The Foul Mouth and the Troubled Boomworm (The King Henry Tapes)

by Raley, Richard

  Strange’s eyes flashed in anger. “Can you prove that?”

  “Nah . . . course not, that’s why it’s so smart.”

  “Too bad,” she whispered. Her finger found the cut, gently tracing around it. “You’re spending the night.”

  “Bummer.”

  “Shoulders are fine but another round of Slush for your face, plus a bit of direct healing from me before you go to bed.”

  “Sexual healing?”

  “My finger is centimeters from an open wound, Price.”

  “Kinky, Doc.”

  “Even with all that . . . no nerve damage, but you’ll still have a scar.”

  “Took me long enough.”

  Strange’s face twitched, looking a little sad at all the pessimism. It’s truth though . . . other than the one’s on my knuckles, it would be my first. My life and I made it to fifteen without a badass scar. Believe that shit?

  She drew the privacy curtain shut so only I was left inside. “Out of the shoes and the pants and then back in bed.”

  “Sexual healing it is!”

  [CLICK]

  Pocket and Raj kept me company for a bit. Which is pretty cool of them, Winter War matches still went on out there . . . and chili fries waited to be ate . . . by anyone . . . for free. Not sure which one of those two is more important . . . probably Winter War, but just barely.

  Strange left us alone. Other patients came in, proof that the Winter War was in high swing. I’ve heard they never have more Slush at the place than during the War, Strange and her team of hydromancer nurses and student-helpers working overtime, even the Lady pitches in. No idea how it works. Just know it does work.

  I could feel the cut tightening, the bruises fading. Hydro-anima, amazing stuff. Too bad Asa ain’t on my best-buddies list; I could use the connection for my artifact experiments. Guess I shouldn’t have called her a stuck-up bitch so often . . . but really, she should get over it, right? I mean . . . I still call Miranda a firecrotch and she’ll supply me with aero-anima if I pay her. Suppose I could apologize to Asa for my wayward teenage ways . . .

  Nah.

  “I don’t look too bad, right?”

  Raj couldn’t look me in the face. He went from bronze to greenish when he did. Pocket could look me in the face but only because he kept staring at the cut. “It’s um . . . I don’t know . . .” he zoned out.

  “That bad?”

  Raj glanced away again. “Please stop talking. It moves when you talk.”

  “You didn’t care earlier.”

  “It was covered with H.A.I.M.S earlier.”

  Pocket squinted at the cut. “Did he just say hams? I had to throw away my pirozhok to pick you up.”

  “Ain’t ham just collectively ham though? Does it have a hams version?”

  “Yeah, see your point, about the food. It’s always ham no matter how much. But I think people call pig a ham so pigs could be hams, right?”

  I scratched at the edge of the cut. “Another question: why is all Mexican food plural?”

  Pocket thought about it. “Not salsa.”

  “Huh.”

  “H.A.I.M.S,” Raj finally broke, “Hydro Anima Infused Medical Salve.”

  I pointed at him with my thumb, asking Pocket, “He’s like Miranda without the tits, the ginger, and the bad attitude; can we keep him?”

  Pocket squinted some more, this time at Raj. “You got that dreamy look again.”

  “Fine!” Raj sulked, accepting his broken state and giving up on just the tinniest bit of his usual polite and reserved attitude, “I’m in love . . . with Miranda.”

  “Can people be in love with gingers, is that allowed?” I asked.

  “Stop saying things like that about her!” Raj growled at me, rising from his seat. “She’s an amazing woman. Intelligent, funny, beautiful. She knows more than anyone I’ve ever met our age, she’s quick and has a wonderful wit . . . she laughs at my jokes . . .”

  “You make jokes?”

  “King Henry,” Pocket scolded.

  “Okay, okay. But . . . having a crush on Miranda . . . it’s . . . just . . . wow . . . I mean if she offered I’d oblige but I think we can admit that’s a hurdle I clear with pretty much any girl beside Isabel.”

  Raj didn’t sit down. “She wouldn’t!”

  I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. “Trust me: I’m the least of your worries.” Raj seemed quizzical so I followed up, “You want to go to the Winter Ball with her, right?”

