The Foul Mouth and the Headless Hunny (The King Henry Tapes)

by Raley, Richard

  Eresha became the prey and the Constructs became the hunters working as packs. Darting in and out, scoring and moving. Hyena’s at a lion, wolves at a buffalo, humans at a mammoth. It was all there. Eresha destroyed one and then another and then a third, but still so many remained. Cutting and moving. Stabbed and sliding away.

  “We can’t do this,” Annie B whispered. “We have to save her!”

  Suddenly, my hold on her felt as light as it was and she was slipping free and . . .

  [CLICK]

  Nah, couldn’t go down like this.

  Had to find a way out.

  See, Eresha and them Constructs were out of my weight class. Knew that. I was worth maybe three or four Constructs I figured, same with Annie B. So is us giving our lives to take out ten Constructs—I’ll be generous—worth it? Would that turn the tide of the battle? Or did this suave motherfucker who created this plan over-prepare like he has everything else?

  Out of my weight class . . . but . . .

  But.

  But.

  Butty but buttimus.

  Ain’t it the fucking truth that, out of my weight class as I was . . . wasn’t I still the only mancer in the room?

  Anima.

  In the last few days I’d been working at surviving by keeping the fighting to a minimum. I can do it that way on occasion. Especially when I’m digesting information like all the lore-bombs the Divine Chamber dropped on me. But now . . . I had to fight my way out of this mess. Had to fight in a way that kept Annie B walking and talking and sashaying that wonderful ass of hers. Had to fight . . . like a geomancer.

  Not like an Artificer.

  No time to fight like an Artificer. No time to create my way out of the problem. Only time to destroy my way out of the problem.

  The earthquake.

  Only way.

  Localized.

  Thirty-minute-pool.

  If only I’d had the Shaky Stick, this would have been easy.

  But I didn’t.

  Which meant I had to get every second out of my anima pool.

  No leakage.

  Not one drop.

  All mine.

  All mine to kill Eresha and the Constructs both.

  Only way.

  Only way those meat-puppets don’t kill the blood monster and then turn on me and Annie B. Only way I survive. Only way Annie B survives.

  Only way.

  One way.

  The Earthquake Way.

  No training wheels this time, King Henry Price.

  SHOW ME YOU ARE THE DIRT KING, a voice called from very far away.

  I threw myself in front of Annie B.

  “What are you doing?” she cried, barely heard over the clatter and squish of the battle, barely heard over the roar of the earth in every pore of my body.

  Staring down all those monsters, large and small, I unleashed my pool of geo-anima.

  And I played my own orchestra.

  And I commanded my own army.

  Eresha died as I worked. Slowly. In pieces. How do you kill a god? Slowly. In pieces. One follower at a time. Or one blood limb at a time. Same difference. I no longer saw the battle, that absurdity of flesh and blood that yet again expanded the world into something dangerous and savage and beyond one little human, even a human with magic.

  My magic.

  I saw only anima.

  Geo-anima.

  It’s everywhere in this technological, civilized world of ours. Many mancers have waned before the future, but not the geomancer. Stone gives way to steel. Steel gives way to silicon. Humanity will always need the earth. Without earth we’re barbarians in a field, rain pissing on our heads, predators picking us off one by one.

  Stone and steel and glass and gemstones and . . . dirt . . .

  It was everywhere.

  It was above me in the steel beams holding up that heavy mansion roof, it was before me in those four pillars of stone looking oh so pretty, it was below my feet calling my name.

  Dirt King.

  Dirt King.

  Dirt King.

  I could feel the 80s power cords building.

  You got the touch!

  You got the power!

  I split that geo-anima like I never had before. Again and again and again. Into little tiny pieces working as one big whole. Just like the Constructs. Thirty seconds into a flaw in the marble pillar. Five seconds for a screw. A minute for a main beam. All over the room. Tiny changes. One after another.

  Hundreds of splits.

  My mind almost broke from it all.

  My body knew pain as I held on to it, in place, outside of me but not yet unleashed.

