Vega glanced at Sharp next. “Try not to look too frightening as you lean against whatever wall you choose. We don’t want the artist shaking.”
In the process of unpacking six metal frames, Vicky looked up at Sharp for a moment. “He’s with the same Nation that tried to kill King Henry, isn’t he?”
JoJo did a very good job keeping from twitching herself. “That’s in the past,” she whispered.
Vega gave his politician’s smile once more. “In the past,” he echoed.
Her lips straight in disapproval, Vicky let the matter drop. She pulled out a packet of white crystals next and finally a case of thin cylinders. Twelve crystals were removed and six of the cylinders. At the bottom of the metal frames was a bit of machinery and ridges; it was there that the crystals went on each end. Following that, she placed each frame out on the table in a row before her, pocketing the cylinders.
“I was expecting an easel and maybe some special brushes,” Tyson said, having never actually seen what a spectro-portrait looked like.
“The mancer way is always the most complicated way,” Vega answered for Vicky. “She must do each layer in a different frame before sliding them together, only then is the portrait finished. She buys the frames themselves at a steep price from the Guild of Artificers and the spectro-prisms from the Circle of Light at a discount at least. The cylinders are a slow release anima-vial that must be changed out monthly . . . vial from the Guild, anima from the Circle on those . . . costs on all sides and it’s the customer who pays for them.”
Vicky nodded. “All correct.”
Tyson picked up one of the frames, studying it. There was a strange filament at the edges and lines along the frame itself that all headed down to the empty cylinder catch like a circuit board. “Do you have extra?”
“One.”
“Give it to King Henry when we get back to Fresno. He’ll figure out how to make them at half the cost, maybe even figure out how to improve them.”
“If the Guild finds out they might stop selling to you,” JoJo warned.
Vega clicked his tongue. “Now, now . . . the Guild won’t find out. We’re all friends here and rumors are not allowed in my home.”
Vicky didn’t decide one way or the other, but picked up a single frame. She slid in a cylinder, a strange rainbow-like coating stretching to life over what was blank space a second before. It reminded Tyson of soap bubbles for some reason. “Let’s start with the near background of the room,” Vicky decided. “Tyson, lean out of the way against the wall with the assassin, don’t touch him, please. King Vega, you and Josephine need to stand right here at the railing. Yes, like that . . . a few inches to the left . . . good!”
*
They were given a moment to see their room for the first time, but only a moment. The dinner party in their honor was to take place in twenty minutes. Despite the fact that all Vicky looks like she wants to do is throw herself face first into the bed.
Bed.
Singular.
As in . . . only one of them.
Despite the fact that there were two people in the room.
This is happening, T-Bone thought. This is happening again . . . with Vicky Welf . . . one of the nicest, most caring women I’ve ever met and for some reason she likes me too and wants me . . . and . . . and . . . it’s just me and her in a room this time . . . no King Henry around to walk in, no one dying, no drugged up brother in the other room making me think he could wake up and catch us at any moment, although that did seem to excite her, which I’ve tried not the think about much . . . since King Henry catching us seemed to work her up too and it makes me wonder if maybe she doesn’t like me as in like me but maybe I’m just some play toy of rebellion and—
The piece of King Henry that represented Tyson’s id gave his whole psyche a mental slap upside the head. Would you shut the fuck up and get in there already? Look at that woman! That woman wants the D! Especially the Tyrannosaurus Bone! Fucking nerd . . . oh my god, woman in my bed, what do I do! Do I have guilt-free-maybe-emotional-in-the-future sex with her? Fuck your manners! Fuck moral rights as far as society is concerned. Yes, of course you have guilt-free-maybe-emotional-in-the-future sex with her!
Vicky rolled over on the bed, propped up by an elbow on her side. Her blue eyes were bright as she watched him struggle with society’s morals. “Too bad we don’t have more than fifteen minutes or I could take a shower.”
“That . . . that would be nice. It’s been a long day for you,” Tyson managed to say. She had pooled a great number of times during the portrait session and had to be exhausted by it.
