Midnight Monster Club

by Gerhard Gehrke

  “Yeah, and I was here two seasons ago and survived. They’re going to clean us up so we look good for the crowd. If we’re lucky the game manager will give us some pointers on what we’re supposed to do. Last time I even got a clue, but don’t believe everything he tells you. They want sport out of us and a good match. They don’t care how unfair the game is going to be, and it’ll favor the contestants.”

  One of the younger fel stopped chewing. “I thought we’re the contestants.”

  Paulus shook his head. “We’re the monsters. That token on your collar is the treasure. We’re going to have to fight to keep them from taking our heads off to get them.”

  “How did you survive?” Digger asked.

  “By doing anything I could not to die. But listen, there’s parts of the game that will favor us. It all depends on where we’re placed in the catacombs. There’s traps. There’ll be others, too. More prisoners. Some might not be on our side. It all depends on what the queen wanted when she set the season up. The first day I fought no one died. Some of us got wounded, some knocked out, and the contestants made it past our room without having to finish the fight. But we were thrown back in the next day, and that was when things got bloody.”

  Paulus had all their attention.

  “I was the only one who made it.”

  Digger studied Paulus. “So why’re you back?”

  “Because I got piss drunk a week ago and punched a pureblood barmaid in the face.”

  The young fel next to Paulus turned to face the others. “We’re fel, aren’t we? We’re stronger than them. Tougher. Our forefathers used to hunt theirs. Don’t be afraid. We got this. It’s like the old man says, we stick together!”

  Digger heard a slight slur in the young man’s words. How much had he had to drink? Was the food drugged?

  “That’s the spirit,” Paulus said. “But keep your head and your wits about you. The queen isn’t interested in any ordinary pit fight. She’s designed these games to test the contestants, but also to give the paying tourists a show. It means we stand a chance, but it’s stacked against us.”

  Digger sniffed at the plate of sliced goat meat. “What can we do to prepare?”

  “Fill your belly. Rest up. It’s going to be a long day and a longer night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  AUNT CLAUDIA APPEARED to have exhausted herself. She had talked for almost an hour, sharing her catacomb ideas with Angel as he listened intently. The fried dough treats were all gone, their tea drunk, and it was still before dawn when his aunt nodded off with one of her notebooks in hand.

  Whether his renewed favor would keep remained to be seen, but the day was off to a promising start.

  But he wasn’t out of trouble yet. There was still Red Eye and his debt.

  He rubbed his eyes. The attendants had slacked off. Even the help needed sleep, he supposed, but the kitchen was going full bore and had been all week. The number of delicacies being prepared was massive. Pheasants were being stuffed, whole pigs roasted, candies and pastries meticulously assembled. The cost of the event continued to amaze him.

  It could all be his, if he could only avoid getting his throat cut by gangsters.

  In the ballroom, a complement of alert guards were watching him closely. All pretense of deference to rank of birth were gone. Rochus must have spread the word, but he hadn’t gotten to his aunt. If the steward tried to contradict him, it would be a matter of his word against Angel’s.

  He went up to his room. His trunk he had brought with him from home held the bare essentials: his collection of ties, seven outfits, and twelve pairs of shoes. But he felt grimy. Time to wash up and change. His pillowy bed beckoned. A short nap would clear his head. He took off his tunic coat and unbuttoned his shirt. Dried sweat coated his body.

  He moved to pull on the cord that would ring an attendant. But before he could do anything he heard someone moving in the bathroom.

  “Hello?” he called.

  One of the house girls emerged with an armload of towels. She squeaked in surprise. She was a young thing he hadn’t noticed before. Alluring, big eyes. A figure barely contained by her uniform.

  “I’m sorry, lord, I didn’t hear you enter.” She curtseyed and kept her gaze low. “We’re behind on our rounds with the number of guests and preparations.”

  He’d remember to ask for her later, but for now he was beat. “Hardly an excuse, girl. Draw me a bath. Easy on the perfume. Make it hot.”

