“Still busy with your consulting company?”
“Yes.”
“Solvent?”
“Of course.”
“I’m apparently in the loan business now. Do let me know if you need help.”
“I have more clients than I know what to do with.”
“Don’t overwork yourself.”
“I know.”
Miss Dale had a horrible habit towards silence in her conversations. Silence, waiting you out. Like some predator . . . watching, studying, making sure you were the meal she wanted for the night. Without warning, she’d then move in a different direction: “Noelle sends her well wishes.”
Noelle was Noelle Clarke, his Stormcaller teacher at the Institution. Miss Clarke to Tyson. She’d always been supportive of him, all of the Stormcallers she’d taught really . . . he’d had many good teachers at the Institution but she’d been the best. “Tell her I still miss her guidance.”
More silence. Tyson kept himself from fidgeting. Did she want a lengthier message for Miss Clarke? Did she want a comment on the Institution or a question about what she’d been up to? Tyson couldn’t decide which gambit he more preferred.
Eventually, Miss Dale threw bait, “No food, Tyson?”
He left out a relieved sigh. “I’ve already eaten.”
Miss Dale took another mouthful of ice cream. “You ate before a lunch meeting?”
No matter how innocent they seemed, each question made him more nervous. The most innocent might have even been the worst. Why would she care about his eating habits? “I’ve never understood putting food into a business setting.”
No matter how innocent the questions seemed . . . it always looked like scales were being adjusted behind Miss Dale’s blue eyes. “You’ve obviously never been to the monthly Institution administration get-togethers . . . the pastries and cappuccino machine are the only way anyone survives them . . .”
“Business is business. Eating is eating,” Tyson stated.
“You don’t look at business as enjoyable . . .”
“Does anyone really? The end goal of business . . . yes. Money or power or just satisfaction at a job well done, whatever the goal is. But business for business’ sake? It’s a horribly overrated lifestyle.”
“Some view it as a game for the game’s sake and the end goals are just keeping score.”
“Then they’ve never played any really good games.”
Miss Dale paused in her eating long enough to quirk a smile. “Is that still how you spend your spare time? Games? I seem to recall you being very fond of the Hall, the Intras even put up with you invading their territory.”
“I’m a good sport . . . and I taught the friendly ones how to play better.”
“You also had the club Russell started for your little group . . . for card games and whatever else it was you did . . .”
“Role-playing mostly.”
“I imagine that term means something different than the one I’m used to . . .”
Tyson’s mind rebelled before it could bring up a mental image. “I . . . wouldn’t . . . yes, I still play games.”
For a second, Tyson wished he had bought something to eat. Perhaps that was a reason . . . something to politely distract the table with. Food as a shield. Tyson stared at the empty table in front of him. No shield . . . no armor . . . a whole lot of nothing between him and Miss Dale’s quirking blond eyebrow.
“You don’t approve?”
“Is my approval important to you?”
Strike. Riposte.
Maybe business was a bad game, but it didn’t help that Tyson was so horrible at it. What I wouldn’t give for a joystick and some old-school turbo buttons right about now. Or a cheat code. Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A. If he said her approval was important . . . but . . . if he said her approval wasn’t important . . . but . . . RETREAT! “Playing video games keeps my hand-eye-coordination up and my mind sharp. They’re just complicated puzzles . . . no matter how pretty the developers have made them over the years.”
“Very electromancer of you,” Miss Dale decided, before returning to what remained of her ice cream.
“What flavor?” Tyson asked.
“Blackberry with white chocolate chips.”
“Very aeromancer of you . . .”
“We are what the Mancy makes us to a certain extent,” Miss Dale said, “Ultras more than anyone else.”
“The Theory of Anima Personalization,” Tyson remembered from his school days. Here was safer ground. Personal: nightmare. Academia: paradise.
“It’s still you underneath, just . . . a bit of costume on top courtesy of anima-type.”
