Key the Steampunk Vampire Girl and the Dungeon of Despair (9780989878531) (4 page)

But she awoke with a start as the carriage hit a particularly large bump, which Mr. Fuddlebee hardly noticed at all.

Key wondered how long she’d been asleep. The elderly ghost had returned his attention to the scene outside the window. Key could not quite tell what he was looking at; all she saw at first through the window was total darkness. Then she sat up and peered more intently. And what she saw now amazed her!

The carriage had entered into a cave so enormous that it didn’t seem like a cave at all. The ceiling appeared to be the nighttime sky. But Mr. Fuddlebee explained to her otherwise. “No, my dear, those aren’t stars above us and we’re not looking at starlight or constellations. On the contrary, you’re looking at the ceiling of the Necropolis, which is so far above us at this point that no vampire in the world would be able to see the stalactites hanging down – which is a special variety grown by the Dwarves of Morrow. No, what appear to be stars are actually the Un-snuff-outable Torchlights of the Dwarves. Good chaps! Always working, always mining, always singing and drinking pumpkin rum.”

The more Key looked up at the ceiling, the more she thought that being in this place was like being beneath an eternal nighttime sky.

The carriage rode past numerous graveyards and tombstones and mausoleums. There were so many burial places that Key could not count them all. They stretched on and on, into the distance, into the darkness, like grains of sand along the shore of a pitch-black sea.

Mr. Fuddlebee turned to look gravely into Key’s eyes. “Welcome,” he said to her in the eerie whisper of ghosts, “to the City of the Dead – the Necropolis.”

The carriage rode past more and more graveyards, but it also rode past skeletons with cameras slung around their necks, and past burly trolls wearing Hawaiian shirts, and past a family of goblins in a station wagon.

Finally the carriage pulled up to a castle so gigantic that Key could not even see the top of the tallest tower or count the number of cannons sticking out of the castle’s great wall.

Within the wall and all around the castle were millions of gravestones, thousands of tombs and towers, and hundreds of turrets, all of different shapes and sizes. Most were so crooked that Key thought they might topple over at any moment.

Mr. Fuddlebee exited the carriage, and Key timidly followed. She’d never been in any place like this. It was all so strange, and even a little wonderful. The darkness seemed like a living fog, pressing against the torchlights that hung from the castle and its graveyards. Key could not place the scent in the air, but it was like ice and dust and caramel and spice.

Mr. Fuddlebee took Key’s hand and he led her across a very long drawbridge. The touch of his hand was like freezing cold air. “Careful, my dear,” he said to her. “Do not fall into Melancholy Moat. A Kraken lives at the bottom, and he refuses to entertain visitors on Hobdays.”

Key looked over the edge of the drawbridge at Melancholy Moat. She didn’t like the idea of falling in or visiting with a Kraken because the black water looked as thick as oil and also because she had no idea what a Kraken was, but it didn’t sound friendly at all. Yet she could not help herself when she asked Mr. Fuddlebee, “What day is Hobday?”

“Well,” the elderly ghost said, “it’s kind of like half of Tuesday, with an eighth of Friday and a sprinkle of Sunday. It can be a very relaxing day, if you know how to do it right.”

Mr. Fuddlebee led Key through the castle’s main gate. He led her past Living Gargoyles that laughed at her like crows. He led her past vampire guards who glared at her with contempt. Finally he led her past Snooty Suits of Armor that turned away from her with a rather snobbish air, whispering to themselves, “Look at her dress, how shabby, I bet you can’t even polish it.”

No one seemed to like Key at all. She wondered what she’d done wrong.

Inside the castle’s main doors was a large room filled with a grand chandelier, old paintings, tapestries, tables, chairs, and sofas. It might have looked like any old room in any old castle, but in the Necropolis Castle there were also many things floating all over the place, like swords and spoons and spindles and soap, and a bust of a peculiar looking vampire called
Lord Flumpsy Nimbleshanks
.

As Mr. Fuddlebee led Key through the room, the floating objects parted for them. He explained that some objects were floating because of enchantments, while most were floating because castle ghosts were carrying them. “The ghosts are like me,” Mr. Fuddlebee remarked, “yet unlike me, these poor chaps are the castle servants. The vampires who live in this castle forbid these ghosts from appearing or speaking. Only ghosts like myself are allowed to be seen and heard.”

Mr. Fuddlebee also explained how the vampires who lived in the Necropolis Castle were called the Clan of the Necropolis Vampires. “Yet some Mystical Creatures call them the Necropolis Vampires,” he added, “although most just call them The Deadlings.”

