The Last of the Red-Hot Vampires Read Online Free

eyes and spat neatly to the side. Sarah looked appalled. “Dawn’t ye go kickin’ up t’pellum on thikky hill.”
    â€œWe wouldn’t dream of it,” I promised solemnly.
    â€œYe maids be master Fanty Sheeny t’gwain ye ta the faery circle. ’Tis naught good ye find up nap o’ thikky hill.”
    â€œWell, now, that’s just lost me,” Sarah said helplessly, turning to me for translation.
    I winked at the old man. “Really? Bad, is it?”
    â€œAye. ’Tis evil.” He winked back at me, and spat again.
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œI 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…”
    â€œIgnore 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.
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œJust 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!”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œUh-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.
    â€œLeft side,” Sarah pointed out as I strayed to the right.
    â€œYup, 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?”
    â€œI 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