Falcon Quinn and the Crimson Vapor

by Jennifer Finney Boylan

  Then they broke the hug and stood back awkwardly. Jonny Frankenstein looked at them with a knowing, amused glance. “We almost done here?” he said.

  “Done?” said Falcon. “The fighting has hardly even started, Jonny.”

  “Fighting?” said Megan. “Is that what you call that?”

  They followed her gaze. In the Antigravity Bumper Cars, Chandler and Lincoln Pugh were crashing into each other’s cars. Lincoln Pugh had devolved back to his tiny human shape again. He was laughing. So was Chandler.

  “Or that?” said Megan. She nodded toward Celeste and Pearl, who rushed by, weapons clanging, their voices raised in what sounded like pleasure. “Your defensive moves are extraordinary!” shouted Pearl.

  “Or them?” said Megan. Now she nodded toward Max and Sam, who were watching Celeste and Pearl battle each other. Sam cast a glance at Max. “More jerky?” he said.

  Celeste pushed Pearl back, and the Chupakabra was knocked to the ground. Celeste raised her sword over her head and then whipped it through the air to deal Pearl a mortal blow. But Pearl rolled out of the way, took wing again, and then stung Celeste on the wrist. Celeste cried out and loosened her grip on her blade, which fell from her hand and clanged onto the cobbles of Hematoma Boulevard.

  Pearl landed on the hilt of the blade, and Celeste stood before her with a small welt rising on her arm.

  “Dude,” said Max. “You stung her!”

  “I have not used the poison, however,” said Pearl. “I have too much respect for her!”

  “Wait,” said Sam. “She’s got poison?”

  The Sasquatch nodded. “Oh, she’s got poison, all right,” he said.

  “Poison me swiftly,” said Celeste, bowing her head. “I do not fear death. Only dishonor!”

  “You shall never know dishonor,” said Pearl, bowing to her enemy. “You fight with a courage I find inspiring!” She handed the sword back to Celeste and bowed. “Who knows—perhaps in our next engagement it shall be you who spares my life?”

  “I am taken by surprise,” said Celeste. “Never did I expect to find an adversary with whom I shared such sympathy! We shall be friends! You and I! To you I pledge my sword, and my honor!”

  “And I shall pledge my stinger to you, Chenobia de Celestina! You shall be the friend of ¡la Chupakabra! The famous goatsucker of Peru!”

  “They’re funny,” said Lincoln Pugh and Chandler.

  “Rrrr,” said a voice, and they turned to see Sparkbolt emerging from the Hall of Boxing Robot Presidents. In his arms he held Gyra.

  “The Frankenstein has taken our friend prisoner!” shouted Celeste. “Tell him to unhand her or he shall taste the sword of the monster destroyer of Paragon Mountain!”

  “Dude,” said Sam. “She’s not his prisoner. He’s trying to help her.”

  “Guardian hurt,” said Sparkbolt, laying Gyra down in the street.

  “I can heal her,” said Falcon, and he and Jonny and the still-flickering Megan stepped forward.

  “Dude!” shouted Max. “You’re not dead! That is so excellent!” Max rushed forward and grabbed Falcon and threw him in the air, then caught him.

  “Hey, Max,” said Falcon.

  “And Megan!” Max now grabbed Megan, but she dissolved like vapor as he wrapped his arms around her. “Whups.”

  “I’m here,” said Megan, re-forming. “It’s good to see you, Max. And Pearl!”

  “So,” said Max a little more cautiously, “is Jonny Frankenstein, like, on our side again?”

  “I’ve always been on your side, Max,” said Jonny.

  “This comes as news to me, Señor Jonny!” shouted Pearl. “You have betrayed us too many times for me to—”

  “Pearl, hush,” said Megan. “Heal her, Falcon.”

  “He can do that?” said Chandler.

  “Whoa,” said Max and Sam, glancing back and forth from Gyra to Megan. “They’re like—twins or something?”

  “I for one,” said Pearl and Celeste in unison, “fail to see this resemblance!”

  “Falcon Quinn—,” said Sparkbolt, going over to him. “Monster betray friend. Should have trusted. Should have faith.” He held out his hands, red with blood. “Now monster . . . belong dead.”

  “It’s all right,” said Falcon. “Sparkbolt friend.”

  Sparkbolt’s face lit up, and he held his hands before him, clasping the air. “Friend? Still? Ah! Ah! Ah!” he said.

