The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

"You're here to heal, boy, and that's good enough for me. I'll be out in a day or two, or so the docs say. You need to stay a little longer and rest up."

"You don't understand," he said bitterly.

"No, I guess not."

Two nights went by and the woman didn't appear. Then on the third night she was across from Foster, by Long's bed.

"No," Foster said, struggling to sit up, but his limbs were entangled in the sheets, and they dragged him down. His head was spinning, and he couldn't hardly keep his eyes open, and yet he saw the woman, so beautiful, slithering atop Long, who was staring wide-eyed at her. She caressed and kissed the one-eyed man, and delicately nipped at the skin on his chest. Foster watched as her mouth slid lower and lower, and suddenly Long moaned, a loud sensual sound.

She spread her skirts around them, and rode Long like he was a horse being broke, and Foster could hear Long's cry of lust, the cry that was almost a scream.

Foster struggled once more to sit up; he had to help Long. But he couldn't manage, and every time he moved his arm throbbed so fiercely he himself momentarily blacked out. He could only lie back and watch helplessly.

When it was over, Ariadne smoothed her skirts, kissed Long upon the lips and left.

In the dimness Foster stared at Long. The man was pale, too pale.

"Long?" he called.

No response.

And when morning came, the nurses took Long away.

"I don't understand it," Foster called to them. "He was getting better. He was going to be out in a day or two. He didn't have no killing disease."

The burliest of the two nurses shrugged. "It happens sometimes. They seem all right and then just up and die."

"No, no, not Long. He was all right, I tell you." Foster laboured to sit. "That woman came for him. I warned him, I did, but he wouldn't listen. No one would." He looked around the ward, but most of the patients were sleeping or had slipped into their own private hells. "Long didn't listen to me — he didn't believe — and now look at him."

"Calm down," one of the nurses said, and he glanced across at the other. They called for a third nurse, and between the three of them they restrained him and tied him down with ropes to the cot.

He fought and screamed and shouted at them, but they told him it was for his own good, that he was too violent to be left on his own.

He tried to undo his bonds, but couldn't, and after a while he stopped fighting. He closed his eyes. Some time later one of the nurses came back and fed him some broth, this time with a little bit of potato and onion in it. He tasted nothing.

He simply lay there, his eyes shut, and waited. He felt the coolness of the air when the sun went down. And when he smelled the spices, he opened his eyes.

Ariadne stood at the foot of his cot. She was smiling at him.

She whispered his name, and he realized then what that strange odour about her was. It was the smell of death.

Sleeping Cities

Wendy Webb

Wendy Webb has published more than a dozen short stories and has co-edited three anthologies, including Gothic Ghosts with Charles Grant for Tor Books. Much of her time of late has been spent in theatres as a playwright and director .

"I found myself standing in Beijing's Tiananmen Square a few months after the conflict witnessed around the world" reveals the author. "Activity in the square had returned to the honourable duty of jobs, family, and order and tradition all under what seemed watchful eyes.

"During that trip there seemed a consistency among the people in something unspoken and elusive, even though they were always kind to me. An outsider who does not belong and never will might speculate that such behaviour was rooted in culture or genetics, or perhaps directed by those watchful eyes. I don't know.

"In 'Sleeping Cities' I wondered what would happen to an otherwise honourable man who chose to be different from the vast population above ground, as well as those interred below."

With shovels and picks they attacked the hard earth, breaking it into jagged pieces to exhume what lay below.

Men and women, working shoulder to shoulder, sweated with the effort, but continued without complaint, without a spoken word to break the cadence. Last week their priority was the land and growing food for the masses, an honourable duty. It was necessary work for survival.

This week it was different. This week what lay below the land was more important in this time-honouring and slow-paced society.

Delicate instruments replaced destructive equipment. With tiny probes they scraped dirt away from row after row of heads that erupted from the floor of the earthen pit. By removing soil with soft brushes they revealed tiny scraps of silk, red lacquered boxes bound with metal belts, and splinters of wood that once had been limbs.

These were more than mere artefacts, Liu knew. Much more.