The Foul Mouth and the Cat Killing Coyotes (The King Henry Tapes)

by Richard Raley

  Not really a concrete endorsement that, given her boyfriends I’d met. Most were only interested in fucking her, the worst dropping her the minute they were flaccid, the best . . . actually I think I got it backwards . . . the best just left her alone. “He lets you dress like that?”

  Her eyes glittered like a mirror. “When do I let anyone tell me how to dress, King Henry?”

  “I suppose. Still . . .”

  “He complains, are you happy? Or do you want to tell me I look like a whore?”

  “Horatio,” I said. “That ain’t Mexican.”

  JoJo settled down a bit. She did look a little whorey though. Maybe porn-starry if she’s lucky. “Somewhere, a long time ago, his ancestor was raped by a French soldier back when they were in Mexico. Only his grandmother was British, I guess she met his grandfather during World War Two . . . she’s the one who raised him. She decided he needed a good British name to kill off any French he had left in him. Hence Horatio Vega.”

  “Sadly, my math skills are regularly practiced,” I told her, “So . . . how much older is he then you?”

  “Forties? Fifties?” She shrugged again, pink jacket falling down her shoulders. I noticed a tattoo across them when it did. Some kind of totemic marking. Alarm Bell Number Five. “I’ve never asked him.”

  “Do I have nieces and nephews?”

  She actually blushed. “Not for lack of trying . . .”

  I paused to start in on my last whatever-the-fuck. I’ve always felt the best part of fast-food is that you get to unwrap every item you eat. Like a birthday with every meal. “I suppose it’s your turn, Sis.”

  Yeah, I left my big question for later. You figure out what it is yet? I hope so. If you haven’t then you’re short bus material.

  I saved the question, unlike JoJo, who asked her big question first. Waiting had never been her strong suit. Never mine either, not until the Asylum kicked some into me. “How are the parents?”

  Look at me, getting to be the bearer of glad tidings. “I don’t know how to soften it or I would, JoJo.”

  “What kind of thing is that to say?” she gasped.

  There was some awkward silence filled with digesting whatever-the-fuck noises from my stomach, then, “Mom’s dead . . .”

  JoJo stared at me in silence, her face . . . so like mine . . . stretched out in pain. Had that been what I’d looked like the first time Ceinwyn told me? No wonder she’d been kind at the time. No wonder she’d actually hugged me.

  “But—” JoJo finally said before stopping with a little hiccup.

  “Been a while now . . . over five years at least. Lung cancer . . . happened fast . . .” Mom made sure it happened fast, I added but I couldn’t say . . . those words would break my sister.

  “Why—” she stopped yet again in another hiccup.

  “No one knew how to reach you, Sis. They barely got a hold of me,” I thought aloud, remembering back. “I saw Susan at the funeral; believe it or not . . . she’s up north near Seattle she said, normal life and all. Makes her the lucky one I suppose.”

  JoJo wrapped her coat up around herself tighter, pulling the hoodie up on her head like it was cold inside of the burger joint—which it was anything but. Loud with eating and laugher all around, but at our table—troubled silence.

  “Dad’s okay, still working at the warehouse, still at the house too. He finally got himself a girlfriend few months ago. I’ve met her, nice enough woman. Works as a secretary at the warehouse, husband died in a car accident, so they got the widow thing in common.” I went about crinkling up my trash, emotions surprisingly controlled. “Seems to make him happy, so I guess that’s all any of us can hope for. Horatio Vega make you happy, Sis?”

  She’d sneered through the whole bit about Dad. Susan had been the daddy’s girl and fought with Mom. JoJo’s the opposite. Worse Mom got, less time she had for JoJo. Less time JoJo had with Mom, more rebellious she got—haired dyed pink or blue, fake tats, skuzzy clothes, skipping school, one older boyfriend after another, coming home drunk or stoned. More rebellious she got, more Dad and her fought.

  Guess it wasn’t much of a surprise to me where she ended up, married to what she was married to, done what she’d done to herself, dressed like she dressed, holding a gun like she knew how to use it, involved with the kind of creatures she was involved with. Or is one herself, I thought just then.

