Light.
Out of breath, guns at the ready, every sense on high alert, Fields and Peregrine burst into the gloomy interior of the hangar, expecting monsters, expecting villains, expecting evil queens, big bad wolves or annoying vampires, maybe even angsty werewolves or worse.
What they found was light. A sinuous, freestanding column of green light, dominating the centre of the room, twisting and undulating, writhing and turning as if dancing to the discordant notes of some chaotic symphony only it could hear. Seemingly self-contained and without any visible source, its luminous form cast riotous shadows around the hangar's stark interior.
"Whoa...it's beautiful," breathed Peregrine.
On any other day, Fields would have been stunned by this bizarre phenomenon—baffled, gobsmacked, and more than a little freaked out. Today, not so much. "Whatever. We need to find Featherstone. Split up or stick together?"
"Fields, if there's one thing I've learned in Section F, it's to stick together. Let's go."
Constantly on the lookout for any surprise-goblins or stealth-gremlins, they made their wary way around the light, trying not to jump at every shadow. The hangar remained stubbornly bereft of mythical creatures.
"Stop there, please." Heralded by a preliminary crackle, the voice emerged from speakers mounted on the walls, shocking and loud in the silence, yet strangely tentative.
In the absence of any cover, the agents froze, back-to-back and guns raised.
"Thank you very much. I'd be very grateful if you could you please also drop your weapons."
"Featherstone?" called Peregrine. "Listen, why don't you come out from wherever you are, so we can sort all this out? Nobody else has to get hurt."
"Hurt?" There was a catch in the voice as it went on. "Oh, it's gone far beyond hurt, agent. And far, far beyond your ability to sort it out."
Slowly, the agents turned, searching for the source of the voice. Peregrine tried again. "You don't know that. I'm sure—"
"Enough!" The tentativeness was gone. "Enough. I'm sorry, agents. Sorry for it all. But it is too late for me. And also, I'm afraid, too late for you."
From the gloom at the far end of the hangar, a new source of light appeared, emanating from an enclosed loft, a semi-circular structure that stretched across the width of the building, suspended from the high ceiling. Standing within, clearly visible through the windows that ringed the enclosure, a single lab-coated figure could be seen.
"Please brace yourselves, agents. Prepare yourselves for some of the most heinous creatures the multiverse has to offer. For organisms beyond your imagination. For the stuff of your nightmares. Or maybe it's better if you don't—it will probably be quicker that way."
"Well, that doesn't sound good," muttered Fields.
"Tell me about it," replied Peregrine. "Particularly given most of my nightmares involve low-fat dairy products and/or being trapped in a vegan restaurant." She shuddered.
"Prepare yourselves, agents—to die!" Featherstone brought his hand down sharply, presumably on to some sort of button or lever. It took the agents a moment to realise the sepulchral groan that followed was coming from the opening door of a large, windowless enclosure, positioned on the hangar floor directly beneath the loft. With slow remorselessness, the door ground its way open, to reveal an interior cloaked in darkness.
Nerves taut, senses tingling, Fields and Peregrine took aim at the black void and waited. And waited. And waited some more.
"Do any of your nightmares feature tired arms?" whispered Fields.
Any reply Peregrine may have been going to give was lost to posterity, as from within the blackness of the chamber, clearly audible in the silence that engulfed the building, a single footstep sounded, making both agents jump.
There came another footstep. Then another. And another. Finally, with the tension at an almost unbearable pitch, a single figure emerged from the darkness. A figure clad in black. A figure wearing a pointy hat and carrying a black bag. A figure with considerably more warts than any right-minded person might expect a figure to have.
"Freeze!" yelled the agents in unison, taking aim at the apparition.
Whose only response was to sigh and keep walking towards them. "Oh, please. Enough with the bang-sticks, already. And if it's freezing you want, then sheesh, you've got to warn a witch. You think I carry every ingredient I could ever need?" She paused to rummage in her bag. "Let's see—I can do fevers, I can do all-night-shagging, I can do making-you-sick-enough-to-not-have-to-till-the-field-but-not-too-sick-to-go-to-the-tavern, I can do a nice cup of tea, I can do making-your-husband-faithful, I can do making-your-husband-bugger-off, I can do making-your-husband-think-he's-a-hedgehog, I can do a love-potion, a sleep-potion or I can do bug-repellent, but freezing? Haven't got enough wintergreen for that." She rummaged some more. "Actually, forget the all-night shagging—I gave the last of my Ooagra to that stupid bloody prince."
Fields watched this little performance with open-mouthed astonishment. "Wait. What? So...so, you're the witch?"
The black-clad woman grinned at him. "Well, most folk would say I'm a witch. But, you know, I quite like the sound of the witch."
"And you did poison the prince."
"Poison him?" The witch snorted. "Bribe him, you mean. I had to, to make the great dolt get out of the bloody way. Him with his stupid sword and his chin cleft and his avast-foul-crones and his begone-evil-hags and so on. What a tosser. A six-month supply of guaranteed downstairs action, that cost me. The only way that'd poison him is if he took the whole bloody lot at once." She paused, looking from one agent to the other, before rolling her eyes. "He bloody well did, didn't he? He spotted that little princess hottie down in the basement, fancied his chances, and just like a typical bloody male, figured more had to be better. Well, serves him right. I dunno—stupid bloody royals. That's where fifty generations of not having to tie your own shoelaces gets you."
