Key the Steampunk Vampire Girl and the Tower Tomb of Time (9781941240076) (4 page)

Finally, Miss Broomble took her, Pega, and Tudwal up another flight of stairs, then through an open doorway that led out to the top of the castle wall, where there was a long walkway with rails along the side. The castle looked even larger from the outside – “It’s massumongous,” as one vampire once put it. Key could only see a small part of the wall as it stretched on beyond the darkened horizon. She was not at all astonished (in fact she laughed) to see how the vampire castle was not at all perfectly round or square, but instead perfectly lopsided and crooked. The complete wonkiness of the castle made its wall quite wonky, too, sometimes sloping up, sometimes down, almost always bumpy and snaky.

Two hundred and fifty years ago, on the night Mr. Fuddlebee first brought Key to the Necropolis Castle, she did not have a chance to see much of the City of the Dead. Through the window of his black carriage she had glimpsed many marvelous-looking graves and mausoleums. But now that she was standing atop the castle wall, she was seeing it all as though for the very first time. The sight was very impressive indeed. Cropping up before her were countless graves that looked like one bedroom houses; graveyards that looked like gated communities; mausoleums that looked like apartment complexes; tombs that looked like manor houses, and more and more, stretching out all around her like a great cemetery sea. But before she could take it all in, Miss Broomble took her by the hand again, and hurried her onwards.

Every hundred paces or so, there was a turret in the castle wall. No two turrets were the same. Some looked new, some old; some seemed straight, others zigzagged; some were inside out, others outside in; some were as wobbly as an hourglass while others were more cockeyed than the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Inside each turret was a room, and each room was completely unlike any other. In some were benches, in others were chairs, in a few were windows for looking in all directions, and in several were winding stairwells that went up or down or upside down. But then in one turret was a mouse library with teeny-tiny tea tables while in another was a giant’s gambling hall with enormous snooker tables. In one turret the Distinguished Lobster League met for coffee while in another the Owl & Oyster Club practiced dancing. One turret was a cinema while another was a mid-castle eatery, packed with that delicious snack, Snuckle Truffles the Bloody Bonbon – compliments of the Partly Dead Brownie Folk of Boston, of course. And in a very popular turret Mystical Creatures of all kinds (some cheering, some jeering, some playing, some slaying) were standing on large black and white checkered tiles, vigilantly waiting for someone to make a move. Pega explained to Key that this was a great spot for practicing that perilous game – Pundicle.

“But don’t ask me the rules,” she said, becoming more comfortable speaking with Key (as tense situations often make us forget important rules). “They pass right through me.”

Having just been released from centuries of imprisonment in the dungeon, Key would have gladly sat in the mouse’s tearoom turret, sipping cheddar cheese tea, if only for a moment. But Miss Broomble did not share Key’s interest in any of those turrets. She was instead looking for a specific kind, one in which there was a door.

“We don’t need just any door,” she told Key. “We’re looking for a Doorackle Alleyway.”

Key had read about Doorackle Alleyways in Wanda Wickery’s little book. The shimmering words had formed into images all around her and had showed her all kinds of Doorackle Alleyways. Each looked like a door in a doorframe. But each Doorackle Alleyway was as unique as a person: Some were tall, some short, some were wide, and some were so thin that Key doubted anyone could squeeze through; some had writing, some had wiring, some had carved images, and some had kettles and buttons and ink and monocles; some were covered in gems, some in gold, some in spice, and some in cogwheels and gears and copper pipes gushing out steam.

Miss Broomble also told Key that Doorackle Alleyways were the most important doors in the Necropolis because, if you used one, it would instantly transport you to another Doorackle Alleyway elsewhere.

“Where?” Key wondered aloud.

“It could take you to the other side of the castle,” said Miss Broomble, “or it could take you to the far side of the City.”

“Or,” Pega added, “it could take you to another Necropolis in another part of the world.”

