Revenge of the Beetle Queen

by M. G. Leonard

  Novak felt a bead of sweat trickle down her hairline; the heat of the afternoon seemed intensified by the threat in the room. She was perched on the corner of a giant black leather sofa, a blank expression on her face.

  America made Novak feel small. Everything was so big: The roads were wider, the rooms were bigger, even the furniture was huge. She desperately wanted to get to the safety of the bland room in the east wing that was her bedroom, but Mater had insisted they have drinks before dinner.

  “You must be excited about the Film Awards?” Darkus’s dad said. “It’s pretty special to get nominated for Best Actress.”

  Novak felt her cheeks glow hot, and nodded.

  “The film is a turgid piece of sentimental claptrap,” Mater said, topping up his glass from a crystal decanter. “The nomination came about because I bribed the right people.”

  “Oh!” Novak said, crestfallen. “I thought it was because I’m good at acting.”

  Lucretia Cutter laughed. “Child, you are lucky that you will never have to earn a living from it.”

  Darkus’s dad looked into his glass as if he found the ice at the bottom intensely interesting. “I don’t understand what you’re doing at these awards, Lucy,” he admitted. “You hate ceremonies of any kind, always have. Couldn’t we skip them and go straight to your Biome?” He looked up and smiled winningly at her. “You never did say where it was?”

  “No.” Lucretia Cutter ran her fingertip around the rim of her glass. “And you’ll never know exactly where it is, because you’re going there blindfolded, after the awards.”

  “I see.” Bartholomew Cuttle laughed uncomfortably. “Don’t you think we’re a bit old for party games?”

  “I don’t want the world knowing where I keep my secrets, now, do I?”

  “I guess not.” He raised an eyebrow. “At least explain the Film Awards to me.”

  “You never were much of a showman, Bartholomew,” Lucretia Cutter replied, “but I understand the power of pageantry. Great kings and queens use it to assert their authority. The Film Awards is the moment I have chosen to burst onto the world stage”—she flung her hand, heavy with diamonds, in the air—“as a new kind of leader.”

  There was silence, and Novak stared at the floor, feeling horribly uncomfortable.

  “I don’t wish to pour cold water on the idea,” Bartholomew Cuttle said, “but what makes you think anyone will take the slightest bit of notice?”

  “Oh, they’ll notice.” Lucretia Cutter drew herself up tall. “The world will fall to its knees and tremble before me.”

  “Right. I see.” He gave a little shrug. “I have one other question.”

  “Yes?” Mater barked, irritated that he hadn’t been more impressed.

  “When are we actually going to get into a laboratory?” Darkus’s dad put his glass down. “All of this swanning about in Learjets, meeting famous actresses in hotel rooms, and planning to take over the world is great, but it’s not really me. You promised me that I would get to work at the cutting edge of transgenic coleopteran research. That’s why I’m here. I’m itching to get started, and I have to admit”—he looked about the room as if searching for a chessboard or something that might occupy him—“I’m getting a little bored.”

  It was all Novak could do to suppress a laugh at the expression on Mater’s face.

  “Bored?” she spat.

  “Well, yes.” Darkus’s dad nodded. “But only a little bit.”

  Lucretia Cutter was suddenly on her feet. “Well, we can’t have that,” she snapped. “Let me introduce you to my flying Sitophilus granarius.”

  “What?” Bartholomew stood up. “Wheat weevils don’t fly!”

  “Oh, but mine do,” Lucretia Cutter said, stalking out of the room, “and they like their wheat fresh.”

  Darkus’s dad followed her and Novak suddenly found herself alone. She sat perfectly still for a minute, to make sure no one was coming back, and then hunched over her wrist.

  “Hepburn,” she whispered, lifting the lid of the secret compartment in her bracelet. “Are you okay?”

  A pair of delicate antennae waggled at her and Novak felt a flood of warm relief.

  “C’mon, let’s go and get you some dinner.”

  Darkus pulled on the bell cord and they heard a distant ringing sound. He wondered if his dad was somewhere in this house. He closed his eyes and made a fierce wish for Novak to open the door.

  The door swung open. It was Gerard. Darkus kept his head down, so the butler wouldn’t see his face.