  Eresha died as I worked, dragged down to the ground as the remaining Constructs pounced on their wounded prey as one, stabbing and slicing. Red glistening faces of black and white. Red dripping from blades and spikes. One after another they were destroyed, Eresha coiling in on herself to snap them in two, or rip them into pieces, but they never stopped. Hurt her, hurt the Divine. Make this god know pain! Make this god know her mortality!

  I knew pain.

  I knew mortality.

  It hurt.

  How it hurt to hold thirty minutes of anima completely controlled and outside of my body. A hurt so deep I thought I might die. Worse: A hurt so deep I wished I would die.

  But it was a successful pain.

  Success made it a bearable pain.

  The anima stayed.

  It didn’t leak away.

  Son-of-a-bitch, that’s how you do it.

  One.

  More.

  Piece.

  Two Constructs jumped up onto Eresha’s head and stabbed at it, not that it was any more important than the rest of her, but for so vital a location to now be attacked . . . she didn’t have much longer.

  Annie B tried to push past me again and I stopped her with a hand.

  She looked into my eyes . . .

  Her mouth opened in shock.

  One more piece.

  Five minutes of anima.

  Paine’s conjuration.

  Geo-anima wrapped around geo-anima, the density and weight of the anima type turning the pressure of the earth into a weapon. Like a cannon. Like a bomb.

  Bang, bang, your dead.

  Hole in your head.

  And down came the mansion.

  And washed the monsters out.

  Session 47

  Ceinwyn took one look at the last kid’s address and drove us back to the hotel room. She kept a surprising amount of clothing and costume in the car’s trunk at all times, but something about this place must have required the extra effort.

  Five minutes after arriving at the hotel room, she appeared from her room in an extremely professional dress, expensive heels, jewelry, and had even pulled a high-end briefcase from out of her ass. She looked like Wall St. With really long legs. “How do I look?” she asked me.

  “Um . . . I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer this question without it crossing a line . . .”

  She was pleased. She might be Ceinwyn Dale, Force of Nature, but she was still a girl once upon a time. “That good, hmm?”

  “Quit torturing me, Miss Dale! My mother used to do this to me with lingerie . . .” I thought about this fact. “Damn it, now I need a psychologist.”

  She laughed, but I didn’t laugh with her, especially when she tossed a well-kept, plastic wrapped set of clothes at me.

  “But . . . no!”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Again.”

  “You promised it was a onetime thing!” I yelled, lifting up my suit from the night at Hunting Cryotech.

  “You want to prove Alf wrong, don’t you?”

  “Alf’s already admitted he’s wrong,” I told her, throwing the suit back to her. “This is just about proving the fairy right and I’m not sure I care enough to wear a suit to do it.”

  “But we still haven’t found your missing mancer. He’s still out there, likely our next target.”

  “And if it’s this l
ast kid, it’s this last kid. What’s a suit got to do with the Ratio of Anima Dispersion? I’ve entertained farm-boys. I even sucked up to parents for you, Miss Dale. But a suit? Again? You’re being inconsiderate to my seditious sensibilities!”

  She was not swayed by this argument. I even used ‘seditious,’ kiddies! That’s a big word and it didn’t even budge her! “The address Alf gave us is located in Ladue, one of the wealthiest areas per capita in the entire United States. Jeans and a t-shirt won’t cut it.”

  “Just wonderful! All this shit I’ve gone through—fairy, bugs, almost getting shot by religious fundies for that last kid—and it ends up being fucking Richie Rich?”

  “Maxwell Lamont,” Ceinwyn read from a file. “Father owns real estate, mother who babies him, worth almost one-hundred million, five acre estate, summer home in Maine—”

  “Just wonderful,” I repeated, this time growling the words out, “fairy, bugs, almost getting shot—”

  “You didn’t almost get shot.”

  “His uncle had a gun. His brother had a gun. His mom had a gun.”

  “It was a trailer park in southern Illinois, not South Central LA.”

  “It was a militia compound.”

  “A little barbed wire never hurt anyone.”

  I glared at her.

  She didn’t move an inch.

  “Give me the damn suit,” I growled.

