Midnight Monster Club

by Gerhard Gehrke

  “Don’t get sassy. I’m working on it. We’ll get Cy and Philip back. I wanted to make sure you were still here watching the chef. I’m going outside to see if the gravedigger is out there waiting. If not, I’ll be back and we’ll make the chef tell us everything he knows.”

  “Let me go with you.”

  “No. I don’t trust the guards or the sheriff. Sit tight.”

  He went back outside and cut through the courtyard and exited into Stockade Square. The music had stopped. People were going home. The celebration was just a taste of how crazy Diregloom would become over the weekend as the catacomb games commenced.

  How had his own good time on the island become such a disaster?

  He and his companions Gavin and Hector scoured the square. They checked a few of the drunks who had their faces hidden and even went down the numerous alleys in search of the gravedigger. Had the fel decided to give up on the exchange?

  Angel felt his annoyance building. If the gravedigger had fled, that would mean any chance of finding the watch would vanish. He wrote Cy and Philip off. For all he knew, the ogre had eaten them. Angel would accumulate more friends. That part was easy. But navigating his aunt’s wrath and Red Eye’s assassins was going to make life precarious.

  By his estimation it was well past the start of the third watch. Dawn was a few hours away. He began thinking of boat schedules and which would be first off the island. He still had time to deliver some pain to the cook, though. The fel probably knew nothing, but the distraction would be welcome.

  The sheriff emerged from the stockade on horseback. He led a second horse with a bound figure seated on it.

  Angel hurried over to see.

  There in the dying glow of the strung lanterns rode the gravedigger. The sheriff was taking him away. But where?

  He grabbed one of the guards. “Where’s he going?”

  “No idea, sir!” the man squeaked.

  Angel’s two companions brought him his horse.

  “They’re heading up Fountain Street,” Gavin said.

  Angel swung up into the saddle. He kicked his horse into motion. The animal’s hooves skittered on the damp cobblestones as they raced into the chill night in pursuit.

  The sheriff had lied.

  He had the gravedigger in custody, the one soul who knew everything about the watch, and he was taking him to the castle. The why of it didn’t make sense. But Angel had to catch him before his own situation spun even further out of control.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “SO I’M NOT TO HANG in the morning,” Digger said as he fought to keep his balance on the horse. With his hands manacled behind his back it was either that or fall, and he’d collected enough bodies from stupid horse accidents to want to avoid suffering such a fate.

  The sheriff never took his eyes off the road. “I took the liberty of speaking with the guard captain. Seems there’s no report of a theft of a watch.”

  “Sounds like you get a raise. I’m sure there’s a fence or two who will deal with a lawman looking to move a fancy piece of jewelry.”

  “How little you know me.”

  They were passing the many spewing fountains on the boulevard leading up to the castle. Digger processed what he had heard of the exchange between Lord Angel and the sheriff. Monty was a prisoner in the stockade.

  “I’ve cooperated,” Digger said. “What about Isabel? And Lord Angel has my brother.”

  “It gets a little more complicated, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? We had a deal.”

  “Which has saved your neck so far. Isabel will remain a prisoner of mine while I find out what she knows. She was unwilling to be as forthcoming as you.” He paused to ride around a group of lingering revelers. “But this cook is Lord Angel’s prisoner. I have no say as to what he does with him until the prisoner is accused.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re taking me to the castle.”

  “It’s undisputed that you attacked me. I thought I’d return the favor and deliver you up where you’ll be able to have a fighting chance at freedom. Unless you’d prefer a turn at the gallows. But with the games on tomorrow, the audience won’t be very enthusiastic at seeing a simple hanging.”

  So that was it. The sheriff was bringing him to the castle. As a fel condemned to the games, his chances at survival were slim. There he would fight or die.

