The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

Vonda sat, eyeing me critically, trying to do her job but, I saw now, trembling and exhausted. By this point in the workout she would ordinarily have given me both encouragement and instruction; although I understood, of course, why she hadn't this morning, I found myself working harder, pushing harder, going a little beyond the goals she'd set for me, in hopes of catching her attention. It wasn't approval I craved from her so much as assurance — that I was strong and healthy, that I was looking good, that I was doing everything I could.

"She was dead before the paramedics got there."

"Wow." I shuddered, and added quite sincerely, "That's really tragic."

"You never think of somebody in their forties having a stroke."

"It happens," I said carefully, getting up off the mat.

Vonda gave me a quick one-armed hug, the equivalent of men swatting each other's butts. "Okay, you can go to the sauna now."

She turned to leave me for one of her other charges, but I stopped her by demanding shamelessly, "So, how'd I do?"

I had to settle for a distracted, somewhat impatient, "Fine, Madyson. You did fine." She gave me a dismissive wave and strode across the gym. I glared after her, thwarted and insulted, soothing myself with the vitriolic thought that the only interest I had in a relationship with this lithe and self-sufficient young woman was what I could get from her. In the locker room I stripped, noting with pleasure the firmness of my new breasts and the tautness of my ass, revelling in the appraising glances of the other women and thinking about the last time I'd seen Amy.

We met for lunch at Charon's to say goodbye to Kit. We didn't quite acknowledge that. We said it was because Denise was in town and the four of us hadn't been together since she'd moved to Austin. Even when Amy called me to set it up, she didn't say, "This might be the last chance we have to see Kit."

Denise and I had snagged a window table, and I saw Kit's Beemer pull up, her husband behind the wheel. He parked in the handicap space by the door and went around to help Kit out; she hadn't even opened the door. It took long minutes for her to manoeuvre on to her feet and, leaning on Jerry and visibly off balance, long minutes more before they made it into the restaurant. When a few days earlier I'd spent the evening at her house, she'd felt papery in my arms, like an origami flower; her fingers on my shoulders, though, had been unnervingly strong, a death grip already. Her bones had seemed about to snap under my very light massage, but she'd sighed that it felt so good; fascinated by her absolute hairlessness, I'd rubbed her legs for a long time, gently, envying their incredible smoothness, tempted to lay my cheek against her calf.

Kit had never been beautiful, but her exuberant nature had made her very attractive to a lot of people. We'd met the year we both turned forty-three. She'd just taken up skiing and was learning to clog dance. My breasts had begun to sag and more often than not my lower back hurt. We were in a yoga class together. We took to practising between classes at her house or mine. When we helped each other with poses — her arm against the small of my back, my hands at her ankles and knees I first marvelled at, then absorbed, then siphoned off the energy I needed. I knew her heart was failing about five years-before she did.

Denise had not commented on my appearance beyond a generic, "Hi, Madyson! It's so good to see you! You look great!" while we hugged hello, the kind of thing women routinely say to each other with hardly any actual referent. Most people are surprised by how young I look; Denise said nothing about it. She did not look young. She looked our age. Healthy and strong, I had to admit, but thirty pounds heavier than I'd have settled for and with wrinkles and greying hair it would have been easy to get rid of. The longer I live the less I understand women like her. They give me the creeps.

"There's Kit," I said.

"Where?"

"With the red turban."

"My God." There was a pause while we watched Kit waft the short distance to the door. She hardly seemed to be touching the ground. "She's really sick, isn't she? She's really dying." Her voice broke.

I said, "Yes."