This idea amazed Key, and she tried to recall all she’d read about Doorackle Alleyways in Wanda Wickery’s little book. One passage, she remembered, went something like this:

Doorackle Alleyways are such a precious component to the City of the Dead that they must be guarded at all times. As self-proclaimed Keepers of the Dead, the Necropolis Vampires should be their rightful guards. However, to put it in the words of one particular vampire who shall remain anonymous (though we’ll just call him Galfridus Fish): “Guarding a door is about as insulting as guarding a boar. We didn’t build ‘em. So we ain’t guarding ‘em!” Since the Necropolis Vampires refuse to take on any further responsibility (other than charging brashly through Necropolis streets on zombie steeds or playing Pundicle) they decided that the official guard of all Doorackle Alleyways would be the one Mystical Creature capable of suffering ridicule while also administering similar ridicule to any trespasser. These peculiar Mystical Creatures are known only as the Wicked Watchmen.

Wicked Watchmen are roughly the same size as Grimbuggle Bedbugs, perhaps slightly shorter. Yet, aside from their small bodies, they have very large hands, much larger feet, and much, much larger heads. No one has ever seen what a Wicked Watchman looks like from their shoulders up due to the extra-large helmets they are required to wear at all times (even in the bathtub). You can only see their glowing eyes through their beaver.

Now, I should advise you that most knightly helmets used to have a mechanism called a “beaver,” which was not the well-known, semiaquatic rodent at all, but was actually a faceguard with a grill that swiveled up to show a knight’s face, or swiveled down to protect it. Unfortunately, with the Wicked Watchmen, this is not the case. They actually wear broad-tailed rodents otherwise known as “beavers” on the front of their helmet. They believe that this affords them the most protection in battle, considering that real beavers cannot only defend, but also attack, and usually in ways that stupefy both the attacker and the Wicked Watchman. Obtaining these beavers has always been the tricky part. Most are called “Barely Bludgeoned Beavers.” And if the beavers are really, really lucky, they are bludgeoned first, and then stuffed before being tied down to a Wicked Watchmen’s helmet.

Miss Broomble led Key and Tudwal out to the middle of the wall. The railing was just tall enough for Key to peer over, but seemed a little too tall for Wicked Watchmen. She imagined that one would have to stand on tiptoes or boxes or shoulders, just to rain arrows, boiling oil, and snarky insults down upon attacking enemies.

As Miss Broomble, Key, and Tudwal were heading towards a turret with a Doorackle Alleyway inside, a particularly short Wicked Watchman met them halfway.

“Hullo, ma'am,” he greeted the witch in a voice that seemed a little too husky for one so short. “I am required to advise you that a rather testy Cyclops is buffeting the castle at present.”

The Barely Bludgeoned Beaver on his helmet had been stuffed first, then bludgeoned, so it was still very much alive, and very much furious at being tied down as a faceguard. It was hissing and spitting at Miss Broomble and Key, but the Wicked Watchman paid it no mind. Tudwal barked and growled back in reply to the beaver, and the two got into a very nasty tiff. All the while, the Wicked Watchman carried on speaking as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Looking from Miss Broomble’s armor to Key’s nightgown, he remarked, “Judging by your attire, I can assess that one of you is quite prepared for battle while the other is clearly not. A nightgown spotted in jack-o’-lanterns will not do at all, young lady. While it might be perfectly acceptable battle-attire while warring with those two nasty Grimbuggle Bedbugs, Bosh and Mr. Humbug, it most certainly is not acceptable for battling Cyclopses. I must therefore turn you back, or turn you to ash.”

Hearing this, Key’s white vampire cheeks blushed with embarrassment and she started to fidget nervously, picking at her nightgown and shuffling her bare feet.

“Watchman —” Miss Broomble began to say.

But the Wicked Watchman held up his finger as he questioned himself: “Is it Cyclopses or Cyclops? Which is the plural? Cyclopsesees? Oh never mind. It’s not as though we have more than one one-eyed giant to deal with tonight. Jolly good!”

Returning his attention to Key and Miss Broomble, he continued, “I should advise you to remain indoors until we have this situation fully under control, Cyclopsesees or not.”

Miss Broomble had by this time lost her patience entirely. “Tell me where I can find your commanding officer,” she ordered.

The Wicked Watchman turned and pointed towards the turret at the far end of the wall. “Why, Sergeant Snut is just down —” he had started to say when Tudwal and his Barely Bludgeoned Beaver got into such a nasty argument that the immortal puppy leaped onto his helmet.

“Stop that right this instant, you naughty, naughty boy!” shouted Pega.

But as usual Tudwal paid her no mind. He and the Barely Bludgeoned Beaver fought with one another so violently on the Wicked Watchman’s head that they yanked him over the railing, and all three went tumbling off the castle wall.

