Fiachra

By Jennifer V. Astbury

“This is MOST unorthodox," Fearghas murmured. “Dude, tell me about it. I mean, there's an elf in our house asking me to save all of Lancashire from certain doom," replied Fiachra. “What's that all about?" --- Fiachra is a witch, a twin, a college student and a bit of a dork. His life's going as normally as could be expected for an eccentric living on the outskirts of Bolton, but then things start to happen involving elves, Russians, vampires, nature spirits, murders and weird transmogrifications. At this point normalcy goes straight out the window. Right as the exams are coming up, he is thrust into the middle of a struggle for supremacy that isn't quite your run of the mill battle of good against evil. Between that and people trying to kill or molest him at regular intervals his life might never be the same again! What happens to him at night? What's up with his gay genius brother's burgeoning love life? And will he ever get away with dancing naked round a bonfire?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781326973360

Book preview

Fiachra

Fiachra

~The witch's wheel of the year~

by Jennifer V. Astbury

Copyright

Copyright ©  Jennifer V. Astbury 2016.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the copyright holder.

Cover art and illustrations by the author.

See more at:

facebook.com/FiachraOfficial/

(or search @FiachraOfficial)

and

dread-artemis.deviantart.com/

Email: [e-mail]

ISBN: 978-1-326-97336-0

Acknowledgements

I'd like to thank:

-Robin for being so amazing at proofreading and encouragement,

-Ness for being Boris's number one fan,

-Petey for all the great talks, generosity and support,

-My family for feeding and enabling me while I did this,

-Various people I knew at college and university for having personalities worth partially stealing.

Stay awesome.

x

Prologue

The week before the tall man started trying to kill him, he didn't have a clue what was coming. When everything started, in fact, it was just a normal night at the end of the holidays.

He knelt quietly within a circle of runestones, a white pillar candle burning almost silently at each quarter, North, South, East and West. The candlelight sputtered and flickered, casting a yellow glow on the pale, smooth skin of his face. He breathed deep the perfumed incense that drifted gently through the air, dancing spirals of smoke that softly faded into nothing. His black hair fell unkempt over his face, the ends brushing against his shoulders. Eyes closed, hands laid with palms flat upon his lap, he knelt in meditation, communing with that which permeates all things.

This is Fiachra. He's a witch, and this is what happened to him.

->^<-

Rune 1: Protevangelium

~A first revelation~

Contrary to his usual preference, he was wearing clothes this time. As much as he felt comfortable in his body, being naked also had a sense of vulnerability attached to it. Moreover, the living room didn't feel particularly private with its large window and being so close to the front door, but it was spacious and with the net curtains pulled back, he had a view of the moon that just wasn't possible from the bedroom. He'd have gone out in the garden but it was much too cold outside.

Still, the thought of being spotted wasn't his main deterrent; he wasn't expecting anyone for a while and it was dark. All things considered, if it weren't for the unaccountable anxiety he was feeling, he'd much rather be in the nuddy.

->^<-

Hooded and cloaked in a rough, dull fabric, something rushed frantically, melting into the shadows of the night. Pale fingers, deceptively slender, clasped the edge of the hood to keep it in place. Breath came fast and shallow, blooming into faint clouds in the cold air. Without warning, an object thudded into the branch of a tree just as he rushed past. An arrow, most likely, or a catapulted rock. He gasped and tried to run faster. His throat burned. They were gaining on him.

->^<-

It was late of a full moon night, quiet out, with the crisp taste of early winter in the air. Fiachra's parents had gone to the folk club to enjoy some musical entertainment, as was their habit on Friday nights, and his twin brother was at his karate club. Fiachra was alone in the moderately-sized semidetached house. They had their clubs, he had this. He brushed his fingers up the length of the ritual knife's blade in mesmerised exaltation.

->^<-

He almost stumbled a few times on the uneven muddy ground but managed to keep his feet, driven on by sheer desperation. If they caught him it was all over. Pain tore through his hand as an arrow grazed it and he grit his teeth and tried to smother a cry. Dark blood spilled across his white fingers. He darted to the side, weaving through the trees.

