‘I wouldn’t trouble him.’
‘Terrible thing to have to burn all them words, though.’
‘The worthwhile ones don’t burn.’
‘You’re not too stupid, for all that you wear a funny hat,’ said Granny.
‘I know when I’m being pushed, Mistress Weatherwax.’
‘Well done.’
They walked on in silence. A shower of hail bounced off Granny’s pointy hat and Oats’s wide brim.
Then Granny said, ‘It’s no good you trying to make me believe in Om, though.’
‘Om forbid that I should try, Mistress Weatherwax. I haven’t even given you a pamphlet, have I?’
‘No, but you’re trying to make me think, “Oo, what a nice young man, his god must be something special if nice young men like him helps old ladies like me,” aren’t you?’
No.
‘Really? Well, it’s not working. People you can believe in, sometimes, but not gods. And I’ll tell you this, Mister Oats . . .’
He sighed. ‘Yes?’
She turned to face him, suddenly alive. ‘It’d be as well for you if I didn’t believe,’ she said,
prodding him with a sharp finger. ‘This Om . . . anyone seen him?’
‘It is said three thousand people witnessed his manifestation at the Great Temple when he made the Covenant with the prophet Brutha and saved him from death by torture on the iron turtle-‘
‘But I bet that now they’re arguing about what they actually saw, eh?’
‘Well, indeed, yes, there are many opinions-‘
‘Right. Right. That’s people for you. Now if I’d seen him, really there, really alive, it’d be in me like a fever. If I thought there was some god who really did care two hoots about people, who watched ’em like a father and cared for ’em like a mother . . . well, you wouldn’t catch me sayin’ things like “There are two sides to every question,” and “We must respect other people’s beliefs.” You wouldn’t find me just being gen’rally nice in the hope that it’d all turn out right in the end, not if that flame was burning in me like an unforgivin’ sword. And I did say burnin’, Mister Oats, ‘cos that’s what it’d be. You say that you people don’t burn folk and sacrifice people any more, but that’s what true faith would mean, y’see? Sacrificin’ your own life, one day at a time, to the flame, declarin’ the truth of it, workin’ for it, breathin’ the soul of it. That’s religion. Anything else is just . . . is just bein’ nice. And a way of keepin’ in touch with the neighbours.’
She relaxed slightly, and went on in a quieter voice: ‘Anyway, that’s what I’d be, if I really believed. And I don’t think that’s fashionable right now, ‘cos it seems that if you sees evil now you
have to wring your hands and say, “Oh deary me, we must debate this.” That’s my two penn’orth, Mister Oats. You be happy to let things lie. Don’t chase faith, ‘cos you’ll never catch it.’ She added, almost as an aside, ‘But, perhaps, you can live faithfully.’
Her teeth chattered as a gust of icy wind flapped her wet dress around her legs.
‘You got another book of holy words on you?’ she added.
‘No,’ said Oats, still shocked. He thought: my god, if she ever finds a religion, what would come out of these mountains and sweep across the plains? My god. . . I just said, ‘My god’. . .
‘A book of hymns, maybe?’ said Granny.
No.’
‘A slim volume o’ prayers, suitable for every occasion?’
‘No, Granny Weatherwax.’
‘Damn.’ Granny slowly collapsed backwards, folding up like an empty dress.
He rushed forward and caught her before she landed in the mud. One thin white hand gripped his wrist so hard that he yelped. Then she relaxed, and sagged in his grasp.
Something made Oats look up.
A hooded figure sat on a white horse a little way away, outlined in the faintest blue fire.
‘Go away!’ he screamed. ‘You be gone right now or . . . or. . .’
He lowered the body on to some tufts of grass, grabbed a handful of mud and flung it into the gloom. He ran after it, punching wildly at a shape that was suddenly no more than shadows and curling mist.
He dashed back, picked up Granny Weatherwax, slung her over his shoulder and ran on, downhill.
The mist behind him formed a shape on a white horse.
Death shook his head.
IT WASN’T EVEN AS IF I SAID ANYTHING, he said.
Waves of black heat broke over Agnes, and then there was a pit, and a fall into hot, suffocating darkness.
She felt the desire. It was tugging her forward like a current.
Well, she thought dreamily, at least I’ll lose some weight. . .
Yes, said Perdita, but all the eyeliner you’ll have to wear must add a few pounds. . .
The hunger filled her now, accelerating her.
And there was light, behind her, shining past her. She felt the fall gradually slow as if she’d hit invisible feathers, and then the world spun and she was rising again, moving up faster than an eagle stoops, towards an expanding circle of cold white-
It couldn’t possibly be words that she heard. There was no sound but a faint rushing noise. But it was the shadow of words, the effect they leave in the mind after they have been said, and she felt her own voice rushing in to fill the shape that had appeared there. I. . . can’t . . . be . . . having . . . with . . .this. . .
Light exploded.
And someone was about to hammer a stake through her heart.
‘Stdt?’ she said, knocking the hand away. She spluttered for a moment and then spat the lemon out of her mouth. ‘Hey, stop that!’ she tried again, this time with all the authority she could muster. ‘What the heck are you doing? Do I look like a vampire?’
The man with the stake and mallet hesitated, and then tapped a finger to the side of his neck.
Agnes reached to hers, and found two raised weals.
‘He must have missed!’ she said, pushing the stake away and sitting up. ‘Who took my stocking off? Who took off my left stocking? Is that boiling vinegar I can smell? What’re all these poppy seeds doing poured down my bra? If it wasn’t a woman who took my stocking off there’s going to be some serious trouble, I can tell you!’
The crowd around the table looked at one another, suddenly uncertain in the face of her rage. Agnes glanced up as something brushed her ear. Hanging over her were stars and crosses and circles and more complex designs she recognized as religious symbols. She’d never felt inclined to believe in religion, but she knew what it looked like.
‘And this is just a very tasteless display,’ she said.
‘She doesn’t act like a vampire,’ said a man. ‘She doesn’t look like one. And she did fight the others.’
‘ We saw that one bite her!’ said a woman.
‘Bad aim in poor light,’ said Agnes, knowing that it wasn’t. There was a hunger welling up. It was not like the black urge she’d felt in the dark, but sharp and urgent all the same. She had to give in to it.
‘I’d kill for a cup of tea,’ she added.
That seemed to clinch it. Tea wasn’t the liquid usually associated with vampires.
‘And for goodness’ sake let me shake some of these poppy seeds out,’ she went on, adjusting her bosom. ‘I feel like a wholemeal loaf.’
They moved aside as she swung her legs off the table, which now meant that she could see the vampire lying on the floor. She nearly thought of it as the other vampire.
It was a man wearing a long frock coat and a fancy waistcoat, both covered in mud and blood; there was a stake through his heart. Further identification, though, would have to await finding where they’d put his head.
‘I see you got one, then,’ she said, trying not to, be sick.
‘Got two,’ said the man with the hammer. ‘Set fire to the other one. They killed the mayor and Mr Vlack.’
‘You mean the rest got away?’ said Agnes.
‘Yes. They’re still strong but they can’t fly much.’
Agnes indicated the headless vampire. ‘Er . . . is that one Vlad?’ she said.
‘Which one was he?’
‘The one that . . . bit me. Tried to bite me,’ she corrected herself.
‘We can check. Piotr, show her the head.’
A young man obediently went to the fireplace, pulled on a glove, lifted the lid of a big saucepan and held up a head by its hair.
‘That’s not Vlad,’ said Agnes, swallowing. No, said Perdita, Vlad was taller.
‘They’ll be heading back to their castle,’ said Piotr. ‘On foot! You should see them trying to fly! It’s like watching chickens panicking.’