  “Yes?” The butler stared at the three children. “How may I help you?”

  “WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS …” Darkus half sang, half yelled.

  Virginia and Bertolt joined in, singing raucously. “WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS, WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A DARKUS NEW YEAR!”

  “Good day, sir,” Virginia said, grabbing the butler’s hand and shaking it. “We are collecting for the, er, the …”

  “The Orphans of Los Angeles charity,” Bertolt said with a perfect American drawl. “We hope that in exchange for a festive melody, you will make a generous donation to help the poor orphans at Christmastime.”

  “SILENT NIGHT,” Darkus wailed, “DARKUS NIGHT, ALL IS CALM, ALL IS BRIGHT …”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, DARKUS!” Virginia shouted, jumping about and trying to impersonate a rapper.

  “Children, please!” Gerard interrupted. “This is a terrible noise. Christmas it may be, but I’m afraid I cannot help you. We do not donate to charity.”

  “But look at your crib!” Virginia exclaimed, following Bertolt’s lead and getting into character. “It’s wall-to-wall dollars, man.” She whistled through her teeth as she hopped forward and then backward over the doorstep.

  Gerard shooed her out of the house, and Darkus started singing again, as loudly as he could. They needed Novak to hear them. “GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN, LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY, ’CAUSE DARKUS HAS A MESSAGE FOR YOU THIS CHRISTMAS DAY.”

  Bertolt took a big breath and wailed: “GLOOOO-OOOOOOOO-OOOOOOOOOOOOO-OOOOOOOOOOOO-OOOORIA, HOSANNA IN EX-DARKUS!”

  “Enough!” Gerard cried. “I shall call the police if you do not leave.”

  “Dude!” Bertolt exclaimed. “Call the police? What will you tell them, sir? That three children are singing for you, to help the needy? It’s not murder or robbery, is it, sir? We’re armed with nothing but our voices and a good cause. I’m certain the police will tell you to donate to the poor orphans of Los Angeles at this festive time of year.”

  Darkus stared at Bertolt, surprised by how good his acting was. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Novak appear in a doorway. He waved at her, pulling off his glasses and lifting his hat.

  She let out a scream.

  Darkus pulled his hat and glasses back on and jigged on the spot, rapping: “ONCE IN ROYAL DARKUS CITY STOOD A LOWLY BEETLE SHED. UH! HUH! UH! HUH! THAT’S RIGHT, I’M NOT DEAD!”

  “ARRÊTEZ!” Gerard held up his hands. “STOP! ENOUGH! FINISH! You are scaring the lady of the house.”

  “They’re not scaring me, Gerard.” Novak rushed forward. “I was surprised, that’s all.”

  “We’re collecting money for the orphans of Los Angeles,” Bertolt said. “So they can have presents at Christmastime.”

  “Oh, well, that sounds like a wonderful charity.” Novak smiled. “I’d love to make a donation.”

  “Mademoiselle,” Gerard said in a low voice, “your mother will not be happy if she sees these children here.”

  “Yes, I know,” Novak nodded. “I’ll see them to the gate and give them a donation there.”

  “No, I will do this.”

  “Oh, Gerard.” Novak looked up at him, her eyelashes fluttering. “I’d like to. I don’t see children my own age very often.”

  “As you wish, Mademoiselle—but,” Gerard said, dipping his head, “don’t let Madame see you.”

  “Thank you,” Novak gushed and turned back to Darkus, her eyes shining
. “Follow me,” she said, walking past him.

  Darkus followed her, looking over his shoulder once. Gerard was watching them.

  “I thought you were dead!” Novak hissed. “Mater said she shot you, but you’re alive! You’re alive! How could you let me think you were dead? Do you know how awful it’s been? I cried and cried. I know you can’t exactly visit, but it’s been nearly two months. Two months! You could have at least sent a message.”

  The butler could no longer hear them, but he was still watching.

  “She did shoot me,” Darkus said, “in my shoulder. The bullet went right through.”

  “Oh.” Novak’s stride faltered, but she kept walking. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have sent a message when I got out of the hospital. I was worried about getting you into trouble,” Darkus said, risking glancing at her and smiling. “Novak, have you seen my dad? I need to find him.”