I take back what I said about her ass . . . ain’t her ass, King Henry gave his opinion on matters that had nothing to do with Vicky’s exhaustion. It’s her hips, ain’t it? Look at that curve, that’s the curve of some love goddess, and it ain’t like she’s some little waisted thing to begin with, is it? Girl has some meat on her, some muscle on her. Despite all that . . . look at that hip jut out into the air, look at that perfect curve back into her legs . . . makes you just want to turn her over and start—
Tyson gave his head a shake, glancing up at the ceiling of the room. It was a considerably sized room, about what you would expect from a master bedroom in a normal tract home, plus a little extra to make room for a full bath and walk-in closet. There was even a balcony, though not as grand as the tower they had spent their day inside. Beyond the balcony it was dark out, the only light coming from the moon to bounce off of the man-made lake or the tiny dots of farmstead homes in the far distance.
Vicky rolled a bit more so she was on both of her elbows, head tilted up to watch him, her blond hair falling back onto the bed’s covers. “Too bad we don’t have more than fifteen minutes or we might take a shot at breaking this bed.”
Tyson gulped.
Fuck her! Fuck her brains out!
You stole that from Animal House!
Yes, yes I fucking did! And you know what? That little dumbass never touched the girl. You ain’t gonna be a dumbass, T-Bone! Do it! Get in there! Ravish some Vicky Welf va-jay-jay! Make her go to dinner cross-eyed!
“Too bad,” he found himself agreeing instead.
You pussy!
Vicky pushed herself up from the bed, going through their luggage pile to find her purse. “Better this way, I know . . . but part of me just wants to be with you now.”
“All of me has wanted to be with you since you surprised me in the airport,” slipped out of Tyson.
“Better this way,” she repeated with a flirtatious smile. “No excuses over us being quick with each other . . . now we’ll have all night to play after dinner, won’t we?”
Tyson gulped again. “I . . . yes . . . we . . . will.”
She lifted her purse. “I’m going to freshen up.”
“Okay . . . I’ll . . . look about.”
“Now that we’ve made our plans, don’t try to break them by following me in there.”
“Of . . . of course I won’t.”
One last smile before the bathroom door closed.
It didn’t lock.
You are so fucking lucky for being such a clueless asshole, King Henry decided.
I think the same thing about you all the time, Tyson pointed out.
With a sigh, he started pulling out all of his electronics and checking them for bugs. After that he would sweep the room, and later he would need to check his laptop for malicious code . . . although he had a hard time imagining that the Coyote Nation had anyone who could get into his computer.
So help me . . . if you spend the night playing with computers instead of Vicky Welf’s jiggly bits, I’m taking over the ship and throwing you off of the balcony.
“We can’t have sex all night,” Tyson mumbled to himself.
You can fucking die trying.
*
Dinner was dinner.
Awkward.
Filled with Coyotes.
Mexican food unsurprisingly. Homestyle Mexican food . . . very
good, quite good . . . Tyson had to work hard not to eat too much or even more than enough to take him beyond filled really. There’s something primal about eating food in an unsecure location, some switch in the lizard brain that can’t be flipped. Take it into your tree or your cave; eat it there, not with the predators eyeing your every move.
Eye they did.
Predators. Perhaps not the correct terminology. Coyotes aren’t predators so much as opportunists, but the only way to watch for opportunity was to have your eyes open and most in the room were turned towards Tyson and Vicky.
Vicky was amazing.
Unflinching, charming, engaged in every story told at the table.
Tyson felt stiff and contained next to her, too formal, uptight.
Her manners were impeccable, her posture and the way she used a fork, knife, and plate something out of an eighteenth century boarding school for talented young ladies. Tyson had never been more thankful for her. Again it was her one similarity with King Henry, her way to dominate a conversation. Except without ‘fucktards’ and ‘cocksuckers’ sprinkled through it all.
Far less aggressive.
Not a bull lowering his head, but a swan gliding peacefully through the water.
Tyson practiced his no-teeth-smile and grunted a lot, nodding or shaking his head. Let Vicky have all the words, since she was so good with turning them into a compliment.
