Dr. Morbid's Castle of Blood (Masks) Read online

  Dr. Morbid’s Castle of Blood

  By Hayden Thorne

  Published by Queerteen Press

  Visit queerteen-press.com for more information.

  Copyright 2012 Hayden Thorne

  ISBN 9781611523485

  Cover Credits: Patrimonio Designs Limited | Dreamstime.com

  Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America. Queerteen Press is an imprint of JMS Books LLC.

  Other books in this series include: Masks: Rise of Heroes, Masks: Evolution, Masks: Ordinary Champions, Curse of Arachnaman, and Mimi Attacks! Visit haydenthorne.com for more information.

  * * * *

  Dr. Morbid’s Castle of Blood

  By Hayden Thorne

  Chapter 1

  Peter’s birthday was just around the corner—like a three-week corner. Last time I talked to Althea about birthday celebration plans, my boyfriend’s birthday was two months away. I guess I should thank Mimi Gallagher and the Deathtrap Debutantes for eating up the first three weeks (at least) of that two-month span with their whackjob heads-shoved-deep-up-their-millionaire-asses shenanigans.

  I said “shenanigans.” God, Scanlon Dorsey had already worked his way under my skin down to my deepest innards—the ones that you couldn’t locate even with a GPS. He was like a 1950s organic, three-ingredient, white bread type of burrowing mole that also sidelined as a psychic vampire. He made a pretty bad sidekick to boot.

  As I was saying, that teeny-tiny detour into supervillain craziness for about three weeks distracted everyone from Peter’s birthday celebration, and it took us another week following the thorough ass-kicking that the Debutantes received from my superhero girl buddies to pick ourselves up off the floor, dust ourselves off, and then move forward again. Dazed and confused, yeah, but at least we were moving forward. We were also all in our proper ages again, and I wasn’t a bunny. Long story, that.

  Then it was another week of humdrum existence in the badlands of Vintage City, with my superhero friends back on the streets, protecting everyone from scum and, judging from the explosion of seriously twisted fanfiction online, providing everyone with tons and tons of masturbatory fantasies. That also included tons and tons of major coronary moments for me, seeing as how Calais—Peter’s superhero alter ego—was the most popular source of romantic inspiration for all kinds of Mary Sue fanfics.

  Oh, and I shouldn’t forget that these fangirls (and boys, I’m sure) had expanded to slash fanfiction, this time pairing up Calais with Magnifiman, of all people, and if these fans really knew the truth, they’d freak out because Calais and Magnifiman were brothers. Then again, I’d heard of fans who were totally into twincest or incest fanfics, so as far as that went, I couldn’t do anything but wish the worst form of chronic acne and hemorrhoids on each and every one of them. And the body parts involved in those two should be reversed.

  By the time the smoke really, finally cleared, we were only three weeks away from Peter’s birthday, and while we knew that Peter’s gazillionaire parents had already planned something special for their son, neither the superheroes nor I had gotten our acts together.

  The good thing in all this? I got a job. Yeehaw. This meant that I could afford to buy Peter a gift and not have to grovel at Mom’s feet for her money. She still hadn’t forgiven me for blowing her hard-earned cash on my handmade journal, pen set, and oil lamp. It didn’t matter to her that I was actually using them, but I figured that parents tended to lose sight of reality once money was involved. Mom was also way too addicted to coffee and greasy food, which could account for a lot of things, but you didn’t hear that from me.

  So! Three weeks before Peter’s birthday, I stood behind Mrs. Zhang’s steam counter, waving away the spiced-up steam rising up from the Kung Pao Chicken pan and fighting the tears as I tried to put together a customer’s order.

  “Dang,” I said, grimacing and blinking while scooping up the stuff into the container I held. “I think your red peppers just melted the lenses from my glasses, Mrs. Zhang. They don’t even act like shields anymore.”

  Two more seconds of agony, and I was free to walk away from that pan, my face pouring with sweat, my eyes looking like I’d just been caught messing around with someone’s fancy booze cabinet. I secured the food container and bagged it with plastic cutlery, napkins, and soy sauce packets, while Mrs. Zhang all but demanded money, firstborn, and soul from the guy who waited for his lunch, drool practically coming out like slimy waterfall.

  “Here you go,” I said, faking a grin. “Enjoy your lunch!” More like late lunch, seeing as how he was eating at two P.M.

  “Thanks, kid. Judging from the way you look, I’m in for a real spicy treat,” he said, his sunburned face crinkling when he smiled back.

  At least I thought he smiled. It was a little hard to say for sure with all the soot and dirt that covered him. He was one of the construction workers who were busy fixing up (or maybe destroying?) the street a couple of blocks away. He was also a big fan of Mrs. Zhang’s takeout place and really, really dug the spicy stuff. What I’d give to have him eat ten gallons of Kung Pao Chicken and then get locked in a closet with Scanlon. My guess would be that a few breaths from this guy would doom Scanlon to a lifetime of toilet experiences, given how sensitive he was to anything stronger than water.

