I think the next day was my reward for not yet getting thrown in jail or deflowering some farmer’s daughter during the first week of our road trip. Or Ceinwyn just felt like she needed one day of relaxation after all the bullshit meetings she had to sit through the day before. Alfred Pemberton loves him some Powerpoint slideshows, I’ll give the freaky bastard that. Putting down the tarantula on the laptop keyboard to tap the forward key was a bit gross though . . .
For whatever reason, we played the role of actual sightseers the next day, instead of Recruiters on a business trip.
It could’ve been one of the most enjoyable days of my life.
Joy. Not something I’m often familiar with.
Growing up, joy was Dad being too drunk to lift his arm or Mom having two ‘Good Days’ in a row or Susan not scolding me too bad when we went grocery shopping and I inevitably stole some candy or beef jerky as a treat.
Don’t think that’s actually joy.
Just think that’s relief.
Just think that’s survival.
Had some joy at the Asylum. Winter War victories, seeing Val smile over some joke of mine, or laughing with Pocket so hard neither of us could talk. More than that, even. Asylum is hard and you got to stay on your toes, but you can find enjoyment in living there. But never a full day that was only about having fun. Even Sundays, you had procrastinated essays to write. Even Winter War, you had other teams to scout, while being constantly on alert for any extracurricular fights that might break out.
So that day with Ceinwyn could’ve been my first.
Except . . .
We took in the first half of a double header, Cardinals and the Reds. Hot dogs, pretzels, root, root for the home team and all that shit. Was cool to see a big league game, since all the Central Valley rates is Triple A for any sport. After the game came a late lunch, an afternoon tour of the Budweiser plant, then the most obvious of all St. Louis tourist attractions: The Arch.
Big fucking steel arch sitting beside the Mississippi River, in the middle of a park.
Had to see that.
It’s . . . big.
And . . . archy.
Maybe knowing that one good blast of geo-anima could knock the thing over ruins the spectacle, I don’t know, but I wasn’t particularly impressed by it. But I was enjoying just being there.
King Henry Price, out in the wide world.
Not stuck in a Shithole or in his Mountain Monastery.
Free as he can be, especially when Ceinwyn Dale is distracted. Phone calls. Hadn’t stopped for the Cards, Budweiser, or the Arch. Not that I minded. Rather liked it when Ceinwyn was distracted.
Gave me a chance at socializing.
There was a group of people over by the edge of the Mississippi, including a cute college chick all lonesome. She had an iPad and was sketching on the thing like it was a piece of paper. Reminded me of Miranda with her color pencils, doodling away any chance she got when she wasn’t scolding people or doing homework weeks before it needed to be done.
College chick wasn’t a ginger though . . . thank the Mancy for small favors. Brunette with a bob cut, skinny thing, glasses . . . nice legs. Not long legs, but shapely. Objectifying, sexist, blah, blah. Come on, ladies, you got nice features and I’m gonna notice them, what’s so bad about that? Not like I’m talking about your unsightly mole, am I? Or that you got thick ankles . . . or flabby pouch stomach . . . or?
Heh.
She was a cute chick and she looked lonely like that, so I went over to introduce myself. I was uncharacteristically nervous. I went up to strange Intra girls at the Asylum all the time, but this . . . no colors, no patch. No guidelines. Another unfortunate lapse of Asylum schooling: don’t learn how to pick up strangers. Eventually I would learn after graduation, but . . . well, alcohol really helps.
I lurked behind her for a bit, studying her sketch of the river, with the other side of city in the background and boats crossing the water. “How hard is that to learn?” I eventually asked.
She flinched, surprised. “W-what?”
Big nose, green eyes, crinkling brow.
“To draw on a tablet like that? Is it hard to learn? It very different from paper?”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She blinked at me. Guess I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t good with strangers.
I stuck my hand out. “King Henry.”
“Um . . .”
“My name.”
“Oh! Sally . . . and, it’s a lot like freehand . . . only, you can erase and have colors and effects and . . . it’s insanely creative.”
