Falcon stood there for a little while, looking at the sea and feeling the wind in his wings. Then, from down the beach, came a pair of voices.
“It’s just not fair,” roared Max.
“It is not a question of fair!” countered Pearl, buzzing around the Sasquatch’s head. “It is a question of freedom! And I am free to choose my companions! As are you yourself, Señor Max!”
“If you like him, you should just say so,” said Max. “I’ll get out of your way. Quit comin’ around.”
“Señor,” said Pearl. “You cannot be jealous? Of ¡el Boco! This nada de nada from Argentina!”
“Hey, guys,” said Falcon, a little self-consciously.
“Dude,” said Max by way of greeting.
“I for one am glad that we have come upon you, Señor Falcon!” said Pearl. “It is a relief. For at this moment I am full of irritation with Señor Max. He has taken some ideas into his head. Ideas I find an affront to my dignity and my freedom!”
“It’s about el Boco, man,” said Max. “The blabbity blabbity blabbity from Argentina. You know, el Chupakabro.”
“One of my own kind!” said Pearl. “One of my brethren! From whom Señor Max would have me sundered!”
“I’m not tryin’ to sunder anything,” said Max. “It’s just that—you’re letting him buzz all around! Talking in Spanish! Which you know I can’t understand!”
“Perhaps you should learn the Spanish then!” shouted Pearl. “Perhaps it is you, Señor Max, who should be doing the buzzing!”
“You know, you could learn Spanish, Max,” said Falcon. “Might be a handy thing, knowing Spanish.”
“Hey, whose side are you on, man?” said Max.
“I’m on both your sides,” said Falcon. “I’m saying, maybe you should learn how to say a few things in Spanish. And Pearl, maybe you could be sympathetic to Max feeling a little left out when you’re hanging out with el Boco?”
“Hey, what are you, Mr. Therapy Dog?” said Max.
“I should sting the both of you for suggesting my relations with el Boco are deserving of this reproach!” She buzzed around Falcon and Max with her stinger extended.
“Okay, Pearl, put the stinger away,” said Max. “You don’t have to, like, threaten us.”
“I will not be disrespected!” shouted Pearl. “I should sting you just for being Señor Estúpido!”
“I am not Señor Estúpido!” shouted Max. “I am Señor uh—Smarto!”
“Do not raise your voice with me,” said Pearl. “For this I cannot stand!”
“I gotta!” shouted Max. “’Cause you’re—like—” Max roared louder than Falcon had ever heard before. “YOU’RE HURTING MY FEELINGS!” He raised his hands over his head. “Aaaaagghhhhh!”
Okay, Falcon thought. That went well.
“Never have I been so disrespected!” shouted Pearl.
“Honk.” Max wiped his tears on his big hairy arm. “I need a tissue.”
“I think you’re both overreacting,” said Falcon. “Why can’t you both—”
“Why can you not leave us to our affairs!” shouted Pearl. “Instead of meddling in things that are not yours in which to meddle!”
“I wasn’t trying to—” Pearl’s harsh words hurt him. She had never yelled at Falcon like this before. “I was just trying to help.”
“Hey, man,” said Max. “We were fine before you started helping!”
“Okay,” said Falcon. “Good. I’ll just—head back to the castle.”
“Dude,” said Max.
“Señor,” said Pearl. And then the Chupakabra and the Sasquatch walked down the beach.
So what did I just learn? Falcon thought. He shook his head. That sometimes, when you try to help people, you wind up making things worse than when you started?
Falcon walked through the Academy’s front gates and then across the campus toward Dustbin. He was just passing Screamer Library when he nearly collided with Mr. Lyons, who was coming around the corner with his nose deep in a book.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Falcon Quinn,” said Mr. Lyons. “I am so sorry. Wasn’t looking where I was going.” He held up the book. “Sherlock Holmes. ‘The Sign of Four.’” He sighed happily. “Never fails to satisfy.”
“Mr. Lyons,” said Falcon. “Are there any books on angels in Screamer Library?”
“Books on angels?” said Mr. Lyons. “Hmm. Well, there is a nice inventory of celestials written by Zarah Zhumway. A taxonomy of the form—cherubim, tricksters, protectors, demons, and so on. I think that has a chapter on angels, yes.”
