Falcon Quinn and the Crimson Vapor

by Jennifer Finney Boylan

  Falcon and Mr. Drudge walked through the narrow cobblestone streets of the Hidden City. There were shops selling knives and swords and flails. There were stone cottages with dark windows. Everything was very clean. The sun shone down.

  Falcon paused to look up at Paragon Castle. On the mountain above the castle was an old windmill.

  “What is it, dear boy?” said Mr. Drudge. “Are you feeling a little—under the weather?”

  Falcon looked at the blue sails swirling around and around. “It’s nothing,” he said.

  “I hope you’re not having a delayed reaction from that blowgun poison,” said Mr. Drudge. “It can have unpleasant side effects. You must promise me not to operate any heavy machinery!”

  “What’s with that windmill?” he asked.

  “Oh, that’s been up there for years. It used to be all in ruins, but they fixed it up nicely last spring. I think it’s rather charming, to be quite honest. The way those sails go right around. Always raises my spirits.” Mr. Drudge gently pulled Falcon onward. “Let’s keep moving, shall we? A shame to be late on your first day.”

  Falcon nodded and took a step forward, but now his eyes fell upon the harbor below them. There were several guardian warships covered with cannons and catapults. Slightly farther offshore was a small, homely boat. “Hey,” Falcon said. “The Destynee II. My friend Weems made that.” He paused. “Uh—ex-friend. I guess.”

  “Ah yes, the Destynee II,” said Mr. Drudge. “Your mother’s been quite insistent on preserving it, right where it came to anchor. She says that craft has historic value. Marking the place of your first return to higher civilization, Prince Falcon.” He paused. “Of course, there are others who feel differently. Who feel that a craft of monstrous origin ought rightly to be sunk. To maintain the dignity of our harbor. It is a matter of some debate, I don’t mind saying.”

  Falcon gave the Destynee II one last look before following Mr. Drudge on through the city.

  Soon they came to the open front door of a large, dilapidated building that reminded him of Cold River Middle School, except that it was covered with blue and tan camouflage stripes.

  “Very well then, sir,” said Mr. Drudge. “You are to report to room one-eleven and present yourself to Miss Bloodstone. She’s your homeroom teacher, and she’s also the instructor for Monstrosity.”

  “Look,” said Falcon. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “What?” said Mr. Drudge. “Getting yourself an education?”

  “I just got here,” said Falcon. “Why can’t I talk to my mother first? There are a lot of questions I need answers to, all right?”

  “I’m sure your mother will come to see you when she can,” said Mr. Drudge. “The business of government consumes her time! In the interim, school will help you learn the answers.”

  Falcon sighed. “Look, the last time I was here, I got locked up in a tower. My friends got killed. I’m not just going to—”

  “I know, I know,” said Mr. Drudge. “Everyone regrets that. Still, you have to admit that you know more about these so-called friends of yours than you did then.” The bell in the tower had stopped pealing now. “We grow, with time, do we not? We come to understand things in a new way as we get older?”

  “I don’t understand anything,” said Falcon.

  “Yes, I see,” said Mr. Drudge. “Perhaps this is why schooling might be helpful? Perhaps?”

  Falcon sighed. “Fine,” he said.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Drudge. “Just one more thing.” He pulled an eye patch from his pocket and affixed it over Falcon’s left eye. There we go. Now you’re all set.”

  “I have to wear this?”

  “Well, I don’t suppose you have to, but it would be sensible, wouldn’t it? To keep that dark eye covered? Just in case you feel the urge to—ah—you know. Burn things.”

  Falcon was going to protest but then just nodded. “Fine,” he said.

  “Off you go then. Remember—your schoolmates have been waiting for you. You are their hero. At last you have found a place where you belong.”

  “Listen, you’re crazy if you think I belong here, okay?” said Falcon. “I don’t belong anywhere.”

  Then Falcon turned his back on Mr. Drudge and walked down the hall.

  Mr. Drudge stood at the threshold for a long time, watching the angel walk alone on the shiny, waxed tiles of Guardian Junior High.

  Chapter 13

  Go, Assassins, Go!

