The Pit of No Return (The King Henry Tapes Book 6)

by Richard Raley

  Always saying I ain’t ever been much of a liar and it’s usually telling nothing but the whole truth gets me in the most trouble. Except this time. This time it was the whole truth got me out of trouble. “I had a vision of Welf killing Athir.”

  “Impossible,” Root told me bluntly. “While you had your incident with Mr. Al-Qasimi, Mr. Welf was with me, catching up on his school work.”

  I nodded. I mean . . . didn’t make much sense it being Welf who killed Athir. None of it makes any sense. Not from the start. Wasn’t Welf. Catherine was trying to frame Welf, but wasn’t Catherine either. Teresa and Mary upset about Hardy, but too scared to say anything. Athir dead. Weird visions. Why can’t I get an easy one like Colombo? Have the ex-wife or the business partner do it. Fucker has it so easy the bumbling dipshit doesn’t even need to carry a gun.

  “Anything else you remember?” Ceinwyn tried to keep me talking even if Root wasn’t interested in anything I had to say.

  “You guys saw the note in my room?”

  Root sniffed his distain, probably at my everything, but especially my lack of interior decorating skills when it came to my apartment. “Yes, I personally searched both of your dwellings. Due to the note , I was able to quickly give extra weight to Athir’s social circles in my formulas. Now, I believe it will only be a day at most before this situation is resolved. As long as you can keep from distracting me with false leads . . . yet again.”

  Ceinwyn smiled at Root. Damn. Seen a lot of smiles from Ceinwyn Dale over the years, but that was one of the few times her smile came packaged with a curse word. “If you hadn’t been so antagonistic to him to start with then he wouldn’t have gotten involved. Merely saying you would look into his ideas—instead of mocking them as inferior to yours—would have sufficed. King Henry would be content and would offer no distraction at all. All these years and you still can’t see the outcomes of your actions and plan accordingly, Mordecai. When one can’t see the outcome of one’s actions, how can they expect to properly anticipate another’s? Quite a fault for someone with your ambitions.”

  Them dead black eyes only stared at her. “My planning concerning future outcomes is quite thorough, I assure you. This is but a small blip that will be corrected. A day, no more, as I said.”

  “A day that could turn into hours if you give King Henry a chance and listen to what Athir wanted to tell us with his dying breath,” Ceinwyn cut at him with reason. Same reason Root claimed to value so highly.

  “I do not find fault in Mr. Al-Qasimi’s dying breath or in his last actions. They were constructive to a positive outcome and an attempt at revealing the person responsible. What I find fault with—much fault with—is menti-anima on a whole and its clouding effects on an unprepared mind.”

  “I had a second vision,” I butted my way into the pissing match between the pair of people mostly likely to replace the Lady one day. “Except instead of Welf, this time it was Catherine talking to Athir. Everything was a lot more violent and, just fucked up. Like the whole vision was frustrated that I couldn’t understand it’s purpose.”

  For a robotic, unfeeling, piece of shit, Root does do one emotion really well: smug. A quick shrug in Ceinwyn’s direction that disregarded everything that had ever had to do with mentimancers was his only other remark before he left the Infirmary.

  “I didn’t lie or anything,” I said. “That’s exactly what happened. Two visions. Welf and Catherine and weird shit going down.”

  Ceinwyn only rolled her ageless eyes my way, some of her tension disappearing now that Root was gone. “At least you’re safe and unharmed. I would never call you normal, but returned to as normal as you can be on most days. As terrifying as a normal King Henry day can be for some of us . . .”

  “It’s not my fault if my brain was unprepared or some shit. The fucking trees were melting and the sky kept sixty-nining itself.”

  Again the roll of the eyes. “What do you say I talk to Evelyn about letting you return to your apartment in a few hours?”

  “I’d like that,” I decided. “She’ll probably stab me with a Giant Fucking Needle soon otherwise. I think I’m building up a tolerance to whatever’s in those things . . .”

  “I’ll need to remember that and switch to vampire tranquilizers the next time I need you unconscious then.”

