Jesus, he gave up shame when he started fucking the goats.
Val . . . she’d never laugh at all my jokes if there wasn’t a dirty mind inside that pristine core of hers.
“Should kill me,” I said, “then you’d get celebratory baked goods instead of grief baked goods. So, ya know . . . they’d have like sprinkles on them or something.”
Val reached across the distance to give me a playful pat on the shoulder. “Even you would get grief baked goods, King Henry. Only about a day’s worth, but you’d still get them.”
“Yeah, suppose. Nice to know what a fellow is worth,” I grumbled, taking a sip of coffee as I got back to being stuck within my own head. So into my thoughts that the conversation became about me instead of including me.
“If you could just see to having sex with him one more time so he isn’t such a puta, that would be nice,” Jesus tried to sell Val on some sacrificing of her own.
Val only smirking back at him, that dirty mind once again okay with just about any topic. “No, thank you.”
“Doesn’t even have to be sex,” Jesus dropped his offer lower, “could just be a reach-around maybe. Stick your thumb up his butthole or something. We just got him back to normal with the stripper bus, don’t want him falling back into a funk again.”
Val’s smirk widened into a grin, her eyes flashing no matter how dark they were. “If it’s just a reach-around then you should have all the requisite body parts to do it yourself, Jesus.”
“El Rey is pretty hairy, but not hairy enough for me,” Jesus dramatically complained, waving a hand at my feet. “Also . . . look, he has only two legs. Deal breaker. No horns either . . . I like the horns.”
Raj’s only comment on the whole subject was to give an offended grunt before heading off to help Miranda distribute cookies.
“You think we should finally hook those two up?” Jesus said.
“Disaster,” Val preemptively declared.
“Would be entertaining . . .”
“But think of all the sulking after it’s over and they realize they don’t belong together.”
Jesus grunted agreement. “Make El Rey look like an amateur with all he’s doing at the moment.”
“It’s just a temporary downswing until he accepts he was wrong for once.”
“For once?” Jesus laughed.
“He’s right far more than people admit,” Val defended me and I . . . well, liked her for it at least, don’t know about any other ‘L’ words.
“I agree with what Pocket said to me this morning,” Jesus relayed a story. “It’s okay to be glad we don’t have to fight the Blackjacks again. Five years of bruises and scrapes. Be nice if this is done and over, that they can graduate, and we can have a couple years of peace at this school. El Rey might miss the excitement, but I won’t.”
“Where is Pocket?” I said, so focused on the murder mystery that I didn’t even notice the Fernthrower was missing.
“Horse stalls,” Jesus told me.
“Still with that shit? It was a punishment. What the fuck is wrong with that boy?”
“Maybe he has the same tastes as Jesus,” Val said with a wink.
Jesus flinched with over-exaggerated alertness. “He’s after my women! I’ll catch the pendejo in the act!”
Off he sprinted, leaving me alone with Val.
Surrounded by my classmates, edge of conversations all around us, a few of them about how good Miranda’s cookies were, but alone. With Val. First time since our last break-up. Which was months ago. Didn’t see as much of her like when we were Four Year students. Teachers learned we worked well together and they started placing us in the same groups a lot. Made class fun . . . me alternating between trying to impress her with my intelligence and trying to get her to laugh at my jokes.
Since then it had just been the occasional meal or snatched conversation around campus. Never alone. Some friend or the other about.
“About that reach-around . . .”
Didn’t get her to laugh, but did earn another smirk. “No.”
“Doubt it would cheer me up anyway,” I decided, accepting my post-murder mystery depression.
“You should be happy, King Henry,” she tried to make me see the brighter side of things, just like usual. “You were more correct about what happened than anyone else was, even Mr. Root.”
“Close only counts in Horseshoes or with pyromancer fireball conjurations, Val.”
“The Lady’s address about Scott starting a drunken brawl and how it went wrong made a lot of sense. Plus, I don’t think they would ever lie to us about something like this.”
“Why is it that as smart as you are, you still believe all their bullshit?” I did some cynical growling.