  The walls of Guardian Junior High were hung with pennants that said gO, ASSASSINS, GO! In a glass case were trophies honoring the various triumphs of the school’s teams. On a wall beyond the trophy case were framed photos of notable alumni. There was a photo of a woman named Francis Ruthmeyer Sponge and beneath her portrait a plaque that said KILLS: ELEVEN BANSHEES, FORTY-SEVEN LEPRECHAUNS, SIXTY-ONE OTHERS. Next to that was a photo of a young man with a wide tie. Beneath him was the legend ROBERT HOOVER JOHNSTON. SIXTEEN VAMPIRES. R.I.P. In smaller letters, beneath this, it read HE GAVE HIS LIFE SO THAT OTHERS COULD GIVE THEIRS.

  Next to the portrait was a door marked 111. Falcon felt his black eye burning softly in its socket.

  He opened the door.

  There were twenty students sitting cross-legged in a circle on the floor. A young woman with a ponytail was leading them in a song.

  I’d like to be under the sea!

  And be an octopus’s guardian in the shade.

  We would defend our mollusk friend,

  And be an octopus’s guardian in the shade.

  I’d ask my friends to count to three

  Then kill the octopus’s enemies with me!

  I’d like to be under the sea!

  And be an octopus’s guardian in the shade.

  The young woman looked up. “Oh, hi, Falcon!” She smiled. “Look everyone, Prince Falcon’s here!’

  The other children, all wearing their identical camouflaged uniforms, smiled as one. Then they started a kind of welcoming chant that reminded Falcon of one of those songs that waiters in a chain restaurant sing for a customer’s birthday.

  We welcome you, Prince Falcon,

  we’re glad you come to slay!

  We’ll smash the brains of zombies,

  and then it’s time to play!

  Hey!

  “Very good, class,” said the teacher. “Falcon, my name is Miss Bloodstone. We’re just finishing up morning sing-along. Why don’t we all get settled and listen to Cadet Chandler’s oral report? Does that sound like fun?”

  “Fun?” said Falcon uncertainly.

  “He’s got wings,” said one of the young guardians suspiciously.

  “Yes, Cadet Snick, he’s an angel.”

  “Angels aren’t monsters?” said Snick. He was a beefy young man with a square jaw.

  “Angels are celestials,” said Miss Bloodstone.

  “There are so many kinds of creatures,” said a very small boy with orange hair and large, circular glasses. “It makes my brain hurt!”

  On the walls, Falcon noticed, were posters of famous monster slayers in history. There were paintings of Teddy Roosevelt and Elvis Presley. On bulletin boards there were pinned-up clippings from newspapers and magazines. Letters made from colorful construction paper spelled out MONSTER SLAYINGS IN THE NEWS. There was a story about the death of Gerald Ford.

  “Tell you what,” said Miss Bloodstone. “Let’s all sit down at our desks and listen to your report, Cadet Chandler. That will make our brains stop hurting.”

  The young guardians headed to their desks. The boy called Snick took one more look at Falcon, then shook his head. “You don’t fool me,” he said.

  “Fool you?” said Falcon to Snick. “About what?”

  Snick shook his head. “I know who your father is,” he said. “Everybody does.”

  “Are we all in our seats?” said Miss Bloodstone. Falcon turned away from Snick and sat at a free desk. At the front of the room, the young, orange-haired boy was now standing and holding a group of
index cards. He was shaking.

  “Cadet Chandler, your report is on zombie slaying, correct?”

  “Yuh-yuh-yuh-yes, Miss Bloodstone,” said Chandler.

  “You may begin. And please, Cadet Chandler. There is no reason to be nervous. We are all friends here.” She looked at the class with her wholesome, sparkling eyes. Something about her reminded Falcon of someone else he had known, but he couldn’t pin it down. “Aren’t we?”

  Snick laughed to himself. A few of the others looked at him.

  “Friends,” said Chandler, glancing at Falcon. “Uh. How to Kill Zombies. A Report.” The boy was so overwhelmed that his knees began to knock together. “Um. Zombies are bad for you and bad for me. So killing them is important for everyone. Zombies can be killed by lots of different methods. Some of them include putting them in a wood chipper, for instance, or running over them with a steamroller. Putting them in a microwave works especially if the zombie is small and has some metal on him. Or lighting them on fire. The important thing is to destroy the zombie brain. If the brain is not destroyed, the zombie will come back at you and be mad. And that would be a bad thing for you and a bad thing for me. So destroy the brain and the zombie will die. This is the end of my report on how to kill zombies. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Cadet Chandler,” said Miss Bloodstone. Chandler was about to sit down when the teacher added, “Are there any questions?”