  “Falcon,” said Megan, fading. She nodded toward Gyra. “She’s fading.”

  Falcon drew close to Gyra and shone his blue light on her. Gyra’s eyes fluttered closed, then she opened them again.

  “Ah! Ah! Ah!” said Sparkbolt.

  Gyra raised one hand to her forehead, then looked around at the crowd of monsters and guardians all standing together. “Looks like I missed something,” she said.

  “Roses red,” said Sparkbolt softly. “Violets blue. Guardian—not dead.”

  Gyra looked at Sparkbolt. “Nice one,” she said.

  “Okay, listen,” said Max. “Sorry to ask, but does this mean we’re not trying to kill each other anymore?”

  Megan nodded toward Sam. “You’re not trying to kill him, are you?”

  Max smiled. “Are you kidding? I’m going to work in his diner!”

  The monsters and guardians looked at one another cautiously. Slowly, nervously, smiles crept across their faces.

  Megan picked up Gyra’s bullwhip and handed it to her. “Is this yours?”

  Gyra took her weapon. “You were right, Falcon,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.”

  “It’s okay,” said Falcon. “You were just trying to be loyal to your friends.”

  Celeste looked regretful. “I am glad to have had my eyes opened to the dignity of these creatures. But I am afraid that we may find ourselves in a difficult position when our comrades arrive.”

  “Yeah,” said Max. “I think Count Manson does kinda have his heart set on wiping everybody out.”

  “Cygnus leans that way too,” said Gyra.

  “So we have to stop them,” said Falcon. He raised his wings. “It’s up to us.”

  There was a moment of silence. “How do we do that?” said Max.

  “I have a suggestion,” said a voice, and there, leaning against a pillar in front of the House of Wacks, was Mr. Sweeny, smoking his pipe.

  “Mr. Sweeny,” said Falcon. “We need your help!”

  “Oh, you don’t need my help,” said Mr. Sweeny. “You’re doing just fine, my boy. Most impressive.”

  “Who is this strange creature?” Pearl and Celeste said in unison. “Is he our friend or our foe?”

  “This is Mr. Sweeny,” said Falcon, moving toward the grizzled old faun. “He’s a friend.”

  “Rrr,” said Sparkbolt. “Him Filcher!”

  “Hello, Falcon,” said Mr. Sweeny. “And hello, friends of Falcon. ’Tis a fine reunion, surely. But perhaps we’d all better just step inside for a moment?”

  “We don’t have much time,” said Gyra. The DCS began to beep again.

  “Sure enough,” said Mr. Sweeny. “But you’ll be safe for a few moments inside the House of Wacks. Come.”

  Somewhat uncertainly, they all followed Mr. Sweeny through the doors and into a wax museum that was full of lifelike re-creations of various well-known maniacs. There was Jack the Ripper and Attila the Hun and Jerry Lewis.

  “Falcon, my boy!” shouted Mr. Grubb. He and the other Filchers were sitting around a table filled with breads and cheeses, a giant bowl of steaming pasta with homemade meatballs, a roasted duckling, and some moo goo gai pan. There were pitchers of milk, and fresh lemonade, and cold iced tea. Lumpp wagged his tail joyfully as Falcon approached.

  “I’m afraid you’ve rather broken old Lumpp’s heart,” said Mr. Sweeny. “He found that charm of yours right where you dropped it. Kept it in his tentacles for days and days, thinking you’d come back. When he finally realized you weren’t returning, he went out and buried it.”

>   “What,” said Falcon. “That amulet?”

  “Aye,” said Mr. Sweeny. “Didn’t you bury it?” The octopus retriever wagged his tail. “He’s a good boy.”

  Mrs. Grubb looked up at Falcon and his friends and sighed. “You didn’t tell me ’e was bringin’ in a whole army,” she said. “I don’t have enough to feed that lot! And I think I need glasses.”

  Fascia was sitting in a corner, fixing a pair of heavy winter boots with a long needle and some thread. Clea sat at one end of the long table, eating cherries.

  “Hi, Clea,” said Falcon. She turned her head away. “These are my friends—Pearl, and Celeste—”

  “We greet you!” they said in unison.

  “Max, and Sam—”

  Two voices said, “Dude.”

  “—Chandler, and Lincoln Pugh—”

  Lincoln Pugh, who was back to being his little nerdlike self, nodded at Chandler. “His mommy says he’s the bravest of all.”

