by Green Dc
‘What’s that?’
‘I shall not be journeying with you to Border Town.’
‘What?’ I pushed out my lip. ‘Why not?’
‘I am a vampire.’
‘Yeah, I had noticed.’
Stoker sighed. ‘Your royal quarters and the school are indoors. Yet Border Town is outside Castle Mount.’
‘Stuff it.’ I kicked the tunnel wall again, harder this time. ‘OW! I forgot vampires don’t like sunshine. Can’t you wear a broad-brimmed hat or something slip slop slappy?’
‘Indirect sunlight scalds my skin,’ said Stoker. ‘Direct sunlight would cause me to combust like a funeral pyre.’
‘Stuff it. Your super-strength would’ve been useful. Especially with the real Scarab not here. Maybe we should wake Tessa?’
‘The troll fears dragons,’ said Stoker. ‘Furthermore, she would not fit inside the delivery carriage.’
‘We iz having Zorg!’ rasped Zorg. ‘Zorg can be munching gobbinz!’
‘Thanks, Zorgie,’ I said. ‘If we need any goblin-munching done, you’ll definitely be the first zombie I ask.’ I shouldered open the medium-sized door to the spectre-train station. Thankfully, the platform was empty. ‘Anyone else have a plan?’
‘You bet!’ said Jaak. ‘I can hypnotise! You know, the guards.’
‘Wow, Jaak, you’re a pretty useful guy – girl – hermaphrodite – dude … ette – thing.’
‘Scope this! You know, for handy!’ Jaak’s bandages darkened. The lines between them merged and faded. A vertical outline of buttons formed on his chest. His feet grew massive shoes. His new suit dangled into fold piles on the platform.
‘Double wow. You look like a mummy in an ogre suit!’
Jaak’s face and hands swelled like oven-baked scones. Hair sprouted from his now-moss-coloured head, falling across his forehead and sweeping back slickly.
‘How’s my face?’ he asked.
‘Your nose should be flatter.’ Stoker raised his fist. ‘I could assist with that.’
‘I’m all right. You bet!’ Jaak’s nose compressed like he’d run into an invisible wall. ‘Tricky bit next.’ The shape-shifter’s body swelled in all directions, filling the suit. He grew taller, until he towered over everyone except Bruce.
‘Triple wow,’ I whistled. ‘You look creepily like Mayor Viethe!’
Bruce chuckled. ‘Dude, I so wanna punch your fat gob face!’
‘Zorg iz confuzed.’
Stoker led Zorg to the rat-vending machine.
Jaak’s tongue clicked. ‘This should work. As long as I don’t have to get naked! You know, in public.’ He opened the buttons on his shirt. I gasped at a space large enough to wave both hands inside. Skeletal scaffolding supported Jaak’s suit, creating the illusion of solid bulk.
‘Where are your heart and other organs?’ I asked. ‘Um, you do have internal organs?’
‘You bet!’ said Jaak. ‘And multiple gonads. I stored them. You know, in my left leg.’
‘I have so many questions.’ I rubbed my hands together. This was just like school! ‘Does it hurt to morph like that? Does your body change back when you’re asleep?’
‘Pain? I feel none. You know, unless I punch a door. Or an ogre punches me.’ Jaak flexed his pudgy fingers. ‘I could stay in this impersonation? For weeks. You know, unless I feel too nervy.’ The shifter giggled nervously. ‘You’re a curious king chum!’
The platform hummed. Bruce pointed. ‘One spectre-train, coming up.’
I pulled on my swamp monster noggin and breathed the familiar tang of sweat, swamp and sewage.
The first train I’d ever seen shrieked to a halt. It was like a giant mechanical millipede. I gawked at the engine: a crystal prism crammed with glowing, roiling spectres and poltergeists. Distorted faces formed and pressed against the walls, mutely screaming.
‘Gotta dig transport that runs on rage,’ said Bruce, swinging into a carriage.
A few early-arriving goblin schoolkids clambered off. Their lips curled, ready to shoot catty remarks our way – until they noticed Jaak.
One froze. ‘Mayor Viethe!’
They bumped each other in a rush to bow.
We climbed into the train, where the bowing was replicated.
‘Vamoose this carriage!’ Jaak barked at the passengers. ‘Us mayors? Ya know, we’re needin’ our privacy! Ya bet!’
Bowing lower, the passengers backed into the next carriage.
A whistle trilled. The train wailed off.
‘Was that necessary?’ I asked Jaak.
