Kid I saw almost every day for four whole years. All day. Class after class. Kid I slept in the same room with. Kid I laughed at and very occasionally with. Kid was friends with Raj long before I was. Uptight. Prudish. Too logical for his own good. Upstanding Athir Al-Qasimi, fuck your stereotypes, his English is better than yours. Athir Al-Qasimi, didn’t ever want to hurt a fly, one of the worst members of our Winter War teams.
Athir Al-Qasimi.
So very dead.
But not quite yet.
One of his dark eyes caught sight of me and a smile formed on his face. The shift in muscles made blood dribble out of it, but I tried to ignore that as I forced a smile back at him. “Got your note,” I managed to grunt out.
His fingers flicked in my direction and I reached down to hold him.
Just like Leo.
But . . .
Not like Leo at all.
Menti-anima hit me.
Like a sledgehammer.
Like a hammer of god.
Now there were two broken puppets lying on the ground.
One dying.
One unable to escape his own mind.
One a hero.
And the piece of foul dirt our hero had to work with.
[CLICK]
Never died before.
Can’t say I’m looking to do it again.
One time seems like enough.
Gonna happen though.
Lucky King Henry Price, he gets to die twice.
Can’t escape death after all. Even the masters of death, even the Bonegrinders can’t escape it. Worse, they have to cloak themselves with it. Live every day of their lives reminded they’re gonna die. Gonna be on that table just like them Constructs they use as meat puppets. Hell, even vampires die eventually. Supposedly. Never met one before. Should probably get around to doing that . . .
Cuz my curiosity has never gotten me fucked before.
Case in point . . . going to see Athir based on a simple little note.
Can’t blame my foul mouth for that one, can you, Ceinwyn?
Curiosity.
No curiosity where I was now.
Stuck in my own mind.
Or . . . not my mind.
Athir’s mind. Athir’s mind on crack. Athir’s mind on LSD. Athir’s mind as its divine spark unraveled. Too spiritual? Okay, Athir’s mind as his nerve endings overloaded from the pain. Athir’s mind as the oxygen and blood he needed to run said brain spilled out on the floor around him. Athir’s mind as the power supply got shut off one generator at a time.
I’m sitting on my favorite bench. It’s evening, only the sky above me is colored with clashes of orange and blue, like something out of Van Gogh. My favorite bench. It reminds me of a park near my parent’s flat in London. My nanny used to take me to it and sit me on the bench with a small ice cream cone, especially in the summer. We watched the birds and the people walk on by.
The trees are dripping.
Not from rain, but like they can’t hold form. Watercolor that used too much paint, dripping down to ruin the rest of the painting.
I worried.
How I worried.
I didn’t have anywhere else to be. Homework that Mr. Jakovic gave us, but . . . homework didn’t seem important at the moment. All that mattered was the letter I wrote and when King Henry Price would read it. It could be hours. I hoped it wasn’t hours. People’s lives were at stake. The whole situation was out of control. I had tried my best to be a good friend and fix it, but friendship wasn’t enough.
I needed to go to someone else with this.
Someone who would believe me.
I didn’t have a good relationship with King Henry Price, but he was the only one who seemed troubled by Scott’s death. Teresa Garcia and Mary O’Connell had been too, but I couldn’t go to them. They were part of the problem. They were the reason everything had spun out of control.
There was water nearby, only it sounded like it was boiling, hissing, angry. That wasn’t right.
All wrong, too much pain to focus the anima. You have to understand! You have to stop it!
King Henry Price would be a good choice to help, I knew, if only because he could handle himself if matters got physical and given our problem, they had a good chance of getting physical. I have tried, how I have tried. For years, but especially these last days. It’s too much for me alone now. Too big a problem. People had died. Something had to be done and none of the teachers would believe me.
Or perhaps it is my fault. Perhaps I am merely unable to tell them in phrases they will understand. Perhaps it is not even my fault, but merely my anima-type. There always seems to be a wall between me and all the other mancers. Every mentimancer feels it, but with me it’s jagged and sharp, just waiting to cut at my hands when I attempt to scale it.
