CHAPTER 8

Fran regarded her prize with a certain amount of distain. The box was glass, about half a foot long, all chased about at the corners with silver vines. The glass was slightly frosted, but not enough to hide the fat that its contents were quite distressingly organic.
Despite the silver content, the case teleported well enough, and Fran arrived outside the cottage in Wales with nothing more than a slight spinning feeling.
Looking at the tiny dwelling from the outside, she couldn't decide if tit felt sickened because of the malign presence inside, or simply because she knew what lived there, and her imagination was filling in the gaps. Closing her eyes, and Fran called Hannah out, careful not make a sound.
Equally silently, Hannah appeared behind her, holding Amanda. The three enchantresses nodded affectionately to one another, then Fran planted a little kiss on her daughter's forehead, and stepped inside.
There was no sound in the cottage, except for the wind whistling down the chimney. It seemed even less welcoming inside, not a place to house people.
Heart hammering for the second time in one night, Fran hefted the case of eyes, and stepped into the other room.
"Now look, " she said calmly, "I'm going to ask nicely. Then I'm just not going to ask. Please get the hell off Fynn."
Poppy sat on the end of the bed that Fran and Fynn had once shared. There was a vague lump under the blankets, but Fran didn't want to look at it just yet. She met Poppy's gaze, and was rewarded by a raising of the eyebrow. Christ, thought Fran desperately, she really does look me. I made her, after all.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Poppy smiled. "You wanted him hurt."
"Yes. Yes I did. But not like this, and not for your benefit. And you can't tell me you'll stop with Fynn, either."
"Why ever shouldn't I? Once he's dead, my purpose is fulfilled."
"Liar. You've got the taste for it now, haven't you? Life, I mean. Okay, it's stolen, but can you really tell me that you'll cheerfully shrug and burn away quietly?"
Poppy's smile deepened. "You're going to burn me?"
"I've broken one weapon on my knee tonight, one more won't make the difference."
All while she was speaking, Fran reached out, trying to find a purchase on Poppy's form. It was like trying to grasp a glass egg. After all, Poppy knew all of Fran's tricks, knew Fran inside and out.
"No," muttered Fran. "You know an aspect of me. You know I'm vicious and spiteful. But that's not all of me. Please God, I hope there's more to me than that."
"And cowardly," purred Poppy, "always running away. Don't forget the cowardly."
There was a slight cracking sound, and Fran realised that she was holding the glass case too tightly. She smiled, and Poppy leaned away from her expression.
"I went on a quest tonight, a proper quest. I fought for and claimed this pair of eyes here. Now all I need do is kill the monster and win the handsome prince. And Poppy? Does that sound like the girl you just described? You don't know me, girl. People can change, but you can't, can you? Still trying to fulfil your purpose. You're not people, you're just another monster."
Poppy squealed and ran, but in a sudden temper Fran tugged at an empty bookcase, which fell on her. Just peeking out from the wooden shelves, Poppy's face contorted in spite.
"You can't do it! You can't bring yourself to burn books! I know you that much!"
"Yeah? What's written on your paper, then? You're not books. And now, you're just ashes."
Poppy's glassy self-assurance had cracked into bright shards, so it was almost nothing for Fran to put the fire in her. Poppy screamed, high and angry- not afraid, just angry- before thrashing herself into a little pile of grey flakes.
Fran stood back, satisfied- and then realised that she'd set an enchanted fire, which burned stone instead of wood. The cottage was mostly made of shale and other local stones.
Swearing at herself, Fran ran to the bed, and lifted the unconscious Fynn out of the covers, wrapping one blanket around him quickly. He seemed far too light for his height, but Fran still didn't want to think about that, so she dived out through the back door, where everybody else stared at her. Alicia regarded the situation thoughtfully, then dropped half a starling at Fran's feet, and rubbed affectionately against her legs.
Fran didn't notice. She was too busy staring down at Fynn. She could almost hear what he was saying to her, in the little mind-space they shared.
"No," she whispered into his hair. "You don't deserve this. Please don't die. Please, please don't die."
Hannah coughed. "Any chance of a bed for the night, what's left of it?"
Fran, without looking up, threw Hannah the keys to her flat. "We'll catch you up."
Hannah nodded as she faded from view.
It was raining now, a fine drizzle that flattened Fran's hair in dark fronds against her face. She gathered Fynn closer, if that was possible. He stirred a little at the movement.
"It's you," he said simply.
"It's me. How are you?"
"I'm dying."
"Yes." There was some more to that sentence somewhere, but Fran couldn't breathe, as though the rain was drowning her. Against Fynn's calm resignation, she felt like some little brat, sulking against her bedtime.
"But I'm not just some brat, am I? I'm an enchantress. And I know everything she did. Even if I didn't know I knew it. Right… life energy, life energy…"
"No, Fran, no. You don't know-"
Fynn got the full force of what Gregor called her empress stare. He was impressed- not least because he could feel her gathering her life in a bright ball between her lungs. It was a simple trick of visualisation, but until this Fran had always needed to close her eyes and concentrate for a moment.
Fynn shifted. He could feel her drawing in too much energy, far too much for ordinary enchantment, but as he moved his felt his strength fail him, and knew he didn't even have the energy to protest. Not that it mattered, because at this point Fran either had to discharge the energy or burn herself away.
She discharged it. Fynn hadn't even noticed her hands on his chest until it was too late. It was like burning, except that the feeling was pleasure instead of pain. It hit his body like an inferno, but it hit his mind with an impression, everything he thought of, however unconsciously, whenever someone mentioned Fran in his presence. His head fell back, but he couldn't scream.
But there was screaming, a thin sound that bounced off the silent hills, and frightened owls. Finally, the sound ceased, along with the pressure on his chest.
Slowly, Fynn got up. Fran was lying on the grass, and for a dreadful moment Fynn was too afraid to check her pulse. But in the cold of the night, her breath froze on the air, and Fynn's terror melted in his flesh. She was still alive, just.
Fynn sighed, the closest he came to a prayer of thanks, and then called Hannah.

© Naomi Claydon, 2000