Falcon Quinn and the Crimson Vapor

by Jennifer Finney Boylan

  Cygnus raised his knife. He was just about to stab Count Manson with it when the knife suddenly vanished.

  Cygnus looked curiously at his own hand. He looked around to see if the dagger had fallen on the ground. But such a sharp, thin knife would have made a clattering sound if it had dropped. The dagger appeared to have vanished into thin air.

  A set of twinkling lights swirled across the room.

  Cygnus and the count looked at the drifting spheres with expressions of wonder.

  It’s Willa, Falcon thought. The Filchers.

  Falcon slowly started to crawl out of the room. Willa the Wisp twinkled once more.

  “Vait,” said the count suddenly. “The boy is alive! He is escaping!”

  “Alive?” said Cygnus. “Impossible!” But even as the guardian general turned, Falcon got to his feet and ran.

  He ran out the door and into the bingo parlor, where the robot was saying, “The next number is G twenty-three. G twenty-three.” Count Manson rushed in right after him. “I have had enough of this, Falcon Qvinn!” he shouted.

  “As have I,” said Cygnus, coming into the room from another door on that same side of the room. “It is time now to die. And this time, you will stay dead.”

  “Wait,” said Falcon. “There’s still time to—” But Cygnus wrapped his hands around Falcon’s throat, and again the count used his vampiric will to hold the angel motionless. Falcon, feeling his breath being squeezed out of him, looked around the bingo parlor, hoping that the Filchers would intervene once more, but this time there was no sign of them.

  The audio-animatronic bingo lady said, “B four. The letter is B four.”

  All at once, something smashed through the wall of the Unhaunted House. Thundering, lumbering footsteps galloped toward them. “Hey!” shouted Snort. “Everybody spread out! I’m stampedin’!”

  Count Manson, then Cygnus, were propelled up in the air by the bulldozing horn of the stampeding were-rhino. They soared across the room and crashed against the robot bingo lady.

  “Snort!” said Falcon.

  “I didn’t wanna have to trample them,” he said. “Wasn’t my idea!” Steam billowed from his nose. “But now they know what happens when ya mess with my friends. Ya get stampeded!”

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Falcon.

  “Suit yourself,” said Snort. “Climb aboard!”

  Falcon was just about to swing his leg onto Snort’s back when he heard a loud bark. Falcon looked to his left to see Lumpp, the octopus retriever, standing there in point position. Quimby’s amulet, covered with a mixture of dog drool and sand, dangled from his mouth.

  “Lumpp,” said Falcon. “Where’d you come from?” The octopus retriever wagged his tail.

  “Step on it, Falcon,” said Snort, looking fearfully at Count Manson and Cygnus, who were getting back on their feet. “They’re comin’ again!”

  “Just a second,” said Falcon, bending down to take the amulet. “Where did this come from?” he asked. “I thought you buried it.”

  “Falcon,” said Snort urgently. “They’re coming!”

  Falcon took the amulet on its chain and held it up to the light. Lumpp whimpered.

  Would that stop it? Falcon thought. Was it even possible?

  He remembered the words that the Watcher had spoken. Above all, dear boy, you will have many choices to make. Perhaps with love, and humor, and the counsel of your friends you will make more right choices than wrong ones.

  Count Manson and Cygnus were running toward him once again.

  “Okay,” said Falcon. “Here goes nothing.”

  And with this, Falcon Quinn placed the amulet around his neck. There was a rushing sound as all the cares and noise and troubles of the world turned into nothing, and Falcon Quinn dissolved into a crimson vapor.

  Chapter 24

  The Union of Opposites

  The moth man stood in front of the burning House of Boxing Robot Presidents as the cyborg chief executives fled the conflagration, their clothes smoking. A robot Millard Fillmore staggered through the front door with his head spinning around like a top, muttering something about the Know-Nothing Party. From behind him came a synthetic whooping, and an electronic Andrew Jackson barreled past him, his pants on fire. “Look out, Millard!” shouted the robot. “Old Hickory’s coming through!”

  “The light,” said the moth man, looking up at the roaring flames. “So beautiful! So—unattainable!” He raised his hands in yearning.