->^<-

Taking advantage of the convenient solitude afforded to him that evening, Fiachra had decided to perform a simple ritual in celebration of the Esbat; he was feeling lazy. After pushing the coffee table to the side as far as possible, he had arranged his accoutrements and made himself comfortable on the living-room floor. He laid the knife down in front of him and picked up the box of cards. He'd been dabbling with the tarot lately, doing some reading on the subject. The symbolism appealed to him and he liked how the cards felt in his hands. He tipped the cards out and shuffled them absently before picking a single card from the middle of the pack. He turned it over. The Fool. The zeroth card. He studied it for a moment.

What does this mean? he murmured to himself, reaching to check a reference book. His accent was Bolton with some Manchester, some Liverpool and some attempt at eloquence mixed in. A leap of faith? Listening to my instincts? Upheaval? Something beginning? I suppose I should have had a specific question in mind.

He frowned, unsure, as he discarded the rest of the deck. A shadow moved behind him. He turned quickly, chest tight from startlement, but nothing was there. His eyes scanned the room nervously for a moment.

Gods, I'm such a.. He looked back at the tarot card in his hand and puffed out a small laugh.

->^<-

The hooded figure waited behind the shelter on the deserted train station platform, hardly daring to breathe. Somehow he'd lost his pursuers, or so he hoped. He'd wait a little longer.

->^<-

Taking a deep breath, he sat, staring into the fire of a candle flame, sometimes attempting to meditate, sometimes shifting around uncomfortably as his feet went to sleep.

Removing the lid from a small box, he took from it a few dried Lavender flowers and sprinkled them into the candle flame in front of him. The flame flickered slightly and the flowers began to scorch and hiss, turning brown and sinking, dilatory, into the pool of melted wax. As he concentrated trance-like on the incandescence he began gently to chant under his breath.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Inanna.. Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Inanna..

->^<-

This was it. This had to be it. Moving through the dark almost imperceptibly, he skirted around the side of the house. There- an open window, a chance. He spotted a box by the fence and pulled it across to step up on.

->^<-

Idly prodding the softened candle wax with the end of a used incense stick he accidentally passed a finger over the flame and found it singed by the heat

Ow! exclaimed Fiachra. He reflexively yanked his arm back, then put the finger in question into his mouth and sucked on it. He'd managed to let go of the stick in the process and it dropped onto the carpet, setting it alight.

GAAHH! he yelped, scrambling to grab something with which to stifle the small flame. A small scorch-mark was left, but luckily it was on a dark part of the pattern so wouldn't be noticeable.

Sighing, he glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece. He'd been at it a while now, his brother would be home soon. He supposed now was as good a time as any to finish off. His burnt finger and the carpet had spoiled the mood somewhat, and anyway, he found he couldn't concentrate properly. Something just kept niggling at him, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was. He just felt on edge. He partook of his 'simple feast' of shortbread and orange juice, then thanking the symbolistic Gods and Elemental Spirits for their attendance, broke the circle.

After quenching the candles Fiachra crouched down to collect the runes that had formed the circle when a strange feeling came upon him, a sense that he was no longer alone. He turned his head to look around the room. It was then that he saw him. A child stood in front of the door. Fiachra jumped back with shock, swearing. No.. it was a man. He smiled at Fiachra. He was reasonably short in stature with long blond hair. Even though this was a stranger in his house, Fiachra seemed to recover quickly from his initial surprise and thought to himself that the man did not seem threatening and his bearing had an air of nobility about it. There was a bizarre sort of instant affinity, maybe. Then he noticed the ears. The man's ears were abnormally long and came to a point at the tips. This was no man after all. Fiachra's eyes widened. He also saw that his clothes were unusual- tight leather pants and a pearly singlet with patterned lilac sleeves. He wore tall green boots and wrist-guards. A dark coat or cape was draped over one arm. His hand was bloody.

At last, I have found you.. he breathed in a voice that was soft yet crackly, as if he had a sore throat. His purple eyes shone, fixed on the blue of Fiachra's.

