The Foul Mouth and the Fanged Lady (23 page)

Case in point to the explaining. We
eventually ended up in the bedroom. Singular. This giant bedroom
with thirty beds already set up and ready to go. They were nice
beds . . . just the part that they were all together that threw me
for one. Images of not even having the safety of gender specific
showers pushed back and forth. Being naked in front of giggling
girls and blushing girls being naked in front of me fought over my
brain.

Embarrassment won over lust for once. “No
privacy?”

Ceinwyn Dale went ahead and demonstrated the
curtain system, like a hospital I guess—a really comfortable
hospital with really thick curtains. “It blocks eyes and sounds
that aren’t too loud. Mostly, we prefer them to only be used
sparingly, since the goal of this sleeping arrangement is
camaraderie.”

Camaraderie. The class of ’09 didn’t do
camaraderie well. “What if we want to . . . you know . . .
get
it on
?”

“You’re so much more open than the other
students, King Henry . . .”

“Maybe I know what I want?”

“As long as it’s consensual and doesn’t
cause lasting physical harm, the staff doesn’t care one way or the
other what you do with your bodies.”

“But . . . just curtains?”

“
Shy
, King Henry?”

“I’d rather not be getting tips while I’m
trying to concentrate.”

“Yes . . . I imagine if you got unfocused
you would end up falling off.”

“That a height joke?”

Ceinwyn Dale kept going. “You also have a
cupboard next to your bed, with a supply of clothes. Colors only.
While the bedside desk holds your school materials.”

She eventually walked to my bed, desk, and
cupboard to show me how they opened. I was distracted. “The staff
really doesn’t care if we fuck?”

“As long as it’s consensual.”

“Um . . .”

“As long as you both are into it,” Ceinwyn
Dale corrected for the ‘C’ I got in English.

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” I thought some more
while I checked out the brown colored backpack the Asylum had given
me for classes. It was the first backpack I’d had which wasn’t
hand-me-down. Or stolen . . . “And . . . uh . . . what if girls get
pregnant?” Unprotected sex for a year and
now
I’m thinking
things through.

“They don’t.”

“What like . . . birth control?”

“Something like that.”

She walked back into the common room without
looking my way, so I followed. “The Mancy can do that?”

“No comment.”

“
Win
. . . this place might not suck
after all.”

With a ‘
ha!
,’ she sat down on one of
the couches before giving me that Ceinwyn Dale
which-way-will-you-jump gaze. “As long as it’s consensual.”

“You keep saying that like I’m going to be
bashing girls over the head with a stick.”

“This isn’t Visalia.”

“Kind of noticed. Not as hot out for
one.”

“Not to disparage your girlfriend back there
but these girls
here
are not
white-trash-with-a-daddy-in-prison walking Freudian clichés. Yes, I
checked up on her.”

“Big words . . .”

“These girls you’ll be attempting to romance
will be just as impressive as I am. They won’t take your crap
anymore than I do either.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Miss Dale,” was
the platitude I mumbled while facing the possibility of sleeping in
a room full of teenage Ceinwyn Dales. Either a fantasy or a
nightmare. Still not sure if I know which.

“They haven’t grown into themselves yet, but
they will. If you want to be with them, you’ll have to give more of
yourself than you have before. You’ll have to work harder, make
yourself something they’d want.”

“Okay, now stop selling me short.”

“I figured your size is obvious . . .”

“Guess I walked into that one . . .”

“Valentine Ward’s father is a software
engineer with his own company, Asa Kayode’s father is a financial
minister of Nigeria, Miranda Daniels comes from a family worth
two-point-one billion dollars, and Hope Hunting’s mother is a
congresswoman. You already met Naomi Gullick. A teacher’s daughter
maybe . . . but do you think she’ll put up with you?”

“Is this the make-me-feel-like-an-asshole
portion of the tour?”

“Just be
careful
, King Henry. You’re
going to have to earn your place here. It’s worth doing . . .” She
gave me a pep-you-up smile. “I believe in you.” Ceinwyn Dale
getting sentimental—that shocked fourteen-year-old-me more than
anything. I probably should have realized it was a warning signal
for what was to come, but I didn’t. ‘Cuz I was stupid back then . .
. still have my moments today. Back then it was all one moment
pushed together.

