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

by Richard Raley

  Oh, right.

  Welf.

  “Okay, idea: we forget the coffee-milk, we ignore Welf’s knocking and we go to bed together. I’ll even promise to keep the contact down to spooning.”

  Got another hug at least.

  Stupid fool I am, it made me feel a whole lot better than either the coffee-milk or the painkillers. Not that the painkillers make you feel a whole lot . . . like the fact I think I’ve lost feeling in the left side of my face.

  Welf.

  Douchebag didn’t have the grace to stay in his room and let me get some sleep. Had to make a show of thanking me, just like he had to make a show of sympathy over my Mom’s death. Propriety over sense, always with him. Station and reputation, more important than anything else when it comes to a Welf, especially since Mama Welf joined the club. Why I liked Vicky so much . . . all that upbringing, all them strict governesses, and none of it could stop the rainbow from shining across the countryside.

  But, I don’t get her.

  No fun Welf for King Henry.

  Get the dour one.

  One gonna make me be all mannered and shit. Mannered with a headache. What a pain in the ass. Seems about right, since my ass is the only body part ain’t hurting so far, of course Welf wants to add it to the pile.

  Even the way he knocked on my door annoyed me.

  Knock.

  Wait three seconds.

  Knock.

  Wait three seconds.

  Knock.

  Gave a glower as I opened the door to let him inside. Being he’s almost a foot taller than me, the glower was aimed upwards. Only had to glance past his head to give Fate a piece of my mind about how full of shit she was. One minute, one fucking minute and I would’ve saved Athir. Glance down when I walk into my apartment instead of taking a shit first and maybe he’s alive. Find that funny, Bitch-Queen? I don’t.

  “I know you must be exhausted,” Welf started, always prefacing his bit of manners by ignoring a person’s mood and wellbeing, “and I realize this is pleasant for neither of us, but given the effort you put forth into proving my innocence—even if you failed to do so before matters proved said innocence with Scott Hardy’s untimely demise—and due to my mother’s sudden insistence that I no longer provoke you, I have come here to . . . thank you.”

  I just stared at him.

  Why today?

  Why couldn’t he wait until tomorrow?

  Welf started up again. “I understand we have never seen eye-to-eye and will never see eye-to-eye on most issues—and am also aware that our personalities do not cordially coincide with each other—but I do take comfort that our long animosity and your often violently larcenous ways haven’t robbed you of true honor when matters of life and death, or a man’s freedom, are at stake.”

  Translation: you are such a horrible little piece of shit that I can’t stand the sight of you most days, but at least you don’t clog the toilet up when it’s time to flush.

  “Enough of the bullshit,” I growled.

  “Foul Mouth,” Welf tone changed rather quickly as he got away from all his rehearsed platitudes, “I am trying quite hard here to be courteous to your weakened state. But if you—”

  “Fuck off, Welf,” I told him, throwing my coffee cup in the sink and digging around for two glasses and a quarter-filled bottle of Jack Daniels I kept for emergencies. “Have a god damned drink with me and we’ll call it even.”

  He stared at the liquor I handed him like it was a loaded gun.

  “All-in-one down the pipes,” I ordered him while providing an example by emptying what little was in my glass.

  Probably a bad idea what with the headache, the menti-anima residue, and the painkillers in my system, but . . . needed something to get me through this conversation that didn’t include the words “you’re welcome.”

  Welf eventually shrugged, downing his glass. Which led to a coughing fit, but I’ve seen worse.

  “Figured your dad would’ve had plenty of opportunities to share a glass of bourbon over the years,” I mused aloud. “Just something rich men do, ain’t it? Bourbon and cigars and shit like that?”

  Welf coughed a little bit more before managing to get out, “No cigars, Mother detests smoking. As for liquor, we’re the wine sampling sort. There’s a rather extensive collection at the Manor—although, while we were able to pack the rarest of vintages on our relocation, we did leave behind a great deal of treasure, including the breadth of a true European cellar.”

  “How heartbreaking that must have been,” I deadpanned.

