The Foul Mouth and the Fanged Lady (The King Henry Tapes Book 1)

by Richard Raley

  For me, I didn’t see jeans except for two exceptions in seven years. As far as uniforms went, necromancers were walking around in their blacks like smarmy ninjas or assassins or something equally trying-to-be-cool, while the poor corpusmancers in red and white looked like a bunch of Santas after a stay at the fat farm. Every discipline of the Mancy has their uniform colors, I was happy mine didn’t make me look like a douchebag. Brown it was.

  “I’m an Ultra then.”

  “Yes, King Henry.”

  “What’s that mean? I get the special powers and the seven years thing, but school wise? You wanted the interest right? Here I am. Give me the spiel.”

  Ceinwyn Dale glanced down at me. Given our height differential, I suppose the down at is redundant. “It means you’ll be given a special place, just like I told you before. You’ll be entering a world of which only twenty-thousand people on Earth are a part of.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I’m estimating. But, yes. We could all sit in a large arena at least. The normal mancers . . . the Intras as we call them . . . both the students and the teachers will be either in awe of what you can accomplish with your powers or jealous of it.” She stopped me with a hand as a class of Tri’s went past us, led by their student-advisor. Standing with Ceinwyn Dale, I already got funny expressions—proving her point, I guess. “Whether it’s awe or jealousy will be up to how you act, how hard you study, the choices you make.”

  “That’s some serious crap to throw on a fourteen-year-old kid, you know that?”

  “We don’t expect you to be the chosen one . . . just good at what your gifts are.” She smiled at me with the grateful smile. Down again. Damn tall women. My whole life . . . full of tall women.

  Reaching out with the same slim-fingered hands—that I swear I don’t got a thing for—she pinned an emblem on my coat, next to my geomancer patch. The ring of thirteen stars. The sign of an Ultra. Then she kissed my forehead . . .

  I didn’t tear up and if Ceinwyn Dale tells you differently she’s a liar. Okay. Maybe like . . . moist eyes. Could have been from dust though.

  She asked me if I’d like to see the dorms and I think I nodded. I don’t remember saying nothing back to her. I was going to live for the next seven years in the building, so it’s a pretty big moment. What happens to big moments at the Asylum, class? Yup, disappointment.

  Once we were in the common room there was a little bit of joy, however. “Awesome, a TV.”

  “It’s controlled at the Administration building, so don’t expect to pick up Pay-Per-View on it. You get one preapproved movie a night.”

  “Weak . . . Let me guess, seven years of Harry Potter movies?”

  “Sorry, King Henry. There’s not much time for entertainment at the Institution of Elements, and the time we do give you we feel would be better spent on more educated forms.”

  “Books?”

  “With no pictures.”

  “Weak . . . where the hell is everyone anyway?”

  Ceinwyn Dale and I were alone, inside what would be my living space or jail-cell—depending on your point of view—for the next four years of fourteen-year-old-me’s life. Don’t know if I really have an opinion on it. It was a place to sleep. Never really felt like home, not like my own graduate room would, or even Plutarch’s house where I would spend many a night waking up every hour to watch over some anima experiment, but I suppose the Ultra dorm ranks ahead of my childhood shithole.

  There was AC. Can’t beat AC. The two couches curving around the front of the television were comfy—the kind you could slowly sink into and almost disappear—the television itself was new and modern, and the floor was polished wood, spotted with thirteen carpets in the discipline colors to match our uniforms. Behind the television there were four huge tables—the Study Tables as they were known, though they supported more than a few games of Texas Hold ‘Em in my day—then against the wall was a row of stalls, computers with internet access, though limited internet access that came in but didn’t go out. No escape, even the pixilated kind.

  “Your class is having dinner,” Ceinwyn Dale told me while she watched with those smiling eyes of hers.

  “Huh . . .” I said with my amazing vocabulary.

  “Want to see the restrooms?”

  “I guess . . . never saw one before you know.”

  “Smart ass.”

  See . . . smart again.

