I grabbed the knife up, hefting it in my offhand. Always cut my meat with my offhand. Big ass snake, ain’t so different from a piece of pork is it? Except it ain’t going oink, oink but hiss, hiss.
Pit vipers poisonous? No idea.
Probably.
That’s not good.
Had some big fangs on it as it snapped off the GOB’s head, that’s for sure.
Mini abandoned ship and flew down into the floor, riding along the metal frame, up into a bed, before plopping himself into my SEM-DEW ball. Little pieces of him were left behind where he had to cross something that wasn’t metal.
He must be starving. Should find him a big rock to suck some geo-anima out of.
The snake turned to regard me, sliding up a wall and onto the same bed as all my artifacts. It wasn’t completely green. Had specks of black on it too. Made it a good forest hunter, I imagine. If it was a real snake and not just Rojas Shifted in a final last ditch effort to kill me.
I stood there, dumbly watching as the wereviper sized me up, opening and closing its mouth, tongue slipping out, eyes all weird and trippy.
That’s a big fucking snake, was all I could think.
The wereviper coiled up, preparing to strike.
My SEM-DEW went off on its own, covering the snake in a web-like layer of metal strands. It hissed, turning on the little ball to strike at it. The ball rolled off the bed, strands left behind, tangling around the snake as it thrashed to get free.
Mini to the rescue at last.
I sized up Rojas-the-Snake. Could chop him. Again and again maybe. Would be brutal. Would be dangerous too. Who knew what wereviper venom would do to a person? Mini was in the floor again, running circles around my feet. All my artifacts were next to the trashing snake. Big ass undulating piece of muscle and segmented bone coiling in on itself, trying to get out of the metal web and making it worse.
I dropped the knife, rushing forward to grab the only artifact that was irreplaceable, plus the one I needed to kill Sebastian Rojas. Kneeling down, I pressed the blade of my glass-metal dagger along the floor. “Get in there, you’ll be fine.”
Call it a hunch.
Call it the Mancy speaking to me.
But I knew it would work.
As Mini slid inside the blade, it wasn’t milky white any longer but glowed with a deep pulsing brown.
Rojas-the-Snake hissed at me. He tried to strike out, but was held back by the webbing. I hefted a Magic Little Ball in front of him. “Sorry, man, ain’t taking a chance with your fangs. Shit way to die, I know . . .”
Again he struck, closer this time, almost free.
I depressed a button and threw the Magic Little Ball on the bed.
All my artifacts, Sebastian Rojas, and the bed went up in flames.
I picked up my wallet and my phone on the way out.
In the hallway, I pulled a fire alarm.
Safety first.
Seconds later, water sprayed from the ceiling over the whole of that floor.
It sparkled with rainbows.
Session 55
It wasn’t the Blackjacks.
It was Mary and Teresa and some poor Tri girl they were currently convincing—bullying, buying, or bartering by any means necessary—to lead Welf into a back hallway of the Cafeteria filled only with maintenance rooms. I was familiar with said rooms, but only thanks to my sporadically nymphomaniac ex-girlfriend who likes to lure me into dark places and assault me while completely naked.
First World problems.
Too bad for Mary and Teresa, but I beat them to their target before they could do whatever they planned to do with Welf.
Burn him.
Or play with his pee-hole.
Or abduct him, smuggle him out of the Asylum, and ship him to a location where a hitman would be waiting to off him.
In my dreams, in my dreams!
But no . . . I’m saving the Nazi asshole a beating at best and some unimaginable horror of an experience at the worst.
Only I’m King Henry Price.
The way I went about saving Welf was . . . creative.
And involved punching.
Just one punch really.
To Welf’s face.
I like any plan that involves a punch to Welf’s face.
It’s like my signature move.
First part of my plan to save Welf: find a teacher.
To do this I swung by the teachers’ room in the Cafeteria. The door wasn’t locked, but I paused long enough to knock hurriedly before opening it. Pissing off the entire faculty ain’t even something I’ll do with a good reason and saving Heinrich Welf ain’t a good reason.
