robin White. Not one of the kids I spend much time around, for the obvious reason that she once tried to exorcise ‘the demon’ out of me. She’s okay other than that though . . . but I wouldn’t want to spend much time in a state full of people just like her.

  . . . they might actually get rid of the demon inside of me . . .

  Dun, dun, DUN!

  Put the drinks in the backseat. They were cold and Ceinwyn had the AC on full blast, so they’d probably keep at least lukewarm. Thought about getting one of those foam ice chests, but they reminded me of Dad. Sundays drinking and watching football. Then what happened Sunday night once the football was over.

  Especially if the stupid Raiders lost.

  The Raiders lose a lot.

  I became aware of Ceinwyn’s eyes on me. Shutting the door, I crossed the parking lot back into the ShopsMart. Ceinwyn’s phone dropped from her ear. I could hear a guy talking about Honduras on the other end. “What are you doing?”

  “More bags in the store,” I explained.

  Her smile appeared. “Need a pool to carry them, do you?”

  “Just been a long time since I’ve pooled, wanted to stretch the muscles, ya know?” I explained some more.

  “Director Dale? Are you there?” I heard from the phone.

  Ceinwyn turned back to her Honduras problem, distracted.

  I made the trip yet again, throwing the majority of the snack bags in the backseat, but finding the jumbo bag of Skittles to toss onto the driver’s seat for Ceinwyn. I wanted her happy . . . she might be Ceinwyn Dale, but she’s also a woman and every woman can be bought off with the right kind of food.

  Sexist? Yes.

  True? Also yes.

  I walked back towards the ShopsMart for third time’s a charm.

  “More?” Ceinwyn mouthed at me, still suspicious.

  “Thought I’d get you a slushie.”

  “Okay,” she mouthed next, again distracted by the phone call.

  Food bribes.

  They fucking work.

  Try it sometime, gentlemen. No, not just chocolates. Put some effort into it, you lazy assholes.

  I went inside and headed for the slushie machine. Coke, piña colada, and some purple mix based on a Mountain Dew flavor I’d never heard of before. I picked the purple one on the basis of Ceinwyn’s sweet-tooth, found the biggest cup size and started pouring in slushie mix.

  “Not done yet?” the cashier asked.

  “Aunt sent me back for this,” I said.

  “Likes sugar, huh?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Wonder how sweet her ass would taste?” the cashier whispered under his breath.

  Would’ve gotten protective of my ‘aunt’ but, one: Ceinwyn don’t need protection from dumbasses like this guy. And two: I was already planning on robbing him, so why kick a fellow when he’s down?

  Know what? Never liked that saying. You kick a fellow when he’s down so the fucker don’t get back up, dumbass.

  Clamping a lid on the mega slushie with one hand, I released my pool of anima with the other, sending it down a line of metal bolts in the closest row of shelves. Not in the shelves themselves, but in the piece holding up the shelves, in the bolts holding the whole row vertical.

  It was a masterpiece of anima control. One blast down the whole line, flowing through the metal. Cut, cut, cut. Then a slow tilt, a creak loud enough to snap the cashier out of his daydreams about Ceinwyn giving him some anal. “What the fuck!?!?” he shouted.

  Down the whole row of shelves went, one huge piece of metal. CRASH. Packages of condoms, little boxes of pills, douches, and plastic tampon bags flying halfway across the store.

  “Fuck my life!” the cashier shouted some more, coming around the counter to survey the damage.

  I pulled out what was left of Ceinwyn’s five twenties and set it on the countertop. “Just keep the change, man, I don’t have time to wait for you to fix that.”

  The cashier glanced back at the obviously overpaid amount for a single slushie, back at the ruined shelves, then back at the slushie. “Yeah, just . . . fuck my life.”

  “Bet they haven’t replaced those shelves since the store opened.”

  “Yeah, fucking management . . .” the cashier grumbled, eyes firmly on the mess he had to clean up, thinking about how minimum wage wasn’t worth this shit.

  I leaned over the counter, picked out a pack of cigarettes. Lucky Strike. Old school, yo. I nicked a lighter, put it in my pant pocket with the cigarettes, traded the slushie from one hand to the other, and then nabbed a handful of magazines on the way out the door.

  Like riding a bike.

  Session 135

  I suppose most flights make you buckle up when you land, but me, I knew Fate too well to ever think the Bitch-Queen would kill me in a plane crash. Nah, killing me in a plane crash would save me from the next few days following around behind Annie B’s sashaying, flawless ass like a good little mancer slave.

  I’d been sure in the moment, sure in victory. But now . . . I already regretted my deal. String might be a temp-job, but it was braided leather wrapped around my balls for how uncomfortable it felt.

