Falcon Quinn and the Crimson Vapor

by Jennifer Finney Boylan

  “I will not listen!” snapped Tippy. “Now I will destroy you, with the terrible venom of—”

  But Tippy never got a chance to finish this sentence, for at this exact second a huge carrion crow swept down and grabbed the dog with its black talons and carried him off into the night. The last Falcon saw of the dog, he was still howling as he disappeared over the horizon. There was a last, distant kaww, and then Tippy and the crow were gone without a trace.

  He heard a soft cry to his right and turned to see Jonny Frankenstein, completely coated in ice, standing like a statue below the now-motionless sails of the windmill. Megan Crofton, a translucent, glowing ghost, lay in Jonny’s frozen arms, moaning softly.

  She smiled weakly. “Falcon,” she said. “Look! Jonny saved me!”

  Part IV

  THE ISLAND OF NIGHTMARES

  Chapter 18

  A Rhyme for Orange

  Sparkbolt sat in his room, a quill pen in his hand. “‘Porridge,’” he murmured. “‘Forage.’ ‘Door hinge.’” He scowled, then sighed. “Rrrrrr. Poem belong dead,” he said.

  “Dude,” said a voice, and Sparkbolt jumped.

  “Rrrrrrr!” he shouted, nearly falling out of his chair. “Not sneak up on monster. Monster jumpy!”

  “You do the homework for Redflint’s class?” said Max.

  “What homework?” said Sparkbolt.

  “You know, this whole chapter about scare tactics? About, like—the right way to frighten somebody?”

  “Monster not want to scare anybody,” said Sparkbolt. “Monster want—to be loved!”

  “Yeah, okay,” muttered Max. “Good luck with that.”

  “It so wrong to want—to want love?”

  Max licked his lips. “Yeah, okay. But like, if we get attacked or something, we’re supposed to know how to scare people. It’s part of the whole monster code, you know? I mean—well, you were in class. Weren’t you?”

  “Monster not paying attention,” Sparkbolt moaned. “Heart—hurt.”

  “Heart hurt because . . .”

  “Because Falcon!” shouted Sparkbolt. “Rrrr!”

  “Yeah, well,” said Max. “You should hear Pearl on this subject. She’s convinced we’re all wrong about Falcon. That it was all some big mistake.”

  “Pearl—,” said Sparkbolt. “Good?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Max. “They let her out this morning. She’s fine. You know how Chupakabras are. They heal fast.”

  “Mistake,” said Sparkbolt. “Mistake how?”

  “I don’t know,” said Max. “But she’s pretty hard core about it.”

  “How Sasquatch?” asked Sparkbolt. “Sasquatch—hard core?”

  Max looked pained. “I don’t know, man. I want to be. But I saw him—my buddy!—blast Pearl with that eye thing of his. That was the worst! If anything had happened to her, I’d have—I’d have—” Max lowered his head.

  “Sasquatch doubt,” said Sparkbolt.

  “I guess, yeah. I mean, you found all that stolen stuff under Falcon’s bed. That’s pretty bad.”

  “Bad,” said Sparkbolt.

  “What was that whole story he gave you about the Flippers or whatever? I mean, that is kind of sketchy, isn’t it?”

  “Filchers,” said Sparkbolt. “Elves and Squonk.”

  “Right,” said Max. “I mean, you gotta admit that that’s way out there, don’t you? There being—Squonks and stuff?”

  “World . . . contain . . . Sasquatch. Why not Squonk?”

  “Well, of course, the world contains you and me, man. We’re here!”

  Sparkbolt waved his arms around. “Monster not talk more,” he growled. “Monster angry!”

  “Okay, change the subject,” said Max. “Whatcha doin’, anyway? Workin’ on another poem?” He bent down and picked up one of the pieces of paper that was lying on the floor. “Art of losing not hard master! Burn down house, make big disaster! Hey, Sparkbolt, that’s a good one.”

  “Poems,” said Sparkbolt. “Belong dead.”

  “Hey, what’s this one?” said Max, picking up another piece of paper. This one was not crumpled into a ball, and lay partly concealed beneath Falcon’s bed. “‘Dear Falcon,’” Max read. “‘All well on the Filcher front! The missus said we ought to give these—’ Hey, what’s this, your imitation of a letter from those Filcher dudes? Look at the wacky runes you drew, man! This handwriting is all—elvish and junk!”