  Out in the street, guardians and monsters ran in panic, many of them still deranged from the Squonk’s music. They paused, now and again, to fight with each other, but the confusion was so complete that there were no formal battle lines, and what fighting there was took place between scattered individuals. Mortia and two of her zombie friends, Molda and Crumble, were doing the Zombie Snap.

  When you’ve got a predilection to be real instead of fiction,

  And you want a benediction just to rid yourself of crap.

  Then you need a new conviction to destroy this odd addiction

  Then you join my jurisdiction and you do the Zombie Snap!

  “Now, now,” said Mr. Drudge. “There’s no need for that.”

  “But you’re wrong,” shouted Mortia. “Everyone needs—the Zombie Snap!” She and her companions snapped their fingers in unison, and sparks flew through the air. Mr. Drudge had to step very quickly to one side to avoid them.

  “Zombies,” Mr. Drudge muttered to himself. “Zombies. I can’t remember what the proper method is for combating zombies. It’s not a silver bullet. It’s not a stake in the heart. . . .” He stepped aside again to avoid another spray of sparks from the Zombie Snap. “It’s right on the tip of my tongue.”

  Miss Bloodstone came charging down the street at this moment, still holding her hands to her ears.

  “Ah, Miss Bloodstone,” said Mr. Drudge. “How nice to see you. I was just wondering—”

  “Make it stop!” said Miss Bloodstone, shaking her head. Her ponytail whipped the air behind her. “Please, just make it stop.”

  “Ah, watch out for the zombies,” said Mr. Drudge as another shower of fiery sparks flew all around them. “I was just wondering—Miss Bloodstone? Are you quite all right?”

  “I thought I’d heard everything when I’d heard the scream of a banshee,” she said. “But that saxophone—oh my god—it was terrible! Terrible!”

  “There, there, miss,” said Mr. Drudge, patting the guardian teacher on the shoulder. “It’s all fine now. Don’t you see? Now, I hate to be pushy, but I was wondering if you could remind me of the proper method of dispatching zombies? It’s been so long that I’ve quite—”

  “Zombies?” said Miss Bloodstone, blinking. Her eyes focused on Mortia, Molda, and Crumble, moving steadily toward them in a phalanx. “Zombies. Why, everyone knows how to kill a zombie. You cut off the head, destroy the brain.” She pulled out a sword. “All right, you three!” she shouted. “Time to go back to being dead now! You’ve had your fun.”

  But the zombies just sang:

  If you find an aberration in this sudden conflagration

  And your mind’s a destination that you can’t find on a map.

  Then you’ll find your immolation unless you’re French or half-Croatian

  You’ll just lose your deformation when you do the Zombie Snap!

  “Of course, of course, destroy the brains,” said Mr. Drudge. “What was I thinking?”

  Miss Bloodstone slashed her sword through the air, aiming for Mortia’s neck, but at the moment she did this she found herself knocked over by the sudden appearance of the lower half of Quimby’s body.

  “Oof,” said Miss Bloodstone. A shower of sparks from the Zombie Snap fell upon her. “Ow!”

  “Heavens, who brought along Quimby?” said Mr. Drudge.

  “That stupid colonel,” said Miss Bloodstone, dusting herself off. “Honestly, I’m going to have a word with him when—” She looked at the advancing zombies. “My, this is
an aggressive lot, isn’t it?” She and Mr. Drudge took a step backward. There was a clattering sound as they backed into something.

  “Oh, now look what you’ve done,” said Mrs. Grubb, standing there with a huge silver platter. “Knocked my fresh gingersnaps right off the tray and into the street. It’s what I expect, of course! No thanks, ever, for the work I do!”

  “Wait,” said Miss Bloodstone. “Who are you? Have we met?”

  Mrs. Grubb took her huge silver platter and bonked Miss Bloodstone on the head with it. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and then she fell down.

  “We ’ave now,” she said.

  “I see,” said Mr. Drudge. The zombies were almost upon him again. “Will you excuse me, ma’am?”

  “Excuse you?” said Mrs. Grubb. “What for?” She swung her tray through the air again, but Mr. Drudge ducked.

  “Ma’am,” he said, and then began to run.

  Mrs. Grubb looked at the guardian as he fled from her. A look of satisfaction crept over her face. “It’s actually rather pleasant,” she said to Clea, who appeared at her side, “bein’ involved in things. I’d almost forgotten what it was like, bein’ part of the world!”

  “What’s pleasant about it?” asked Clea.