“I’ve never liked the idea. Even if it’s accurate, we shouldn’t surrender to it. It always seemed . . . dehumanizing of us. Or worse: an excuse to claim we’re different beyond just having powers and, if different, we must be better than the rest of the population.”
“There are mancers who would make that argument.”
Tyson felt his mouth go dry. “Not you?”
“No . . . not me. A bit when I was a child, perhaps.” Those ageless eyes looked lost in memory. “Growing up wealthy and aristocratic is good for no one, especially pretty little blond-haired and blue-eyed girls with pink bowed dresses. But . . . events quickly proceeded to keep me grounded and well-learned in the vulnerability of all us cursed mortals . . . even mancers.”
“Ah . . .”
“Mordecai Root would argue the other side.”
“I . . . I didn’t know that about Mr. Root . . .”
“Yes, he’s really a complete asshole.”
“Oh dear.”
“Don’t worry, Tyson, he knows it.”
“I, uh . . . okay. I know he’s harsh and standoffish but . . . necromancer and all.”
“And back we come to the Theory of Anima Personalization, don’t we?”
Tyson stared down at his empty table. Next time he’d bring a five course meal so he’d have hours worth of shield between them. He felt like he’d just been routed off the field. “Point made, Miss Dale.”
Finishing her plate, Miss Dale sat back in her chair, tapping sapphire-colored nails on the tabletop like the mere seconds of waiting without doing was too much on her. “This meeting has already turned out more erudite than I ever expected. Let’s pray to the Mancy that King Henry is in a similar mood . . . though his opinion will probably include some cursing . . . if just for the fun of it.”
“About that . . .”
“The rumors are overblown,” Miss Dale mollified . . . it didn’t help her case that a little amused smile blossomed on her face however.
“I was there when most of them happened . . .” Tyson reminded her. “Granted, I never met him that I can recall—“
“You’d definitely recall . . .”
“But I remember the uproars, like when he stole the Staff of Rebirth—“
“Never proven . . .”
“When he poisoned half the school, including my best friend—“
“Also never proven . . .”
“Set the Mound on fire—“
“These things happen during the Winter War . . .”
“He was primarily responsible for getting a student killed, he came close to imploding Mr. Quilt’s wedding by somehow sneaking strippers onto the Institution grounds, was chased through the Park by Mr. Gullick after being caught motorboating Mr. Gullick’s daughter, talked and befriended an Anima Concentrate of untold power, and got into a fist fight with his Artificer teacher.”
“Well when you put it like that . . .”
“You’re not helping, Miss Dale. I’m thinking about running now.”
Those unmoving eyes stared Tyson down for long enough to make him slouch in his seat. “King Henry Price is rebellious, subversive, and belligerent, not three qualities that have a peaceful mix. He is also a brilliant Artificer with a natural gift for the Mancy that rivals very few. He will surprise you, he will shock you, but you just might learn a thing
or two in the process. He is very much someone you want to meet and someone you want on your side.”
Tyson was ready to eat the table. “I’m none of those things . . . and I’m not sure I’d enjoy more shock being added to my life.”
The ageless eyes flickered. “I thought the same thing once . . . I was wrong.”
Can you eat a table? It has to be less embarrassing than this moment.
“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Miss Dale whispered, nodding her head across the food court.
There he was.
King Henry Price.
Can you believe that name?
Even easier to pick out amongst the crowd than Miss Dale had been, despite his lack of height. Five-foot-seven, maybe? Price didn’t seem to notice he was short. Or had noticed it and just decided it didn’t matter. Height wasn’t going to change who he was. Short, yes, but not small. Wide legs and muscled arms, big hands with scarred knuckles like four craggy mountain peaks, thick neck leading to large shoulders.
Tyson immediately thought dwarf. The fantasy, Lord of the Rings kind with axes and chainmail, not little people. Only no beard. Price hadn’t bothered to shave in a few days by the looks of it but had no full on beard, just a rugged look, like some Hollywood criminal about to rob a bank or get into a bar-fight. A few of which Price looked like he’d been in judging by even more scars on his face, especially a gnash of hairless tissue on his cheek.