  “And Gyra.” Gyra looked around the House of Wacks to see if there were any hidden adversaries. And as she did so, Megan materialized next to her, flickering in and out.

  “Holy cow!” shouted the Squonk. “I think I’m seein’ double!”

  “There are others here,” said Gyra, looking at her DCS. Moving, spherical lights drifted through the air.

  “Ah, that would be Willa,” said Mr. Grubb.

  “Hey, I recognize that guy!” said the Squonk. “He used to be a tweety bird!”

  “Hello, Squonk,” said Jonny.

  “Mr. Sweeny,” said Falcon. “We don’t have much time. The monsters and the guardians are about to destroy each other. Can’t you help us stop them?”

  Mr. Sweeny looked at the others. “I’m afraid we’re having a bit of a dispute concerning this issue,” he said. “Some of us do feel we ought to lend a hand. Others—”

  “Let them destroy each other!” said Clea. “Let them rot!”

  “Others feel differently,” said Mr. Sweeny.

  “But this affects you too,” said Falcon.

  “It doesn’t affect me in the slightest!” said Clea.

  “They made fun of my warts!” shouted the Squonk. “They said I was ugly! Me! Ugly!”

  Max stared at the Squonk’s wart-covered body. “Dude,” he said.

  “Honestly, we’d love to help you, Falcon,” said Mr. Grubb. “But we’re so busy right now—” He opened a book of poems and began to read. “Road Not Taken Destroy!” he said. “My, my, Mr. Sparkbolt’s been busy!”

  “That monster book!” shouted Sparkbolt, and grabbed the “Poetry Book of Rhyming Poems” back from Mr. Grubb. “Filcher steal!”

  “Aye,” said Mr. Grubb.

  “Stealin’ poetry’s me ’usband’s specialty,” said Mrs. Grubb.

  “But don’t you see,” said Falcon. “You’re part of the world. You can’t always live apart. Sometimes you have to return to the world. To bring peace.”

  Clea made a disgusted sound. “I’m already at peace,” she said. “I’m perfectly relaxed!”

  “I’m sorry, my boy,” said Mr. Grubb. “But it’s not our fight.”

  “Then—,” said Falcon. “Couldn’t you help us, just as a favor? To me?”

  The Filchers all exchanged glances.

  “A favor, he says,” said Mrs. Grubb.

  “Falcon, my boy,” said Mr. Grubb. “We’d hate to turn our backs on a friend. But what can we do? We’re just a group of—”

  “Thieves,” said Sparkbolt, clutching his book of poems. “Bad.”

  “Aye, thieves,” said Mr. Grubb. “That’s it, plain and simple. And aside from bein’ able to disappear all quick-like—”

  “And fixing shoes,” said Fascia.

  “—we ’aven’t really got much talent for—for battles and such.” Mr. Grubb looked at Falcon with humility. “You understand, don’t you?”

  “Hey! I can stop the fighting!” shouted the Squonk. “Me! The lunkhead!”

  “You?” said Clea. “You couldn’t stop your nose from running!

  “I can so stop the fighting,” said the Squonk. “All I have to do is—play my saxophone!”

  Mr. Sweeny’s eyes glowed knowingly, and he blew a smoke ring through the air.

  “Señor Squonk!” said Pearl, buzzing around the wart-covered creature on her transparent wings. “Surely this is not the hour for a recital of this nature.”

  “I don’t want us gettin’ in the middle of this!” said Mrs. Grubb.

  “Oh, now,” said her husband with a wry grin. “I don’t see what the ’arm would be in just letting the Squonk have a blow on his horn.”

  “The harm,” said Fascia, not looking at them, “is that everyone’s brains would explode.”

  “Let him play it!” said Clea. “Let their brains turn to slime!”

  “That’s it!” shouted the Squonk. “I’m going to play the ‘Mexican Hat Dance’!”

  “This doesn’t sound like a plan,” said Falcon.

  “I’m not so sure, Falcon,” said Mr. Sweeny. “The Squonk’s music might make them all stop for a moment. Give them occasion for reflection.”

  “Dude,” said Max. “What about our brains? I don’t want my brain to explode, man!”

  “Cover your ears then,” said Mr. Grubb. “That’s what we do.”

  “Falcon,” said Fascia, and he turned to see that the girl was now at his side. She reached out and took his arm. “Here,” she said, and pressed something into his hand.

