LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Wise boy,” she laughed, and kissed his forehead quickly.

      Then she stood and studied Harkat and me, running a curious green eye over Harkat and a brown one over me.

      “Lady Evanna,” I said as warmly as I could, trying not to let my teeth chatter.

      “It is good to meet you, Darren Shan,” she replied. “You are welcome.”

      “Lady,” Harkat said, bowing politely. He wasn’t as nervous as me.

      “Hello, Harkat,” she said, returning Harkat’s bow. “You are also welcome – as you were before.”

      “Before?” he echoed.

      “This is not your first visit,” she said. “You have changed in many ways, within and without, but I recognize you. I’m gifted that way. Appearances don’t deceive me for long.”

      “You mean … you know who I was … before I became a Little Person?” Harkat asked, astonished. When Evanna nodded, he leant forward eagerly. “Who was I?”

      The witch shook her head. “Can’t say. That’s for you to find out.”

      Harkat wanted to push the matter, but before he could, she fixed her gaze on me and stepped forward to cup my chin between several cold, rough fingers. “So this is the boy Prince,” she murmured, turning my head left, then right. “I thought you would be younger.”

      “He was struck by the purge as we travelled here,” Mr Crepsley informed her.

      “That explains it.” She hadn’t let go of my face and still her eyes scanned me, as though probing for weakness.

      “So,” I said, feeling as though I should speak, saying the first thing that popped into my head, “you’re a witch, are you?”

      Mr Crepsley and Vancha groaned.

      Evanna’s nostrils flared and her head shot forward so our faces were millimetres apart. “What did you call me?” she hissed.

      “Um. Nothing. Sorry. I didn’t mean it. I – ”

      “You two are to blame!” she roared, spinning away from me to face a wincing Mr Crepsley and Vancha March. “You told him I was a witch!”

      “No, Evanna,” Vancha said quickly.

      “We told him not to call you that,” Mr Crepsley assured her.

      “I should gut the pair of you,” Evanna growled, cocking the little finger of her right hand at them. “I would, too, if Darren wasn’t here – but I’d hate to make a bad first impression.” Glowering hotly, she relaxed her little finger. Mr Crepsley and Vancha relaxed too. I could barely believe it. I’d seen Mr Crepsley face fully armed vampaneze without flinching, and was sure Vancha was every bit as composed in the face of great danger. Yet here they stood, trembling before a short, ugly woman with nothing more threatening than a couple of long fingernails!

      I started to laugh at the vampires, but then Evanna whirled around and the laughter died on my lips. Her face had changed and she now looked more like an animal than a human, with a huge mouth and long fangs. I took a frightened step back. “Mind the frogs!” Harkat shouted, grabbing my arm to stop me stepping on one of the poisonous guards.

      I glanced down to make sure I hadn’t trodden on any frogs. When I looked up again, Evanna’s face was back to normal. She was smiling. “Appearances, Darren,” she said. “Never let them fool you.” The air around her shimmered. When it cleared, she was tall, lithe and beautiful, with golden hair and a flowing white gown. My jaw dropped and I stared at her rudely, astonished by how pretty she was.

      She clicked her fingers and was her original self again. “I’m a sorceress,” she said. “A wyrd sister. An enchantress. A priestess of the arcane. I am not–” she added, shooting a piercing look at Mr Crepsley and Vancha, “ – a witch. I’m a creature of many magical talents. These allow me to take any shape I choose – at least in the minds of those who see me.”

      “Then why…” I started to say, before remembering my manners.

      “…do I choose this ugly form?” she finished for me. Blushing, I nodded. “I feel comfortable this way. Beauty means nothing to me. Looks are the least important thing in my world. This is the shape I assumed when I first took human form, so it is the shape I return to most often.”

      “I prefer you when you’re beautiful,” Vancha muttered, then coughed gruffly when he realized he’d spoken aloud.

      “Be careful, Vancha,” Evanna chuckled, “or I’ll take my hand to you as I did to Larten all those years ago.” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Did he ever tell you how he got that scar?”

      I looked at the long scar running down the left side of Mr Crepsley’s face, and shook my head. The vampire was blushing a deep crimson colour. “Please, Lady,” he pleaded. “Do not speak of it. I was young and foolish.”

      “You most certainly were,” Evanna agreed, and nudged me wickedly in the ribs. “I was wearing one of my beautiful faces. Larten got tipsy on wine and tried to kiss me. I gave him a little scratch to teach him some manners.”

      I was stunned. I’d always thought he picked up the scar fighting vampaneze or some fierce animal of the wilds!

      “You are cruel, Evanna,” Mr Crepsley moped, stroking his scar miserably.

      Vancha was laughing so hard that snot was streaming from his nose. “Larten!” he howled. “Wait till I tell the others! I always wondered why you were so coy about that scar. Normally vampires boast about their wounds, but you–”

      “Shut up!” Mr Crepsley snapped with uncharacteristic bluntness.

      “I could have healed it,” Evanna said. “If it had been stitched immediately, it wouldn’t be half as noticeable as it is. But he took off like a kicked dog and didn’t return for thirty years.”

      “I did not feel wanted,” Mr Crepsley said softly.

      “Poor Larten,” she smirked. “You thought you were a real ladies’ man when you were a young vampire, but…” She pulled a face and cursed. “I knew I’d forgotten something. I meant to have them set up when you arrived, but I got distracted.” Muttering to herself, she turned to the frogs and made low, croaking noises.

      “What’s she doing?” I asked Vancha.

      “Talking to the frogs,” he said. He was still grinning about Mr Crepsley’s scar.

      Harkat gasped and dropped to his knees. “Darren!” he called, pointing to a frog. Crouching beside him, I saw that on the back of the frog was an eerily accurate image of Paris Skyle, done in dark green and black.

      “Weird,” I said, and gently touched the image, ready to whip my hand back if the frog opened its mouth. I frowned and traced the lines more firmly. “Hey,” I said, “this isn’t paint. I think it’s a birthmark”

      “It can’t be,” Harkat said. “No birthmark could look that … much like a person, especially not one we – Hey! There’s another!”

      I turned and looked where he was pointing. “That’s not Paris,” I said.

      “No,” Harkat agreed, “but it’s a face. And there’s a third.” He pointed to a different frog.

      “And a fourth,” I noted, standing and gazing around.

      “They must be painted on,” Harkat said.

      “They’re not,” Vancha said. Bending, he picked up a frog and held it out for us to examine. This close to it, aided by the strong light of the moon, we could see that the marks were actually underneath the frog’s uppermost layer of skin.

      “I told you Evanna bred frogs,” Mr Crepsley reminded us. He took the frog from Vancha and traced the shape of the

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