‘Probably not,’ Jaak cackled. ‘Was it fun? You bet! And handy practice.’
Stoker sat beside me. ‘If it was feasible for me to join your quest beyond Castle Mount, I would.’
I nodded. No longer worried the vampire was about to pounce on my jugular vein, I summoned the courage to ask the question that had gnawed at me for days. ‘Stoker?’
‘Hrrm?’
‘Do you miss being, um, mortal?’
Stoker regarded me with his blood-engorged pupils until I looked away. ‘I do not recall being alive,’ he said at last. ‘When mortals – humans – are bitten by vampires, a chemical process begins that changes them forever. We may appear similar to who we were before. Yet our skins become a rare aluminium-magnesium alloy – light, flexible and strong. Our bones also become alumina, and hollow. More significantly, our brains are utterly rewired. We can no longer access our former mortal memories. We cannot even recall our human names. In effect, I have always existed as a vampire.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Yet I reason somewhat differently to my … colleagues,’ Stoker’s tone shifted subtly. ‘Vampires generally regard mortals as you regard hippocows: animals to be slaughtered in the name of survival. Yet what if mortals become extinct, as appears quite possible? We vampires cannot conceive offspring in the mortal way. We may draw blood from other monsters, yet can convert only humans to vampirism. Thus, if your race perishes, can ours lag far behind? Thus, I have assisted you.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘I never thought of all that.’
‘There is one more matter.’ Stoker waited as if for encouragement.
The train screeched to a halt, filling the carriage with ozone and friction-heated steel fumes.
‘We’re here!’ Bruce bounded onto the platform. I smiled through the window as a startled cleaner monster dropped his three mops. The spider swung onto a sign, North-Eastern Lower Castle Mount, marking the last station this side of the Mythic Quarter border.
We disembarked. Stoker winced at the sunlight reflecting through the troll-sized arch that led outside Castle Mount. Beyond, Border Town bustled with monsters of every size and colour.
‘Um,’ I said to Stoker, distracted. ‘What were you saying?’
‘Another time.’ The vampire raised his forearm, shielding his face. ‘This is the limit of my journey.’ Stoker strode our jagged line, formally shaking hands and pincers.
‘Yo, dead bro.’ Bruce grinned. ‘See you when we’ve saved hume-anity’s saggy butt.’
‘Quite so.’
No doubt remembering my refusal to shake hands when we first met, Stoker turned away before he reached me. I stepped forward and grabbed his right hand with both of mine. A chill zinged along my arms. As our hands pumped up and down, I met his red eyes and jolted with the oddest sensation of déjà vu.
The vampire released my hands and climbed the carriage steps.
A whistle trilled. The spectre-train shrieked back into the depths of Castle Mount.
‘Ready to rock?’ asked Bruce.
Ready?
I faced the glaring archway, fear welling inside me. I felt the weirdest urge to run after the train and sit beside Stoker. Attending Monstro Central School disguised as a swamp creature had been dangerous, but this went way beyond that. At least school felt relatively safe and familiar, being part of Castle Mount and constructed with the same curving tunnel architecture beloved of extinct ant nest builders.
Yet the world outside was alien in every way. There would be asymmetrical green life-forms grappling from the soil, more monsters than even Professor DC Greengoblin could name in his 35th edition and … unfiltered sunshine!
I gulped. ‘Ready.’
We marched to the head of the border post queue, passing several goblins, a few mythics that my mind raced to identify, and one mummy officer.
I panicked. ‘Anyone have a map?’
‘Chill,’ said Bruce. ‘I dig Border Town like the back of my stinger. The delivery team office and storage paddock ain’t but a short swing away, yo.’
The Castle Mount border guard, a bald goblin, spotted the mayor. Eyes bulging, the guard brushed what looked like crusted mozzarella from his tie, bowed low and ushered us through with more bows and a glare at Zorg. On the Mythic Quarter side of the border, the overweight sliver cat on duty waved us through with her spiked tail, not even glancing up from the towering castle she’d constructed with playing cards.
Bruce led us into the heaving market crowd.
Squinting, I filled my chest and plunged into the spider’s wake.
‘One hundred per cent humie rissoles! Get ’em while they’re hot!’
17: SUBSTITUTIONS
Behind my placid monster mask, my human senses reeled. The odours hit first: mysterious steaks and spices sizzling in roadside woks; a cocktail of pungent monster breath, sweat, farts, pheromones and territorial markings mingled with subtler scents by the dozen, of the air and earth and more that I could neither name nor imagine – bizarre, tantalising, repulsive and utterly exotic. Sounds followed: shrieking, bickering, haggling, praying, whispering – a jabbering rise and fall not unlike the surging concerto of a playground fight. Sunlight struck next: a gentle warm slap felt even through my costume, so different to what I’d expected and yet so familiar.
