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

by Richard Raley

  Now they stared at me.

  “We know it’s a test,” Miranda broke the silence. “We stay here and the teachers will find us. Why would we keep going?”

  Pocket knew me better than the rest of them; he raised his eyebrows. “Really, dude?

  I nodded at him. “Defiance, bitches, that’s why.”

  “You must be joking . . .” Miranda whispered.

  Naomi rolled her eyes.

  Isabel looked confused.

  “You and me, buddy?” I asked Pocket.

  The floromancer boy smirked. “We both know you’d never make it without me.”

  And it would have been awesome.

  We’d have run off into the woods, hitchhiked our way back on some big rigs. He’d have done some awesome camping stuff and I would have stolen us food at the first store we found. They wouldn’t have found us for days. Some real Huckleberry Finn kind of shit.

  Awesomeness.

  Only a soft vote spoke into my ear, “Nice to see some rebellion on display, Price, but you’re already caught.”

  There’s something very scary about having Fines Samson at your back without being able to see him. But apparently not as scary as having Fines Samson in front of you without being able to see him . . . because Naomi fainted.

  [CLICK]

  “Out of nowhere, like we haven’t already been shocked enough, and then he’s taking off his coat and then he’s taking off his shirt, and before we know it, there goes his pants,” Miranda told the listening crowd, for which she earned a chorus of giggling laughter. “So there’s this little skinny boy, standing outside the cave in his underwear, a knife in one hand, his pants in the other—“

  “Daniels!” I growled at her, “You were supposed look away!”

  Green eyes blinked behind still dirty glasses. “All the crap I listened to pouring out of your mouth and you actually thought I’d let an opportunity like this pass to grab myself a wonderful mental image?”

  The laughter and the giggles only roared louder.

  Our bus had a very different atmosphere than it did on the first trip out into the woods. Now, with us heading back to the Asylum, we felt safe, relieved, and even I could admit it: like we were heading home.

  Noise piled up on noise as everyone told stories of the Camping Trip from Hell. About Jason Jackson getting rolled over by a wolf. About Welf being dragged back to the camp electrically shocked. Valentine and Hope both explained what it was like being the first ones caught.

  Not all of us were happy. Welf was particularly pissed off about placing in the middle of the pack. Fourteen-year-old-me didn’t get the guy back then, but now I understand him better. Anytime he wasn’t first it killed Welf inside.

  Naomi was also angry with her father, who along with Fines Samson, Jethro Smith, and Kumiko Ambrose had run the Evaluation. The four teachers sat at the front of the bus, smiling back our way as we goofed off and bled energy. Not Naomi. She sulked in her seat.

  Believing your parents never lie to you, what must that be like? I don’t think I could imagine it. Trusting someone that much . . . weird.

  If King Henry Price was the clown then Pocket was the hero. Leading us along, saving Naomi, taking a punch from me. He alternated between blushing and grinning over his new fame. Trusting someone that much, maybe not that much . . . but in his own words, ‘Pocket is a good dude.’

  “Finally the pants go back on and he’s holding up this little round disk of metal, showing us the tracker. Then he wants us to take our pants off. A whole month and finally . . . there’s the excuse he needed.”

  Giggles and laughs and even guffaws now. Curt Chambers was nothing but a long continuous wheeze.

  “I was trying to save your life,” I muttered.

  “You knew it was the teachers! How was my life in danger?” Miranda pointed out.

  “I was trying to save your grade,” I corrected myself. “Which we all know you care about more than your life . . .”

  Much of the class’s first groupings dissolved that day. It was still there. But we knew each other under pressure. Estefan might have his group, Curt might have his group, and Welf might have his group . . . but if the teachers gave us a curve-ball on an assignment after that day, we wouldn’t treat it like the end of the world.

  Well . . . maybe Welf would.

  I tapped Valentine on the shoulder and made her repeat the story about him coming in electrocuted.