  She ignored my question. “You have someone to make you happy, King Henry?”

  And I went along with it. “Few over the years, nothing now . . . too busy working.”

  “Anyone I know?” she asked, brightening up a bit. I think with a normal upbringing JoJo would have been the girliest of girls.

  “Ever heard of Valentine Ward or Eva Reti?”

  “Should I have?”

  “I don’t know what kind of info your husband’s feeding you about mancers . . .”

  “I know they exist,” JoJo explained without noticing she gave information she’d been holding back, “I know they can do things with anima . . . and there are different kinds of them . . . and they don’t like . . . certain people.”

  Alarm Bell Number Whatever-the-fuck.

  “Val and Eva were two of my girlfriends in school.”

  She waved it off. “Anyone I’d know?”

  “Sally Hendrickson?”

  She started laughing at me. “When did that happen?”

  “Few months after you left.”

  “Gee . . . wonder why you liked her?”

  “It is a mystery.”

  “It is whatever her bra size reads.”

  “Suppose so . . . I was simple back then.”

  “Now?”

  “More complicated.”

  She actually smiled at me . . . made her pretty despite the outfit. “You love one of them, don’t you?”

  “Huh?”

  “The first two girls you mentioned, you should have seen your face when you said their names.”

  I tried not to think about it. Love? How does a Price even process that feeling? “You’d get along well with Val . . . everyone does. Eva and you would kill one another though . . .”

  JoJo’s smile got bigger, showing teeth. “On the contrary, little brother, sounds like I’d like her too.”

  She was opening up, feeling at ease finally, defenses starting to weaken. First sign I could hit her with a surprise and I did it. Mancer special, straight down the plate—learned it from Ceinwyn Dale. I threw my big question at her. “You mixed up with a Were Nation, little sister?

  [CLICK]

  We’ll get back to the idiot picking a fight with the biggest Were Nation in the entire world in a few minutes, but for now, older wiser King Henry is here for a refresher course.

  Were as in werewolf. Werewolf is the one which made the mainstream consciousness for some reason. Probably it has to do with the closeness of dogs to humans and the fear of wolves going after cattle, sheep, and even humans if winter gets harsh enough. There’s something primal about the wolf, but it is far from the only Were-type in the world.

  The truth is . . . there’s no limit on Were-type. No limit on the number of Weres either. No limit on the number of Were Nations either more.

  It all comes down to the animals available in the environment closest to the nation. This is only because for each Were, an animal must be sacrificed to the nation’s Totem in a Matching. Outside of this, there’s nothing but a nation’s preference.

  There are a great many nations all over the world. There are the Jaguars in Mexico and Central America, the Hyenas in Africa, the Grizzlies in Canada and Alaska, the Raccoons in coal country, Horses along the east coast, Boars in Texas, Tigers in India, Anacondas through the Amazon, Dolphins in the Caribbean, and a very secret one I’m not going to tell you about yet but you will be meeting one day.

  In California you have the Coyote Nation in the Sierra Nevadas, through the Central Valley and even down into Southern California, Las Vegas, Arizona, Colorado, and New Mexico. Its total membe
rship is in the thousands if not the tens of thousands. At its most simple definition, it is the world’s biggest and baddest gang, dealing in all manner of narcotics, theft, murder, human trafficking, prostitution, gambling, and all the other human needs that need scratched but are outlawed by our government.

  Think the Mob, with enforcers who can turn into coyotes. Alone they’re not vamp level problems, but they are slightly more than human—together they are a problem, so much of a problem that the Coyote Nation had itself peace treaties with both the Elemental Learning Council and the Vampire Embassies when this story took place. Messing with them is a very bad idea . . . which is why stupid ass is doing just that . . .

  [CLICK]

  “I’m not your little sister.”

  “Susan’s taller than me, you’re smaller, thus . . . little sister.”

  “I’m older than you by three years, makes me bigger, little brother.”

  “I already know you are, so why don’t you just come out and say you are?” I wasn’t talking about sibling rivalry.

