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thirsty for blood, and he, your guardian, a murderer at your service, a blind tool. But first he
had to become a true monster, not a human being in a monster's mask.'
The huge black eyes narrowed.
'Where is he, black-haired one? You were singing, so you've drunk some blood. You've taken
the ultimate measure, which means you haven't managed to enslave his mind. Am I right?'
The black-tressed head nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly, and the corners of the mouth
turned up even more. The tiny little face took on an eerie expression.
'No doubt you consider yourself the lady of this manor now?'
A nod, this time clearer.
Are you a moola?'
A slow shake of the head. The hiss which reverberated through his bones could only have
come from the pale, ghastly, smiling lips, although the witcher didn't see them move.
Alpor?'
Denial.
The witcher backed away and clasped the hilt of his sword tighter. 'That means you're '
The corners of the lips started to turn up higher and higher, the lips flew open . . .
A bruxa!' the witcher shouted, throwing himself towards the fountain.
From behind the pale lips glistened white, spiky fangs. The vampire jumped up, arched her
back like a leopard and screamed.
The wave of sound hit the witcher like a battering ram, depriving him of breath, crushing his
ribs, piercing his ears and brain with thorns of pain. Flying backwards he just managed to
cross his
wrists in the Sign of Heliotrop. The spell cushioned some of his impact with the wall but even
so the world grew dark and the remainder of his breath burst from his lungs in a groan.
On the dolphin's back, in the stone circle of the dried-up fountain where a dainty girl in a
white dress had sat just a moment ago, an enormous black bat flattened its glossy body,
opening its long, narrow jaws wide, revealing rows of needle-like white teeth. The
membranous wings spread and flapped silently, and the creature charged at the witcher like an
arrow fired from a crossbow.
Geralt, with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, shouted a spell and threw his hand,
fingers spread in the Sign of Quen, out in front of him. The bat, hissing, turned abruptly, then
chuckled and veered up into the air before diving down vertically, straight at the nape of the
witcher's neck. Geralt jumped aside, slashed, and missed. The bat, smoothly, gracefully drew
in a wing, circled around him and attacked anew, opening its eyeless, toothed snout wide.
Geralt waited, sword held with both hands, always pointed in the creature's direction. At the
last moment, he jumped - not to the side but forward, dealing a swinging cut which made the
air howl.
He missed. It was so unexpected that he lost his rhythm and dodged a fraction of a second too
late. He felt the beast's talons tear his cheek, and a damp velvety wing slapped against his
neck. He curled up on the spot, transferred the weight of his body to his right leg and slashed
backwards sharply, missing the amazingly agile creature again.
The bat beat its wings, soared up and glided towards the fountain. As the crooked claws
scraped against the stone casing the monstrous, slobbering snout was already blurring,
morphing, disappearing, although the pale little lips which were taking its place couldn't quite
hide the murderous fangs.
The bruxa howled piercingly, modulating her voice into a macabre tune, glared at the witcher
with eyes full of hatred, and screamed again.
The soundwave was so powerful it broke through the Sign. Black and red circles spun in
Geralt's eyes; his temples and the
crown of his head throbbed. Through the pain drilling in his ears, he began to hear voices
wailing and moaning, the sound of flute and oboe, the rustle of a gale. The skin on his face
grew numb and cold. He fell to one knee and shook his head.
The black bat floated towards him silently, opening its toothy jaws. Geralt, still stunned by the
scream, reacted instinctively. He jumped up and, in a flash, matching the tempo of his
movements to the speed of the monster's flight, took three steps forward, dodged, turned a
semi-circle and then, quick as a thought, delivered a two-handed blow. The blade met with no
resistance . . . almost no resistance. He heard a scream, but this time it was a scream of pain,
caused by the touch of silver.
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