Falcon Quinn and the Crimson Vapor

by Jennifer Finney Boylan

  Chapter 16

  Creative Writing for Assassins

  Several days later, the young guardians were sitting in Colonel Hemingway’s class, Literature of Mayhem. As in all of the colonel’s classes so far, the story under discussion was one of the colonel’s own. This one was called “The Harpies of Gettysburg.”

  “There we were, in the attic of a building right in the town square,” he said. “Our hearts pounding, my brother, Mycroft, and I climbed the stairs—cautiously! Cautiously! When, all at once, from behind us, there came a hideous scream!”

  From the back of the room came a small, sad whimper.

  “What’s all this?” asked the colonel. “Cadet Chandler? Come, come, now! Let’s show a little backbone!”

  “My mommy says your stories promote witchcraft!” said Chandler miserably.

  “Yeah,” said Snick. “But your mommy said that about The Velveteen Rabbit too.”

  “The Velveteen Rabbit does promote witchcraft!” Chandler looked frightened.

  “Come now, lad,” said the colonel. “Show some spine! I remember back in eighty-three, when I was stalking the madwoman of Chicago. Well, there we were, stepping in—”

  “Colonel,” said Gyra, “will the students ever get a chance to write stories of their own? Instead of just listening to yours all the time?”

  “I’d like to do some writing,” Jonny Frankenstein said. Snick looked over at Jonny and laughed derisively.

  “Yeah, that’d be some great stuff to read,” said Snick. “Poems about a bunch of nasty guts all held together with duct tape.”

  “Curious,” said the colonel. “Any other fledglings with an interest in yarn spinning?”

  “I’ve written some poems,” said Gyra softly.

  “I say,” said the colonel. “Extraordinary collection of talent! Bully!”

  At this moment, the bell rang, and all of the students leaped to their feet and rushed toward the door. Falcon and Gyra and Jonny were the last ones remaining, and as they packed up their things, the colonel sat in his chair stroking his mustache.

  “Well, then!” said the colonel. “About this creative-writing business. Might be good fun. Would you three like to convene a small workshop? We could specialize in poems about monster killing! Sonnets about zombie destroying and the like!”

  Gyra looked at Jonny. “Does he have to come?” she said.

  “Oh, the more the merrier,” said the colonel. “First meeting tonight. Seven, in my chambers? I’ll show you some of my trophies from my collection as well. Some remarkable specimens, if I do say so.”

  “You don’t want me to come, Gyra?” said Jonny with a grin.

  “Jonny Frankenstein,” said Gyra. “I don’t care if you live or die.”

  The colonel smiled happily. “It’s all settled then! Good show!”

  Falcon was just beginning to wonder what the colonel meant by “specimens” when the bell for the next class rang and he found himself running down the hallway, late for the History of Virtue.

  Falcon wasn’t quite certain what to expect that night when he arrived at the colonel’s residence, which was a tower of Paragon Castle called the Turret of Adventure. The old man, however, opened the door to reveal Jonny Frankenstein and Gyra in the heart of a wood-paneled study, sitting in chairs covered with elephant hide. Gyra had her bullwhip coiled on her right hip. The stuffed heads of various monsters lined the walls. Colonel Hemingway wore a silken robe and puffed on a large meerschaum pipe.

  “Grand to see you, old chap, come in, come in. Bully!”

  “Hey, Falcon,” said Jonny.

  “Hey, Jonny,” said Falcon. He nodded at Gyra. “Hi.”

  “Hi, Falcon,” she said.

  “Now here’s a fascinating specimen,” said the colonel, pointing at a stuffed head of a ferocious beast. “The Chimera of Philadelphia. Ah, look at him, fledglings! Quite a ferocious chap in his day!” Falcon looked at the chimera, and as he looked, a long line of slobber fell from the creature’s lips and dripped onto the floor. The chimera followed Falcon with its eyes, sniffed the air, and then roared.

  “It’s alive!” said Falcon.

  “After a fashion,” said the colonel, chuckling. “But he’s harmless enough. Without his goat body and dragon tail, he’s more meow than roar, I should say.” He laughed loudly. “Jolly good!”