Fiachra tried to find his voice with which to ask the creature who he was and why he came to be in his living room at this time without leave to be there, but only managed a choked whisper of one word.

Who..?

The being moved forward.

Time is running out. I know he is planning something, he said.

Are you a LARPer? Fiachra mewled, befuddled.

He lifted his hand to gently press his palm to Fiachra's forehead. Fiachra stood confusedly frozen to the spot, then he began to see strange swirling lights and colours in front of his eyes. Then the colours began to fade, his eyes grew heavy and he slumped backwards, insensible. Fiachra slid towards the ground and the fey man caught him, laying him softly down and brushing the strands of ebony hair from his face.

I must go. Be strong, I will return for you when you are ready. Before that, if I can, he whispered confidentially to Fiachra's unconscious face.

->^<-

Fiachra dazedly opened his eyes, murmuring incoherently. Not quite remembering where he was, he sat up and scratched his head. Then he noticed that his hair was on the floor. He jumped up, seeing that a large patch of his hair had suddenly and unaccountably grown to 6 or 7 feet in length, and was dragging on the floor like the train of a wedding dress. Groping at the back of his head, he confirmed that it was indeed attached. He tried to remain calm.

Well, this is fairly unusual, he commented.

Turning to the mirror to inspect the odd occurrence, he was astonished to see that his ears had developed points and he appeared to now have a pair of fangs. He stood agape for a while, prodded at the pointed teeth with the tip of his tongue, then commenced to run around like the proverbial blue-arsed fly, screeching mild obscenities. He trod on the hair and stumbled, landing painfully on one knee.

Behind him, his candles still stood, the flames extinguished. All at once, there was an unexplained flicker of a spark on the wick of the Western candle, which subsequently burst back into flame. At this point, Fiachra noticed the strange activity and stared in a bemused fashion. The flame flared suddenly to a large size and a mist steadily appeared around the candle, growing and swirling as the flame died back down. A blue glow filled the air and the mist lit up with a plethora of tiny lights. From the twinkling and shimmering little stars, like tuning a television, an image began to settle into existence; an image that was becoming real.

The fey woman that appeared had long, wavy hair in hues of turquoise and wore a strapless, ruffled dress of finest pale blue silk. Her ears were exceptionally long and pointed, and her feet.. they were really something. They seemed more like flippers than feet, webbed, like 2 long fish tails.

As her form became solid and she stepped onto the floor of the room, the mist and flame faded away. She opened her eyes and gazed at Fiachra, who had backed up against the wall, his eyes bulging.

He raised his finger to point at the creature.

What ARE you?! he hissed.

She put one hand on her hip and the other to her chest, indicating herself in an exaggerated way.

I am the Guardian of the Watchtower of the West- the Creature of Water, she declared dramatically.

O..kay, said Fiachra, confused. So, what are you doing here, in a.. physical body?

She thought for a second.

Dunno, Help you out with the whole being-a-weird-whatever-you-are thing, I guess. I was asked. Summoned. Evoked.

Fiachra nodded slowly. He pointed to her flippers.

What's up with the feet? he said.

SHUT IT, FANG-FACE!

A short time later, Fiachra and the water spirit were sat comfortably on the couch. Fiachra was almost beginning to get used to being shocked by things tonight, but not quite. He found this all very, very strange and still felt not a little unsettled.

So, what am I s'posed to call you? he asked.

Meh, beats the crap outta me, she replied with a shrug.

What?! You don't even have a name?

"Nope. I never manifested in a form like this before!" she smiled.

Fiachra raised his index finger in a matter of fact sort of way, signalling his transition into 'I'm clever' mode.

Then I shall use my astounding knowledge of mythology to pick a suitable one. Hmm, let's see.. He stroked a nonexistent beard in ponderment. How about 'Amphitrite'? That's a name connected with water.

She pulled a face. You what?! That's way too long!

Oh. You reckon? What about Scylla?

Don't get clever, brat!