  Should’ve asked for two million. Hell, why not five million?

  I blame my upbringing.

  Million dollars. The idea of a million dollars is an important sign of how you grew up. It�
��s not about those of us who actually make it to the Promised Land, only your expectation as a child. When you were ten years old did you just expect to be rich one day? Or, maybe you thought you had a shot at it? Or, were you like me, laughing at the entire notion of the American Dream?

  Gonna be dead at twenty, motherfucker, why I need to live up to a million dollars?

  Could buy a whole new shop for five million. Wouldn’t have to keep pretending about the King Henry Clothing Company bullshit, even though it ain’t nearly as bad as the antiques were. No teapots unless someone wants one on a shirt. Still . . . buy some cheap property out in the country, build a warehouse specifically made for artificing materials and anima storage, and then design, experiment, design, experiment, all damn day long

  Would be nice.

  Five million.

  How’d the poor kid that scoffed at one start to think about five being possible?

  When I start believing in dreams? American or otherwise?

  The payday I’d agreed to would pay off Ceinwyn’s loans, but it would also limit my expansion . . . fucking business: one string after another. I might be a cog running my own machine, but I’m still a cog. Long, long way from being the one turning the crank that makes the machine go . . . whoever the fuck they are.

  Haven’t figured that one out yet.

  Was it just the mancer elite? The Learning Council? The Guild of Artificers and their ilk? The Welfs of the world? Or was something more sinister going down?

  As if Paine and Vega and Annie B’s braided leather ball string ain’t enough to keep me up at night.

  Million dollars.

  Freedom from Ceinwyn’s loan.

  Is the time and danger of hanging out with Annie B worth cutting that string? Not sure. But it seemed like the smart play. I wasn’t getting out of this. Vamps proved that to me the last time around. They’re always up in people’s shit, even when you least expect them. Peace treaty? Yeah, a peace treaty. Ain’t no fighting since the early 70s. But mancers are the only ones doing the cocksucking and clitlicking to ensure peace has a chance. Vamps just lie there saying, “a little lower,” while Weres run around the house peeing on the furniture.

  There were a lot of lights outside the plane window. Big city. “Where are we exactly?” I bothered to ask.

  Annie B ignored the question, instead studying her nails like they were the most important thing in the universe. They were painted blood red. “Do you think these are too tawdry?”

  “Ain’t that your favorite word?”

  “I suppose . . . sometimes I think about shifting my shell to something more modernly pleasing. It’s very hard to find cosmetics for pale skin and black hair. You’re forced into the minimalist look. Bit of silver, bit of garnet or jet, nothing bright and beautiful, only dark and mysterious.”

  “And deadly.”

  The plane hit the runway, wheels spinning along underneath us. The jolt made me grab at my armrest to balance myself, Fate hating me too much to kill me or not.

  Annie B made no notice of the momentum change, stretching all four limbs like a cat on the floor, content expression on her face. “Deadly is fun. So many vampires prefer playing innocent with their prey. Little meek thing and then, oh my. But me . . .”

  I nodded. “You let them know what you are and they still can’t help themselves.”

  The stretch stopped, her body going flat against the couch. Breasts really shouldn’t be able to stand that perky without a pushup bra. Hips shouldn’t match against an hourglass. Hair shouldn’t fall in such a silken wave. Annie B was like having a model in front of you all day long. Only no photoshop needed. No makeup needed. Always flawless . . . every shot you could take of her. Every angle you could imagine. Never a dimple on her ass or a bit of crinkling thigh.

  Watching her play and move and tease tired you out moment by moment.

  Wore you down.

  This will be a dangerous few days. Right now, I was hours away from Val Time. I was at my strongest. I’d only get weaker and Annie B would never stop playing me. Dangerous alright . . . I’d rather die than cheat on Val. Hadn’t yet. Hadn’t even thought about it yet. Other than the twins . . . fucking twins, leave me alone!

  Not yet.

  Yet, here was a master. A vampire who showed humans her glory and still had them diving into the velvet pool.

  Need to watch yourself, Price. Paine only wants to kill you, Vega only wants to own you . . . Annie B wants to destroy everything you love until she’s the only thing left in your life.

  “Where are we?” I asked again.

  Annie B sighed. “Business, business, business . . . you were so much fun the last time around. You haven’t even punched me!”

  Oh, that’s coming. “Where are we?” Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed.

  She sighed again, a child giving up a secret. “Los Angeles.”

  [CLICK]

  Los Angeles.

