The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

"That's right, don't fight it, you know you want me. Quick, give me your hand." Her voice was a soft erotic caress. Brasher was a spectator as his hand reached out to the beautiful temptress crouched naked on the parapet. Their fingers were almost touching. Brasher made one last supreme effort to control his action, but Hisako's will was too strong.

He heard Janet's voice call out to him to stop, but it meant nothing. He had to be with Hisako.

Suddenly there was a pounding of feet and he was thrown violently aside.

Hisako saw Janet coming and tried to move into a more secure position on the narrow parapet. The policewoman had nothing left to lose. She knew with a terrible certainty that within hours she would fall victim to all the ills that Hisako was able to release and that knowledge drove her on.

She hurled herself at the ogress on the parapet, wrapped her arms around the other woman's legs.

Hisako tried to brace herself, but the force of the impact of Janet's hurtling body was too much for even her superior strength to withstand. For a moment they teetered on the edge of the bridge and then, almost in slow motion, they toppled backwards.

Brasher snapped out of the trance he was in and ran to the bridge, too late to save either woman.

He could only stand and watch as they plunged down into the dark, swirling waters of the Thames below.

The police searched the river and its banks for days, but they never recovered the bodies of either Janet Cooper or the mysterious Hisako San.

Butternut and Blood

Kathryn Ptacek

Kathryn Ptacek has sold more than 200 stories, reviews and essays. Her recent publication credits include tales in Canadian Fiction Magazine, Northern Horror, Grotesques: A Bestiary and two stories in Barnes & Noble's 100 Crafty Little Cat Stories. She also edits the Gila Queen's Guide to Markets, a market newsletter that goes to writers, artists, editors and agents throughout the world .

"Vampires in the American Civil War?" asks the author. "A natural, if you ask me. The War Between the States proved one of the bloodiest conflicts known to man, and what better place to find a lamia who preys upon young men?

" My novel , Blood Autumn, marked the first appearance of a lamia sister (there are many in this lethal family), and then she and another sister played instrumental roles in the prequel , In Silence Sealed (the true story of what happened to Byron, Keats and Shelley). Different sisters have also surfaced in numerous short stories, and I'm sure other historical tales of their deadly deeds will be unearthed from time to time ."

The first saw her on the autumn night when the temperature plunged towards freezing, and the stink of smoke combined with that of dying leaves and dying men.

John Francis Foster had himself been wounded just three days ago in battle, and after lying a full day and a chill rainy night on the blood-soaked field there were not enough able-bodied men to collect the wounded and dying — he had finally been located and brought in.

The first evening there in the relative comfort of the hospital tent Foster had done nothing but sleep and occasionally moan. The second night he had slept less heavily, and once he woke, fell back to sleep quickly, hardly aware of his injuries, for the moment.

The third night he was fully awake, fully aware of the pain in his side where the minie ball had puckered his flesh, and where a fall had broken his arm in two places; and it was then he saw the woman.

She stood at the far end of the tent talking to one of the patients there, a young dark-haired man whose left leg had been shattered by shot, and then later amputated. The man's condition was fair because he was young and in good health overall, and he was expected to leave the hospital in a week or so. The man was far luckier than many other of his comrades here, Foster thought.

A woman in this hellish place was an odd sight, Foster realized, for all the nurses, save one, were male, mostly marines assigned to this duty. Perhaps this woman was one of the civilians from a nearby farm or town, come to visit the wounded, come with gifts of food, come to cheer them up.

He shifted his head slightly, closed his eyes when the nausea hit him, then once he was all right, looked to his right. A boy, surely no older than fourteen, lay curled on the cot. A smell of pus and urine came from him. Foster, too long accustomed to the sharp smells of battlefield and hospital now, scarcely noticed the stench. On the far side of the boy — Foster thought the lad's name was Willy — slept an overweight man with a reddened countenance.

A drinker, Foster thought, and envied the man his liquid escape. Now, though, the drinker snored heavily, spittle bubbling on his plump lips. Foster didn't know what was wrong with the drinker, but he'd been there the longest of any of the patients, and he did not seem likely to leave any time soon.