  Raj did sit down. Like reality had torn his heart out. “It will never happen. She doesn’t want to go with any boy. Valentine and she are going as friends.”

  “Okay, well, we’ll have to fix that then.”

  “You . . . want to help me?”

  “Sure. I’m an awesome fucking wingman, just ask Pocket.”

  Pocket blinked. “You almost got me slapped yesterday.”

  “You didn’t want a date, you didn’t get a date. Thus: I’m awesome.”

  “Too bad Raj wants the exact opposite.”

  “By the way, man, have you happened to look out the door to this place yet?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Give it a peek,” I suggested.

  Pocket turned around. Pocket turned back around. His whole body shook. “Mancy save me . . .”

  A mob of Bi and Single girls barricaded the outside of the doors, with even some Intra Tri’s and Quads sprinkled in. They stared at the door, occasionally getting a peek of Pocket and giving a shout. “He’s still in there!” “He’s so cute when he tries to think!” “Look at those eyes!” “The hair!” “The shoulders!” “His butt!”

  “What am I going to do?!?” Pocket pleaded.

  “Just a sec, making a deal with Raj now, remember?”

  Raj didn’t seem enthused. “Why would you want to help?”

  “I can’t be helpful for the sake of being helpful?”

  “No . . .”

  “You want to go with Miranda, I want to go with Val; we help each other accomplish this, simple enough?”

  Raj gasped. “You like Valentine?”

  “Dude,” Pocket said, “I know you joke with her, but . . . I didn’t think you could like a girl like that.”

  “I’m fucking deep, okay?”

  “Valentine . . .” Raj repeated.

  “That’s aiming about as high as you can,” Pocket agreed.

  “So, we have a deal? I know quite a lot about Miranda and know how she thinks—I can help there. You hang out with Val all the time, so—you can do the same.”

  Raj scratched just below his turban. “Valentine is rather complicated, but—if any man can help—I suppose it’s me. I never thought about Valentine like that . . . she’s always so . . . so . . .”

  “Too amazing,” Pocket whispered.

  “Yeah, and it will really piss off Welf if she goes with me,” I added.

  Pocket and Raj shared a look and threw their hands in the air. “Of course!” they said together.

  Strange came over and set down a clear plastic bag filled with glowing blue Slush. She checked my cut too. “Five minutes before the next session. Your friends will need to leave, Price.”

  I nodded. “Sure thing. See ya, guys; go watch some War for me. Eat chili fries, enjoy life . . .”

  Pocket had a little fit. “I can’t go out there!”

  I rolled my eyes at him like he was thick. “Ask out one of the student-helpers. In front of the door, if possible, so they all see.”

  “Same as last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if they say ‘yes’?”

  I studied the various student-helpers for a bit. One was perfect. “Ask Sabine.”

  Pocket blushed. So did Raj.

  Once you’ve seen a girl in a swimsuit it’s hard to forget it. Or in lingerie. Or naked . . . naked is better. “We beat her class; no way that she goes with you.”

  Pocket went over to Sabine. She was treating another student for a broken wrist if th
e Slush tank on his arm was any guess. Sabine looked hotter, if possible. Sandy skin, blond hair done up, even had some make-up on. It wasn’t quite a candy striper uniform but with her blue colors skirt ending at the knee and a white lab coat that cut off at the hip—it was close enough.

  Raj leaned in close to me so he could whisper without Strange hearing. “You really think you can get Miranda to go out with me?”

  “Yes . . . also, don’t make any plans for tomorrow night.”

  Raj frowned. “Why?”

  “Revenge.”

  Pocket came back over to us. He shook worse than he had all day. “And she said yes . . .”

  Oops . . .

  Still . . .

  Awesome fucking wingman.

  [CLICK]

  Two nights later, I woke Raj up by covering his mouth with my hand. Which just goes to show you how backwards this world is. The only way to make sure someone doesn’t talk the moment they wake up is the same exact way to make sure someone wakes up freaking the fuck out. Raj struggled, grabbing at my hand, and screaming about the violence inherit in the system for all I know.