Well.. how about just.. Naiad?

She thought about it. "Naiad, Naiad, Naiad.. she repeated, trying it out. She smiled. Yes, okay! Naiad it is. And your name is?"

I'm Fiachra, he grinned.

Funny name.

It's Irish! he said defensively.

I see.

He looked her over, mildly.

Do you eat? he asked.

I CAN eat. It's not necessary though.

Oh.

... Fiachra prodded at his fangs, suddenly concerned about how they'd affect his day-to-day life.

Don't worry, said Naiad. the fangs and ears will disappear during the day, unless you want them for something.

How do you know that? he asked.

I'm the incarnation of water, duh! I'm a part of EVERYTHING. I'm very in tune with the web of Wyrd, don'tcha know.

So the fangs and ears will have gone by morning?

Yes.

But if I want them I can bring them back?

Potentially.

But they'll come back at night and I won't be able to get rid of them?

Yes. For a while at least, until you get used to controlling it.

Right. Well, I suppose that's not too bad. Hey, what do you know about that blond dude? I swear, he scared me half to death.

You're frightened of an Elf, and you call yourself Wiccan? smarmed Naiad.

Well, no, actually I'm more of an eclectic pantheistic solitary witch.. and a lazy one at that. Anyway, that's got nowt to do with it, he was in my HOUSE! He ZAPPED me! Look at me, I have pointy ears!

So do I.

"That's not the point! I'm not supposed to!" he squeaked.

Maybe you are.

What do you mean maybe I..! He was interrupted by a knock at the front door. He gasped. Oh no! What do I do now?! I can't answer the door like this!

Wear a hat? offered Naiad.

Yes! Great idea! he beamed. Except I only have this flat cap..

Fiachra poked his head around the door, nearly getting the tweedy flat cap wedged between it and the doorframe in his efforts to keep the door from opening wide enough so that any of his new attributes could be seen.

Hello?

The same blue eyes looked back at him from behind rectangular glasses, wreathed with the same black hair, albeit cut in a slightly different style, the face almost a perfect reflection of his own. Fearghas, his twin, stood in the porch, arms folded and looking annoyed.

What took you so long? I forgot my keys. Let me in, he demanded.

Fiachra let out a relieved breath, relaxing. He grinned and swung the door open wide, forgetting himself in front of his brother.

Fearghas! Hey bro'!

What's with the hat? asked Fearghas, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

He looked up at the cap he was wearing. Erm..

Fearghas pointed at Fiachra's teeth. Are those fangs?

He laughed nervously and began to sweat. Erm.. They're fake, he ventured.

Fearghas grasped a handful of his newly long hair and rubbed it between his fingers with interest.

Good grief, Fiachra! Your hair has suddenly grown by several feet! he exclaimed.

AAH! GET IN HERE! Fiachra jumped and grabbed him, dragging him bodily into the house. He hoped none of the people on the street outside had heard his brother's ejaculation. Things tended to echo across the road, sound bouncing off the houses opposite. The quiet streets of Kearsley.. It was a small town, classed as an urban district under the metropolitan borough of Bolton and to be found on the south-easterly outskirts thereof. Fiachra called it the backwaters of nowhere, but was fond of it nonetheless, being as it was the only home he'd ever known. It was out of the way and, on the whole, pretty quiet apart from the occasional screaming child or suspicious band of roving youths. As long as you were mindful of home security, it wasn't a bad place to live really.

Fiachra closed the door hurriedly, then realised he still had a grip on Fearghas's wrist and Fearghas was not happy about it. He scowled at Fiachra, his nose wrinkled angrily.

Let go of me, Fiachra, he growled.

Fiachra flung his hands up and backed off, grinning nervously. So, what's up, Fungus?

Fearghas really didn't like stupid nicknames.

Shut up, you idiot! What happened to your.. Fearghas stopped and gasped, eyes wide with shock. He had seen Naiad. She had wandered out into the hall to see what was taking so long. She grinned and waved to Fearghas.

Oh, said Fiachra. Look, I'll explain.

