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

by Raley, Richard

  In the chaos, I faked a grab for his gun, since that’s what you’d expect someone unarmed to do, but when he pulled away from my grasping hand, his other wrist went right into my Cold Cuffs. I hauled downward, breaking his grip on his shotgun. He swung at me and again I ducked under it.

  Sometimes being short does have its advantages.

  Ducking down and then up I locked my grip on his second wrist and clanked the Cold Cuffs home. You could hear his balls shrivel up as cryo-anima flooded into his body.

  Another boot, but this time from my foot and he was on the ground.

  I turned back towards the entry room.

  Just in time to see another pair of shotguns pointed towards me.

  They fucking buy the things wholesale or something? Costco or Big Lots have a sale?

  I threw down the SEM-DEW a second before they aimed and fired.

  So . . . interesting fact about the SEM-DEW: it runs on geo-anima and only acts as an unbreakable wall towards metal.

  It extended out to block the hallway from the entry room and any bullets that would spray me in the face.

  Except . . . interesting fact about beanbags: they ain’t bullets and they sure as hell ain’t metal.

  Which is why the beanbags tore through the SEM-DEW like it was made of cobwebs and smashed into my chest just as they’d been designed to.

  YOU GOT KNOCKED THE FUCK OUT!

  Five seconds later my eyes snapped open and I was spread out on the floor. I’d fallen forward and my face felt like it had smashed into the wood. My chest felt worse, but . . . I knew what had happened to it.

  I suppose I could have stayed down. One of the guys still had the door, looking back at the hallway, shotgun trained for anyone popping around a corner. The other had approached me and was stepping over me to help the guy I’d cuffed. You can walk with Cold Cuffs working on you . . . it just ain’t easy to do without help.

  I blinked into the wooden floor.

  Somehow I’d held onto part of my anima pool. Only not even one-minute worth, half that maybe. Can’t start up a pool after you stop it. Can’t do much of anything with thirty seconds of anima. SDR . . . could have, but still two shotgun guys. Really wishing I’d spent more time on that Mark 2 multi-core design.

  I’m plenty stupid but even I’m not stupid enough to open myself up to another beanbag in the chest. Two of them . . . one SDR. Needed something extra with my thirty seconds of anima. I glanced to my right hand not far from the guy’s foot.

  Shit.

  When I trained with Plutarch he explained to me how my favorite conjuration of iron fist works. Part of the anima enhances my punching power, the other part makes sure my fist can take all that force. Which I suppose means with only half of a one-minute pool, you could either punch like you’re using iron fist . . . or protect your hand from some damage . . .

  But not both.

  I rose up on my elbows and slammed my fist as hard as I could into the guy’s foot. Anima flew to the hand and lashed out with me. I screamed and so did the guy above me, dropping off his foot to take any weight from it.

  Boot or not, his foot was mush. Foot, ankle, toes. I hit so hard it cracked the wood beneath.

  Also broke two of my knuckles and my thumb.

  Sliding up to my knees, I pushed the guy backwards and punched him in the face three times, my knuckles screaming, my scarred up fist earning more blood and pain.

  I turned to the last guy left and let out a scream of my own, gnashing my teeth and flashing my canines like some beast. Blood dripped from my right hand. Blood dripped from a cut over my eyes. My chest was bruised. My SEM-DEW was good ol’ FUBAR: fucked up beyond all repair. All I had left was an SDR versus another shotgun.

  Except . . .

  . . . it’s a shit day for King Henry Price.

  Three more of the guys raced from the second floor, one of them hauling Christmas on his shoulders. Her feet kicked but hit nothing. Her head was hidden behind a black sack. The front two guys saw me and one of them vaulted the stairs to drop in front of me.

  You kidding me?

  I’d seen enough corpusmancers in my life time to notice one showing off.

  Corpusmancers work differently than me. Ain’t adding to something after the fact. It’s adding to during the work out. Making a human body into a fine-tuned machine with added extra. Corpus-anima . . . better than either the Cream or the Clear.

  I kicked the guy in the balls.

  . . . what?

  I know, once upon a time I said to never do it.

  That was before the fucking beanbags.