  “Why, yes, he’s here, but …” Novak paused. “He’s working with Mater.”

  “Oh! Right!” Darkus said, noticing Virginia giving Bertolt a look. “So he’s okay, then?”

  “Yes, Mater adores him.” Novak nodded. “She even lets him disagree with her!”

  Darkus didn’t know what to say. He felt sick.

  As the driveway curved around the lawn of box hedges, they were finally hidden from view. Bertolt scurried forward, pulling his glasses from Darkus’s face so that he could see, and grabbed Novak’s hand, shaking it up and down.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you,” he said, not letting go. “I think you’re wonderful. I’m Bertolt. I’m Darkus’s friend. I don’t normally look like this. I’m normally much better dressed. Is that Chanel you’re wearing? You look fabulous.”

  “Hi, Bertolt.” Novak giggled, retrieving her hand. “Darkus told me all about you, but he didn’t tell me you could do such a marvelous American accent.”

  “I didn’t know,” Darkus said.

  “Thanks.” Bertolt blushed with pleasure. “I help my mum practice for her auditions, but I’m not a natural talent, not like you.”

  “Oh, I have no talent,” Novak replied, her head dropping. “Not really.”

  “You mustn’t say that,” Bertolt gasped. “Look at how you helped Darkus. Why, you must have to act your socks off every single day just to stay out of trouble.”

  “He’s right.” Virginia stepped forward and nodded. “You must be pretty good. Hi, I’m Virginia.”

  Novak beamed. “I’m so happy to meet you, both of you.” She looked at Darkus. “But what are you doing here, in America? Did your uncle get my letter? Are the beetles okay?”

  “We got your letter,” Darkus said.

  “Oh, thank goodness!” Novak clapped her hands together. “Did you save Beetle Mountain?”

  Darkus shook his head, and there was a horrible silence.

  Novak’s hands dropped. “Oh no.”

  “They didn’t all die,” Bertolt said. “We managed to save some of them.”

  “I’m sorry.” Novak’s bottom lip wobbled. “I—I tried …”

  “It’s not your fault,” Darkus said. “If we hadn’t gotten your letter, it would’ve been a lot worse.”

  “You saved my life.” Bertolt nodded. “I might have been burnt to a crisp.”

  “Novak,” Darkus said, “we know Lucretia Cutter’s planning to do something terrible at the Film Awards. Do you know what it is?”

  “Oh dear.” Novak bit her bottom lip. “Well, I heard her tell your dad something about pageantry and being a leader, but I didn’t really understand what she was talking about.”

  “What did Dad do?” Darkus asked, leaning forward.

  “It was funny.” Novak giggled. “He looked bored by Mater’s plans, and asked when they were going to get down to doing the scientific work she’d promised him.”

  “He wasn’t trying to stop her?” Darkus was shocked.

  “Um, no.” Novak shook her head. “He seemed most put out that she’d made a weevil that could fly.”

  Darkus frowned. What was Dad doing? Could he actually be working with Lucretia Cutter?

  “Do you know how Lucretia Cutter is planning to take over the awards ceremony?” Virginia asked.

  “No, but what I do know is that she’s made these dresses for the actresses in my award category. I haven’t seen mine yet, but Stella Manning’s dress is covered in green jewel beetles. They’re a kind I’ve never seen before, like a cross with tiger beetles.”

  “You met Stella Manning?” Bertolt squealed.

  Novak nodded. “Her dress is to die for.”

  “I can’t wait to see it.” Bertolt clapped. “Oh, I have something for you.” He checked his pockets and pulled out a piece of paper. “This is Morse code. We’ve taught it to our beetles. If you teach Hepburn, she can bring us messages.”

  Novak flipped open the top of her bracelet and Hepburn flew out, looping the loop and settling on her hand.

  “You have a beetle, too?” she asked Bertolt.

  “Yes.” Bertolt looked up. “Newton, come out and say hello.”

  Newton bobbed up out of the top of Bertolt’s hair and flashed his belly at Novak.

  “Oh, how beautiful!” she gasped.

  “He looks better at night, when it’s dark.”