  “Uh—yeah. You’ll love it.” I winced as I swept my bangs aside. They were plastered against my forehead, but at least my eyes stopped watering. I could swear that my glasses’ plastic lenses were all distorted and half-melted.

  “Of course, he love it!” Mrs. Zhang retorted, giving me a punch on the shoulder. Go, boss. “He always come back for anything that make dead people wake up, eh?” She turned to the customer and nodded, snorting, with meant that she was pleased and flattered.

  “Got that right. Keeps everyone else from wanting to sample my lunch. I’ll see you guys next time.” With a smart salute to Mrs. Zhang, who laughed, he turned around and tromped off, leaving a trail of dirt on the floor. He was like a mature version of Pig Pen from those Snoopy comic strips. And that trail of dirt didn’t even come from his shoes. All that stuff was like things that shook off from his clothes, hair, and skin.

  I pinched my mouth shut before I got snarky in front of my boss as I turned around to look for the broom and dustpan. “Man,” I muttered, walking around the steam counter to the main customer area. “There should be a law requiring people to have a shower and a fresh change of clothes before walking inside any food-serving place.”

  I grumbled on and on about the grossness of carcinogenic stuff finding its way into a takeout place, which turned into a pretty interesting stream-of-consciousness moment that led me from crap on people’s bodies to Peter’s naked body, but I was probably just tired.

  “Hey,” Mrs. Zhang called out, her voice breaking up my sweet, sweet thoughts. “You fantasizing
about boyfriend again?”

  “Huh?” I glanced back and blinked. “Huh?”

  She rolled her eyes and pointed at something behind me. I turned around and saw that I was practically sweeping my way through a wall. I’d reached the dead end, and I never even realized it. I cleared my throat and swept the dirt into the dustpan.

  “I was only being thorough,” I said. “You should see what’s been lurking in the darkest corners of your takeout place, Mrs. Zhang. That one over there’s like a portal to the underworld, considering what I’d just swept out of it. Must’ve been Cerberus’ fossilized dog poop.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “You want your paycheck or not?”

  That was a shocker. “Seriously?”

  Mrs. Zhang shook her head and waved at me. “Come here, come here, and get your money. Now you have something to spend on hot boyfriend, right? Save some for yourself, though!”

  I happily dumped the dirt in the garbage can, set aside the broom and dustpan, then trotted off to the rest room to wash my hands, dollar signs dancing in my head. I went to one of the back rooms, where the accounting took place. There I waited while Mrs. Zhang dug around a small safe box type of thing. She pulled out an envelope and handed it over to me.

  “Good job,” she said, beaming, and she actually looked sincere. “Mom and Dad would be proud of you, newbie.” She even leaned close and pinched my cheek.

  “Wow, thanks!” I stared at the envelope, which was this plain white one with my name scribbled across it in Chinese characters. At least that would be my name in Chinese, Mrs. Zhang once said, which was really cool. My first paycheck—and no one had a right to touch it but me! Okay, and the freakin’ government, but I gotta take the bitter with the sweet.

  “Take it to a bank and start saving—well, after you treat Mr. Hot Boy to dinner or something.” She paused and glanced at her watch. “Just in time. You clocking out now, right?”

  “Oh.” I looked at mine. “Yeah, I am. I gotta go with a friend to find something for Peter’s birthday.” I looked back at her. “By the way, you don’t happen to have any ideas on what to give him, do you? He’ll be seventeen, he’s rich, and he’s gay.”

  Mrs. Zhang stared at me, all blank. “I’m not gay. You are. What would you want for your birthday?”

  “Sex?”

  She stared at me again. “And?”

  “Sex?”

  She made a vague gesture with her hand. “Is that what teenagers call TMI?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much. I guess it’s also a reason for you to fire me or send me to court for sexual harassment or something like that, so I guess I should stop.” I paused to consider something. “You should’ve seen the look on your face when you heard me, though.”

  “Oh, just go and find him something nice before you ruin mental image I have of you as crazy, too-skinny boy. I should report this to Mrs. Plath, you know. You be grounded for rest of your life. If she doesn’t do it, I will.”

  I grinned at her and waved as I walked out the door. “You won’t. You love me too much. Thanks, Mrs. Zhang! I’ll be back on Monday!”

  She called something out in Chinese, which I didn’t even bother trying to guess, though I was sure she just called me a perv and stuff while sounding really cheerful about it. When I passed the kitchen, I poked my head inside and said goodbye to Mr. Zhang, who was busy putting pots away. He smiled, said something in Chinese, which I guessed to be something way nicer than what his wife said, and waved at me.

  I gathered my jacket after stuffing my paycheck in the deepest and most secure zipped pocket of my messenger bag. Then I clocked out and left the takeout place. I was set to meet Wade downtown, and she was going to help me find something to buy for Peter. Apparently she was like me, slacking in the gift department, though I was sure that the rest of the heroes except for Trent—Magnifiman’s alter ego and Peter’s older brother—were also scrambling for ideas.

