The Foul Mouth and the Troubled Boomworm (The King Henry Tapes) Read online

  Val hadn’t moved to the States until she was twelve. Before that she lived in Melbourne and a couple years into it she left for the Asylum . . . so saying she grew up in this environment ain’t completely accurate. But . . . I had trouble believing that the place she stayed in Melbourne was much worse off.

  At the Asylum, Val had been Boomworm, the brilliant, wicked, lovely Firestarter girl. We’d just clicked in a way I’d never clicked with someone of the opposite sex. Well, maybe Ceinwyn too, but it’s not like Auntie Badass was the same age as me. I might have gotten a little dirty and spanked one out to her when I was a teenager, but she’s not a peer, not girlfriend material.

  I’m distracting myself from the point I’m trying to make since it’s painful. Suddenly, seeing one house—the house where Val lived away from the Asylum—just like that, our life experiences stood on the opposite sides of a chasm. Asylum takes a lot away from you . . . but it also levels the playing field. I don’t know why, I knew her family had wads of cash, but I never placed Val in with Miranda or Welf or the other rich kids. Sure, sometimes she was with them because she’s smart and they’re smart . . . but . . .

  Son-of-a-bitch, this trip is going to be one mindfuck after another, ain’t it?

  Driving up to a multi-car garage separate from the house, Val killed the engine. I just stared at Casa de Ward in awe. I’ve seen bigger. Hector Vega’s place on Van Ness was huge. Before I burned it down. This though . . . it was just fucking classy. Think you call it colonial or some shit. Early half of the 1900s for sure.

  It had a good chunk of land with it, maybe an acre. All nice and cut and planted by some poor Mexican guy. Brick, lots of brick up the face and all around the porch, probably had a brick patio out back surrounding a pool. A pair of columns framed a front door painted red. Classy. Colonial. Could just see Thomas Jefferson getting on with his slave-fucking in this kind of place.

  . . . what?

  Val waited for me to finish my appraisal before she pointed at her eyes so I’d pay attention. “Ground rules,” she began.

  “Ah . . . this is gonna go well,” I muttered under my breath.

  “I wouldn’t begin to think I can keep you from cursing—“

  I couldn’t help it. I straight up guffawed into my chest.

  “—but if you can keep just a little bit of control around my mom, that would be wonderful,” Val pleaded, but it was the kind of plea from a prisoner about to be executed.

  “You like it when I curse,” I said, kind of insulted that being around her parents might turn Val into a prude.

  “I like it when you’re funny,” she corrected, “and sometimes blue humor is hilarious stuff. But not in front of my mom.”

  “She a feminist or something?”

  “A little.”

  “I’m totally for equality, I’ll have you know.”

  “She also likes civilization and I’m rather sure your equality is more based on anarchy.”

  “Okay, let’s deal. I’ll stick to ‘shit’, ‘fuck’, and ‘ass’. No ‘bitches’, no ‘twats’, not even a ‘douchebag’ or a ‘cocksucker’ joke. Fair?”

  “And nothing considered more offensive, yes?”

  “Now who’s the poddy-brain, you twiddly-sticks?

  Val let out a deep breath.

  I gave her an encouraging smile.

  “Why did I think this was a good idea?” she asked herself.

  “Desperation,” I said knowingly, “you wouldn’t believe how many dates it gets me.”

  We went over to the red door and Val unlocked it with a key. When it opened there was a slight beep despite no one making a move towards the doorbell. Guess it was a security thing. Or a rich person thing. Having a house so big you don’t know when people are walking through your front door has never been a problem of mine.

  Inside, the house was all wood. Ceiling, floors, the whole big ass entry room even had furniture in wood, with very little in the way of padding. It looked a lot more modern and low key than the outside of the house. But . . . wood . . . cuz that’s what you want to fill a house with when your eldest daughter is a pyromancer.

  “How have you not burnt this place down yet?” I asked.

  “Control,” Val teased, “try to have some yourself, please.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Quit worrying. I’m fine.”

  “You look nervous.”

