The Pit of No Return (The King Henry Tapes Book 6)

by Richard Raley

  Strange returned with another tray. “Are you trying something, Price?”

  “No,” I totally lied this time.

  Strange glared. Dark eyes, dark hair, long, thin face. Little older than Ceinwyn maybe. At least she looks it. Maybe she’s younger and the years just haven’t been as kind. She had on a doctor’s outfit, white coat and all that. No scrubs, just loose slacks and some black and white checkered Vans on her feet. “What are you trying?” she accused me.

  “Nothing!” I said, throwing in an I-don’t-give-a-crap shrug. “Just started to wonder . . . ya know.”

  Her lips pursed as she sprayed water over the cut, followed by some iodine. “What is it I’m supposed to know?”

  “Wondered . . . where you put the body?”

  Strange deflated with a great big sigh. “I understand your morbid curiosity given that you were with Leo when he died, but I won’t be answering that question, Price. Trust me, it’s been cared for and will be turned over to his parents when they arrive later today.”

  “Did you give Root the knucklebone like he asked?”

  She stared at me like I was the antichrist.

  Could be. I mean . . . got no proof one way or the other, right?

  Heh.

  “I heard him talk to the Lady about wanting one . . . plus, rumors out there are going wild. Know you don’t leave the Infirmary much, probably haven’t heard them all, but I’ll spare you all the talk about Root turning Leo into a Construct and all the shit that the Singles are nightmaring up to scare each other.”

  “That’s preposterous, Price.”

  “Which part?”

  She slathered Slush on a piece of cloth before slapping the entire green-blue mess on my forehead, following that up with a wrap of gauze that tied it into place. I looked stupider than I usually did, but it was worth getting her talking. None of which she was doing at the moment since she knew all those rumors weren’t false.

  “Also heard Leo used cryo-anima to keep himself alive longer,” I kept going, “didn’t think cryomancers were Intro-Elementalists, but maybe this school’s been holding back on that one. Not sure why you’d want to make your balls freeze up into you intestines, but I’m sure there’s some super secret reason why.”

  Strange glared at me some more.

  “I can either make the rumors worse or start clearing them up; it’s your call, Doc.” Looking less than guilty would’ve helped my argument, but I’d never been able to pull off innocent, even when I was a little kid. Just ask my big sister Susan, she’s the one who had to babysit me most of the time.

  “I did give Mr. Root a bone from Leo’s corpse,” Strange finally admitted. “I have no idea what he’s done with it; I don’t want to know what he’s done with it. My part in this matter is finished. Leo died from the fall: punctured lung, fractures so numerous that I stopped counting, and a spinal cord that was, frankly, pulverized. The only reason he survived as long as he did was that the night was cold and Leo made the air surrounding him much colder with cryo-anima. It kept his blood from flowing freer and might indeed have moved the time of the accident further than was first thought.”

  “Still think it was an accident? Or that just the party line until you’re told otherwise?”

  “Accident, dare gone wrong, something more mundane than Root would have us believe,” Strange decided. “It takes a lot of force to push someone over a railing, more than television would have you think.”

  “Welf’s taller than Leo by quite a lot.”

  “And sumo wrestlers are fat and wide for a reason. I doubt Jason Jackson could’ve pushed Leo off without getting some type of reaction and there was no sign of tearing on Leo’s clothes, no blood or skin under his nails.”

  “Why he finger Welf then?”

  “He was hypothermic enough that even a cryomancer would feel it, dying, and delirious with pain,” she snapped at me, a few of her nurses leaning out of wherever they were working to see if she needed help. Strange just glared at them too, daring them to say anything. “Necro-conjurations aren’t valid in court for a very good reason. The mind shuts down as it dies. Trusting a shade’s testimony is illogical and unscientific. If Root was any other discipline he would laugh at the very idea, but he has a blind spot where his own ego is concerned. Science and art combined . . . hah! Necromancers are all full of themselves and Root is fuller of shit than most.”

  “It’s like you’re reading my soul,” I couldn’t help but tease her.