  Her smile finally twitched as she handed it over again. “Don’t wrinkle it.”

  “I hate you,” I grumbled over my shoulder as I headed for my room.

  “Have I ever told you how adorable your impotent rage is?” she teased me.

  “Yes . . . and it’s really damn annoying every time you do!”

  [CLICK]

  All that prep to get preppy—Ceinwyn even made me comb my hair so it had a straight part—and the Lamonts turned us away at the door. Well . . . not door, so much as huge fucking gate. And not the Lamonts, so much as their burly rent-a-cop at the security shack. “Appointment only,” he kept repeating over and over.

  Ceinwyn’s smile promised she was going to cut someone’s balls off, but she only nodded that she understood. “I hate the wealthy,” she complained once we were parked down the road, taking stock of the situation. “So many layers to crack. So many reasons to turn us away. So many reasons to turn us down. It’s so much easier when the parents see a brighter future for their child in the Institution.”

  “Ain’t you like . . . wealthy?” I hedged.

  “I have enough,” she admitted, “or at least my accountants tell me I do. I never really use it . . .”

  “Can I have some for like, hookers and blow?”

  Her smile grew fragile. “We’ll see, one day. Not for hookers and blow, however.”

  “Thai girls and opium dens?”

  “No.”

  “My own yacht and a supermodel girlfriend?”

  “Nope.”

  “A Ferrari?”

  “What are you going to do, let me drive you around in it?”

  “You could teach me how to drive . . .”

  “Teaching you how to be a Recruiter isn’t enough?”

  “Step One: Look the part. Step Two: Lie through your teeth,” I listed on my hand, “Step Three: Make vague promises.”

  “See, you’re learning so much already. I don’t want to overfill that overactive imagination of yours.”

  “I promise I won’t break anything.”

  She only stared at me.

  “I promise I won’t break anything expensive,” I amended.

  [CLICK]

  The next day we showed up at Lamont Manor with a proper appointment to see Momma Lamont.

  I don’t know what I expected with Momma Lamont . . . I guess I expected a richly dressed mom of some type. Should’ve known better than to expect anything, given the way the Asylum-life will smack you down quick if you do, but I expected a forty-something housewife who might be hot enough to bang the tennis coach at the local country club.

  Trophy wife. Maybe thirty-two if she was lucky. Dark hair. Crystal eyes. Body that still could’ve modeled, cuz it was pretty obvious Daddy Lamont snatched her off the runway.

  My little ‘whoa’ at taking her in earned a cautioning glare from Ceinwyn about keeping Prince Henry where he belonged and my mouth shut.

  So . . . the usual.

  “I know, but as Pocket would say: whoa, dude.”

  The glare refused to give way.

  “I wouldn’t be this horny if you’d just let me get some. Sally Two was very interested in me before the whole fairy thing.”

  “You numbered a woman?” she pointed out my objectification.

  “I individualized her?” I tried. “Fine . . . last word I say unless prompted.”

  We crossed a large sitting room to greet Momma Lamont. Rich people alright. So many rooms in their mansion they got one just for sitting. Ceinwyn took the lead, shaking Momma Lamont’s outstretched hand. “Please to meet you. My name is Ceinwyn Dale. I’m the Head of Recruiting for the Institution of Elements. This is my personal assistant, Harry.”

  “Pleasure to meet you both,” Momma Lamont said smoothly before quickly gesturing that we should sit on a couch near her chair.

  A butler brought glasses filled with water.

  I might have stared at him a bit since Ceinwyn elbowed me.

  Or I didn’t sit up straight enough.

  Or, maybe I drooled over Momma Lamont a little.

  No clue, but I tried to look interested as the two ladies sparred.

  Poor Maxwell Lamont. Hot mom. I know the feels, bro.

  Shitty name too. Maxwell Lamont. Sounds like it belongs to a Scottish Porn Star or a Black Romance Novelist. But like I’m one to judge names, right?

  “Mr. Lamont couldn’t join us?” Ceinwyn asked.