Yes, do, breathed Fearghas.

->^<-

The blond elf quickly skipped down the stone stairs, hoping that he hadn't been seen, and strode in the direction of the great hall. His footsteps echoed around the large space of the chamber. He turned the corner and came upon the black-haired general. It was the last person he'd wanted to be seen by in this area of the city. The taller elf leaned arrogantly against a column and gave him the gimlet eye. Feeling hunted and self-conscious, he nodded in salute. The general scoffed at him, snorting in contempt, then threw his cloak out behind him and stomped off.

->^<-

The twins slouched side by side on the couch while Naiad sat primly on the chair to their left. Fearghas had been told everything that had happened and was pondering events with his sharp scientific mind.

Incredible, he mused. This is unfounded in the realms of science. He pulled Fiachra's hair curiously.

Ow!

Amazing.

Fiachra pouted and rubbed his hairsore head. Hey, wait, I just thought of something.

It's a miracle! mocked the other boy, with a wry smile.

I'm serious! What are Mum and Dad gonna say when they see Naiad?!

Oh, don't worry about that. I can disappear, she said. I'll just turn myself into water and sit in a bowl in your room or whatever.

You can do that?

Yep.

Living in our room? Don't you think that's a bit weird?! he shrieked.

No. Why would it be? she laughed.

Well, because.. er.. you're a.. he frowned.

No, I'm not, she said.

Speaking of the parental units, said Fearghas, they'll be getting back imminently. We should get upstairs.

Yeah, probably. It is getting late and I don't want to be seen like this! answered Fiachra, getting up and making his way out of the room and to the stairs. The others followed.

I hope you've got me a nice bowl, bat face. I'm not going to sit in anything that isn't tasteful.

Soon afterwards, after cack-handedly cutting the superlength hair from his head, he watched in amazement as the offcuts disintegrated in his hands and disappeared, shimmering, into the air, leaving not a single trace. Fearghas looked on in a daze.

I wouldn't have believed any of this, he said. if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. I'm still not sure I believe it.

You think you've got it bad? How do you suppose I feel? Fiachra said, feeling sorry for himself.

Come off it, I know exactly how you feel. Twins, remember?

I didn't think you believed in all that twin-telepathy stuff.

I'm an open-minded skeptic. There are moments when I wonder. Besides, there's something about seeing an elemental being appear out of nowhere, then transmogrify into a bowl of water that makes you begin to doubt your basic assumptions about a lot of things.

Fiachra couldn't sleep. He was too wired, too weirded out. He crept down the ladder of the bunk bed and padded over to the window, opening it and leaning out into the cool night. A large blue ceramic bowl sat on the chest of drawers, filled with water shimmering in the moonlight. His mind was racing and wouldn't shut up. His thoughts were a mess.

'Who was that elf guy?' he wondered. 'Is Naiad really..? Just what in the hell is going on?'

He stood there for hours, until the sky started to get lighter again and the birds were beginning to chirp. Without his notice, his ears and teeth slowly returned to normal.

Rune 2: Phantasmagoria

~A series of phantasms or illusions, a shifting scene of many elements~

Wednesday came, and brought with it the start of a new term at college for the twins. Having spent the past few nights in hiding from his parents, hacking the huge lengths of hair from his head, Fiachra was starting to get used to his nocturnal transmogrification to some extent. He worried about their mum and dad finding out. He also knew that Fearghas would quickly grow annoyed at having to fetch him things as he lay low in his bedroom refuge. Naiad had taken her corporeal form again once or twice in order to snoop around the boys' bedroom, mostly to peruse the contents of the bookshelves- she was interested in drama, it seemed.

The common room of Brambleclough Sixth Form College was full of the hustle and bustle that the boys had come to expect of a morning, except with perhaps a little more hustle than usual. There was a barely noticeable frisson in the atmosphere. At length, a rumour reached them that there were foreign exchange students arriving today. There were differences of opinion concerning the nationality of these students, and suggestions included German, Greek or even Ukrainian. It was obvious that nobody really knew.

