Maybe my favorite conjuration. Hard call. Iron fist is my go to move in a fight, but being able to pick any metal lock you come across? The larceny-prone fourteen-year-old still somewhere deep inside me loved that shit. Sure, sometimes I accidentally broke the lock along with moving all that metal, but I’m getting better at being a one-hundred percent silent assassin, promise!
Nothing had changed much inside of Ceinwyn’s place since that first day I’d arrived at the Asylum. Same tables, same chairs, same couches. Still no television. Weird. Even our bedrooms in the graduate student apartments had tiny little televisions. Television ain’t really a big part of Asylum life and even the little we get is pre-approved, but the idea of not having one at all still seems un-American. What am I if not a bitch for the corporations, my eyes ready to be raped with advertisements for the latest erectile dysfunction pill?
Or the coot coot moistening cream, can’t forget about that shit.
EVER.
. . . I’ve tried . . . it don’t go away . . .
Moist coot coots all around.
For your sister.
For your mom.
For your grandma.
Grandma’s coot coot was like sandpaper, but now it’s so minty fresh even grandpa likes going down on her!
Still the crusty gray hair problem, but I’m sure they’ll have a cream for that in the next five years too!
Ceinwyn Dale’s house felt at home with its loneliness. Felt at home empty of noise, of laughter, or any emotion at all. Almost no food in the fridge or cupboards, suitcase beside her bed, always packed and ready for an emergency recruitment trip. Did have clothes in the walk-in closet, but I didn’t dare go inside. Would have to add a latex, gas-mask full-body suit to the same Never Forget list with the moist va-jay-jay cream.
Only difference from my memory was in the hallway. More of Ceinwyn’s crayon aero-anima crafted pictures had been added to the wall. More kids found, more mancers saved from an early grave. Noticed a lot of them faces. Shit, even Catherine was there with her foster parents, looking adoring as fuck over their special girl. Wonder if Kitty Cat has a single bit of feeling for them?
Not sure I’m the person to blame her if she doesn’t, seeing as my family situation is so fucked up. But then . . . part of me would kill to have my mom back, to have Susan or JoJo back, so maybe I did have feelings, maybe they just weren’t politically correct feelings. Think Catherine has any of that in her? Or you think she’s nothing but hate? Nothing but spite over what was taken from her by Mama Welf?
Yeah, pretty sure she was. Pretty sure Catherine would slit her foster parents’ throats if it meant she got to add Moira von Welf to the pile. Piss on all their corpses, light ‘em on fire, and call it revenge. Then what?
Doubt she even knows.
Noticed Ceinwyn’s note on my second pass through the house. A note! Note was on the fridge. Hand-written. Taped. Ceinwyn Dale . . . she don’t believe in fridge magnets, bitch!
King Henry,
Knowing you, you’ll pick the worst possible time to drop by. There’s currently an impromptu meeting taking place at the Lady’s, during which Mordecai has been ordered to explain the evidence he’s gathered against Heinrich von Welf. Also knowing you, you’ve taken it upon yourself to meddle in the investigation. If you’re reading this, please just stay in my kitchen until I return home. DO NOT crash the meeting. Paper-cuts from me will be the least of your worries if you do.
Try to show me how much you’ve grown up, not how much we still have to fix with you.
Ceinwyn.
PS: Eye-see-you.
I reread the note.
“Well when you put it like that, how can I not go, Auntie Badass?”
[CLICK]
As I’ve already described a few times, the Lady’s house is one of the oldest on campus. Got itself a pond, a picket fence, just about perfect except for the old bag lives inside of it, even if she does cook the strongest weed brownies that have ever existed. Think she spikes them with hydro-anima somehow, makes ‘em stronger. Put you on your ass. Make you think you’re David Bowie for a good six hours. Wake up and you’ve fucked a goat kind of shit. At least that’s the excuse Jesus uses.