Sally. Sometimes that Bitch-Queen Fate gives your balls a tap just to remind you she’s always watching.
“Looks fun,” I said, inching closer to her on the deception that I was trying to better study the sketch.
“Do you . . .” Sally Two’s brow crinkled again. “Did you say your name was King Henry?”
“I did.” Inching even closer, she could probably feel my body heat behind her. “Mom was a bit out of it by the time I was born. Didn’t want to name me after my dad, on account of him being named Joe and Mom wanting to be creative in all things . . . so she went on the internet to get ideas that night. She saw I was born the same day as King Henry VIII and the rest is history . . . literally.”
Sally Two smiled at the story. “It’s different, at least.”
“But not Apple different, right?”
She laughed.
Seriously Hollywood, fucking stop it.
“Do you draw?” she asked, hefting the iPad.
“Nah, I, uh . . .” Well, this is gonna be real manly, ain’t it? “I do glass sculptures, small little statues and the like.”
Her expression said she didn’t believe me, so I pulled out my wallet and showed her a picture of Val’s statue.
“That’s gorgeous . . .” Sally Two whispered. She glanced at her iPad sketch like it was dogshit and she was showing it off to DaVinci or something. Historical Bullshit Mancer Fact: DaVinci was a geomancer too. You think his designs for normal crap are badass, should see what he did with artifacts.
“I like yours too,” I said, adding a wink. Winks are generally only a good move when you’re being friendly and not coming at her full-court press. Else the chick thinks you’re an asshole.
Sally Two didn’t think I was an asshole—this will inevitably come later—but she did blush, focusing nervously on her sketch instead of on my smooth moves.
“You, uh, vacationing?” I asked to try to salvage any chance at all of this leading to a phone number or a hotel room or something else that would allow me to sneak out of the hotel room that night.
Sally Two nodded towards a foursome of college girls farther into the park. “We’re all Art students, just finished our freshmen year at Oregon.”
“Cross country debauchery or expanding artistic horizons?”
She laughed again. Nice laugh. I always like laughs. Especially when I make them happen. “Bit of both,” she finally admitted. “You vacationing too?”
“Been mostly work for me outside of today,” I said, motioning back at Ceinwyn with her cell-phone still at her ear, “aunt’s a talent scout. We’ve been on the road all the way from California.”
“Like . . . for movies?” Sally Two asked.
A little devil popped up on my shoulder, it looked like Jethro Smith: say ‘yes,’ motherfucker. Gonna be deep in the nerd pussy tonight!
A little angel popped up on my other shoulder, it looked like Pocket: this is really cliché, dude.
But lying ain’t ever been my thing.
“Nah, nothing that fancy,” I told the truth. “It’s this special school for geniuses they have up in the mountains. All hush, hush, next generation of leaders stuff.”
Sometimes the truth sounds pretty good too. Especially if it ain’t the whole truth. “That sounds neat too,” Sally Two said, “high school?”
“And college . . . I’m still a student,” I confessed. “The Institution of Elements,
it’s called.” The Asylum’s proper name wasn’t a secret; it even had a comprehensive website and a Facebook page.
Sally Two’s brow crinkled in doubt. “Why have I never heard of it?”
“Hush, hush,” I said again. “We don’t advertise. We recruit.”
Sally Two’s expression got more than doubtful, even if her lips still curved in a flirty smile. “Did my friends put you up to this to pull my leg? There’s no way that woman is your aunt.”
I played up the hurt feelings. “You think I’d do that?”
She snorted.
“Fine, fine, okay.” I waved at Ceinwyn to prove I wasn’t completely full of shit. Ceinwyn gave me an eye-see-you sign, followed by a point at Sally Two, and a shake of her finger.
It’s kind of amazing how nonverbal our communications had gotten over the past week.
I turned back to Sally Two. “Still doubt me?”
“Not as much, but you’re still shifty,” she said.