“Because she’s never been betrayed,” a voice interrupted our conversation just before Catherine Hayes slid into view right beside me, like we were the best of friends instead of . . . whatever we were.
My enemy, I guess. Whole different section than my rivalry with her brother, ain’t it? You’d have told me someone at the school would ever eclipse my hatred of Heinrich Welf and I never would’ve believed you, not even as a Quad, but now? Yeah, rivalry might have cooled, but whatever was between Kitty Cat and me still boiled hot.
Part that freaks me the fuck out is I understand her a lot better than I’ll ever understand what makes Welf tick, I thought.
Wasn’t actually annoyed or offended by her presence. Excited me if anything, gave me a chance to read her and, more importantly, to read if her plans had truly imploded or not. Given how bitter her smile was, had a feeling the plans had imploded pretty hard.
Val, on the other hand, had one of the few hostile expressions I’d ever seen on her face. Eyes-without-irises actually glaring. Cheekbones that cut got the skin above them all tight and taunt as muscles in her jaw clenched. No smile, no smirk, no grin. She didn’t even let Asa or Hope push her that far down Pissed Off Lane and with them relationships you had anima personalization to consider.
“You don’t belong here,” Val told Catherine in a tone that spoke of far worse than implosion.
Catherine ever so smoothly took a few steps that placed her on my other side, with me between her and Val. “No, no, it’s you that doesn’t belong, Ward. So good, so pure, so sure that our teachers are preparing us for the best of futures. I heard you’re even on the Recruiter track. Doesn’t get much more True Believer than following Dale around finding more thralls for the Learning Council, does it?”
“You don’t belong here,” Val only repeated, not letting any of the taunts affect her. “Whatever happened between Leo and Scott, whatever you did or didn’t do, that’s between you and Class ‘08. Whatever else happened, whoever else died, you did spread the rumors that put Heinrich in the Holding Room, Catherine.”
“I only told the truth as I saw it,” Catherine rebutted, again with that same odd phrasing that made her words seem like a cheat, only this time with an extra dash of salt over it all going belly up. “As for the rest . . . this school hardly needs a hand on the rumor mill for them to spread. Why, I saw your Naomi Gullick gabbing away to anyone with a good pair of ears. Some class loyalty you all have, Ward.”
Val raised her chin, set her shoulders. “You don’t scare me.”
“Why should I?” Catherine mocked. “I’ve never tried to hurt you. I could have, oh so easily.”
“With one of your paper-cuts?”
Catherine tsked. “She doesn’t understand, Foul Mouth. Not like you. It’s not about the physical. It’s never about the physical. That’s just . . . a move, a preemption to put the pieces where I want them. The real damage I try to do, the real way you play with me is in the emotional arena. That’s why the Foul Mouth’s pink princess shrine hurt me so much. Punches, paper-cuts, fireballs . . . weapons for lesser players. We play to do real damage. We kill without there ever being any evidence linking us to the crime. We make a person jump or slice their wrists or wrap a belt around there neck . . . that is how it is done.”
I expected a scowl or something equivalent, but Catherine showed no fear or reaction to Val jumping on the Catherine Did It bandwagon. “It was only a turn of phrase,” she mocked instead, “a poor one, I’ll admit.”
“Of course it was,” Val said, eyes speaking to the depths of Catherine’s bullshit just like mine always did. “I believe I told you to leave.”
“Should let her stay,” I pointed out. “Let her see how she failed again. Heinrich von Welf . . . fucking untouchable. Catherine Hayes . . . got to go through life with unfulfilled revenge still buried in that hateful heart of hers.”
Catherine did finally scowl, but at me. “Fine. I’ll go. I just wanted to see if she would be here . . .”
“What does that mean?” Val asked, out of loop on the pronoun game.
“Nothing,” I covered and hated myself for it. “Nothing that matters now that this is all over.”
“Is it?” Catherine taunted before sashaying her perfect ass away.
“Stop staring,” Val scolded me for once.
“I know it’s evil, but it’s so perfect that I just can’t help myself,” I told her.