“Tudwal!” shrieked Key as she peered over the edge.

Her worry eased a little when she saw that Tudwal, the Barely Bludgeoned Beaver, and the Wicked Watchman had fallen into the open claws of a stone gargoyle perched on an outcropping along the wall. Tudwal and the beaver continued fighting fiercely while the Watchman tried to arrest them.

“Look here,” he protested. “I’ll have none of that. I didn’t graduate at the bottom of my class at Cobweb Academy to have you two boss me around —”

Miss Broomble took Key by the hand. “They’ll be all right. We must hurry.”

Key looked up into the air and said to Pega, “Please, go with him. Make sure he’s all right.”

“Of course, Mistress,” Pega said. “Right away.”

Hearing the ghost maid float off muttering hopes of haunting a puppy-free house, Key peered over the railing one last time before Miss Broomble hurried her along the walkway towards the turret at the far end. She happened to glimpse something quite curious about the gargoyle. Like many others, it had large wings, a beaked face, and was made of stone, as you might expect. But this particular gargoyle was also alive! Much larger than Tudwal, the Barely Bludgeoned Beaver, and the Wicked Watchman put together, the Living Gargoyle was easily holding them in its large stone claws. But by the glum look in his stony eyes, he seemed incredibly bored, as though he had caught Wicked Watchmen and their ornery beavers too many times before.

— CHAPTER FIVE —

The Doorackle Alleyway

Miss Broomble and Key dashed into the turret and approached the Doorackle Alleyway.

Its golden doorframe was ornamented with swirling carvings and patterns of winged creatures. It looked ancient and mysterious. In place of a door there was a stained glass window, illustrating two old men playing Pundicle – which, to Key, seemed like a mixture between chess, croquet, cricket, and hopscotch. But unlike most stained glass windows, the images in this one looked alive. “Hex-mate,” one old man said to the other, having made a bold move with his stained glass piece, when at the same time the other old man also made a swift move and rejoined, “Hob-mate;” but as neither could agree on who was the winner, they started contemptuously throwing game pieces at one another, which was a perfectly legal countermove, according to game rules.

Before the Doorackle Alleyway stood Sergeant Snut, surrounded by several other Wicked Watchmen. The sergeant was the tallest of them all, and his rank allowed him to tie down on his helmet not a Barely Bludgeoned Beaver, but instead a much larger, much angrier badger. It, too, appeared to have been bludgeoned first and then stuffed, for about once a minute it angrily rattled his helmet in an effort to get free. But Sergeant Snut acted as though this was very normal as he went on shouting orders at the other Watchmen.

“Look lively! Your superior officers like myself have spent many long nights preparing for a crisis like this. Now that the time has come, we are fully prepared for the forthcoming battle. So, it is therefore my job to make you as prepared as possible. Right, here’s the situation: Attacking our castle is a very perturbed gremlin —”

“Cyclops,” squeakled the voice of a much tinier Watchman beside him, holding a clipboard and marking it every time Sergeant Snut made a mistake. This Watchman was so tiny in fact that he had neither a badger nor a beaver strapped to his helmet, but instead a very frightened-looking dormouse. “A gremlin isn’t attacking the castle, sir,” he squeakled. “It’s a Cyclops.”

“Yes, of course, that’s what I meant to say,” Sergeant Snut snapped impatiently: “Werewolf.”

“Cyclops.”

“As I was saying, the scarecrow is attacking from the east —”

“The Cyclops is attacking from the west,” the tiny Watchman corrected and made another mark on his clipboard.

“— and so,” Sergeant Snut continued, disregarding that last remark, “it is our duty to make sure that this dragon does not get by our offenses.”

“— that this Cyclops does not get by our defenses,” the tiny Watchman corrected again, making another mark on his clipboard.

After listening to this very briefly, Miss Broomble stepped through the crowd of Watchmen and Barely Bludgeoned Beavers, stood before the sergeant, and commanded, “Give me your password for the Doorackle Alleyway.”

Not used to receiving orders from anyone lacking a badger of higher rank, Sergeant Snut straightened in shock and gaped at the witch in disbelief past the snarl of his badger. Now huffing with an air of indignance while his badger glared at her with utter loathing, the sergeant demanded, “What would you possibly want with my pincushion?”