  [CLICK]

  The four teachers kept us from breaking up and spreading through the Asylum grounds. Instead, the bus pulled up to the Admin building. Patrick Hanks waited for us. He smiled and waved and asked us how it all went. Of course. The preppy bastard knew the score before he sent us off, so I was a step away from iron fisting his gut. Only Fines Samson being so near and being such a total badass kept me from trying. If he’s still alive and walking around the Asylum when you show up . . . don’t mess with him, kiddies.

  Hanks wasn’t the only one. Hundreds of students waited around, leaning on walls, sitting on the benches at the edge of the Park. Bi’s, Tri’s, Quads, even graduates, Ultras all. Some clapped our arrival, others cat-called; there were whistles and laughter and gentle mocking. Intras walking by squinted or shook their heads. Ultras . . .

  Of course.

  They all knew. All those smirks over the last month as the Singles walked by. Now I got it. They went through the same thing. The Camping Evaluation. The Camping Test. Not a one of them had even bothered to mock us with it, try to get us scared, but they smirked and knew the score. A whole month of joy over the knowledge that our loud little asses would be running through the woods.

  Tell you the truth, kiddies, I don’t think Ceinwyn’s going to let you listen to this tape. I think she’s going to keep the secret. If she does let you listen . . . maybe you best be wondering why. You just might be about to get more screwed over than Ultra Class ‘09 did.

  Samson kept the lead, his old but wiry form making way as the older kids backed up. Gullick, Ambrose, and Smith got questions and grilled, the other Ultras wanting to know how it played out, but the only answers were firm frowns and fingers that pointed for the students to clear out. “They’ll tell you themselves, later,” was the repeated refrain.

  “At least we know they’re going to let us live,” I murmured towards Pocket.

  He shrugged. “Probably have to give us our grades, remember?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Yeah, you and grades, dude. Why did I bother to ask, right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “We should get good ones,” Pocket decided. “We were last, no matter how they break us up.”

  “Don’t really care,” I said. All that had happened . . . and grades? Even Pocket . . . just like Miranda during our talk in the cave. Grades. It’s a sickness or something. Just like manners. Ain’t a damn thing worth mattering about grades.

  I pooled on purpose!

  The teachers gathered us in our common room. Some took to the Study Tables, others went for the couches. All bunched together in our usual setting the toll of the trip was obvious. Dirty faces, scuffed knees, stains of sweat and Mancy knew what else all over our colors. Probably a few of them had dirty underwear after all that howling and running if you catch my meaning.

  We looked like shit. We stunk. Even the girls. We stunk of trees and dirt and day-old fear. But we smiled at each other. We grinned at Samson as he took the floor in front of the TV, signaling for silence in his soft way, the barest movement of fingers dropping. “This evaluation is almost over.”

  Groans . . . and I joined in.

  “Mr. Smith and Mrs. Ambrose will be staying with you for the rest of the day,” Samson continued, “they will let you take showers, change your clothes, even take you to the Cafeteria for a special feast—just for you—in the teachers’ room.”

  That time he won some cheers.

  “However . . .”

  Back to groans.

  “Mr. Gullick and I will be conduct
ing interviews for each of you one-on-one. Your advisor, Mr. Hanks, will be acting as a go-between returning you to your class and collecting the next student.”

  No comment.

  “We allowed you to trade stories on the bus, but that is now at an end. You are not to talk about what happened in the woods with each other, only with Mr. Gullick or me, until we tell you differently. If you break this embargo then you will be deducted a letter grade for the evaluation. Do you understand this rule?”

  Grades . . . fucking sickness again.

  All those heads nodded. All the successes and failures gone. Replaced by fear over daddy spanking them with a worse letter.

  Failure . . . lost it in the moment, ran off into the trees and left Pocket behind, let the Asylum’s game get to me. Didn’t leave the cave quick enough to make good on my plan. Still sucked at camping.

