The Mammoth Book of Vampire Stories by Women

by Stephen Jones

  “I was interrupted.”

  “What the hell do you mean—‘interrupted’?”

  So I tell him. Rupert rages. He paces, he punches trees, he weeps. Finally he turns to me like a man in the grip of a fatal illness, his face white and frail as the skin of a mushroom.

  “This is a disaster!” he cries. “If Meg and my father are lovers, then I have nothing left to live for. They’ll have a child, and I shall have no inheritance, no house, no wife—nothing!”

  He flings himself at me, grabbing the lapels of my coat. I am really enjoying this.

  “Kill me,” he begs, tears running from his beautiful, anguished eyes. “Kill me instead.”

  Oh, my pleasure.

  Only I can’t do it.

  I hold Rupert close and we are the same height so he looks into my eyes for an instant before my head goes down to his throat. He is tense, desperate for oblivion. But then the inevitable happens. He softens in my arms and clasps my head. He sighs. He forgets what he was angry about.

  We are locked together, his blood running sweetly into my open mouth, his groin pressed hard against mine. And it happens. I fall in love with him.

  And I’m satiated so I stop drinking; I just want to hold him against me. But I haven’t taken nearly enough to kill him and he knows it.

  “You bastard,” he says weakly. “You liar.”

  He faints. I let him go. I leave him lying there, slumped on the roots of a tree, and I run.

  I don’t go far. There is an ancient rose arbor halfway across the grounds, with a dry fountain and some sad-looking, mossy statues. Here I hesitate, undecided, my mind full of Rupert and Meg and Daniel. I want them so badly. I am in anguish.

  Karl startles me. I am not looking where I’m going and I don’t see him there in the shadow of a rose trellis. I almost step on him. He’s like a statue coming to life, with fire for eyes, and if I had been human I believe I should have died of fear. He’s still following me, watching me, warning me—just for the hell of it, I swear.

  “Are you simply going to leave him?” He grips my arms, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You have a choice, Antoine. Go back and finish them all—or leave now, and never come back. Make a decision or this will destroy you!”

  “Why don’t you leave me the hell alone!” I growl, pulling free of him.

  “I shall,” he says coldly. “But I have seen so many of our kind sabotage their own existence through their obsession with mortals. I have even known them to kill themselves.”

  “Kill themselves?” The idea is shocking to me. Abhorrent. What’s the use of becoming immortal, only to waste it?

  “As soon as I am sure that you understand—then I shall leave you to your folly.”

  I laugh. “Karl, do you really not see? How boring do you want our existence to be? Oh yes, I have tried all the things that new-made vampires think will thrill them. And it does thrill, for a little while. I have climbed mountains where the cold and the lack of air would kill humans. I have swum deep in the ocean. I have thrown myself like a bird off the Eiffel Tower and walked away with a broken wrist.”

  “And have you not found wonder in any of this?”

  “The thing is that when such feats come so easily to us, there is no point in doing them. No challenge.” My voice is throaty and I hate myself for being sincere and fervent in front of Karl, but there it is. “All that’s left, the only challenge, the only chance of passion …” I point across the garden at the gray-brown hulk of stone, “… lies in that house.”

  “I disagree,” says Karl, but his eyes betray him.

  “If you disagree, my friend, why are you pestering me? There is no reason under the moon for you to be haunting me, except that you get some frisson of excitement from it.”

  Karl can find no reply to that. I dance away, quite pleased to have silenced him for once.

  I am back at the house again. Moth to the flame. Of course.

  I’m outside the parlor window and they are inside, sitting there by the light of an open fire and gas-lamps. A brown scene, with little touches of green, red and gold. To my surprise, Rupert and his father are sitting in armchairs on opposite sides of the grate. They are not speaking but, my God! At least they are in the same room! They are sipping brandy from balloon glasses and the liquor shines like rubies in the fire-glow.

  Meg is perched on a couch, sewing. She wears a simple skirt and cardigan—not the maid’s uniform I expected—and her hair is coiled on her head, beautifully disheveled. They are listening to music on the wireless—such a big box to produce such small, tinny, jaunty sounds! But this is not a scene of happy domesticity.