Tyson also watched. Not as predator or opportunist, but as future prey.
The way Horatio Vega acted as the patriarch of the table, plating his food first, taking the first bite. The way he turned to do the same for JoJo’s plate after he had decided the taste of whatever course was satisfactory. The way the whole table rolled down from him, plate to plate, lord to liegemen. The feudal system miniaturized at a table. The Vegas were close by with JoJo, Antonio, Sharp, the three female cousins of Esme, Agnes, and Tiffany. More trusted enforcers local to the First Lie Ranch followed them and then on the other half of the table were captains and lieutenants of far flung Coyote groups. Phoenix, San Diego, Santa Fe, El Paso. There were more, one in each populated city, but these were the only ones presently at Vega Hall.
Then at the very end was Vicky with Tyson beside her . . .
Time ticked on.
Vicky conversed through it.
Tyson nervously watched.
The Vega family were very different from the other Coyotes. The other Coyotes were what you expected from a Were Nation member: overly wealthy drug dealers, pimps, and smugglers . . . not long from a hard fall on their face with a knife in their kidneys or a vampire’s imaginary fangs at their throats.
Not Vega.
He was above it.
Tyson could see it.
After dessert, Vega stood and wished everyone a pleasant evening. He and JoJo left the room hand-in-hand while the rest of the room went on eating their fill, gossiping. Esme waited a time to collect Tyson and Vicky, then led them off into the mansion again.
On the way to their room, Sharp was waiting in a hallway.
Esme slowed, putting herself in front of Vicky like a shield. “Is there a problem, Jack?”
“The missus wants a word with the Beaconkeeper,” Sharp informed them, his voice gravely and low. “The master wants a word with the Stormcaller.”
It was the first time Tyson could recall hearing the man talk, he wasn’t even sure if Sharp had a tongue before this. Now that he’d broken that barrier, Tyson didn’t like those words one bit. “It’s very late,” he pointed out. “Tomorrow will surely do?”
Sharp’s eyes flicked from Esme to Tyson. “In deference to your possible discomfort I’ve played it low all day. Stayed away from the woman I’m supposed to guard even when she’s in the restroom. Bending sacred vows even further than I already have, you understand this? Court excused on a petition day . . . new petition day set up on a Monday, unheard of. Mancer allowed in our home, also unheard of. All so the missus could get a painting for the master. Pretty painting from a delightful young woman I can admit, but still . . . not the way tradition is upheld.”
“I’m not sure—” Tyson started to argue.
Vicky put a hand on his arm. “It’s an old-fashioned mancer custom as well; guests visit with the house owners before bed. You will only have to be away from me for fifteen or so minutes . . . then we can get on to what we’re doing for the rest of the night.”
Tyson gulped.
“You’ll survive,” she told him with another pat on his arm. “There might be cigars though.”
*
Vega was in his study.
Sharp . . . Jack . . . closed the door on them and left to whereabouts unknown.
Tyson stood at the entrance of the room, feeling awkward on what he should do.
Manners.
King Henry would have strolled into the room and plopped down in one of Vega’s leather chairs, probably flipping the bird right in his brother-in-law’s face too. Not Tyson. It was a new and unexplored social situation for him. He’d felt the outsider and tag-along all day, especially once it became clear that the Coyotes had no motives or desires to harm Vicky. It had been a turbulent and broken day . . . a great deal of it felt wasted, especially the time spent worrying that something would happen.
Now it was almost all over, no one was dead and no one had even spilled a drop of blood. Yet he was still standing in the same room as Horatio Vega . . . alone. No backup. Tyson Bonnie twelve feet from a man who controlled ten-thousand furry, could-be killing machines. If he but snapped his fingers.
More importantly, what were they to each other? Not enemies, not friends. He saw through Vega’s façade of criminality to hide the real truth of what the Coyote leader was. The truth was better than the lie, the First Lie, Tyson guessed. What did it all have to do with their relationship to each other? Not much. Business partners? Not quite. A friend’s family? Not so close. It was all murky between them.