They all look at me like I’m speaking a different language.
I do know many languages . . . I wonder if the wall would disappear if I tried to talk to a foreign student . . .
The sun has disappeared, leaving a black hole in its place.
As omens go, it’s about as on the point as one can get.
Listen to me! For once listen to me! See!
I’m not alone.
It’s not King Henry Price.
Tall, blond, blue eyed, clothed in stolen black. Heinrich Welf. Of course. That made sense. That fit the whole puzzle together. “You have to stop,” I said.
“What did you do, Athir?” Welf asked me, even the voice perfect.
“I told you, you have to stop. You are . . . you have gone too far,” I replied, trying to appear calm and rational. I’m always rational.
Welf stalked forward. “I have it all tied up. No one else is going to get hurt. You see why I had to do that, right? They were getting close, but now it’s all finished.”
“Scott Hardy is dead.”
“I didn’t want to hurt him, but I had to!”
Welf stepped closer and I finally rose from the bench. I pooled anima, though I had no idea what good it would do me. Welf failed to feel it, always deadened to outside influences. “You need help,” I tried to explain, the wall present even here, even with years of familiarity. “He’ll help us.”
“Who?” Welf snarled. “Who did you tell?”
“I wrote King Henry Price a note. He’s coming here. You need to tell him what happened.”
“No!” Welf screamed, distraught. “You told him? Why would you tell him of all people!?!? You know how I feel about him . . .”
Do you see? Please, see it! It’s so hard, but I’m trying with all I have left!
Stop it!
“You betrayed me,” Welf whined.
“I haven’t told him yet,” I said. “Tell him yourself, it will be better that way.”
“No.”
“Two people are dead. You are out of control. You need to stop this,” I tried. We were friends, but it was always hard when it came to emotion. The wall, even here. Even if I could see through this one to the light beyond. So special and none of the others see it. How I wish I had the words to share what I saw.
The words . . . the words are broken . . . you have to see it, King Henry Price.
Welf’s eyes flickered into a realm of madness before returning to find my face. In them I saw what was about to happen. I realized my mistake. Realized it’s more out of control than I ever imagined. How? How did it go so wrong, so fast?
“No,” Welf whined in pain. “No, he can’t know. If he knows then . . . what did you do!?!?!”
The first blow literally broke my heart.
More followed.
I lie there dying as Welf sobbed over me.
Footsteps.
Welf ran off.
The footsteps grow louder.
King Henry Price, a minute too late.
But I have anima . . . if I can just hold on . . .
Please see it. Please stop it.
[CLICK]
Knew I was in the Infirmary from the smell more than anythin
g else.
Slush, latex, and disinfectant.
Was either the Infirmary or the kinkiest sex dungeon this side of the Sierra Nevadas.
Sure felt like I’d been fucked in just about every hole I had. Whatever did it might have even made some new ones. You know those videos of skateboarders where they’re grinding railings and the skateboard goes one way and gravity sends their nuts directly down into the railing? That’s how I felt, except instead of my nuts, it was my brain.
You’re talking to a person who smashed their own forehead into the wall earlier in the week. Didn’t have shit on what I felt now.
Felt like there were two King Henrys. The one waking up and the one stuck reliving the same memory over and over. Athir, I realized, what did you do to me, you asshole?!? Cheapshotted me with menti-anima. Tried to . . . do something. Only managed partial success. See something, stop something . . . I don’t . . .
Headache.
Migraine.
Whichever one it was, it made me gasp the second after consciousness bloomed.
Gasp ain’t the right word for it. Not sure there’s a German one for this occasion, but the best analogy is that sound you make after you’ve had something hit you hard right in the chest and the wind has been knocked out of you. Only part choking, but all pure shock.
Sent my body bolt upright on the hospital bed.
Sudden movement made my brain feel like it got flung off into outer space.
