CHAPTER TWELVE
"Let me advise you, my dear young friend. Nay, let me warn you with all seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely."
"Who's that man?" Lydia asked, pointing behind Fisk. Fisk turned from the cage and came face to face with...himself. Sheer surprise froze him where he stood. Who was this? A mirror image of Fisk but completely unlike him, too. "He was a fog," the little girl went on, still pointing.
"You mean he came out of the fog." Nate stood up.
"No, he was a fog."
"Shh, listen," Maeve whispered.
"Good evening," said the stranger. His smile was warm as a piranha's, his red lips curling back from long, white teeth. He was in evening dress, a black tuxedo with nonsense medals on his chest and a long, black cape. His skin was pale as dried bone. He had one cold green eye and one cold blue eye.
"Dracula?" Fisk gave out a whoop of laughter that didn't have his heart in it. At all. He looked the newcomer up and down. "You're supposed to be Bela Lugosi." A black and white and harmless image of an actor. Not this. Bloody hell, Fisk thought.
His double spoke, "Count Dracula. And, alas, I haf the honor of appearing as the man who made me." Lugosi's accent, yes, but Fisk's voice. Fisk's voice but softer. More seductive.
Fisk was confused. This tiny piece of himself, this illusion he'd created with a single-minded purpose, to bluster and chase a girl around, was talking to him? As if it had life? Agency? "How did you get here, Drac?" he asked, and was shocked to his boots to see a glitter of irritation in those blue and green eyes. "Why are you here?"
"How?" The Count shrugged. "You put us here. Very strange ink drops in this sea of..." he stopped and appeared to listen.
"This sea of what?" Fisk prompted.
"Eternity," Dracula whispered. His head veered slowly back and forth, like an automaton. He settled his unblinking eyes on Fisk and smiled again. "And why am I here? So I can thank you for it." He took a slow step towards his maker.
And another step.
Another.
Fisk broke first. He shot forward and touched it to erase the thing. He felt genuine silk under his fingers and a solid body under that. Then Fisk felt the blow to his stomach and the wind in his hair as he flew backwards. He hit the far castle wall hard. He bounced off and landed on his side, wheezing. Lydia screamed. Nate knelt beside her.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you," chuckled Count Fisk. No tame Smith in a red hoodie could match him for sheer black malice. "What fun I am having."
"What is this?!" Fisk gasped, rolling over.
"A warning, Mr. Iping. Best you run home. And run quickly, my friend." Dracula turned and beckoned to the sky. A sudden wind blew across the castle and he spread his cape to catch it. "For the dead travel fast."
There was a sound like the beat of enormous wings and he was gone.
"Oh, my god," Maeve gasped. She reached through the golden bars and shot the bolt back. She pushed the door open and ran out onto the flagstones. "Fisk?" She leaned down and gently patted him on the back. "Fisk?"
"That was a solid hit. You all right?" Nate said, appearing behind her. Thorson and Lydia slowly followed, hand in hand, looking upwards as if each step brought them deeper into ambush territory.
"I'm not hurt," Fisk said and slowly stood.
"What's gone wrong?" Thorson asked and a tinge of tough cop was in his voice. "I know that wasn't supposed to happen."
Fisk shook he head to clear it of the keening whine of shock and straightened his costume. "Interesting," he said because he had to say something or start gibbering. What the hell? A sliver of a stray thought had been blessed by the Blue Fairy and turned into a Real Boy? The hell?
"I hear something," said Lydia.
"And where's Burlie?" Nate asked. "We've been waiting for hours."
"What are you saying?" Maeve asked. "We just got here."
"I think we're running on dream-time," Thorson said. "It's all relative."
"My point," Nate said, annoyed. "Is where is my daughter? You said you'd be in control here," he said to Fisk.
"I hear people," Lydia said, frowning up at her parents.
Fisk looked down at the little girl with some surprise. He listened and Lydia waited. Then he nodded his head. "You're right. I hear people, too." His face became inexpressive again. "Lots of people."
Lydia smiled up at him. He weakly smiled back.
"I don't hear anything," said Thorson. "And, trust me, I can hear a gnat fart." He cocked his head at Fisk and it wasn't the quirky tilt of a pet dog's head.
"I don't hear anything either," Maeve said. "Nate?"
The tall man checked all four points of the compass. "Nothing," he said at last.
"FISK IPING! THY DOOM HAS ARRIVED!"
"Well, did ya'll hear that?" Lydia huffed.
His duster flew behind him as Fisk shot towards the ramparts, his 'prisoners' following. They looked over the edge and Maeve gasped.
The mob was trampling everything in its way. From this height it looked like a great destructive creature, a burning, devouring amoeba, and the angry roar of a thousand voices battered Fisk's last nerve.
"Oh, wow," Nate said, joining them. "I said this was a bad idea."