“I’m just a bored guy, who happened to notice a pretty girl with a talented hand at rubbing her iPad,” I said as innocently as I could manage.
Sally Two snorted again. “Talented . . .”
We studied her sketch for a bit more. I thought it was accurate enough, if cartoony. I never could’ve dreamed of doing the same. Only thing I’ve ever been good at sketching was artifact schematics. Nothing artistic for sure. “What don’t you like about it?” I finally asked.
Showing interest: it works.
Sally Two scooted a bit over on her bench so I had room to sit next to her. She also proceeded to explain why she wasn’t good enough at being an artist in more technical terms that I didn’t and still don’t understand. She ended with, “Mostly it just . . . feels fake. I didn’t capture the moment, it’s very important to capture the moment.”
I grunted, sliding my hand over so it clasped the bench behind her, my wrist barely touching the small of her back.
Sally Two rolled her eyes at me. “The drawing, not the moment between us right now.”
“Could do both . . .”
Sally Two sighed. I was losing her. “I’ve heard the line about passion making better art too many times for it to work on me any longer . . . King Henry . . . is that really your name?”
I ignored the line I always got.
Yes, it’s my name.
AND IT’S FUCKING AWESOME.
So there!
“Not talking about . . . making out or nothing—though I never turn an offer down—”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Sally Two deadpanned.
“Talking about the problem I always have with you painters and drawers and the like,” I explained, “you look at something and you think that’s enough.”
“What else would we do? Meditate?” Sally Two teased.
“Actually, I was thinking that we need to touch what you’re trying to draw. That’s why I work with glass. It’s in my hands, right there; you can feel it as you work it, what it is and what it’s gonna be when you’re done with it.”
Sally Two was one of those brainy girls who ignored the sexual euphemism and instead focused on how something I said was wrong with the universe as she knew it. “Don’t you heat glass up super hot when you make art with it? As in molten glass?”
“Uh . . . you can shape it when it’s cooling,” I hedged.
“Oh.” Her universe now correct, Sally Two returned to the larger point . . . still missing the euphemism. “But how would I feel this sketch?”
So close! Come on cell-phone, just keep Ceinwyn busy for five more minutes. “River’s right there, ain’t it?”
“What?”
“It’s right there.”
“You want me to jump in the river?”
“I figured we’d take our shoes off and put our feet in . . .”
Sally Two smiled. “Race you?”
So we frolicked over to the very edge of the Mississippi, took our shoes off, and put our feet in the stanky ass, dirty water. Sally Two giggled like a school girl. I smiled like a guy that had a chance at some belated rebound sex, to finally get over Valentine Dump 2: Electric Boogaloo Cruise Control.
If Sally Two gave me her phone number.
If I could talk her into giving me her hotel address.
If I could sneak away from Ceinwyn.
I could see the path.
The Path to Pussy!
The Way of the Snatch!
Vagina, Here We Come!
Then . . .
A water fairy ripped my ass all the way into the river.
Fate, you cruel, cock-blocking bitch.
Session 139
I waited in horror over what bit of lingerie Annie B would appear in for the day.
First World problems.
Day, not night, because my schedule was reversed to be awake with all the bloodsuckers in the world. At least Weres keep a normal nine to five. Might be marauding the countryside and trafficking drugs during it, but they all have families. Vamps not so much. I’d been thinking a bit about what Annie B had said about her species.
A society of individuals where everyone is looking out for number one.
Where you have absolutely no one you can trust, only servants and superiors.
I related to Annie B on what that was like.
Val’s the only person in my life I trust completely and even with her . . . never did tell her Paine’s name, did I? It’s a short list for people I trust even a little bit. Val, Pocket, Ceinwyn, Jesus, Raj, T-Bone . . . maybe Miranda too, but only since Val keeps forcing the Ginger Nemesis into the group. She did save my life, I guess. Women really need to stop saving my life . . . my dick might fall off if this keeps up.
Or something.
Seven people.
Not a single one of my blood.