  “Questions?” said Chandler, more anxious than ever.

  “I don’t understand what makes someone a zombie,” said a very pale girl at the back of the room. “Is it an infection you get, like mono?”

  “Cadet Chandler?” said the teacher. “Can you tell Cadet Portia what causes zombieism?”

  Chandler’s eyes opened wide. For a moment he looked like he was going to have a heart attack. Then he dropped all his index cards on the floor. He bent over to pick them up, but now his cards were all in the wrong order. Some were upside-down.

  “Tell us the cause,” said Miss Bloodstone more forcefully. “I presume you researched that? Did you not?” There was the soft hint of anger in her voice.

  “Uh,” he said. “Is it because—they didn’t obey the rules?” His voice broke as if he was about to cry.

  “Hmm,” said Miss Bloodstone. “I’m not sure that’s right. Does anyone else have an idea where zombies come from?” She looked around the room and pointed at a thin girl. “Cadet Femur? Can you tell us what causes zombies?”

  “Is it,” said Cadet Femur, “because they ate too much?”

  “No, no,” said Miss Bloodstone, her voice sounding exasperated. “Ah, Cadet de Celestina. Tell us.”

  A small, proud girl sitting in the row next to Falcon stood up. “I—Chenobia de Celestina—the monster slayer of Paragon Mountain!—shall tell you of the origin of the zombie creatures! Their kind was first invented by the sorcerers of voodoo, in the mysterious regions of the Caribbean and the Congo! It is these sorcerers who created a mysterious compound that reanimates the dead and enables them to walk among us! From these creatures come others of the zombie kind, with their staggering and their decaying that I—Chenobia de Celestina, the monster slayer of Paragon Mountain!—find highly distasteful! The zombie virus is thus spread from creature to creature, usually through the biting of the flesh with the teeth of undeadness! It is this that causes the zombies to walk! But it is we—the monster slayers!—who shall put an end to them and restore the world to justice! To this we pledge our sacred honor!”

  Chenobia de Celestina sat down. Falcon looked at her with his mouth open.

  “Is a Frankenstein a zombie?” asked Cadet Femur. “They’re dead things brought back to life, aren’t they?”

  “A Frankenstein is not technically a zombie,” said Miss Bloodstone. “Although their components are similar. But Frankensteins are easy to kill, compared to zombies. First, you frighten them with fire. Then—”

  The door to the classroom swung open, and a girl walked in. It was the same girl Falcon had seen at the Bludd Club, the one who looked exactly like Megan. “Ah, Cadet Gyra,” said Miss Bloodstone. “How nice to see you. We were just discussing the methods for killing Frankensteins. Oh, and Prince Falcon has joined us. Cadet Falcon, this is Gyra, our class’s Teaching Assassin.”

  “Falcon and I have met before,” said Gyra. “On Monster Island, when Cygnus and the colonel attempted to bring him home.” She sighed. “I’m glad you’re here at last.”

  “Uh,” said Falcon uncertainly. “Hello?”

  “So have you ever killed a Frankenstein?” said Snick.

  “I have,” said Gyra. “On a field trip to California last year. They have lots of them there.”

  “Tell the fledglings how you killed this Frankenstein,” said Miss Bloodstone.

  “Frankensteins are easy,” said Gyra, and as she spoke, again Falcon was struck by how similar she was to Megan. He still wasn’t certain whether she was some other girl entirely or whether Megan herself had been brainwashed by her captors. She looked at Falcon for a moment and smiled the smallest of grins. “You scare them with fire. Then you break their hearts.”

  “I!” shouted Chenobia de Celestina. “Find this hard to believe! That a monster could be destroyed by confusing their affections!”

  “Oh, I can believe it,” said Chandler. Tears were now hanging on his eyelashes.

  “But that’s their weakness, the Frankensteins,” said Gyra. “Their need for love. Remember, they’re not born, they’re fried. Reanimated with a bolt of lightning. So they never have a childhood. That makes them highly vulnerable—all they want is someone to love them. Which, on account of their being sewn out of dead bodies, nobody does. It’s easy to kill them. You just make them love you, then dump them. It’s a cinch.”

