Free The Foul Mouth and the Cat Killing Coyotes (The King Henry Tapes) by Richard Raley

lake the place butted up against.  Asa Kayode, our resident hydromancer, had already dipped her completely-black hand in the water and gave a completely-white smile back to the crowd.  Good water, I guess.  You wouldn’t see me in it.
    Fuck trees.
    Double fuck lakes.
    The lake reminded me of a month ago, the trip to the Asylum.  A lot like Silver Lake.  Only . . . no road behind us.  Only . . . no cars making noises.  Only . . . no cabins around it.  Ass end of nowhere.  The armpit of the galaxy but no inbred Sand People in sight.  Thirty kids and Fines Samson to watch over us.
    Half of the class couldn’t care less about the lake.  First thing they did when we hit the opening in the trees was to throw off their backpacks and crumble onto a trio of park benches that had been set up.  There was also a fire -pit, lined in stone.  Maybe the Camping Club came up here all the time, I had no clue, but I took the signs of civilization as a plus.  The smell of evergreen wasn’t quite as bad either.
    “See, dude, nothing to worry about,” Pocket told me.
    Somehow I stripped myself out of my backpack without falling to the ground.  “Have you not been in the same class I’ve been in or something?”
    “That’s class , we aren’t in class .  It’s only Samson.”
    “The most badass guy at the school.”
    “Don’t know about that.”
    “Who else is more badass?”
    “Miss Dale?”
    “She’s a softie on the inside.” I hadn’t seen Ceinwyn in the month at school; maybe lack of exposure downgraded her in my mind.
    “Mordecai Root?”
    “Douchebag necromancer, he’s disqualified.”
    “What about Naomi’s dad?  I wouldn’t want to mess with him.”
    “Mr. Gullick?  Are you kidding me?”
    “What?”
    “He’s a floromancer . . . floromancers can’t be badasses.  What’s he going to do?  Throw a fern at me?”
    Pocket happened to be a floromancer and he glared.  “I’m going to ignore you blasting my entire Mancy discipline.”
    “I know you are . . . there aren’t any ferns around for you to fight me with.”
    “Dude, Samson’s like one-hundred.  He could drop dead at any moment.  There’s no way he’s going to screw with us too much.  Quit being paranoid and enjoy the break.  Remember the Clubs Fair?  You were paranoid about it and nothing happened.”
    Nothing except the Asylum managing to trick every student to give up more free time .  I kept the thought to myself.  “Just wait for it . . .”
    The first whiff of moldy-shit came five minutes later.
    “Very well,” Samson said, “Everyone get your eyes on me.  I’m not repeating this.”
    The whole class did so, some innocent, some bored, some wanting to go back to the lake or benches, and one lonely King Henry waiting for that pre-mentioned Sword of Damocles to go all guillotine on our pretty young necks.
    Samson had a soft voice, even when he raised it for us to hear.  In his prime he must have looked soft too.  You could see it in his bone structure.  Where the black hair would curl around his face, where the soft needle thin mustache would sit over his top lip.  Softness hiding the inner edge.  Now, only the edge was left, out in the sun, worn down, in need of some sharpening.  Rough wrinkled skin hung loose over boney arms and legs, with pieces of muscles stretched tight around them.  When you got old, I guess all the extra unneeded parts of you died before you did.
    After ninety years, only the voice was left soft.  “The backpacks you hauled with you will have everything you require.”  Pocket dared to look smug. “Scattered between your four teammates will be the pieces of a tent, four bowls, utensils, a small spade for dirt work, and other necessities.  Since they’re packed with this purpose in mind, this means you do not get to choose your teams . . . I do .”
    Yep . . . shit already starting to stink.
    “Team Number One:  Price, Landry, Jackson, and von Welf.”
    Thirty assholes