I got lucky and none of the teachers who disliked me were inside. Strangely enough that wasn’t that large of a number nowadays. Most of them looked on me with pride. Little shit didn’t do his homework all the way to ranking second by graduation. I was a job well done to any teacher.
Except for a few of them who didn’t like my foul mouth.
Fuckin’ prudes never give an inch as long as you ain’t doing things their prescribed way.
But I got lucky.
Only Keith Gullick, my Elementalism teacher; Rainbow Greenbrier my Elementalism as Art teacher; Kumiko Ambrose, my History teacher and fellow geomancer, and Jethro Smith—He Who Bakes—were inside. Plus others I didn’t recognize, of course. My sliver of the Asylum teacher pool was the top crust, the ones who taught Ultras. A lot of other poor fuckers out there teaching Intras science and math and shit.
Like me.
My plan would also have me away from my class for the second day in a row.
Lucky little shits get to go another day without my chalk montage on Neolithic culture.
Thinking about titling it: Dildos, How Ancient Are They?
I pointed at Smith, who was in the middle of debating some mancer magazine article with Keith Gullick. “I need another quick favor.”
Smith’s tall and skinny, but always slightly hunched over, due to playing guitar since he was eight. “They all know about the baking, you can’t keep trying to blackmail me like this.”
“I need you to catch me at a crime and punish me for it,” I stated openly.
Keith Gullick frowned at us, bearded face already crunched with worry. “I don’t like where this is headed.”
“You’re just jealous he didn’t pick you to help with whatever nefarious deed he’s planning,” Smith gloated. “I’m finally his favorite!”
“Now that he can blackmail you?”
“We’ll work through it.”
Gullick raised his hands in supplication. “Promise me no one will get hurt and I won’t lash the pair of you to some furniture.”
“Kinky floromancers!” Smith joked, already standing up from his mushroom omelet—a necromancer favorite.
“I’m serious, Jethro. He might not be our student any longer, but we—”
“I’m going on a date with Naomi this Sunday and I need a poem to read to her,” I lied—mostly . . . about the poem at least.
Keith Gullick looked like he’d been told he had cancer or worse . . . like ball cancer or something.
Smith shook his head in sympathy. “Daughters . . . are the stuff of nightmares. I’ll try to keep it PG, Keith.”
“But . . .” Gullick whined, in shock.
“And, uh . . . I’ll be a gentleman?” I tried.
Keith Gullick gave this funny little hurt moan that kept on going, no end in sight. It sounded like his soul had a heart attack.
Second part of the plan to save Welf: Find Welf.
Easy, no luck involved.
Breakfast time for the Ultra graduate students now, so he’d be at our table.
Along with Jason and Pocket and Jesus and Hope and Val and . . .
What are the odds that I start another huge class rumble again?
We cleared the stairs and there he was: Heinrich von Welf. Black colors, blond hair, clean-shaven face. Tall standing and tall in his seat too, even regal in the
way he held himself. Like you’d imagine some lord or count would sit overseeing his finances, fucking Bennet sister or two running around in the background trying to find a husband.
I glanced back at Smith, who smiled down at me. “What would you like your punishment to be?”
“I ever told you that I hate you for making me read Pride and Prejudice?”
“At least once a month.”
“And for making me watch the movie and the mini-series?”
“Two whole weeks where I don’t have to do a bit of work, it’s like having a vacation.” Smith frowned at something, nose twitching. “Are you pooling, Price?”
I headed straight for Welf.
Behind me, I heard Smith mutter under his breath, “The Lady will yell at me for this one . . .”
I tapped Welf on the shoulder.
Recognition followed by loathing followed by his manners getting the better of him, ending with remembering he needed to thank me for taking care of Vicky. “Foul Mouth,” he greeted me.
“Welf,” I greeted him.
Since I showed no sign of wanting to sit down, Welf stood up, motioning Jason—always protective when I’m around—to finish the massive mound of protein that corpusmancers called breakfast. Only Jason still didn’t eat. Around us the table went quiet.