  Over at the Hall of Boxing Robot Presidents, the moth man continued to stand, transfixed, before the roaring flames. “So beautiful!” he murmured. “So, so beautiful!”

  Robot John F. Kennedy stepped out of the fire. “We choose to go to the moon!” he said. “Not because it is easy, but because it is hahd!”

  Mortlock wheeled his flail through the air as Chandler held on to the spiked ball.

  “I’ll kill you, I swear!” shouted Mortlock.

  “What’s wrong with you?” said Gyra.

  “Me?” said Mortlock. “There’s nothing wrong with me, Cadet Gyra.”

  “You’re doing the same thing the banshees did to your mother,” said Gyra. “Don’t you get it? You’re the monster.”

  “But he’s gone over to the enemy!” Mortlock shouted.

  “He hasn’t gone over anywhere,” said Gyra. “He’s just trying to stop the fighting.” She nodded to the group of monsters around her—Sparkbolt and Max and Pearl. “We’re all trying to stop it.”

  “Señorita Gyra has spoken the truth,” said Pearl. “We are hoping that our peoples can see that we have much to gain by not murdering one another!”

  “There’s more in the world,” said Gyra, “than just getting revenge.”

  Mortlock shook his head. “Not to me,” he said. He whirled the flail again, and Chandler, at last letting go of the ball, flew through the air over their heads and disappeared beyond the borders of Yesterdayland.

  Now Mortlock swung the flail toward Gyra. But just as the ball was about to smash into her head, a purple tentacle wrapped around it and flicked it out of the guardian warrior’s hand. “What the—?” he said.

  Mr. Hake squiggled toward the scene on his many rubbery arms. One of his tentacles encircled Mortlock and then sent the man sailing through the air in the same direction as Chandler.

  With another tentacle he picked up Mortlock’s flail and waved it around exuberantly. “I like flails,” he said. “They’re happy!”

  “Poor thing,” said Mrs. Redflint, looking at Mortlock soaring toward Yesterdayland. “You know, all guardians miss their mothers.”

  Now a group of young guardian warriors stepped forward. They seemed awkward in their heavy armor, and some of them squinted at the rising sun, as if they had never seen it before. One of them looked at Mr. Hake and gasped. “It’s—a Smaulgtron!” he said.

  “We need the Twinkling Shield of Plus Four Stamina,” said another.

  “Attacking with Enchanted Level Twenty-seven Arrows,” said a third. A volley of arrows from the Snoids’ bows flew through the air and imbedded themselves in Mr. Hake’s rubbery skin.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Hake. “Now I’m sad.” He reached forward with a tentacle, grabbed two of the Snoids with his sucker disks, and dropped them into his hideous Kracken mouth. “But it’s all right to feel sad sometimes! Sharing feelings makes me happy!”

  “How many lives do we have left?” asked a Snoid.

  “Lives?” said Max. “This is reality. You only get one life!”

  “Ha, ha!” said the Snoid. “You’re funny!”

  There was the roaring of many voices as dozens more guardian warriors now rushed toward the battle, led by Miss Bloodstone. There were zombie-slaying swordsmen and vampire killers armed with crossbow-mounted stakes. A platoon of bowmen ran forward to act as a buffer between the monsters and the guardians, and for a moment the two gathering armies squared off, eyeing each other with hate.

  “Hey,” said Sam, pushing forward to join his friends. Celeste was at his side. “Everybody knock it off! We don’t have to do this! We can learn to get along.”

  “Not me,” said Snick, right behind him. “I’m not learnin’ nothin’!”

  “My word,” said Miss Bloodstone, looking at Mrs. Redflint, her monster double. “Just look at that disgusting woman!”

  Mrs. Redflint looked at Miss Bloodstone. “Well,” she said. “Disgusting is as disgusting does.”

  “Guardians, attack!” said Miss Bloodstone.

  “Monsters, forward!” said Mrs. Redflint.

  “It prepares,” said the moth man, staggering toward them, his eyes wide and hypnotized by the fire. “It prepares to go into the light!”

  Cygnus and Count Manson stood in the Unhaunted House, looking at the place where a moment ago Falcon Quinn had been and where now there was only drifting smoke.

  “Where did he go?” said Cygnus. “What have you done with him?”