“Now that I must live in the Necropolis,” Key said, “must I also be called a Deadling?”

“That term is too generalized to describe the Necropolis Vampires, for not all are Deadlings,” Mr. Fuddlebee told her. “Moreover, you are what you work to become: If you work not to become a Deadling, then you will be someone else.”

Key did not like the castle or the Necropolis. It was too dark and cold. She missed the sunlight and the daisies. “Why would anyone live here?” inquired Key.

“The Necropolis Vampires,” Mr. Fuddlebee explained, “are the Keepers of the Dead.”

“Why must the dead be kept?” Key asked.

“Well,” Mr. Fuddlebee said matter-of-factly, “if no one kept them, can you imagine the negative reaction most people would have seeing the Dead lining up for a morning cup of Joe?”

The elderly ghost paused with second thoughts.

Then he leaned down to Key and spoke in a low tone, “And when I say, ‘a cup of Joe,’ I am of course not referring to coffee.”

Key and Mr. Fuddlebee walked down a long hall with a red carpet.

A group of Necropolis Vampires passed by. Some of them sneered and scowled at Key. Others pointed and snickered at her. It was clear that Margrave Snick’s evil reputation had arrived long before Key’s carriage. The Necropolis Vampires had already made up their minds to dislike her because they disliked Margrave Snick.

So she was beginning to feel more alone and lonely than ever, and it was only her first night in the Necropolis. How was she supposed to spend the rest of her life here? She wished Mr. Fuddlebee had not brought her to this terrible castle. She wished she had not been made a vampire. She wished her mom and dad would rescue her. She did not want to drink blood. She only wanted to live a simple life on her farm, baking bread and weaving blankets that everyone loved.

She put her face in her hands and began to weep.

Mr. Fuddlebee knelt down to her. “Yes, that’s right, my dear,” he said, “best to have it all out now before we go in to see the Queen of the Necropolis. She does not take too well to weeping. The last child she saw weeping in her presence she fed to Warhag.”

Key looked up at Mr. Fuddlebee. “What’s Warhag?” she asked through a sniffle.

The elderly ghost shuddered. “Aside from Margrave Snick, Warhag is perhaps the deadliest Mystical Creature ever to grace the Necropolis. Don’t let her cuddly orange fur fool you.”

Mr. Fuddlebee waited with Key until she could weep no more. He touched her gently on the shoulder. “It is time,” he said with a heavy heart. “We must go in.”

And so Mr. Fuddlebee brought Key into the Royal Court of the Necropolis Castle, where hundreds more vampires were gathered around an old queen on a throne – Queen of the Vampire Castle, Queen of the Necropolis – Old Queen Crinkle.

— CHAPTER SIX —

A Birth-night Party

You probably think of a queen as a stately looking woman wearing long beautiful robes and a golden crown bedecked with many varieties of jewels.

But the Queen of the Necropolis was not that kind of queen at all. Being Queen of the City of the Dead was like being President of Piddle. The Queen of the Necropolis ruled over a land that no one wanted to see or think about.

Key looked over Old Queen Crinkle and noticed that her crown was made of spoons, her scepter was made of wire hangers, her rings were steel nuts and bolts, and her royal robes were patchwork. To Key, this Queen did not seem like the queens she read about in fairytales.

Key then looked around at the Royal Court. It did not take long for her to decide that she did not like it one bit. It was held in a gloomy chamber of gray stone. Enchanted torches floated all around. Magic tapestries hovered before the walls. Red ribbons were knotting and unknotting themselves on large wrought iron chandeliers. Instruments appeared to be floating in a corner – but Key soon learned that it was only invisible minstrel ghosts playing music on lutes, flutes, cymbals, and tambourines that swayed back and forth in rhythm.

Mr. Fuddlebee spoke to Key in a low tone. “Tonight the Royal Court is celebrating Old Queen Crinkle’s birth-night.”

Key remembered how that other Key had wished her a Happy Birth-night also. Aside from this night being the strangest and saddest she’d ever known, Key could not help but wonder what “Birth-
night”
meant.

“Well,” Mr. Fuddlebee explained, “Vampires do not say ‘birthday.’ Daylight would destroy them – if they were lucky. If they were unlucky, it would make them sparkle. So you see, for a vampire, saying ‘day’ is like saying ‘sun,’ and saying ‘sun’ is like saying ‘death.’ So saying ‘Happy Birthday’ to a vampire would be like wishing them ‘Happy Birth-
death!’
 