  “Rrrrr?” said Sparkbolt, confused. He grabbed the letter out of Max’s hand and read through the rest. “Rrrr,” he said again. “Monster not write.”

  “Don’t be modest, man,” said Max. “It’s totally convincing.”

  “Monster not write!” Sparkbolt shouted, shaking the letter in his hand. “Not monster handwriting! This letter—from Filchers!”

  “Wait,” said Max. “The—Filchers? I thought you said—”

  “Filchers real,” said Sparkbolt. “Falcon—telling truth. Monster—betray friend! RRRRRRR!”

  “Dude, it’s not your fault,” said Max.

  “Falcon Quinn . . . join Filchers,” moaned Sparkbolt. “Falcon Quinn leave to join—outcasts.” He murmured. “Knew him not guardian. Knew him not false. Falcon Quinn good!” Then his voice fell. “Sparkbolt—bad. Sparkbolt false!”

  “We gotta find him, man,” said Max. “Let him know we believe him.”

  “It too late,” said Sparkbolt. “Falcon vanish. Join Filchers. Him Squonk friend. Gone. Forever!”

  “You can’t think that way,” said Max. “You gotta believe in good—stuff!”

  “Stuff bad,” said Sparkbolt, sitting down at his desk. “Sasquatch leave.”

  “It’s okay, man,” said Max. “I don’t have to—”

  “Sasquatch LEAVE!” shouted Sparkbolt. “Monster write dark poem now.”

  “Okay, man. Well, this isn’t over. I’m going to talk to Pearl and everybody about it. We’ll come up with something—”

  “Up with nothing,” said Sparkbolt. “You go. Down! Down with things.”

  “Boy, somebody ate a bunch a grouchy pills,” muttered Max as he headed out into the hall. Sparkbolt listened to the Sasquatch’s footsteps as they receded. Then he dipped his quill into the inkwell.

  The feather tip of Sparkbolt’s quill brushed against his nose, but the Frankenstein did not notice. He dipped his quill into the inkwell again and wrote line after line filled with words for which there were no rhymes.

  Then Sparkbolt put his quill down on the page. “Down—bad,” he said as if having a sudden insight. “Up—good.”

  He stood up and went out into the hall. “Sasquatch?” he called. “Sasquatch come back.” He began to lurch down the hallway, his arms trembling before him.

  Out on the main quad in front of Castle Gruesombe, young monsters were playing croquet as Mrs. Redflint sat on a high chair judging the match. Pearl, Ankh-hoptet, and Copperhead watched as Squawker lined up his shot. The werechicken’s head bobbed back and forth as he concentrated. He shouted “Brawwk” as he swung his mallet through the air. His yellow ball moved an inch or two. The others sighed quietly.

  “Croquet is not among the werechicken’s talents,” muttered Weems, who sat in a lawn chair observing the game and drinking iced tea. To his left, in other chairs, were Twisty, Destynee, Lincoln Pugh, and the heavy metal elves, Serj and Ozzie. On the ground near the elves was the bubbling pool of glup named Quagmire.

  “Squawker,” said Serj, laughing. “You’re a total drumstick!”

  “Hey, Squawker,” said Ozzie. “Are you original recipe or extra crispy?”

  “There will be no demeaning of the students,” said Mrs. Redflint. “That is my responsibility. Miss Ankh-hoptet. You’re up.”

  Ankh-hoptet’s ball was just shy of the center wicket, and Squawker’s ball was placed in a vulnerable position on the far side.

  “I hate Monster Croquet,” said Copperhead. Her voice was muffled by the burlap bag on her head and the hissing of her snakes.

  “Silence
!” said Pearl. “The mummy prepares to strike!”

  Ankh-hoptet’s mallet head made contact with the ball, making a satisfying whacking sound. The ball began to glow and then rolled forward slowly, curving through the wicket and knocking into Squawker’s ball.

  “Cluck cluck cluck cluck!” said Squawker.

  “And now,” said Ankh-hoptet, placing her bandaged foot upon the werechicken’s black ball. “I shall send thee away!”

  “BRRAWWK!” shouted Squawker with even more anger. His face turned darker and darker—first red, then purple. All at once, an egg plopped out of his pants leg and rolled onto the ground.

  “Hey,” said Ozzie. “Squawker laid an egg!”

  “But—,” said Pearl. “This is astounding! It is not biologically possible!”

  “Eeeew,” said Destynee. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Brawwk!” said Squawker. “Giant enchanted slug! More disgusting!”