“Mr. Smith,” Welf greeted the teacher present.
“Von Von,” Smith greeted him back with the nickname he’d given Welf.
Welf’s face flinched, but he’d learned to hide his feelings around me after four years. “I suppose you’ve come to extract your congratulations for helping Victoria . . . in front of everyone, of course. I knew you wouldn’t help her for any other reason than to hurt my pride. But you really didn’t fix the problem, did you, Foul Mouth? I finally saw Catherine Hayes punished.”
I would’ve rolled my eyes, but it wasn’t worth the calorie. “I did it for your sister . . . who somehow is a good person. I don’t like it when good people get bullied, Welf.”
His tombstone eyes turned extra hard. I’ve often wondered if Welf saw me as the bully. Probably. Bullies often do. Not that Welf was much of a traditional bully. He was so high on himself he just kept doing it on accident. Wasn’t malice, not like with the Three Queens or the Eriksons. Just . . . pure condescension.
Most of the time.
With me he always crossed that line.
Can’t say we ever brought out the best in each other.
“Fine then,” he said, “thank you for helping Victoria. Is that enough or do you want to shake my hand as well?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Lady yelling for weeks,” Smith muttered.
We shook hands like bulls lock horns. Welf’s fingers were long and thin, like the rest of him. Probably has a ten-inch penis the width of a pencil too. His hands were also soft, save for a single callus where he wrote with a pencil. Wood pencil, not cock pencil. Doubt Welf masturbates enough to get a callus from that thing.
If I haven’t managed a callus from masturbating then it’s probably impossible to manage.
Rest of me might have been short, but I’d already started to get my bulk on by Pent. Short, but stout, like all the other teapots in the world. My hands were especially large and craggy for someone my size. All them scars marking my knuckles were I’d punched the other guy.
Just like this situation.
“You put Catherine exactly where she wants to be, you douchebag.”
Welf snarled, hand squeezing harder. “She’s in the Holding Room and Victoria will have my many friends checking in on her across the day to assure her safety. I took care of it, Foul Mouth, while you ran like a coward.”
“Guessing one of those friends is Jason, right?” I asked, giving him my predator’s grin. Yeah, Catherine is good. Get the muscle on the helpless girl, not the real target.
“He’ll check to see she made it to her class in a few minutes,” Welf agreed with me, smug all over.
I nodded. Pieces clicked. “Just know I’m doing this for your own good. No hard feelings?”
“What?”
Then I iron fisted Welf in the face.
Let that be a lesson, kiddies: the handshake is only a good greeting if the other guy ain’t got his gun in the offhand.
If he does . . . your hand is just leverage.
Welf crumbled to the floor, out of it—just like always. I’d gotten really good at knocking him out over the years. Or else he’d just gotten used to it.
Jason stood up.
So did half of Ultra ‘09’s table.
Miranda, Val, Raj, and a sizable chunk of the class looked seriously disappointed in me.
Hope, Quinn, and Jessica looked like they were gonna scratch my eyeballs out.
Pocket and Jesus looked ready to jump on Jason, same as always, with the same results: matching black eyes for Pocket and Jesus.
But I held up my hand.
Same one Welf shook.
“Smith is gonna put me in the Holding Room. No need to follow me, is there?” I asked Jason.
Might be bulky for five-foot-eight, but Jason didn’t give a shit if I was bulky for six-foot-two. He still would’ve had fifty pounds on me. He flexed his muscles, corpusmancer coat of red and white bulging.
I was saved by the Tri girl showing up with a note for Welf just then. She saw all the figures squaring off and screamed, “They made me do it!” before throwing the note at Welf’s unconscious form and running off.
Always a mistake of people to assume that big means stupid. Jason ain’t that at all. Especially when it comes to plays. Brighter than his friend in that regard most times. “Care to explain?”
“Mary and Teresa are waiting to jump him once you’re off checking on Vicky,” I did explain that. “Why don’t you Jesus, Pocket, and a few of the other guys take that note and follow the directions? Give them a bit of a surprise?”