  There is a dreadful tension between them. Even through the glass I feel it.

  They’re waiting for me, thinking of me. I can feel the heat of their dreams and desires. For me they would forget their quarrels, even forget their relationships to each other, just to feel my lips on them again and my fangs driving into them … to lose themselves in bliss. I long to go to them. I want to feel their arms around me, and their bodies pliant under mine, and their genitals stiffening and opening like exotic flowers and their blood leaping into me, God, yes, their blood …

  The woman pricks herself with the needle. I watch the blood-bead swell on her finger. Then her lips close on the wound, and my desires throb like pain.

  My hand is on the window …

  Meg looks up with her finger still pressed to the moist bud of her mouth, and sees me. I grip the frame of the sash window and push it upward. The warmth of the room rushes to meet me and I hear her gasp, “He’s here!”

  The men jump to their feet. Their faces are rapt, eyes feverish, lips parted. All three of them are coming towards me and I long to stroke their hair, to feel the heat of their bodies through their clothes and taste their skin. Brooding Rupert and leonine Daniel and sensual Meg. Three golden figures in a cave of fire. “There you are,” they whisper. “Come in, Antoine, come in to us.”

  I reach out to them, as they are reaching out to me. Our fingertips touch …

  Someone slams down the window between us. A hand grips my arm.

  “They will suck you in,” says Charlotte into my ear. “They will be your slaves and you will be theirs.”

  Now if it had been Karl who shut the window I should have been furious. But I can never be angry with Charlotte; not for long, anyway. In a flash I am detached and ironic. “That sounds quite appealing.”

  Their faces are pressed against the cold pane, staring into the twilight. Charlotte pulls me aside so they can’t see us. I yield, and we walk slowly along the back of the house, with grit and soil and the debris of autumn accumulating on our shoes. A graveyard scent. I’m looking for another way in. I feel like a revenant, scratching at windows, rattling door handles.

  This path leads us into the kitchen garden again. In the gloom there are rooks on the furrows, pecking at the delicious morsels Meg’s father has turned up with his digging. Will he know what his daughter does with Daniel, and with Rupert, and with me? Will he join us? An old man, smelling of sweat and earth, creating green life from the ground … I should like to taste his essence.

  “If you go in, they won’t let you go,” says Charlotte. “You won’t be able to leave.”

  I pull her to me and kiss her neck. “I shouldn’t want to leave. I love them. And you sound thrilled at the idea yourself.”

  She laughs. “Wasn’t I right, Antoine? Yes … this is excitement. This is ecstasy. Shall I tell you why Karl is so cold? Not because he’s different to us. No, it’s because he’s the same, he can’t leave humans alone. Only he hates the consequences. Oh, I always plunge in headfirst, I can’t help myself, I always think it will be different this time. But Karl … he’s the realist.”

  And Karl is there, as if he stepped out of thin air in the shadows. He has been waiting for us. Now he’s strolling on the other side of me, his hand so affectionate upon my arm. They are guiding me away from the house, along the grassy path towards the hedge at th
e top of the garden and the bare trees beyond, away, towards redemption. Every step is agony.

  “The trouble is, there’s a price to pay,” Karl tells me. “You can say ‘yes’ to them and you can let yourself fall—but you can’t have them and keep them. They’re dying, Antoine. The more you love them, the more you kill them.”

  “Don’t think it won’t hurt you, when they die,” says Charlotte. “Don’t imagine the pain of it won’t claw your heart to pieces!”

  “But if I …” My voice is weak.

  Charlotte knows what I’m thinking. “Yes, you could make them into vampires,” she says crisply. “With a great amount of energy and will and strength, you could do that. But it won’t be the same. Then you will have three cold-eyed predators, vying with you, resenting you, perhaps hating you. But your warm, moist, blood-filled lovers will be gone.”

  “So leave,” says Karl. “Leave them now!”

  We have reached the gap in the hedge. I stand there despairingly. I raise my arms in anguish and the flapping of my overcoat makes a dozen rooks rise in alarm. But one remains. It hops in circles on the grass, trailing a damaged wing. It cannot escape the earth.