  Falcon looked around the room and saw that many of the other trophy heads were watching them, their eyes shining. On a far wall was a large case with a wide variety of elephant guns and machetes. Beneath these were traps and elixirs and binoculars.

  “Ah, now here—look at these two!” said the colonel, moving along to the next trophy. “A gargoyle—and his wife!” Mounted on the wall was the head of a man wearing a beret. Right next to him was the head of a woman with high cheekbones. “Good evening, old boy! How are we this evening?”

  “Bonjour,” said the gargoyle.

  “The LaFleurs,” said the colonel. “Bagged them near Marseille, I believe.”

  “Je n’ai jamais aimé mon mari,” said the woman.

  “What did she say?”

  “Can’t say,” said the colonel. “Never did learn French, you know.”

  “Il nous faut sortir d’ici!”

  “Bully!” said the colonel. He ushered Falcon over to a wing chair next to Jonny Frankenstein and Gyra. “Well, let’s get started. Best place to begin is at the beginning, don’t you know. Analyzing the structure of dramatic action.”

  “Do I need all that stuff?” said Gyra. “Just to write poems?”

  “I should say so,” said the colonel. “A poem can’t just begin anyplace, you know!”

  There was a deep, gonging bell, and a far door swung open, which Falcon at first thought—and hoped—was the arrival of another guest. Then he saw a servant enter the room, a man wearing white gloves and carrying a large platter, upon which were four plates covered with silver domes.

  The servant had no head.

  “Ah—Quimby,” said the colonel. “There’s a good man. Just put those down on the table here, and we’ll serve ourselves. Right!”

  “Quimby,” said Falcon. “Wait. His name is Quimby?”

  The servant put the platter down, bowed slightly, and then turned and walked back toward the door through which he had entered. The creature’s ability to sense its surroundings seemed somewhat limited, however; it had to pause for a moment to feel around for the door with its gloved hands. Then at last the headless body exited, the door swinging closed behind it. The colonel removed the silver dome from his plate. “Ah!” he said enthusiastically. “Buffalo wings! Bully! Be careful, fledglings! They’re spicy!”

  “Colonel,” said Falcon. “I used to know somebody named Quimby! He was the spirit of the crystal back in my dorm room at the Academy. Before he got loose, anyhow.”

  At the mention of the Academy for Monsters, Gyra looked at Falcon uncomfortably. She shook her head.

  “What?” said Falcon.

  “Nothing,” said Gyra.

  “Ah, Quimby,” said the colonel, biting into a wing. “Big, lurching, headless chap.”

  Jonny picked up a buffalo wing. In his hands was a large, sinewy thing covered with sauce. “Wait. What’s this?”

  “A buffalo wing, my good man!” said the colonel. “Made from the dangerous flying buffalo of northernmost Saskatoon! Bagged these bison myself, last autumn. Had Quimby put them in the smokehouse for me!”

  Jonny smiled. “Buffalo wings,” he muttered.

  “You’ve fought a lot of monsters, Colonel,” said Gyra.

  “As shall you, Cadet Gyra,” said the colonel. “You’re the most promising student we’ve had in a generation!”

  “Is there anything that’s escaped you?” said Jonny, cautiously biting into a wing. “Anything you wanted to capture but couldn’t?”

  “What’s that? Well, there are a few I’ve never encountered. But I’ll get them yet, I trust! One thing you can depend on—there are always more monsters!” />
  “How’d you capture that chimera?” asked Gyra, looking at the head of the creature mounted on the wall.

  “Well, it had three heads when I found it. Froze one, hypnotized the second. And this one I just chopped off clean.”

  The chimera growled.

  “And the gargoyles?”

  “Very difficult. Had to slip a Mickey Finn into their Beaujolais!”

  “Le salaud!” muttered the gargoyle.

  His wife shook her head. “J’allais demander le divorce!” she said. “A cause de ses ronflements!”

  “I say,” said the colonel. “Sometimes I do wonder what they’re on about!”

  “What about a wind elemental?” said Jonny. Gyra looked at him suspiciously.

