But not this year.
This year he couldn’t look forward beyond a few hours.
He was just trying his best to survive each day.
A day without the Gap stopping him cold, a day without an accidental anima discharge, even a day where he wasn’t forced to go off on his own.
These are my victories.
Sitting down at lunch with Pocket, Raj, and Jesus—whom he’d apparently missed becoming a full time member of the group in his little self-enforced absence. Guess Pocket was lonely without someone cursing around him. Making a self-deprecating joke instead of wanting to put his fist into someone’s face. Putting up with Miranda’s nagging without snapping at her. Listening quietly to Raj’s fearful thoughts on Naomi dumping him now that he’d had a taste, instead of pointing out that the buffet was open 24/7 and he didn’t have a chance of keeping it all to himself. Not pulling his hair out about how one minute Val acted like he was friendzoned until hell froze over and the next she’d be dragging him into some closet, not a stitch of clothing to be found.
These are my triumphs.
True to his boast to Miss Dale, he also saw his grades shoot up to levels that had the rest of the class surprised, especially Welf. Pompous ass always wants the number one spot but he especially wants it for December Evaluations since the first in our class wins the captain’s spot for Winter War. Val’s so brilliant she’s always a threat to him and he’s never forgotten how I screwed him over with the Camping Test during Single by bumping Miranda up and him down.
Did King Henry really care about the captain’s spot? Or grades in general? Sure hadn’t when he arrived at the Asylum and he sure didn’t seek anyone’s approval, but . . . they just seemed to happen now. Mostly he cared about learning about the Mancy, the knowledge and the craft of it.
He wanted more knowledge, he wanted better craft. Any edge in that goal seemed worth a sacrifice and sucking up to the teachers with better tests and better papers opened up more conversations about the Mancy—they might mostly be closed-lipped but occasionally they slipped up.
Last year, he’d been pretty shocked about how they responded to him going from the bottom of the class to the middle of the class. Now, they were fucking ecstatic about it. Pretty sure they think I’ve surrendered to their outlook or something. Wasn’t that. But . . . I don’t care what they think, right? Or the other kids in Ultra ’09?
Eyes on the goal: learn as much as you possibly can about the Mancy. Gain an edge. Use it to cut out a throat if someone comes after you.
Is knowledge power, as the saying goes?
Well . . . if so, then knowledge about how to throw a fucking boulder at someone is a fusion reactor of badass.
It probably explained why Elementalism as a Weapon was his favorite class. When you have a chance to work day after day with a master like Fines Samson—even if he’s so old his nutsack scrapes the ground—you take it.
He even enjoyed it . . . learning though it was.
Son of a bitch . . . I’m so fucked up right now, he thought.
Elementalism as a Weapon didn’t have a proper classroom. If it rained or snowed then Samson stole whatever was free from the other teachers, same as he did for his Survival and Defense class during Single. On clear days, even when chill November winds ripped through the corridors of the Asylum, Ultra Class ‘09 met Samson at the Mound and then he led them to whatever lesson he’d set up for the day.
The day shit finally hit the fan with little ‘ol Momma’s-dead-fucked-up-beyond-all-return-more-than-usual King Henry Price, he set up two assignments for them just behind the Mound. The other kids seemed happy about the Mound blocking most of the wind, but King Henry only grew happy when he saw the metal targets placed one after another.
He grew even happier when Samson allowed King Henry into what he called the ‘badass half’ of the class, something King Henry usually was removed from due to being an Intro-Elementalist.
King Henry had asked quite a few people at the Asylum why they teach the way they do. Why all the disciplines grouped up together? It made for a damned mess sometimes. At the heart, they were all mancers and pooling anima was pooling anima, but every discipline has its kinks. Corpusmancers can’t do anything outside their own body shifting. Floromancers need a tree or bush to work with. On and on down the line. Days like this one, when Samson put out targets and finally said ‘go for it’ . . . What were Pocket or Isabel or Jesus going to do? It made things more complicated than they needed to be.
Put all the aeromancers together—
Okay, bad example.
