Should be in college.
My body felt like it should be in college.
It wasn’t . . . it was stuck in high school.
Magic high school with a few fellow students my age, but no frats or sororities or keggers to be seen or heard. Class ’09 was so set in our ways that you almost never saw any movement between the couples. Debra and Estefan, Welf and Hope, Robin and Rick, all the same. Sixteen girls, fuck that, sixteen women in Class ’09 and I wasn’t with any of them.
Guess it’s my own fault.
Nights like this.
Nights like Winter Ball with Makayla—or Genesis—they look very similar, okay?
Thing with Naomi . . . although I’m pretty sure that was doomed from the start. Not that the athletic display of grunting and humping we did around the Asylum hadn’t been fun for the month or two it lasted . . .
Screwing up with Val, add that on top of the pile.
Cherry on top.
Twice.
Okay, two cherries.
Gives a guy a reputation.
Reputation catches up with you eventually.
But how much fun it was building that reputation!
My carousing of the Field did nothing for my mood. Just slammed the door on my status as an outsider. A graduate student among the high schoolers. Between the students and the teachers. Leper. Other. Watch out, cooties! Can you have a midlife crisis at eighteen? I think I’m having one. Would be nineteen in a month. Nineteen. Adult plus one year. Get drafted. Can vote. Smoke my cigs legally. Fuck me, how am I still alive and not dead in some fist fight back in Visalia?
The cool night air did good at sobering me up, but the heat of the fire made me want to fall asleep right on the ground, beer cans and discarded wine cooler bottles my only friends.
“Guess I can go to bed alone for once,” I tried to convince myself it was a choice I made, and not something forced on me.
Turning away from the heat and the laughter, I headed towards the Ultra Dorms.
[CLICK]
Partying going on around the dorms too. Not sure what kind of music bellowed out of Class ’12’s dorm, but they were dancing to it in the horseshoe road like it wasn’t techno trash. Fuck me, now I’m an old man complaining about the youngins’ tunes. I might never drink again.
Okay . . .
No reason to be hasty.
Just stop at the third cup next time.
“Sure thing . . . only happy and shitfaced, no cynical bastard mode. Nope, not for me, never again . . . that’s happening. Ain’t lying to yourself at all.”
“King Henry, are you okay?” someone asked me.
I squinted at a small grouping of people. There was a lot more light around the dorms and it hurt my eyes something fierce. LEDS ain’t made with drunks in mind I don’t think, just the environment.
“King Henry, can you hear me?”
A woman. I squinted some more. Red hair up in a bun with a jewel-studded comb holding it back, green dress that matched her eyes . . . the small amount of my brain that was still sober—probably less than one percent of it—started screaming. “Huh?”
Someone next to the woman laughed. I knew that laugh. I . . . really liked that laugh. I liked causing it even more. Another woman. Could tell because of the . . . curves. Not heavy curves like the redhead, but just so. Curves . . . call me fucking Sherlock over here. Very tall, taller than me, but that’s everyone, ain’t it? Dark eyes . . . dark eyes that somehow seemed bright and special and . . . Right. Now the drunk part of my brain started screaming too. Valentine and Miranda. Sure. Why not? Couldn’t even blame Fate this time, was my own stupid fault.
“He’s sloshed beyond even his usual sloshing,” Val chuckled as I stumbled on over towards the pair of them.
“Boys and alcohol,” Miranda complained as she rolled her eyes, like her whole body had to show its disapproval not just her yapping mouth. “Is this moment of inebriation really worth the hangover you’ll have tomorrow morning?”
“As long as I don’t end up in bed with you, sure,” I shot back through pure bodily ingrained reflex.
“There’s not a single drink on the planet that could make me join you,” Miranda confirmed the likelihood of this improbable consummation.
“Good!”
“Double good, you drunk ass!”
Val laughed again, shaking her head at me. She had on a black dress. It looked pretty nice. Especially the way it . . . everythinged. “We saw Jesus and Pocket come through,” she said conversationally while studying me from head to toe. “Jesus couldn’t even stand up . . . at least you’re managing that on your own.”