Val rolled her eyes at me, turning back around just in time to see Welf walk out the Admin building doors with Vicky at his side. My whole class clapped and cheered. Hope ran up to hug him. Jason shook his hand. Miranda even handed him a whole upside down cake.
Upside down cake as the world turns upright.
Me . . . I was still suck down there in the dirt.
[CLICK]
Plutarch slapped me upside the head.
“Damn it, Junior! Are you trying to get us killed?”
“Don’t know about us, but do know I’m gonna beat the living shit out of you, you ever do that again, Pappy,” I warned him.
So—ignoring the murder, or accident, or suicide, or whatever that complete fucking disaster hanging over my and the whole student body’s heads was—I’m sure you’re probably interested in what it’s like learning to be an Artificer, kiddies. We’ll also ignore the fact you might not even be there no more, since I went and spilled all the beans on Catherine’s parentage maybe Ceinwyn pulled the plug on these recruiting tapes seeing distribution. Ignore it, cuz if we don’t ignore it I’m just some weird fucker sitting in a dark room talking to a tape recorder.
Don’t know how others do it, maybe a real Artificer who actually works on artifacts would be more knowledgeable in his lesson plans. Shit, maybe even I wouldn’t do it the same way. Never really thought about teaching Artificing. Bad enough I got to teach History, ya know? Even with my epic chalk mosaics. Okay, so the one about the Spanish gangbanging their way through the Aztec Empire was a bit much, but probably more historically accurate than anything you could find in your middle school textbook. Or whatever-the-fuck medium it is kids learn from these days.
Probably Tumblr.
Fuck are we doomed.
Where was I?
Oh, right.
Artificer class.
Best part of learning from Plutarch was the conjuration side of the business. First time I truly started thinking of anima as geo-anima and not some neutral power all mancers shared a slice of. Geo-anima is heavy, thick, flows downward. Ain’t gonna be spraying it all about like a sciomancer or weaving it like some pyromancer. Lot of my lessons were about recognizing how to manipulate that weight and how that weight could manipulate other anima types.
Lot of unexpected math as you get into the Ratio of Anima Dispersion. Lot of work at Plutarch’s kitchen table running numbers, working formulas. Class always starts off that way. Hour of random formulas he’s pulled out of his filing cabinet. Busy work, yes, but important busy work makes sure you don’t go boom.
Most of an Artificer’s job is making sure he don’t go boom.
Unless he wants to.
After the hour of math I finally get some hands-on work. Still busy work, but a bit more fun. Eventually we’ll transition to me doing all this with anima manipulation, but for now Plutarch has me copying and practicing my anima channels in clay. Not a clay kind of geomancer. Too wet for my liking before it’s fried and too brittle afterwards. Don’t help that my big sister Susan had a mad crush on 80s Patrick Swayze and watched that stupid pottery scene in Ghost like fifty fucking times growing up.
Liking it or not, clay is something easy for me to trace a needle through, marking it with imaginary channels. Later in the day Plutarch would take out more permanent molds made from stone or metal and have me practice coating those channels with geo-anima. First month learning all this I’d been tasked with just a straight channel or two, then a few crossing each other. Problems had only been getting more complicated. More anima. More anima types. More junctions.
Plutarch liked to give me a really hard one as a capper for the first half of the day’s lessons. So far I hadn’t made a single mistake, no matter how high the difficulty of them was getting.
Until today.
Plutarch might have started by slapping me on the back of the head, but his rebuttal to my threat wasn’t a threat of his own. Instead, he just pointed with one of those big dark-skinned, scarred-up hands of his. Finger right at the center of my work. At the bulge in one of my channels. Bulge would’ve had us pasted across the walls, especially since the artifact in question mixed pyro and hydro-anima, never the best of friends when you used them together.
Natural state of anima is to flow.
Not to pool.
Not to sit still.
Why fairies are so rare.
Takes a mancer to make it stop for even a few minutes and holding on to it for longer is unadvisable. Remember the time Mr. Gullick had us try to hold back some of our pool as Singles. Wasn’t a kid that didn’t scream out in pain. Lesson was clear: fighting anima hurts, it’s unnatural, don’t try to do it. Especially don’t give it a bulge to twist around in.