Major fucking PMS if you do that.
But you get the point.
The Asylum could’ve done it if they wanted to.
But they didn’t.
He’d never gotten a straight answer on why.
Sometimes he thought they wanted the students tripping over each other. Don’t want us learning too much, if you know what I mean. Sometimes he really did wonder . . .
For whatever reason, it happened.
King Henry was really happy to be included with the Extrovert kids, the mancers who make their own juice. They had the most fun in Elementalism as a Weapon.
Actually, they probably have the most fun in life period.
Fireballs . . . lightning bolts . . .
Fucking douchebag showoffs.
Being included was a surprise for a guy who had to play with dirt most days. He was in a good mood. It was being in a good mood, wanting to stay in a good mood, that really caused the problem.
Someone just had to ruin his good mood.
His first good mood in weeks!
Ruined!
Samson’s penchant for deriving enjoyment by making groups sure to experience friction hadn’t abated after the Camping Test. This was probably why King Henry was at the very end of the line of targets, next to him Miranda and next to her Hope, while Valentine was stuck all by her lonesome on the opposite side with Quinn Walden, who being a major wimp about bugs and mice and just about anything not unicorns and sparkles—much less explosions in her proximity—gave a little fearful squeak every time Valentine threw a ball of fire at the target.
All the other teachers treated King Henry with kid gloves but not Samson. Samson was from a generation that didn’t believe in golden stars or participation certificates or PTSD or ADHD or even small pox. Intestines falling out your asshole? That’s no excuse! Suck it up, whiner! Don’t trip on the intestines, you’re making a mess!
King Henry respected the approach, but it also created the environment for the perfect firestorm. King Henry was alone with Hope and Miranda—two girls who hated each other. Valentine was busy. Pocket, Raj, and Jesus were in the second group. Jason was in the second group.
Welf’s walking around with his finger up his ass like he always does in Elementalism as a Weapon. Outside of spirits and Constructs, necromancers didn’t have an effect on the living world. Once they did build Constructs they were viewed as extremely powerful among mancers and equally respected, but until then . . . Welf didn’t fit into either the target shooting or whatever the second group was up to . . . vine growing and dog training for all I know.
This meant Welf wasn’t around to make King Henry think twice. Neither was Jason or Pocket or Jesus or Raj. Not a soul to either threaten him or to plead with him. Just Miranda and Hope. Who fucking hate each other with a passion that surpasses even what Welf and me think of each other.
Miranda . . . who was kind to King Henry that first night back at the Asylum after seeing . . . the Gap.
Hope . . . who had never been kind to anyone, not her friends, not her boyfriend. The ultimate Mean Girl with the requisite frozen twat.
What could go wrong?
They sniped at each other the entire time. King Henry, he just tried to snipe at his target. Samson had marked the corners of the steel square with slashes of bright blue chalk and King Henry was meant to snap off just the corners along the line. This was proving frustratingly difficu
lt. It took precise anima control at a distance, not blunt overkill. He had more than enough juice to build a pool, throw it at the plate, and see the whole thing break into little pieces. But leaving some of it whole and working for a clean break . . .
He knew one day in the future he’d snort at the ‘challenge’ of it . . . but for now it was a completely new concept and one he wanted to learn.
One that was hard to focus on when you had the following conversation going on next to your left ear:
Hope: “Just blow on it a little harder and I’m sure it will fall off the post, Miranda. Your grandmother did teach you the family skill, yes?”
Miranda: “Your family’s such a shell of its former self that your mother’s gone into politics to halt the slide. Better to have come from a family of whores than to be angling to become one, don’t you think?”
Hope: “Do you think your left breast hangs further than the right and that’s why your little airballs track that way?”
Miranda: “I suppose it could be. If breasts affect aim it really does explain why you’re so centered, doesn’t it, Flattened One?”
Sometimes King Henry thought he’d been a good influence on Miranda . . . he really did . . .
It got worse, it got pettier.
