Carpe Jugulum

t’ousan!”
    “Bigjobs!”
    A fox peered cautiously around a tree.
    Through the rain-swept woods a man was moving at speed, while apparently lying down. He wore a nightcap, the bobble of which bounced on the ground.
    By the time the fox realized what was going on, it was too late. A small blue figure leapt out from under the rushing man and landed on its nose, smaking it between the eyes with his head.
    “Seeyu? Grich’ ta’ bones outa t’is yan!”
    The Nac mac Feegle leapt down as the fox collapsed, grabbed its tail with one hand and ran after the others, punching the air triumphantly.
    “Obhoy! We ’gan eat t’nicht!”

They’d pulled the bed out into the middle of the room. Now Agnes and Oats sat on either side of it, listening to the distant sounds of Hodgesaargh feeding the birds. There was the rattle of tins and the occasional yelp as he tried to remove a bird from his nose.
    “Sorry?” said Agnes.
    “Pardon?”
    “I thought you whispered something,” said Agnes.
    “I was, er, saying a short prayer,” said Oats.
    “Will that help?” said Agnes.
    “Er…it helps me. The Prophet Brutha said that Om helps those who help one another.”
    “And does he?”
    “To be honest, there are a number of opinions of what was meant.”
    “How many?”
    “About one hundred and sixty, since the Schism of ten-thirty A.M ., February twenty-third. That was when the Re-United Free Chelonianists (Hubward Convocation) split from the Re-United Free Chelonianists (Rimward Convocation). It was rather serious.”
    “Blood spilled?” said Agnes. She wasn’t really interested, but it took her mind off whatever might be waking up in a minute.
    “No, but there were fisticuffs and a deacon had ink spilled on him.”
    “I can see that was pretty bad.”
    “There was some serious pulling of beards as well.”
    “Gosh.” Sects maniacs, said Perdita.
    “You’re making fun of me,” said Oats solemnly.
    “Well, it does sound a little…trivial. You’re always arguing?”
    “The Prophet Brutha said ‘Let there be ten thousand voices,’” said the priest. “Sometimes I think he meant that it was better to argue amongst ourselves than go out putting unbelievers to fire and the sword. It’s all very complicated.” He sighed. “There are a hundred pathways to Om. Unfortunately, I sometimes think someone left a rake lying across a lot of them. The vampire was right. We’ve lost the fire…”
    “But you used to burn people with it.”
    “I know…I know…”
    Agnes saw a movement out of the corner of her eye.
    Steam was rising from under the blanket they’d pulled over Granny Weatherwax.
    As Agnes looked down, Granny’s eyes sprang open and swiv-eled from side to side.
    Her mouth moved once or twice.
    “And how are you, Miss Weatherwax?” said Mightily Oats in a cheerful voice.
    “She was bitten by a vampire! What sort of question is that?” Agnes hissed.
    “One that’s better than ‘ what are you’?” Oats whispered.
    Granny’s hand twitched. She opened her mouth again, arched her body against the rope and then slumped back against the pillow.
    Agnes touched her forehead, and drew her hand back sharply.
    “She’s burning up! Hodgesaargh! Bring some water!”
    “Coming, miss!”
    “Oh no…” whispered Oats. He pointed to the ropes. They were unknotting themselves, stealthily moving across one another like snakes.
    Granny half rolled, half fell out of the bed, landing on her hands and knees. Agnes went to pick her up and received a blow from an elbow that sent her across the room.
    The old witch dragged the door open and crawled out into the rain. She paused, panting, as the drops hit her. Agnes swore that some of them sizzled.
    Granny’s hands slipped. She landed in the mud and struggled to push herself upright.
    Blue-green light spilled out from the mews’s open door. Agnes looked back inside. Hodgesaargh was staring at a jamjar, in which a point of white light was surrounded by a pale blue flame that stretched well beyond the jar, and curled and pulsed.
    “What’s that ?”
    “My phoenix feather, miss! It’s burning the air!”
    Outside, Oats had pulled Granny upright and had got his shoulder under one of her arms.
    “She said something,” he said. “‘I am,’ I think…”
    “She might be a vampire !”
    “She just said it again. Didn’t you hear?”
    Agnes moved closer, and Granny’s limp hand was suddenly gripping her shoulder. She could feel the heat of it through