The Foul Mouth and the Troubled Boomworm (The King Henry Tapes)

by Raley, Richard

  “Or breaking an iPhone,” I politely agreed with her.

  Her face whipped back to me, those piercing hazel eyes hard rocks. Her breathing was heavy and the floor under my feet had been rumbling since her mother set down the wine glasses. “You’re a bully,” Christmas told me.

  “I’m an asshole, but not a bully,” I corrected, “unless it’s towards the real bullies. Hate those fuckers . . . just going around picking on people, running lives. Back to artificing . . . I make quite a few products—”

  Crack.

  Everyone in the room looked down at my plate, which had broken into four different pieces, the fracture point directly at its center.

  “Oh dear . . . now I’ll need a new set . . .” Ronnie whispered before taking a large swig of wine.

  Christmas glared at me. “Why do you keep breaking stuff? You freak!”

  I showed off my grin, teeth bared to bite off heads. “Wasn’t me, sweetheart.”

  Christmas looked askance at Val.

  Val looked askance at me. “I thought it was you pooling . . . but . . . oh hell.”

  Luckily I’d cleaned my plate all the way. Other than some left over olive oil and lemon juice and a few salmon bones it was easy to show off. Some kind of ceramic, large cracks, jagged cuts. I pushed them separate with my fork. “The way I pool anima is through defiance. Most geomancers aren’t like that. It’s the thought of being an eternal mountain, or sand changing with the wind, or a diamond with the pressure of the whole earth upon your shoulders. But . . . me: defiance, nothing will tear me down, nothing will stop me . . . and if you try—I’ll wreck your city.”

  Peter’s eyes went wide. “Christmas did that?”

  “Accidental anima discharge,” I explained, “the stronger the untrained mancer, the more likely they are to happen. Especially if some asshole is pushing every button they have. Sorry, sweetheart.”

  “Quit calling me sweetheart!” she screeched before she ran off towards her room.

  Silence.

  Consideration.

  “Can she hurt anyone like this?” Peter Ward asked. Takes a real man to think about how he might be wrong.

  “Yes,” Val said quietly, “I have.”

  “Valentine?” Ronnie said in disbelief.

  Val’s eyes sunk to her lap, then her head snapped up to meet her parents as an equal. “I haven’t been honest with you about the extent of my abilities . . . I didn’t want you to worry. Or to see me differently . . .”

  “Ah, I can help here,” I said, before pulling a black metal ball with a button on the top from my geomancer’s coat. “Pooled up?”

  “Yes, but—“

  I clicked the button and set the ball on the table. “That’s a pyro-anima discharge ball, or a PAD. By the time I finish speaking it’s going to spray fire out of this nozzle and burn down this house unless Val goes Boomworm and saves the day.”

  Whoosh.

  Like a flamethrower, right over the top of table and straight for Ronnie’s face.

  Except . . . it never got there.

  It reversed in the air, wove back and forth like a snake, snapping from space to space, little bursts of heat and fire draining the life out of it, slowly . . . and safely. Snap, sliding through the air towards Val, her face a mix of concentration and confidence, her left hand flipping from side to side just like the flames.

  It raced to her hand, collecting and building into her palm as an actual ball of fire. Her other hand came forward, the ball spinning between them, heat continually rising, orange and yellow lighting the room and Val’s face both.

  Where you expected burns and charred skin the fire left not a single mark behind, only Val’s hands as they slid the ball back and forth, back and forth, until it shrunk down in size no larger than a peanut. Val popped the flame into the air in front of her and then bit forward, slamming what was left into her mouth. When she blew out, there was nothing but smoke.

  A particularly amazed silence.

  “Valentine . . .” Ronnie whispered, like she’d never seen her daughter before.

  Peter Ward was speechless, though he did wipe a finger along a bit of soot that had fallen to the tabletop.

  I picked up my PAD, returning it to my geomancer’s coat. “That’s why we call her Boomworm.”

  “Third nickname . . .” Ronnie whispered. “Worst one yet.”

  Val could barely breathe she was so angry at me. “You prick!”