Now, I admit my usual style is a bit difficult for the people around me and a bit reckless when it comes to following the rules, but I ain’t a complete twat either, am I? So, no, I didn’t go in there like a wrecking ball, slamming all around into the walls and through the front door. Even the Foul Mouth won’t barge his way into an impromptu Learning Council meeting. That’s the kind of shit gets you thrown into the Holding Room. Welf and me get stuck in there together and I have a feeling only one of us will be leaving.
So, no barging in, cuz that’s stupid.
Reckless, yes, but I ain’t a suicide mission kind of guy.
Fine with doing some eavesdropping though.
Eavesdropping happens to be one of the few activities in life where being such a short ass is a plus. Helped me hunch down once I hurtled the picket fence. Crabwalking, that what they call it? Looked stupid as fuck, but the idea behind it was that no one saw me head across the Lady’s yard, around that pond, and slide my way down under the big windows she had looking out from her living room.
Too bad it wasn’t summer or the window would’ve been pushed farther open. As it was, I only had a small crack at the edge to lean my head against and hope the sounds from inside would carry. Now I just have to hope everyone stays in class and someone doesn’t catch sight of me lying here on the side of the house like some retarded spy drank too many martinis and never got his Double ‘O’ license.
Sound.
Not a sound kind of guy.
All about my eyes, all about what I see, especially what I see in a person’s manner. After sight I fall back on the Mancy, not any of my other senses. No matter how important they are, they’re too delicate for me. Pocket says floromancers smell anima as it’s being pooled, best forestplanters can even distinguish between type or if a person is an Intra or an Ultra. Couldn’t imagine doing that. Necromancers too, just the shit they smell is a whole lot more foul, fouler than my mouth.
Still, all I could do was listen.
To Root talking.
Explaining all about his investigation.
Got the occasional question. Picked out the Lady’s old woman cackle, Ceinwyn’s pointed insistence, Fines Samson’s soft strength, and a few more that were harder to recognize. None of the actual department heads, since they’d be teaching classes at this hour. Few of the Ultra teachers perhaps. Know them a lot more than I did a year ago, but not nearly as much as their actual students did. No Plutarch of course. Even a murder couldn’t get Pappy away from his hermitage . . . not unless Jessica Fletcher was involved.
Must have sat there for over an hour, nodding as Root laid out the facts and only the facts, ma’am. Came into the conversation after Leo was already pronounced dead but before the witness questioning. A new voice started interrupting once Welf entered the picture as a suspect. Woman’s voice, determined and serious, but unable to escape the fact it would always be a little sultry. Not very familiar with Mama Welf, but I assumed it was her based on the defensiveness towards her son.
She waved off all the evidence regarding pictures from the day before, growing increasingly angry as Root rebutted her with more facts that kept leading back to Welf as the best suspect. Cuz Catherine made sure of it and I was stupid enough to walk Welf into her trap. Heard some info I hadn’t yet. No alcohol in Leo’s system. Not good news for the Miss Strange accident theory. A few of the ‘08ers had given testimony about Leo being troubled during the wedding and Sabine even recalled Leo calling it an early night. So why’d he get up before the sun was out and what was he up to out on the balcony?
Leo had old bruises on his stomach, like someone had hit him the day before the fall, which Root attributed to Welf and Leo’s arguments from the day before though he admitted he had no proof.
Huh. Maybe I need to talk to Welf
about what that shit is about. Or ask Vicky, since breaking into the Holding Room is a little much even for me.
No King Henry mentioned at all. Root only brought up Falcon Smith and Makayla as the witnesses who saw Leo pointing at Welf. Moira was silent through this, so were all the others in the room, but when Root moved to his séance of the necro-shade, him and Mama Welf got into a massive argument about the usage of necro-shades and which questioning styles led to the most accurate results. Styles for questioning the undead, cuz the zombies that follow them around ain’t gross enough already.
Be a few Constructs in the room with them. Mama Welf would have one. Who knows how many Root would have or what they’d be up to. Massive undead circle jerk for all I care.
After that long ass argument on necro-shades, Root finally moved to today and his decision to bring Welf in for further questioning. Wasn’t just Mama Welf who disliked that, Lady got in a few points about Root not being Dean yet and overstepping his W.I.S.P. One other defended Welf’s character. Ceinwyn, strangely, thought it was a good move to protect Welf from student reprisals.