  Besides, not like it had any effect on the big bastard.

  He stopped, lined me up, and slammed a hook into my jaw that would have made Mike Tyson jealous.

  I dropped to the floor again.

  YOU GOT KNOCKED THE FUCK OUT!

  TWICE!

  Why?

  Why is a mancer kidnapping a geomancer girl?

  What the hell is going on?

  My eyes opened again. No snapping this time. I was slow, groggy. Add jaw and neck to the list. I’d fallen backwards this time, but was all alone in the hallway except for Val. She grabbed my shoulder, asked me something.

  I shook my head.

  Noise from somewhere.

  I shook my head again.

  “King Henry? What happened?” Val asked, her face somewhere between panic and cold fury.

  I blinked, my eyes running over her body in fear. But she was fine, no marks but some bruises on her forearms like she’d blocked some punches. “They . . .” I stopped, my mouth feeling like mush. My tongue checked my teeth, found them all, and then I spit some blood down my chest.

  “Where’s Christmas?” Val asked with urgency.

  “They took her . . . out front, go!”

  She was kind enough to help haul me to my feet before she sprinted for the door. I stumbled after her. At least my legs felt fine. Couldn’t say the same for the hallway. The SEM-DEW had half pulled in its webs, looking like a tattered blanket. There was glass and blood and broken wood frames all over. Pretty sure most of the blood was mine.

  I spat again.

  Less blood this time, with more spit.

  I staggered forward, made it to the door.

  The assault team . . . no, that’s the wrong word, ain’t it?

  The kidnapping team had parked two SUVs and a van across the street. Neighbors peaked from behind hedges and out windows but no one bothered to get involved.

  Don’t blame ‘em.

  Two guys helping two guys without shotguns. One guy helping the guy I’d cuffed. Another helping the one I’d iron fisted in his foot. Three drivers. One guy with Christmas in front of him. The corpusmancer—you could tell, he was bigger than a normal person should be. And two more standing at alert, guarding the vehicles.

  Fifteen guys.

  To kidnap a fourteen-year-old girl.

  A fourteen-year-old Artificer.

  What the fuck was going on?

  Val stood just outside of the doorway on the patio. No idea where the red door had gone . . .

  I shook my head again, focusing on Val. I’d never seen her get this angry before. This wasn’t the anger she’d had when I’d made her stop the PAD fire in the kitchen. Not the anger when I’d put a hand under her skirt and she set my ass on fire or when I’d disappointed her a few times and she’d snapped her fingers and lit a flame to get my attention.

  This was an anger where she didn’t care anymore. The anger that’s not worried about hurting innocents. The pure white fury of a star that doesn’t care how many mortals burn to ash in front of it. The star too hot for even fire.

  I love her.

  And it terrified me.

  If I’d been one of the kidnappers I would have pissed my pants and begged for mercy.

  Val slapped her hands together and in one of them a ball of flame so intense that it glowed white formed. In an instant it was out of her hand and inside the lead SUV, bursting through a bu
lletproof window like the molten copper of an RPG.

  The world breathed for a spare second.

  One second of silence.

  Tick tock.

  The SUV exploded

  I take that back. ‘Explode’ is the wrong word.

  The SUV was consumed in fire.

  YOUR SINS SHALL BE PURIFED.

  The driver and the vehicle disappeared in the white glare.

  It was a heat so intense that the plastic melted in seconds, the tires popped, the windows cracked, and even the metal of the frame and engine warped.

  All the kidnappers flinched, but the corpusmancer flinched the least. He pointed out Val. Shouted something into a headset.

  The two guys guarding the vehicles raised their machineguns. No shotguns here. No playing around after the fireball to end all fireballs.

  “Val!” I screamed, “Get down!”

  She only moved far enough to turn back towards me. My feet thudded from her already growing pool. No one at the Asylum pools anima faster than Val. Not Ceinwyn, not Mordecai Root, not even the Lady. Val’s in a class of her own. But . . . pool or not, fire doesn’t stop bullets.

  “Boomworm!”

  Still nothing, just a lone smirk. Daring me to touch the star. Daring me to burn.

