The Vampire Megapack: 27 Modern and Classic Vampire Stories

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Yes, that would be a good idea. But before you leave, could you do me a favor and open the bottom drawer of that file cabinet— the one to your left— and give me the only item inside?”

  “Sure,” Roberta said.

  He just wants to check out my ass, she thought. Kevin would have to come up with a new plan or else they would both be fired, get arrested and end up in jail.

  Roberta slowly bent over, imagining Mr. VanZant’s expression, how his eyes would be focused on her taut ass. When she slid open the file drawer, she didn’t see a file. She pulled the drawer out a little more and hot bile rose in her throat.

  Inside was Kevin’s head, his vacant eyes boring into her own.

  “In your Earth Bible,” Mr. Krall said, “it says an ‘eye for an eye’— and in some Middle Eastern countries, they’ll cut off your hands for stealing. But since Mr. VanZant was the head of this criminal operation, I took it upon myself to just cut off his head.”

  Roberta knew she had to run, but before she could even take the first step toward the door and freedom, Mr. Krall leaped up and over his desk like some kind of huge corporate toad, landing right in front of her. He grabbed her hand and upper arm, pulled her toward him.

  “Where do you think you are going?” he hissed.

  “Please let me go!” Roberta pleaded.

  “As you wish,” Mr. Krall said, letting go of her.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, her eyes closed. She tried to rub away the growing pain in her arm.

  With one smooth motion, Mr. Krall slammed her against the wall and ripped her blouse open, the black buttons scattering across the office floor.

  “Oh my god, you’re going to rape me—” Roberta cried.

  Pinning Roberta to the wall, he yanked off her bra and savagely bit into her right breast, blood squirting into his open mouth.

  At that moment, Charlene Maltin entered the office.

  “Oh thank God, Charlene, Mr. Krall has gone insane—” Roberta reached out to Charlene, who knocked her hand way. The secretary pressed against Roberta, nuzzling her other breast before tearing at it to get at the sweet, sweet blood.

  The metallic scent of Roberta’s blood drifted down the hall to the office of Daniel Levy, the accountant, where he and his son, Sid, the deliveryman, were talking about their weekend plans. Visibly flushed, they both hurried to Mr. Krall’s office, where each lifted one of Roberta’s wrist’s and began to gnaw away at her soft, supple flesh.

  Just coming in from dumping the last of the office shredders into the recycling bin, Jerry Leonard, the janitor, sniffed, then sniffed again. “Happy Hour at the office! Far out!” Within moments, he was between Roberta’s legs, blissfully lapping at the blood trickling down her body.

  Mr. Krall politely belched, then wiped the remaining blood from his face with a handkerchief. Charlene finished licking the blood from her lips, then popped a fresh cube of strawberry bubble gum into her mouth and started chewing.

  Reaching behind one of the file cabinets, Mr. Krall pulled out and handed Charlene a ‘Help Wanted’ sign. “Please be so kind as to hang this out front before you leave, Charlene,” he said. “We need some new blood in the office.”

  SIREN SONG, by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Her voice was somewhere between honey and chocolate—warm, sweet, rich, and delicious. She poured out the Faure lament with charm and pathos, as if her whole soul were caught in the plaintive melody. Anguish, despair, and lost love all throbbed in her voice, as if the song and the singer were united in a shared affliction that was as moving as it was touching. The spotlight held her as if by magic; not even her accompanyist, Antim Bicaz, seemed real—little more than a half-seen figure bent over the piano keys, a spectral presence haunting her as she sang. When the song ended, there was a hush before the applause—the ultimate compliment to the performer.

  As if recalled to herself, Sophia Viniceu blinked and then accepted the ovation with a deep, graceful curtsy that made her dark-blue satin gown shine like the night sky. Her lovely face, throat, and shoulders floated above the ballet neck-line like a lunar goddess. When the clapping diminished, she nodded to her accompanyist and, after a hint of a pause, began to sing again, this time a little-known love-song by modern composer, written especially for her. It had become her signature piece and she ended the first half of every concert with it.