Shrugged at her, while fighting off toppling over again. “Goatfucker can’t hold his liquor.”
“Where’s Raj at?”
“We left him in a bush.”
Val’s eyes went wide. “A bush?”
Shrugged again. “He seemed to like it . . . and he was sleeping, so . . . why not?”
Val shook her head. “Maybe I’ll go check on him later.”
Next to her, Miranda started in with her usual disagreements about my moral character, even if it wasn’t as harsh as it had been when we were Singles. “—and he stinks like a sugar factory,” she finished.
“A very good comparison, Miranda,” a third voice said to her left.
I double-taked, squinting some more before I noticed a man standing beside Miranda. Medium height, bronze-skinned, clean-shaven, and in a much nicer tux than mine. Athir Al-Qasimi. One of the more forgettable members of Class ’09 except for the fact he was our lone mentimancer. A Worm that mostly hung out in the Library, which Miranda and Val both did on occasion, hence the grouping tonight. Raj was in some clubs with Athir, got along okay with him, as fine as he could. It’s hard to. As a mentimancer, staying around Athir grated on everyone but his fellow mentimancers. They ain’t well-liked usually . . . unless they are, but those are the rare ones, like Russell “Currently Having Him Some Wild Honeymoon Sex” Quilt.
Only Mancy discipline that has itself strict regulations for how it can use its powers too.
Memories and thoughts, you mess with them and of course everyone is leery of you.
Even without the Mancy.
Even without him being some rich boy Arab talks with a British accent, another hearty fuck you from globalization yet again!
Arab!
And this is King Henry telling a story, oh no! I know what’s coming!
Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist, I’m not gonna make any terrorist jokes.
Even I’m not that big of an asshole.
Now.
Was when I arrived at the Asylum . . .
But not now.
See? There was some progress.
Not on the booze front . . . but the other stuff . . .
Bet Ceinwyn is proud of me. No terrorist jokes! Huzzah! Victory! He’s been civilized to the barest sliver!
“Sup?” I greeted Athir. “How you end up with these two beauties? Buy them for your harem?”
Terrorist jokes out, Arab Sheikh jokes totally in.
Val smiled at me, but not at the joke, more like she was onto my game. Miranda blinked like I’d mooned her. Also not at the joke but at the fact I called her a beauty. Which . . . I mean, ginger, yeah, but she’s lost the plump from her early years and does have some badonkadonk and plenty going on up top. Maybe . . . nah, still couldn’t do it. Not even when I’m this drunk.
“We were discussing a book,” Athir explained politely. He was very stiff, very . . . cerebral, which I guess fit, didn’t it? Not all mentimancers are like that. Just like other mancers, the personalizations have variety and the mind is a very large playground to find your place in. Not as interesting as stone or gems or dirt though . . . unless that motherfucker Freud gets involved.
Ya know, it’s not very often I get to use ‘motherfucker’ so literally . . .
“Oh, books. Can’t condone those things,” I said while swaying a little to the left. “Magazines
are okay, but only cuz the pictures.”
Miranda snorted at me, a little less pissy after I’d called her a beauty. Guess flattery works on gingers too, soul or no soul. “I saw you stealing from the Winddancer bookshelf last month. Two whole books and not a picture in sight between the pair of them.”
I gave an I-don’t-give-a-crap shrug, only managing to stay standing because Valentine put out a hand to steady me.
“The liquor seems to be winning the battle,” she pointed out with a smirk. “Sure you’re okay talking with us?”
Thought about throwing up on the pavement for a few seconds and decided I didn’t need to yet. “Where else should I be?”
“In bed?”
I grinned at her. “Offering to take me?”
“That wouldn’t be very proper,” Athir injected like the gentleman I would never be, “perhaps I should be the one to take you up?”
Know what? Not a fan of Athir, very much not a fan. People would assume I’m being typical King Henry, but it ain’t none of that crap. It’s that he’s got a bit of Heinrich Welf in him. Money don’t give a shit about race, religion, sex, or politics, it makes you a fucktard no matter who you are or where you come from.