  “Well, last time I met the parent of a girl I’d been . . . with . . . he kind of chased me for about a mile, yelling and screaming about defiling his little baby.”

  “I daresay my folks won’t find us naked in the garden with your face between my breasts, will they?”

  More wood in the living room. Electronics too, but all sleek, with the clean vibe still. No dogs. Probably not something Val’s fond of, you fucktard. No cats, no sign people spent a lot of time here. No sign of Mrs. Ward either.

  “Do they even know about us?” I asked.

  “No,” Val admitted.

  “Ashamed?”

  “No,” she said again, “I didn’t want them distracted thinking about that. You’re my schoolmate.”

  “So giving you a kiss right now would be a bad idea?”

  Val smirked. “I’d hate to singe your lips.”

  “Might be worth it . . .” I whispered under my breath.

  The kitchen/dining room area showed some signs of life. Still sleek, but the table had some scuffs on it where plates and glasses had sat over time. The dishwasher blinked green over a mark of ‘load finished’. Pictures on the refrigerator: Val in the Asylum graduation getup, a notice that some family member was having a baby shower, a family picture with four people smiling.

  Val looked quite a bit like her mother, though taller and with lighter features, but without the woman’s green eyes. Same hair, same lots of features too . . . huh. Val’s father was smaller, slighter, very much what you’d assume of an older computer programmer with glasses and graying hair. He had dark eyes like Val, but perhaps not as dark as hers, and the same mouth, more smirk than smile.

  “This the family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow . . . I think mine would have killed each other trying to all take a photograph at the same time.”

  “We don’t really fight much, other than . . . this.”

  I chuckled. “See, if you have a loving family then you don’t know how to have a good brawl when you really need one.”

  Did I leave something out? Ah, Christmas. Yeah . . . we’ll see when I meet her.

  “Hello?” someone called from down a hallway on the other side of the house, “Valentine, is that you?”

  “Yeah, Mom, it’s me!” Val called back, before reluctantly adding, “And a guest!”

  “I’m feeling put out,” I sulked.

  “Don’t start.”

  Val’s mother appeared from around a corner, smiling at her and then even holding the smile as she looked me up and down, though it went slightly wilted. “Oh dear . . . and who is this?”

  She had a thicker Aussie accent than Val did. To be fair, seven years at the Asylum had taken a lot of the barbie out of Val’s. Except for the slightest tone deep in her throat it had mostly disappeared to the way of generic Californian. Val’s mom, however, had hung on quite a bit more.

  Aussie accent . . . sexy.

  Val’s mom . . . nice looking for a middle-aged woman. Had to be in her mid-forties but she could have lied about thirty-eight, maybe even thirty-seven, and gotten away with it. She had on yoga pants and a yoga top and . . . well . . . she apparently worked out.

  She studied me with sharp green eyes. I’d seen that look on Val too. She gets it when she’s looking over class notes or reading a book. Like if she looks harder it will let her see something new. Val’s mom eventually extended her hand. “Ronnie Ward.”

  I shook it firmly. “King Henry Price.”

  She blinked at the name but covered it quickly. Fucking manners, I thought. “Valentine, is he . . . your . . . um?”

  �
��Classmate,” Val clarified, “from school. I brought him to speak with Christmas about . . . why she really should go.”

  Val’s mom—Ronnie—gave her a quick hug. “Still trying, dear?”

  “I have until September.”

  “Tick tock, I suppose.”

  “If you’d just help, Mom—“

  “Now, now, dear, we’ve been through this and you know my opinion.” A smile for me while still holding Val’s arms in half a hug, again with the studying eyes. “If your father was in charge he wouldn’t even let you pester your sister with these guests.”

  “Like I’d let him being a fool about this stop me,” Val said.

  Ronnie rolled her eyes dramatically. “The biggest problem with a household of strong women . . .”

  “King Henry,” I supplied.

  “Both?”

  “Yeah, both.”

  “Odd name.”

  I grinned at her, showing my teeth. “Odd person.”

  “Behave,” Val mouthed at me from behind her mom’s back.