  “God damn, Val, you’ve never been more amazing,” I told her.

  And that’s the moment when the backdoor shattered and two guys covered in black tactical gear, each wielding a shotgun, rushed into the house.

  This is why you bring an arsenal.

  [CLICK]

  “Your sister,” I said, taking in that sudden revelation. A man shouldn’t be surprised in his own workshop, it’s unfair, I thought.

  “My sister,” Val confirmed.

  “Let me pack . . .”

  “I’ll stay out of your way.”

  “Val . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s good to see you again,” I told her, standing there like a fool.

  She got up from her chair and surprised me yet again, this time with a warm hug. “You too, King Henry.”

  This would have been romantic except that she was about four inches taller than I am . . . so yeah . . . you know all those times you’ve hugged a girl and she kind of bent down a little and to the side so it wasn’t face to face? It was like that . . . except I was the girl . . . and it wasn’t her face I was trying to avoid . . . more like her chin . . .

  “Alright,” I said, ignoring my affronted sexuality, “packing.”

  I went back into my office, pulled out the duffel-bag I used through the nights I spent at my shop, and pulled out everything but the cleanest clothes. This left me with two sets. Into the bathroom, then all the toiletries got the ziplock prison and deposited with the clothes. I checked to make sure my backdoor was locked. After the Coyote attack, I’d installed a thicker door and added a pair of huge security bolts. The thing could take a grenade or two.

  In my shop, Val was getting in the way, studying different designs I had lying out like a kid at the zoo. “What’s this one do?” she asked of a metal belt about half an inch thick and made of triangle shaped links.

  “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  “Like you could take me,” she teased.

  “Depends on the kind of take you mean.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You so want me to singe you.”

  “I’m kinky like that,” I muttered as I stepped forward to take the belt off of its wooden stand. “I call it a GOB.”

  “Explain the nickname?” she asked.

  “Nah, I’ll let you wonder about it. Maybe after this is over and you come back to Fresno with me, and let me take you out on a date, maybe then I’ll reward you.” I slid the GOB around my waist. It was a heavy but reassuring weight.

  “A date?”

  “We’ve been on dates before.” Next I traded my original SDR for another experimental version that I called the SDR Mark 2. It charged a whole lot faster than the first version and I’d been experimenting to try to add multiple containments, but so far they kept merging into one no matter how much geo-anima I surrounded them with.

  “Dates at the Asylum don’t count.”

  “I’ve grown up a lot, you know.”

  “I can see.”

  Cold Cuffs and Anti-Vamp Hot Cuffs next, one into each side of my coat. “Give me another chance.”

  “Are those for me?” she retorted.

  “Another chance?” I said again.

  Val stayed silent as I went to a drawer and pulled out a trio of metal balls: the SEM-DEW and two others I called a PAD and a SAD. I glanced at her, but kept going. Aero-fan . . . no. Spectro-wand . . . no. Extra SDR? No. I ended up in the middle of my shop floor, staring downward. Did I dare?

  “Surprise me and I’ll give you another chance
,” Val finally said.

  I turned to blink her way. “How many times do I have to show you I’m more than a brute?”

  Her lips formed a smirk. “Until I’m done training you.”

  Yeah, she might be the most awesome woman I know . . . but she’s still a woman. Rabble, sexist, rabble. Shut up. Every man alive knows I’m spot on. It’s not like I even blame you women. Just don’t be so obvious about it. Let us pretend it’s not happening. Especially don’t come out and say it . . .

  I pulled a panel back on the floor, revealing a safe. Val walked over, watching as I opened up the lock and then the safe door. Inside was a wooden chest wrapped in thick wool cloth.

  “King Henry?”

  I pulled the wool off and then opened the chest. Inside was a . . . club, not quite two feet long, made of pure pale jade. The Shaky Stick. Or as the Vamps called it: the Earthquake Baton. Or as the San Francisco Earthquake of 1906 called it: Daddy.

  “I stole this from the Vamps,” I told Val, trusting her completely. She’s one of the few I do. Not T-Bone, not JoJo, not even Ceinwyn knew about it. I’d told Pocket about it when we had my birthday bash in Pismo. But Val was the first I’d shown. “They think I destroyed it.”