"No, you didn't," Maeve snapped. There was a fine, old limo in the crowd's way. They flipped it over as if it were a toy and grass shattered. Maeve frowned. "You're going a bit far with the angry mob, Fisk, get rid of them." She waved her hand as if to dismiss a hovering waiter.
More glass broke and the great front doors were battered open. The horde streamed in.
Fisk realized Thorson was watching him closely. "You did put these people here, didn't you?" Thorson asked. "This is all part of the show?"
They all looked at Fisk.
"Er..."
Bathatch Castle was filling with a running, shouting horde. Men, women, and children from the turn of the century, waving torches, blunt force weapons, and... pretty paper lanterns? They were all excited, their color high.
"I can't see," Poor Lydia wasn't quite tall enough to see over the wall. Fisk was closest and he automatically turned and picked her up so she could have a look.
"FISK IPING!"
"Who's that?" Maeve shouted.
"What's that?" Nate corrected.
Fisk shook his head. "What's this?" he said and only Lydia heard him. "What is all this?"
"Is this bad?" Lydia whispered.
"We're perfectly safe," he answered automatically.
Lydia didn't seem convinced.
Fisk turned to Maeve. "Mrs. McLauren," he said.
She tore her eyes away from the sight. "Uh?"
"I think some colleague of mine is interfering with our fun. Time to go home. Now." He held out his hand.
"You promised an adventure if I gave you ten feet of extra garden space," Maeve protested.
"We don't want too much of an adventure." Fisk reached for her.
"But where's Burlie?" Maeve asked as she backed away. She scanned the howling throng pouring into the castle. "She's all right isn't she?"
"Of course," Fisk said, hoping desperately that he wasn't lying. "She's perfectly fine. It's just a joke someone is playing." He cut his eyes to the crowd and back again. "I'll bring her along soon."
"I'm not going anywhere without her."
"Well, Lydia's going right now." He gave Lydia a kiss on the cheek. "G'bye, love, Mum's coming along right behind you."
"What about you?" Lydia asked.
"Oh, I've nothing to worry about." He slid her out of his arms and she disappeared before she landed. In the 'real world' of the Bathatch ballroom Lydia was blinking her eyes as she awoke. "Next," Fisk said, beckoning for Maeve again.
She was stubborn. "No!"
Fisk sighed and scanned the turret. There was only one small door leading to the great open space where they stood. Good. What a
place, really. Bathatch, even this facsimile, was beautiful, no doubt about it, with its red brick towers, castle-walks, balconies, and corkscrew chimneys decorating every outer inch. But here's the thing. It was a Bonanza Castle. A huge, luxurious mansion built by the Batt family in 1839. It was built to celebrate good fortune and to impress.
It was not built to scale. Bathatch was no gigantic medieval keep. No moat. No drawbridge. No boiling oil.
So if the mob was already close enough for Fisk to count their back teeth then...
"Hey, this place is shaking," Nate observed. A loud thud from right under his feet startled him. He jumped to the side.
"They're beneath us," Thorson said, listening. "Right beneath us."
The tiny door slammed open and the shouting grey hulk squeezed himself through. He was supposed to look like Boris Karloff with green skin and bolts in his neck. He didn't. Oh, god, he did not. Like a cork in a bottle as soon as he popped free the others came pouring in after him. Fisk glared at them all. Brilliant young things in pince nez. Spinsters. World War One era soldiers. What and who?
"Get them," Frankenstein's Monster led the charge.
"I'm glad Lyddie's not here," Thorson muttered and stepped forward. His teeth lengthened, sharpened, his blond hair turned to black fur and his uniform ripped away as he leapt, hitting the Creature as hard as a train. "GRRRRAAGH!" The grey abomination staggered back, rheumy eyes wide and staring.
"Dogman!" a man wearing a fishing cap shouted. "A real one this time." The people, whoever they were, scattered. Fisk, Maeve, even Nate, ran like hell, too.
The Monster had the advantage in size and brute strength but Thorson wasn't much smaller and he was definitely faster. His claws were like knives but he didn't use them. A bone-cracking punch from the Monster was returned only with an animal growl and a painful backhand. They gripped and staggered.
Fur flew.
"Fisk," Nate calmly said, reaching back to grab the witch's lapel. "I'm going to kill you."
"Tell Lydia we'll be along soon," Fisk said, touching Nate's wrist. The man disappeared.
"Nathaniel," Maeve groaned as she cringed away from the battle.
A prim black woman with her hair pulled back into a frightful bun took advantage of the fight swinging into her path. She let loose with what looked like a bowling pin, smashing it down between Thorson's pointed ears. He didn't notice. "Well, hell," the woman said. She jumped out of the way.
"Ada, forget that thing and grab Burlie's mother," shouted a man wearing a battered sheriff's badge.
"Burlie? Where?" Maeve shouted. Ada rushed her and Maeve yelped. "Stop! You leave me alone!"