Nothing about other suspects. Nothing about Catherine. Not sure why I thought the bureaucracy would teach me anything, been sitting on the Three Queen problem for seven years. Most of them don’t even know—
A pair of hands grabbed my geomancer coat and yanked me into the air.
[CLICK]
“Know this looks a little bad,” I told the slice of the Learning Council that happened to be glaring at me once Root’s Constructs had finished with manhandling my ass up into the air, through the Lady’s front door, and finally down into a waiting chair. “Also, I can’t get dysentery or something from those things touching me, right?”
“And my day improves,” Mama Welf got on with some serious sass. “Now I have to listen to Ceinwyn’s current favorite mongrel talk his way out of this breach of security.”
Looking at Moira von Welf ain’t hard on the eyes. Got attachments and feelings for Ceinwyn, but not a one for Moira and damn is that woman still a fine specimen even though she’s almost in her forties. Black hair so wavy and perfectly placed it was almost shaped like a crown about her head. Thick lips and thicker hips. Made me have some bad thoughts the both of them. Can just imagine how she stalked her older husband that summer she turned eighteen. Picked out the Old Mancy groom she wanted and seduced his ass.
Frederick von Welf: conquered.
Did have a Construct, same big, white guy I saw in Denver at the Project Cassandra shindig, the one with tiny little necro-lines across his skin, so small they were almost invisible. Stood directly behind her with its hands on her shoulders. Kind of like a dog with his head on her knee, I imagined. Wouldn’t even need a command to bite you, just a twitch of necro-anima. Has something to do with strings between the Construct and the Bonegrinder. Would know more, but someone purged most of the Construct section from the Ultra sub-section in the Library.
“All history between me and your son to the contrary, I’m actually on his and your side this time,” I told Mama Welf, “so ixnay on the breachay, sister.”
Root completely ignored my antics or any antics I might be thinking about further undergoing. “I can have Thirteen and Seven take him to the Holding Room for now, if you wish,” he offered the Lady with just a hint of anger.
Always nice to get a reaction, even when I’m trying to be a spy.
The Lady didn’t seem the least bit surprised by the interruption. She sat in her rocker by her old, beat-up TV, slightly off from the main area of discussion where the other members had formed a circle of chairs. Had yarn and knitting needles in her hands, cuz ya know, the Old Crone metaphor didn’t have enough help already. “I don’t believe such measures will be required, Mordecai.”
“He doesn’t belong here,” Root rebutted. “He’s overstepped all possible leniency now, he must be punished.”
The Lady glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “Evelyn told me you came by to see her earlier. To ‘dispel rumors’ was the excuse. Even gave yourself a nice knock on the forehead so she wouldn’t be too suspicious, I think.”
“Ran into a wall,” I treaded lightly, “distracted and all that.”
The Lady cackled a little bit while pointing between me and Root with a knitting needle. “This one is much more entertaining than you’ve ever been, Mordecai. Even when you had that crush on Lucy Morton.”
Both Root and Mama Welf seemed affronted, but for different reasons. “This is not a matter of entertainment!” Mama Welf hissed, “my son is accused of murder!”
“Surely we should think of the victim before your son,” another woman in the room said. Rin Yukimura, the Winterwarden teacher. Must have called off class so her students could do some private grieving. Yukimura was unsurprisingly, given the name, a Japanese woman. Very dignified, even if her English was heavily accented. No idea on her age since Asian women don’t age until they’re sixty and then they look one-hundred.
It’s fucking true and you know it.
Even black women can’t compete with that Eastern Medicine shit.
So the Lady, Ceinwyn, Fines Samson, Mama Welf, Root, Rin Yukimura, and the last was Wolfgang von Welf. Don’t know how to describe Wolfgang von Welf other than to say he looks like an extra hairy, uglier imitation version of Hugh Jackman. Rumor was that Wolfgang had a cabin out in the woods near the Asylum somewhere and that’s where he kept his wolf pack, same pack he terrorized Singles with every year during the Camping Test. Technically he was Moira’s brother-in-law and you’d assume some kinship between them, but familiarity with Moira von Welf means you’re smart enough to sit as far away from her as possible.