  “It’s none of your business, you shithead.”

  “Hey now . . . I’m supposed to be the only one with a foul mouth.”

  “Shut up, King Henry. You have no idea what you’re talking about, do you understand me? It’s none of your business. I’m handling just fine. You stay out of it,” she ordered.

  Like that ever worked.

  “King Vega,” I muttered. “Knew the Coyotes in the Sierra Nevadas had themselves a guy calling himself a king, but I never knew the name of the guy. Fits though, don’t it? King Vega’s Coyotes. That’s what one of your little guards said.”

  Her face started looking a whole lot like Pajamas’ outside, fearful for a person. “Don’t . . .”

  “Course . . . I know how normal people take a punch, how long it takes them to get up from it, all those kinds of things. Longer than you expect. One little punch can do a whole lot of damage, but one little punch with my something extra, that will knock a person out for minutes, not seconds. Your little guards are too tough for humans, aren’t they?”

  “Don’t . . .” she repeated in a whisper.

  “Are you a prisoner?”

  “No . . .”

  “He always have you watched?”

  No answer was answer enough.

  “He beat you?”

  “He’s too civilized for that,” again at a whisper, like one of those guards might hear through the sound of the burger joint, bypassing the thickness of the glass, and the distance out into the parking lot.

  “Punishes you then, threatens, takes things away, glances at one of your friends with a look in his eye,” I said, nodding, “I know the type.”

  “No, you don’t. He’s a great man.”

  “But do you want to be with the great man, JoJo? You finally find a situation you can’t run your way out of?”

  She was silent, face mute, eyes on the table.

  “Did he make you perform a Matching?” I asked, voice hard.

  She met my eyes. Dirt meeting dirt.

  “Are you a werecoyote, little sister?

  [CLICK]

  Vampirism is a problem of the Old World; Wereism is a problem of the New World. The creation of a Were Nation begins with the creation of a Totem, for without that Totem the nation has no power. A Totem can be made from stone, from wood, from steel, even from aluminum coke cans. Material is not what matters . . . what matters is the material being placed in such a way as to be able to trap anima essences.

  I will not be going into how this pattern is accomplished, it’s not something anyone should spread, and it would be a crime of humanity for me to tell you. Let us just admit that there is such a pattern and think of this as the portion of the educational TV show where I don’t tell you how I’m making rocket fuel.

  You now have an unsanctified Totem. To sanctify it you must find thirteen special animals of your chosen type and sacrifice them, especially their blood, upon the Totem’s pattern. The animals may not be wounded, they may not be drugged; you must wrestle them at their full strength and slit their throats in the correct place. If you do this, you now have a sanctified Totem.

  How does it work? It works through the Ratio of Anima Dispersion. Anima is in every part of our world. Mancers are able to actively harness its power but humans have an amount of it as well, just at such base levels to do nothing with it. You probably already know it’s in nature, in mountains and rivers and thunderstorms and volcanoes and more beside. It is also in animals. Furthermore it is completely equal among all animals. Their ratio is a simple 3:3:3. This means it’s just as likely to find an animal with a necro-anima type as an animal with a floro-anima type.

  Please don’t overcomplicate this. It’s no more special than a human’s blood type or your astrological sign. It has no effect if you aren’t a mancer and no animals are . . . you will not find butterflies starting hurricanes—animals are completely neutral. This neutrality, however, leads to them being perfect for the Totem process. Of course, you need the thirteen types . . . and sacrificing two cryo-anima types gets you nothing. How many sanctifications do you think actually manage the hole-in-one and only need thirteen animals?

  It’s a messy business . . .

  Once the thirteen anima types have been sacrificed to the Totem, you’re ready to rock and roll and begin your Nation. We’ll get into that later . . . but for now my little sister has an important question to answer.

  [CLICK]

  “Yes . . .” she whispered.

  “That son-of-a-bitch.”

  She shrugged, coat dropped to reveal the tattoos on her back once more. “It wasn’t so bad. Didn’t like killing the coyote, but it doesn’t hurt or nothing.”

  “It’s screwed up stuff, Sis.”

