“I know I say it every year,” said Jupiter, gazing up at his hotel from the forecourt with undisguised pride, “but you’ve outdone yourself, Frank.”
“Very spooky,” said Morrigan. Jack murmured his agreement beside her, and Martha squealed, applauding enthusiastically.
Charlie clapped Frank on the back and said, “Think we’ve got Hallowmas in the bag this year, Frank. Them lot at the Hotel Aurianna won’t know what hit ’em.”
Jack glanced sideways at Morrigan, and they both held their breath. The last thing any of them needed was for Frank to go off on another rant about his chief rivals.
But Frank’s pallid face split into a confident grin, his eyes and his canines glinting in the Deucalion’s firelight. “Hallowmas belongs to me, my friends. Nobody walks the fine line of whimsical horror and ghoulish delight better than Frank. Nobody.”
Morrigan cast an amused look at the others. Martha smiled and bit her lip, while Jupiter tried to cover up his snort of laughter with a fake coughing fit.
“What’s on the agenda tonight, Frank?” asked Jack as they all made their way back inside to the candlelit lobby, where costumed guests were already gathering in anticipation of the night of terrors ahead. Serving staff handed around glasses of midnight-black punch and trays of tiny canapes that closely resembled real hairy spiders and human fingers. Jack had only arrived home from school that afternoon, so unlike Morrigan, Jupiter, and the staff, he hadn’t been subjected to the last week of Frank’s obsessive fine-tuning of the Hallowmas program. “Glad you asked, young Jack.” Frank cleared his throat importantly. “Six o’clock onward: Junior members of the Deucalion staff welcome hordes of beastly little trick-or-treaters.”
“What are the treats?” asked Jupiter.
“Oh, the usual,” said Frank. “Jelly skeletons. Maggot munchies. Chocolate eyeballs.”
“And the tricks?”
“I thought we’d hold them down and shave their eyebrows.”
Jupiter sighed. “No, Frank.”
“Tar and feather them?”
“Definitely not.”
“Tattoo their foreheads?”
Jupiter exhaled heavily, puffing out his cheeks. “Can we try to think of something that won’t result in a class action lawsuit?”
Frank’s face soured a little and he gave a sulky shrug. “Seven o’clock: The Nevermoor Chamber Orchestra will perform funeral dirges in the Music Salon. Eight o’clock: a beautifully gory performance of Death at First Bite by the notorious all-vampire theater company, the Thirsty Thespians—I had to call in a dozen different favors to wrangle that one. They’re very secretive you know, and they never usually perform for normals,” he said, looking quite deservedly smug. “Nine o’clock: spooky disco and costume competition in the second ballroom—always good to cater for the youth, I think.”
“Hawthorne will be pleased, he loves dancing,” said Morrigan—who, despite her youth, had absolutely no intention of attending a disco. She glanced at the clock behind the concierge desk, wondering where Hawthorne was. He was supposed to have arrived before sunset, but it was already dark. They had planned to go trick-or-treating together. Jupiter had initially said no, but relented after much pleading, and only then because Jack had reluctantly promised to accompany them. Martha had put together a last-minute, unidentifiable monster costume for Morrigan that involved a lot of purple pipe cleaners and green tulle and was already itching like crazy.
“Around eleven,” continued Frank, “most of our guests will head downtown to get a spot at the Black Parade before midnight. Meanwhile, back here at the Deucalion, I will be eschewing this year’s parade to host my own, highly exclusive, top secret, invitation-only midnight event.” Frank paused dramatically. Morrigan raised an eyebrow at Jack, who smirked. “I have procured the services of the Marvelous Malau.”
“Ooh,” said Martha, her eyes lighting up. “I’ve seen him in the newspaper!”
Morrigan had never heard of the Marvelous Malau. “Who is he?”
“Only the Free State’s greatest living clairvoyant,” declared Frank.
“According to his own advertisements,” muttered Jack.
Frank ignored him. “Malau will be conducting a séance right here on the roof of the Deucalion. He says being outside under the full moon will bring us closer in tune with the spirits.”
“A spooky old séance, hey,” said Jupiter, looking impressed. “Bang on trend, Frank. Communion with the dead is quite fashionable right now. All nonsense, of course, since no self-respecting ghost would show up for a clairvoyant who advertises in the Looking Glass and calls himself Marvelous. But still, very fashionable.”