  It was an easy walk from my job to downtown Vintage. Considering how unlucky this city had been since the superheroes and supervillains came into their powers, one would think that we’d be shopping elsewhere to make sure that we didn’t run the risk of getting flattened by falling debris from some explosion or other. Unfortunately, Wade was one of the superheroes, and she couldn’t really wander too far because the city needed her. If anything, she was sneaking in some shopping time before she was set to turn into Miss Pyro and watch over everyone along with the rest of the heroes.

  I found her sitting on a bench in one of the more froufrou side streets, dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and boots, her straight, dark hair hanging loose around her shoulders, her massive shoulder bag sitting beside her. She was busy messing around with her phone when I walked up to her.

  “What, sending out pornographic text messages again?”

  Wade looked up, startled, and then grinned. “Yeah—there’s money to be made in this.”

  “I’m telling your mom.” I sat down beside her with a tired but happy sigh. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

  “Nah. I just got here after spending way too much time looking at chocolate.” She turned her phone off and dumped it inside her bag.

  “Dude, that’s totally against Nature. You looked at chocolate and didn’t buy any? And you being a girl? What’s wrong with you?”

  Wade laughed and stood up, yanking me by my jacket sleeve as she heaved that ginormous bag of hers onto her shoulder. “I’m trying to watch my figure, you big douche. Let’s go shop for Peter before you make me change my mind about my diet.”

  I let her haul me off, her hand still gripping my jacket. “Well, that sucks. I was hoping you’d have dark chocolate to share. The richer, the better.”

  “Feeling horny again, Eric?”

  “When am I not feeling horny? I’m a normal teenage boy! I’m supposed to think of sex every one-and-a-half seconds or something.”

  Wade glanced back to give me this look that I couldn’t describe other than “God, how do straight girls put up with this crap from their boyfriends?” before turning around to keep her relentless pace through the afternoon weekend shopping crowd. Man, what I’d give to play matchmaker for her.

  “I just got my first ever paycheck, and I have to open an account with a bank,” I said, beaming with pride. “At least now I have a set amount to go by, which means no high maintenance shopping for Peter. I’m totally middle-class at best.”

  “Oh. I was going to suggest getting him a sports car.” Wade linked arms with me and led me out of the froufrou side of downtown Vintage, and before long we were lost in the “urban” avenue, which was made up of all kinds of indie stores selling modern and hip stuff. Clothes, gadgets, music, whatever—Wade and I not only window-shopped; we attacked every store there was, starting from one end of the street to the other before crossing the road and then working our way down the opposite side.

  “Oh, my God, I want this! No, this! No, no, my bad—this!” That was pretty much our conversation. By the halfway mark, I realized that we’d found tons of awesome stuff for ourselves but not a single one for Peter. I froze in my tracks, blinking in the sunlight, sort of like what people did when they’d woken up from a pretty crazy dream. All I was missing were my pillow and my recently used, old “bedroom” towel.

  “Huh? What just happened?” I looked around for Wade and found her practically plastered against the window of an edgy urban girls’ store, arms and legs spread out and clinging to the glass (as if she could do it, anyway), face pressed against it, breaths fogging up the whole thing. Did girls really go crazy when they shopped? Was that the reason why it was fashionable for them to haul around shoulder bags the size of minivans, so they had plenty of room to stuff their newly bought bling in? Dayum.

  When I walked up to Wade, stealing glances around me to see if people saw us and thought that I somehow knew her, I heard her muttering to herself. For a moment I thought she was chanting something pagan or what, but it turned out to be “OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG…”<
br />
  I cleared my throat and tapped her shoulder. She didn’t even flinch. “Hey, Wade,” I said, looking around again. Nope, no one was watching us. “Come on, quit it. You’re scaring the kids.”

  All that did was to make her press her face and hands against the glass even harder. I didn’t want to imagine what kinds of marks she was going to leave by the time I pried her off with a crowbar. “I wants,” she said. “I wants, I wants, I wants.”

  “Wade, you’re supposed to be one of the most level-headed people I know. Stop killing my fantasy, and let’s go. There’s nothing for Peter here.” I gave her shirt another tug and then looked up to find one of the shop employees standing near the window inside, gaping at Wade. She was all gothed out and stuff, pretty intimidating to look at, but she stood there, kind of helpless, her jaw hanging low. Then again, it must’ve been the combined weight of all those rings and studs decorating her lower lip that dragged her jaw down.

  Or I could be nice and blame Wade. I wasn’t surprised, really. Considering how tough it was to get my friend unstuck from the window, I could only imagine that Wade was literally pasted against it through her sweat, if not sheer will power. Maybe her superpowers made her develop a special set of invisible, super-strong suction cups on her hands and nose.

  Little by little, I managed to pull Wade off the glass, grab hold of her arm, and gently lead her away. I could swear that I thought I heard the familiar popping sounds of suction cups. “Okay, let’s move on to the next shop, you little creepazoid,” I said. “You just terrorized all the goth employees in there.” Never would’ve thought that I’d live to see the day when a rich girl would actually manage that.

  “Eric,” she breathed once we were out of harm’s way. “That was like urban heaven for girls. I gotta go back there and clean the place out. I wanted to buy everything on the rack that was closest to the window.”

  Seriously high maintenance. “Wade, you’re totally not ghetto,” I said.