  “Don’t talk about me that way!”

  The scream came so sudden it shocked not only me but the other diners. A few of the guys faces looked too much like mine had in the parking lot for comfort. Me getting white-knighted . . . that would be a fitting end to the experience.

  JoJo waved them all off. “Family reunion,” she murmured, then sat back down. “It doesn’t feel bad at all. It’s like having an invisible set of teeth to lick on, only with your whole body. You only have to Switch once a month and only for a few hours. We’re very careful. Especially with me . . .”

  Pajamas and Suit came inside the burger joint. Maybe they do have good hearing or maybe JoJo’s scream was just that loud. Pajamas sat down on JoJo’s side of the stall without asking. “You okay, Josephine?”

  JoJo shrugged but then shook her head, contradicting herself. “My mom’s dead, Zoey.”

  “Oh, honey . . .” Zoey wrapped an arm around JoJo.

  Suit sat down at a table across from us. His face was all pissed off in my direction. “I’ve decided to let your attack on me slide on account of your relationship with Mrs. Vega.”

  “Hoo-fucking-rah,” I told him.

  “But it’s getting late and we have to return . . . home,” Suit added. “This reunion will have to continue later . . . if Mrs. Vega decides she wants it too, that is.”

  Reaching into my coat made Suit flinch. Guess he hadn’t gotten over the electrocution yet, werecoyote or no werecoyote. “Call me, Sis.” I handed her my card with all my numbers on it. Doubt they would let her keep it, but it’s all I could do. “Or just stop by my shop next time you’re in town, I can tell you about my time at school.”

  JoJo put on one of the fakest smiles I’ve ever seen. “That sounds nice, King Henry.”

  We all stood up, little Hooker Barbie Zoey still hanging on to JoJo like she might melt without the support. You got the feeling she held her pretty often. He’s a great man, my ass, I thought in pure fury, I bet you play a mean mind-game, don’t you, Horatio Vega? Bet you have her so turned around she don’t know what she really thinks about you down deep.

  “But you,” I told Suit, taking my anger out on the nearest target, “you don’t fuck with me again, got it?”<
br />
  Suit went full animal snarl. Guess he Switched more often than once a month. “You don’t scare me, geomancer.”

  “Artificer,” I corrected.

  The snarl turned into a coughing fit.

  Look at me, making new friends.

  Session 10

  You know, there’s a real problem with this backward-narration-after-it’s-been-lived shit. That problem is pretty simple: I lived to tell about it, didn’t I?

  You take heart, don’t you, kiddies? King Henry lives! Hoorah!

  One tape and you’re a little smart ass, aren’t you? Think you know a thing or two about how these stories are all going to end up. Yeah, I guess I gave you the end in the first tape, didn’t I? Me graduated and making my shop . . . that’s something. Jumped the gun did King Henry.

  Let’s think what else you know . . .

  You know I loved me some Valentine Ward somewhere in those seven years. Know who my friends will be. Know who my biggest rival is. You know all this. Know what else you know? You know only twenty-eight of Ultra Class ‘09 make it through.

  Forgot that, did you? I mentioned it last time. Twenty-eight Ultras graduating. Only . . . there’re thirty at the start. So when you’re screaming about King Henry living . . . maybe you should think about how not all us will. As for what you don’t know . . . you don’t know how I got my scars. Don’t know how I did all the crap I did.

  Some . . . you know some. A little bit. It’s always the ones that know a little bit that cause you problems. First-year Psych students, first-year doctors . . . Singles at the Asylum. You don’t know all. Even I don’t know all to this fucking day. Don’t forget that. Think on a number. Twenty-eight. Think on scars. They don’t call it the Asylum for nothing. Plenty don’t leave it standing up.

  [CLICK]

  October, 2009

  The bus stopped with a clench of brake fluid.

  The Asylum being big on new technologies and the tax breaks they bring for even magical schools, it had no gassy fart of black exhaust, the bus being brand-new modified electric. Just a soft hum. Not metal, plastic. Not fire pushing pistons, but current. Got to give it to the Asylum, even their buses offend me.