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, toward 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 had 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 into 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.”

“The castle…” said Agnes.

“They’ll have to make it before cock-crow,” said Piotr, with some satisfaction. “And they can’t cut through the woods, ’cos of the werewolves.”

“What? I thought werewolves and vampires would get along fine,” said Agnes.

“Oh, maybe it looks like that,” said Piotr. “But they’re watching one another all the time to see who’s going to be the first to blink.” He looked around the room. “We don’t mind the werewolves,” he went on, to general agreement. “They leave us alone most of the time because we don’t run fast enough to be interesting.”

He looked Agnes up and down.

“What was it you did to the vampires?” he said.

“Me? I didn’t do—I don’t know,” said Agnes.

“They couldn’t even bite us properly.”

“And they were squabbling like kids when they left,” said the man with the mallet.

“You’ve got a pointy hat,” said Piotr. “Did you put a spell on them?”

“I—I don’t know. I really don’t.” And then natural honesty met witchcraft. One aspect of witchcraft is the craftiness, and it’s seldom unwise to take the credit for unexplained but fortuitous events. “I may have done,” she added.

“Well, we’re going after them,” said Piotr.

“Won’t they have got well away?”

“We can cut through the woods.”