Spruikers surrounded us, moving with our movement. Claws, paws and wings prodded, padded and flapped at my arms and backpack.
‘Taxi?’ shouted a dark-tanned golem, peaked cap on backwards.
A teenage thunderbird thrust a card into my hand. ‘Border Town’s best vegetarian lunches!’
‘Special discounts for gods and gobs!’ cried a rhinoceros monster in a polka-dot bikini.
‘Rissoles!’ Hunched over his cart, a yeti beamed crookedly. ‘One hundred per cent humie rissoles! Get ’em while they’re hot!’
Greta sneered. ‘More like five per cent hippocow and ninety-five per cent sawdust.’
‘Are yew insultin’ my rissoles?’ Hair bristled on the yeti’s cheeks.
A shaggy four-legged creature sniffed passing monsters’ legs. ‘Is that a dog?’ My face lit up. ‘I thought dogs were extinct!’
Bruce grabbed me by the scruff of my monster suit. ‘That’s Kalahu-Moku. His preferred diet? Hume eyeballs.’
‘No! It’s a were-dog!!’ Jaak hissed. ‘You know, a sniffer were-dog! They work with gob hunters! I’m history!!’
‘Don’t worry, Jaak.’ I felt less brave than my words. ‘Goblin hunters will never find you in this maze of scents and monsters.’
Jaak didn’t look convinced. ‘I should’ve stayed. You know, a janitor!’
‘Straighten your webs.’ Bruce whacked Jaak’s back. ‘Ain’t no dude messes with the mayor! Display some ’tude, dude!’
The shape-shifter feebly smiled. ‘All right?’
‘All right? ALL RIGHT!’ boomed Bruce. ‘No mayor gotta care!’
‘You bet!’ Jaak’s shoulders pushed back. ‘Whoopity! You know, us mayors fear nothing!’
Inside my suit, I smiled.
Bruce led us from the market into a twisting spiral of alleys that snaked like vines. Judging by the saliva dribbling from his fangs, our giant spider tour guide was enjoying himself immensely. ‘Make way for the mayor!’ he bellowed. ‘The mayor and company!’
‘Pumpkin-headed maggot of a mayor,’ a flippered crone mumbled.
The spruikers thinned.
‘Next stop: dragon deliveries.’ Bruce pointed to a cluster of crumbling stone buildings, one with a massive letter ‘D’ above the doorway. ‘You ready, Jaak?’
‘I’ve been ready. You know, for ten seconds!’ Jaak kicked open the door.
We trooped after him into the freshly painted office.
Jaak smirked. ‘Surprise inspection!’
‘M-Mayor Viethe!’ The goblin clerk behind the desk jumped out. ‘What can–’
‘Assemble the delivery team!’ Jaak barked. ‘Yer know, here. Pronto!’
The team jostled into line: five goblins, including the desk clerk, a ‘D’ printed on the chests and shoulders of their uniforms. They looked somewhat startled to see the mayor strutting around their office, and even more startled when they noticed his mixed bag of companions.
‘Is yer dragon delivery ready?’ asked Jaak. ‘Yer know, to roll?’
‘A-aye, Mayor Viethe,’ said the clerk. ‘The c-captain planned to vamoose within the hour.’
‘Brawny.’ Jaak’s voice lowered. ‘All ya can hear? My voice. Listen carefully. Yer under the control. Ya know, o’ my voice. Fall asleep. Ya know, like my voice is tellin’ ya. And don’t wake up. Not till tomorrow. By which time, we’ll be long rolled off! Ya know, in yer own delivery vehicle. Ya bet! Fall – asleep – losers–’
‘Excuse me, Mayor Viethe?’ asked the big-boned goblin captain. ‘Ya do grasp we’re wearin’ anti-mesmeric contact lenses and ear filters?’
‘Oops,’ said Jaak. ‘Ya bet. I was just – ya know, testin’ ya.’
The clerk and one guard toppled over, snoring soundly. Zorg also crumpled to the floor.
The captain sighed. ‘Well, we’re supposed to be wearin’ lenses and filters.’
‘I’ll note that,’ said Jaak. ‘Ya know, in my report.’
‘That’s very drückzar ij jarwàr o’ ya.’
