Carpe Jugulum

Nitt,” said the Count.
    She hauled the limp Oats to the main doors. Now it was raining hard outside, great heavy unmerciful rain slanting out of the sky like steel rods. She kept close to the wall for the slight shelter that this gave and propped him up under the gush from a gargoyle.
    He shuddered. “Oh, that poor old woman,” he moaned, slumping forward so that a flattened star of rain poured off his head.
    “Yes,” said Agnes. The other two had run off. They’d shared a thought—and Perdita had too. They’d all felt the shock as Granny set her mind free and…well, the baby was even called Esme, wasn’t she? But…she couldn’t have imagined Granny’s voice in her head. She had to be somewhere close…
    “I really made a terrible mess of it, didn’t I,” said Oats.
    “Yes,” said Agnes, vaguely. No, lending her self to the baby did have a sort of rightness to it, a folklore touch, a romantic ring, and that’s why Nanny and Magrat would probably believe it and that was why Granny wouldn’t do it. Granny had no romance in her soul, Agnes thought. But she did have a very good idea of how to manipulate the romance in other people.
    So…where else was she? Something had happened. She’d put the essence of herself somewhere for safety, and no matter what she’d told the Count she couldn’t have put it very far away. It had to be in something alive, but if it was in a human the owner wouldn’t even know it—
    “If only I’d used the right exorcism—” Oats mumbled.
    “Wouldn’t have worked,” said Agnes sharply. “I don’t think they’re very religious vampires.”
    “It’s probably only once in his life that a priest gets a chance like this…”
    “You were just the wrong person,” said Agnes. “If a pamphlet had been the right thing to scare them away, then you’d have been the very best man for the job.”
    She stared down at Oats. So did Perdita.
    “Brother Melchio is going to get very abrupt about this,” he said, pulling himself to his feet. “Oh, look at me, all covered in mud. Er…why are you looking at me like that?”
    “Oh…just an odd thought. The vampires still don’t affect your head?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “They don’t affect your mind? They don’t know what you’re thinking?”
    “Hah! Most of the time even I don’t know what I’m thinking,” said Oats miserably.
    “Really?” said Agnes. Really? said Perdita.
    “He was right,” mumbled Oats, not listening. “I’ve let everyone down, haven’t I? I should have stayed in the college and taken that translating post.”
    There wasn’t even any thunder and lightning with the rain. It was just hard and steady and grim.
    “But I’m…ready to have another go,” said Oats.
    “You are? Why?”
    “Did not Kazrin return three times into the valley of Mahag, and wrest the cup of Hiread from the soldiers of the Oolites while they slept?”
    “Did he?”
    “Yes. I’m…I’m sure of it. And did not Om say to the Prophet Brutha, ‘I will be with you in dark places’?”
    “I imagine he did.”
    “Yes, he did. He must have done.”
    “And,” said Agnes, “on that basis you’d go back in?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “Because if I didn’t, what use am I? What use am I anyway?”
    “I don’t think we’d survive a second time,” said Agnes. “They let us go this time because it was the cruel thing to do. Dang! I’ve got to decide what to do now, and it shouldn’t be me . I’m the maiden, for goodness’ sake!” She saw his expression and added, for reasons she’d find hard to explain at the moment, “A technical term for the junior member of a trio of witches. I shouldn’t have to decide things. Yes, I know it’s better than making the tea!”
    “Er…I didn’t say anything about making the tea—”
    “No, sorry, that was someone else. What is it she wants me to do ?”
    Especially since now you think you know where she’s hiding, said Perdita.
    There was a creak, and they heard the hall doors open. Light spilled out, shadows danced in the mist raised by the driving rain, there was a splash and the doors shut again. As they closed, there was the sound of laughter.
    Agnes hurried to the bottom of the steps, with the priest squelching along beside her.
    There was already a wide and muddy puddle at this end of the courtyard. Granny Weatherwax lay in it, her dress torn, her hair uncoiling from its rock-hard bun.
    There was blood on her neck.
    “They didn’t even lock her