Darkness. All-encompassing.
Cold. Intense, piercing, yet strangely welcome.
Numbness. Sweet, blissful numbness.
Movement. Slight, but troubling.
Fields' eyes flicked open, as his consciousness attempted to sputter back into life. It took a quick look. It processed. It came to a decision.
Nup.
Darkness. Glorious oblivion.
But then, more movement.
Nup, nup, nup!
Movement where movement really should not be.
Groan.
With slow reluctance, Fields' consciousness settled back into residence. Steeling itself, assuring itself that what it thought it had glimpsed, surely could not be, it grudgingly ordered his eyelids to open.
Bugger.
"Peregrine?"
"Yes, Fields?"
"Why are your hands down my pants?"
"Ha! If only I had a buck for every time I'd heard that question."
Fields waited for further elucidation. Further elucidation was not forthcoming.
"Okay. But why, in this particular instance, are your hands down my particular pants?"
"You'd be surprised how often I've heard that one, too."
"Peregrine!"
"Okay, fine—keep your pants on, ha-ha. I'm just rearranging your icepacks. Can't have you getting frost-bite, can we?"
"Frost-bite?"
"Yeah. That'd be a sure-fire way to make your wand ineffective. And, no offense, but it's already not really the best colour."
"My wand...?" With a sickening lurch, Fields' memory re-joined his consciousness on active duty. There were so many things so very wrong with Peregrine's words, on so many deeply disturbing levels, that his poor, scrambled synapses hardly knew where to begin. "Embers! She kicked me. Again! In the...in the..."
Peregrine grinned. "In the basement?"
"No! Well, yeah." Looking around, Fields found himself lying on a couch in Featherstone's living room. "How did I get here?"
"We carried you up. After you passed out. I tell you what, that Embers may look like a slip of a girl, but she's a strong one."
Fields grimaced. "Tell me about it." He cast an anxious glance around the room. "Er, where exactly is she?"
"Don't sweat it, partner. I set her straight about your dabbling in the dark arts, or more precisely, your lack thereof. Turns out she's quite the literal-minded princess, so you might want to watch what you say around her. Anyway, she's currently in the kitchen, playing with the microwave. She seems to think it's even more magical than Featherstone's box downstairs. Ha!" She recommenced her rearranging.
Fields grabbed Peregrine's wrists, before cautiously extracting her hands from his chilly—but thankfully, more or less numb—nether regions. "Thanks, but I think I've got it from here." With a little judicious jiggling, keeping his movements slow and deliberate, he managed to sit upright. "Okay—what did I miss?"
Peregrine vigorously rubbed her frigid hands together. "Let's see, where were we? Oh yeah, Embers was just telling us about the witch, when she took exception to you getting your wand out—"
"My gun, Peregrine. My gun."
"Whatever. Anyway, while you were taking a little nap, she filled me in on the rest of what she saw. After Featherstone emptied his clip at the witch, apparently without landing a shot, she cast a spell on him—"
"Sorry, sorry, hold it there. She cast a spell on him?"
"Just telling you what Embers told me, partner. She says the witch cast a spell on him. A spell that apparently turned him into a stammering idiot."
Fields considered this. "Well, from what we've heard so far, it's entirely possible Featherstone already was a stammering idiot. The whole genius thing notwithstanding. And maybe Embers just hadn't noticed yet. Or, you know, it might have just been the effect of a hideous, seemingly bullet-proof witch advancing on him. I imagine that's quite conducive to stammering idiocy."
"Yep, possibly. But I don't think we're really in ruling-things-out territory here, so who knows? Anyway, after all the banging and wand-waving and stammering, the witch apparently grabbed hold of Featherstone and dragged him upstairs."
"Right. So, basically what you're saying is that along with a bunch of dead alleged princesses, not to mention a prince of undetermined metabolic status, we now also have a rogue witch on the loose."
"You got it. But look on the bright side—at least we have Embers."
Fields' groin started to throb. And not in a good way. "Yeah. Huzzah." He frowned. "When I arrived, Embers was up here, in the house. How the hell did she get out of the cell in the basement?"
"Simple, my dear Eel—I picked the lock." Clutching a bowl and accompanied by the smell of salted butter, Embers swept into the room. "Would you care for a little of this corn, which has just been freshly popped? I've magicked up a fresh batch."
At her approach, Fields' knees involuntarily drew together. "Ah...no, thanks. Sorry, did you say you picked the lock?"
A tiny vertical crease formed in the flawless skin of Embers' forehead (as Fields' knees pressed together with even more force). "Are you suggesting I shouldn't be able to pick a lock?"
"Ah, er, no," he stammered, "not at all. I just didn't realise princesses went in for that kind of stuff."
The line disappeared. "Oh, Eel. You'd be surprised at the japes I got up to in my pre-princess days—I picked up all manner of useful skills. One wouldn't last long below stairs unless one was prepared to rupture the occasional rule or regulation. So yes, once I judged it to be prudent, after I had given the sorcerer and the witch some time to hopefully be on their way, I picked the childishly simple lock that secured my enclosure and made my way upstairs. Only to discover, to my trepidation and alarm, they were both, most regrettably, still present."
"What a bummer," said Peregrine.
"Indeed, my dear—it was quite the bummiest. My heart sank. Fortunately, they were just on the point of departure as I emerged from the dungeon, so I lingered in the stairwell until I heard the front door closing. I then made my way to a window, just in time to see the unholy pair depart in a truly remarkable conveyance. It appeared to be a carriage, yet quite without horses! It was most astonishing, as was the speed at which they raced away.
"At any rate, with the coast, as they say, clear, I decided it was high time I made my own departure. However, I'm afraid my egress was interrupted by my discovery of the poor, cursed prince, lying prone across the entrance way. Seeing this evidence of the witch's capabilities, I found myself in two minds as to the best course of action, and as it didn't seem quite right to leave the poor fellow, I elected to remain here and see what transpired. And what transpired, my dear Eel, was you."
"Transpired? More like expired," muttered the battered agent. "Twice." He gave his chin a speculative rub. "So, you didn't actually see the prince get attacked by—"
"Cursed, Eels."
He sighed. "So, you didn't actually see the prince get cursed by the witch?"
"No, my good man. I simply found the unfortunate fellow in his current state."
"Well then, how do you know he's been cursed?"
"Oh, Eel—how else would one explain his lifeless condition?"
"Well, you know—being dead would kind of explain it."
Embers rolled her eyes. "Only he is not dead, Eels."
"So you keep saying, but how do you know that? He's not breathing. I couldn't find a pulse, and I sure as hell couldn't resuscitate him. What makes you think he's not dead?"
The princess gave a shy smile. "Well, I hardly like to say, but since you insist—Eel, I too checked to see if the poor man was breathing or had a pulse. And of course my doing so necessitated somewhat close personal contact."
"Okay. So?"
"Oh, Eel. Let's just say that as a married woman, I've learned there are signs other than breath or a heartbeat that demonstrate when a man is alive."
"Huh?"
"Ha!" Peregrine gave her partner a hearty whack on the back, sending an icepack sliding down his trouser leg in the process. "What Embers means is his wand was still effective, Fields. And apparently, it was paying attention."