  With my spare hand I flicked on a lighter.

  He settled down a bit, able to see my outline in the darkness of Class ‘09s common bedroom. Raj was one of the kids who couldn’t sleep without his curtains drawn, so there was some privacy against watching eyes. Not much privacy against listening ears though, so I inched down as close as I could. “Meet me outside in five minutes,” I whispered

  I felt his mouth move against my fingers.

  “Outside. I told you to be ready. So, outside.”

  When he nodded, I let my hand fall away. I gave my own nod back at him before crawling my way under his curtains and out into the path through the double row of beds. Everyone was asleep. Long day. For me too, but I had work to do.

  My night in the Infirmary had left me with a nice scar on my cheek and an extra pissed off personality. Strange didn’t even let me out for breakfast at the Cafeteria, she had it brought to me, and then Sabine walked me to meet up with my class. Shit had gotten tense at the Asylum thanks to yours truly . . . oops.

  People moved in nervous herds all day. There’d been six different fights since mine, some with actual punches. Even the electromancers became annoyed with each other, that’s saying something since they’re always buddy-buddy. Nervous, on edge, the school watched the next round of the Winter War.

  The Boydston Honey Badgers beat the Weaver Wasps—what the fuck is it with these people and alliteration? The Badgers would get a slot against top-seeded Ultra Class ’07, the Three Queens and their Blackjacks. Not an envious position . . . kind of like a guy getting a coupon for half off a Brazilian wax and a complementary anal bleaching. You’re a winner! Now get those pants off and stop clenching those cheeks.

  In the other game, the Eriksons went to work and destroyed everything in their path. Cutting me seemed to bring out the Viking berserker in them. They punched, smashed, and stomped their way to a quick victory and a spot against Ultra Class ’09.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, not emotionally taxing enough, Welf made our class practice until dinner. In the rain. Cuz he’s smart or something. Thinks he is . . .

  They all slept, snored, drooled, tongued their pillows for all I know. Not me. Time for my revenge on the Eriksons.

  No punching, no physical . . . I swear.

  What?

  Don’t trust me, kiddies?

  Heh, guess I wouldn’t either.

  Good idea not to trust that King Henry Price.

  Haven’t you heard the story about how he drugged every Intra in the school?

  Not that they can prove it . . .

  No punching, no physical . . . I swear.

  Session 126

  Vega set up our meeting in Golden Gate Park.

  Cuz ya know, who doesn’t want to meet up in Golden Gate Park at midnight?

  Hey, where’d that cracked-out homeless guy humping my leg come from?

  Even for the King of the Coyotes, people won’t snap to his will. It’s a good reminder for the King of Dirt about where my place is on them power ladders. Few hours gone by sitting in a hotel room, waiting for the pieces to move into play. Another hour in a car. All the while . . . Christmas doesn’t get a step closer to being found. All the while . . . Jason Jackson be moving closer towards us, ESLED be moving closer towards us, Ceinwyn Dale be moving closer towards us.

  You think I would’ve learned. Same shit as the Coyote Nation and JoJo really. Girl in distress. Mysterious bad guy with unknown motives. Ceinwyn calling me, telling me to cool down and let her handle it. Talking the person with me at the time into doing some stupid shit. Same chain of events, ain’t it?

  Last time I did the grown-up thing: I stopped. Kept the peace, let JoJo make her choice, shook Vega’s hand and made a deal. Found some victory in my failure. Adult King Henry—the fucking diplomat. I know it looks like he’s bending over and spreading his ass cheeks, but trust me, it’s totally healthy.

  They call it civilization, the Greeks invented it.

  This time . . . worse than last time . . . and I ain’t learned no lessons for all the civility that’s been forced on me one trust at a time. Teenage girl, not no adult. Not got herself into trouble but been stolen away. Ceinwyn Dale off Mancy knows where—only Jason Jackson as some immediate backup. Not no T-Bone whining and trying to talk me out of wreck and ruin but instead my Valentine, standing beside me. I can see it in her eyes; woman believes we can do it.

  Get Christmas back. Take on this Curator cocksucker.