The bell rang signalling the beginning of that seemingly useless period of time known officially as registration but usually referred to as form. When the boys fought their way through the crowd in an attempt to reach the stairs without being asphyxiated, and failed, they figured they might as well sit down until the bulk of the students had gone. Fearghas happened to glance to the side and catch a momentary glimpse of an orange T-shirt. This in itself was wholly unremarkable, yet its value as something interesting was increased when he noticed the writing emblazoned across the chest- it was Cyrillic.

Russian?.. he murmured. It might not mean anything, of course, he'd seen people he knew in shirts with Japanese writing on, the meaning of which they had no idea about. But this seemed very deliberate and direct; he didn't think it was just a fashionable pattern.

Fearghas was proved correct in form, when their form teacher, Miss Birman read out a notice to the effect that the foreign exchange students were indeed from Russia, and that every effort should be made to make them feel welcome. There were no new faces, so evidently none of the exchange students had been assigned to their form.

Miss Birman was a confident, raven-haired woman of around 35 years of age, fond of the colour red and with piercing blue eyes which sparkled mischievously when she grinned. She chatted jokingly with the students of form Thirteen-Three in her loud and slightly husky voice, seeming more like an older friend than a teacher- in fact, she could be downright crass at times and after the register had been taken she was generally happy for the students in her form to do as they pleased.

A ginger-haired lad wearing a brightly coloured kaftan sauntered slowly up to the boys' desk.

Hey, O'Conall twins, did you know that cherry bakewells are God? he said mystically.

Oh no you don't, Zen, said Fiachra. Last time I got into a conversation with you about the divinity of cake you shoved one into my face, screaming 'Eat the effing cake!'. It took me 2 days to get the icing out of my hair!

Exactly! Don't you see?! replied Zen.

No. You make my head hurt, said Fiachra. What, with your oxymorons and your koans and your backwards ice-skating Finlanders.

What? asked Fearghas, not getting most of those references.

Oh, don't ask. Please.

How do you come up with these things? asked Fearghas of Zen.

THREE TONS OF FLAX! shouted Zen, triumphantly. Fiachra pulled a bemused face and crossed his eyes as Zen walked away.

Fiachra had General Studies as an unremarkable first lesson. At the moment they were doing French, which he was adequate in, but nowhere near as fluent as his brother, who had a gift for languages- especially more exotic ones. At the same time, Fearghas was in a Physics lesson, taught by a rather eccentric young teacher by the name of Mr Peartree. Fearghas twirled his pen around his fingers and looked forward at the entirely black-clad 'corporate goth'. Gabriel Peartree was in his early twenties with shoulder-length dark, curly hair and carefully trimmed and shaped facial hair. With his fondness for Norwegian death metal music and silly web animations, and his tales of his time at university spent being abused by items of furniture after drinking large amounts of absinthe, his class were laughing themselves silly most of the time and seemingly learning very little. In any case they found the lessons enjoyable. Fearghas thought the endless formulae and calculations rather tedious, yet was enjoying discussing the principles of what they termed 'quantum weirdness' and the more theoretical topics.

A stuffed badger (the class mascot) flew over his head as he scanned his small group of classmates. The class's star pupil was a lad known to all as 'Flux Martin', the reason for this being that facts just seemed to flow into his head. Fearghas had asked a fellow classmate, back when he'd started in the class, whether Martin was his surname or his first name. Her answer had been No-one knows..

It had turned out she was lying in the end.

->^<-

Second period saw Fiachra spending his 'study period' doing nothing that even vaguely resembled studying in any way. Fearghas, however, made his way to the downstairs science labs for his Biology lesson.

Taught jointly between the mild-mannered Mrs Stamford and the athletic Miss Hampton, Biology seemed to be Fearghas's favourite subject. The class worked hard but they all enjoyed a good joke- Fearghas smirked as he remembered April fools' day when Miss Hampton had popped out of the room for a minute or two in order to photocopy some worksheets and the whole class had hidden under the desks at the back, so she returned to a seemingly deserted classroom. She had found them easily enough, but it was still hilarious.