  “At least I didn’t lay an egg in my pants,” said Destynee.

  “Our mollusk friend has made a reasonable point, I believe!” said Pearl. “For indeed—during the time I have known her, never—never!—has she filled her own pants with the eggs of poultry!”

  “Children, please,” said Mrs. Redflint in a tired voice.

  “Mrs. Redflint,” called Max as he and Sparkbolt came running across the croquet field. “Mrs. Redflint!” In his hand, Max was waving a piece of paper. Sparkbolt was growling and snarling. “We found this! In Sparkbolt’s room! You gotta read this! You gotta!”

  “¡Señor!” said Pearl reprovingly. “We are attempting to concentrate on the game before us!”

  “Rrrrrr!” shouted Sparkbolt. “Falcon Quinn true! Sparkbolt false!”

  “Gentlemen, please,” said Mrs. Redflint. “These histrionics are uncalled for.”

  “These histrionics are totally called for!” shouted Max, his voice breaking. “Because I hurt my best friend’s feelings! I hurt him totally bad! Honk!”

  Sparkbolt joined in as Max wept. “Rrrrrr!” he shouted. The two of them stood there wailing.

  Squawker picked up the egg he had laid. “Cluck cluck cluck cluck!” he said, astonished.

  “Let me see this,” said Mrs. Redflint, looking at the piece of paper. “Good heavens, it’s in a semi-cursed elvish script. Who taught you boys to write in accursive?”

  “Us not write!” explained Sparkbolt. “Filchers write—to Falcon Quinn, friend! Falcon tell truth—about Squonk! Him innocent!”

  “He wasn’t innocent!” said Ozzie. “He tried to fry the Chupakabra! With his eye thing. Remember?”

  “He did,” said Copperhead. Her snakes hissed softly beneath her burlap bag. “No one should forget that! He did not belong!”

  “Yeah,” said Serj. “He was a traitor! The Chupakabra almost kicked the bucket, thanks to him!”

  “I have said before that I felt this was a mistake,” said Pearl. “I do not see why others cannot forgive Señor Quinn if I—his alleged victim!—have already done so myself!”

  “Falcon Quinn,” said Squawker. “Cluck cluck cluck cluck!”

  On the ground before the spectators, Quagmire began to bubble.

  Ankh-hoptet swung her mallet against the ball trapped beneath her own bandaged foot, and Squawker’s black ball was instantly airborne. The mummy must have roqueted the ball harder than she intended, however, for the werechicken’s ball traveled over their heads, sailed across the croquet field, and smashed through a stained-glass window in Castle Gruesombe.

  “Uh-oh,” said Max.

  “Brawk buck buck!” shouted Squawker. “Not fair! Not fair! Bwaaak!” In a fit of rage he threw his egg at Ankh-hoptet. It cracked against the mummy’s face. Yolk dripped down onto her bandages.

  “Thou . . . thou hast yolked the blessed wrappings!” said Ankh-hoptet, astonished.

  Lincoln Pugh roared angrily at Squawker.

  Squawker, meanwhile, was staring at the castle, where Count Manson was now looking out the broken window with a furious expression. “Vhat wulgar willain!” he shouted. “Vhat wulgar willain has vrecked my vestern vindow?”

  Max shook his head. “Uh-oh,” he said.

  Squawker stepped toward Ankh-hoptet and pecked her. Lincoln Pugh roared and picked Squawker up and threw him through the air. The mummy and the chicken both fell backward, arms windmilling, and they collided into Copperhead, who was standing just behind them. Ankh-hoptet, Squawker, and Copperhead all rolled onto the ground in a heap, and as they rolled, the burlap bag that had covered Copperhead’s face fell off.

  Copperhead looked around for her bag, but Ankh-hoptet was sitting on it. The others looked in astonishment at the girl with the pale skin and shocking blue eyes.

  “Rawk,” said Squawker. “Not a Gorgon! Not a Gorgon!”

  Mrs. Redflint rushed forward to look at the unmasked girl. “Good heavens! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m laughing at you,” said Creeper. “That’s what I’m doing! I’m laughing at all of you!”

  “I see no reason for laughter,” said Mrs. Redflint. Smoke began to curl out of her nostrils.

  “Oh, but if only you hated you as much as I do,” said Creeper, “then you would find everything amusing, everything! It is my greatest source of joy—my hatred for you!”

