‘What? No!’
‘It could be arranged, haha.’ He grinned. It was the sort of grin that Agnes supposed was called infectious but, then, so was measles. It filled her immediate future. Something was pouring over her like a pink fluffy cloud saying: it’s all right, everything is fine, this is exactly right . . .
‘Look at Mrs Ogg there,’ said Vlad. ‘Grinning like a pumpkin, ain’t she? And she is apparently one of the more powerful witches in the mountains. It’s almost distressing, don’t you think?’
Tell him you know he can read minds, Perdita commanded.
And again, the puzzled, quizzical look.
‘You can-‘ Agnes began.
‘No, not exactly. Just people,’ said Vlad. ‘One learns, one learns. One picks things up.’ He flung himself down on a sofa, one leg over the arm, and stared thoughtfully at her.
‘Things will be changing, Agnes Nitt,’ he said. ‘My father is right. Why lurk in dark castles? Why be ashamed? We’re vampires. Or, rather, vampyres. Father’s a bit keen on the new spelling. He says it indicates a clean break with a stupid and superstitious past. In any case, it’s not our fault. We were born vampires.’
‘I thought you became-‘
‘-vampires by being bitten? Dear me, no. Oh, we can turn people into vampires, it’s an easy technique, but what would be the point? When you eat . . . now what is it you eat? Oh yes, chocolate . . . you don’t want to turn it into another Agnes Nitt, do you? Less chocolate to go around.’ He sighed. ‘Oh dear, superstition, superstition everywhere we turn. Isn’t it true that we’ve been here at least ten minutes and your neck is quite free of anything except a small amount of soap you didn’t wash off?’
Agnes’s hand flew to her throat.
‘We notice these things,’ said Vlad. ‘And now we’re here to notice them. Oh, Father is powerful in his way, and quite an advanced thinker, but I don’t think even he is aware of the possibilities. I can’t tell you how good it is to be out of that place, Miss Nitt. The werewolves . . . oh dear, the werewolves . . . Marvellous people, it goes without saying, and of course the Baron has a certain rough style, but really . . . give them a good deer hunt, a warm spot in front of the fire and a nice big bone and the rest of the world can go hang. We have done our best, we really have. No one has done more than Father to bring our part of the country into the Century of the Fruitbat ‘
‘It’s nearly over-‘ Agnes began.
‘Perhaps that’s why he’s so keen,’ said Vlad. ‘The place is just full of . . . well, remnants. I mean . . . centaurs? Really! They’ve got no business surviving. They’re out of place. And frankly all the lower races are just as bad. The trolls are stupid, the dwarfs are devious, the pixies are evil and the gnomes stick in your teeth. Time they were gone. Driven out. We have great hopes of Lancre.’ He looked around disdainfully. ‘After some redecoration.’
Agnes looked back at Nanny and her sons. They were listening quite contentedly to the worst music since Shawn Ogg’s bagpipes had been dropped down the stairs.
‘And . . . you’re taking our country?’ she said. ‘Just like that?’
Vlad gave her another smile, stood up, and walked towards her. ‘Oh, yes. Bloodlessly. Well . . . metaphorically. You really are quite remarkable, Miss Nitt. The Uberwald girls are so sheep-like. But you . . . you’re concealing something from me. Everything I feel tells me you’re quite under my power – and yet you’re not.’ He chuckled. ‘This is delightful. . .’
Agnes felt her mind unravelling. The pink fog was blowing through her head . . .
. . . and looming out of it, deadly and mostly concealed, was the iceberg of Perdita.
As Agnes withdrew into the pinkness she felt the tingle spread down her arms and legs. It was not pleasant. It was like sensing someone standing right behind you and then feeling them take one step forward.
Agnes would have pushed him away. That is, Agnes would have dithered and tried to talk her way out of things, but if push had come to shove then she’d have pushed hard. But Perdita struck, and when her hand was halfway around she turned it palm out and curled her fingers to bring her nails into play . . .