  Success . . . I’d gotten the class to vote Pocket as leader over Welf. I’d talked to a damned fairy or C.A.C or whatever you want to call Meteyos. I’d figured out the game and was going to smash the game board into a million pieces before Samson showed himself. Pocket and I would have been halfway to Visalia if sciomancers weren’t such douchebag showoffs. But most of all . . .

  Defiance.

  I pooled on purpose.

  How the fuck is a letter worth more than all that?

  It ain’t. Don’t even think it is, kiddies. Don’t play their game. Don’t go for the goal they show you. Go for the one you make yourself. Cut that fucking string off. The Mancy will set you free. How many times I got to tell you that?

  Samson said it best: “Before we split up I have one more bit of information I believe you’ll all be glad to hear. This evaluation is a final test before we begin schooling you in the use of Elementalism itself. For the last month you have been weighed and measured, you’ve been calmed and agitated. Whether you realize it or not, you have been taught control.

  “Raise your hand if you accidentally discharged in the last two days,” Samson barked the last, loud for once.

  Four hands went up, Isabel among them, mine not. Miranda gave me a frown and some motioning, but nope . . . accidentally was in that question, so my hand stayed down.

  “Four,” Samson said. “Four in the most grueling situation we’ll put you through. The days of play are over, Ultra Class 2009. The days of accidental discharges are dead. You are all mancers now. Ultras. Shadeshifters and Forestplanters and Firestarters. Welcome to your new world. These last days have been your first steps. Time for you to start running.”

  Session 121

  T-Bone headed off right after Vega and his guards. He hadn’t said much during the meeting but I was glad for the extra support. Lightning bolts and all that.

  We grunted and made guy gestures of support with the idea we’d talk later. I could tell he was still miffed over the way I’d lied to him about my plans. Guess I had some more making up to do.

  Speaking of which . . .

  Ceinwyn sat on our not-so-round table, sipping from her cup.

  I sat beside her. “What’s up, doc?”

  Wan smile at least. “I’ve created a monster.”

  “Could have been worse . . .”

  “Yes, you could have started a war the likes of which this country hasn’t seen since the 60s.”

  “You aren’t blaming the counter-culture movement on werecoyotes are you?”

  “Vampires . . . bunch of rebel rousers the lot of them.” She put down her Bugs Bunny glass. “That’s beside the point, King Henry. I allowed Anne to contract you because I know she’s reliable and would be a good guide for you. But this . . . you jumped right into the deep end and when I offer you a perfectly good rope . . . you instead decide on taking the shark up on its offer to swim you to safety.”

  “It’s another string, I know—“

  “To the worse possible person!”

  “Come on, Welf would be worse . . .”

  “No, no one would be worse than Horatio Vega. The slow stalk is his absolute favorite, King Henry. You decided to play his game.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re not suited for it.”

  “You’d be surprised what I’m suited for.”

  “And . . . you’re too important for this.”

  “Because I’m awesome?” Finally a full smile. I put one on too, swinging my arm around to grab her shoulder and give it a squeeze. “You worry too much.”

  “You’re turning me into a wretched complainer . . .”

  “Complaining about complaining?”

  A sigh escaped Ceinwyn. “Tyson told me you can split pools.”

  “But you can’t talk about it, I overheard.”

  “Not with Tyson, no . . .”

  Interesting. “But you can with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t talk about that . . .”

  “T-Bone can do big pools and split pools though, right?”

  She nodded. “Any Ultra can with practice.”

  Immediately I got suspicious. “Why are you doing this?”

  Her arms crossed and her head bent, like she considered some prayer. “I thought I could protect you from the one in a million. Little bits at a time, King Henry. That was the plan. But . . . you went and found the Coyotes. You’ll go and find even more soon enough I’m sure. I might as well help you survive it.”

  “ . . . So should I call you ‘Master’ now?”

  Silence for quite awhile. Ceinwyn and I are great at silence. Great at sitting beside each other, thinking through all the angles. Earth and Air seem like enemies but only if you don’t go deep into it. Without Air the mountain is eternal and eternity is a weight too heavy for even stone to bear. Without Earth, how would the breeze ever stop for a moment and rest?