  Well . . . that sounded worse than even the Giant Fucking Needle. “So . . . this is one of those occasions where I should have kept my mouth shut that you’re always talking about, right?”

  Ceinwyn’s smile twitched. “Assuredly.”

  [CLICK]

  Home, sweet, home.

  Jail cell, sweet, jail cell.

  Just how I left you.

  Ceinwyn bailed on me after a quick conversation, just like usual. Bit of a miracle she’s stayed at the school for as long as she has, much less that she gave a few hours of care keeping an eye on me, including walking me back to my dorm. Lot better company than Miranda had been the other night, plus being on painkillers is a whole lot less nauseous than being on the booze.

  “Don’t want to stick around?” I asked her. “Sure I got some cookies for you to eat somewhere in my cupboards.”

  “Sorry, King Henry. I’ve been ordered to pick up Scott Hardy’s parents at the airport and be their escort while they visit the school.”

  “Didn’t know anything about him really,” I mumbled while trying to work up enough IQ to make a cup of instant coffee. Don’t think it was even noon yet, but I felt like it was midnight. Dr. Pepper, generic or otherwise, wasn’t enough caffeine to tackle an exhaustion monster this large.

  Ceinwyn watched me struggle with the cupboard door, eventually listing the facts and just the facts, better to not influence what my reaction would be that way. “Scott Hardy. Born and raised in a small town in South Carolina. First Generation mancer. Father runs a trio of carwashes, mother’s a homemaker. An older brother and a younger sister. Both mundane.”

  Finally got the lid off of the instant coffee. Brain, lost that one. Thumbs, I still got ‘em! “I get the point. We all have family, even Blackjacks, even Queens. My own point is this: might be three living kids if you weren’t so lenient on Catherine just cuz of who her daddy is.”

  “Said father is equally skilled at never crossing the line into being truly punished for his actions, no matter how egregious,” Ceinwyn remembered bitterly. “Frederick von Welf . . . so charming when he’s in a pickle, so haughty when you need his help.”

  “Before your time, ain’t he?”

  “Oh yes, but—though you so love to forget it—I am as Old Mancy as they come, King Henry. Same social circles, same summer party circuit as the one Moira stalked the man through. She never did let up once she decided she wanted something . . .”

  “Would she kill to protect Welf?” I asked.

  “In an instant,” Ceinwyn acknowledged. “But Moira would never believe her own political influence weak enough, or that Heinrich was ever in enough jeopardy to do what you’re suggesting.”

  “Construct could crush a person like Athir got crushed, is all I’m saying. Maybe he had a brain-link with Hardy or something, caught on that Moira killed him to cover for Welf.” Coffee crystals went in the cup. Coffee . . . lot better than all this murder mystery stuff, whole lot less complicated. Even if I ran out of the stuff I steal from Plutarch. Coffee in cup . . . needed hot water. Too tired for hot water. This is a problem.

  “King Henry,” Ceinwyn’s voice was more than warning enough and she wasn’t talking beverages. “Leave it to Mordecai or you’ll be spending your Sundays in the Holding Room with Catherine, do you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I hear. It’s the thinking that’s hard at the moment,” I grumbled. Finally pulled out a carton of milk and just dumped it into the cup, mixing it up with the coffee crystals. It . . . sort of looked drinkable. “Well, have fun with all the responsibility and parent chaperoning then. See you at the memorial on Friday, I guess . . .”

  A last knowing smile before she left
. “Have fun with all your guests today as well. Try not to be too cranky. They do care about you, believe it or not.”

  “Huh?”

  What does that mean?

  [CLICK]

  Fucking people, why I got to know so many of them?

  I just wanted to sleep!

  Good thing the school was on lockdown or it would’ve been worse. As it was, just Class ’09 tortured me with all the Hallmark moments. No Vicky Welf hugs, surprise, attack, or otherwise, although I had a feeling she might not let me go for ten to twenty minutes next time she did manage to clamp on to me.