“You just wait, Jove,” called the vampire dwarf, as he wandered away to greet his guests. “Malau is the real thing. The society pages will be screaming about this for days.”
Just then, a sudden screech of wheels drifted up from the forecourt outside, followed by a clattering of footfalls up the front steps, and a troop of half a dozen black-coated, heavy-booted Stealth officers hurrying into the Deucalion. They were led by a stern-looking woman with close-cropped, wiry gray hair and golden epaulets on her shoulders.
“Good evening, Inspector Rivers,” said Jupiter. He had a welcoming but weary expression. It occurred to Morrigan that if the woman was bringing bad news, both Jupiter and Jack—who’d cautiously lifted his eye patch as the Stealth filed in—already had an inkling of it.
“Captain North,” said the inspector, gesturing to her officers to stand by. Some of the costumed guests looked disturbed by the sudden intrusion, but a few were delighted, as if they were certain this was part of the Hallowmas fun. She pulled Jupiter to one side and spoke quietly, but of course Morrigan, Jack, Charlie, and Martha merely sidled closer to hear. “I’m sorry to interrupt. HQ wanted to send a messenger, but I thought I should speak with you in person. It’s bad news. We’ve had three more. All taken today.”
Morrigan felt her chest constrict a little. Taken. Who’d been taken?
Jupiter’s eyes narrowed. He rubbed a hand over his ginger beard. “Three more disappearances?”
Inspector Rivers nodded. “We’ve had an anonymous tip.” She lowered her voice. Morrigan, Jack, Charlie, and Martha all leaned in to listen. “It’s back, Captain, and it’s tonight.”
Morrigan glanced up at Jupiter; the color had drained from his face. They were talking about the Ghastly Market. She was sure of it.
“I see,” he said slowly. “And did this… anonymous tip give a location for the event, or is that too optimistic of me?”
Inspector Rivers shook her head, looking grim. “We’ve sent out all the officers we can spare to search the likely locations, but as you know, our numbers are small.”
“And it’s unlikely to be in the likely locations,” added Jupiter.
“Quite. So we’re working with the Stink”—she caught herself, and gave a little cough—“excuse me, with the Nevermoor City Police Force, and we’ve even recruited some members of the Wunsoc teaching staff to assist in the search.”
“The—the teaching staff?” sputtered Jupiter. “Is that a good idea?”
“They insisted, Captain,” she said. “And I quite understand why. One of their own is among the missing. Stolen from inside the walls of Wunsoc itself, if you can believe that—right out of his own living quarters. Signs of a struggle. Water all over the place… and bones.”
“Bones,” Jupiter repeated.
“A femur,” said Rivers, with a significant look. “A few fingers.”
A muscle in Jupiter’s jaw clenched, and Morrigan knew why. The Skeletal Legion. The Bonesmen. That confirmed it; the Bonesmen had taken another three people for the Ghastly Market. Morrigan pictured the little trail of leftover bones in her mind, and she shuddered.
There was something else too, she thought, a little snag in the story—
“Did you say… there was water?” Morrigan asked the inspector, unable to help herself.
Rivers gave her a sidelong l
ook, then glanced back to Jupiter, and said, “From the pond in his room. We think they must have dragged him right out of it.”
Morrigan frowned as she connected the dots. “You’re talking about Professor Onstald, aren’t you? The tortoisewun?”
Inspector Rivers pressed her lips together, refusing to look at Morrigan. Morrigan took that as silent confirmation.
She couldn’t help thinking that perhaps Onstald hadn’t really been kidnapped at all. Perhaps, in fact, he had made himself disappear because he was afraid of being exposed by Morrigan as a fraud. The thrill of angry satisfaction she felt at that thought was immediately chased by shame.
And something else.
Some other fear was tickling the back of Morrigan’s brain, so subtle she couldn’t yet name it.
“Who are the other two?” she asked Rivers.
The woman made an exasperated face at Jupiter.
“Hush, Mog,” he said. “Inspector, I’m at your service. I’ll grab my coat.”