  Welf sucked in a breath before exhaling some of his pride to keep that temper of his in check. “Why must you always be so difficult?”

  “Mostly the headache this time around,” I deflected. “And the fact I’m so pissy about a killer being out there somewhere.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve been strenuously cleared so don’t look in my direction.”

  Took me a second to realize he was once again trying to get me to tell him “you’re welcome.” Instead I asked him, “So it’s not you. Who you think did it?”

  Welf frowned it over. “I was lead to believe you had Catherine Hayes picked out as the responsible party.”

  “For Leo maybe. Not for Hardy. Don’t see the reason to kill Athir either. So, who you think it is?”

  “I wouldn’t sully myself with guessing,” Welf finally stated proudly, like he wasn’t copping out. “Having been on the end of wild accusations, I would want only silence from those ignorant of the case’s pertinent facts. Now that he’s free of Catherine’s manipulations and attempts to pin the whole incident on me, I’m sure Mr. Root will find the killer quite soon. Until then we shouldn’t stay alone and should keep in mind safety first.”

  “What a good boy you are, Welf,” I couldn’t help but needle him. “Got slapped around and such a pussy you’re ready to get back into them good graces no matter how many bruises mommy gave ya.”

  Actually managed to shock him. Eventually he stood, trying to remain calm all the way to the door. Yet before it closed behind him, I heard him mumbled, “Why must he always be an asshole?”

  Finally alone in my apartment dorm, I didn’t have much of an answer.

  “Yeah, gonna blame that one on the fact I can barely keep my head up. Jack was a very bad idea.”

  [CLICK]

  I’m sitting on my favorite bench. Don’t know what time it is. There’s no sky. There’s no ground. Only my favorite bench, surrounded by the faded nothingness of what’s been forgotten. It reminds me of a park near my parent’s flat in London. My nanny used to take me to it and sit me on the bench with a small ice cream cone, especially in the summer. We watched the birds and the people walk on by.

  Not this shit again, a voice said from all around me, so powerful it almost consumed what was left of me.

  There are no trees, but in their place is a bright connection of electrical pulse where the trees would have been.

  Well, at least it’s trippy enough that it’s a little bit entertaining this time around.

  I ignore the voice, focusing on my worry.

  How I worried.

  I didn’t have anywhere else to be. Homework that Mr. Jakovic gave us, but . . . homework . . . I would never turn in that homework. All that mattered was the letter I wrote. People’s lives were at stake. The whole situation was out of control. I had tried my best to be a good friend and fix it, but friendship wasn’t enough. The letter, if he just got the letter a little earlier then I wouldn’t be here now.

  Maybe, or maybe I’d be dead too . . . hard to say. Whatever killed you . . . they hit pretty hard. Wish you could just cut out all this shit and tell me, Athir.

  I didn’t have a good relationship with King Henry Price, but he was the only one who seemed troubled by Scott’s death. Teresa Garcia and Mary O’Connell had been too, but I couldn’t go to them. They were part of the problem. They were the reason everything had spun out of control.

  Water . . . I don’t remember what wate
r looks like, but I can still hear the puddle that should have been there.

  King Henry Price would have been a good choice to help, but it all went wrong and I am about the relive it again. For the last time, I think. I dread it, knowing what it means. I tried, how I tried. Even after death I’ve tried. There’s nothing left of me, barely even a few thoughts. Too big a problem when I was alive, far too big of a problem for this echo. Maybe I should have gone to the teachers, maybe if I had I’d still be alive . . .

  With a sigh of resignation I wait.

  Wait to see what shape my death will take this time.

  There.

  Of course.

  Medium-height, well-built, blue eyes, black hair, tanned Mediterranean skin. Leo Sarducci. Of course. I failed to foresee his death and now he had come to pay me in kind.

  Da fuck?

  I don’t say anything. What would be the point? King Henry Price didn’t understand the other messages when I had more strength, how would he ever understand this one?

  “What did you do, Athir?” Leo asked me.

  I only stared at him.