  Each season of catacomb games were different, according to the stories. Only the richest of Diregloom’s inhabitants could afford to watch as spectators. Queen Claudia was good to her word and released all fel who survived, but the numbers were few. His fellow gravediggers who had helped with the cleanup had shared what they had learned. This round of catacomb games was supposed to be more extravagant and deadly than any of the previous years.

  “I thought you’d be groveling by now,” the sheriff said.

  Digger didn’t respond. What was there to say? He had failed to save himself and his brother. And now he faced a likely death sentence.

  The manacles binding his wrist remained as tight as ever.

  They rode through the castle gate. The inner courtyard was alive and busy as servants rushed about with purpose. Long drooping streamers ran down from the corners of the rooftops to the tops of the walls. Every window and doorway was covered in elaborate floral arrangements. And there, between the keep and the western guard tower, was the entrance to the catacombs.

  The gray stone archway looked like the gaping mouth of a demon clawing its way up from the ground. Through its teeth were a set of stairs descending into shadow. The demon’s eyes held lanterns that shone like twin beacons.

  A man with a clipboard was staring up at the stone face. He waved to a worker who turned the lantern in the right eye slightly. Others were putting the finishing touches on a display of flowering thorn vines that may or may not have been real. Stuck in the vines were swords, shields, and skulls, all presumably from adventurers who had failed to even make it through the demon’s mouth.

  If Digger’s stomach could have sunk any further, it would.

  A fel in a fancy outfit approached them. He had dark lines under his eyes.

  The sheriff dismounted. “I have an additional entrant for tomorrow, steward.”

  The fel only glanced at Digger for a moment before signaling someone. A guard hauled him off the saddle.

  “What’s the charge?” the guard asked.

  “Assaulting a pureblood.”

  No further questions were needed. As the guard pushed Digger towards the keep, another rider entered the gate and cantered over. Lord Angel barely stopped his horse before swinging off the animal and storming towards the sheriff.

  “Sheriff! You insult me!”

  “Not on purpose, Lord Angel. If I give offense, I beg forgiveness.”

  Angel’s face had turned a shade of deep red. “You didn’t say you had a prisoner. You can’t release him here!”

  “Release him? As you can see, he’s been remanded to the queen’s authority to face justice. The condemned chose the catacombs.”

  Digger saw pure hatred in the nobleman’s eyes as Angel marched towards him.

  “The watch. Where is it, you filthy fel?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Digger whispered. “It’s close. But you have to promise me...”

  Angel leaned in ever so slightly. It was enough. Digger slammed his forehead into the noble’s nose. Felt the cartilage crunch like an egg.

  Blood bursting down his face, Angel howled. He could barely keep his eyes open, but he pulled his dagger from his belt and came at Digger. The guard holding Digger stepped back. Digger prepared himself for the assault but knew he stood no chance. He kept his knees bent and hunched forward. But with his hands restrained behind him the outcome was inevitable.

  “Lord Angel, stop!” the steward bellowed.

  Angel didn’t waver in his course. With one hand on his bleeding nose, he advanced with his blade out at his side. Digger backed up towards the mouth
. The workers moved out of their way.

  The steward charged up to Angel. “I order you in the name of Queen Claudia to stop! To disobey me is to defy her. He’s for the games.”

  “He’s a fel. I can do with him as I please.”

  “Not when he’s the queen’s property. Put your blade away.”

  The nobleman flicked blood away from his upper lip and spat. “Where is it?”

  Digger just watched Angel for the slightest move.

  “Lord Angel,” the sheriff said. “Perhaps this will quell your rage.” He produced the watch. “I believe this is a missing timepiece lost from Queen Claudia’s collection. I’d like to return it.”

  “No,” Angel said. “Give that to me.”

  The steward took the jeweled timepiece and examined it. By now more guards had arrived. Two grabbed Digger by the elbows. More surrounded the steward as if to protect him.

  “Seems the queen’s grand prize has found its way home again,” the steward announced. He held up the watch.

