The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

A bat flew at her head, silent and deadly. She ducked, but felt the edge of its leathery wings across her cheek. She turned and ran for the stairs; the bat did not pursue her. Upstairs, in the daylight, she rested and thought of what she had seen. She thought of his cruel face, and of his blood-red lips. Slowly she licked her own dry lips and, unconsciously, her hand went towards her throat. Was he the devil, or something else? The devil could not be killed, but something else

Her hands were covered with tiny cuts and full of splinters when she was done, but she had her weapon: a large, sharply pointed piece of wood. Outside there was a pile of rubble and she found a brick. An old woman in black, an early riser, glared at her suspiciously as she passed, but said nothing.

When she entered the chamber again the bat swooped at her and flew around her head. She ducked to keep it from her eyes, but did not let it deter her. She put the brick down to grasp the wooden stake with both dirty, bloody hands and plunge it into the man's heart. She was blinded by her hair, and then by her own blood as the bat bit and tore at her head, but finally the stake was anchored and she was rewarded with a low moan from her victim. The bat cluttered once, a screech of defeat, and flapped away. She raised the brick and brought it down with all her might on the stake.

There was a scream, which seemed to come from the walls around her, and then a fountain of blood spattered her chest, arms and head. She kept pounding, unwilling or unable to stop, until the stake must have been driven entirely through him, and then, triumphant, she threw the brick away and stood, panting, watching the still bubbling blood. It was very quiet. And then the thirst assailed her, sweeping away all pains and triumphs with its intensity. She sank to her knees, laid her face to his chest, and drank and drank until she was sated.

Glenda opened her eyes. The room was empty and sunlight lay warm on the red bricks and white walls of the room. Everything was hard and clear to her now; the fever must have passed. Things had a diamond edge on them, with textures and solidity she had never noticed before.

Debbie came in, from off the balcony, looking startled to see Glenda sitting up. "Well! How do you feel? You really had us worried."

" 'Us'?"

"Roger, the Canadian from down the hall. He's gone for a doctor."

"I don't need a doctor. Didn't I tell you?"

"Yeah, right before you fainted. Lie down, will you? Take it easy. How do you feel?"

"Fine. Excellent. Never better."

"Well, just stay in bed. Do you want something to drink?"

"No thanks." She lay back.

The doctor found nothing wrong with Glenda although he was puzzled by the marks on her neck. When his inquisition began to annoy her she pretended not to understand his actually quite adequate English, and pulled the sheet over her head, complaining that the light hurt her eyes and that she was very tired.

Glenda was very determined and very persuasive and came at last to be seated on a 747 headed for New York. Debbie — poor, confused Debbie — remained in Spain, travelling now with her Canadian and his friends.

"You ought at least to cable your mom, then," Debbie had said, but Glenda had shaken her head, smiling. "I'll surprise her — take a cab in." Steve would be with her mother, she knew. It would be early morning when she arrived and they would not be awake yet, but sweetly sleeping. They would be asleep in each other's arms, not expecting her.

Glenda smiled at the blackness beyond her window and touched her silver ring. She pulled it off and toyed with it, tracing the S with her finger. S for Steve, she thought, And S for Spain. She suddenly caught the ring between her fingers and pulled at it, distorting the S shape and forcing it finally into a design like twin curved horns. Then she held it and clenched it tightly until the blood came.

A Question of Patronage

A Saint-Germain Story

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Author and professional Tarot reader Chelsea Quinn Yarbro was born in Berkeley, California. Her first story was published in 1969 in If magazine. A full-time writer since the following year, she has sold more than sixty books and as many short stories .

Her novels include the werewolf volumes The Godforsaken and Beastnights, the quasi-fictional occult series Messages from Michael and More Messages from Michael, and the movie novelizations Dead & Buried and Nomads. Yarbro's "Sisters of the Night" trilogy (The Angry Angel, The Soul of an Angel and Zhameni: The Angel of Death,) is about Dracula's three undead wives. Unfortunately, it was substantially rewritten by the editor .