  Val touched it, running a finger along a carved Japanese letter. “What does it do?”

  “It makes geo-anima and stores it.”

  “Oh . . . is that all?” she deadpanned.

  “All I’ve figured out so far,” I said, sliding it in a specially made pocket of my coat that I’d sewn into every one I owned. Yeah, yeah, I can sew. Fucking sisters, man, you learn a ton of girly shit.

  Yes, I know what foundation is.

  Please die.

  [CLICK]

  The backdoor shattered and two guys covered in black tactical gear, each wielding a shotgun, rushed into the house.

  Adrenaline went off inside me like a can of NOS. In the few seconds it took for the guys to come through the door, I went from enjoying Val’s little fireworks show to taking stock of my situation.

  Perception, recognition, and quick thinking . . . saved my ass more times than me throwing a punch first thing ever has. First with my environment: the Ward’s house had two stories with rooms on the second story, an entrance through the red door at the front, the glass door at the back, and a side door heading out to the separated garage. Christmas was in her room on the second floor, everyone else was in the dining room beside the kitchen staring at Val’s afterglow.

  You just made her burn a pool.

  Fuck. Bad timing.

  Immediate environment: Val stood between me and the door. Peter was across from her and Ronnie was furthest away from everything with the kitchen to flee into. Tableware, thick wooden table, wine glasses, wine bottle. Forks, knives . . . no, I’m not good with knives, especially delicate little knives meant for fish.

  The enemy: a pair of guys in tactical gear complete with masks, goggles, but no sign of heavy duty stuff like grenades or even flash-bangs. Their shotguns weren’t for birds, they were automatic loaders, filled with something nasty. Only question: are they interested in killing us or is this some type of grab and bag?

  You’re probably thinking: why ain’t he asking why this is happening?

  Simple fucking answer, ain’t it? Why don’t matter until you’re cleaning the blood off your knuckles and the doctor’s stitching up the cut on your lip. Why don’t matter until after you’re the only one standing in a room, looking down at the fools who tried to kill you.

  Two guys at the backdoor. Two guys in the garage. Two or maybe four at the front door. That many guys we’re talking two SUVs or vans, so add drivers and it means eight to ten guys coming to do some bad shit.

  Why?

  Later, you cocksucker, I told myself.

  We got lucky, Tac and Tical covered the living room in the first few seconds after they busted in instead of swinging towards the far left where we all sat. It was 6PM or near enough, guess they expected the Wards to be watching some shitty reality TV already. Or a baseball game . . . Peter Ward seems boring enough to watch baseball.

  Weapons and tools: two fists, Val, my arsenal of artifacts. Shaky Stick was out; no way would I give it another chance at destroying San Francisco. I had a ten-minute pool of anima. Why? That one I’ll give you: I was about to split my pool to show off and turn the wineglasses inside out into little dancing ballerinas.

  Ten-minute pool versus two shotguns.

  Poor fuckers didn’t have a chance.

  I picked up the wine bottle from in front of Ronnie, stood, pushed Val back a step, and then chucked the bottle across the room as hard as I could. A blast of geo-anima followed, split three ways. Not perfectly, but pretty damn close. I’d been practicing over the last few months. How deep do the Asylum lies go? Apparently pretty fucking deep.

  Tartarus be jealous, bitches.

  Seven years schooling . . . how many lies did we just buy from the authority figures?

  Snap.

  Snap.

  Gone go the shotguns, not a barrel each but straight down the whole thing like I’d broken Christmas’ phone. Learned that lesson when Overcoat the werecoyote almost blew my nutsack off.

  Crash.

  The rest of the anima shattered the wine bottle like a cluster bomb, getting all nice and booming on CNN. No explosion here, just glass shards slamming into two bodies.

  Two bodies apparently wearing body armor and kind of pissed off.

  These guys seemed to be expecting some Mancy. Person don’t know about the one-in-a-mil world see’s that shit and they start freaking out, even guys wearing tactical gear and professionally trained to kick some ass. These guys acted surprised about the geomancer up in their shit, not shocked.

