Falcon Quinn and the Black Mirror (3 page)

“You
are
nuts,” said Falcon, “aren't you?”

“Dude,” said Max. “Maybe we shouldn't, you know—make her angry?”

“I don't care if she's angry,” said Falcon. “I don't—”

But Mrs. Redflint stamped her foot as if this was the last straw. Then she turned to him, and all at once her eyes grew very large and her cheeks swelled. And a great burst of fire, like a blast from a gasoline gun, came out of her mouth, along with a tremendous thundering roar and a smell of rotten eggs. Her nostrils puffed black smoke.

For a moment Falcon, Megan, and Max were surrounded by the flames, and the whole world turned red. Then, just as quickly, the fire was gone, and they found themselves unharmed, if more than a little startled. Two trails of smoke puffed from Mrs. Redflint's nose. She waved her hand through the air to dissipate the smoke.

Megan looked at the woman despondently. “I
do
want my mother,” she said quietly.

Mrs. Redflint sighed. Then she turned to her with an expression that was strangely tender. She put her hand on Megan's shoulder.

“It's all right, Miss Crofton,” she said. “All monsters want their mothers.”

A
t this moment a cloud covered the sun. A hard rain began to fall. There was a rumble of thunder, followed by a sharp strike of lightning. It hit a crooked green rod on the top of one of the castle's towers, and for a moment the entire building shuddered with pulsing blue light.

“Oh, what a lovely storm,” said Mrs. Redflint, closing her eyes and turning her face toward the sky beatifically. The rain bounced off her forehead. Then she opened her eyes and led the three of them toward the castle. “I think this is a good omen. Don't you?”

“This is messed up,” said Max.

“The little Frankensteins will be happy,” said Mrs. Redflint, looking up at the towers. “How they love the lightning. It is always so cheering when the Frankensteins look on the bright side. Much better than the opposite, believe me. Sometimes we go for weeks without a thunderstorm, and, then, ugh! The groaning. Well, now.”

Mrs. Redflint led Falcon and Megan and Max into the warped, collapsing eyesore of a building. There was
a large chandelier hanging from the ceiling of the front hallway, covered with cobwebs and what seemed to be the stubs of mostly burned candles. There were blobs of wax on the floor where the candles had dripped. To the right was a large parlor with a piano and a curious assortment of knickknacks: a stuffed walrus, a harp strung with barbed wire. A portrait of a hideously ugly, grouchy-looking old man in a stovepipe hat hung crookedly above a fireplace. Beneath the painting was a brass plaque that read
ZORON GRISLEIGH
, 1821–?

“Zoron Grisleigh, our founder, began the Academy for Monsters so that young monsters could learn to survive in the world of humans, instead of being chased with pitchforks, shot with silver bullets, impaled with stakes, or what have you. In 1841 he built this castle, here on Shadow Island, in what you call the Bermuda Triangle. It is now known as Castle Grisleigh, in his honor. Grisleigh is the Learning and Living Center for new arrivals. Assuming you survive the spring, you will one day be allowed onto the other side of the very large wall you saw outside, where you will find Castle Gruesombe and the Media Resource Center. That is where the students in the Upper School reside and study. But we keep the new students quarantined here until they learn how to keep from transforming into horrible pools of vomit and the like. I'm sure you understand. It's distracting.”

Falcon noticed a boy sitting in an enormous over-stuffed chair in the large parlor to his right. He was playing paddleball.

“Ah. This is the Relaxing Room,” said Mrs. Redflint. “It's got Wi-Fi!”

The boy with the paddleball glanced mournfully in their direction.

“Mr. Weems? This is Falcon Quinn, Maxwell Parsons, and Megan Crofton, from Maine. They're just arriving. Will you say hello?”

Mr. Weems had giant black circles under his eyes, as if he had not slept for a long time. His clothes were all black, as were his eyes. He glanced at Falcon, Max, and Megan and smiled. His teeth were sharp, like those of a ferret or a snake.

“You're going to die,” observed Mr. Weems.

“Dude,” said Max.

“You think I'm jealous? I'm not.” He looked at Falcon, then at Mrs. Redflint. “What's he?”

“Well, we won't know that until he's been tested, will we?” said Mrs. Redflint.

“And her,” said Weems, looking at Megan with widening eyes. “She's—
delicious
.” He stepped a little closer.

“Mr. Weems,” said Mrs. Redflint commandingly. “Miss Crofton is not for devouring, or toasting.”

“Mmmm,” said the boy. “Crunchy.”

“Your next stop is your room, Mr. Weems. Do you understand?”

“But—perhaps just one of the little toes? To begin?”