  “I?” shouted Count Manson. “I have done nothing but act in good faith! But I should have expected treachery—and betrayal!”

  “Look out!” shouted Snort. “I’m stampedin’ again!” The wererhino charged toward them, horn lowered; but this time Cygnus and Count Manson stepped aside, and Snort crashed through the wall and charged on out onto Hematoma Boulevard.

  “So much for the wererhino,” said Cygnus.

  “Yes.” The count grinned. “So much for—” The count paused and looked at his own hands. “Whoa,” said the count, but the voice was Falcon Quinn’s. “I’m inside—Count Manson.”

  Cygnus shook his head. “Why are you imitating the boy’s voice?”

  “I am not imitating the boy’s—,” said Count Manson, shuddering. “Woice.”

  A look of bewilderment came over the vampire’s features. Falcon, looking at the world through Count Manson’s eyes, fleetingly saw the world the way a vampire saw it. He sensed the count’s longing for blood, the weariness that came from deathlessness, his hatred and envy of those who were mortal. For that instant Falcon felt compassion for the count. He could almost understand the man, could almost forgive him for all he had done. He thought of the words Quimby had engraved inside the crimson madstone. To seek to know another’s pain, first spend some time inside his brain.

  Count Manson’s hand picked up the amulet and for a moment held it before him. Its red jewel glittered darkly in the Unhaunted House.

  “Now you see,” said Count Manson to Falcon. “Now you understand.”

  “I do,” said Falcon. He looked at Cygnus. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” said Cygnus. “For what?”

  Count Manson placed the amulet around his neck and vanished into a mist. The crimson madstone fell with a clink onto the floor.

  Cygnus found himself alone in the room with only Lumpp, the octopus retriever. “Where did he go?” He looked to his left and right, suspecting a trick.

  Lumpp whimpered softly.

  Then the cloud of glowing vapor surrounded Cygnus.

  Falcon Quinn fell out of the cloud of crimson mist and looked around the room in confusion. “I’m me again,” he said. Lumpp wagged his tail.

  “Vere—,” said Cygnus’s body. But it spoke with Count Manson’s voice. “Vere a
m I?”

  “You’re—in my brain,” shouted Cygnus, clutching at his temples.

  “No,” said Count Manson to Falcon. “You cannot leave me trapped in the body of the enemy!”

  “Get out of my brain, Count!” shouted Cygnus, waving his blade around. “Or I’ll stab you!”

  “But you cannot do this vithout stabbing yourself!” said Count Manson from inside Cygnus. “Please, Falcon Qvinn. Release us from this haunting! Ve shall accept your terms! Von’t ve, Cygnus?”

  The guardian nodded to himself. “I will,” he said. “Please. Get him out of me!”

  Falcon stood up. “I’ll give you terms,” he said. In his pocket he still had Fascia’s hammer, and now he drew it out. It was not a large hammer, being designed originally for the fixing of shoes, but it was large enough. Falcon picked up the amulet, held it against a bingo table, and then whacked its red jewel with Fascia’s hammer. The amulet’s center shattered like glass, and its hundreds of glittering pieces fell onto the ground.

  “The terms,” said Falcon, “are to get along.”

  “No!” screamed Count Manson, through Cygnus’s mouth. “Anything but that!”

  “The count is right,” said Cygnus, seizing control of his body once more. “We shall slay each other before accepting this fate.” He pointed the sword at his own heart.

  “Have it your way,” said Falcon. “Slay each other then.”

  The creature—Count Manson? Cygnus?—paused for a moment, trying to decide whether its love of its own soul was greater than the loathing it harbored for its enemy. The knife hovered just above its heart as it weighed its love against its hate.

  Out in the plaza before Dracula’s Castle, there was a terrible roar from a wide variety of throats, both dead and undead. Mrs. Redflint took a deep breath, filling her lungs with fire. Mr. Hake wriggled his tentacles through the air, and the Snoids strung their Bows of Plus Sixteen Deadliness. Zombies warmed up the Zombie Snap, and banshees prepared to wail. Guardians strung their bows, readied daggers of silver, steeled themselves against tears. But just as the forces began to rush toward each other, just as the final cataclysm began to unfold, there was a shining white light. A winged creature flew into their midst, carrying someone in its arms. Falcon Quinn beat his wings, then lowered Cygnus to the ground.