  Outside the sun came down. March got all chilly and hateful as it always did. I dozed while awake. Ceinwyn tapped her fingers on the tabletops.

  “You waiting for them to attack?” I asked. “He’s probably going to hold fire until he has his floro-seeders.”

  “Not Vega.”

  “Then?”

  “The other half of your mess.”

  I thought about it.

  “Stumped.”

  “Detective Ribera,” Ceinwyn said just as a car pulled up outside.

  “Oh shit . . . can I run and hide?”

  [CLICK]

  I slept for probably twelve hours.

  I’d wanted like twenty-four if not a week, full on coma please. Mindlessness being better than the new paradigm of King Henry Price having himself a deal with the Coyote Nation.

  Would I do anything different? Probably would have double checked the printout T-Bone brought me that supposedly had Vega property . . . Rookie mistake. Considering it was the second time I’ve ever done something like this though . . . not bad. Grade that bitch on a curve . . . solid ‘B+’, and for a ‘C’ student that ain’t so bad.

  Wasn’t just the new paradigm that kept me lying in bed. Not my throbbing knuckles or my throbbing shoulder either. Ibuprofen would fix those whiny bastards soon enough. It was that the day after life and death situations are by far the worst day after ever.

  Day after a bender? Fuck your hangover. Day after an orgy? Fuck your sore gonorrhea infested cock. The day after life and death situations is Hell on Earth.

  Going back to your normal routine after just having beaten in some faces? After just being shot at? Didn’t matter how many times I went through the experience, day after always sucked.

  Day After Number Two began with me rolling out of bed, leaning against the wall, and dragging myself to the toilet. No triumphus for King Henry Price. Just a pot to piss in. Shaking it off, I dragged myself back to the office and got dressed. That’s right . . . still at my shop.

  I have a home. I promise. It exists. Just because you’ve never seen it so far, it does exist. Just like my motorcycle . . . never saw me drive it, but I promise I did. Before the whole machinegunned thing . . .


  I checked the office clock.

  10AM.

  On a normal day I’d have been grabbing some quick breakfast and opening the antique store up. Guess it wasn’t quite a normal day then. Not life and death, but not normal either . . . that helped some.

  “Still shit to clean up,” I said aloud.

  Vega: cleaned up.

  Detective Ribera: cleaned up.

  I’ve never seen Ceinwyn kick so much ass before. She even had a pair of ESLED officers show up and pretend to be the CIA. I know they were ESLED because one of them was my old classmate Estefan Ramirez. So yeah . . . Ribera pretty much has to leave me alone, given how I’m a CIA source into some drug cartel or something . . . sometimes if there’s enough bullshit it smells pretty good.

  T-Bone: still messy.

  Needed to make it up to the guy and I had just the present in mind.

  JoJo Price . . .

  Josephine Vega: quickly rectified.

  I picked up my phone, pulled out the card I’d been supplied with, and dialed the number.

  “Hello?”

  It was her alright. I’d know that kind of girly, kind of angry voice anywhere.

  Guess Vega was going to play things straight for awhile.

  “Hey, Sis,” I said, not knowing what else to add.

  She let out a breath deep enough that I could hear it over the phone. “You’re alive.”

  “Hard to kill.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “Your boy Hector was more of a problem than your boy Horatio.”

  “If you really think that, then you’re a bigger idiot than I remember.”

  “We had a nice chat, made a business deal, nothing to worry about.”

  “You moron . . . you are such a moron!”

  “Yeah, I made a business deal with him; you married the psychopath, but I’m the moron. By the way, notice we’re talking on the phone? Had to negotiate that one too.”

  “No, King Henry, you didn’t have to do anything! Because I already pleaded your case and had to give up plenty before Horatio even agreed to meet with you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saved you, little brother. I made the deal. I got him to befriend you. I convinced him it was all his nephew’s fault. Me. Not you. JoJo Price.”