  “I don’t know how to break anybody’s heart,” said Chandler sadly.

  “Can’t you just blast ’em with a flamethrower?” said Snick. “That’s what I’d do!”

  “What did I just say?” said Gyra, and she snuck another look at Falcon. “You break their hearts.”

  “So informative,” said Miss Bloodstone. “Any other questions?”

  “I!” shouted Chenobia de Celestina. “Would like to inquire about the nature of banshees! How may they best be dispatched, so that the humans whom we protect may be kept safe?”

  “Anyone?” said Miss Bloodstone. She looked at the girl called Gyra. “Well, let us ask our T.A. once more. Thoughts on banshee slaying?”

  “Banshees feed on your tears,” said Gyra. “They scream in order to make you cry. So it’s easy enough. You just train yourself not to cry.”

  “You train yourself?” said Chandler, still crying. “Not to cry?”

  “Good luck, Chandler,” teased Snick.

  “What about mummies?” said Cadet Femur.

  “Destroy their treasure,” said Gyra. “Remove the soul from the body. Then burn the tomb.”

  “Werecreatures?”

  “This is a method well-known to all!” said Chenobia de Celestina. “The creature must be executed, with a bullet of silver.”

  “Silver anything works, actually,” said Gyra. “Bullets, swords, stakes. It’s all good. Just make sure it’s real silver, though. Stainless steel or pewter isn’t going to do the trick. I heard some sad stories where guardians went in to kill some werewolves with a pewter butter knife.” She shook her head. “Didn’t end well.”

  “Any other questions,” said Miss Bloodstone, “before Cadet Gyra has to go? We should move on to our next report.”

  “I got a question,” said Snick, casting a glance over at Falcon. “How would you kill him?”

  There was a moment’s horrified silence before Chenobia de Celestina spoke. “¡Señor!” she said. “Surely you would not suggest that the son of our queen—Prince Falcon!—should be exterminated like a monster of the wild! This is a suggestion of dishonor, and shame, which I—the famous monster slayer of Paragon Mountain!—cannot endure!”

  “I don’t mean him,”
said Snick. “I just mean angels in general.” He smiled a mean smile. “It’d be a good thing to know.”

  “Cadet Gyra?” said Miss Bloodstone.

  Gyra looked uncertain. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never killed an angel.” She shrugged. “Break its heart, maybe? Like a Frankenstein?” She cast a glance at Falcon. “I think it would take longer, though.”

  “Interesting,” said Miss Bloodstone. “But not quite correct. You see, fledglings, that even our T.A. has things to learn.” Gyra blushed slightly at this. Miss Bloodstone looked at Falcon. “To kill an angel, my young cadets, you need qeres. The infamous embalming perfume of the Egyptians.”

  “Qeres?” said Snick. “I never heard of that.”

  “That is because it is so rare,” said Miss Bloodstone. “But mummies often have some stored with their treasure, in tiny golden bottles with stoppers. I believe General Cygnus, in fact, procured some in a raid he performed in Cairo several years ago.”

  “And what does one do with this fragrance?” said Chenobia de Celestina. “Does one poison the angel with it?”

  “No,” said Miss Bloodstone. “One would coat the blade of a knife or a sword with it and then stab the angel through the heart.” She looked frightened. “But it is a terrible thing to kill a celestial. Against the guardian code, and a thing for which the Watcher provides no forgiveness! Those who break the code must stay with the Watcher on the Island of Nightmares. They do not wake up.”

  There was a long, awkward pause.

  “Still a good thing to know,” said Snick. “In case you knew an angel who went off the reservation.” He looked over at Falcon. “What about you, Prince? You think you might go haywire, if things didn’t go your way?”

  They all looked at Falcon. He felt his dark eye growing warm. “I’m not going haywire,” he said.

  “There now,” said Miss Bloodstone. “Time for our next report. Cadet Chandler, you may be seated. Cadet Femur, you’re up. Your report is on killing leprechauns, I believe.”

  “Yes, Miss Bloodstone,” said Cadet Femur. Gyra nodded to the class and headed for the door.