  “The biggest problem with a household of strong women, King Henry,” Ronnie continued, “is that all three of us always think we know best and often we have the intelligence and the facts to back it up.”

  “Opinions,” I agreed, “what’s the world without them?”

  “Indeed . . .” Ronnie paused again. “Are you staying the night?”

  I hefted my duffel-bag. “So I was ordered.”

  “In . . . Valentine’s room?”

  “Mom, why? Every single time? You did the same thing with Heinrich.”

  “And Heinrich had a horrible boyish crush on you. Even if he’s too much a gentleman to ever admit it.”

  “He does not. We’re good friends. Same with King Henry.”

  I never got past ‘Heinrich’. “You had fucking Welf talk to your sister?” I spat in disbelief. “No wonder she doesn’t want to go to the Asylum.”

  Val actually glared.

  “We had a deal,” I reminded her, “I can say ‘fuck’, ‘ass’, and ‘shit’.”

  Val glared harder.

  Ronnie didn’t seem bothered by the cursing at all, but did seem interested in what I’d said. “Asylum?”

  “Ah.”

  Val glared hardest.

  “Oh. Right. Nickname for the campus. Kids, right? Want to make themselves sound badass.”

  Ronnie finally let go of Val and motioned for me to follow her down a hallway. We had a running conversation towards what was apparently a guest bedroom. “You’re an Elementalist too? Like Valentine and her other friends?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have all types of backgrounds at the school, don’t you? I never thought about it much. I figured it would all be like Valentine and Miranda, good little student types playing with magic.”

  “It’s a school like any other.”

  “Except you learn to light candles and fireplaces?”

  “Not me.”

  “Ah, yes. Miranda showed us a little tornado on our dining room table; it was quite a cute little thing . . . though Heinrich never did say what he could do . . .”

  “He’s a necromancer,” I supplied despite Val waving at me not to say anything.

  “A . . . a what?” Ronnie asked.

  “A necromancer, he talks to ghosts.” And makes puppets out of dead bodies, but maybe Val’s right and I shouldn’t mention too much of how fucked up necromancers can get.

  “Really . . . such a nice young man to have such an ugly gift.”

  “He’s a poser piece-of-shit.”

  “I see you have quite the opinion of your own, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, that’s me, Mr. Opinion.”

  “Here’s the room,” Ronnie said, leading the way into a room bigger than my master bedroom back in my bought-for-me home in Fresno. “Bed, chest, television, connected bathroom through the door across the way.”

  I did a turn around the room. More wood, all white save for the floor and ceiling. White bed, white furniture. “Very nice home you have,” I mumbled out a platitude. I think it says how much I like me some Valentine Ward that I even tried.

  “Every few years I take the time to redecorate the house myself.”

  “Very . . . warm . . . all this wood.” Behind Ronnie’s back I mimicked an explosion and flames at Val. Also behind Ronnie, Val stuck her tongue out at me.

  “Now that you’re settled, tell me, King Henry: are Heinrich and Valentine really only friends?”

  I barely kept from snarling at the thought of Welf and Val being physical with each other. “Yeah, just friends. Val’s never into playing the social game. She’s too busy being awesome at everything else.”

  “I’m standing right here,” Val complained.

  “Don’t pout, dear,” Ronnie chided.

  “Then quit being—”

  “A mom?”

  “Yes!”

  Ronnie gave Val another arm hug. “Happy to have you home, dear.”

  “Happy to be home, Mom.”

  Ronnie studied me again, like the new room might reveal more. “What is it you . . . do, King Henry? I forgot to ask.”

  “Geomancer.”

  “Dirt?”

  “Metal, gemstones . . . glass too,” I said, putting down my duffel-bag on the bed. The beat up brown fabric looked extra grungy among so much white cleanness.

  “Well, I suppose you can show us something at the dinner table if you’ll be staying the night. My husband always gets a little thrill about the magic shows, though he’s not about to force another daughter to disappear for seven years.”

  “Sure thing. I got plenty to show you . . . and to talk to you about.”

  Ronnie took her fretting daughter’s hint. “I suppose I’ll go change then.”