Inside the big common room, so lonely in its
size, I asked, “Will you stay until they get back?”

“Of course.”

Half an hour I guess.

Waiting.

In a way, I was the
new kid
, at least
the
day late kid
. I’d never been the new kid before. When
they finally walked into our common room, there were twenty-nine
teenage pairs of eyes studying me, then Ceinwyn Dale, then back to
me again. They knew her. Maybe liked her. Maybe didn’t. But they
knew
her. Me . . . I was unknown and what did I tell you
about the unknown earlier on these tapes?

There was also an Ultra graduate student,
our advisor, or helper, or prefect, or whatever they want to be
called—each four-year class gets one. I was one eventually. I had
my kids call me ‘
Your Majesty
’. Funny at the time.

Our advisor for single was named Patrick
Hanks. Seventh year, a Hep—always. Faunamancer, Ultra of course to
be a Hep. What a white guy. Total dweeb. He made Russell Quilt seem
cool. “Miss Dale . . . good to see you.”

“Any troublemakers, Patrick?”

“Too unsure to cause much yet, but I’m sure
we’ll get there.” He saw me. “Late arrival?”

Ceinwyn Dale stood, so I did too. She was
still taller. There were a couple snickers from the crowd. I made a
notation of who did it. “This is King Henry Price. He’s an
Artificer.”

“Sup,” I said. Elegant bastard.

I guess a few that knew what Artificer meant
were impressed by that. I mean, we were all Ultras, but the First
Tier is so much more rare, it made us stand out. Like I had
anything to do with being one or the other. Like any of us did. But
none of that matters. Might as well complain about being good at
math instead of being good at singing.

One of them wasn’t impressed at all. “He
looks too small to be an Ultra,” a boy with a hint of Europe in his
voice said. “Are you sure he’s old enough?”

Yup. Great start to another legendary
relationship.

They were all there. If you think I’ve
explained too much already this session, I can go on for weeks
about this group. Months. Some would be very important, others
would be in the background, but I’d know them all. Eat, sleep,
study, fight with and against. Cliques and counter-cliques.

If I ranked them for having the most affect
on me then Pocket, Jesus, and Raj would be up there, my best
friends . . . first friends too.
Real friends
. I’d have
romances, both successful ones and failed ones, with Valentine Ward
and Eva Reti. Eva’s short and dark with gray eyes—so very calm and
centered but hiding emotional depth beneath the surface in her
precious shadows where one had to look so hard to see it.

Valentine Ward . . . Valentine Ward.
Boomworm. Just
Val
. Every man has the one that got away.
Even then I noticed her right at the start. Already tall, but
coltish and skinny. Light-reflecting blond hair that was frayed and
short but would grow long and full once she started paying
attention to it, a face dotted with pimples but a face with
cheekbones that wouldn’t quit. Her eyes that are black as pitch.
Dark as anything I’ve ever seen. Smoldering embers, watching you. I
got burnt and kept reaching for the flame. I still want to reach
for it.

But the person that most affected me . . .
probably Heinrich Welf. My rival. Necromancer. Bonegrinder. His
family is old, noble when noble meant something . . . fought for
the Germans in World War One before the Kaiser fell and the Welfs
were taken as part-refugee, part-spoil for the good ol’ U.S.A.
Heinrich
von
Welf, he always corrected. Which always made
calling him just ‘
Welf
’ so fun.

Heinrich Welf—the boy who made fun of me in
front of the entire class before I could even learn all these names
I’m telling you. He was already tall then . . . fucker is six and a
half feet now. Blond too, blue eyes, good looking if I have to
admit it. Girls liked him. Nazi fucker.

Ceinwyn Dale had to sense the warnings in my
posture. But Ceinwyn Dale is Ceinwyn Dale. She watched, small
little smile on her face. The street rat meets the aristocrat.
What’s King Henry going to do?

I did what that stupid ass scar-headed Harry
Potter should have done the first time that Malfoy bitch gave him
trouble. King Henry Price asked himself some questions.

Q: He close enough to punch?

A: No.

Q: Get closer. Nod dumbly while you do.
Done?

A: Yes.

Q: He close enough to punch?

A: Yes.

Q: He tall?

A: Very.

Q: Feel like punching him in the gut?