Tyson liked certainty in his relationships.
Reality.
Clear rules.
Manners.
Tyson hadn’t realized how much he savored it until King Henry had forced his hand to tell his parents about the Mancy. Then King Henry went and spilled all his own truths . . . hard truths to swallow, but once swallowed . . . the world was a much clearer place now and Tyson had been pleased with that certainty ever since.
It was part of the problem with his and Vicky’s fling. More middle ground, more shadows, more could-be. She wasn’t his girlfriend. She wasn’t an ex-girlfriend turned friend or . . . it was all muddled, as muddled as Vega and the Coyotes themselves.
If you fuck up this booty call that’s about the happen in half an hour with feelings, I’m going to be—
Tyson stuffed a mental sock in his id’s mouth to shut it all up.
King Vega watched Tyson as Tyson thought through it all. For once the man didn’t have his politician’s smile or even his mask up. His face was very serious, considering it all as much as Tyson was. There was no cigar, but he did have a pipe in his mouth. “My great-grandfather’s,” he said around its stem. “One of the few items my grandmother passed on to me when she died. Another was her wedding ring . . . a sad little thing that was little more than a golden band.”
Tyson inched forward farther into the room. “You never gave it to Josephine.”
“As I said, nothing more than a tarnished band of gold . . . not fitting for a queen of mine, is it?”
“I suppose not,” Tyson admitted.
There was a puff of smoke that hazed the air. Vega offered no alternative for Tyson. “Have you enjoyed your day of spying, Stormcaller Bonnie?”
“Did you enjoy trying to break into my computer, King Vega?”
A small chuckle escaped as Vega nodded. “I’m told you already deactivated the security measures Antonio placed in your room.”
“Four bugs and a camera . . . you should thank me for stopping you from videotaping Moira Welf’s daughter having sex.”
Another sma
ll chuckle. “Says the man daring enough to have sex with Moira von Welf’s daughter.”
“I’ve never pushed for it,” Tyson said, “it just kind of keeps happening . . .”
“Impulse control . . . the death of our species, be we mundane, Were, or mancer.” Vega lapsed into a short silence, puffing on his pipe. It had a very pleasant odor, much more so than cigarettes or even cigars. “I expected you to be terrified.”
“No,” was all Tyson said.
A glint in Vega’s blue eyes. “You should be.”
“I know what you are.”
“You say that like it’s the cause of your courage . . . quite unusual.”
“I don’t think so. I think obfuscation is one of your favorite weapons,” Tyson rebutted. “Very few ever know what you’re trying to accomplish, or even what exactly you are. You work hard at keeping all the dishes spinning in the air. You play many roles, but none of them are what you really are, the real source of your power. Your greatest fear is that others will learn the secret of your success. You want the whole world staring in awe, asking, ‘how does Vega do it? What will Vega do next? What will Vega think about this?’”
“Do I indeed?” Vega muttered around his pipe. “Do I indeed?”
“Even your own wife isn’t sure,” Tyson pointed out. “Antonio, Esme, the other Were Nation Heads . . . King Henry. You’ve done a number on him . . . him most of all, even more than Josephine. Fine with burning down Hector’s house. Fine with killing Hector. But always a price. Then stepping to the side to let Zhou make his attempt. Keep King Henry confused and unsure, always slowly dragging him in, drag him in closer and closer where you can control him as another piece to keep you where you are and where you want to be.”
“And why are you the one to answer all these questions about me, Stormcaller Bonnie?”
Tyson curved his lips with something that was slightly bitter. “I’m the sidekick, aren’t I? I’ve never been important enough for it to be about me, so I’ve always watched you two from the sideline. Also . . . I like puzzles . . . like machines and contraptions, like figuring them out, like building them out of electric code made out of nothing but 0s and 1s. Even today I wasn’t important enough . . . it was about Vicky . . . as it should be. So I watched all day, not for King Henry or the Learning Council like you expected, but just for me. Finally it all clicked when I saw you at dinner . . .”
King Henry and the Three Little Trips (The King Henry Tapes) Page 7