Now you’re being classist!
Always finding an ‘ist’ to slap the masses into place, ain’t ya, prudes?
“Touch me and I will barf all over that thousand dollar tux of yours, Athir.”
He processed this, something a little too autistic in his eyes. “Ten-thousand dollar tuxedo, actually.”
Now you’re being ablest!
And you’re a bunch of retards, kiddies, so there!
“I’ll take him,” Miranda decided with the tortured sigh of someone who loves being a martyr.
“No . . . no, very much no,” I said, trying to break her grip as she took hold of my shoulder to steady me.
Miranda reasoned it out with Valentine, “He’ll keep his hands to himself with me.”
“No I won’t . . . I’ll grope them freckled muffins for all I’m worth, just you watch!”
“No you won’t.” Miranda’s hand started pinching my shoulder. “He’d never try to get me in bed with him. If you do it, you’ll be fending him off for hours.”
“Of course I will . . . I’m gonna ravish you . . . gonna grab that . . . carrot-colored hair and . . . do . . . nope . . . can’t do it . . . about to barf . . .”
True to my word, I threw up on Athir.
[CLICK]
“Why you got to cockblock a fellow, Miranda?” I grumbled as said cockblocker helped me up the dorm stairs to our floor. Not all years filled out their entire floor, but Class ’09 did. Thirty rooms for thirty kids. Two main hallways, then another two that bisected those. I had one of the apartments/dorms/call-it-what-you-will on the outer ring. Heard rumors that the corner rooms in the middle were bigger than the rest of them. Welf had one of those, so I’m sure it’s true and he either blackmailed or bribed someone in administration for his.
Gotten used to having my own place in these last months. Own bed, own kitchen, own place to shit, shower, and shave. Own toilet to throw up into—maybe—not so sure, feeling pretty good after unloading half my stomach onto Athir.
Bet some of you kiddies have yourselves weak stomachs, don’t ya?
Feeling like upchucking right now?
Had me some Chicken Parmesan at the wedding dinner. Wedding dinner . . . was just a slightly more fancily decorated Cafeteria, but guess round tables and real chairs are all that makes the difference. Chicken Parmesan. Don’t know why, but I’ve always associated vomit with Italian red sauce. Little white flecks of mozzarella and ricotta cheese floating in it.
Can you see it, kiddies?
Can you feel that burning at the back of your throat?
Up it comes!
Make my day if some of you little shits did throw up just through the power of my suggestions. Probably didn’t. What I get for being a geomancer, not a mentimancer. Can’t put the memory in your head; make you unable to focus on anything else but that ricotta cheese in the reddish-pink pool.
Bet you can still smell it though.
Slightly tangy and acidic, frothy on the edges.
But enough of what I spewed all over Athir.
Don’t feel too bad for him, he got Val’s sympathy for it and she helped him clean up. Me, I just got the Ginger Nemesis. She did her own grumbling as we stumbled from stair step to stair step, “I did not cockblock you. Your cock never had any chance of entering its intended target.”
“Don’t know that . . . I’m very romantic when I’m drunk, you know. Do all that wounded, brooding shit you teenage girls like . . .”
She started shaking, almost sending us tumbling.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“No, no, puking on Athir was so romantic, King Henry,” Miranda managed to say with a straight face. Said face had freckles along her cheeks and nose, thick auburn eyebrows a tad darker than her hair, and not a bad pair a lips, I’ll give her that. Of course, her skin was also reflective enough that I could see myself in her cheek, so . . . can’t win them all.
“Wouldn’t have puked on him if I wasn’t rocked by the fear of having to deal with you for the next fifteen minutes,” I grumbled back at her.
“At least you didn’t puke on either of us, I suppose,” Miranda grunted as she leveraged me around another curve in the stairs. One of those stairs that curls around itself in a square pattern, open to the night. Since you have to go up above the massive four-year communal dorms, it’s a pretty good climb.