A: That wouldn’t hurt him enough.

Q: Are there weapons nearby?

A: Sadly no.

Q: Can you jump?

A: I think so.

Q: There a stool nearby?

A: Couch work?

I jumped back onto the couch, then I flung
one of the hardest punches I’ve ever thrown at Heinrich Welf’s
face.

I was up in the air when it hit. The Mancy
snapped inside me, bones going all hard in my fist. Just like I
loved. No time for reactions. I caught the fucker right on the
button. His neck turned with a jerk from the impact, feet going
out, uncontrollable pieces of noodle. His so tall, pretty faced
body crumbled down to the floor like a corpse gone to dust.

“
Now who’s old enough
?” I yelled down
at him.

He didn’t answer . . . but he kind of
blinked eventually.

Patrick Hanks and the twenty-eight other
kids gaped at me, finally turning to Ceinwyn Dale for a reaction on
what to do.

Ceinwyn Dale is Ceinwyn Dale. She decided to
keep watching how it all played out. Instead of papercutting
fourteen-year-old-me, she just walked past with an
interesting-choice expression and stepped over Welf. The class
parted for her. “School starts tomorrow. Everyone have a good year
. . . I’ll try to stop by when I can.” One smile back my way before
she left. “King Henry, that’s your freebie. Try to make friends,
why don’t you?”

“No promises.”

Say what you will about King Henry Price, he
knows how to make a first impression.

“Which one of you lit the dog on fire?”

The return flight home to Fresno was made
all the more ominous by Annie B’s snug winter clothing, which
showed barely any skin at all. Her hunger issues were apparently
under control enough for the pornstar look to disappear—there’s a
pity. But on the plus side: she wouldn’t be eating anyone in front
of me for awhile.

It was the first time I’d ever been in a
plane. I’m guessing most people’s first time don’t go a lot like a
private charter flight purchased by the San Francisco Vampire
Embassy to get a murderous baroness as far away as they can, as
quickly as they can. More likely it was packed in seats, stale
peanuts, a five dollar in-flight coke, with the fatties getting
thrown off as safety threats unless they paid double.

The plane was a small jet: posh, personal
stewardess, wood-panel interior, comfy seats, even had a small
pull-out bed hidden behind the bathroom. Annie B asked if I was
interested in trying it out, but I turned her down. Before
Sideburns, I’d been going back and forth on the whole
disgusted
versus horny
thing, there’s even a certain dirtiness to the
whole idea of her hot-as-hell body being a shell and something that
psychologically did it for me when she kicked my ass—guess I like
strong women—but the cannibalism had thrown me on the ‘
no
’
side as far as I could go. Even Prince Henry at his most lonely
needs something to work with.

Instead of having wild-vampire-sex, the two
of us sat in our seats, sipping drinks and studying each other,
waiting for the plane to do its thing and rise up into the air. I
drank my fav’ rum and coke, she was having some kind of fruity
martini that only women or vampires-pretending-to-be-women get to
drink.

“How did you like San Francisco?” Annie B
asked me, face deceivingly innocent. She knew she’d freaked me out
past the point of no return, still didn’t mean she planned to give
up her game. Some people get a thrill out of just stepping on the
field, winning ends up secondary to smacking around the other
players to such a point they don’t want to play any longer.

I watched her a bit, keeping my emotions
close as I’d learned to do over my time at the Asylum. Gone was the
little shit that’d stand up in the middle of class and cuss out a
teacher. He stayed under a layer of dirt and sand and stone,
covered in a layer of glass armor. If I’d learned anything dealing
with the teachers at the Asylum, it was to only give away what you
want. Sometimes—during a fight, maybe—that’s harder to control. But
business . . . I could do business.

It was odd how normal Annie B had gotten.
Could have passed for human easily. Jeans, blue sweater, even a
jacket. A young businesswoman dressed casual, late twenties, the
kind who’s modest until you get a few drinks into her and then who
knows what’s going to come out of the box.

Wonder how many men she’d ate on by using
the same act? I’d seen in the box, seen her fight, seen her
struggle with her hunger until hunger won. I didn’t exactly feel
guilty about it, but if I hadn’t pushed her so hard in those fights
. . . I had to wonder how the night would have gone
differently.