Especially not blood.
Blood will protect you, but blood will trap you too. Best to have someone else around to throw in the volcano if things get really bad, if you see my meaning. Learned that real quick with my family. There goes Susan. There goes JoJo. King Henry, welcome to the volcano! Here’s a book on Sacrifice 101, kid.
Humans are very different from the Vamps, mancer or not. For all we’ve created, all our delusions of grandeur, us humans are just scavengers who won the genetic lottery. Scavengers lucky enough to have dexterous little hands that made our brains get bigger and bigger. But we’re still monkeys and lizards and fish if you go far enough back.
I don’t mean that as a knock.
We’re lucky to be scavengers.
Not talking technical definition either, coming across a dead animal and chowing down. Talking about wider thinking than that. Scavenging for berries and roots, scavenging for a cave to sleep in for the night, for a nice dry grass that’ll start a fire. My whole life I’ve been a scavenger. Survival at any cost. Being a scavenger teaches you to respect what you have, teaches you about Fate and her cruel mind ready to squash you flat, teaches you to use sticks and stones to kill what’s bigger and scarier than you are.
Being scavengers gives us strengths the Vamps don’t have.
Only way scavengers survive is if they work together—watch a back, have your back watched in turn.
We trust.
And some of them sacrifices heading for the volcano?
They do it with open eyes.
So blood keeps going. So the tribe keeps going. So the country keeps going. So the species keeps going.
Ain’t none of that for Vamps.
They’re predators and parasites and that defines them. Roving, migratory, lonely. They built themselves a society based on preservation of the eldest and the eldest are still around. Don’t say the wrong thing. Don’t do the wrong thing. Cuz ain’t no one gonna step up for you unless it’s in their best interest to do so.
Didn’t even take a devious mind like mine to see the weakness in that. Seeing that weakness . . . made me wonder if I wouldn’t have to trust a little more in my own life to survive what was coming. If I could tru
st a little more in my own life.
Could I sit T-Bone down and tell him about Meteyos? Could I sit Ceinwyn down and tell her about Paine? Could I tell Val I loved her?
Trust.
Ain’t something I’m good at.
But without it the world’s really fucking lonely.
End up like a vampire.
End up like a monster.
My monster in residence blew my mind away when she finally showed herself.
You glorious bitch, I thought, you wonderful, glorious bitch!
Annie B came out in pajamas.
Normal, everyday flannel PJs that millions of women—all them unsexy—sleep in every night. Wasn’t a bit of skin showing but her hands and her neck. Her hair was in a simple ponytail, complete with scrunchie.
She had on fluffy animal slippers.
Annie B plopped down on the couch and turned on the TV, pretending I didn’t exist. Worse: acting like I wasn’t there. Like it was no big deal. Like it was something we did together every night. Like it was normal . . . like we were a couple or something.
Fuck me.
I slid down the couch to the very end, my mind reeling to come to terms with this reality.
After everything she’d done . . . what a change-up. I never thought she was capable of such a seduction! I thought it was all sex and velvet eyes, but here . . . it was Annie B, the friendly Girl Next Door—in her PJs.
Was this the act?
Or was the other her an act?
I wanted to stick around, to find out.
I wanted her.
Fuck me.
She finally turned to me, the least aggressive I’ve ever seen her. Negative seduction pulled me into her space where everything else had failed. Like she’d finally figured out King Henry Price. Don’t hunt, be the hunted. Make him want you, like that star he loves so much, even if he can’t say the words. “Pick a movie, I’ll make popcorn.”
“Uh . . .”
“Surprised about me liking movies or me liking popcorn?”
“Uh . . .”
A small smirk at my confusion. A peek through the curtain.
You glorious creature. You should have seminars on this stuff. The Annie B Patented Mindfuck Method, Sure to Succeed On Any Man in Your Vicinity.
“Movie?” I managed to grunt out.
The Foul Mouth and the Headless Hunny (The King Henry Tapes) Page 22