“You're disgusting!” said Megan.

“Indeed,” said Weems. “I am—a hideous ghoul!
Bwa-ha-ha-ha!
”

“Mr. Weems, you have not been diagnosed either, may I remind you.”

“Perhaps you suppose I am something besides what I am?” he hissed. “Do you?” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps an earlobe,” he said.

Max swung his enormous arms around. “Dude,” he said.

“Mr. Weems,” said Mrs. Redflint. “Remember you're here to
resist
your monster nature. To rise above it.”

“That's what you say,” said Weems, and began paddling his paddleball once more.

“It
is
what I say,” said Mrs. Redflint. “Mr. Weems, please take Mr. Parsons down to the catacombs. Show him his chamber. He's in the Wing of Dead Flies, Twenty-fifth Corner.” She turned to Max. “Mr. Weems will show you where to go.”

“I'm not going anywhere with him,” said Max, his voice rising. “No way!”

“Don't be difficult,” said Mrs. Redflint.

At this moment Max yelled suddenly, but his yell was
like nothing that Megan or Falcon, or even Max himself, had heard before. It was more of a roar than anything else, a great bellowing howl that seemed to come from the very depths of his innards. At the same time, he shuddered all over, and as they watched, Max seemed to grow larger. His hair got a little longer and more tangled, and he looked very much like he needed to shave.

“Oh, look, it's starting already,” said Mrs. Redflint.

“What was that?” said Max. He looked at his arms, which were much hairier than they had been a moment before. “What's happening?”

“It's the atmosphere here at the Academy,” said Mrs. Redflint. “It intensifies your monster nature. Best to get that out in the open as early as possible, so you can learn to resist.”

“Come along, bigfoot,” said Mr. Weems. “I'll show you to the catacombs.”

“I said I'm not going!” said Max.

“There are flies in the catacombs,” said Weems wistfully. “They remind me of my childhood, by the shores of the sea. My father built ships by day. Gnawed on the bones of sailors at night. The careless ones!”

“Okaaaay,” said Max.

“There are pizzas,” said Mrs. Redflint, “where he's taking you.”

Max thought it over. “Seriously?” he said.

“Max,” said Falcon. He was alarmed that Max was so quickly becoming more Sasquatchlike. He had a strange sense of being left behind, as if even here Falcon was alone in not knowing who he was, or where he would fit in.

“I'll be fine,” said Max. “No harm in checking it out. Right?”

“Be careful,” said Megan, and Falcon looked at her curiously. It was the first time she'd ever sounded worried about Max.

Weems took him by the shoulder.

As they walked away, Max made another growling sound. “Pizzas!” he shouted happily.

“Well, then,” said Mrs. Redflint. “They're going to be the best of friends, don't you think?” She sighed. “Let's take you two up to the tower.”

Megan looked mournfully at the large woman. “Is this the tower where the Frankensteins are?” she said.

“Oh, heavens no,” said Mrs. Redflint. “You're in the Tower of Aberrations.”

She led them up a sweeping staircase. Falcon noticed a series of old, faded photographs on the walls as they ascended. There was a group from 1924 marked
THE MASK AND CLAW SOCIETY
, featuring what appeared to be a group of actors and actresses. There was another one labeled
THE GULLET EDITORIAL STAFF
, 1961. There were stills of the fencing team in 1890, and the debate society in 1946. Most of
the students looked human enough, but there were a few exceptions. In a photograph of the chorus from 1951 were sixteen women, two of them covered with fur. In the back row was a girl with bolts in her neck.

The grand staircase spiraled up and around a dark, open space lit by a monstrous chandelier. They followed the stairs to the third floor, where there was a square railing bordering the open stairwell and a door at each corner leading to the towers.

Mrs. Redflint guided them through one of the doors and up a circular staircase. They emerged into an ornate parlor, with high cathedral ceilings and tall Gothic windows. The parlor was filled with stuff—cushy leather couches, busts of Greek philosophers, a painting of a knight on horseback, a large globe of the moon, a telescope, a thick Oriental rug, and a set of Rock'em Sock'em robots on an antique table. There was a large mirror on one wall, and beneath this, a table containing a huge jar filled with translucent jelly.

There were two main doors in the extravagant chamber—one leading left, one to the right. A smaller door next to the staircase led to a bathroom.

“Here you are, Mr. Quinn,” said Mrs. Redflint, opening the door on the right. “Home sweet home.”

Falcon felt his heart sink. The room had a single, dirty window at one end that admitted virtually no light. There
were chains on the wall, some bunk beds, and a coffin on the floor. On one wall was an ancient machine that looked capable of generating electricity. On another wall was a small chemistry set, with beakers and liquids in stoppered jars. The room was lit by three large candles burning in sconces.