He tried to ignore it, focus on his pooling, on sending the geo-anima across the way towards that target to clip off corners. By the third, he had a general idea of how it was done but still not the finesse. He’d gone from cracking the corners into pieces to one piece but with an extremely jagged break in the steel.
Then he heard: “Are you taking that towelhead to the Winter Ball again? I hope you do. You two looked like such a joke that we enjoyed the view all night, all those freckles and him with his turban. I laughed for weeks . . . the way he kept stepping on your shoes and that green dress of yours, the way it pushed your plump sides up . . . I wish I’d had a camera!”
Miranda’s lack of immediate comeback signaled a point well scored.
Hope smiled nastily, continuing, “But then he’s with Naomi now, isn’t he? His bed’s right next to mine, did you know that? He used to murmur your name in his sleep but now it’s nothing but Naomi. He calls her Mimi. Isn’t that adorable? I suppose if you hadn’t spent so much time at that all girl’s school you would have learned how to keep your boyfriend under your heel.”
“Raj is just a friend,” Miranda whispered. “He can do whatever he wants with whoever he wants.”
“You took just-a-friend to your first dance? How pathetic. Not as pathetic as you having to go alone this year, mind you. Raj won’t want just-a-friend after Naomi’s through with him. He’ll be on the hunt like all the other rutting, drooling mongoloids in our class, and what would you have to tempt him with? Hanging breasts, stretch marks, and freckle-covered fat rolls?”
King Henry’s next blast of geo-anima went out of control and broke his whole target into microscopic dust particles. His top lip worked its way slowly back to reveal a snarl. His fists turned white. His arms shook. Too fucking far, especially bringing Raj into it.
“Leave her alone, Hope,” King Henry whispered dangerously.
Hope threw her hand to her ear. “Do you hear a ghost, Miranda?”
“Hope—” Miranda warned.
“Don’t use that tone with me, you fat whore.”
King Henry turned on her. “Let me speak in my usual fashion: shut the fuck up, you frigid bitch.”
“The Foul Mouth returns from his sobbing over his dead momma,” Hope baby-mocked him. “Maybe he’ll be your date for the Winter Ball, Miranda, now that Valentine won’t have anything to do with him. You two are really hideously perfect for each other. Part of me wants to breed you as a science experiment just to see how ugly your spawn would be.”
If Hope had been a man, she’d have had a broken nose right about then. But she was a woman. Ain’t nice to hit a lady. Which was fine. King Henry had been saving up some serious anger for the last few months. He didn’t need fists to strike out at her. Truth would do just fine. The fists could wait for someone else.
King Henry edged closer to Hope. She took the gesture in the opposite way. “Stop trying to threaten me with your foul little body, Foul Mouth, you’ll never touch me and we both know it. When it comes down to it, you’re a coward who only attacks when a person’s back is turned. If you touch me then Heinrich and Jason will be ready for you and will wallop you over and over; the great big mirage of you being tough would fall to pieces.”
“You’re right,” King Henry agreed at the same whisper so only Miranda and Hope could hear. At the corner of his eye, he could just see Welf noticing the standoff for the first time, Welf’s face going pale but his feet not quite moving him to stop it. “I’d never hit you. Nah, you’re a woman, would never hit a woman, right? Of course . . . that’s outside world talk, ain’t it? Ain’t mancer talk. Ain’t Asylum talk. Here the women are just as deadly as the men, just as powerful as the men. Have ourselves a female Dean running the whole show. Ain’t no girls teams and boys teams for the Winter War, is there? All equal, all in one group.”
Hope wasn’t quite as sure of her position as she’d been a few seconds ago. “You wouldn’t—”
“Nah, I won’t hit you, Hope. Do think you could have used a spanking or two growing up but I start spanking you, you might like it, and that would lead to the regrettable situation where you want me to put my cock in your frozen twat and I wouldn’t want to risk it being frozen off.”