The speakers crackled back into life. "If I might interrupt this little conversation?" interjected Featherstone's exasperated voice. "You, witch—why aren't you attacking those agents? Why aren't the rest of my monsters attacking them? For that matter, where are the rest of my monsters?"
With a sniff, the witch glared up at the scientist. "What, that lot in the chamber? You call that sorry collection monsters? Hardly. I've sneezed out worse than them. They're all having a little doze, courtesy of my bag of tricks. All that yelling and yammering and posing and posturing—giving me a right headache, they were. So, I gave 'em all a nice little dose of shut-eye."
"You did what? But they were supposed to...Now, how am I going to...? " Featherstone ran a hand through his meagre hair. "You...you...bad witch! I wish I'd never brought you here!"
"That makes two of us, matey. Anytime you wanna send me back, you go right ahead."
Clearly deciding the witch was not currently the primary source of danger, Peregrine lowered her gun. "Well, I don't know about anybody else, but I'm just a little confused." She looked up at the scientist. "Why did you bring her here?"
To Fields' surprise, Featherstone answered. "It was because of the princess," he replied, expression sulky. "She didn't seem to like me very much. None of them did. So, I thought that if maybe I had a witch to save her from, perhaps she would—you know, like me."
Fields shook his head. "Ever heard of maybe getting a coffee? Dinner? For that matter, ever heard of Tinder?"
"Of course I have," snapped Featherstone. "I've tried what this world has to offer. But this world rejected me, time and again. So, I decided I would look elsewhere. I thought in a multiverse of infinite possibilities, even one such as I could surely find love."
"Okay, okay, can't argue with that," agreed Peregrine. "Solid plan. A little unconventional, a bit out of left field, possibly just a tad desperate, but top marks for ingenuity. Only, from what I can gather, the-saving-the-princess-from-the-witch part of the plan didn't go so well. So, it's a big fat F, for execution."
The sulky expression returned. "The foolish woman refused to submit to me, even after I'd fired off half-a-dozen warning rounds."
"What, with that bang-stick of yours?" scoffed the witch. "Oh, please. It takes more than a little noise to scare me."
"Tell me, Featherstone," asked Peregrine delicately, "did it possibly not occur to you that threatening somebody with a gun would probably work better if said somebody actually knew what a gun was? Or, perhaps more to the point, what a gun does?"
Featherstone opened his mouth. Then he shut it again.
Fields sighed. "You know, for a genius, you seem like a bit of a dumb-arse."
"Silence! It's possible I may have miscalculated in that particular matter. But just as a good, responsible scientist should, I had prepared a backup plan. Before I brought a potentially dangerous witch to this world, I imported the prince. I stationed the fellow in the entranceway of my house, safe in the knowledge that with his inherent princely goodness and bravery, he would never let an evil witch pass."
"Didn't really allow for his inherent princely desire for a stiffie though, did you?" cackled the witch.
"Ha! Good one." Peregrine made to give the witch a slap on the back, but at the last moment evidently thought better of it. "Ahem. So, that's how you got past good old Prince Alluring. But how did you wind up here?"
The witch pointed up at Featherstone. "I made him bring me. Halfway through delivering a baby I was, when suddenly the world spun around, there were some twinkles, and before I knew it, I was in his bloody box. As you might imagine, I was a bit miffed. So, despite all his banging and yelling and carrying on, I grabbed him by the ear and told him to send me right back. He said to do that, we had to come here. Told me the way back was in that bloody chamber, but when I went in, he just locked the door behind me. And then there was this green light, and these annoying bloody creatures started appearing in there with me, one by one. You know, now I think about it, miffed doesn't even begin to cover it." She shook her fist at Featherstone. "Just you wait 'til I get up there, sunshine."
Fields took aim at the scientist. "Looks like your plan's come unstuck, Frank—again. Now, are you coming down here of your own accord, or are we going to do it the hard way?"
Wildly, Featherstone looked around the interior of the loft, seemingly seeking some sort of inspiration, some way to resurrect his inept schemes. Clearly failing to find any options, his shoulders slumped. "I never really meant for anybody to get hurt, you know. I just wanted to prove my theories, and hopefully find a little love along the way. Is that so wrong?"
"It is when you start killing people," replied Fields.
Featherstone stared at Fields, his expression stricken. "Oh, but I haven't. That's my only consolation in this whole sorry mess. I know I tried to kill you today, but please believe me when I say I'm glad I failed. I'm not a killer. In a way, I'm actually glad this is all over."
Fields shook his head. Great—a dumb-arse and delusional. "Okay, so if you didn't kill the princesses, then who did?"
"You know, Agent Fields, I think that might be rather the wrong question." Clipped and confident, the new voice from the speakers was most definitely not Featherstone's.
A second figure appeared, moving forwards from the rear of the loft—an awkward, shuffling figure which, as it moved closer to the windows, resolved into two figures. Two figures, locked in a strange embrace—Radovic, with an arm around Embers' neck, and a gun pressed to her temple. The bearded man smiled.
"The more pertinent question is who—or what—is going to kill you?"