  Emotions. Feelings. Always say I don’t have them, but . . . they’re there, just buried. Buried for your safety. People good with emotions are lucky, but so are those without. Either way has to be easier than trying to keep a lid on the multitude you don’t want to boil over. Only saving grace was my exhaustion. And my headache. And whatever you want to call the coffee/milk concoction I created. That stew made it hard for me to simmer, much less boil.

  Still.

  People.

  So annoying.

  Wasn’t just the amount of them that annoyed me. I mean, would’ve been fine if they all came in at once, stayed for five minutes and then fucked off. Whatever. But, no . . . was like Class ’09 made up a schedule and each of them got five to twenty minutes of my time. Even people I rarely hung with and barely even talked to when we slept in the same communal bedroom.

  Every. Single. Kid.

  What could I say to Robin White that lasted longer than sixty seconds? Especially after she starts going on and on about how she’s praying for me?

  Fuck if I know anything about praying.

  Except maybe praying I don’t got Hillbilly Crabs.

  Decided to just nod a lot, let them do the talking.

  Sucked on my coffee-milk.

  Think that’s really what it was about.

  Not poor King Henry, but King Henry as outlet.

  Sit there. Listen. Dozen different stories. How they heard about me getting hurt. How they heard about Athir dying. Let them share their fears, taking consolation in the fact I was still standing, that despite how horrible the week had been, yes you could still get hurt without dying. Sit there. Listen. Nod. Try to stay focused on what they had to say even if mostly I couldn’t think past the flashes of memory invading my brain. There with them but reliving how Athir died over and over.

  Most days I don’t care. Most people. Not even strangers, others as well. But today . . . even people like the aforementioned Robin White, people I barely spent time with outside of group assignments in class or Winter War practices back in the day . . . I cared. Was that I cared, in fact, that was my problem. Shouldn’t have that much connection with people you barely talk to most days. Shouldn’t . . . feel. Shouldn’t . . . have to think about how Athir was dead. Have to think about how part of him is stuck in my head and what that might mean and . . . is it yet another part of me being so fucked up that I just wish the headache would go away? And the memories with it?

  Or was that just human? And if so, how’d I get human so quick? Shit . . . it’s not Athir influencing me, is it? Only, he was never the most normal of us . . .

  Maybe they took lots or maybe someone did make up a list, cuz it felt like the people arriving at my door progressively grew in importance. The Barely Saw to the Barely Hung Out. Eva Reti, Asa Kayode, and Nizhoni Sherman came together. So a Nigerian, a Jew, and a Native American walk into a bar . . .

  Heh.

  Eva wasn’t as important yet. Would be quite a bit once my sixth year started. These days, I miss how easy it was being with her sometimes. Miss how much fun we had, always seeing what next bit of adventure we could manufacture on the campus grounds. Asa, never warmed up to Asa, or her to me. Always imperious and prideful, even worse than Welf or Hope at taking a joke. Nizhoni, always seemed like a cool chick, down to earth, easy to get along with. Her favorite thing as a corpusmancer was changing her hair to colors and blends that even dye bottles could never manage. Gotten pretty good at it too. Had it her normal dark black now, I suppose out of mourning for Athir.

  Mourning . . . how can I mourn him if he won’t leave me alone?

  The Gaming Group guys all gave me a pat on the back for surviving. Did spend some time in the Hall with them over the years, but not a ton. Curt Chambers, Nick Hanson, Rick Brown, and Samuel Bird. Mention Rick occasionally cuz he sings and does a lot of stuff with the school band, but Nick, Nick Fucking Hanson is so average, so plain the guy fades into a crowd or out of a story like no other. Samuel Bird was a bit more athletic in that group than the others, being a corpusmancer. Suppose he’s what you’d get if Miranda and I ever fucked long enough to produce a kid between us. Blue eyes, darker red hair and with a sailor’s mouth on him, Boston accent so heavy that the Asylum never even managed to weed it out.

  Isabel next.