Or ‘Happy Sparkle-day!’ – which for many vampires is a far worse fate.”

Key noticed a large banner over the throne with the words,
Happy Four Hundred Twenty Seventh Birth-Night!
 
The Old Queen looked very old to Key, as her face was thin and bony – a face that might have been kindly and benevolent, once upon a time, yet now it was lined from ages of scowling. Even so, Key could hardly believe that Old Queen Crinkle was turning four hundred twenty seven years old.

“Was Margrave Snick that old too?” Key inquired.

“Older,” Mr. Fuddlebee said with a sigh. “He was supposed to be changed back into a mortal when he turned seven hundred seventy seven years old. But he has an uncanny knack for fleeing from the law.”

“He’s almost eight hundred years old?” said Key in astonishment.

“Older,” Mr. Fuddlebee said again with another sigh.

The Queen’s age marveled Key, but Margrave Snick’s age was almost beyond understanding. The more Key imagined what it would be like to live for eight hundred years, the more mysterious it seemed.

But then another idea came into her head.

“You said that Margrave Snick
has
an uncanny knack for fleeing from the law,” she said to the elderly ghost. “Surely you mean that he had a knack, don’t you? Margrave Snick is no longer alive, right?”

Mr. Fuddlebee went
“Hmmm”
and then he said in a mysterious tone, “We shall see.”

Mr. Fuddlebee led Key a few paces before the Queen’s throne and then he stopped, just out of reach of the Royal Scepter, which looked a little sharper now that Key could see it up close.

Old Queen Crinkle scowled at Mr. Fuddlebee. Then she fixed her angry look upon Key while her court vampires circled around the girl and the elderly ghost like a pack of hungry hyenas. “So this is the child,” the Queen said in a dark, raspy voice, as she scrutinized Key up and down. “This is the one made by Margrave?”

Mr. Fuddlebee did not seem at all bothered by the other vampires, but hovered contentedly beside Key with the tips of his shoes skimming over the floor. Cordially greeting the Queen, he tipped his bowler hat toward her in a respectful manner. “My dear Crinkle,” the elderly ghost said, putting on his best smile for her, yet, because he didn’t call her “queen,” her scowl became much more
scowlier
, as she returned her attention back to him. “I had no idea,” he went on, “that you knew anything about this child’s most unfortunate circumstances. Did perhaps Margrave mention to you he was going to pay her family a visit?”

Key got the sense that these two had a long history together, and that the Queen had never liked Mr. Fuddlebee very much. Then again, sensing the general air of loathing that seemed to hang around the Queen like a dark cloud, Key wondered if she liked anyone at all.

Old Queen Crinkle narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Mr. Fuddlebee. “Is this official SPOOK business?” she asked. “If you want to know about my association with Margrave Snick, then you’ll need a Warlock’s Warrant from the Department of Injustice.”

“Well then, my dear Crinkle,” Mr. Fuddlebee said, not at all fazed by the Queen’s unhelpful attitude, “how in the world did you ever hear about Margrave making this child a vampire?”

Old Queen Crinkle cleared her throat nervously, giving herself a little pause before speaking again. And when she did, her voice sounded much more controlled. “We heard about it on the Welkin City news.”

Key had never heard of Welkin City, but it was clear that Mr. Fuddlebee knew all about it, because his green glowing face brightened as he said, “Ah! Yes, of course, the Welkin City news. But my dear Matilda,” (Key guessed that Old Queen Crinkle’s first name was Matilda) “I had no idea,” he went on, “that you had the Necropolis Castle outfitted with Optomechs, as Optomech projection is the only legal means of watching any Welkin City broadcast nowadays.”

Old Queen Crinkle was silent for a moment, glaring at Mr. Fuddlebee. It seemed to Key that, in this dialogue between these two old acquaintances, Mr. Fuddlebee was maneuvering the Queen the way a chess master maneuvers pieces along a board. Finally, Old Queen Crinkle responded, but in a quieter, bitterer, less commanding tone than before. “You know that we have been forbidden the use of Optomechs since the Goblin Revolt of 1914. You were the one, after all, who issued that regulation in the first place.”

“Was I?” Mr. Fuddlebee said, trying to sound innocent. “Ah yes, well, I must have forgotten that small detail. But I am deeply grateful to you now for ‘jogging’ my memory, as they say these days. But I would be more grateful to you if you told me how you came across the information that Margrave Snick sired a child tonight.”