  Shortly thereafter, Creeper was brought before the members of the faculty of the Academy for Monsters, wearing heavy chains and a self-satisfied smile. Her eyes glowed guardian blue.

  “Right beneath our noses, all this time,” said Willow. “It’s unbelievable!”

  “Ve must admit,” said Count Manson. “Ve have been drifting. Living in a vorld of dreams!”

  “I like dreams,” said Mr. Hake. “I dream about sausages!”

  “I would like to suggest that the young monsters who apprehended her receive a commendation,” said Mrs. Redflint. “They were very brave!”

  “Vere there any wampires among this wirtuous party?” said Count Manson.

  “No, Count,” said Mrs. Redflint. “Just the croquet team. The vampires were all playing polo.”

  “Then I do not think that medals are called for!” said Count Manson.

  Creeper shook her head and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” said Mr. Hake. “I like jokes!”

  “You are,” said Creeper. “I hate you so much, you all make me laugh!”

  “Shaddap,” said Mr. Shale.

  “What do you mean, ‘drifting,’ Count?” said Willow Wordswaste-Phinney. “You said we’ve been drifting. I think we’ve been doing well enough!”

  “Yes, vell, you vould,” said Count Manson. “I am sure that all the fans of wiolins and vater lilies have been overjoyed at the state the school has been in. But vhile ve drifted, under the direction of this heartsick willain, the school has become overrun with these—” The count shuddered. “Special needs students. The—Chupakabras. And the Sasquatches. And the—others.”

  “Those are some of our best students,” said Willow. “The heart of the student body!”

  “I suppose that depends on how you define best,” said Count Manson thoughtfully. “I for vun vould like to think of us as continuing a noble tradition of scholars! From vun generation to the next. Rather than as some sort of—vorkhouse! Vhere ve take upon ourselves the vurms and wermin of the vorld.”

  “Oh, shaddap,” said Mr. Shale. “Whenever I have a vampire as a student, you know what I think? I think, so what!”

  Mr. Largo’s enormous ears began to vibrate. “What is that?” said the music teacher. “What is that sound?”

  The other teachers looked at him, confused. “I don’t hear anything,” said Mr. Hake. “Except the sound of happy!”

  “The sea,” said Mr. Largo. “There is the sound of waves and seagulls in this room.”

  There was a pause as they all listened. But there was nothing to hear.

  “Charming,” said Count Manson. “Now ve have a member of the faculty who hallucinates the sound of ocean vaves!�
��

  Mr. Largo looked around the room, his large ears pulsing. Then his gaze fell upon Creeper. “Why—it’s coming from you,” he said. He stood up and went over to the girl.

  The music teacher reached into Creeper’s pocket and pulled out a conch shell.

  “A sea stone!” Mrs. Redflint shouted. “Of course. How else could she have been communicating with the guardian command?”

  “I thought I put it on vibrate,” muttered Creeper.

  “Go on,” said the moth man. “It answers.”

  “I’m not going to—”

  “Oh, I do think the moth man is right in this,” said Mrs. Redflint. She blasted a huge cloud of fire at the guardian girl. Creeper screamed. “You really should answer the call and let us share your conversation. Oh—and do refrain from letting them know we are listening, won’t you? Unless you wish to be toasted like a marshmallow? That’s a good girl.”

  Creeper held her conch shell to her ear. “I hate you,” she said.

  “As you have made clear,” said Mrs. Redflint. “Now answer the call. And do be a dear and put it on speakershell.”

  Creeper glowered, but she held the conch shell to her ear. “Hello?” she said.

  “Creeper,” said Cygnus’s voice, echoing into the room through the shell, along with the sound of waves and wind. “We’ve had—an incident.”

  “An incident,” said Creeper, gritting her teeth.

  “Yes. The Quinn boy has escaped. He and that Jonny Frankenstein have managed to free the wind elemental. They’re making for Monster Island. We’re sending a party after them, so they won’t get far. Has there been any sign of the Crow there? Has the demon returned to his tower?”

  Creeper did not reply at first. Mrs. Redflint blew a glowing red smoke ring at her. “No,” she said. “There has been no sign of the headmaster.”

  The sound of crashing waves and howling wind filled the room for a moment.

  “Ah—,” said Cygnus. “You’re breaking up a little. Can you say that again?”

  “I said there’s no sign of the Crow. He left weeks ago.”

  “Are you all right?” said Cygnus. “Your voice sounds—curious.”