Which made me go completely limp as my whole nervous system shut itself off to protect the mothership.
Welf. Athir was talking to Welf. What the fuck is going on?
Still didn’t see it, kiddies.
Maybe some of you do. Maybe it seems so fucking obvious from the outside looking in. To be fair, you haven’t just had your brain twirled in a blender. Don’t know if that excuse is even enough. Maybe I should’ve put it together. Just had a classmate give his life and the message was all jumbled.
Splat.
Yank.
Crush.
Welf killed Athir? Just so I wouldn’t find out? That what I saw?
Groan escaped me as air found a path back into my lungs. My brain did a three-sixty and a handstand, all of it while drunk. Smelled Slush in the room, but couldn’t feel it on my body. Did realize I’d been changed into a hospital gown. Lights of the Infirmary hurt to glance at, not that I could focus on seeing anything specific. Kept getting flashes of that orange and blue sky, them swirls of an impressionist painting coiling around each other.
Hand reached out to press on my chest, hold me down. Made me flinch hard. Too close to what I felt as Athir died. That hit so powerful it could’ve smashed stone much less flesh. Iron fist, I thought, except . . . no anima I think.
Hard to think much when the trees are dripping on the floor.
There are no trees in Infirmary, I reminded myself.
Someone said something.
I blinked at the vague shape of a head above me.
Repeated the question.
“What?” I slurred.
I think.
Put a hand over my eyes, trying to focus on the face.
Okay, I knew that face. Not my favorite face, but I couldn’t imagine her ever trying to kill me either.
The Lady.
Guess I rated the highest of care this go around.
She repeated what she’d said a third time, “Can you hear me, King Henry?”
“Uhuh,” I managed to get out.
“How old are you?”
Stupid question, but okay. “Eighteen.”
“Who’s your best friend?”
“Pocket,” I decided to go with.
“What time is it?”
“It’s . . .” I paused. “No idea.”
“Good,” she said, pleased that I realized I’d been unconscious, for whatever reason. “It’s 2AM. You’ve been sleeping for a few hours. Do you remember what happened last night?”
“Athir sent me a note to come talk,” I kept grunting out, head ringing. “He was . . . almost dead when I got there. Used a conjuration on me.”
The Lady nodded, all-knowing eyes sharp on the details. “You were seizing when we found you and only stopped once I preformed counter-conjurations meant to expel foreign anima from your system. Little hydromancer trick I picked up in my misspent youth. Evelyn was quite impressed and very jealous I hadn’t thought to teach it to her, but these things slip the mind, don’t they?”
“Your youth . . . that like when there were knights and stuff?”
She cackled a bit for me. “Very good, King Henry. You’re coming back slowly but steadily, I see.”
“What that mean?”
“In addition to seizing, you were also mumbling Arabic when we found you.”
“How did you find me?”
“Paul had an anima concentration following you. You’ll consider it spying, no doubt, but it is nice to know he worries, isn’t it?”
I grunted, too confused to be angry at Plutarch. The Lady’s face kept shifting right in front of me. Like a funhouse mirror. Fat Lady. Skinny Lady. Monster Lady. No beautiful Lady . . . even mirrors have their limits.
“He even used the phone to call me,” the Lady continued. “Good thing he did. Menti-anima is always dangerous, but never more than when the user is losing control of their focus and well . . . Athir was in no position to keep his.”
“Dying. Crushed.”
The Lady nodded, her nose going sideways. “Yes. He’s passed. Mordecai raided both of your apartments, found the note. Given the damage done to the body and your favorite conjuration being well-known, Mordecai was ready to throw you in the Holding Room, not the Infirmary—”
“He was already dying when I—”
“The anima concentration,” the Lady reminded me. “Not good enough for court, but good enough for me to know it wasn’t you who did that to Athir.”
“Crush,” I repeated.
Her wrinkled, vein-ridden hand found my shoulder, lightly patting it. “You’re safe. You’re not Athir. You are King Henry Price. Whatever you saw, whatever he tried to show you, it did not happen to you.”