  Digger tried to make sense of the scene. The watch had been instantly recognized. Had Isabel been correct in her assessment?

  Lord Angel was trembling. He turned on the sheriff. “You had it?”

  The sheriff straightened his hat. “The queen’s misplaced watch has been returned, Lord Angel. Choose your next words wisely.”

  “You’ll regret this.”

  “On the contrary, this should make for an engaging game this weekend. I understand the winning contestant with the most tokens may choose this very timepiece as their prize, not that I can afford a ticket to the show. Perhaps, if you want, your aunt will permit you a late entrance so you can try your hand?”

  The steward handed the watch to a waiting attendant, who held it delicately and rushed it inside the castle with a pair of guards following.

  Digger was jerked along and marched away, but not towards the demon’s mouth. The steps on the side of the keep were unadorned, but Digger knew the entrance to a dungeon when he saw one.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ROCHUS THE STEWARD was smirking.

  Angel forced himself to regain his composure even as the steward handed him a second handkerchief to stanch his bleeding nostrils. He could do little as the sheriff climbed back on his horse and rode off.

  He had to think quickly. He brushed past the steward and hurried up the stairs, clamping down on his aching nose and fighting to see past the streaming tears.

  “Lord Angel, where are you going?” Rochus called.

  Angel ignored him. The attendant with the watch wasn’t heading for the clock room but instead was moving down towards the ballroom. The large chamber overlooked the rear terraced garden, and it was filled with long tables and extravagant floral centerpieces. Fanciful weaponry and pieces of mock battle-worn armor hung from the walls. Above the wooden throne hung a dragon skull. To one side of the throne stood a glass case which contained the other timepieces that would serve as prizes.

  The paying guests would congregate here before the games commenced.

  Angel watched helplessly as the watch was placed with the others.

  He turned and almost collided with Rochus. “Where’s my aunt?”

  “She rests and ordered no one disturb her.”

  Angel pushed past him and made his way up the stairway towards the bedrooms.

  The attendant outside his aunt’s room sprang up from a chair. “She’s asleep!”

  “Then I’ll wake her.”

  He tried to step past, but the attendant was physically blocking him. Rochus had topped the steps and was closing in fast. Shoving the attendant aside, Angel pushed the double doors open. The lavish bed was still made. His aunt was sitting at a dressing table with a rosewood jewelry box laid open. She was putting on a dangling earring with orange gemstones.

  He paused to gawk. “You’re awake.”

  “Obviously,” his aunt said, barely taking her eyes off her reflection. “And your nose is bleeding.”

  The attendant and Rochus barged in behind Angel.

  “My lady, my apologies,” Rochus said. “The young lord was most insistent.”

  “It’s fine. Leave us, Rochus.”

  The steward bowed and took the attendant with him as he closed the doors.

  “I know it’s late—” Angel began.

  “It’s 3:48. The problem with you is a lack of precision.”

  Her response flustered him. “Yes,” he managed. “I don’t carry a watch.”

  “You should. What do you think I attribute my success to? None of this breaking the day into ‘after breakfast’ or ‘before supper.’ Can you imagine living so aimlessly? Such nonsense. You should carry a timepiece and be more exact.” She turned to face him. “Well, then. I’m a bundle of nerves and now you’re here. I’m guessing by the manner of your entrance you have nothing to tell me which will make me happy.”

  “Actually, Aunt Claudia, I’ve brought your watch back. It’s in the ballroom display.”

  “Did you? I’m surprised. I was afraid you were becoming boring. And how, exactly, did you manage to recover it?”

  “I tracked it down to a bar. There was a fight.”

  She leaned forward and folded her hands, suddenly interested. “A fight? You got into a fight?”

  “The bar was full of fel hooligans. My five companions and I were outnumbered. We had swords. They had savage strength. And an ogre.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it. The ogre is a nice touch. Do go on.”

  “Two of my men were injured. The fight was a close thing. We held them off until I captured one of them. Their leader, as it turns out. His life for the watch.”