They had been in class for about 10 minutes when there was a knock at the door. Mrs Stamford opened it to admit a slim woman with bobbed blonde hair, followed by a group of three students. Mrs Stamford introduced the woman as Valentina Komarova, a teacher from the Russian school. Fearghas looked at the Russian students with interest and was slightly surprised when his gaze fell upon the same orange T-shirt he had seen that morning. The lad wearing it was slender and whippet-like with long, scraggy, blond hair tied back in a ponytail, and pale turquoise-blue eyes which sat behind a pair of gold-rimmed circular glasses. He wore black cropped trousers, bright yellow trainers and a nervous expression. As the exchange students were given places to sit and Mrs Stamford continued teaching, Fearghas was forced to turn his attention back to the lesson, but his glance jumped back to the boy in the orange T-shirt now and again. Something about the lad fascinated him somehow..

->^<-

Meeting in the common room for break, the twins simply sat on the plush red chairs and lazed around, speaking of trivial things and partaking of chocolate bars. For a short while, Fiachra sat wondering about the blond person who knocked him out.

I'm not sure if I dreamt it or not, but I vaguely remember him mentioning being ready for something. I wonder what he was talking about. If he did say it, he mused.

I haven't the foggiest. Maybe he'll come back and explain, Fearghas replied, a little annoyed at not having the requisite knowledge.

Third lesson was a study period (known amongst the work-allergic students as 'frees') for both boys, and being directly before the dinner hour, Fiachra decided to wander down to the cafeteria and get an early lunch. Fearghas, however, felt he would like to go to the college library and do some homework, thus freeing up his night for more interesting pastimes- like world domination, he said. Fiachra agreed to meet him outside the library later, and they parted company.

Fearghas stepped through the double doors onto the regulation grey nylon carpet of the library. It was all but deserted at this time, there being only about three people in there. There may have been one or two people on the balconies using the computers as well but Fearghas wasn't looking. He just appreciated the quiet. He took up his usual spot on the table in the corner, next to the window and began to unpack his books.

He was just over half way through the simple exercise when he chanced to glance up at the balcony opposite. A girl had come down the stairs a minute earlier and taken her leave, now there was only one person up there. It was the lad in the orange T-shirt. Fearghas raised his eyebrows slightly at the coincidence of seeing him yet again. Suddenly feeling an urge to go up there and introduce himself, he looked back at his work, making a bargain with himself- if the boy was still there when he had finished, he'd nip up and at least say hello, after all, why not? They were in the same class. It was a perfectly normal sort of thing to do, to make acquaintance with one's classmates. Wasn't it? Yes. Of course it was.

Time passed. Fearghas wrote in the final answer and proceeded to pack his things away again. Sure enough, the Russian boy was still up there, typing furiously. Fearghas slung his bag over his shoulder, took a deep breath and strode towards the stairs.

Izvinitye. (Excuse me.)

The boy spun around with a sharp intake of breath and asked:

Vy govoritye po-Russki? (You speak Russian?) He clearly hadn't expected to be addressed in his native language.

Da, nemnogo, ne ochen horosho, (Yes, a little. Not very well,) answered Fearghas. Offering his hand, he introduced himself. Menya zavut Fearghas. (My name is Fearghas.)

The boy shook his hand, smiling.

Borislav, he said, indicating himself.

Borislav, repeated Fearghas, in the hope that it would help him remember it better. We're in the same Biology class, aren't we?..

He felt like his stomach had done a triple somersault. It was just because he wasn't good with meeting new people, he thought.

The librarian shushed them from somewhere below.

Later on, at dinnertime, the twins sat in the common room again, looking more than a little annoyed. Someone had decided they wanted to use the common room's sound system to play mind-numbingly awful rap music at blaringly loud, ground-shaking volume. The boys knew that any objection was likely to get them involved in a fight, or at least a slanging match, so they left it alone, content to rant about it between themselves.

Why do they make us listen to CRAP FM?! moaned Fiachra. He folded his arms and slid down in the chair.