“I mean more like a guide to—being one,” said Falcon.
“A guide,” said Mr. Lyons.
“Yeah,” said Falcon. “Because a lot of the time, I don’t know exactly—” He raised his wings and lowered them. “I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to be doing.”
“My dear boy,” said Mr. Lyons. “I had no idea you were so—uncertain. I thought your path was crystal clear!”
“Not really,” said Falcon. “I mean—I know I’m supposed to do good and everything. But sometimes—I don’t know how.”
“Sometimes doing good requires making a mess of things,” said Mr. Lyons. “Doesn’t it?”
“I don’t understand any of this,” said Falcon, his voice rising. “What am I supposed to do? Why aren’t there any—” His voice fell now. “Never mind.”
“Any what?”
“Directions,” said Falcon. “You buy something stupid like—I don’t know, a waffle iron, say. They give you a twenty-page booklet on how to make waffles. But when it comes to living your life, there’s nothing! You’re totally on your own!”
“My dear boy,” said Mr. Lyons, purring. “Why would you think you’re on your own? The whole world is an instruction book. Start anywhere! Read everything! Here, look—” He gave Falcon the copy of “The Sign of Four.” “Start with the Holmes. So much wisdom to be found in Sherlock Holmes. In this story, for instance, he says to Watson: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ It is a good phrase to bear in mind, if what you intend to do is solve mysteries.”
Falcon took the volume from the librarian. “So I’m a detective now?” he said.
Mr. Lyons clapped him on the shoulder. “Yes, that’s it, exactly. A detective, solving the crime of life. Well. You should come to auditions tonight, for the play? Romeo and Juliet. The human translation!” He purred again. “Do come, Falcon,” said the librarian. “I am certain you will shine.”
When Falcon got back to his room in Dustbin Hall, he found Sparkbolt sitting on his bed, yellow tears rolling down his green cheeks.
“Sparkbolt,” said Falcon. “What happened?”
He groaned sadly. “There.”
Lying on Falcon’s bed were a number of items that had been lost by Falcon’s friends in the final weeks of the summer. There was Weems’s paddleball. There were Lincoln Pugh’s glasses. And there were Destynee’s sandals. All of these things appeared to have been repaired and fixed recently: the elastic on the paddleball had been freshly replaced, the glasses shined up, and the sandals repaired. The Filchers, Falcon thought.
“Where did you find these?” said Falcon. He put down the volume of Sherlock Holmes that Mr. Lyons had given him.
“Under Falcon bed!” Sparkbolt growled.
“Why were you—”
“Poetry book missing. Monster look for poems. On chair. In sock drawer. Finally, under Falcon bed.” He growled again. “There find book. Plus others. Things Falcon steal. And hide. Hide from friend!”
“You think I stole these?” said Falcon. “Is that it?”
“Stealing bad!” shouted Sparkbolt. “Falcon betray friends!”
“But I didn’t take these,” said Falcon. “I—”
Sparkbolt raised one of his jagged eyebrows. “Things here. Beneath Falcon bed!! Rrrrr! Things stolen!”
“Sparkbolt,” said Falcon. “Listen—there’s something I never
told you about. Because I was supposed to keep it secret.”
“Falcon Quinn have many secret!” said Sparkbolt. “Secret from friend! Friend trust!” Two more tears edged over Sparkbolt’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks. “Falcon Quinn monster only friend! Sparkbolt travel path—of alone! Alone!”
“Sparkbolt,” said Falcon. “Remember that time you found me in the woods, back on Monster Island? I met these creatures—they call themselves the Filchers—a group of elves . . . and a Squonk—”
“Falcon Quinn stole poetry book! Of rhyming poems! Let octopus dog chew! Like bone!” Sparkbolt’s face turned angry. “Falcon Quinn steal poems! All Sparkbolt care about, poems! All in world! Except Falcon Quinn! Rrrrr! Betrayal! Dark!” He stood up and moved toward Falcon with his fingers spread, as if to strangle him. Falcon quickly stood up too, and his angel wings lifted from his back. He felt his dark eye heat up, and in an instant a fireball soared out of him, hitting Sparkbolt in the chest. Sparkbolt fell back for a moment, releasing his grip on Falcon, who gasped for air. But Sparkbolt was just further enraged, and he came after Falcon again. Falcon ducked out of the way, but Sparkbolt managed to connect with a hard punch to his face.