“This is the Tower of Aberrations,” said Mrs. Redflint. “You may as well know that the students tend to refer to it as the Tower of Wailing, but that is not its proper name; it is just a little nickname that I, for one, disdain. It is one of the five towers of Castle Grisleigh. The others are the Tower of Science, the Tower of Moonlight, and the Tower of Blood. The fifth tower, the one with the clock, is called the Tower of Souls. This is not for use by students. It is the private domain of the clockmaster, who—well, you need not concern yourself with that now. I trust you will find your lodgings versatile enough.”

She sneezed unexpectedly, and a large cloud of red fire exploded into the room. “Excuse me,” she said. “Where was I? Oh yes. Now, Mr. Quinn, you will have two roommates: Mr. Pugh, who is coming to us from California, and Mr. Frankenstein, who—well, I'm not sure where he's from. I just got word of him—but I suggest you might try extending a little extra patience with Mr. Frankenstein. He comes”—she lowered her voice—“from a
broken home
.”

“Why is he in here with us?” said Megan. “Why do
we have to live with a—”

“I know, dear,” said Mrs. Redflint. “But the Tower of Science is all full. A very large number of cyborgs this year. We'll have Jonny Frankenstein lodge with you. Who knows? Perhaps you will open your hearts to him.”

They walked across the parlor to the opposite chamber, which Mrs. Redflint unlocked with an old-fashioned iron key. This room was similar to Falcon's, except that it had three coffins in it in addition to the bunk beds and five candles flickering on the wall. Wax from the candles dripped in thick drops to a molten stalagmite on the floor.

“There, isn't this cozy?” said Mrs. Redflint.

There were two large suitcases on the floor, each by one of the coffins.

“Two of your roommates are already here—Misses Venacava and Bloodflough, vampires, I suspect. They're from Philadelphia. They've laid claim to these first two coffins, but the third is yours if you want it. A lot of the girls like to sleep in coffins even if they're not vampires. They're
very
comfy.”

Megan looked sad. “I can sleep on the bed, though, can't I?”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Redflint. “Wherever you feel at home. Your other roommate, Miss Picchu, will probably not be requiring bedding. No, I don't think so.”

At this moment, Megan looked at Mrs. Redflint, then at her coffin—and then she cried out loud. It was a high, breathy noise, like a violent sigh. A moment later, all the candles went out.

“Good heavens,” said Mrs. Redflint. “Wait a moment, let me relight those.” She roared, and a line of fire traveled from her mouth to the sconces. A second later the candles were all relit, and smoke was once more curling from Mrs. Redflint's nostrils.

“Miss Crofton, what did you just do?”

“I don't know,” said Megan. “I didn't do anything.”

“Do that again.”

“I didn't do
anything
,” she said angrily.

“Megan,” said Falcon. “You
did
.”

“Shut
up
,” said Megan.

“Now, now,” said Mrs. Redflint. “Let's not force the issue. Everything at its proper moment. But yes, this is interesting. I wonder. Perhaps—a banshee? Possibly? Oh that would be interesting.” She looked sympathetically at Megan. “Can you wail, darling?”

“I want to go
home,
” said Megan.

“Excellent,” said Mrs. Redflint. “Do another.”

“Are you even
listening
?” said Megan. “I want to go home
now
.”

“Oh, this is exciting,” said Mrs. Redflint. “I must inform the faculty. You know Dr. Medulla wrote his thesis
on banshees.” She spread her hands wide. “Oh! Almost forgot.” She pointed to the large jar of jelly sitting on a table in the middle of the parlor. “That's your crystal. The spirit of your crystal is Mr. Quimby. He's a bit—well. You'll see. Just one thing, and I can't stress this enough—
do not let Mr. Quimby out of the crystal.
Under any circumstances. There is a reason he is inside his jar, and if he ever got loose, it would be very unpleasant for everyone. Do we understand each other?
Mr. Quimby stays in his jelly.
”

“How would we let him out?” said Falcon.

“Mr. Quinn,” said Mrs. Redflint, “what did I just say? Mr. Quimby stays in his jelly.”

“I know, but I'm just asking. So we don't let him out by accident.”

“Ah. I see. Well, you'd let him out by breaking the glass, wouldn't you? Or unscrewing the lid. But you won't be doing that. You'll be careful with Mr. Quimby. You'll keep him in his jelly, and all will be right with the world. Yes. It will. I think that's everything. Good luck, children. I hope you find your quarters charming.”