  They knew.

  They just never expected King Henry Price.

  But . . . they knew.

  Ain’t good. Ain’t good at all.

  I flew across the room at them, booking it as fast as my short, bulky ass can. Stamina, why the fuck can’t I ever run into situations where I need stamina?

  All that talk about perception? It ended right there. I was in the shit now. I can’t tell you exactly what happened in that house. What happened in the other rooms. Can’t tell you what Val did for every second. Can’t tell you what Christmas did, what Ronnie or Peter did. My perception shrunk to me and the two guys invading my territory.

  I heard noises. Ronnie screaming. Peter cursing. A small pop of explosion somewhere else in the house. Me. Two guys. No guns.

  I’m not a professional. I don’t get paid for fighting. I’m an amateur with a calling. Been fighting since elementary school. At the Asylum, I trained in Survival and Defense with one of the deadliest men on the planet. Then he trained me in Elementalism as a Weapon just for shits and giggles. I went through four Winter Wars. Even won some of them. I can’t tell you the correct way how to do a Judo throw. I can’t tell you how to pull off a Kimura.

  I can just kick your ass.

  I know how best to do that.

  So I kicked Tac in the balls.

  Yeah . . . I’d feel upset about it if he hadn’t brought a shotgun and all . . .

  He bent with the blow and then I landed an elbow across his jaw.

  Good enough for now, I thought, turning towards Tical, ready to dodge some kind of punch, or at least roll it off my shoulder.

  About that whole Survival and Defense thing? Fines Samson might not have taught me more than shaping what I already had working for me, might only have focused on boxing and disarming weapons with us boys, but he spent a shitload of time teaching all the girls how to defend themselves from the bottom up.

  Tical focused in on me but never got the chance to throw his punch. Out of nowhere Val’s whole body came from behind him and then her arms wrapped around his throat in a perfect rear-naked choke hold. Both of them dropped to the ground, Val twisting for all she was worth, legs buckling for leverage. Woman ain’t exactly a workout freak but she’s not some dainty thing either. A
lmost six-foot, nice definition to her shoulders and biceps . . .

  I have the weirdest boner right now . . .

  “King Henry!” she was saying, snapping me out of the best daydream of my life. “I’ve got this, find my sister!”

  “Don’t forget your ring!” I shouted back.

  Why am I shouting?

  I shook my head. I hadn’t even noticed the flash-bang grenade that had detonated at the front of the house near the red door. I was far enough away to not get the flash but I’d gotten the bang.

  “Christmas! Christmas! We have to get Christmas!” Ronnie screamed at the top of her lungs as Peter pulled her behind the kitchen island. It was oddly muted. I felt cut-off from the world.

  Right. Fourteen-year-old girl to save.

  Why?

  Shut the fuck up, fourteen-year-old girl to save.

  I jogged towards the front of the house, pooling anima again. My hand snaked around my side, pulled out some Cold Cuffs.

  Why?

  Coyotes? No.

  Other Were Nation? Doubt it.

  Vamps? Ha . . .

  Regular guys. A regular highly-trained assault team. Normal day in the burbs . . .

  About WardWall? Maybe.

  Theft? No.

  Murder attempt? No.

  Kidnapping and ransom?

  Shit . . .

  Why kidnapping?

  I shook my head to clear the rest of the ringing out of my ears, turning the corner into the hallway that opened into the entry room . . .

  . . . and ran right into another of the assault team.

  Then I got the butt of a shotgun in my chest.

  It hurt like hell.

  But . . . pain, right?

  Key to fighting ain’t just landing a punch, it’s taking a punch. Some might say taking the punch is more important. Shotgun butt to the chest is a bit over a punch on the Scale of Whoop-Ass. Thing might as well have been a medieval mace for all its weight and force.

  The wind got knocked right out of me and I splayed backwards into a wall, knocked down a picture frame to crash on the wooden floor. The Shotgun Lover came in again at my face this time and I managed to duck under it, lowering my head and pushing off the wall with a foot. It was his turn to smash against fixtures and send them to the floor.