  *

  Long into the night I dreamed of you

  As if my dream could make your body real,

  Your hands, your face—they all seemed true

  Your kiss an insubstantial seal.

  Oh, dream, sweet dream!

  Lying in my empty bed, I could not breathe

  For yearning.

  Oh, dream, sweet dream!

  Moonbeams and longing made up your touch—

  If I could, I would drown in this dream,

  Fall into the whole of you, for I love so much

  All that I seek in you. How I seem

  To loose my heart to you, desiring to wreathe

  In burning

  The rapture all our own.

  And then I waken, alone.

  Oh, dream, sweet, sweet dream!

  * * * *

  The applause was sustained and energetic. Sophia curtsied, acknowledged the man at the piano, curtsied again, then swept from the stage in a flurry of Bravas! and clapping. She made her exit in the grand manner, as much a part of her performance as anything she sang. A moment later, Antim followed her, and as he reached the stage-manager’s podium, he said, “There is a man in the third row, center section, fifth seat on the left. Sophia wants a note delivered to him.”

  With a little sigh, the stage manager nodded. “This is the third one this week.”

  “Be glad of it,” she said with a fulminating glance at the stage manager as she came up to her accompanyist. Up close she seemed both harder-edged and more fragile. “Give me a slip of paper. And a pen.”

  Knowing she would not hesitate to upbraid him, the stage managed handed over paper and pen.

  “So you are spared,” said Sophia, taking the paper and scribbling a few words on it and signed it with a flourish. She put the note and the pen in the stage manager’s hand. With an unreadable look exchanged with her accompanyist, she went off toward her dressing-room, calling for her dresser.

  Katrine Bicaz, Antim’s sister, was waiting for her, the gown for the second half of the concert set out and ready for Sophia. “They love you, Madama.”

  “They love the music, and their idea of me,” said Sophia, as she always did. “They have no notion of who I am—nor should they. Let me be a cypher to them. It is what they want of me—a canvas on which they can paint their dreams. That’s why they love that song so much—it makes their dreams more real.”

  “Does it matter that you are a cypher, or a dream?” Katrine asked. She had asked variations on this question hundreds of times before.

  “Only to Antim,” said Sophia.

  Katrine snorted. “Of course. Antim has always been like that.”

  Sophia turned away from Katrine to have her unfasten her dark-blue gown. “This is going to have to go to the cleaners. There’s a stain on the bodice. Nothing that the audience can see, but I know it’s there, and—”

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Katrine, helping Sophia skin out of her gown. “The wine-red is just back from cleaning, pressed and ready. And, if you don’t want the wine-red, the bronze silk is still available.”

  “The burgundy is better, I think, at least in this hall. The curtains are bronze, and I might disappear into them in the silk. I trust you’ve hung the red so the smell is gone,” said Sophia, free of the midnight-colored gown at last. Her body-shaper was as beautiful as the gown, and far more functional, with satin-and-lace panels in the front, satin cups, and elastic panels in the sides so that her breathing would be unimpaired; the color was between flesh and orchid.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve out sachets of your perfume in it,” Katrine said as she moved th
e discarded blue dress into a canvas laundry duffle.

  “Fine,” Sophia muttered as she reached for a large hairnet and tied it over her elaborate twists of deep-auburn hair. “Some nights I feel a hundred years old.”

  Now Katrine held up the wine-red gown, a confection of satin and lace that twinkled with beading. “This will please Antim. He likes this.”

  “Wonderful,” said Sophia, ducking into the wine-red gown, wriggling a little to get her arms into the layered-lace sleeves. “This is—”

  “Don’t squirm,” Katrine admonished her. “Let me do it.”

  “All right,” said Sophia, ceasing to struggle with the clothes.

  Katrine spent the next minute settling the gown over Sophia’s elegant undergarments, making sure it draped as it should. When she was satisfied, she zipped it closed and then twitched the shoulders and back, adjusting it until it fell over her like an embrace. She stood back. “Turn around.”

  Sophia obliged. “The train is a little shorter.”

  “You asked to have it taken up, so you won’t catch your heel on it while taking your bows,” Katrine reminded her.

  “You’re right,” Sophia agreed.