  Seen one restroom seen them all. There were showers each for boys and girls, restrooms the same. All divided into stalls for a fake sense of privacy. Psychologically, they wanted you clean quickly, not messing around wasting time and playing grab-ass. Or even playing kick-ass. So they made the experience about as uncomfortably naked in a room with other naked people as possible.

  Ceinwyn Dale followed around behind me as I walked back into the common room. My hand reached out to slide over a table’s top, feeling the pits and pencil marks. “These things look a million years old.”

  “As old as the building,” was the answer I got.

  How old is the building? About ninety years at that point. Too much explaining during this session however; so shut the fuck up and go look up the history of the Asylum on your own time. It will be under ‘I’ in the Asylum library.

  Case in point to the explaining. We eventually ended up in the bedroom. Singular. This giant bedroom with thirty beds already set up and ready to go. They were nice beds . . . just the part that they were all together that threw me for one. Images of not even having the safety of gender specific showers pushed back and forth. Being naked in front of giggling girls and blushing girls being naked in front of me fought over my brain.

  Embarrassment won over lust for once. “No privacy?”

  Ceinwyn Dale went ahead and demonstrated the curtain system, like a hospital I guess—a really comfortable hospital with really thick curtains. “It blocks eyes and sounds that aren’t too loud. Mostly, we prefer them to only be used sparingly, since the goal of this sleeping arrangement is camaraderie.”

  Camaraderie. The class of ’09 didn’t do camaraderie well. “What if we want to . . . you know . . . get it on?”

  “You’re so much more open than the other students, King Henry . . .”

  “Maybe I know what I want?”

  “As long as it’s consensual and doesn’t cause lasting physical harm, the staff doesn’t care one way or the other what you do with your bodies.”

  “But . . . just curtains?”

  “Shy, King Henry?”

  “I’d rather not be getting tips while I’m trying to concentrate.”

  “Yes . . . I imagine if you got unfocused you would end up falling off.”

  “That a height joke?”

  Ceinwyn Dale kept going. “You also have a cupboard next to your bed, with a supply of clothes. Colors only. While the bedside desk holds your school materials.”

  She eventually walked to my bed, desk, and cupboard to show me how they opened. I was distracted. “The staff really doesn’t care if we fuck?”

  “As long as it’s consensual.”

  “Um . . .”

  “As long as you both are into it,” Ceinwyn Dale corrected for the ‘C’ I got in English.

  “Oh, yeah. Of course.” I thought some more while I checked out the brown colored backpack the Asylum had given me for classes. It was the first backpack I’d had which wasn’t hand-me-down. Or stolen . . . “And . . . uh . . . what if girls get pregnant?” Unprotected sex for a year and now I’m thinking things through.

  “They don’t.”

  “What like . . . birth control?”

  “Something like that.”

  She walked back into the common room without looking my way, so I followed. “The Mancy can do that?”

  “No comment.”

  “Win . . . this place might not suck after all.”

  With a ‘ha!,’ she sat down on one of the couches before giving me that Ceinwyn Dale which-way-will-you-jump gaze. “As long as it’s consensual.�
��

  “You keep saying that like I’m going to be bashing girls over the head with a stick.”

  “This isn’t Visalia.”

  “Kind of noticed. Not as hot out for one.”

  “Not to disparage your girlfriend back there but these girls here are not white-trash-with-a-daddy-in-prison walking Freudian clichés. Yes, I checked up on her.”

  “Big words . . .”

  “These girls you’ll be attempting to romance will be just as impressive as I am. They won’t take your crap anymore than I do either.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Miss Dale,” was the platitude I mumbled while facing the possibility of sleeping in a room full of teenage Ceinwyn Dales. Either a fantasy or a nightmare. Still not sure if I know which.

  “They haven’t grown into themselves yet, but they will. If you want to be with them, you’ll have to give more of yourself than you have before. You’ll have to work harder, make yourself something they’d want.”

  “Okay, now stop selling me short.”

  “I figured your size is obvious . . .”

  “Guess I walked into that one . . .”