“Do you want me to puke on you?” I offered. “Could go for a second try if you’re up for it. Pretty kinky shit you’re into.”
“I’ll stuff air in your mouth and make you swallow it again,” she threatened, not joking at all about doing just that. Felt her start pooling some aero-anima just in case. Me, I was anima dry. Drinking, teachers will look the other way. Using anima while drunk, especially on your fellow students . . . not as much.
“Have more fun if you stuck that aero-anima up your red ass,” I growled as we shuffled up another incline.
Miranda squinted at me, attempting to work out my logic. “Are you saying it’s red because it’s hairy? Because I assure you—”
“Please don’t, or I will vomit again.”
She seemed to consider my reaction as we silently took the next turn in the stairs. I watched her think it all through. What she said, my reaction. Saw epiphany in her green eyes. “Or are you saying it’s because some fellow spanks me regularly?”
Flinched as if I was the one who got spanked.
“I’m not a fan of spanking,” she stated plainly, another experiment. Like the words themselves were stabbing into my gut and she wanted to see how much I bled.
“Not interested, sorry I said anything,” I tried.
“I do like some good hair pulling,” she kept going with a grin.
“Really not interested,” I tried again. “I’ll just go the rest of the way on my own, shall I?”
“Still undecided if I like a little pressure around the throat or not . . .”
“Oh fuck me, Miranda, please stop,” I begged her.
“I think it depends on how big his hand is and how he has it wrapped around my throat. Thumbs just under my jaw bone . . .”
“Please, God, I know I don’t talk to you much, big fellow, but if you can please let me be drunk enough that I won’t remember this in morning I’d really appreciate it!” I screamed at the heavens.
Her grin got even wider as she enjoyed the power she had over me. Before that moment our relationship was based completely on me grossing her out or on her quoting the rules, now she’d realized she could gross me out too, just by talking about her own sex life. She was a prude most of the time, so to wield that power over me, to pay me back for all the comments over the last five years, she had to open up and express herself.
It was too good for her to pass up.
Thus . . . the stick was fi
rst loosened from Miranda Daniels’ red ass. No idea why it’s red, just sure it is.
“Would you like to hear about the time I lost my virginity, King Henry?” she asked.
I started whining like a wounded animal.
“It was during Tri Winter Ball—” she began.
“Miranda,” I stopped her, “I’ll owe you a favor if you just please stop tormenting me tonight.”
“Two favors,” she decided, “for helping you up and for not pointing out what a moron you are to get this drunk.”
“Fine, two favors.”
“Anything?”
“Obviously I won’t have sex with you.”
“It was during Tri Winter Ball—” she started again.
“I apologize!”
“Oh, can King Henry Price do that?”
“You know I ain’t so bad as the rep. Just like I know you ain’t such a rule spouting prude when you ain’t got an audience to impress,” I grumbled some more. “Known that since the first month of school when we were running through the woods together. Saw you scared and vulnerable and even kind to other people.”
Miranda was silent for a while more, until we reached the floor for Class ‘09. “You think I’m shallow, is that it?”
“No . . . I think we were both raised in environments where we were taught that emotions only get you slapped around. So we both clung to the thing that kept the emotions deep and buried and controlled . . . even forgotten. For you it was the rules; for me it was breaking all of them.”
Silence as we entered through the doors.
“You shouldn’t say things like that, King Henry,” she eventually whispered as we worked our way down the hallway. “Apologizing is one thing, but showing you have a heart might be a bit too much for the Asylum student body to handle.”
“Too much for you to handle, that’s for sure,” I actually teased her a little bit.
“Dangerous ground us being friendly with each other . . . might make me rip my dress off in a moment of weakness, and the sight of that might kill you,” she teased me back.
“You ain’t so bad, Ginger Nemesis,” I decided in my drunk haze, “think I’ll invite you and Val next time I steal a couple bottles of rum. Keep Raj from whining about how pretty you are if you’re actually around to hear him.”
The Pit of No Return (The King Henry Tapes Book 6) Page 6