He caught her wrist, his hand moving in a blur.
‘Well done,’ he said, laughing.
His other hand shot out and caught her other arm as it swung.
‘I like a woman with spirit!’
However, he had run out of hands, and Perdita still had a knee in reserve. Vlad’s eyes crossed and he made that small sound best recorded as ‘ghni . . .’
‘Magnificent!’ he croaked as he folded up.
Perdita pulled herself away and ran over to Nanny Ogg, grabbing the woman’s arm.
‘Nanny, we are leaving!’
‘Are we, dear?’ said Nanny calmly, not making a move.
‘And Jason and Darren too!’
Perdita didn’t read as much as Agnes. She thought books were bor-ing. But now she really needed to know: what did you use against vampires?
Holy symbols! Agnes prompted from within.
Perdita looked around desperately. Nothing in the room looked particularly holy. Religion, apart from its use as a sort of cosmic registrar, had never caught on in Lancre.
‘Daylight is always good, my dear,’ said the Countess, who must have caught the edge of her thought. ‘Your uncle always had big windows and easily twitched aside curtains, didn’t he, Count?’
‘Yes indeed,’ said the Count.
‘And when it came to running water, he always kept the moat flowing perfectly, didn’t he?’
‘Fed from a mountain stream, I think,’ said the Count.
‘And, for a vampire, he always seemed to have so many ornamental items around the castle that could be bent or broken into the shape of some religious symbol, as I recall.’
‘He certainly did. A vampire of the old school.’
‘Yes.’ The Countess gave her husband a smile. ‘The stupid school.’ She turned to Perdita and looked her up and down. ‘So I think you will find we are here to stay, my dear. Although you do seem to have made an impression on my son. Come here, girl. Let me have a good look at you.’
Even cushioned inside her own head Agnes felt the weight of the vampire’s will hit Perdita like an iron bar, pushing her down. Like the other end of a seesaw, Agnes rose.
‘Where’s Magrat? What have you done with her?’ she said.
‘Putting the baby to bed, I believe,’ said the Countess, raising her eyebrows. ‘A lovely child.’
‘Granny Weatherwax is going to hear about this, and you’ll wish you’d never been born . . . or un-born or reborn or whatever you are!’
‘We look forward to meeting her,’ said the Count calmly. ‘But here we are, and I don’t seem to see this famous lady with us. Perhaps you should go and fetch her? You could take your friends. And when you see her, Miss Nitt, you can tell her that there is no reason why witches and vampires should fight.’
Nanny Ogg stirred. Jason shifted in his seat. Agnes pulled them upright and towards the stairs.
‘We’ll be back!’ she shouted.
The Count nodded.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘We are famous for our hospitality.’
It was still dark when Hodgesaargh set out. If you were hunting a phoenix, he reasoned, the dark was probably the best time. Light showed up better in the darkness.
He’d packed a portable wire cage after considering the charred bars of the window, and he’d also spent some time on the glove.
It was basically a puppet, made of yellow cloth with some purple and blue rags tacked on. It was not, he conceded, very much like the drawing of the phoenix, but in his experience birds weren’t choosy observers.
Newly hatched birds were prepared to accept practically anything as their parent. Anyone who’d hatched eggs under a broody hen knew that
ducklings could be made to think they were chicks, and poor William the buzzard was a case in point.
The fact that a young phoenix never saw its parent and therefore didn’t know what it was supposed to look like might be a drawback in getting its trust, but this was unknown territory and Hodgesaargh was prepared to try anything. Like bait, for example. He’d packed meat and grain, although the drawing certainly suggested a hawk like bird, but in case it needed to eat inflammable materials as well he also put in a bag of mothballs and a pint of fish oil. Nets were out of the question, and bird lime was not to be thought of. Hodgesaargh had his pride. Anyway, they probably wouldn’t work.