  “Valentine Ward’s father is a software engineer with his own company, Asa Kayode’s father is a financial minister of Nigeria, Miranda Daniels comes from a family worth two-point-one billion dollars, and Hope Hunting’s mother is a congresswoman. You already met Naomi Gullick. A teacher’s daughter maybe . . . but do you think she’ll put up with you?”

  “Is this the make-me-feel-like-an-asshole portion of the tour?”

  “Just be careful, King Henry. You’re going to have to earn your place here. It’s worth doing . . .” She gave me a pep-you-up smile. “I believe in you.” Ceinwyn Dale getting sentimental—that shocked fourteen-year-old-me more than anything. I probably should have realized it was a warning signal for what was to come, but I didn’t. ‘Cuz I was stupid back then . . . still have my moments today. Back then it was all one moment pushed together.

  Inside the big common room, so lonely in its size, I asked, “Will you stay until they get back?”

  “Of course.”

  Half an hour I guess.

  Waiting.

  In a way, I was the new kid, at least the day late kid. I’d never been the new kid before. When they finally walked into our common room, there were twenty-nine teenage pairs of eyes studying me, then Ceinwyn Dale, then back to me again. They knew her. Maybe liked her. Maybe didn’t. But they knew her. Me . . . I was unknown and what did I tell you about the unknown earlier on these tapes?

  There was also an Ultra graduate student, our advisor, or helper, or prefect, or whatever they want to be called—each four-year class gets one. I was one eventually. I had my kids call me ‘Your Majesty’. Funny at the time.

  Our advisor for single was named Patrick Hanks. Seventh year, a Hep—always. Faunamancer, Ultra of course to be a Hep. What a white guy. Total dweeb. He made Russell Quilt seem cool. “Miss Dale . . . good to see you.”

  “Any troublemakers, Patrick?”

  “Too unsure to cause much yet, but I’m sure we’ll get there.” He saw me. “Late arrival?”

  Ceinwyn Dale stood, so I did too. She was still taller. There were a couple snickers from the crowd. I made a notation of who did it. “This is King Henry Price. He’s an Artificer.”

  “Sup,” I said. Elegant bastard.

  I guess a few that knew what Artificer meant were impressed by that. I mean, we were all Ultras, but the First Tier is so much more rare, it made us stand out. Like I had anything to do with being one or the other. Like any of us did. But none of that matters. Might as well complain about being good at math instead of being good at singing.

  One of them wasn’t impressed at all. “He looks too small to be an Ultra,” a boy with a hint of Europe in his voice said. “Are you sure he’s old enough?”

  Yup. Great start to another legendary relationship.

  They were all there. If you think I’ve explained too much already this session, I can go on for weeks about this group. Months. Some would be very important, others would be in the background, but I’d know them all. Eat, sleep, study, fight with and against. Cliques and counter-cliques.

  If I ranked them for having the most affect on me then Pocket, Jesus, and Raj would be up there, my best friends . . . first friends too. Real friends. I’d have romances, both successful ones and failed ones, with Valentine Ward and Eva Reti. Eva’s short and dark with gray eyes—so very calm and centered but hiding emotional depth beneath the surface in her precious shadows where one had to look so hard to see it.

  Valentine Ward . . . Valentine Ward. Boomworm. Just Val. Every man has the one that got away. Even then I noticed her right at the start. Already tall, but coltish and skinny. Light-reflecting blond hair that was frayed and short but would grow long and full once she started paying attention to it, a face dotted with pimples but a face with cheekbones that wouldn’t quit. Her eyes that are black as pitch. Dark as anything I’ve ever seen. Smoldering embers, watching you. I got burnt and kept reaching for the flame. I still want to reach for it.

  But the person that most affected me . . . probably Heinrich Welf. My rival. Necromancer. Bonegrinder. His family is old, noble when noble meant something . . . fought for the Germans in World War One before the Kaiser fell and the Welfs were taken as part-refugee, part-spoil for the good ol’ U.S.A. Heinrich von Welf, he always corrected. Which always made calling him just ‘Welf’ so fun.