  She dipped again, set down her towels, and went back into the bathroom. Soon water began running. He stripped down to his undergarments and left them on the bed so she’d take care of it. He tugged the ribbon free from his ponytail and shook his hair loose as he entered the bathroom.

  The servant faced him, a single towel folded over one hand. He didn’t catch the bunched shoulders and hard stare until it was too late. She threw the towel down and slashed at him with a knife. The blade caught him across his stomach as he slapped her away. Trying desperately to retreat, he tripped on a rug. He went down.

  She turned the blade in her hand and launched herself at him. He caught her by both arms, the weapon inches from his face.

  “What are you doing?” he cried. “Stop!”

  She kneed him in the thigh, just missing his tender parts. Pain blossomed up his leg, almost making him lose the pushing war against the knife. How could this woman be so strong? The answer was simple. She was fel. The cursed people infested Loom Island. What they had lost in wits and soul they made up for with raw strength and viciousness.

  He couldn’t force her away. The knife blade pressed down another inch. Struggling to turn the blade, he leaned up and bit down on her wrist. She screamed and the knife dropped. He let one of her arms go and slammed her jaw with the heel of his hand. Her teeth clacked and she reeled. Her grip on him slackened and he twisted out from under her, then rolled on top of her with his hands around her throat. He squeezed.

  “Red Eye? Was it Red Eye?”

  She gagged and scratched but weakened with every passing moment.

  “Who sent you?”

  But he didn’t dare let up. Who knew what other tricks she might have? He clung to her until her face purpled, her eyes bulged, and she went limp. Finally he let go and got up on shaking legs. The gash on his stomach covered his belly in red. His nose was once again bleeding, and now he had scratches along his arms.

  He gave the body a final kick. He almost rang the bell that would send up a servant. But then he paused. How many more assassins had Red Eye hired?

  Sitting on the corner of the tub, he picked up a washcloth and cleaned his wounds. Soon the tub water was pink. But the slash along his front wasn’t deep. He cut strips of towel and formed a makeshift dressing for the wound. It hurt to move. He finished washing, turned off the water, then stepped over the dead servant to go put on a fresh outfit. Once his rapier was strapped on his belt, he went to find Marisol and his companions.

  They’d have to help watch his back. Even in the castle, Diregloom was a treacherous place. They’d all have to be ready for anything.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  SPRAT HELLARD DECIDED he liked catacomb season.

  With so many fel and purebloods intermingling in Stockade Square, he was free to move about with little notice. Sure, things might be trickier when the sun came up, but for the moment he lost himself with the revelers and the food and the music. Pretended he belonged. But as the last musical troupe put their instruments away, he knew it was time to go back to work.

  Digger had vanished. The sheriff was gone too. He had missed them and didn’t spot Isabel anywhere in the crowd. More than a few faces glanced up at him now that the singing and music were over. Their giddiness of being out after curfew was yielding to cold sobriety and the realization that an ogre walked among them which wasn’t on anyone’s leash.

  It was only a fantasy to assume these people would ever grow accustomed to an ogre in their midst. Even in a city with a large fel populatio
n, he would never fit in. Diregloom was a lie, and he couldn’t fathom how these people endured and celebrated games that required their blood to be spilled.

  Try as he might, he hadn’t made any headway in finding others who would do anything to change matters.

  He imagined for a moment how it would be if fel ruled the island. Purebloods would be sent to live in squalor while his kind could be out on a night like tonight. He chuckled at the thought. Maybe they’d have their own games, pureblood versus pureblood, and the winner would get to spittle-shine the boots of every fel who toiled in the factories and workshops.

  He dismissed the fantasy. The reality was that there would have to be a fight or the fel would be gone in another twenty years, outlawed, worked to death, or hunted. Much as ogres had been. The fel on the mainland were already devastated and freely killed by Duke Tito and the other pureblood rulers.