  “Novak, I know the Film Awards are tomorrow, but do you think you’d be able to get us into the theatre?” Darkus asked. “Whatever Lucretia Cutter’s planning to do, we want to be there to help Dad when he tries to stop her.”

  “He’s going to stop her?” Novak said, surprised.

  “I’m certain of it.” Darkus nodded.

  A bald, muscle-bound silhouette walked out onto the lawn in front of Lucretia Cutter’s house.

  “It’s Mawling!” Novak looked frightened. “Leave it with me. I’ll get you into the awards somehow,” she promised, shuffling backward. “Get as close to the theatre as you can, and I’ll send Hepburn to you with a message.” She looked across the lawn at Mawling.

  “There’s six of us,” Darkus said. “Us and three adults.”

  “I’m sorry. I have to go.” She turned and walked away, looking back over her shoulder. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I thought I was alone.”

  Humphrey Gamble ignored people’s stares as he stomped through the Los Angeles airport looking for signs to the baggage collection area. He was dressed in an assortment of ill-fitting clothes that he and Pickering had found in a recycling bin beside the airport parking lot. All of the items he was wearing were too small. A brightly colored paisley tie was threaded through the belt loops of his trousers, not to hold them up but to hold them together, as the fly wouldn’t fasten. The green flares extended only as far as his shins, and his garish pink-and-yellow-striped shirt strangled him despite the top two buttons being undone. He wore a supersize puce tank top to hide the fact the shirt didn’t cover his belly.

  Spotting the circular conveyor belts, he headed toward the one underneath the flight number of the plane that had brought him from London to America. He was looking for a large navy-blue suitcase and was dismayed to see that many of the suitcases on the conveyor belt were blue. His was a battered, blackened case, pulled from the charred wreckage behind the Emporium. He stared at the square hole covered with hanging strips of plastic, hypnotized as case after case dropped onto the belt.

  “Did you hear that?” a woman said to her husband. “That case made a noise!”

  Humphrey saw that it was his case the woman was pointing at. He shoved people aside to get to the belt. Grabbing at the handle, he heaved the suitcase onto the floor.

  “Ouch!” the case squawked. “Careful!”

  “There!” The woman grabbed her husband’s arm. “It did it again.”

  “Will you shut up!” Humphrey hissed at the case. “People can hear you.” He hurriedly dragged the case across the floor, away from the staring crowd.

  “Try not to bump me around so much!” Pickering’s voice hissed
back. “It hurts.”

  Humphrey ignored the case as he dragged it toward the sign that said NOTHING TO DECLARE. He kept his eyes fixed on the exit sign as he stomped through the white corridor, charging forward.

  “Excuse me, sir.” An American customs official in a smart uniform stepped in front of him with his hand up. “We’d like to check your bag and ask you a few questions about your visit to the United States.”

  “Um, of course, yes. I’m here for a holiday.” Humphrey looked around. Two more officers were standing on either side of a doorway to a room off the corridor. “And my bag is full of clothes.”

  “This way, please.” The officer guided him toward the room.

  “Oh right.” Beads of sweat rolled down Humphrey’s forehead, getting in his eyes. He blinked, trying to smile charmingly. “Is there a problem, officers?”

  “No problem at all, sir, just routine procedure,” the officer assured him.

  Humphrey stepped away from the suitcase.

  “Please, sir, bring your bag.”

  Humphrey nodded and dragged it behind him into the room, which was furnished with a single table and chair.

  “Would you mind putting your case up onto the table, and opening it for us,” the officer directed.

  Humphrey looked at the other two officers, one male and one female. They weren’t very big. He heaved the case up, slamming it onto the table while coughing loudly to cover any noise Pickering might make.

  “Would you mind unzipping your case, and then stepping over to face the wall?”

  Humphrey noticed that all three of the officers had guns in holsters on their belts. He bent down and slowly unzipped the lid, stepped away from the table, and faced the wall.

  One of the officers put a hand on his shoulder. “Spread your legs.”

  There was a terrific ripping sound as Humphrey did as he was told and his trousers split. He looked over his shoulder just as the female officer flipped the lid of the suitcase open.