  “I’ll bring your rouge, so you can brighten your face a bit,” Katrine said.

  “Just as well,” said Sophia as she peered into the dressing-room mirror. “This intense color makes me look too pale.”

  Katrine went to fetch the make-up case. “What shade do you want?”

  “The plum with the gold,” said Sophia, and reached for one of several tubes of lipstick, applying a burgundy shade to her mouth, then took a make-up brush from the case and accepted the small compact of rouge from Katrine. She contemplated her face critically before brushing on the color.

  “Tell me what you want to wear after the concert,” Katrine asked as she took the brush and compact from Sophia.

  “What I want is jeans and a sweater, and comfortable shoes. What I should wear is the black-crepe pantsuit with the lilac silk shirt, the one with the ruffles.” Sophia sighed as she took off the hair-net and fussed with her coiffeur, smoothing a few stray wisps into place again. “Forty-five more minutes, more or less, and this will be over. Except for the young man in the audience.”

  “You have two days off after this,” Katrine reminded her.

  “One of those days is for getting to Los Angeles for the next series of concerts,” Sophia grumbled. “Where’s my perfume?”

  “Here it is,” said Katrine, handing her a large crystal bottle of her signature scent, Vol de Nuit.

  Sophia sprayed herself with it. “How much of this is there left?”

  “Six ounces,” said Katrine. “Enough for the next two months.”

  “Miss Viniceu, Miss Viniceu,” said the dressing-room speaker. “Three minutes, Miss Viniceu.”

  “We may not need more yet, but buy another four ounces in Los Angeles; I don’t want to run out; what would people think if I didn’t wear it?” said Sophia to Katrine, checked her teeth, gave a last twitch to the lace at her wrists, and sallied out of the dressing room, meeting Antim Bicaz at the stage manager’s podium.

  “We’ve just signaled the end of intermission,” said the stage manager. “And your note has been delivered.”

  “Good of you,” said Antim, watching the monitor that revealed the audience returning for the second half of the concert.

  The stage manager murmured instructions into his headset, then said to Antim, “The house manager says two minutes to closing doors.”

  “Good,” said Antim, then looked over at Sophia. “I do like that gown. It’s so elegant and feminine in its lines.”

  “Thank you,” said Sophia, taking a deep breath and steadying herself on the side of the stage manager’s podium.

  “So—do you want to do the Schubert or the Bellini for your first encore?” Antim asked.

  “You’re assuming they’ll want one,” she said.

  “When haven’t they? You heard the applause. They love you. You could sing Three Blind Mice and they’d applaud,” Antim countered.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Sophia with a hint of a smile.

  “You know you’ll do at least one encore,” Antim said, pulling her back to the subject at hand.

  “Let’s surprise them: Handel or Giordano. We’ve been doing the Schubert and Bellini for the last six concerts, and that’s enough. They’re getting a little shop-worn.” She sounded impatient, and touched her hair nervously.

  “A bit more ambitious, the Handel and Giordano,” said Antim. “Are you sure you want to do them?”

  “We’ve rehearsed them, and I need something fresh, and so does the audience, don’t you think?” Sophia said abruptly. “I wish they’d all hurry up.”

  As if in answer to her request, the stage manager ordered the house-lights dimmed. “You two ready?” he asked Antim and Sophia. “You go in thirty seconds.”

  “Thirty seconds,” said Sophia as if it was the crack of doom.

  “We’ll be ready,” said Antim, and took Sophia’s hand to lead her out on stage. “You could do this asleep.” He waited for the stage manager’s nod, and then moved out into the light, turning enough to present Sophia to the audience, watching as she curtsied in response to the clapping that welcomed them back to the stage.

  Applause welled to greet them as they bowed and then took up their positions, prepared to launch into the second part of the program, beginning with a morose little song by Tchaikovsky, then a deceptively easy-sounding piece by Janacek. As a pair, the two worked well together, just forlorn enough to engage the audience, and yet easy enough for Antim and Sophia to be able to warm up again; their artistry carried them through the music, as they both settled into the second half of the program. Their reception was energetic, the applause sustained and the electricity in the air all but visible.