  He had tried to convince his former bandit gang of the need to unite the fel, but they were too shortsighted to see beyond their next opportunity for pillage. And then the Karanog had started allowing purebloods to run with them.

  But Diregloom at least held the promise of a few who might be swayed. Just finding any brave enough to stand up to a pureblood had been hard enough, until he’d come across the card game at the Dragon and Rose. Digger and his friends had done just that. Now he had to find out where his new friends had gone off to.

  Someone bumped into him. As he looked up at Hellard, the light of the overhead lanterns revealed a youthful face. The young man’s smile faded and his expression quickly filled with terror.

  “You can scream now,” Hellard said.

  The man fled. As Hellard watch him go, he spied another among the diminished crowd who glanced purposefully away. The figure wore a broad hat and high-collared coat and a sword dangled from his belt. But Hellard also spotted a dark mark on the side of the man’s face. In the poor light, he could have been mistaken, but he guessed it was a tattoo. It was time for Hellard to get out of the open.

  Hellard began to move back towards the alley where Digger’s cart waited.

  He paused to sniff at a freestanding floral arrangement the flower seller hadn’t brought inside. The man with the hat was coming his way.

  The cart stood where he had last seen it. Hellard rounded the corner at the back of the alley and pressed himself against the wall. It didn’t take long. The man walked quietly, but the alley amplified each step as he came to the corner.

  Hellard lunged for him, fists clenched and swinging.

  The man was fast, but not fast enough. As he blocked Hellard’s haymaker, he stumbled. Hellard pressed his advantage and shoved the man hard against the opposite wall. Before the man could react, Hellard clamped a massive hand on his throat.

  “Who are you with?”

  “Guk! Guk! Guk!”

  The man went limp. Hellard slapped him a few times. Realized he wasn’t faking.

  “Crap.”

  Hellard put the unconscious stranger down. First he checked every direction to see if anyone had noticed the fight. They were alone. Hellard patted the man down, pocketed a coin purse, and took the sword. He was about to snap the man’s neck when he paused to look at the tattoos. The man wasn’t Karanog. Some other gang, no doubt. So why was he interested in him?

  After a moment of deliberation, Hellard began to strip the man down. He paused for a moment to admire the fine stitching and exquisite fabric of the stranger’s gold shirt and cape. He placed the naked body in the cart. Using the sword, he sliced up the cape and bound the man. Then he leaned on the corner of the flower shop and watched as the night stretched on and the crowd thinned further, his eye out for Digger, Isabel, or anyone else who might be looking for them.

  THE STOCKADE REMAINED busy. Several drunks were hauled in by the city guards.

  Hellard was too far away to see their faces.

  Others were watching the stockade as well, purebloods by the look of it, and dressed the same as the crew he had helped fight in the bar. They’d recognize him if he got too close. He’d watch them, he decided.

  Then the prison wagon appeared and vanished within the stockade. The sheriff followed. Not long after, Lord Angel rode past, also going inside. He emerged minutes later. Then he and his companions went out around the square, busily checking faces.

  Hellard thought this might be a good opportunity if the nobleman had been alone, but with three of them he would be overmatched.

  He wheeled the cart into the back of the alley and took a circuitous route up the castle hill. The man in the cart groaned.

  “Shut up or I clobber you.”

  He lingered near one of the fountains. Splashed water on his face. He was no sneak thief but he had to know whether Digger and Isabel were among those captured. Just then, the sheriff rode by heading towards the castle and leading a manacled prisoner. It was Digger. Hellard started to pursue them, but then Lord Angel also trotted past.

  Hellard could follow, true, but there wasn’t much chance he could bluff his way into the castle. So he wheeled the cart down towards the stockade.

  The nobleman’s companions were nowhere in sight as he approached the two guards at the gate. They perked up when they saw him.

  Hellard stopped the cart and gestured towards the tied man. “Contribution for the drunk tank. Was carousing in the graveyard and scrawling on the tombstones.”

  One of the guards peered in the cart and looked up at Hellard.