  I break away from Karl and Charlotte. I run back to the house and stand outside, breathing hard.

  My lovers are inside, waiting for me. I can hear the blood thundering through their hearts, their red tongues moistening their lips in anticipation. I only have to turn away and they will remain like that forever … aching for me, waiting, their lust turning to fevered agony … but alive.

  Grief will, I think, be interesting.

  I press my fingers to the cold glass of the kitchen door, and I go in.

  VAMPIRE KING OF THE GOTH CHICKS

  From the journals of Sonja Blue

  Nancy A. Collins

  Nancy A. Collins currently makes her home in Atlanta, Georgia. She is the author of several novels and numerous short stories, as well as having served a two-year stint as the writer of DC Comics’ Swamp Thing. The recipient of the HWA’s Bram Stoker, British Fantasy Society’s Icarus, and the Deathrealm Awards, her books include Sunglasses After Dark, Lynch: A Gothik Western, Knuckles & Tales, a Southern Neo-Gothic collection, and the Golgotham urban fantasy series.

  Her newest works include a thirteen-issue run as the first woman to write the Vampirella comic, the Red Sonja: Vultures Circle mini-series, and the Army of Darkness: Furious Road limited series, as well as a hardcover release of the Sunglasses After Dark graphic novel.

  “‘Vampire King of the Goth Chicks’ originally started out as the first comic book appearance of Sonja Blue,” explains Collins. “Entitled ‘The Real Thing,’ the script was commissioned by Joe R. Lansdale for Weird Business, a hefty hardback comic ‘book’ he was coediting for Mojo Press back in 1995.

  “Although I was not overly thrilled with the art that ended up being used, I always liked the story, and after a couple of years I decided to translate the story into prose—making it the first Sonja Blue short story. The transition from comic book to prose story wasn’t particularly hard for me to accomplish, since the original script for the comic story was extremely detailed.”

  THE RED RAVEN is a real scum-pit. The only thing marking it as a bar is the vintage Old Crow ad in the front window and a stuttering neon sign that says LOUNGE. The Johns are always backing up and the place perpetually stinks of piss.

  During the week it’s just another neighborhood dive, serving truck drivers and barflies. Not a Bukowski among them. But, since the drinks are cheap and the bartenders never check ID, the Red Raven undergoes a sea change come Friday night. The bar’s clientele changes radically; growing younger and stranger, at least in physical appearance. The usual suspects that occupy the Red Raven’s booths and barstools are replaced by young men and women tricked out in black leather and so many facial piercings they resemble walking tackle boxes. Still not a Bukowski among them.

  This Friday night’s no different from any others. A knot of Goth kids are already gathered outside on the curb as I arrive, plastic go-cups full of piss-warm Rolling Rock clutched in their hands as they talk among themselves. Amid all the bad Cure haircuts, heavy mascara, dead-white face powder and black lipstick, I hardly warrant a second look.

  Normally I don’t bother with joints like this, but I’ve been hearing this persistent rumor that there’s a blood cult operating out of the Red Raven. I make it my business to check out such rumors for myself. Most of the time it turns out to be nothing, but occasionally there’s something far more sinister at the heart of urban legends.

  The interior of the Red Raven is crowded with young men and women, all of whom look far stranger and more menacing than myself. What with my black motorcycle jacket, ratty jeans, and equally tattered New York Dolls T-shirt, I’m somewhat on the conservative end of the dress code.

  I wave down the bartender, who doesn’t seem to consider it odd I’m sporting sunglasses after dark, and order a beer. It doesn’t bother me that the glass he hands me bears visible greasy fingerprints and a smear of lipstick on the rim. After all, it’s not like I’m going to drink it.

  Now that I have the necessary prop, I settle in and wait. Finding out the lowdown in places like this isn’t that hard, really. All I’ve got to do is be patient and keep my ears open. Over the years I’ve developed a method for listening to dozens of conversations at once—sifting the meaningless ones aside without even being conscious of it most of the time, until I find the one I’m looking for. I suspect it’s not unlike how a shark can pick out the frenzied splashing of a wounded fish from miles away.