A shudder ran through me as I remembered the blow caving my chest inward. Welf . . . it doesn’t make any sense.
“The school is . . . hectic,” the Lady explained. “A thousand new fires have sprouted and just when we all hoped this horrible incident was stamped out. Murder like this . . . I would weep if I still had tears in me, but I rid myself of them many years ago. I’ve had to completely cancel classes. ESLED agents are biting at my heels to walk the campus as security. Mordecai wants to round up any student with a poor psych evaluation in the last six months. Another mother and father to call . . . to tell them how horribly we failed their child . . .”
Weakest I’ve ever seen the Lady.
Weakest I’ve ever seen any of the teachers.
Just as shell-shocked as the rest of us.
Three murders in almost as many days.
And why?
Madness, the madness inside of us all.
Try to control it.
Try to look the other way and hope for better angels.
But sometimes that madness overcomes.
Sometimes that madness consumes.
Every time it happened before, the student burned out before they could hurt anyone. All them suicides. Or it was contained with special evaluations and pharmaceuticals or therapy or . . . a million little cages keeping back the beast, chaining it down, keeping us all safe.
Now . . . none of us felt safe.
There was a killer at the Asylum.
No more ignoring it.
No more hoping it was an accident followed by a guilt-ridden suicide.
Someone killed Leo, Scott, and Athir.
There you go, kiddies, there’s your three murders.
Splat.
Yank.
Crush.
The Dean of the Asylum kept patting me on the shoulder. “At least you’re okay,” s
he told me. “At least they didn’t take you too.”
Don’t know why, but I tried to cheer her up. “Not standing, but still cursing.”
“Get some more sleep,” the Lady ordered, “Mordecai’s questions can wait until the morning.”
Sleep.
I could do sleep.
“Evelyn, keep an eye on him for me, please. I need to return to my duties,” I heard the Lady say as I tumbled back down into unconsciousness. “Do you know the worst part? It’s not the three dead children. It’s that one of my living children is a murderer . . . and I’ll have to punish them. Punish them most severe.”
[CLICK]
I’m sitting on my favorite bench. Don’t know what time it is, the sky isn’t exactly a sky any longer, more like a supernova of color. My favorite bench. It reminds me of a park near my parent’s flat in London. My nanny used to take me to it and sit me on the bench with a small ice cream cone, especially in the summer. We watched the birds and the people walk on by.
The trees are puddles on the floor.
Boiling puddles of watercolor tree.
Make even Bob Ross unhappy, I heard someone think, but it wasn’t me. Happy little trees gone to tree heaven.
I ignore the voice, focusing on my worry.
How I worried.
I didn’t have anywhere else to be. Homework that Mr. Jakovic gave us, but . . . homework didn’t seem important at the moment. All that mattered was the letter I wrote and when King Henry Price would read it. It could be hours. I hoped it wasn’t hours. People’s lives were at stake. The whole situation was out of control. I had tried my best to be a good friend and fix it, but friendship wasn’t enough.
Friendship, wouldn’t call you friends with Welf. Why would you bother protecting him?
On my bench, my head twitched. Hearing voices, a very bad sign. More proof I needed to go to someone else with this.
Someone who would believe me.
I didn’t have a good relationship with King Henry Price, but he was the only one who seemed troubled by Scott’s death. Teresa Garcia and Mary O’Connell had been too, but I couldn’t go to them. They were part of the problem. They were the reason everything had spun out of control.
There might have been water nearby or maybe it evaporated hours ago.
King Henry Price would be a good choice to help, I knew, if only because he could handle himself if matters got physical and given our problem, they had a good chance of getting physical. I have tried, how I have tried. For years, but especially these last days. It’s too much for me alone now. Too big a problem. People had died. Something had to be done and none of the teachers would believe me.
The Pit of No Return (The King Henry Tapes Book 6) Page 51