  She clapped and giggled. “And they made the trade?”

  “No honor among the lot of them. We still have their leader. In fact, the sheriff brought him up to be entered in the catacombs. He’s opted to be in your contestant pool. He’s a big one.”

  “Oooh, I like the sound of him already. He’s not hurt, I hope.”

  “Not at all. But I wanted you to hear the news first. You’re pleased, aren’t you?”

  She rose and went to him. Planted a wet kiss on his cheek. “Very, my sweet. I’ll be a wreck come dawn without rest, but I’m far too excited. Let’s go down to the kitchen, shall we? We’ll get that nose fixed. And then I’ll have Chef Miriam whip us up some sopapillas and you can tell me every detail of your brave battle.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “WAKE UP.”

  From the light shining through the high bars, Digger guessed it was morning. He hadn’t quite meant to fall asleep when he’d lain down on the hard bench. His manacles had been removed. His head was stuffed with wool, his mouth and throat dry, and now there was a strange fel in his face. He had bright eyes and a thin white beard.

  He pushed the man back and blinked his eyes clear.

  The cell was much larger than the one in the stockade. Roomy, even. Ten other fel men were standing, sitting, or reclining on furniture nicer than anything most slum dwellers had in their apartments. A round table was covered with food, pitchers, and a flower arrangement.

  Digger shook his head to clear it. Then he realized there was a metal collar around his neck. They all wore collars.

  “I thought you were going to sleep forever,” the bearded fel said. “Food’s here. Don’t want you facing the day on an empty stomach.”

  Digger tugged and pried at the collar. “And why is that?”

  “Because we’re going to be fighting soon and we might need to rely on each other. Can you hear it?”

  From outside came the sounds of a crowd—talking, laughing, shouting. Someone was playing guitar and flute. The festival atmosphere from the previous night was going strong.

  “We’re in the castle still?”

  The bearded fel nodded as he handed him a delicate cup with fine lines painted in swirls. There was beer in the cup.

  “There’s also juice and the nasty herb tea my grandmother used to drink. Though
t this might give you some energy.”

  “Thanks.” Digger sipped. It was small beer, not strong, but it tasted as good as the stuff at the hangman’s bar. Some of the other fel were picking at the offerings, eating fruit, fish, bread, pastries, and an assortment of sliced meats and finger foods.

  “What’s your name?” Digger asked.

  “Paulus. And now that you’re awake, maybe you can help convince these other fine fellows we all need to work together if we’re going to survive the day.”

  “Why haven’t you done that?”

  “Because they won’t listen to me.”

  THE OTHER FEL WEREN’T interested in Digger’s words either, not that he tried hard. He was too hungry to give a speech, so he ate. The guitarist and flutist finished up. A string quartet began playing a happy minuet. Hardly what he would have imagined he’d have to fight to. Or die to.

  He was continually distracted anytime bootsteps passed outside the cell door.

  Meanwhile the other ten collared fel ate, drank, and spoke loudly. Some even laughed. They all wore collars. On the back of each dangled a gold token the size of a silver tencoin. Only Paulus didn’t appear nervous. He was leaning against a wall, eating from a bunch of grapes.

  The cell door creaked open. A guard pointed to two of the fel. Other armed guards waited outside. Neither fel moved.

  “Go on, boys,” Paulus said. “You’ve hours before the match. It’s time they spruced you up.”

  The two marched out without any goading from the guard. The cell door slammed shut and was locked.

  Digger leaned next to Paulus. “You know what’s going to happen?”

  Paulus showed a forearm tattoo. The word “Pardoned” was wrapped in scrollwork and wings. Digger had met a few fel who had such tattoos, having gotten them after receiving a rare lenient judgment not ending in a hanging. As if the tattoos would sway the city guards if they caught any of them committing another actionable infraction.

  Digger grunted. “Yet here you are.”