  “… told him he could kiss my ass goodbye …”

  “… really liked their last album …”

  “… bitch acted like I’d done something …”

  “… —until next payday? I promise you’ll get it right back …”

  “… the undead. He’s the real thing …”

  There. That one.

  I angle my head in the direction of the voice I’ve zeroed in on, trying not to look at them directly. There are three of them—one male and two female—apparently in earnest conversation with a young woman. The two females are archetypal Goth chicks. They look to be in their late teens, early twenties, dressed in a mixture of black leather and lingerie and wearing way too much eye makeup. One is tall and willowy, her heavily applied makeup doing little to mask the bloom of acne on her cheeks. Judging from the roots of her boot-black hair, she’s probably a natural dishwater blonde.

  Her companion is considerably shorter and a little too pudgy for the black satin bustier she’s shoehorned into. Her face is painted clown white with an ornate tattoo at the corner of her eye, which I’ve been told is more in imitation of a popular comic book character than as tribute to the Egyptian gods. She’s wearing a man’s riding derby draped in a length of black lace that makes her look taller than she really is.

  The male member of the group is tall and skinny, outfitted in a pair of leather pants held up by a monstrously ornate silver belt buckle, and a leather jacket. He isn’t wearing a shirt, his bare breastbone hairless and a tad sunken. He’s roughly the same age as the girls, perhaps younger, constantly nodding in agreement with whatever they say, nervously flipping his lank, burgundy-colored hair out of his face. It doesn’t take me long to discern that the tall girl is called Sable, the short one in the hat Tanith, and that the boy is Serge. The girl they are talking to has close-cropped Raggedy Ann–red hair and a nose ring. She is Shawna.

  Out of habit, I drop my vision into the Pretender spectrum and scan them for sign of inhuman taint. All four check out clean. Oddly, this piques my interest. I move a little closer to where they are standing huddled, so I can filter out the Marilyn Manson blaring out of the nearby jukebox.

  Shawna shakes her head and smiles nervously, uncertain as to whether she’s being goofed on or not. “C’mon—a real vampire?”

  “We told him about you, Shawna, didn’t we, Serge?” Tanith looks to the gawky youth hovering at her elb
ow. Serge nods his head eagerly, which necessitates his flipping his hair out of his face yet again.

  “His name is Rhymer. Lord Rhymer. He’s three hundred years old,” Sable adds breathlessly, “and he said he wanted to meet you!”

  Despite her attempts at post-modern death-chic, Shawna looks like a flattered schoolgirl.

  “Really?”

  I can tell she’s hooked as clean as a six-pound trout and that it won’t take much more work on the trio’s part to land their catch. The quartet of black-leather-clad young rebels quickly leave the Red Raven, scurrying off as fast as their Doc Martens can take them. I give it a couple of beats then set out after them.

  As I shadow them from a distance, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that something is wrong. Although I seem to have found what I’ve come looking for, something’s not quite right about it, but I’ll be damned (I know—I’m being redundant) if I can say what.

  In my experience, vampires avoid Goths like daylight. While their adolescent fascination with death and decadence might, at first, seem to make them natural choices as servitors, their extravagant fashion sense calls far too much attention to them. Vampires prefer their servants far more nondescript and discreet. But perhaps this Lord Rhymer, whoever he may be, is of a more modern temperament than those I’ve encountered in the past.

  I don’t know what to make of this trio who seem to be acting as his Judas goats. Judging by their evident enthusiasm, perhaps “converts” is a far more accurate description than servitors. They don’t seem to have the predator’s gleam in their eyes, nor is there anything resembling a killer’s caution in their walk or mannerisms. As they stroll down the darkened streets their chatter is more like that of mischievous children out on a lark—say, TPing the superintendent’s front lawn or soaping the gym teacher’s windows. They certainly aren’t aware of the extra shadow that attached itself to them the moment they left the Red Raven with their fresh pickup.

  After a ten-minute walk they arrive at their destination: an abandoned church. Of course. It’s hardly Carfax Abbey, but I suppose it will do. The church is a two-story wooden structure boasting an old-fashioned spire, stabbing a symbolic finger in the direction of Heaven.