Tyson wouldn’t have thought mancer at all looking at him. Mancers are educated and respectable and . . . everything Price was the opposite of. Except . . . there was a geomancer’s brown coat, the same as the students wear at the Institution. All it had missing were the patches to label the student’s name, class, and discipline. This is the guy I’m going to live in the same city with? This is the only other Ultra in town? The person Miss Dale wants me to keep an eye on for her?
Price didn’t bother with waiting on the crowd’s currents or flows, instead the crowd bothered to notice where Price wanted to go and instinctually moved out of his way. There was no pushing, no bullying, no stares or threats, just an unspoken agreement that Price stayed in one place and everyone else stayed somewhere else. The monster in the attic . . . we leave it alone because it’s our monster and our attic . . .
Unlike Tyson, Price took a turn around the food court before finally getting himself an order of fries and a slushie of all things. He paused at a condiment counter to drop about a shaker’s worth of pepper on the fries, headed over to Miss Dale’s table, and placed the slushie in front of her. All without saying a word. Price ate a peppered fry, staring at Tyson in silence, then at Miss Dale, who was sucking up bright red slush through a straw.
It was shocking how familiar the two were with each other.
They kept eyes locked, Tyson forgotten. Miss Dale smiled around her straw, Price crunched on fries.
Tyson looked to the table for support once again.
Wood can’t taste that badly, can it?
“The fuck, Ceinwyn?” Price finally spoke. “My time’s valuable, why I got to have a playdate?”
“What flavor is this?” Ceinwyn asked, ignoring everything he’d said.
“Do I look five?”
“Did you have them mix cherry with lime? Why would you mix something as wonderful as cherry with lime?”
Tyson kept trying to find a place to enter the conversation but no opening presented itself. It didn’t help that there seemed to be two conversations going on instead of one. Eventually Tyson shut his mouth and watched.
“Do you know how many customers I have?”
“Cherry 7-Up, maybe?”
“Zero!”
“I mean . . . it’s a slushie, so of course I love it, but really . . . limes . . .”
“Do you know how much money I’m going through?”
“I can’t approve of limes.”
Then suddenly the two conversations twirled and Miss Dale and Price switched to finish each, still out of order.
“I have no clue what flavor it is; I just told them I wanted the red one.”
“Not five, not like when I found you, but still . . . all we fed you and you couldn’t grow more?”
“Could be Cherry 7-Up, can’t say.”
“You do not have zero customers . . . you have me and now you’ll have another. This is why we make friends.”
“Limes . . . don’t agree with them either. Or lemons. Acidic little fuckers just waiting to squirt on you.”
“And I know exactly how much of my money you’re going through.”
Miss Dale and Price stared some more in silence.
Just as Tyson thought it might be safe enough to open his mouth, Price pointed a thumb his way. “Did you get me a black friend so people would stop calling me racist?”
Instead of closing, Tyson’s mouth dropped all the way open.
“I’m not racist I’ll have you know. I just fully enjoy stereotypes and the reactions I get by bringing them up.”
Price turned to Tyson with a grin that was more a rebellious baring of teeth than friendly joy. “Like for example: do you have a huge black cock, good sir?”
“I . . . I’m not answering that,” Tyson blurted out.
“Can you swim?”
“I . . . of . . . my mother taught me when I was three.”
“Shit, guy’s breaking stereotypes all over the place . . . that’s not fair, Ceinwyn.”
Miss Dale sucked at her Cherry 7-Up slushie. “Quit while you’re ahead, King Henry.”
“Am I ruining the playdate? Should I offer to let him play with my Transformers?”
Miss Dale rolled her eyes at Tyson.
“You said he wasn’t that bad,” Tyson accused.
“This? This is very well behaved for King Henry. He hasn’t even called anyone a fucktard yet.”
“Yet,” Price agreed.
“King Henry apparently needs no introduction—”
“Damn right.”