BOOM.
“Yeah, okay,” I growled, pissed at myself more than I was with Plutarch’s corporal punishment.
“What’s the matter with you, Junior?” Plutarch grumbled back. “Haven’t showed up for days and now you’re making mistakes with channels you haven’t made since your first week?”
I stared at him for awhile, more dumbstruck than usual. “Even you can’t be that much of a hermit. Nah, got to know . . . being you would’ve hunted me down otherwise.”
Plutarch picked up the ruined clay block, studying it with an unhappy expression. “Damn right I would’ve, Junior. Thought about doing it anyway. My teachers never would have accepted that as an excuse. Day of, yes, understandable then, but day after as well? Then you don’t even use it for grief, do you? Go and run around the school thinking you’re Matlock.”
“You’d be the expert on Matlock,” I deadpanned.
“No back-talking.” Plutarch blasted the clay with geo-anima to smooth it back out to its original state. “No back-talking after you just killed us with that mess.”
“I don’t get another shot?” I complained, wanting to know the answer to the problem even if it took me another hour.
Plutarch snorted, walking off to put the clay back in the kitchen where he kept it. “You’re dead. No second shots when you’re dead.”
“Might not have killed me,” I did the grumbling this time.
“Hydro and pyro-anima?” Plutarch called from the other part of the house. “It fried you from head to toe. Roasted Price, don’t worry, it’s a cheap dish despite the name.”
“I can do it, Pap. Just need another shot.”
“Of course you can do it. That’s why I’m mad at you,” Plutarch pointed out as he returned from the kitchen with a cup of coffee for each of us. “I gave you a whole extra day and still you’re distracted. Never known you to be the sentimental type. Quality I approve of and I don’t approve of much about you, Junior.”
Took a sip of coffee. Plutarch made some damn
good coffee. Good enough that even though I stole it sometimes, I still wanted to know where he got it from. Bet it’s that kind they have cats shit out. Think I’m the one full of shit, kiddies? Do a web search. Cat shit coffee. Expensive as . . . shit. Good as the coffee is, the kind of conversation I feel we’re about to have should be worth some free beer.
Been awhile since I got me one of those from Plutarch.
Been awhile since I impressed him or had him at his wit’s end too.
I liked impressing him. Despite myself, I liked it quite a lot.
“Yeah, not about sentiment,” I confirmed, knowing I had to give him something if he’d ever let me back at that problem. “It’s about . . . well, I don’t really know.”
“Whole matter is settled from what I’ve heard,” Plutarch mused as he took a seat at the table with me. All them scars, yes, but he still moved about like lifting the table would be no problem if you asked it of him.
“Yeah, mostly settled,” I agreed. “Welf free. Leo pushed by Hardy. Hardy offed himself out of guilt. O. Fish. Ali.”
“Root came to see me that first night,” Plutarch freely shared for once. “Wanted to know if any of my little spies felt anything that way.”
“Did they?”
Plutarch snorted again. “Matter’s settled, but you’re still not happy with it, eh? Will you ever be happy about anything in your life, Junior?”
“Did they?” I repeated.
“No, they did not. Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t let the little ones or especially the big ones linger in the dorms. Maudette wouldn’t like it and I can’t say the story of me spying on our teenage students with trained fairies would play very well with the mundane parents, would it? Especially with all the activities you kids get into nowadays . . . wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve had to explain sex to these poor concentrations. They just don’t have the vocabulary to understand it all. No copulation in the nature anima world. Suppose at the least I don’t have to explain childbirth to them, just tell them it feels pleasant for us.”
“Yeah, could probably have gone without hearing all that,” I said.
Plutarch ignored my protests. “Besides, you weren’t the only one tipsy that night. Fines skipped out on the wedding and brought a bottle of vodka with him. Two of us shared so many old stories and shots of that stuff neither of us could stand by the morning.”
The Pit of No Return (The King Henry Tapes Book 6) Page 42