  Fearing any sentimentality, she nearly stabbed me in the eye as she hurried to cut off the poultice. Next, the piece of Slushed up cloth was ripped away with the same vigor. At least it didn’t hurt like a bandage would’ve. Though the sponge she pulled out to rub away the lingering bit of Slush scraped my newly grown skin raw.

  “Ow . . .”

  “No whining,” she ordered like always, “and keep my opinions to yourself.”

  “Stopping rumors, not making more of them—that’s what I promised. One thing I’m still curious about, how’d you know about the cryo-anima? He was cold when I got to touch him, but not that cold.”

  She smirked at me.

  “Don’t be like that!”

  With another tired sigh, she finally explained, “There is a certain object that lets you see anima; he had it on his clothes.”

  Really? That sounds . . . like . . . awesome. “Do you still have it?”

  Again the smirk. “No and never, Price.”

  “Plutarch never lets me see the cool artifacts,” I grumbled.

  She carefully packed up all the Slush and gauze and waste from the treatment into a steel pan that at least didn’t look like something you shit or pee in. “Good as new this time around,” she informed me. “No more fighting for the next few days or I’ll hold back the healing salve if you end up in here.”

  “Wasn’t fighting,” I grumbled some more. “Didn’t happen to see any menti-anima on him when you were taking a look, did you?”

  The glare had returned, her hand finding an orange from a stack near the door. “You have ten seconds, Price.”

  “Fine! I’ll take that as a no?”

  She set her feet, “Nine.”

  Pretty sure she was in the Softball Club, pitcher at that. She’d nailed me in the head with those oranges more than enough over the years to prove her skill at it. “No menti-anima?”

  “Seven.”

  “You skipped a number!”

  “Five,” she did so again.

  “Fine! I know when I’m not wanted!”

  I managed to dodge the orange by slamming the door to the Infirmary quickly behind me.

  No menti-anima, no Welf, just an accident. Not sure if I’d like it more or less than Catherine being involved. She had to be involved, right? That smile . . . she was up to something. Time to find out what.

  Here I come, Kitty Cat.

  [CLICK]

  Not unheard of for a person from one class to sit down at another table.

  You got boyfriend-girlfriend situations for one. No one can tear teenage love apart! That shit is eternal, Bill Shake-His-Spear said so! Unless, ya know, you wait a couple months for them to get tired of rubbing their tiddly-bits against each other. No, what am I saying? Eternal!

  Even friends too. Mentioned Asa earlier, she rarely sits with the rest of Class ’09.

  Idea is: long as you ain’t hassling the poor Singles, the lunch ladies don’t give a shit where you plop your booty down. Guidelines, not rules. Don’t throw food. Don’t put laxatives in the waffle mix.

  Today? My plump booty was doing itself some hassling. Just ain’t hassling Singles.

  Hassling Queens of Three.

  Might even make me the first person in Asylum history to voluntarily sit at the Three Queen’s table. Yeah, bitches make the Blackjacks cram into the others while they have a whole table for themselves. No more clues needed that they’re evil, right?

  Today, they were gonna have to put up with some company.

  I sa
t there with my lunch waiting for them to come in, already chowing down on the food and enjoying a glass of some generic Dr. Pepper knockoff. Yummy, yummy in my tummy! Never fight evil on an empty stomach, kiddies. That’s Tad Code 12.

  Don’t know if it was the Slush or dodging that orange or just general improvement of my mood over me starting my own little rebellion against Root, but I was feeling particularly hyped up. Been awhile since I talked to the Queens. Months.

  Wasn’t any shock on Catherine’s face as she noticed me lounging about in her favorite spot. Catherine, Mary, and Teresa always sat in a row, not across from each other. Catherine chose where, Teresa sat to her right, with Mary on the end. I think Mary annoyed Catherine some times.

  That giggle would annoy the Pope . . . Mary rocking a catholic schoolgirl look with pigtails and skirts or not.

  Catherine motioned for one of the Blackjacks to stop his threatening approach towards my position. “Would you rob me of the joy at seeing the great Foul Mouth’s impotency?” she joked with him before crossing over to the other side of her table and sitting across from me.