  “Wait,” said Falcon. “You’re giving me—”

  “My hammer,” she said. “My cobbler’s hammer. You’ll need this, I think, in the time that is coming.”

  “But what am I going to do with your hammer?”

  “I told you before,” said Fascia. “It fixes more than shoes.”

  Falcon was just about to ask “What does it fix besides shoes?” when Mr. Grubb shouted, “Cover your ears! Everyone cover your—”

  But Falcon did not hear the rest of the phrase, because it was at this exact moment that the air filled with the terrible, brain-melting sounds of the Squonk’s saxophone, and the cataclysm began.

  Chapter 22

  Smarter Now

  Windows shattered. The Squonk’s music shook the ground, peeled the paint off of buildings, opened up cracks in the earth. The Olde Tyme Nickelodeon Theatre shattered into tiny splinters. Robot Abe Lincoln—only recently repaired by Mr. Trunkanelli—began to wander the streets of Hematoma Boulevard, proclaiming that “the South will rise again!” From one end of Monster Island to the other, guardians and monsters alike found themselves sick to their stomachs, clasping at their throbbing temples, losing their sense of balance and falling over, fainting, sneezing, coughing up hairballs, and ripping off their clothes in horror.

  Falcon clamped his hands to his ears, trying to blot out the terrible music, but it was no use. He felt his wings spreading, and without knowing where he was going, he took to the air, crashing through one of the windows in the House of Wacks. Falcon beat his wings, circling over the smoldering amusement park. He flew higher and higher, sweeping in a wide arc around the spires of Dracula’s Castle. He reached his hands up toward the sun, then began to fall, an angel hurtling earthward. There was a shattering sound, and a thud, and then blackness. The last thing Falcon heard was the sound of hundreds of running feet, although whether these belonged to guardians, or monsters, or both, he could not say.

  When he woke up, Falcon was not immediately sure of his location. There was a large chair upon which he saw a reclining, unmoving figure. Behind it was a painting of a sad clown. Falcon felt a pounding in his head and a pain in his left wing. He sat up. Weird flickering light played off the walls.

  A figure walked into the room holding a platter in its hands. “Who wants nachos ’n’ baco-bits?” it said.

  An audio-animatronic child looked over at its mechanical mother with a frozen, plastic smile.

  “How about you, Son?” said the robot mother.

  The Unh
aunted House, Falcon thought. I’m in the—

  “Who wants nachos ’n’ baco-bits?” The lights in the Unhaunted House flickered on, then off, then on again. A short in the electrical system was playing havoc with the programming of the robots. “Baco-bits?” said the robot mother. Now her head was spinning around and around. “How about you, Son? How about you, Son?”

  The mother’s head suddenly fell off and rolled across the room to the place where Falcon was lying. It looked at Falcon and said, “How about you, Son?” as sparks flew from its eyes.

  “I’m not your son,” said Falcon.

  “I have no son,” said a voice, and Falcon looked up to see Cygnus standing in the doorway, holding a long sword. “My line dies out with me, thanks to you, Falcon Quinn.”

  “Cygnus?” said Falcon. “What are you talking about?”

  “She was mine, Falcon,” said Cygnus. “We were pledged to each other. Then she left.”

  “That’s not my fault,” said Falcon, getting to his feet.

  “True,” said Cygnus. “But when we found her, at last, in that miserable Maine town where you lived, that’s when we learned what she had done. We were willing to forgive youthful indiscretion, perhaps. But some things are beyond forgiveness.”

  Falcon felt his dark eye heating up. “Why did you let me live when I was a baby?” he asked. “You could have killed me then.”

  “Why, indeed,” said Cygnus. “Exactly! This is the very question I raised at the time. But she was very persuasive, your mother. She begged for your life. It was some satisfaction to hear her beg, I must say. And so a bargain was struck. We allowed you to live. Gave you over to that terrible woman, the failed banshee, your grandmonster. What was her name?”

  “Gamm,” said Falcon. He smelled a strange odor in the room as Cygnus drew closer, a sickly fragrance of death and decay.

  “Ah yes, Gamma Quinn. We gave you to her and took Vega back to her people. That was the bargain. But I must say, I never thought it was very fair. It all struck me as an injustice.”

  “Taking my mother away? Trying to kill my father?”

  “No, no,” said Cygnus. “Letting you live. Because as long as you lived, she could never be mine. You are a constant reminder of her mistake.” He grinned and held up the sword. “Fortunately, this is an error that there is still time to fix.”