The Foul Mouth and the Cat Killing Coyotes (The King Henry Tapes) (28 page)

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.  T
rusting 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 st
unk.  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 g
roans.

“Mr. Gullick and I will be conducting 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 accident
ally 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.”

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 cros
sed 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 to
o 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 ta
pped 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 woul
d 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 . . .

Jo
sephine 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
.”

“Josephine
Vega,” I corrected her.

I heard some seething on the other end of the phone.  Think I liked the
‘
deep breath being thankful I’m alive
’ stage a whole lot better.  “This . . . wasn’t how I wanted this call to go,” she admitted.

“Yeah, me neither,” I agreed. “Guess we have awhile to figure it out.”

“What was the deal you made?”

“Artificer stuff.  Prove I’m useful; buy
s me some time to start figuring your hubby out.”

She laughed.  “By all means, if you do let me know.”

“Not like I trust him, but he loves you.”

“He loves what I represent.”

“What was the deal you made?” I turned the question back on her.

She sighed.  “Children.”

“Not been trying?  No wonder the guy was so pent-up.”

“You really want to hear about your sister’s sex life?”

“Better than hearing my sister’s sex life back when you were still at home.”

Embarrassed silence.

“Remember Jimmy?” I asked.  “
Anh Anh Anh Anh
. . . I seriously thought about calling an ambulance.”

“You are such a pig
. . .”

“Yeah.  I always go boldly, don’t I?”

“We’ve tried since we’ve been married, that’s the problem.”

“Adoption?”

“No . . . that would defeat the purpose of us being together . . .”

I frowned at the phone.  “Want to explain that?”

“The reason you mancers and all the others are so scared of Horatio.  What he can do.  What no one else can figure out . . . and what everyone wants eliminated before it spreads.  Because then us Weres wouldn’t be the joke of the supernatural world would we?”

“Going to have to explain it to me,
Sis, no one else has bothered.”

“He’s a Poly-Shifter,” she whispered just barely, like even mentioning it was something to be in awe of, “when he Shifts
. . . he doesn’t become
one
coyote, he becomes . . . four or five or even more coyotes . . .”

“That’s impossible.”

“I know . . .”

A c
hill went down my spine.  “What does that have to do with your children, Sis?”

“Because
. . . I’m a Poly-Shifter too . . .”

[CLICK]

T-Bone
has himself a nice house.  ‘
Nice
’ not a word I use a whole lot.  ‘
Nice
’ not a world I’d ever use to describe anything in Fresno.  ‘
Not shitty
’ . . . that’s more like.  My place is not shitty.  Two bedrooms, a bathroom, a garage . . . has cable.  Typical not shitty tract-home that makes up ninety-nine percent of Fresno.  But T-Bone’s place?

Nice.

It’s older, back before they knew what tract-homes were.  Little, but nice.  Brick walkway.  Angles that aren’t all right but instead are just a little wrong.  Unique, the only one in the whole city.  Small front door . . . made me wonder how T-Bone managed to fit through it.

I knocked on the door.  Under one arm I had a gift.  Under my other arm I had a bag of
KFC.  Bringing a black guy a bag of KFC to apologize for being a dick?  Yeah . . . a little racist.  But it’s funny too.  Besides, I was raised Arky-Okie redneck, I love me some fried chicken, coleslaw, and mash potatoes as much as any human being on the planet.  Black, white, red, or Poly-Shifter.

Couldn’t get over that one
. . .

Couldn’t figure out how it was possible
. . .

Couldn’t help but have a new found fear
of
Horatio Vega and
for
my sister . . .

Soon as I heard that term
. . . Poly-Shifter . . . I knew I had plenty of life and death in my future.

T-Bone
opened the door.

T-Bone
saw me.

T-Bone
slammed the door shut.

“I’m sorry, man!” I yelled.  “This is me on my knees.  King Henry Price is ready to kiss your feet, you really going to let that experience walk on by without checking out her ass?”

T-Bone opened the door up again.

He wore a robe, boxers, fuzzy slippers, and not a whole lot else.  “Promise me that nothing is going to explode, break, fly through the air at me, or make any loud noise at all.”