Carpe Jugulum

is said that there are as many kinds of vampires as there are types of disease. * And they’re not just human (if vampires are human). All along the Ramtops may be found the belief that any apparently innocent tool, be it hammer or saw, will seek blood if left unused for more than three years. In Ghat they believe in vampire watermelons, although folklore is silent about what they believe about vampire watermelons. Possibly they suck back.
    Two things have traditionally puzzled vampire researchers. One is: why do vampires have so much power ? Vampires’re so easy to kill, they point out. There are dozens of ways to dispatch them, quite apart from the stake through the heart, which also works on normal people so if you have any stakes left over you don’t have to waste them. Classically, they spent the day in some coffin somewhere, with no guard other than an elderly hunchback who doesn’t look all that spry and should succumb to quite a small mob. Yet just one can keep a whole community in a state of sullen obedience…
    The other puzzle is: why are vampires always so stupid? As if wearing evening dress all day wasn’t an undead giveaway, why do they choose to live in old castles which offer so much in the way of ways to defeat a vampire, like easily torn curtains and wall decorations that can readily be twisted into a religious symbol? Do they really think that spelling their name backward fools anyone?
    A coach rattled across the moorlands, many miles away from Lancre. From the way it bounced over the ruts, it was traveling light. But darkness came with it.
    The horses were black, and so was the coach, except for the coat of arms on the doors. Each horse had a black plume between its ears; there was a black plume at each corner of the coach as well. Perhaps these caused the coach’s strange effect of traveling shadow. It seemed to be dragging the night behind it.
    On the top of the moor, where a few trees grew out of the rubble of a ruined building, it creaked to a halt.
    The horses stood still, occasionally stamping a hoof or tossing their heads. The coachman sat hunched over the reins, waiting.
    Four figures flew just above the clouds, in the silvery moonlight. By the sound of their conversation someone was annoyed, although the sharp unpleasant tone to the voice suggested that a better word might be “vexed.”
    “You let it get away !” This voice had a whine to it, the voice of a chronic complainer.
    “It was wounded, Lacci.” This voice sounded conciliatory, parental, but with just a hint of a repressed desire to give the first voice a thick ear.
    “I really hate those things. They’re so…soppy!”
    “Yes, dear. A symbol of a credulous past.”
    “If I could burn like that I wouldn’t skulk around just looking pretty. Why do they do it?”
    “It must have been of use to them at one time, I suppose.”
    “Then they’re…what did you call them?”
    “An evolutionary cul-de-sac, Lacci. A marooned survivor on the seas of progress.”
    “Then I’m doing them a favor by killing them?”
    “Yes, that is a point. Now, shall—”
    “After all, chickens don’t burn,” said the voice called Lacci. “Not easily, anyway.”
    “We heard you experiment. Killing them first might have been a good idea.” This was a third voice—young, male, and also somewhat weary with the female. It had “older brother” harmonics on every syllable.
    “What’s the point in that?”
    “Well, dear, it would have been quieter.”
    “Listen to your father, dear.” And this, the fourth voice, could only be a mother’s voice. It’d love the other voices whatever they did.
    “You’re so unfair!”
    “We did let you drop rocks on the pixies, dear. Life can’t be all fun.”
    The coachman stirred as the voices descended through the clouds. And then four figures were standing a little way off. The coachman clambered down and, with difficulty, opened the coach door as they approached.
    “Most of the wretched things got away, though,” said Mother.
    “Never mind, my dear,” said Father.
    “I really hate them. Are they a dead end too?” said Daughter.
    “Not quite dead enough as yet, despite your valiant efforts. Igor! On to Lancre.”
    The coachman turned.
    “Yeth, marthter.”
    “Oh, for the last time, man…is that any way to talk?”
    “It’th the only way I know, marthter,” said Igor.
    “And I told you to take the plumes off the coach, you idiot.”
    The coachman shifted