  Don’t know if I believe we can do it, but I’ll smash face and curse the world for as long as the bones and muscles holding my fists can stay together.

  Long as my prize is getting to spend more time with Valentine Ward.

  Long as she keeps looking at me like that . . .

  Get ready to crack, world.

  This time you’re bending over.

  I was back into my geomancer’s coat, every artifact I had on me close at hand. Val had changed into a full legged pair of jeans, tennis shoes good for running, and the t-shirt I’d made for her. Forget about that, did you?

  It was pink with a little black-lined fairy looking thing surrounded in an outline of red flames. Also in red, I put letters above and below, which said: I clapped / I killed Tinkerbell.

  Ain’t I an artist?

  Next thing ya know, I’ll be painting with my own feces.

  Val’s always . . . fucking hot—to use a term my fourteen-year-old ass would have—but now she looked hot and capable of doing some action movie running and gunning. Other than the tougher clothes, she brought along her emergency kit, though whether she had some Anti-Were spray inside of it or just planned to smash them over the head with the metal briefcase I’m not sure.

  Why should I be the only one with secret toys?

  Val and me, our whole relationship is built on us surprising the other. One-upping the other. On trusting the other enough to watch in awe as the one-up kicks some serious ass. With the whole Fireball of Doom thing . . . well, she was pretty far ahead now.

  Got to up your game, son.

  I just barely kept from fidgeting as we found the spot. We were early and no one else was around. By a lake, boathouse closed for the night, some benches all around. Ducks and shit. Lampposts and shit. It was cold even for July. What’s that Twain quote about summer in San Francisco? No wonder the vampires love the place so much.

  Love it more now than ever before, Curator really kicked them out of Seattle and Vancouver. Don’t know if I believe Vega about that. Two fucking embassies? Ceded? Surrendered? With badasses like Annie B around? How badass you got to be to scare off two whole embassies? Dukes? Counts? Don’t know if I can believe it.

  Val sat down at the bench, clicking her teeth. Not sure I liked being so exposed but I forced myself to sit down beside her. She was nervous. So was I, I guess. Two different Were Nations. If they attacked us . . . there was all the rea
son I needed for the ten-minute pool I’d built up. Given the rumbling in my toes, Val had done the same.

  Weres are just extra-tough people, but as the kidnappers showed, enough people can roll over mancers. They brought twenty something guys with guns and we’d be very dead. Only thing keeping my hide whole is Horatio Vega’s word.

  “Tell me about splitting pools,” Val blurted out.

  “We can talk about it if you want,” I blurted out at exactly the same time.

  Val eyed me with those eyes without irises. “What?”

  I made an explosion motion with my hand.

  “Killing the guy again?”

  I nodded. “It’s bugging you. So we talk about it. Keep us Ultras from going crazy. Or something.”

  “And why should we speak of it instead of you teaching me something valuable to our predicament?”

  “Cuz . . . feelings and stuff. I’ve been told this is what you ladies crave in a man.”

  She smirked but let herself be drawn into the conversation. “And who told you this?”

  “Well . . . usually local college chicks before I manage to convince them that one night stands are awesome.”

  She shook her head at my bullshit, gazing out over the lake. “They’re late.”

  “Trying to make the other guy be first.”

  “Probably.”

  “Biggest dick and all that.”

  Val’s eyes found her feet. “Have you ever killed anyone, King Henry?”

  I scanned the adjacent area for our Weres yet again, but no sign yet. “I killed some vampires,” I said, “hard to count them as people though. Felt worse about the property damage really.”

  “That driver was the third man I’ve killed,” Val admitted.

  My head snapped back to her. “The fuck?”

  “Yeah, King Henry . . . the fuck,” she whispered. “Recruiters . . . Ceinwyn doesn’t use us like in the old days. We’re scouts for the Institution—her rangers. Pathfinders, I suppose. We don’t just look for recruits; we look for signs of those we’ve missed, of those too far gone . . . and those not so far gone. Most of the time we test them with a portable, check around, make sure they haven’t harmed anyone. But if they have, or if they test as a missed Ultra . . .