“Actually,” said Rivers, holding up a hand to stop him, “what I’d like is for you to be on standby. It’s better if you’re here, ready to move as soon as we’ve narrowed down the possibilities. Right now, we’re looking for a needle in a haystack. I’ll send a runner for you the minute we have a decent lead.” Jupiter nodded his agreement.
“In the meantime, we’re urging all Wundrous Society members to remain in their homes,” the inspector continued. “A strict curfew is in place. There is a very real threat to all Wuns in Nevermoor tonight.”
“But what about the Black Parade?” asked Morrigan, suddenly stricken. It was going to be her and Hawthorne’s first time marching! They’d been looking forward to it since last year’s parade, when they’d watched the rows of solemn, black-cloaked, candle-bearing Wunsoc units marching in silent procession through the streets of Nevermoor. (Where was Hawthorne? The tiny, tickling fear grew more insistent.)
“The Black Parade has been canceled,” said Inspector Rivers.
Morrigan felt the bad news hit her like a slug to the chest. Canceled. Her first-ever Black Parade. Canceled. Whoever was behind these disappearances—whoever was targeting Wuns—was now controlling everyone, making people fear even leaving their homes. Morrigan felt anger surge through her, accompanied by the now strangely familiar taste of ash at the back of her throat.
“And, Captain North,” continued Rivers, “we’re calling on all Wundrous Society members to cancel any gatherings or festivities they may have planned. This is not a night for our people to be out in the streets. We’re hoping, since everyone looks up to you, that you’ll set a good example.”
Jupiter looked as if he wanted to argue with this idea, but thought better of it. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll let my staff know immediately. We’ll put the word out. And I’ll be here all night, Inspector, awaiting your summons.”
Inspector Rivers gave him a brief nod, turned on her heels, and departed, her troops following her obediently out the door.
Jupiter looked across the lobby, to where Frank was entertaining a knot of delighted guests by making his fangs extend and retract on command. “Suppose I’d better give him the bad news.”
Morrigan’s heart sank.
No Black Parade. No trick-or-treating. More disappearances.
And another, much more insistent worry she couldn’t ignore.
Where was Hawthorne?
“Sorry I’m late!” came a boisterous voice from the entry, and in strode the strangest-looking creature Morrigan had ever seen.
Its decaying, bloodied gray skin was lashed with blood. It had bright green scaly claws with green talons and a matching spiky tail. Its legs were rectangles of silver covered with buttons, bolts, and bottle caps. And completing the strange ensemble were a pirate’s hat, red brocade coat, frilly white cravat, and black eye patch.
Morrigan exhaled. She blinked repeatedly, feeling sharp relief at the arrival of her best friend, but also the fresh shock of… whatever she was looking at.
“I couldn’t decide what to come as, so Mum made me a pirate-zombie-robot-dinosaur costume and—” Hawthorne stopped abruptly when he saw Morrigan’s face. He looked down at his ensemble. “What, too much?”
Morrigan had never seen the Deucalion in such a somber state. After the Stealth left and she’d filled Hawthorne in, the first thing the two friends did was run to the station door in her bedroom, hoping to check on the rest of Unit 919 and make sure they all knew to stay indoors tonight. But the W symbol was unlit, and the door wouldn’t budge no matter how hard they pushed it. Frustrated and worried, all they could do was return to the lobby and wait. Morrigan was, at least, relieved to change out of her itchy costume. (Hawthorne had also shed his talons, tail, and silver robot legs, though rather more reluctantly.)
Jupiter was pacing the black-and-white checkered floor—coat on, boots laced, umbrella in hand, ready to bolt when the Stealth called on him. Morrigan knew he hated staying put and waiting for news just as much as she did but that he was trying to stay calm and cheerful for everyone else’s sake.
Frank, meanwhile, was furious. It had taken an hour just to convince him the whole thing wasn’t the Hotel Aurianna, trying to sabotage him. Once he accepted it really was the Wundrous Society, that was almost as bad.
“Another BLATANT example of Wun privilege at its worst,” he roared, adding as an aside to Jupiter and Morrigan, “No offense.” He paced irritably up and down the now-emptied lobby. The costumed crowd had already been sent home, disappointed, and the guests who were staying at the Deucalion had all been up to the Golden Lantern cocktail bar for a happy hour that was to last all night, to make up for the canceled festivities.