So, for example, when she glares murder at Rin Yukimura you ain’t in the crossfire. “Of course the victim bears consideration,” Mama Welf contemptuously agreed with the cryomancer. “Which is why we should stop this foolish focus on my son and search out the truth of the matter.”
The Lady clicked her needles against each other, stopping a round of argument before it could start. She also ignored the last exchange, still glancing my way. “Entertaining or not, you don’t belong here, King Henry. I know you’re a very energetic young man, with a bit of an imagination on you when it comes to secrets, I also know you were with Leo when he passed and yes, Heinrich is in your class so you’re naturally protective of him; still, despite all this, you are not the person I gave a W.I.S.P to, Mordecai is. You are a student. Your job is to learn, not to hunt down rumors one way or the other.”
“The evidence against Welf is shit,” I gave it to her rough.
“Mr. Welf is the only suspect with physical evidence currently weighing against him,” Root snapped at me before the Lady could answer.
“Don’t matter if he’s the only one if it’s still shit,” I pointed out.
“A matter as serious as this one should not be undertaken with haste. I will uncover more evidence for or against Mr. Welf, I assure you,” Root declared, sure of his ability. “If I would only be allowed to question him further then I could decide his guilt or innocence that much sooner . . .”
Ceinwyn finally spoke. Never saw her at a Learning Council meeting before, obviously, but she was exactly how I expected her to be. Detached, leaning back in her chair, and just a little bored with it all. Ceinwyn’s a doer, not a talker. Only time she likes sitting by is when she’s watching someone else make an important decision. Don’t imagine there’s much of either during these things. Wasn’t now. Just a whole lot of talking round in a circle over and over, only when it was done nothing had been decided and unlike with the Lady’s knitting there was no sweater to show for it. “Now do you see why I told you to stay away?” she asked me with her ever present smile.
“Figured there was a bet and you went against me or something,” I told her.
Earned a bark of laughter from her. “No, I was actually trying to keep you safe for once. The Lady’s correct. You’re just a student, King Henry.”
“Yeah, well .
. . I’m also a witness and I feel like the investigator ain’t listening to what I said,” I issued a formal complaint.
“There are dozens of witnesses,” Root reminded the room. “Though I wished to keep it secret for the sake of discretion, Mr. Price was the only one of their number who was inebriated. Furthermore, it is past time for this school to stop indulging his indiscretions. For years he’s done whatever he wants and you’ve all laughed about it, no harm, no foul. Are those not your words when the Staff miraculously returned, Dean? Or when you gave him a simple game-ban for striking the very murder victim during a Winter War? How many other infractions has he relentlessly committed? Dozens! If there is harm done to this investigation it will be most foul.”
No one spoke because it was obvious Root wasn’t finished, but that he just needed to catch his breath. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him this emotional, even when I goaded him over the staff. “And despite all this . . . I’m supposed to put his skewed, intoxicated evidence above others? Evidence that doesn’t even come near clearing Mr. Welf as our lead suspect? No. I will not foul your ears with it. Yet . . . I did foul myself. I did consider it, I did my due diligence. I spent nearly two hours of precious time delving into his little conspiracy theory. What did I find? Nothing. No standing. Delusions based on past rivalries.”
“What evidence?” Mama Welf asked just as Ceinwyn also asked, “What conspiracy theory?”
Root sat rigid in his seat, turning to the Lady. “You can’t keep giving me Writs to investigate and then curb the investigation before it’s completed!”
“No one is doing any such a thing, Mordecai,” the Lady did some indulging of Root this time around. “Are they, Fines?”
Fines Samson had fallen asleep at some point.
He had no comment.
Unless you count his head leaning back towards the ceiling as a nod.
“Selfish man, always leaves me to clean up the mess,” the Lady playfully groused her long time lover.
“What evidence?” Mama Welf repeated heatedly.
The Pit of No Return (The King Henry Tapes Book 6) Page 32