  “Ah, now. The elementals are tricky. Tricky, indeed. Too dangerous to be kept inside, even once they’re captured. Some are easier than others. A fire elemental you can douse with an enchanted hose, and you’re all done. A water elemental’s tougher. Those you have to boil, and then capture the steam. I remember one water elemental we captured back in seventy-nine, I think it was. Seventy-nine or seventy-eight. In any case, there we were, boiling the elemental when the steam re-formed in midair, taking on the form of a ferocious steam dragon. Well! For a moment I feared the worst. But then, I cleverly grabbed a teabag and—”

  “That’s fascinating,” said Jonny. He cast an urgent glance at Falcon. “But you were going to tell us about wind elementals, weren’t you?”

  “Why do you want to know so much about wind elementals, Jonny?” said Gyra.

  “Well, they’re fascinating, don’t you know,” said the colonel. “Of course, a wind elemental’s a much easier prospect than the other kinds. You trap it in a wind sock, or a windmill, with entangling yarn, or entangling sails, or what have you. Quite simple, really. You just trap it, let it tire itself out, and then it just fades. Doesn’t make much of a trophy, of course, being invisible and all that. But satisfying, yes! We just caught one last spring, if I recall. That girl from the Academy, what was her name? Kept the sails of the old windmill up on the mountain going for weeks and weeks. Still up there, I believe! Probably spun all to pieces by now!” He chuckled. “Bully!”

  “Megan?” said Falcon. “Megan Crofton? She’s trapped in the sails of that windmill?”

  “Quite,” said the colonel. “But she’s—”

  “Falcon,” said Gyra, a tone of warning in her voice.

  “Now then, fledglings,” continued the colonel. “We ought to get to work on the matter at hand—our workshop for assassin poets! Why don’t we begin by analyzing the proper elements of a limerick? Bully! Now, your first line should always begin with the phrase ‘There once was a—’”

  “Colonel,” said Jonny, “before you go any further, may I just, um—shake your hand, sir? It really is an honor to be chosen for this workshop. And I want to thank you for giving me this opportunity. A lot of other teachers wouldn’t give someone like me a chance like this.”

  “What are you doing?” said Gyra.

  “I’m expressing my admiration,” said Jonny, getting to his feet.

  “Well, now,” said the colonel, visibly pleased by the flattery. “You know the faculty has followed your progress, my boy, with great interest.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Jonny, extending his hand. “This class has me really—charged up.”

  “Colonel,” said Gyra, growing more alarmed. “Don’t let him—!”

  “Bully!” said the colonel, taking Jonny’s hand. “Bu—”

  Jonny’s eyes rolled back in his head, and forking bolts of electricity consumed the colonel. The old man was entwined with flashing, twisting light as Jonny shocked him with his alternating current. When Jonny let go of the colonel’s hand, the man fell limply onto the leather sofa.

  “What did you do?” said Gyra, pulling out her bullwhip.

  “Jonny,” said Falcon. “You toasted him.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know,” said Jonny. “He was kind of boring me.”

  “Do you electrocute all your teachers when you’re bored?”

  Jonny smiled. “If I can.”

  “I’m placing you under guardian arrest!” Gyra said. “For attacking a member of the faculty! Put your hands behind your backs, both of you!”

  “What if we don’t?” said Jonny.

  “I said put your hands behind your backs!”

  “I got plenty of voltage left for you too, Gyra,” said Jonny. “If that’s what you want.”

  She cracked the whip in the air. “Try it, Jonny,” she said. “Go on.”

  “Gyra,” said Falcon. “Megan Crofton is my friend. We have to save her.”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” said Gyra. “Except turn the both of you in.”

  From Jonny came the sound of electricity softly crackling. “Stand back, Falcon,” he said.

  “Don’t hurt her,” said Falcon.

  Jonny looked at Falcon curiously. “Whose side are you on?” he said.

  “Gyra,” said Falcon. “Remember when we were talking about what it was like to have a family, that day after Field Research? Megan was my family, back in Cold River. I can’t leave her here. I can’t.”

  “She’s a monster,” said Gyra. The whip trembled in her hand.

  “Gyra,” said Falcon. “You don’t have to stay here. There’s more to life than just killing zombies.”

  “Falcon,” said Jonny. “Come on. I gotta zap her.”

  “Wait,” said Falcon. He looked at Gyra again as an expression of uncertainty crossed her face. “Gyra. Remember on Monster Island, when you tried to get me to come with you? You said I could have a better life. Remember?”

