Mission: Lullaby

Author:Tommy Donbavand [Donbavand, Tommy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4063-5238-2
Publisher: Walker Books
Published: 2014-01-15T16:00:00+00:00

Wednesday 2145 hours: Bassey’s Karaoke Bar, Blackpool, UK

Fangs gripped the microphone with trembling fingers as a rock-guitar intro played, and the name of a song flashed up on screens all around the bar:

Dying Is Forever

The audience of supernatural creatures cheered as Fangs began to sing along nervously:

“Dying is forever,

Unless you are a zombie,

Then take some advice from me…”

Derek and I were seated at a table near the back of the room, watching him. We were squeezed in between a pair of drunken gnomes and a giantess who elbowed me in the ribs every time she took a sip from her bucket of beer. Derek had insisted on coming to his favourite karaoke bar and then made Fangs and me choose songs to sing from the zombie disc-jockey’s list of titles, just as he had.

“This is brilliant,” cried Derek over the music. “I normally have to come here by myself, but now that you’re my henchmen, I can order you to sing with me any time I want.” He took a blast from his inhaler. “I might even get you to stop the DJ from using his smoke machine. It really affects my allergies.”

“Don’t you think we’d be better spending our time thinking up evil plans to impress GLOVE?” I asked.

“That’s exactly what I am doing,” replied Derek. “I come up with my best ideas while I’m singing karaoke. Ooh, it’s all happening now! It won’t be long till I’ve moved into an evil lair of my very own. My mum will be really proud of me.”

On the stage, Fangs was looking worried. I’d seen him battle bad guys, chase villains and foil the wicked schemes of some of the greatest criminal monsterminds the world had ever seen, but I’d never seen him look as uncomfortable as he did right now.

The music was blaring, and the flashing lights were directed straight into his eyes. A harpy – her hair a writhing mass of hissing snakes – danced wildly at the front of the stage while he tried to concentrate on his words. When the song was finally over, the DJ – a local radio celebrity called Crisp Boils – called for a round of applause. Fangs left the stage.

“I’m next.” Derek beamed, jumping out of his seat and knocking my glass of orange juice over. The troll raced to the microphone, insisting that Fangs give him a celebratory high-five as they passed each other.

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