Falcon stood there, stunned, his eye and cheek throbbing. “Sparkbolt,” said Falcon. “You—”
Sparkbolt went to the bed and gathered all the stolen items, then stormed out the door. Falcon sat down on his bed and held his head in his hands. His face ached where Sparkbolt had slugged him. This is bad, Falcon thought. If I’ve lost Sparkbolt, I’ve lost everybody.
He looked at his feet, and there he saw a small, brown envelope just peeking out from under the bed. He bent down and picked it up and found that his name was written on the front of the envelope in ornate, curling script.
Inside the envelope was a short note:
Dear Falcon. All well on the Filcher front! The missus said we ought to give these items to you so that you can return them to your friends. Normally we don’t give things back, you know, but we thought that this might help you in the months ahead.
Yours sincerely,
Mr. Grubb.
“Help,” said Falcon out loud. “Yeah. Thanks a lot.”
At the bottom of the page, in a different hand, was a final note.
Falcon, do remember you are not alone in the world. If you ever need a place to go where you can count on a warm reception, you know where to find us. It would be an honor to have you among our number. Mr. Sweeny.
Falcon held the note in his hand for a long time, thinking about it. He saw the wart-covered Squonk; the beautiful, distant Clea; the kind, thoughtful face of Mr. Sweeny. He heard the songs they had played as they ate their afternoon feast. The man in the moon says, “Please keep it down. All the church bells are waking up the dead. A fool looks better than a headless clown. Send yourself to bed.”
Then he put the letter back in the envelope and headed out the door and down the hall, toward the play tryouts in Castle Gruesombe. He still hoped that the words of Mr. Lyons—I am certain you will shine—might prove true. As he rushed outside, however, he ran directly into Copperhead, who was leaning against the wall, holding a large conch shell to her ear and talking to herself.
“Falcon,” she said, surprised at his appearance.
“Copperhead?” he said. “What are you doing? What’s that shell for?”
“Nothing, I—”
“Why are you hanging out in front of Dustbin?” he said. “You’re not supposed to be over here.”
“I am listening—,” she said, “to the sea.” She held the conch shell toward Falcon’s ear. “Can you hear it? The sounds of the ocean? They are so soothing for a mind that is troubled!”
“Is your mind troubled, Copperhead?” said Falcon.
“Not half as troubled as yours, Falcon Quinn.”
“Troubled?” said Falcon. “What makes you think I’m troubled?”
“I might have a bag over my head,” she said, “but I see things others don’t. That black eye of yours, for instance. Who punched you?”
“No one,” said Falcon.
“Sparkbolt,” she said. “He’s turned on you too.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do. Since the attack at that Bludd Club, everyone thinks you’re a spy.”
“I’m not a spy!” shouted Falcon.
“I know that,” said Copperhead.
“You do?”
“Here,” said Copperhead, reaching into her purse. “Let me put some scorpion blood on that bruise.”
“Some—what?”
“Sssh,” said Copperhead, squeezing a little of the ointment onto her fingers and rubbing it onto Falcon’s face. “This will heal you, Falcon. Nice thing about scorpion blood. It takes away the pain.”
“I can heal my own bruises,” said Falcon, and this was, of course, true. His blue eye had the ability to heal all sorts of injuries.
“I know that,” said Copperhead. “But don’t you ever want somebody else to look out for you? It must be exhausting, always healing yourself.”
“I don’t mind—owww!” Falcon’s blue eye suddenly began to sting. “It hurts!”
“Of course it hurts,” said Copperhead. “Things hurt when they heal.”
Chapter 10
A Beam of Red Light
Falcon and Copperhead entered the auditorium a few minutes later to see that the auditions had already begun. Mr. Lyons was onstage holding a clipboard, and two other students—Squawker, the werechicken, and el Boco, the famous goatsucker of Argentina—were doing a scene, reading from scripts. They were pretending to have a sword fight, and at just this moment, el Boco pretended to slay Squawker.