  The second she was out of sight, Val picked up a pillow and threw it in my face.

  At least it wasn’t a fire bolt.

  [CLICK]

  Mister Ward, apparently his name was Peter—cuz, ya know . . . the world sucks ass and I would have to let all the cock jokes slide right on by me—worked at his company until 5PM, then he came home for dinner, and returned to the company for a couple hours at night. Guess they coded something computer-ish . . . maybe I’ll ask T-Bone about WardWall sometime. Christmas was at some smart kid summer-school classes and would get a ride home with Mister Ward . . . Peter . . . ah, hell, this is going to be hard.

  . . . . . . see?

  Presumably I wouldn’t get to say a word with Christmas before the family dinner I’d gotten myself sucked into.

  Family dinners . . . like I fucking understand that concept. Closest I had was the Cafeteria at the Asylum. Chowing down, goofing off, talking about class, or gossip, or what we planned to do on Sunday with our free time. How different would I be if I’d gotten the same from Mom, Dad, JoJo, and Susan for fourteen years?

  Would I still be leery of new people, distrustful of strangers? Would I still want to throw down into a fight for every minute of the day? Would it have stripped me of my recklessness? The ability I had to say ‘fuck it’ and risk my life and my future on one throw? Sometimes I wonder . . . if . . . if maybe all the disappointments from Mom, the fights with friends, the belt-whippings from Dad . . . the abandonment of two sisters . . . sometimes I wonder if . . . if . . .

  I’d been banished to the patio with a cup of hot coffee. Summer yes, but Bay Area and all that; there’s a reason Starbucks popped up in Seattle: poor rained on fuckers needed a pick-me-up all the time. The day was summer, but seventy degrees. Again: nice.

  So much nice . . .

  Patio, pool, same brick as before. Nice little gardens using up every inch of that acre’s land. Even had white picket fences walling it all in. Nice, cozy, kind of peaceful.

  Not a shithole.

  Val was lucky to have this.

  Somewhere on the highway the two of us had switched places.

  She’d been sure of herself, teasing without mercy, now she was silent and nervous . .
. not very Boomworm of her. I don’t know when the I-don’t-give-a-shit rose up inside me. I think it was seeing Val’s mom. Ronnie Ward. Nothing to fear there. Both a serious, strong modern woman and a caring but mostly hands-off mother. Nothing to fear from her. Nothing to fear from Val either. No new pains to bear.

  This . . . it was all firmly in the territory of the friendly but no likey the touchy-touchy, amazing but expects the best out of you, most-awesome-female-friend-in-existence Valentine Ward. No sign of sex-crazed, emotional, loose-cannon, surprise you by hauling you into the water-heater room for a quickie Valentine Ward.

  Sometimes I wonder if she has a split personality.

  Would make the most sense.

  Of course, I hadn’t seen the sex-crazed Val in awhile, even before graduation . . . It almost made me relieved. No sex . . . that sucks. But . . . not having to deal with the whiplash was easier on my already damaged-beyond-all-repair mind.

  Women . . . what the fuck do I know?

  Yeah, yeah, sexist or whatever.

  Val and Ronnie were talking about me, not realizing the kitchen window was open enough for me to hear them. I took a sip of my coffee and didn’t feel a bit of shame over eavesdropping.

  “So . . . he’s . . . very . . . hmmm . . . different,” Ronnie began over the sound of dishes and silverware being placed.

  “That’s King Henry,” Val agreed.

  A bit more of silverware. “You don’t really think that he can convince your sister to go to your school, do you? He’s more likely to scare her away for eternity.”

  “He’s not that bad.”

  “He looks like he gets into a bar fight every Friday night.”

  “He had a rough childhood, before the Institution.”

  “The ‘Asylum’ you mean?”

  “It’s only a nickname.”

  “One I’ve never heard in the last ten years.”

  “Perhaps you should think about why we call it that and all I’ve told you about what will happen to Christmas,” Val rebutted.

  “I very much doubt being unable to light a fire or make a little tornado will drive someone mad. Also, as I’ve pointed out to you many times: it’s her choice to stay here.”