  “Yeah,” said Gyra. “I remember.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m offering you,” said Falcon. “If you come with us.”

  “Come with you,” said Gyra slowly.

  “She’s not coming with us, okay?” said Jonny. Small blue flashes of electricity crackled across his palms.

  “Come on, Gyra,” said Falcon. He held out his hand. “Join us.”

  Gyra looked at Falcon, standing there with his hand outstretched, and then at Jonny, humming and sparking with voltage.

  “I can’t,” she said. She rolled up her bullwhip. “I’m a guardian, okay? I have to protect my friends, just like you have to protect yours.”

  “That’s it, I’m zapping her,” said Jonny.

  “Don’t,” said Falcon. “It’s all right.” He turned to Gyra. “Give us a ten-minute head start?”

  “What?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  Gyra thought it over. “Five,” she said.

  Jonny raised his hands to blast Gyra with electricity. But Falcon’s hands went to his temple, and he pulled off the eye patch that covered his dark eye and threw the eye patch on the floor.

  “If you touch her, Jonny,” said Falcon, “I’ll shoot you with a fireball. I swear, I’ll do it!”

  Now it was Jonny’s turn to think things over. He sighed. “Fine,” he said, lowering his hands, although it was clear he wasn’t happy about it. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Falcon looked at the colonel. “How long’s he out for?”

  “Couple hours, I think,” said Jonny.

  “Well, all right then,” said Falcon. “Let’s get out of here. We got a windmill to stop.”

  Jonny nodded. “Course, they’ll come after us once she tells Cygnus what we’re doing.” He glanced at Gyra again. “You are going to tell them what we’re doing, aren’t you?”

  “Probably,” said Gyra.

  “So what’s your plan, Falcon?” said Jonny. “They aren’t going to like us setting Megan free. Matter of fact, I think it’s gonna tick ’em off in a big way.”

  “Let’s get back to Monster Island,” said Falcon. “Join up with the Filchers. Live with them.”

  “The Filchers?” said Gyra. “Who are the Filchers?”

  “Let’s keep that our secret, okay?” said Jonny.

 
; “Let’s go,” said Falcon.

  “Wait,” said Jonny. “How are we going get to Monster Island?”

  “We sail,” said Falcon. “On Weems’s boat, you know, the Destynee II. It’s still sitting in the harbor. I saw it my first morning, when Mr. Drudge was walking me to school.”

  “Listen to you,” said Jonny. “You are devious, aren’t you?”

  “You’ll never get away with this,” said Gyra. “You know that, right?”

  Jonny and Falcon went over to the open window. “Climb on my back, Jonny,” said Falcon.

  “Ride ’em, cowboy,” said Jonny.

  “Gyra,” said Falcon. “Look out for Sam and Celeste, okay?”

  “You look out for yourself, Falcon Quinn,” said Gyra.

  Falcon stepped out of the tower, spreading his wings. He and Jonny soared above the Hidden City.

  Gyra watched them fly. Then she turned away from the window and went into the hallway. She coiled up her bullwhip and fastened it to her belt. She looked at her watch. Five minutes, Falcon, she thought. Then she would have to wake Cygnus.

  She remembered walking back from the Temple of Honor with Falcon. Would it be so wrong, Gyra thought, just to let them go? What would be the harm, if Falcon and Megan got to live their own lives, in peace?

  “Why, Gyra,” said a voice.

  Gyra looked up to see Vega standing there in her long, white gown. Tippy was at her side, growling.

  “What are you doing up?”

  Chapter 17

  The Windmill

  Falcon flew toward the top of Paragon Mountain.

  “Ow,” said Falcon.

  “What? Am I too heavy for you?”

  “No. But you’re leaking current or something. I’m getting a shock from you. Can’t you turn off the juice?”

  “Sorry,” said Jonny. “I got a short.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s really unpleasant.”

  “Speaking of crossed wires . . .”

  “What?”

  “You and Gyra,” said Jonny. “You know that relationship is really sick?”

  “Sick? What do you mean, sick?”

  “Come on. The only reason you wouldn’t let me zap her is because she looks like Megan. Admit it.”