“But this, King Henry, is Tyson Bonnie, the only other Ultra around to help you when you inevitably get yourself into trouble.”
“Got to be a few more around . . .”
“Bakersfield.”
“Fuck that place . . . worse than Fresno, you believe that? That takes mad skills.”
“Hello,” Tyson belatedly said, just so he could stop feeling left out. “It’s . . . nice to meet you.”
“He’s not going to try to make out with me, is he?” Price asked, a second before he let out a tight yelp and pulled his hand to his chest.
Miss Dale’s eyes had gotten flinty. “I don’t have to tell you why you earned the papercut, do I?”
“You said I was behaving!” Price complained, sucking on a bleeding thumb.
Papercut? Tyson thought. With Aeromancy? He’d known they could form aero-anima into blunt objects but never sharp ones.
“You stopped behaving,” Miss Dale said. “The two of you are very different from each other with very different backgrounds and mindsets, but I need you to be friendly. This is a dangerous city for a mancer to live in, especially Ultras.”
“Vamps around right? And the cat killers?” Price muttered around his thumb. Making him look like a sulking baby had taken a lot of his edge away.
“Yes,” Tyson answered, stepping up a bit. “A Vampire Embassy and a Were Nation. There’s a peace treaty that includes mancers. We’re supposed to ignore both sides and then we’ll be left alone.”
Price took a second look at Tyson. Or . . . maybe a first look. Tyson returned his gaze, well aware from all the five seconds he’d known Price that you had to deal with the outbursts, let them slide, and carry on, or you’d be overrun, carried along instead. Brown eyes, brown hair. Scars all right. Violent, devious, probably would have been a career criminal if not for the Institution. Or dead . . .
“Where’s the fun in being left alone?” Price asked.
“Not being eaten or being shot?” Tyson returned.
Price bared his teeth in an
other grin. “Yeah, suppose there’s that.” He seemed to decide Tyson was worth talking to instead of just trying to get a rise out of him. “What year were you?”
“Class 2005.”
“Missed playing you in the Winter War . . .”
“Yes.”
“Ever win it?”
“Quad, like most.”
A proud snarl. “Like most.”
“Why did you move to Fresno?” Tyson asked.
“Grew up in Visalia, didn’t want to go back there.” A shrug. “Figured this place would be better. Still a shithole but . . . a bigger shithole.”
Miss Dale stood suddenly. “Now that you two boys are behaving, I think I’ll go shop for some slutty lingerie.”
Price’s face grew pained, Tyson just blushed. “Why the fuck would you tell me that, Ceinwyn?” Price asked. “Papercut my balls next time instead. I’ll even whip ‘em out and spread them on the table for you so you can get an easy shot.”
Tyson stood as well. Standing when someone leaves was good manners. At least . . . that’s what he’d been trained to do as a child. “Goodbye, Miss Dale.”
She smiled, like always. Her lips were red from the slushie. “King Henry, please refrain from the racist stereotypes to make Tyson blush, and Tyson . . . don’t talk in too complicated of terms or he’ll start whining.”
Price didn’t move a muscle. Tyson doubted he’d gotten any training in manners as a child or as an adult. “Going to see that shit in my nightmares tonight . . . or a wet dream . . . which would be worse . . .”
Miss Dale gave a last smile for the pair of them before she walked off.
*
“Not why Fresno the city, why aren’t you in the Guild of Artificers?”
Price bared his teeth again, but not at Tyson, rather at the Guild being brought up. Price almost growled, “Later for them cocksuckers. Need to know I can trust you first.”
Tyson didn’t understand. “I’m very trustworthy. And . . . why would it be a secret?”
They’d taken leave of the food court as well. Price didn’t seem to like too many people being around. Tyson wouldn’t call it paranoia, just a general alertness of his surroundings. When Price’s surroundings grew too complicated he lost too much focus keeping track of them, putting their conversation on the bench in favor of short bouts of silence.
King Henry Short Pack One (The King Henry Tapes) Page 5