‘Say what?’
‘Apologies, Mayor Viethe.’ The goblin captain moved forward. ‘I just expected ya would grasp … yer own father tongue!’ Spitting out the last four words, the captain chopped at the base of Jaak’s neck. The shape-shifter sagged, unconscious. ‘They’re frauds! Take ’em out, lads!’
A guard lunged for his crossbow. I cracked him in the jaw with my bionic knuckles. He fell and didn’t rise. I spun. Too late. The captain’s foot rested on Jaak’s head, his crossbow aimed at mine. The sergeant trained twin crossbows on Bruce.
‘Don’t shoot!’ The spider vibrated. ‘I’m just a hostage!’
From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed movement. Greta lay on the floor, pointing an oversized crossbow at the captain!
Noticing her, the captain smirked. ‘I eyeball the brawniest o’ yew’s a goblin lad.’
‘I’m no lad.’ Greta’s lip curled. ‘Spider! Anaesthetise this macho moron!’
‘Can’t,’ Bruce squeaked.
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t wanna be shot!’
‘Drop the gun, chicky.’ The captain’s smirk widened. ‘This game’s grasped.’
‘Evidently so.’ Greta fired. Her crossbow swung, firing again.
The captain convulsed, stumbled and collapsed, sparks spitting from his finger-tips. The sergeant twitched on the floor. Electricity jangled the air.
‘Galvanic crossbow,’ said Greta. ‘Stings.’
I gaped. ‘Greta, you … shot both guards. They’re all down now.’
‘Observant.’ Greta lobbed me a crossbow. ‘Do I receive a bonus for that?’
‘Nobody freak!’ Bruce shouted. ‘I ain’t been shot!’
Greta rolled her eyes. ‘You can desist your moronic quivering now.’
‘It’s moronic vibrating,’ said Bruce, swaying dizzily. ‘Confuses the web outta enemies and semi-buds. Now I’m gonna anaesthetise these gobs and wrap ’em with a webbed bow!’
‘You do that.’ Greta sighed. ‘After we’ve stolen their uniforms.’
‘Jaak and Zorg!’ I yelled. ‘Wakey, wakey!’
Dressed as delivery goblins (and one delivery sp
ider), we trooped through the office to the rear pasture. I shuddered at the meanest monster I’d ever seen: a massive horse with eight legs and curved ram horns. His jade eyes blazed my way with such intensity, I suddenly found my monster feet fascinating.
‘That’s Sleipnir.’ Bruce whistled. ‘He’s a one-ofa-kind. Hard core gnarly. Hume myths say some killer god dude called Odin rode old Sleippy here over land, through the sky and into the underworld. How? I ain’t even owning a clue.’
Sleipnir stood rigged to a wooden carriage, a familiar ‘D’ emblazoned on the door. The carriage rear was hitched to a trailer packed with hippocows. I gaped, having never seen these half-hippo, half-cow beasts alive before. They smelt so different uncooked: sweaty, earthy, and not at all delicious! Atop the carriage, along the front, a long seat ran.
‘That’s where the driver and shotgun sit,’ said Bruce.
‘Shotgun?’ I asked.
‘Old school term.’
‘Um, who wants to ride up there?’ I asked.
Greta raised her hand with minimal zeal. ‘Unfortunately, only I remotely resemble a plains goblin.’
‘Say what? Who do you ken I impersonate?’ asked Jaak-Viethe.
Greta sighed. ‘A bloated, self-important mayor who wouldn’t be seen dead on a carriage roof.’
‘That? Easily fixed. You bet!’ Jaak’s body jerked, shrank and morphed into one of the lower-ranked delivery goblins we’d just tied up. His shape was still shifting when he settled onto the roof seat and reached down for Greta.
Greta’s eyes seared. ‘I do not require your aid.’
Sleipnir’s hooves raked concrete grooves.
The rest of us climbed into the carriage. Inhaling the character of old wood, leather and velvet, I checked out the contents of the wall compartment: medical kit, field glasses, compass, canteens and canvas-wrapped globs of nostril-curling cheese. Zorg and Bruce settled on the bench opposite, their narrowed eyes reminding me they were the gang members keenest to snack upon my body parts. Bruce’s leg sections sprawled against the roof, on either side of my seat, out one window, against his cheek and on the fancy chest hogging the floor between us. I didn’t need to strain to lift the lid to know the chest was likely packed with ten-crown coins. Dragon graft. Even so, I couldn’t resist a peek.