  A shithole? Nah, ain’t a shithole. LA is a Shit Magnet. It’s in a class all on its own. LA is so bad it ain’t built its own shit homegrown-style, but instead draws the worst of the shit from all around the world. It then takes that shit and sprays on perfume, plucks the shit’s eyebrows, cuts it up so it’s curvier, more appealing shit to look at, and calls it a day.

  At night, all the shit gets together and the pieces with more collagen sticking to them fuck their way to the top of the turdbowl, just like your everyday sausage floater.

  Los fucking Angeles.

  An American Treasure.

  Can’t say I was impressed with my first sight of it. Airports. Just a big parking lot really. Think I’ve mentioned my thoughts on parking lots before, but there ain’t many places more human than a parking lot. Nothing but asphalt and white lines telling you where to go. Only difference with an airport is that the white lines blink and the asphalt and concrete spread for a mile, not yards.

  It was all dark, the surrounding buildings lit by lights. We hadn’t pulled up to an airport gate, but instead taxied into an out of the way hanger. A limo waited on us to get our asses out of one symbol of the plutocracy and into another, not a single TSA agent anywhere around to give my asshole a good scoping.

  Probably a good thing.

  Can’t say I’d enjoy that.

  Outside of one college girl’s unasked and unexpected adventure with it, I tried to keep my ass firmly on the non-scoped side of my body parts.

  No TSA agent, no greeting at all. Pilot of the plane didn’t show himself, driver of the limo didn’t show himself either. Someone must have pushed a walkway up against the plane, but they disappeared by the time Annie B clicked open the door and headed out.

  The plane’s cargo hatch was open as well, with not a bag in sight. Standing at the top of the stairs, I peered at the limo’s trunk. My artifacts were in there. Had to be.

  Annie B waited for me at the bottom of the stairs, travelling bag in one hand, but without her usual toys. No knives. No gun. Her clothes weren’t even standard kickass baroness stuff, leather and more leather. This was skin and more skin. Even in November, this one ran too hot.

  My eyes stayed on the limo’s trunk. Lots of metal and stone to work with now. Ten-minute-pool. I could take her. Get my artifacts. Bail out. Be out a million dollars, I suppose. Have the whole Embassy network pissed at me for the rest of my life.

  But I could get out.

  Drive back to Fresno.

  Get back in the morning.

  Find Val.

  Have great I’m-still-alive sex.

  Just like that first time between us . . . except without the whole emotional trauma of the Isabel realization.

  Yup, one day I’ll have to man up and visit her prison cell, have a conversation with her about why she went to such lengths for a little poking from Prince Henry. ‘She’s crazy’ is an answer, but not enough of an answer for me. Guild will be a bunch of cocksuckers like usual when I ask for permission to see her . . . but I gotta ask, gotta know why, gotta know who.

 
; Annie B smiled from across the ascent of stairs, like she knew what I was working on. You don’t have a clue on this one, Fanged Lady. I’d tell her about it, but then she’d never stop laughing.

  One last glance at the limo’s trunk, one last thought about making a run for it, but I decided to stick it out. Million dollars, learning more about the Vamps, maybe even getting to pound in someone’s face eventually.

  Now that the whiskey was flowing, now that I was back on the bottle, I opened my mouth and drank deep.

  Annie B was under the mistaken impression that I’d chosen the opposite path, since the second I stepped on the runway she punched me in the face.

  I’m proud to say I didn’t crumble to the ground like I usually did.

  But it still fucking hurt.

  Vamps hit about as hard as Facechangers, the Ultra Corpusmancers. The older a vamp is, the harder they hit. Annie B had five-hundred years of pop in that jab. Staggered me good. Left eye went right. Right eye went left. Everything in the middle went fuzzy. I stumbled back into the stairs, gripping the railing.

  I felt blood drip from my nose.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, woman?”

  Annie B became immediately contrite. For a second. That second of real emotion before she caught herself and dragged every emotion into frustration over my reaction to what she’d done. I’d blame it on her being a vamp, but I’m pretty sure it’s cuz she’s got a female shell. When ain’t everything the guy’s fault?

  Sexist, rabble, sexist.

  Uhuh.

  Anger flew over that beautiful, vampire-crafted face. “You . . . you know you were! I just acted first! We always fight like this!”

  I wiped the blood dripping down into my mouth with a coat sleeve. Knew from experience that it wouldn’t show much on the brown fabric of my geomancer’s coat, but every vamp we ran into from now until eternity would smell it. One more little annoying pebble to stack on the scales these next few days. “Once again: I ain’t the same guy as last time. If I’d acted then you wouldn’t have your legs.”

  Still angry, but getting playful, she leaned to block my path to the limo. “Do try, King Henry. Blow my legs off. See how quickly I can reattach one and hop on over to beat you senseless with the second.”