Кейти Макалистер: The Last of the Red-Hot Vampires

She got to her feet. I stood up in front of her.

"Then we're agreed. We will have a bet as to who can prove"—I raised my eyebrows—"or disprove a paranormal being or event." She thought for a moment. "Beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"Beyond reasonable doubt," I agreed, and we shook hands. "You know, I'm skeptical even without a bet."

"Yes, I know you're perfectly happy trying to rain on my mystical parade. But this adds just a smidgen of spice to it, don't you think? A little friendly competition?"

"Mmhmm. How much is the bet for?"

"Oh, we're not betting for money," she said, waving away such a mundane thought. "This is our honor we're betting, here. Honor, and the right to say 'I told you so' to the other person."

I laughed at that. "Sounds good to me. For every haunted house we visit, for every psychic you take me to see, for every crackpot who claims he has crop circles, I'll show you the truth behind the paranormal facade."

Her smile lit up her eyes as she opened the door to the tiny hallway. "We can start this afternoon. This area is a hotbed of paranormal activity, but most well known is the faery ring just outside of town. Get your faery-hunting clothes on, Portia. The game is afoot!"

"Na then, t'get ta the faery circle, gwain ye doon the road past Arvright's farm—ye know where that be, then?"

By focusing very, very hard, I managed to pick out words in the sentence that I understood. "Yes."

"Aye. Gwain ye doon the hill past Arvright's, then when ye see the sheep, ye turn north." The old man pointed to the south.

"Is that north?" Sarah asked in an undertone, looking doubtfully in the direction the man pointed.

"Shh. I'm having enough trouble trying to get through his West Country accent." I turned a cheerful smile on the man. "So, I turn left at the sheep?"

"Aye, 'tis what I am sayin'. Na then, once ye've skurved past they sheep, ye'll come to a zat combe."

"Zat combe?" Sarah's face was fierce with concentration. "I'm not sure I…a zat combe?"

I wrote down the old man's directions, praying we wouldn't end up wandering into someone's yard.

"Aye, 'tis right zat. Full o' varments."

Sarah looked at me. I shrugged and said to the man, "Lots of them, eh?"

Behind my back, Sarah pinched my arm.

"Chikky, too. They needs a good thraipin', but none here'll be doin' it."

"Thraipin'," Sarah said, nodding just as if she understood.

"Well, thraipin' chikky varments is an acquired skill, I've always found," I said, continuing to take notes that made no sense. "So we go through the zat combe with the varments? Then…?"

"Ye be up nap o' thikky hill."

"Ah."

Sarah leaned close. "I recognized a word in that sentence. I think I'm getting the hang of this language. It's good to know that all those years of watching BBC America are paying off."

"And that's where the faery circle is?" I asked the man, trying not to giggle. "Up nap o' thikky hill?"

"Aye." The old man narrowed his eyes and spat neatly to the side. Sarah looked appalled. "Dawn't ye go kickin' up t'pellum on thikky hill."

"We wouldn't dream of it," I promised solemnly.

"Ye maids be master Fanty Sheeny t'gwain ye ta the faery circle. 'Tis naught good ye find up nap o' thikky hill."

"Well, now, that's just lost me," Sarah said helplessly, turning to me for translation.

I winked at the old man. "Really? Bad, is it?"

"Aye. 'Tis evil." He winked back at me, and spat again.

"That's a common fallacy, you know," I said, tucking away the notebook. Beside me, Sarah groaned. "Although faery rings have been considered places of enchantment for many centuries, they aren't really made by faeries. They are the result of a fungal growth pattern. Mushrooms, you know?"

The man blinked at me. Sarah tugged on my shirt and tried to pull me to the car she'd rented for the duration of our trip.

"I know this area is rich in folklore, and faery rings certainly have their share of believers, but I'm afraid the truth is much more mundane. It turns out that there are three distinct types of rings, and that the effects on the grass depend on the type of fungus growing there, although not all rings are visible…"

"Ignore her, she's a heathen," Sarah said, yanking me toward the car. "Thank you for your help! Have a good day!"

The old man waved a gnarled hand, spat again, and hobbled past us toward the pub.

"You are so incorrigible! Honestly, spouting off all that stuff about fungus to that very colorful old man."

I got into the car, taking a moment to readjust myself to the English-style cars. "Hey, you started this bet, not me. I'm just doing my part to win serious 'I told you so' rights. Ready?"

"Just a sec…oh, whew. Thought I'd forgotten this." Sarah folded a wad of photocopied pages and stuck them in her coat pocket. "I can't wait to see what effect these spells have on the faery ring!"

"I am obliged by reason to point out that some weird quasi-Latin words found in a Victorian book on magic are not very likely to have any result other than making your friend and companion don a long-suffering look of martyrdom."

Sarah lifted her chin and looked placidly out the window as we crept through town. "You can scoff all you want—these spells were written by a very famous medieval mage, and passed down through one family over the centuries. The book I found it in was very rare: only fifty copies printed, and most of them destroyed. And I have it on the best authority that the spells are authentic, so I have every confidence that you'll be eating that long-suffering martyred look before the sun sets."

"Uh-huh."

By dint of Sarah consulting the hiking map she'd picked up in London, we tooled along the lazy river that wound around the town, headed over the stone bridge, and turned the car in the direction of farmland and the famed Harpford Woods.

"Left side," Sarah pointed out as I strayed to the right.

"Yup, yup, got it. Just a momentary aberration. Let's see…down past the big farm, then take the road south to a bunch of trees. Beware of the varments. What do you think a zat combe is?"

"I have no idea, but it sounds fabulously English. Here, do you think?"

We pulled off the road and got out of the car to eye the field stretched out before us. It was the perfect day for a walk in the country, what with pale blue, sunny skies, the bright green of the newly dressed trees, hundreds of daisies scattered across the field bobbing their heads in the breeze, birds chattering like crazy as they swooped and swirled around overhead, no doubt busily gathering nesting materials. Even the sheep that dotted the hillsides were picturesque and charming…at least when viewed from the distance.

We gave them a wide berth as we followed what the hiking map showed as a right-of-way through a huge open pasture and up a hill to where a sparse crowning of trees waved gently in the June breeze.

"This is so awesome. It's absolutely idyllic! And the emanations—my god, they're everywhere. We have to be close, Portia," Sarah said emphatically, looking around us with happiness. "I feel a very strong sense of place here."

"Yeah, me, too," I answered, stopping by a fallen tree to scrape sheep poop off my shoe.

"I knew you'd feel it, too. I can't wait to try the mage's spells—they simply can't fail. Interesting arrangement of the trees, don't you think? They appear to make a circle around something. Shall we investigate?"

"Lead on, MacDuff." I followed obediently as Sarah, glowing with excitement, broached a sparse ring of trees. In the center, a space of about eighteen feet was open to the sky, covered in lush, emerald grass.

"There it is!" Sarah grabbed my arm and pointed. Her voice dropped to an awe-filled whisper. "The famed West County faery ring! It's perfect! Just what I imagined it would be! It's like a holy place, don't you think?"