The crowd was growing."Ignore Big Fuzzy. Get Fisk!" a woman in pink shouted.
Fisk backed away to the wall.
"Hold him!"
"Get the witch!"
Soldiers with scout hats avoided the battle of the giants and grabbed for him. Were they crazy? Was he? Fisk made a shoo-fly motion and his attackers' shoes left skids on the stones as they were all pushed away. "Let's be careful, now," he cautioned. "I am a witch." He pointed at the door and it slammed shut. He could hear hammering on the other side. "Newts?" Fisk suggested to the men. "Frogs? No?" They shook their heads but Fisk couldn't detect any real fear. Not of him, not even of Thorson. They surrounded him. He licked his dry lips. "Puppies?"
They were smiling. It was very unpleasant.
There was the sound of an almighty SLAP! and the circle was broken, bodies flying, as the Monster landed at Fisk's feet. Thorson threw back his head and howled in triumph. Then he leapt and landed on the brute's chest. They both growled.
"Yes, Thorson, you great bastard!" Fisk crowed. "High five!"
Thorson slapped Fisk's hand with a paw the size of a human head. And the dogman vanished on home, too. Fisk breathed in deeply. Three down, one to go.
Freed, the grey brute rolled to his feet. He gasped for air as he turned to Fisk. And grinned, his perfect, white teeth gritting together in a convulsion of jolly malice. With Thorson gone...
"Maeve?" Fisk said. "You're going now...oh."
Maeve was holding as still as a frightened bunny. Another Fisk-alike, this one with wild black hair and wearing an ancient lab coat, had his arm loosely draped over her shoulders. Ada had her arm around Maeve's waist on the other side. The old school cop was guarding all three, immovable as a stone.
"I'm not having any fun" Maeve groused.
The crowd pressed forward again and Fisk, again, cleared a space all around him. The people treated being pushed back as a game. "Whee!" Some were laughing.
"Devil," the Monster said to Fisk. "Do not you fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head? Begone vile insect! Or, rather, stay that I may curb-stomp thee into dust. Thou foul..."
"Doctor Frankenstein is it?" Fisk guessed, turning to Maeve's captor. "Please, make him shut up."
His clone slowly shook his head. "Nein, I'm not responsible for him in any way. We were created at one and the same time, correct?"
"...abhorred monster! Fiend that thou art! The fires of hell are too temperate, too fine, too Honolulu Lulu with the swaying hips and the graceful hands, for one as contemptible as ..."
"I don't understand," Fisk said. He focused on the doctor. He was certain of the mad scientist. He knew where he came from. These others? The redheaded cop was studying him, cool, stonefaced, and competent. The woman, an adult Wednesday Addams, was openly gloating. "Who are these people?" he demanded. Frankenstein didn't bother to answer. Fisk was staggered by the disobedience. The will. The intelligence. "I made you," he reminded his doppelwhatsit.
The doctor clicked his heels together and bowed to Fisk in the most contemptuous display of gratitude ever seen.
Life. Give my creation life.
"...pestilence! Parasite! Useless, thieving, miserable scum scraped from the side of a cholera-ridden well!" The monster stopped and the silence he left was absolute.
Fisk could hear his own heartbeat. Parasite? Thief?
Fisk shifted his attention to the cop. "Are you trapped here?" He looked at their archaic clothes. "How long ago?"
"Oh, we're not trapped," the man said. "If you want a better world, you have to make it. So we made this." He pointed up at the bright, endless stars. "Free of pain, free of want, free of assholes at last. We felt we deserved it."
"Your language, young man!"
"Aunt Agnes, go home!"
"Make me."
"To answer your other question, they've been here for ninety-two years," said the rich, almost purring voice of a woman directly behind him. Fisk turned and froze.
Burlington McLauren was slowly climbing up a spiral staircase and out onto the roof from a trapdoor hidden seamlessly among the flagstones. When she left on her adventure so long ago (just now?) she looked like a pale girl in a thrown-together costume.
Here, the snakes twining around her armswere vibrant and they glittered, her hair was wild, all black angles, and the cloak fit. It didn't move as she moved, it was billowing in the wind as if it were alive. She carried a pitchfork like a royal scepter. It had very long and sharp tines.
And she smelled of burning leaves.
"You did this?" he said. She smiled sweetly and nodded. He stole a look at the scarab glittering in her naval then quickly turned his attention back to her eyes, calm and steady with pure hatred.
Despite all that he knew, all that he'd done, he was surprised to see it. Ah. He might have oversold his villainy a bit. Ham.
"You don't understand," Fisk began but was distracted. Bizarrely, the trapdoor was disgorging someone else, a grim Aunt Polly type with a gleaming hatpin clenched in her little fist.
"I understand perfectly," Burlie said, reclaiming his full attention. "And you're done."
Without another word she spun her pitchfork into play and stabbed him right through the chest.