  Hellard tried not to smirk. “Leaving your mouth open like that will let the flies in.”

  “What?” the guard asked.

  “I said do you want him or do I drop him on the cobblestones? He’s pissed himself and covered in vomit.”

  “Take him inside,” the second guard said irritably. “Talk to the sergeant.”

  Hellard wheeled the cart into the stockade courtyard. He didn’t see any sergeant. The covered walkway had numerous doors, some of which had padlocks and long bars.

  “This is where you get out.”

  He dumped his prisoner onto the ground. Then he wheeled the cart around the courtyard. Surely there were dozens of men stationed there, but they must have been outside on duty or inside one of the numerous offices.

  A woman with a ponytail was seated on a stool by a cell door in the corner. She was one of the nobles from the bar, the one who had almost killed Digger. Her sheathed rapier was resting on her lap.

  “Any bodies?” Hellard asked.

  She barely stirred. She waved him off. He stepped under the overhang and seized her, slapping the sword away and shoving her up against the cell door. She began to scream but he slammed her hard, knocking the breath from her.

  “Not another peep. Who do you have in there?”

  Her eyes flared as her fingers dug into his hands. “The cook.”

  He banged her body again and she stopped clawing at him. Reaching over with one hand, he tried the solid door. It was locked. It lacked any window so he could see inside.

  “Monty?” he hissed. “It’s Hellard. Are you in there?”

  “Yeah,” Monty said from inside. “Can you get me out?”

  He shook the woman. “Where’s the key?”

  She was fighting to breathe. Her hand reached for a hilt sticking out of her boot. He gave her another hard shove and smashed her onto the stone floor. She groaned as he patted her down, throwing the knife away. No keys. The door was solid with metal hammered over wood, and there was no handle to grip. He’d need a crowbar or tools.

  Voices echoed from across the courtyard. A pack of ten guards had entered the gate. They stopped when they spotted the tied naked man.

  Hellard pressed his face to the door. “I’m sorry, Monty. It’s no good. I’ll figure something out.”

  “Don’t leave me!”

  But there was no time. He scooped up the woman and plopped her into his cart and headed for the guards. To a man they acted like a bunch of cats and almost scattered as he approached. Hands went to weapons.

>   Hellard went for the friendly ogre routine: a wide, toothy smile, palms out, slow movements so as not to scare the children. “Sorry about leaving him there. He got wiggly.”

  “Who are you?” a crooked-nosed older guard asked after composing himself.

  “Grave duty, but I got a few scrip notes to drop off some drunks. Him, and this one here,” he said, pointing to the woman with the ponytail.

  “Well, you can’t just dump him! Pick him up. Drunk tank’s this way. Need to lock her up in one of the other cells.”

  “Give me the keys and I’ll take care of it.”

  “Are you daft? Follow us and we’ll show you.”

  The group of guards lingered. Who knew fear of an ogre would get them to bunch up like that? He saw no opportunity to relieve the guard of his keys as he was taken to two cells on the far side of the courtyard. The guard watched closely as Hellard dumped off the gangster in the already occupied drunk tank and Lord Angel’s lethal lady friend in the neighboring cell.

  “Now get that stinking cart out of here, fel. There’s no bodies to collect.”

  He held his hand out. “Come on. How about a tip? It’s been a long night.”

  “Scram!”

  He pushed the cart out the stockade gate. Monty was safe for the moment. Isabel was no doubt in the stockade somewhere. That left Digger. A rescue from the stockade might be feasible with enough men. But springing Digger from the castle was going to be impossible.

  At least the guards hadn’t batted an eye at an ogre working as a gravedigger. He now had a cover. And with anonymity came the potential for so much mischief.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  THE GUARDS FINALLY came for Digger and Paulus.

  In an adjacent room, a group of women waited. Digger was sat on a reclining chair. Immediately the women went to work, brushing out the tangles of his black hair, scrubbing his fingernails, plucking eyebrows and nostril hairs, and then washing him down.