“I am hurt,” said the werechicken. “A plague on both your houses! I am sped. Cluck cluck cluck cluck! Is he gone and hath nothing?”
El Boco looked concerned. “Señor Chicken,” he said. “You hurt?”
“Cluck cluck cluck cluck,” replied Squawker. “A scratch!”
Squawker and the Chupakabro paused and looked up as Falcon and Copperhead entered the room. Everyone turned to look at them, including a whole row of students with the items that Sparkbolt had just returned. There was Destynee with her sandals, and Lincoln Pugh, once more wearing his rectangular orange glasses. Next to them was Weems, slowly bouncing his paddleball.
Well, thought Falcon, at least I know things can’t get much worse.
He sat down in a chair in the audience next to another one of the students, a vampire girl about his age. She looked over at him and chuckled softly.
“Well, well,” said Merideath. “If it isn’t Falcon Quark.”
For a moment, Falcon sat there stunned, looking at the vampire girl. Then he began to stutter. “You—you got expelled—,” he said. “You’re—”
“Yes, Falcon Quinn,” she said defiantly. “But I’m back. My father just made one phone call. That’s all it took!”
Mr. Lyons clapped his hands. “That was nicely done,” he said to Squawker and el Boco. “Let’s see another pair of actors. Ah, Falcon, you’re here, excellent. Let’s try you out as Romeo.”
There was some murmuring at this, a mixture of snickering and growling. Sparkbolt groaned. Quagmire sent up some bubbles that floated in the air and then burst with an unpleasant smell.
“I’ll be Juliet,” said Merideath, following Falcon up to the stage.
“Ah, Miss Venacava,” said Mr. Lyons. “Actually, I think that first I’d like to see—”
“I said I’ll be Juliet,” insisted Merideath. “My father promised me I could have my way!”
“Miss Venacava,” said Mr. Lyons. “You’ll audition the same as every other student. The ultimate choice of casting rests with me.”
“Oh, I’m going to be in the play,” said Merideath. “I don’t think you want to find out what happens if I don’t make the play.”
Mr. Lyons growled. “I will cast the students who are most deserving,” he said.
“Exactly
,” said Merideath. “And who’s more deserving than me?”
Mr. Lyons growled even louder.
“And please stop that growling. It’s so unattractive!”
“Miss Venacava,” said Mr. Lyons. “May I remind you that you are addressing a member of the faculty?”
“You’re not faculty!” said Merideath contemptuously. “You’re just a librarian!”
Mr. Lyons’s growl grew rumbly and deep now, and he stepped toward her with a bloodthirsty look. “Perhaps,” he said, “if you actually read books, you might hold librarians in somewhat higher regard.”
“I’ll see that you’re fired,” said Merideath.
“Yes, well,” said Mr. Lyons. “I’ll see that you’re eaten.”
“Ah, ah,” said a voice, and Falcon looked over to see Count Manson standing in the back of the room. “Temper. Dewouring the students is perhaps not the best choice for a staff member currently on probation.”
“Count,” said Mr. Lyons. “What are you doing here?”
“Making certain that none of our students suffers the same fate as Captain Hardtack,” said Count Manson.
Mr. Lyons growled again. “Act two,” he said, handing scripts to Merideath and Falcon. “Scene two.”
Merideath scanned the script and wrinkled her nose again. “What version of the play is this? This isn’t the original Frankenstein!”
“It’s the English translation,” said Mr. Lyons. “We’re doing a little experiment.”
“Okay, now wait,” said Merideath. “What’s my motivation in this scene?”
“You’re a spoiled little rich girl,” said Mr. Lyons. “To whom no one has ever said no.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Merideath.
“You have asked for your motivation. Here it is. At last you have met someone wholly outside your small, inbred circle, someone unlike anyone you have ever known.” He nodded toward Falcon Quinn. “And now you find yourself changed and moved by him. You stand on the balcony of your room. And you say—”
Falcon Quinn and the Crimson Vapor Page 11