  I rushed her, just fast enough to crash into her and throw us both to the ground behind a little knee high wall of bricks that blocked the porch from the front lawn.

  Bang, bang.

  Hole in the head.

  Machinegun fire poured in at us until the remaining vehicles squealed away on tires loaded heavy. Val tried to rise up, but I pushed her down again. Her dark eyes stared up at me threatening oblivion . . . until the gunfire stopped and she calmed and came back to herself. Another emotion showed in the between . . . but I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before . . . couldn’t tell you what it was for nothing.

  After it came recognition, fear, thanks of being alive, and just a rush of mixed emotions. Watching Val go through them, my own brain copied her and I let out a little breath . . . happy to be alive.

  The last we saw of Christmas was of a scared fourteen-year-old girl screaming her head off under a black hood, her feet kicking as she was thrown into the back of a van.

  No . . .

  Fucking no.

  Whatever the cost.

  Whatever the pain.

  This shit ain’t ending here.

  Session 27

  “To the victorious!” Welf called out, for the billionth time that night but even I didn’t care like making a point about the pompous ass and his flair for repetition.

  “To Class ’09!” we all called back.

  Our common room, hell, our whole dorm area was a mess.

  “To the fallen!”

  “To Class ’08!” we shouted.

  Stanky been-through-the-Winter-War colors all over the place. Sure, the fastidious amongst us waited to undress in the showers or behind their privacy curtains, but others had flung off black coats and muddy shoes the minute they passed through the threshold. The colors had only been the beginning. Discarded sparklers, used up party poppers, even popped balloons covered the floor.

  On the Study Tables, every sort of unhealthy food sat half eaten, opened, and inviting you for more: cafeteria-made chocolate chip cookies, pumpkin pie, apple pie, brownies covered in walnuts, red velvet cake, carrot cake for the weirdoes, four different flavors of ice cream, two flavors of sherbet, platters of meats and cheeses, dipping sauces for fresh veggies and chips . . . fuck am I hungry all of a sudden, are you hungry all of a sudden, kiddos?

  Shit . . . nah, stay strong, King Henry. Finish the session, cross it off the To Do List so you can get back to running your shop.

  Okay . . . a shitload of food, and drinks too. If the adrenaline and hormones weren’t enough, the sugar and corn syrup made all of us buzz. Wasn’t a one of us pissed off or sulking, nada. Class ’09, all thirty of us, completely happy. Didn’t happen often. We enjoyed the atmosphere, soaked it in. Some more than others. Pretty sure Debra and Estefan disappeared for a good chunk of the night and did some cherry popping.

  I’ve told you before: everyone’s everything.

  Me? No sex for King Henry . . . no kissing, not even some heavy petting, not even some church-sanctioned hand holding. It’s a PG night for me. Had to make do with a full stomach and the feeling of success. I sat in a corner that had some chairs pushed up against it, feeling pretty lonely. But the good lonely. Father of the bride lonely. Coach just won the Super Bowl watching his players dry hump the championship trophy lonely. Guy that gets forgotten in the middle of a threesome with two Victoria’s Secret models lonely.

  Not a perfect situation to be in . . . but it was far from the suck.

  Had me Raj and Athir for company. Neither in my top ten back then. Especially Athir fucking Al-Qasami. Oh shit, King Henry being racist or bigoted or racist bigoted or something. Nah, ain’t it, believe it or not. Sure, before I met the guy I assumed some shit about him, that’s what all ist-thinking is based on, ain’t it?

  But Athir was apparently raised more in Europe than he’d been in his homeland of Dubai. Had a British, not an Arab accent on his English. Also spoke French and German. Want to see some funny shit? Get an Arab guy who knows German to start talking to you. Wo ist die toilette, arschloch?

  Clean cut, polite. Westernized enough to make a fundie Muslim fly into a spitting rage. A nice, quiet guy who spent time in the Library with Raj and the other Worms. His best friend ended up Isabel of all people . . . never have figured out how that weird ass relationship started. Sure as hell didn’t end well . . .