  Before beginning the third song, Antim cocked his head in the direction of the center section of the orchestra, to the young man who had received the note. Sophia nodded very slightly, and began the seductive serenade from Mussorgsky’s Songs and Dances of Death, which Antim had somewhat rewritten so that the Maiden sang to Death rather than the other way around; Sophia directed all the emotion of the amorous plea to this young man. This selection always brought the audience to hushed astonishment. After that, Antim had a selection to himself, and in contrast to the lyric, perverse wooing of Mussorgsky, he played the mannered flamboyance of Alessandro Scarlatti, embellishing the repeats enthusiastically. With the mood lightened, Sophia began a dreaming Schubert reverie, and followed with a contemplative meditation on love by—of all composers—Rossini. Once again Sophia sang to the young man to whom she had sent the note.

  They were into the last few songs: Chopin, Brahms, then Richard Strauss’ opulent moonlight meeting. Sophia sang beautifully, letting the glorious notes pour out with what seemed joyous abandon but was the result of tremendous discipline and careful training. As she reached the final F sharp, Antim finished the last five measures amid the first spatterings of applause. As soon as he was done, the audience roared into life while Sophia curtsied and went to scoop up bouquets of roses that had been flung on the stage, gracefully half-curtsying to retrieve the red roses she was known to prefer above all other flowers. She smiled and curtsied, smiled and curtsied until Antim nodded, and she returned to the piano to sing the Handel she had requested backstage. More applause exploded when she was finished, and she nodded to Antim, and sang the Giordano, pouring anguish and aspiration into the soaring lines, and ending on the final A flat, in a long, breath-taking, sixteen-beat diminuendo.

  More applause, and more Bravas! thundered through the hall; bouquets fell in abundance, a rain of tribute that were intense as drops of blood on the stage. Sophia gathered up a last round of roses, offered one bouquet to Antim, then left the stage, only to return to curtsy again for a last time. This time, when she departed, Antim followed her.

  Off-stage, Sophia looked pale under her rouge, and the
re were dark circles forming under her eyes. She steadied herself against the stage manager’s podium, and looked up at the fly gallery. “There’s so much up there,” she said inconsequently before handing her armload of flowers to the stage managed. “Do something with these, will you, Willy?”

  “The Veterans’ Hospital?” the stage manager asked.

  “Fine. So long as they’re not wasted,” she said, and passed on to her dressing room where Katrine was waiting for her, the black crepe pant suit set out for her.

  “They love you, Madame,” said Katrine, as she always did.

  “They love the music. They love their idea of me,” said Sophia in her habitual response. She sagged a bit in her finery.

  “You’re tired,” said Katrine, beginning to unfasten the gown. “Will you be able to get to bed at a reasonable hour?”

  “Ask your brother. I hope so; I suppose it depends,” said Sophia, loosening the pins holding her hair and shaking out her shoulder-length dark hair. “I’d like to sleep the clock around.”

  “Will you have the chance?” Katrine asked as she held the gown for Sophia to step out of.

  “Who can say?” She looked around for her blouse, and found it on the wooden butler. “Hand that to me, will you, please?”

  “As soon as I hang this up,” said Katrine.

  Sophia shrugged. “The house was full again. Antim must be pleased.”

  “My brother is always glad when you are well-received,” said Katrine.

  “Of course he is—it serves his purpose best.”

  “You’re tired, that’s what it is,” said Katrine, unfazed by Sophia’s peevish tone. “Small wonder, with the schedule you’ve been keeping.”

  “It’s more than being tired,” said Sophia. “I’m getting old.”

  “Old? Not you. You’ll never get old.” Katrine paused. “You aren’t thinking of retiring again, are you?” she asked. “You know that isn’t very wise.”

  “It’s tempting, wise or not,” said Sophia, sighing.

  “You needn’t retire. Nothing to do for days and weeks on end? That would pall on you in a year, or less.” Katrine put the wine-red gown on a hanger and slipped a protective sleeve around it. “You could take a season off, go somewhere private, rest up, and prepare some new material for another concert series,” Katrine suggested.