“None taken,” said Jupiter. “I quite agree, Frank.” He shot a tiny wink in Morrigan’s direction.
“The Thirsty Thespians have left,” said Frank glumly. “Probably laughing at me. Yesterday they said I could have a role in their winter production of Creatures of the Night, but that’s not gonna happen now, is it? And the Marvelous Malau is distraught. Inconsolable! He said he could feel the disappointment of the spirits through the Gossamer, so now I’ve got a bunch of dead people angry at me too. He’s gone up to the Golden Lantern to drown his sorrows.”
The vampire dwarf broke into a sobbing wail and Martha led him over to the love seat, putting a consoling arm around him. He wept into her side so loudly, so heartrendingly, and for such a tedious length of time, that finally Jupiter told him he could still have the midnight séance on the rooftop with the remaining hotel guests, as long as he pulled himself together and stopped crying.
“The Stealth are out in force, doing everything they can,” Jupiter said. “There’s nothing we can do now except wait to hear from them. We might as well enjoy what’s left of Hallowmas, then get a good night’s sleep, and hopefully by this time tomorrow everything will be right as rain.”
Frank immediately set off to fetch Malau, and Martha and Charlie went to the rooftop to check that everything was set up and ready to go.
“I’ll be here at the desk, sir,” said Kedgeree. “I’ll send for you the second we get word from the Stealth.”
“Good man.” Jupiter turned to Morrigan, Hawthorne, and Jack. “Come on, you three. It’s All Hallows’ Eve. Let’s get chatty with ghosts.”
After spending the bulk of his evening enjoying the hospitality of the talented Golden Lantern bartenders, the Marvelous Malau was a little sozzled by the time he started the séance.
“The spirits are—hic—with us, dear friends,” said the clairvoyant. He sat on a cushion on the rooftop, at the center of a large circle of guests. “They are all around us, on this night of All Hallows’ Eve, when the walls between the living and the dead are th-thing… thingest.” He paused to rummage around in his head for another word. “Skinniest?”
Frank had set the scene for the séance wonderfully. The rooftop was lit by hundreds of long, tapered black candles that flickered atmospherically but never seemed to blow out, desp
ite the cool breeze. Everyone sat on elegant black velvet cushions, and an artificial—but beautifully eerie—white fog hovered on the edges of the circle.
It was a shame the effect was wasted on a group of guests who were mostly eager to return to their endless free cocktails on the sixth floor.
“I’m getting a message from an older gentleman… for somebody over… here.” He waved vaguely to half the people in the circle. “A gentleman with a D-name. Somebody’s father or uncle? A grand—hic—grandfather, perhaps? Darren? David? Dominic? Doo… Doody? Drogley? Er… Derek?” Malau continued, heroically sticking to his story. “Digby? Dwayne?”
“Ooh!” shrieked a young woman wearing a plastic tiara and a bright pink BRIDE-TO-BE sash. She was at the Deucalion with a group of raucous young women who didn’t have a lot of interest in celebrating Hallowmas. Frank had invited them to the séance to make up the numbers, and they’d already been told twice to stop yelling out rude words while the Marvelous Malau was communing with the dead. “Could it be Wayne? My father-in-law’s name is Wayne. Is it him?”
Malau appeared to consider this for a moment. “Yes, that’s the one. He has a message for you. He says… please take good care of his son. Love each other.”
The group of girlfriends all awwwed as one, and the bride-to-be looked a little bit teary. “I didn’t think he wanted me to marry Benji!”
“Oh, he does,” continued Malau. “He says nothing would make him happier, and he’ll be watching over the two of you from the Better Place.”
The bride’s face fell. “The Better Place? What do you mean? Wayne’s not dead.”
It was all too much for Morrigan and Hawthorne, who tried valiantly to hide their silent giggles. But then Hawthorne snorted loudly, and it was all over for Morrigan, whose face was already streaming with tears of laughter.
From across the circle, Jupiter raised his eyebrows at them and looked pointedly toward the door. Still giggling, Morrigan grabbed Hawthorne’s arm. They stood up and were just about to flee the séance when the Marvelous Malau stood also, pointed directly at Morrigan, and declared in a sharp, ringing voice—
Wundersmith, The Calling of Morrigan Crow Page 27
