Blooming Women

1. You are dying

If she got out of this alive, there was going to be an Elvis Sandwich. Make that two Elvis Sandwiches. And a lot of hot coffee.Half an hour ago, this had been stupid. Now, Amber Hood was cripplingly cold, smothering in black-leafed darkness and, according to the shape in front of her, dead but for the shouting – something she was having another try at because neither struggling nor kicking had been effective.

'HELP! HEEEEEEELP! I'M TRAPPED!'

The sound died, lost in the leaves of the grove and the earth embankment behind her.

'You don't have to, you know. Call out, I mean. Nobody will hear and there isn't really any point. You could curl up now, if you liked.'

The voice was the dangerously dreamy side of air-headed; Amber would have described it as belonging to somebody who wasn't All There, but it was coming from somebody who shouldn't have been there at all. Unfortunately, it was all there and was holding onto Amber's wrist with a grip that was springy but, apart from one brief moment when Amber had nearly knocked herself out, unbreakable.

'I am NOT curling up and d-d-d-dying!'

The shiver Amber had been clamping down on broke through; her jaw was aching already from not letting her chin judder along with the rest of her body, which had its own ideas about how to deal with being trapped in woodland on a freezing night, especially while it was wearing an inappropriate Little Black Dress, incongruous trainers, an inadequate coat and only enough underwear to keep somebody guessing for a little longer, in the event they'd convinced her to remove the Little Black Dress in the first place.

'You are dying,' said the voice. It was female, sounded no more than twenty, and belonged to a chunk of blackness not so much taller than Amber, which made it still not very tall. 'You will be dead soon: I can tell these things. You are so full of death I can scarce believe you aren't already dead.'

I am afraid she is correct, Dear.

Amber felt her eyes bulge.

I do beg your pardon. I meant she is correct about there being nobody to hear.

Amber yanked her arm again, trying to whip her wrist clear by surprise. The hand holding onto her moved with her springily, grip solid; it wasn't tight, it had simply been impossible for her to break open a space between the thumb and fingers shackling her. She stopped struggling again; her right wrist and shoulder were starting to ache from the pulling and abrasions almost as much as her right hand itself, which was pinioned out in the cold in front of her. She turned her speech inward.

'Samantha! Will You Not DO That? What, nobody?'

No Dear. Not a soul – living or dead – within my range.

The voice was crisp, female, high in an old fashioned way and sat between and behind her ears, as if she were listening on headphones that had slipped slightly; that the voice had not taken umbrage when it had been snapped at showed that it was worried; usually a small fight would have broken out after a greeting like that.

'So. Any ideas?'

I had hoped that you would have show your legendary aptitude by now.

'Nope. I was hoping yours would find a... a... a... female farmer, or somebody, with a bit of skill with a chainsaw. Or at least with something warm I could wear for a few hours?'

There was nothing, Dear; I would suggest that that is the reason the creature is still here. They are notoriously shy, I believe. The presence of humans could well disturb—

'There's a road thirty feet away! A road! With my car on it!'

Please; contain yourself. You are becoming shrill.

'You'd be shrill if you were freezing your backside off!'

'Would I?'

Amber realised she'd begun to shout again.

'Yes! Why aren't you, anyway? Freezing, I mean – you're dressed in less than I am.'
 
'I'm warmed by the offerings people bring.'

She had been about to say how crazy that was, but the last eighteen months had taught her otherwise. Two years before, she had moved into a new flat and something had moved into her. The something had been dead for nearly a century and went by the name of Samantha Gurnard: proprietress of the country's most exclusive marriage bureau, ex-schoolteacher, self-proclaimed succubus, full-time ghost; Samantha had chosen Amber as her protégé (or 'victim', as Amber still thought if it) and had immediately begun taking over Amber's life from the inside. Had there not been a difficulty with a demon intent upon devouring them both literally body and souls, Samantha would never have been desperate enough to reveal her existence and Amber would, after Samantha had undertaken some rigorous field trials of suitable young men, have been an enthusiastic young woman planning the perfect May wedding –-the habits of the British weather not withstanding.

'People know you're here?'

'They bring me offerings,' stated the darkness. Amber took that to mean yes.

'So. Why do they do that?'

'I take their ailing relatives quickly and they leave me offerings in thanks.'

The cold was making it hard to talk, but so was the thought of being the recipient of an unwelcome offer of euthanasia.

'But I'm not ill! I was with my friends – and they'll be expecting me back.'

'I don't think so. You arrived without your friends: I saw you. Now you're leaving again without them. Lots of people came; some went again, but they weren't dying like you are. I shall take you and receive an offering in thanks.'

It was true; several people would have driven along the road to Cloud and Gary's combined housewarming and engagement party; some of them were still there, warm and (probably) asleep, and Amber was wishing she'd taken up the charming (and not unwelcome) invitation from Gary's friend Cloud had specifically invited: at least she would have been warm, even if she wouldn't necessarily have been asleep.

'I'm. N... n... notdying!'

Amber swivelled and kicked into the darkness towards where the shoulder of the thing holding her arm should be. She was flexible about the hips and this was a good attempt; her foot smacked into the something solid: she'd been expecting that – this time. Her only punch to its face had left her fingers throbbing and swelling as if she'd punched a block of wood, and the head-butt she'd delivered had left her with a lump on the edge of her hairline that was going to be embarrassing for a few days – she hoped. The single benefit of the cold was that it was keeping the swelling down, but the idea of dying was becoming very firmly rooted. The thing in front of her swayed slightly from the attack. Amber had had a vindictive hope of hearing the scream of somebody whose shoulder had just dislocated; instead, she snatched her leg back to safety, nearly falling. She didn't want the thing to catch her foot, leaving her hopping; that might warm her up, but it wouldn't be long until her supporting leg gave out, forcing her to fall, an arm and a leg held high, onto frozen ground.

'Oh dear. You're going to struggle, like Baz did.' There was a polite distress in the tone.

Amber found she was grunting, breath hissing between clenched teeth with the effort to drag herself free, her trainers scrabbling for grip on the cold earth; the voice in front of her was talking as if it were on a swaying bus: jolted by unexpected movements, but otherwise untroubled.

'You might as well stay quiet; things will be easier for you,' said the voice, with maddening confidence. 'You're close to death; it will be so much easier if you relax and stop hurting yourself.

We could talk, if you like. It is lonely here at this time of year.'

Amber dragged at her arm again.

'Go to Hell! Let me go! I'm not dying for you, or anybody. Let GO!'

'You are, you know. I can tell. I only take people who are dying, and I can tell: you have death in you. I'm taken aback that you can still stand, to be true; the man who came here – Baz – only felt like this on the second night.'