Hope stood up as well. Behind her back, I noticed Miranda eye the girl like she meant to tackle her to the ground if Hope did anything aggressive. I’d have smiled at being protected by Miranda Daniels, but it would’ve given the Ginger Nemesis’ game away.
Instead of being aggressive, Hope motioned at the note with a single finger.
Fetch.
Jason picked it up and handed it to her.
After reading it quickly, Hope nodded. “Take my boyfriend to the Infirmary, Jason.”
“He wouldn’t—”
“He’s unconscious and I don’t allow him to tell me what to do even when he isn’t,” Hope said with a tone so cold it made my balls shrink. She turned to the other girls in the class. “We have a pair of Queens to deal with, ladies.”
Debra and Naomi checked on their cliques and then each gave a nod to the other. Val and Miranda shared a shrug. So did Asa and Eva and the rest of the United Nations.
“So unbelievably turned on right now,” Estefan Ramirez commented to everyone else’s laughter.
Hope turned back to me. “Class meeting tonight,” she ordered me. “And you’ll apologize.”
I shrugged. “Fine.”
“You will,” Hope warned, “or the Three Queens will be the least of your worries.”
I turned around to finally remember Jethro Smith lurking behind me. His expression suggested he had whatever was worse than ball cancer. Like . . . testicular ebola or something. “I just wanted to be the cool teacher,” he whimpered.
[CLICK]
The Holding Room always reminds me of Cerebro from the X-Men.
King Henry with the comic book reference, surprise fucking surprise.
But it does.
Big, metal, white sphere and all that, except instead of Charles Xavier at the center trying not to fall out of his wheelchair while failing to stop Magneto for the hundredth time cuz Xavier is such a goody-goody twat you have an equally big, metal, white pillar.
The Holding Room felt modern if not futuristic, despite it being one of the oldest parts of the Asylum. The twin circles of slender beds that doubled
as benches gave away its purpose: imprisonment. The slender beds . . . and the fact that every ten seconds any anima you tried to pool got pushed right out of your body by one of the heaviest geo-anima blasts you’ll ever feel.
The Holding Room is a miniature version of the prison they have under the Guild of Artificers. What? Your normal high school don’t have a prison, kiddies? ‘Nother plus for the Asylum, I guess. ‘Nother plus for the nice, quiet, normal one showing it ain’t so normal after all. Has some psychopathic serial killer at its heart. We will snuff you out if you overstep yourself, that’s what the Holding Room says to every student who walks through the white-paneled door.
Can’t blame the faculty. If you teach teenagers how to throw fireballs or lightning or even badass ferns like Pocket, you need some place where you can cut out all that hubris in a hurry and remind them they’re just a teenager and no one is god damned impressed and yes, we know exactly what you’re going through and no, you are not fucking special and we wash your clothes. We know exactly what you’re doing with your socks, you perverted little ape.
This was the third occasion I’ve had the joy of ending up on the inside of that sterile, white sphere. The first one was during the Staff of Rebirth episode and the second just after my mom died, when I accidentally caused my whole class to start an over-the-top royal rumble. That first time had been me alone with a group of Learning Council members grilling me for information. Feeling the strange effect of the artifact blasting anima out of my body and having to think up believable lies had been tense. In contrast, the second stay had brought relief and release, allowing me to get over Mom’s death . . . or at least start to get over it.
Or accept it.
Not sure I’ll ever get over it.
Sticks in my craw to this day.
Drives me.
No more abandoned Intra corpusmancers.
Wasn’t a corpusmancer waiting for me.
No recruiter would have ever considered abandoning Catherine Hayes. Even finding out her predilection for papercutting people for fun, even finding out her widely-rumored violent outbursts in the sack, not even after she’d driven one girl to suicide and others to transfer out of the school to be away from her.
The Foul Mouth and the Mancy Martial Artist (The King Henry Tapes Book 5) Page 44