  Only it wasn’t Leo any longer, the whole body flickered and now small, redheaded Scott Hardy advanced on me. “I have it all tied up. No one else will get hurt. You see why I had to do that, right? They were getting close, but now it’s all finished.”

  “You’re dead, Scott,” I told him.

  “I didn’t want to hurt him, but I had to!” the specter shouted, the paradox of talking about its own death almost ripping it to pieces.

  Scott stepped closer, but I still just waited. No anima this time, what was the point? I couldn’t protect myself.

  “Who?” Scott snarled, barely human. “Who did you tell?”

  I shrugged. “Kill me already.”

  “NoooooooOOOO!” it screamed, it’s whole body changing, flickering . . . becoming my own. Killing myself, yes, that’s fitting. If I hadn’t sent King Henry Price that note I might still be alive. “You told him? Why would you tell him of all people!?!? You know how I feel about him . . .”

  Wait . . . changing . . . the person responsible is changing!

  “You betrayed me,” my mirror whispered in realization.

  “Yes, always changing. It helps,” I managed to whisper, the act taking so much of my dwindling reserves that whole chunks of my body evaporated. “Do you finally see it?”

  Change.

  Change.

  Change.

  Leo.

  Scott.

  Athir.

  Splat.

  Yank.

  Crush.

  Over and over it changed, over and over it twisted.

  The final blow shattered what was left of me.

  Finally, I’m dead.

  Finally, there’s nothing left of a quiet, polite boy named Athir Al-Qasimi.

  Tell them goodbye for me, King Henry Price.

  I wouldn’t have known how to anyway . . .

  [CLICK]

  My whole body snapped awake.

  Always changing.

  The person responsible was always changing.

  The Everchanging, I thought of her fairy title.

  “Soto Crazy finally fucking snapped!”

  Session 176

  Just because the In-Between feels like a void, that don’t mean you’re alone.

  Wasn’t even the In-Between. Was that dream world where I first met Meteyos. Between the In-Between and every day, boring Earth . . . ya know, I’m gonna have to come up with better terms for some of this shit and given my track record at naming artifacts, I’m definitely the wrong man for the job. The Sub-Between? The Before-Between? The Dream-Between? Then there was the place where Eva got sent to fight the were-anima that was killing her, almost to the Scio Realm, but not quite. What you call that, the Beyond-Between?

  T-Bone’s right . . . I really suck at this fantasy name shit.

  Same feeling as during the Camping Test—we’re going with the Before-Between for now—but it wasn’t an exact match. Wrong dream, maybe. Or memory. I did not need this shit right now, I need to be in Fresno preparing for Paine. Not just the scenery was different, of course. I was different too. For one . . . I was taller. Eight whole inches, baby, watch out! Felt stronger, as well. Felt like . . . part of me belonged here. Not the outsider. Like I came in strength, not weakness.

  Scenery was different too. Back then I stood sideways on a mountain’s face. Whole new view of the world and in defiance of gravity itself. Massive valley below me, trees, rivers, imagined deer and bears and mountain lions roaming around, unworried about mankind hunting them down. Whole valley felt fresh, not just the air or the sounds of nature, but in its creation. Yosemite? Maybe. Excuse me if I never take the trip to find out. You get ate by the Killer of Fools all you want, I’ll stay as far away as I can.

  Except one day there might not be any place left to run away to.

  In this dream, the view was a lot less jarring, at least as far as the standing upright part. Vertical. Eyes about five and a half feet above the ground. Was a ground, not a cliff. Just . . . what surrounded me wasn’t a place that existed on Earth. Or maybe it had and was no more.

  I stood on the peak of a mountain, a much different mountain than the one before. How I know? It’s a geomancer thing. They all feel different. Especially the Appalachians, the grumpy motherfuckers. This mountain stood as a singular entity for one. Not part of a range, not driven up by tectonic plates or carved out by ice glaciers. This mountain . . . it was placed.

  Placed exactly where it needed to be, for the purpose of standing atop it.

  It wasn’t alone.