"Because they hate us and they want us to suffer," said Fearghas, matter-of-factly.

Fiachra sighed and rummaged around in his bag for something to distract him, then suddenly he realised something. He jumped to his feet.

Oh damn. I've left my copy of 'A Midsummer night's dream' in the English room. I'll be right back, he said.

Okay, answered Fearghas, reclining on the chair.

Fiachra walked across the common room and down an adjoining corridor, past the library stairs on his way to the English department, humming a tune to himself. Then a voice came from behind him, a man's voice.

I know what you are, bloodsucker, it said. Fiachra's eyes widened. He stopped dead in his tracks and took a couple of deep breaths. Someone knew. Someone knew about what happened to him every night. How could anyone know? What could they want?

'No, that's wrong!' he said to himself. 'I'm not.. am I?'

Deciding to play innocent, he turned his head around slowly to face his challenger and tried his best to look clueless.

You what?

The man was tall with very long blond hair scraped back in a high ponytail. His eyes were cruel, green. He wore a short beige-coloured coat lined with sheepskin.

Don't play dumb with me, vampire, he warned, eyes narrowing threateningly.

Who are you? breathed Fiachra, concerned about where this conversation was going. The man reached out with his left hand, clamping his fingers tightly around Fiachra's throat and pushing him, almost slamming him up against the wall. Fiachra choked.

My name is Phrixus. I'm here to kill you.

Fiachra was trapped, staring into the merciless eyes of the man named Phrixus, couldn't move, couldn't look away.. couldn't breathe. Phrixus dug his fingers into Fiachra's neck and squeezed tightly, pushing him up the wall and lifting him off his feet. He tried to scream, but it was stifled by the strangulation. Choking and gasping for air, he squeezed his eyes shut with the pain and flailed his arms blindly, looking for Phrixus's arm. Finding it, he gripped it tightly, trying to take some of his weight on it and relieve a little of the pressure on his neck. His feet scrabbled about, heels trying to find purchase on the wall, but to no avail. Tears spilled from his eyes and trickled down his face as he fought to turn his head and ease the pressure on his trachea. He was kicking now, desperate for air. He was struggling to cough. Phrixus had a stake in his hand, raised ready to plunge into Fiachra's chest.

Then there was a dull thud.

Phrixus fell sideways, his stake spinning across the floor. There stood Fearghas, a very heavy Japanese dictionary in his hands. He had swung the weighty tome as hard as he could into the side of Phrixus's head, stunning the man.

Fiachra had dropped wheezing to his knees. Fearghas grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him up onto his feet. He ran back through the common room, pushing past people, dragging his dazed and distressed brother behind him. Fleeing down another corridor, he grabbed the doorhandle of room 603- the Classical Civilisation classroom, shoving the red-faced Fiachra inside and hurriedly closing the door again and throwing the dictionary down on a table before pushing his twin up against the adjacent wall, out of sight.

Shh, he whispered. They stood there a long while with their backs to the wall, anxiously looking towards the door, desperately hoping he wouldn't come this way.

Ten minutes later, what seemed like hours, Fearghas tentatively moved forward.

I don't think he's coming. He might be gone by now, said Fearghas, checking through the door's thin window. Who the hell was that guy?

I don't know! But he knows what I am, or he thinks he does, and he wants to kill me, Fearghas! You've gotta help me! whimpered Fiachra hoarsely, grasping the front of his twin's shirt. Fearghas took hold of his hands and gently pulled them away.

Alright, calm down, it's okay now.

Fiachra's eyes and face were still wet with tears; he was shaking. Fearghas sighed, not wanting to break his cool, aloof exterior by showing sentimentality, but not being able to stand seeing his brother upset like this. With the strong bond between the twins, it hurt him rather acutely. He gathered Fiachra into his arms, frowning slightly. It's all right, I'll protect you. He rubbed Fiachra's back, and Fiachra buried his face in Fearghas' shoulder, sniffling quietly. Fearghas..

It's okay..

->^<-

The twins were sat on the edge of one of the