  As expected, Teresa was next, and Mary last. Catherine is generally considered the most fearsome of the three, the one who will completely ruin you. My efforts or not, people still talked about how she could get people expelled or even make you commit suicide if you crossed her. Teresa mostly terrified the Singles and Intras, singeing them if they stepped out of line. Mary liked luring guys to sleep with her and then did horrible shit to them in bed. When water shooting up your pee-hole is the lesser offense, you have trouble imagining the horror of the greater ones.

  Dumbasses keep fucking her, keep walking around holding their assholes or throats or cocks for days, moaning in pain. Let it be a lesson to you, kiddies, if even Prince Henry wants to stay away from that piece of strange then you should stay away from it too!

  “Foul Mouth,” Catherine greeted me, rearranging the food on her tray.

  “Kitty Cat,” I greeted back, slurping soda through a straw that I’d bent just to make that sound.

  Mary and Teresa both had bowls of clam chowder, although Mary’s looked like it had extra clam chunks in it while Teresa’s was stained red with hot sauce. Catherine, like most aeromancers, had a sweet tooth. Chicken salad heavy with oranges and teriyaki sauce, plus a pile of waffle cookies on the side.

  “Have you come to threaten me?” Catherine mocked with that smile that’s so similar to Ceinwyn’s. “Or are you going further with your tantrum, planning to beat a confession out maybe?”

  “Ain’t like that, Kitty Cat. Only person be dishing out any punishment to you will be the Learning Council,” I told her nonchalantly. “Might help them along, but ain’t looking to throw the punches myself.”

  “Decided against it perhaps, but you most definitely considered it,” she called me out.

  My lips curved around my canines. “I always consider it. What makes me me.”

  She picked a piece of orange out of her salad and crunched it into oblivion.

  I slurped some more soda, getting especially loud.

  “Please,” Teresa begged. “Please, please, please!”

  “No,” Catherine answered, attention never wavering from me and my slurping.

  “Sucks having Boomworm show you up in class, don’t it, Teresa?” I egged on the girl I assumed had just asked if she could burn me or not. “Amazed me for four years . . . almost killed myself last year trying to live up to her standards . . . must really rub you raw watching Rowland move away from you and towards doting over her. Especially since the girl don’t burn, does she?”

  I felt a burst of anima come loose, a sharp jab in my feet. No fireballs or flames or just plain searing spouts of heat aimed my way, but the spoon Teresa held went red-hot. She’s one of the more common types of pyromancer, kind with a quick temper. Always saw her as the lesser of the Three Queens. Meaning she’s the most human among them, the easiest to read. Teresa seemed on edge, ready to snap.

  Mary giggled down at the end. She had her chowder bowl up in one hand and slurped from it to mimic the same sound I made with the straw. “You ever want to suck on something more interesting then you should come by my room . . . we’ll put that foul mouth to work in all manner of ways.”

  “Pass.”

  Not this boy’s pee-hole!

  Catherine motioned for me to hurry up and to get it over with as she bit down on another orange.

  “Got somewhere to be? Someone else to murder?” I came out and asked.

  Her smile twitched in enjoyment over the bare accusation. “I haven’t touched anyone at this school since I gave you that beautiful scar, Foul Mouth.”

  “Root might have fallen for all your bullshit, but I know it was you,” I told her.

  “That’s not the rumor I’ve heard,” Mary giggled.

  Even Teresa smiled, her spoon still so hot it caused the chowder to steam. “Me either . . .”

  “Yes,” Catherine added, “what I’ve heard is that Heinrich von Welf got in an argument with Leo and pushed him right off a building.”

  “You ain’t been hearing it. You’ve been telling it. Spreading it far and wide to anyone with an open ear and a couple minutes to waste,” I accused her some more.

  “Only telling the truth if we did. All three of us saw someone who looked like Heinrich Welf arguing with Leo before the wedding. Didn’t we, girls?”

  “That we did,” Mary downright chortled, “told Root all about it too. Even told him where it happened so he could find pictures of it. From what I’ve heard, he did find them. Even heard Leo agrees with us on who must’ve killed him.”