  Twelve more mountains stood at equal height all before me. Together, the thirteen formed a perfect circle that neither glaciers or tectonics or even mankind with all his wondrous science could ever manage.

  Twelve other mountains.

  All empty.

  The powers meant to stand on their summits trapped elsewhere.

  Massive walls linked the base of each mountain in the chain. Each wall was built of different material, some frankly impossible to believe even in this technologically dominate century I was born into. One wall was made of volcanic rock, another of pearl, even one of trees. Not wood, trees. Each had an equally massive gate, through which a central avenue ran, larger than anything even in New York or Paris or Beijing.

  A city lived and breathed between those walls and mountains. Roads off the avenues themselves, canals, an immense lake at the center of it all and in the middle of that lake an island. On the island stood a tower almost tall enough to match the mountains themselves. A tower that defied gravity in many places. Not a dark tower, but one of light. Built by anima made solid, so concentrated and dense that it became crystallized. Anima working together to uphold the impossible, shades of pale color mixing and matching and finding beauty in the chaotic embrace.

  A tower that stood as a keystone for the whole city.

  A city where the wonders of any imagination had a chance at becoming reality.

  A city they called Atlas.

  A city for Sawaephim and Albaephim, for Fyretaez and Rimetaez. For fairies and their dragon gods. Even for the helplessly mundane humans, but for those who wielded Elementalism most of all. Never for the parasites that inhabited them, that fed upon them, that nurtured them, even bred them as food and slaves and toys. These parasites were anathema to Atlas. They resided elsewhere, dwelt in the far lands where they could remain unseen, shaping civilization into their twisted images. Unseen, where they could wait . . . wait for weakness.

  Atlas.

  A city that no longer was.

  A city that had fallen.

  Sunk into the nearby sea or blown to a million pieces in a true cataclysm, I didn’t yet know. Sure that however it went, it went bloody.

  Atlas was gone.

  This . . . this was just a memory.

  A dream.

  Not my dream, for I wasn’t alone on that mountain summit.

  I’ve
stood in a cavern with Meteyos. I’ve felt him dozens of times, mostly as pure anima, not even the whole of him often enough, just pieces reaching out to put his mark upon me. Pretty sure that a few times I’ve even stepped inside of his being. Felt him surround and consume me.

  But I’ve never stood beside him.

  I never saw him.

  What a big motherfucker.

  Quite a bit too alive for something of that size. Quite a bit too alive for something with scales that gleamed like steel. With wings that shined like gold. With horns as rough as granite and teeth as smooth as marble. With eyes larger than me all on their own. Eyes that were the brightest brown ever seen, too bright for a color like brown, so bright they flickered to amber and jade and back again.

  Don’t know what I expected from him, but I never expected Meteyos to be so . . . beautiful. The Divines are beautiful monsters, so why not the dragons as well? Wasn’t a human alive that would’ve turned away from some of Eresha’s choicest shells. Not unless they knew what was inside of them. Even Inanina, who had tried to kill me and who would never be on my friends list, there was something about her fleshy curves that cried out to your primal, baser desires.

  Fuck. Breed. Kill.

  Fuck. Breed. Kill.

  Fuck. Breed. Kill.

  Of course a dragon would be a beautiful monster as well. Maybe not speaking to your baser desires, but to your better ones. Desires that could be turned to something horrible as well, perhaps not as easily, but just ask the people got guillotined or lobotomized how reason and justice and doing the right thing can get all fucked up under the right circumstances.

  What a big motherfucker, I thought again.

  How did the Divines beat him? Beat thirteen of them?

  Seeing Meteyos, it wasn’t just awe of him that overtook me. It was fear in what Kien or Balhad might be. Even Nii-Vah or the others lesser Divines. Readjusted some more expectations, expectations based on what Root did to Eresha. Started wondering about how caught unaware that Divine might have been. Started wondering if maybe she wasn’t quite as dead as I assumed her of being and maybe if it wasn’t my stupid ass really landed the death blow.

  A death blow that dragon towering above me cheered on, maybe even gave me aid to help deliver.