The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

"Oh, yes. I'd know it if you had lost him. Boys like you, growing up with over-protective single mothers, absent fathers, sometimes grow into angry, hard young men. Just as Frank will, though his father is in the house. Then it is too late. These boys meet the 'old man', as they inevitably call him, and hate him. Not you, young Andrew. You have kept the hope, a rich part of the essence. You will be prized." The granddad walked to him and placed his hands on his shoulders. "But you must retain your essence until you meet the mistress, so I will leave you. I've said too much already."

"I don't understand any of this. Don't go. Please. I don't want to be alone in here." He began to cry.

"I don't dare stay, young Andrew. I'd be too tempted. You are my penance, my find to make up for the losses I was so foolishly unable to protect from myself." The old man saw the fear in Andrew, his confusion. "You are not a prisoner, son. Look around. Meet some of the others." He went to the door. "Are you hungry?"

Andrew nodded, though he was more afraid than hungry. His stomach was a tight fist in his belly.

"There is more food than you can dream of downstairs. Go find the dining-room. Make friends. See all the toys and books and games available around the grounds. One day soon, you will wonder why you ever thought to leave." He waited a moment. "You are thinking you'd like to leave, aren't you?"

Again, Andrew nodded. There were no other thoughts in his head.

"And you're thinking of your mother, your aunt. What will become of them without you?"

Andrew looked away, his eyes aching, his face wet with tears.

"Soon you will not care. Find comfort in the knowledge that you will have no cares, and that you will be treasured far more than you ever were in that dingy mill town of yours."

Granddad left. Andrew found himself at the balcony with dry heaves, no food in his gut. He cried, wept until he ached all over. Then he crawled on to the bed and stared up at the canopy of gilded silk. He longed for the smells of home. The wet stone, moss, the musty cellar, a crackling fire of hickory and oak, and Aunt Molly's scones. Here, the dry air smelled of dust and peat, cinnamon and sage.

It was dark when the door opened and an old woman entered. She went to the bedside and sat down, stroking Andrew's hair. In the darkness, he whispered, "Mum?"

"I will be your mother, your father, your God, my son. And you will be my greatest joy. Lie still, remember all that has been your life, and feel the joy and pleasure that innocence brings. I will not cause you pain, or touch you. In turn, your fear will pass, your cares and longings will lessen."

Andrew tried to sit up. Her hand went softly to his chest. "No, Andrew. Trust me. This will be like a dream. Lie still."

He obeyed. The woman had a quality even more compelling than the granddad. Her eyes shone in the dark, the same pale blue, her pupils sharp pinpoints floating in the centre. She smelled of cedar wood and orange blossoms, though it was more like distant smoke from a smouldering fire than emanating from her. She put her hands over him, as if warming them on the heat that rose from him. He closed his eyes and the dream came.

Nightmares, really. First, he saw his mother, young and naive, silly and carefree. She went to the pub to drink ale with her girlfriends, until a tall, handsome man came in and broke up the girls. He cornered Bernadette and filled her full of flattery. She kissed the man she hardly knew and let him paw her right there in the pub. His hand went under her skirt and she was wet with desire.

The man walked her to his car and proceeded to take her. They were like two naked organisms, undulating and folding into and out of each other. After he was done with her, he told her he loved her. She didn't believe him. She didn't dare. They kissed passionately, he promised he would call on her, and then he dropped her at her parents' flat.

The next night, she found another man, and the next night another. None of them ever called for her, and none of them was around when she found herself pregnant. So, she began sleeping with her sister's husband Phillip, who had always fancied her more than the plain Molly. She claimed Phillip was the father. He killed himself rather than face the shame, and Molly. Poor Molly.

Phillip had mortgaged the house to the limit, had gambling debts and expense accounts for presents to the lovely young Bernadette that were begging payment. Molly lost the house, destitute, on the dole, but when her sister came crawling for help with the brat, Molly swallowed her pride and went to live with Bernadette in their parents' house. In the end, Molly thought, the baby boy could not have been Phillip's. The timing was off by almost three months. Phillip had just been another one of Bernadette's fools.