  “Oh no, he’s very busy at the office. I’m in charge of all of Maxwell’s studies and his extra-curricular activities.” Momma Lamont bit her lip in doubt, but eventually pushed forward, “As I told the man in the phone interview, Maxwell is schooled by the best tutors money can buy. I took this meeting to be polite, Mrs. Dale, but I don’t see how your school could offer a better learning experience.”

  Sometimes I wish we could just throw a quick blast of anima right in front of the parents from the outset. Would make things easier. What about now? Think we can teach your boy anything now that I’ve pulled your roof down around your head?

  So much bullshit with this recruiting job. Days, weeks, months even. All to get them to say ‘yes’ about sending their kid to the Asylum, then, maybe, the parents got filled in on the truth of what their little brat could do. Maybe . . . sometimes they never did. Sometimes they just got bullshit piled on top of more bullshit.

  Case in point: Ceinwyn spending the next ten minutes pulling out a brochure and leading Momma Lamont through it all. Lies, fake numbers, all that gushy best-of-the-best stuff that parents like to hear. But Momma Lamont was right, if Maxwell had the best tutors then why would schooling be the answer?

  Wouldn’t be schooling that won the Lamonts over.

  It would be something else.

  I studied the woman. Threat-matrix studying like she was an enemy. Not like I wanted to bone her . . . although . . . focus! Right . . . focus . . . what was she? How did she think? What would get her to agree to sending Maxwell to the Asylum?

  Not the game Ceinwyn was playing.

  So, why she play it as an opening move?

  What did she want from me?

  Were we just playing it safe so we could meet Maxwell and get that mancer vibe from him or was I supposed to mix things up?

  Ceinwyn met my eye and nodded, so I stood up and took a casual turn about the room.

  Momma Lamont eyed me for a second before returning to a spread of pictures showing the Asylum campus. It was left to one of the butlers to tag along behind me like I might steal the family silver. Suit or not, I was still King Henry Price. Still looked like a thug ready to break yo
ur face or defile your daughter.

  But I got a heart of gold, I say!

  Trust me!

  Could’ve been a contender!

  Heh.

  I found some pictures of the kid on a dresser. Not even a teenager, but he had himself some big hands and feet and wide shoulders. Body of a swimmer? Most of the photos were set pieces with a professional photographer, but a few were intimate, all of Momma Lamont and Maxwell, no Mr. Lamont, no friends. The kid was this mother’s lifeline, the one thing she had other than being a prop in someone else’s story. We do get him to come and his parents are gonna be divorced by his third year.

  While giving her spiel, Momma Lamont nodding along with good manners that were about to end and tell us to get lost, Ceinwyn motioned for me to finally speak. She gave me the damn yak-yak sign. The abuse to my pride continues!

  But I’d play my part. “Maxwell’s an only child?” I asked from halfway across the room.

  Momma Lamont’s head snapped up, studying me. “Harry was it?”

  I somehow kept from snarling at her. I even put a smile on my face. “Yes. Just Harry.”

  “You let your assistants speak?” Momma Lamont asked Ceinwyn. “I’m used to the occasional polite mumbling behind a hand, but most business associates of my husband would be firing him right now.”

  “We’re a school, not a business,” Ceinwyn reminded the woman, “Harry is a student on a summer internship, so questions are encouraged.”

  Momma Lamont turned to me. “You attend the Institution of Elements?”

  “I do. I’m about to enter my graduate training.”

  “As?”

  “Metallurgy and Engineering,” I euphemized.

  “And where will you work after you graduate?”

  I have no fucking clue, I thought, but said, “There’s a research and development company that takes students directly from the Institution.”

  So.

  Much.

  Bullshit.

  Momma Lamont smelled it. “That sounds lovely, but not like a place for Maxwell. I have to come clean with the two of you that he’s not the best student. His grade equivalency wasn’t something that naturally came about through a . . . gifted mind like these pamphlets say. It was done through dedication and effort so that he might find equal competition in high school swimming competitions. It’s his body that’s gifted and I’m proud to say he’s on the path to becoming an Olympian if he keeps at it . . . he surely doesn’t have time to spend eleven months a year at a boarding school, no matter how prestigious.”