  Wasn’t the Arab thing that made me dislike Athir. Was the mentimancer thing. Ninety-nine percent of mentimancers annoy other mancers just by being around. Put on top of that some nice fear of thought reading and another dose of memory reading for the Ultra skills . . . made a repressed motherfucker like fifteen-year-old-me nervous and edgy.

  Raj only managed it through an insane ability to be nice to other people. Never seen another person control Mancy induced feelings so well. A cryomancer and the guy even got along with hydromancers . . . that’s some serious conditioning. Manners—they’re some scary life-altering shit.

  “So what exactly did you do the whole match? Run around waiting to get ganked?” I asked. “Mind reading won’t punch a vest.”

  Athir took the question and thought it over a second. He had a habit of precision with his answers. Probably to make sure he didn’t give all those ist-motherfuckers a beachhead. Perhaps just manners again . . . they’re a cancer. “While I had no direct . . . kills—distasteful word—I believe I proved myself invaluable.”

  “But . . . how?”

  It doesn’t help them that most mentimancers are reluctant to talk about what they can and can’t do with the Mancy, the Ultra ones more so. Athir picked at his coat sleeve for a moment. Like the rest of us, he was back to his normal colors and for the nosy among you kiddies, mentimancers have blue with black trim. Styling and profiling. “It’s very hard to play a game when someone is sending thoughts into your head.”

  “So what . . . you turned up the annoying and went Halo kid with the ownage and teabagging?”

  He tilted his head but clammed up. “Something like that, yes.”

  “We’ve went over the whole ‘if you get in my mind then I break your arms’ rule again this year, right?”

  Raj frowned over my rude behavior. “Athir would never violate another’s privacy, King Henry.”

  “Cuz he knows I’d break bones if he did . . .”

  “Or he doesn’t look for every advantage available to him no matter the personal or moral cost,” Raj corrected.

  “Another question, this time for you since we’re all bubbling with win-juice . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Why all you Indian guys named ‘Raj’?”

  “You’ve asked this before,” he pointed out politely

  “You never answer,” I pointed back ag
gressively.

  “And I will tell you again that I won’t let your attempt to anger me with stereotyping and prejudice succeed.” Raj smiled at me like I was some terrifying but misunderstood enemy.

  I sat back in my chair, watching all the others in their festivity. “One day, Malik, I’ll see you yell and scream and maybe even use a curse word.”

  “But I don’t even know any curse words, King Henry.”

  “Well, if you ever need a demonstration . . . kind of an expert and all.”

  Valentine and Miranda had a seat by the Old Mancy kids, chatting with them no problem. Those two had a weird position in the class and the school. Yeah, they liked being Worms, could hang with the Worms in peace and quiet, not caught up in the Asylum games . . . but they were also High Five and Miranda was third-gen. Plus, Welf liked him some Boomworm and no one could convince him she shouldn’t be around, not even Hope at her most jealous. Switching from the lowest of the low and back up to the highest of the high whenever they wanted. Most would have just picked a clique and stuck with it, but Val didn’t seem into social games if it meant others would be on the losing end, and Miranda needed the breaks from the scowls over being only third-gen, not fifteenth-million-gen or whatever Welf and Hope claimed to be.

  Pocket would’ve been happy chilling with me, only he was in hero-mode, unable to escape Naomi fawning over him, and when Naomi’s group of girls sat down most of slacker and sports guys quickly followed along. I could’ve butted my way in too; they might have even let my presence go without comment for once, ignoring the Foul Mouth to have Pocket in their midst. Sucker fish going at a shark’s bunghole to suck down the little bit of attached alpha predator glory.

  Ain’t that a pretty image?

  Jesus Valencia came over to join us loners, hands crammed with a mountain of snack plates that he sat down on the floor like a personal buffet. “Amigos.”

  “Sup, Fishsticks,” I greeted, using another of Jethro Smith’s nicknames for us.

  Jesus took a swig of soda, grinning at me. That point in our lives I wouldn’t call us friends—that came later, after even Raj was absorbed into the group. But we’d talk and harass each other. Pocket and me . . . we complement each other. Raj and me . . . polar opposites who enjoy being so different. Jesus and me . . . a lot in common actually.