“You disgust me—”
“Nah, I won’t hit you, Hope,” King Henry whispered again, sliding in closer, voice dropping, the edge on it growing more cutting with each word, “But your boyfriend walking over here now? Sneaking up behind me? See, Hope, ain’t me the coward, it’s your man. I ain’t gonna touch you, but ya need punished and I’m hurting really bad right now, especially after your kind remark about my momma. Hitting you wouldn’t do it for me but nothing in this world makes me feel better than hurting Heinrich von Welf.”
“Jason will—”
“Probably will,” King Henry agreed with her. “Last time he almost had me and like you said . . . had me a free shot then. But finding out who’s top dog? That will be a shit ton of fun too. Want to know what I’m going to do to your little boy toy, Hope? The one you know how to keep under your heel? I’m gonna break his fucking arm.”
Welf was closing in on King Henry’s back.
If he’d been smart instead of such a chivalrous white knight, Welf would have thought to get Jason first. But he didn’t.
A few others in the class noticed what was going down but it was too late for anyone to stop it.
Maybe if Fines Samson was a hands-on teacher it wouldn’t have happened either. Keith Gullick would have been right there in their midst, giving pointers, answering questions, providing even the smallest boost to help the students over the edge of their assignment for the day. Not Fines Samson. Old school here too. Set up his assignment, mixed us into a boil with our groups, then sits down in a camping chair to have himself a rest. Some days, especially in the spring, he even fell asleep.
“I’m gonna break his fucking arm,” King Henry repeated. Miranda’s eyes went wide. Hope’s cheeks grew pale. “Not just any arm either, I’m gonna break the one he uses to jerk off with. That way you have to do your duty as a girlfriend and pleasure the man yourself, Hope. Don’t worry, it’s the Asylum, we have Slush on hand, so you won’t be using your hand for too long, maybe only a couple weeks.
“Don’t worry, won’t be too bad, Hope. Welf will probably guide you through it. You start stroking and he closes his eyes, what could be more simple than that?”
“You’re disgust—”
“Oh, one thing though, Hope,” he added, leaning so close to her, so quiet that even Miranda couldn’t hear, “when he closes his eyes . . . it’s not you he’s dreaming of. So don’t hold it against him if he whispers Val’s name.”
Hope slapped him across the face.
King
Henry probably deserved it.
So did Hope.
‘Eye for an Eye’ makes the whole world blind and all that shit.
King Henry’s cheek stung from where her palm had smacked across it. There was something revitalizing about being slapped. Like the surge in pain across King Henry’s nerves reset his brain. It took him to back before the Gap, made him think about the actions he’d just taken.
It made him reassess.
Made me realize what I was unleashing.
But he couldn’t hold it back any more. Months worth of rage and bitterness and just plain ol’ hatred that he lived in a world where something as complete bullshit as death exists. Worse than that. That he lived in a world were death is the constant, the singular experience all humans face, that every person fears.
When does one become an adult? Ain’t when you pop your cherry. Ain’t when you have a kid. Adulthood comes when you face death, face the Gap, face there’s no fucking way around it . . . and you accept it or it fucking destroys you.
King Henry wasn’t ready to accept it yet.
Pessimist that he was . . . he wanted to fight it one last time.
He wanted to fight Heinrich von Welf and whoever stepped up behind him.
The slap turned King Henry into Welf’s approaching form and he just let fly with a haymaker. No iron fist. No anima. Love me some iron fist but I want my knuckles to bleed, want my hands to ache. He’d felt nothing but anger for months and feeling anything else, even pain, would be an improvement.
He was going to fight the Gap.
The Gap was going to crush him.
But he’d go down swinging.
Welf’s a tall bastard. King Henry couldn’t reach Welf’s jaw, it being a whole extra foot above his own. So King Henry rammed his fist into the side of Welf’s body, felt the necromancer crumble around him, all the breath leaving lungs, ribs shuddering under the impact.
Lining Welf up, King Henry swung again with the opposite fist.
There was shouting behind him, from the other group, from far down the line. Don’t fucking care. All his focus was on his fist aiming for Welf’s jaw. Nazi asshole’s bent just enough for me to reach it.
King Henry Short Pack One (The King Henry Tapes) Page 14