  Heinrich Welf—the boy who made fun of me in front of the entire class before I could even learn all these names I’m telling you. He was already tall then . . . fucker is six and a half feet now. Blond too, blue eyes, good looking if I have to admit it. Girls liked him. Nazi fucker.

  Ceinwyn Dale had to sense the warnings in my posture. But Ceinwyn Dale is Ceinwyn Dale. She watched, small little smile on her face. The street rat meets the aristocrat. What’s King Henry going to do?

  I did what that stupid ass scar-headed Harry Potter should have done the first time that Malfoy bitch gave him trouble. King Henry Price asked himself some questions.

  Q: He close enough to punch?

  A: No.

  Q: Get closer. Nod dumbly while you do. Done?

  A: Yes.

  Q: He close enough to punch?

  A: Yes.

  Q: He tall?

  A: Very.

  Q: Feel like punching him in the gut?

  A: That wouldn’t hurt him enough.

  Q: Are there weapons nearby?

  A: Sadly no.

  Q: Can you jump?

  A: I think so.

  Q: There a stool nearby?

  A: Couch work?

  I jumped back onto the couch, then I flung one of the hardest punches I’ve ever thrown at Heinrich Welf’s face.

  I was up in the air when it hit. The Mancy snapped inside me, bones going all hard in my fist. Just like I loved. No time for reactions. I caught the fucker right on the button. His neck turned with a jerk from the impact, feet going out, uncontrollable pieces of noodle. His so tall, pretty faced body crumbled down to the floor like a corpse gone to dust.

  “Now who’s old enough?” I yelled down at him.

  He didn’t answer . . . but he kind of blinked eventually.

  Patrick Hanks and the twenty-eight other kids gaped at me, finally turning to Ceinwyn Dale for a reaction on what to do.

  Ceinwyn Dale is Ceinwyn Dale. She decided to keep watching how it all played out. Instead of papercutting fourteen-year-old-me, she just walked past with an interesting-choice expression and stepped over Welf. The class parted for her. “School starts tomorrow. Everyone have a good year . . . I’ll try to stop by when I can.” One smile back my way before she left. “King Henry, that’s your freebie. Try to make friends, why don’t you?”

  “No promises.”

  Say what you will about King Henry Price, he knows how to make a first impression.

  “Which one of you lit the dog on fire?”

  Sess
ion 109

  The return flight home to Fresno was made all the more ominous by Annie B’s snug winter clothing, which showed barely any skin at all. Her hunger issues were apparently under control enough for the pornstar look to disappear—there’s a pity. But on the plus side: she wouldn’t be eating anyone in front of me for awhile.

  It was the first time I’d ever been in a plane. I’m guessing most people’s first time don’t go a lot like a private charter flight purchased by the San Francisco Vampire Embassy to get a murderous baroness as far away as they can, as quickly as they can. More likely it was packed in seats, stale peanuts, a five dollar in-flight coke, with the fatties getting thrown off as safety threats unless they paid double.

  The plane was a small jet: posh, personal stewardess, wood-panel interior, comfy seats, even had a small pull-out bed hidden behind the bathroom. Annie B asked if I was interested in trying it out, but I turned her down. Before Sideburns, I’d been going back and forth on the whole disgusted versus horny thing, there’s even a certain dirtiness to the whole idea of her hot-as-hell body being a shell and something that psychologically did it for me when she kicked my ass—guess I like strong women—but the cannibalism had thrown me on the ‘no’ side as far as I could go. Even Prince Henry at his most lonely needs something to work with.

  Instead of having wild-vampire-sex, the two of us sat in our seats, sipping drinks and studying each other, waiting for the plane to do its thing and rise up into the air. I drank my fav’ rum and coke, she was having some kind of fruity martini that only women or vampires-pretending-to-be-women get to drink.

  “How did you like San Francisco?” Annie B asked me, face deceivingly innocent. She knew she’d freaked me out past the point of no return, still didn’t mean she planned to give up her game. Some people get a thrill out of just stepping on the field, winning ends up secondary to smacking around the other players to such a point they don’t want to play any longer.