  Felt so bad for her I even let her hug me without flinching this time. “I just wanted to see that you were okay, I just . . . I want us to be okay.” She’s always weird, but even I couldn’t blame her for being distraught. Just lost her only real friend in the world. Only one of us ever seemed to completely understand her. Raj did okay, since he was in the same clubs as both of them, but . . . Athir was always there for Isabel. Never had been able to figure out if they were a couple or just friends, but . . . would be hard on Isabel going forward. “You need any help, tell us,” I said, actually giving the platitude without hating myself. “Don’t keep to yourself, that’s how all this starts. Got to keep an eye out for each other.”

  She nodded, blinking back tears. “It’s all so . . . I don’t understand how it’s gone so wrong, so quickly. But you’re okay, I was so worried. I know I should leave you alone, King Henry, and I know you must be tired, but . . . I just wanted—well, I heard you might have gotten a menti-memory from Athir and . . . I was wondering if maybe . . .”

  Right. If his last thoughts were about his best friend . . . lover . . . whatever. “Nah, sorry, Isabel, wasn’t about you. He, uh . . . just tried to tell me who killed him, but he was way too dead to tell me anything useful. Gave me a shitty memory of Welf killing him and then the same memory but it was Catherine . . . don’t think his brain was working by the time I got to him.”

  Isabel paled as much as her already pale white skin would allow. “That’s impossible. Catherine would never do that.”

  “Neither would Welf. Why no one uses menti-memories in court, I guess.”

  “Of course not,” Isabel blinked in thought, “of course they don’t.”

  Was even me being the polite one for once. Feels weird, man. “Heard Root started an inquisition against any student with sketchy evaluations. You end up making his list?”

  Paler still, but beneath it a fury just like when anyone questioned her sanity. “Yes,” Isabel hissed fiercely. “It was horrible. He’s so . . . mean. So superior. He treated me like . . . Mr. Root is a horrible person. I’m so happy we didn’t have to learn from him and dealt with Mr. Samson instead.”

  She’s not wrong about that. Root or Samson. Samson had taken a liking to Isabel’s skills, if not quite as much as he had to Eva Reti. Used to like facing them off against each other as his volunteers. Isabel picked up whatever move he was teaching a lot quicker than Eva, but Eva always took the time to master it. Part of the problem with having that much physical gift in you, so gifted you can get away with being lazy. Isabel was never a fighter anyway. For some corpusmancers it’s all about perfecting themselves, but not her. Does whatever she can to run away from herself. To be fair, if I was born that ugly I might too.

  “Don’t worry about it too much,” I ended up telling her, “Root’s an asshole to everyone.”

  “I don’t like necromancers, King Henry,” she whispered, hugging herself. “Everything they do is so . . . wrong. They even feel wrong.”

  What you know? Isabel Soto right about two subjects in a row. Must be a miracle.

  Debra and Estefan. Hope wi
th Jessica and Quinn as back up. Miles and Ronaldo. No Naomi, being she was still stuck living with her parents on the other side of the school after the Motorboat-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Jason Jackson dropped by just to give me a fist to dap. “Stay strong, little man.”

  “You too, big man.”

  My boys, Raj, Pocket, and Jesus.

  Raj: “King Henry, you need to go to bed, you look so tired!”

  Pocket: “Good to see you’re still standing, dude. Don’t do anything stupid for awhile, okay?”

  Jesus: “You look like shit, El Rey.”

  Val arrived with a massive chocolate-chocolate cake, stencil with white frosting to say Get Well Soon. “Miranda sends her regards. She’s not really in a good place to talk, but . . . she does care about you, you know. As for me . . . I’m about to hug you, try not to feel my ass up while I do, okay?”

  “Promise I’ll keep the hands at my side,” I agreed to the terms of said hugging.

  After the hug, Val reached up to put a hand on my chin. “You’ve also been ordered to forget about the favors you owe her. You staying alive is more important than any sense of obligation you might feel towards her to solve these murders.”

  I shrugged, trying not to give a crap even if it meant a whole lot to me from both of them. Although, Miranda thinks fucking highly of herself she thinks I’m doing what I been doing just to make her feel better. “You the last one then? Why not come in for while? I’ll make some coffee-milk for you.”

  She shook her head, dark eyes squinting at what had to be my third cup of coffee-milk. “Not the last.”