  “Easy enough to fake,” I pointed out.

  Teresa bit her cheek trying not to give a reaction.

  Catherine noticed me catching the poker tell and covered, “How so?”

  “Talked to our mentimancer about it. Reckons it wouldn’t be so hard to put a fake memory into Leo’s head as you pushed him off, make him think it was someone else killing him when it was actually a few of your Blackjacks doing the deed. You got what . . . three mentimancers among them? Could’ve even tag teamed him, Leo wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Teresa laughed out some relief.

  The fuck? Why that guess make her feel relieved? Shit . . . does that mean it wasn’t a mentimancer? But then how would you do it? Unless Strange was right about Leo being confused in all the pain . . . All I’ve figured out so far is this murder solving stuff is crap!

  Catherine saw me thinking, throwing a wink my way to rub my mind raw, goading me further and further into her game. “If there was any evidence for your wild theory then Root wouldn’t have seized Welf for questioning, would he? I always thought he was a very thorough teacher, but then you wouldn’t know . . . the Lady showed quite a bit of favoritism towards your year by having Fines Samson teach you, didn’t she? What’s it like becoming one of the elite, Foul Mouth? What’s it like becoming everything you hate?”

  “I don’t know, how you feel about it?” I turned the question around on her.

  Catherine’s chin rose, her expression hard. “I’ll never become one of them.”

  “Cuz you’re better,” I taunted her some more. “You’re just so much smarter than everyone else. Get anyone to do anything for you, even murder a kid, even get the focus of your hate thrown in jail. Well, Kitty Cat, just thought I’d come and announce to your tight ass that I’m on to it and all over it. Know your shit stinks; know you had a part in getting Leo killed.”

  “Haven’t touched him,” she said.

  Truth. Pretty sure.

  “Neither has a Blackjack,” she added to return my taunts.

  Shit. Was that truth too?

  She leaned in so she could whisper the barest words. “But I do enjoy seeing my brother and his bitch of a mother suffer.”

  Very true.

  “Even if I did have anything to do with this . . . you’d never prove it,” she kept whispering, “and even i
n proving it I’ll be untouchable.”

  “Can’t hide behind your daddy’s secret forever,” I warned her.

  Both Mary and Teresa frowned at us, just barely out of hearing range. It was a little odd to be so close to Catherine, both of us with our heads near to the table top, faces inches apart.

  “It’s the least he can do for abandoning me.”

  “He doesn’t even know about you. Moira Welf might be a bitch for what she did to you, but neither of her children know that you exist either. Think Vicky wouldn’t have accepted you with open arms? Don’t think she would’ve taken your side? I know she would’ve, but instead you lured her into a bathroom stall and beat the shit out of her.”

  Catherine’s green eyes burned with hate, with feeling, with emotion. Wherever she got that, it wasn’t from her Welf side. “I dream about it every night. I dream about how little brother sits alone in the Holding Room, forgotten and lost and abandoned in his need. I dream that his bitch of a mother can’t get him removed quickly enough. That he’s still there this Sunday, so I can tell him to his face why I hate him and why he’ll spend the rest of his life exiled from all he loves and all he cares about.”

  “If not Mentimancy then how did you do it?” I growled at her.

  “Once again: I didn’t do it,” she laughed. “If someone killed Leo, they did it because they wanted to. Now leave before I do have you beaten. I’d like to eat my cookies in peace without your earthy stench polluting the air around you. You always smell so . . . foul.”

  Session 168

  Vault was the wrong word for what we realm-jumped inside of.

  Museum, that was better.

  Big metal door, yes.

  But the rest . . .

  Maybe it’s just my poor ass redneck upbringing coming into play. Even after all these years, even after I got myself a million dollar business that deals in buckets of anima per day, I still think gold and cash when I think vault. The Guild don’t give a shit about those common valuables. Got them in a bank, digital ones and zeroes like all the rest of the modern civilized world. Shit, even I don’t care about cash so much, raised swamp-cooler white trash or not.