The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

It is another vampire. His name is Karl. Perhaps you know him, but if not I shall tell you that Karl is far older than me and thinks he knows everything. Imagine the face of an angel, one who felt as much bliss as guilt when he fell, and still does, every time he strikes. Amber eyes that eat you. Hair the colour of burgundy, which fascinates me, the way it looks black in shadow then turns to crimson fire in the light. That's Karl. He's like a deadly ghost, always warning me not to make the same mistakes he made.

"I am thinking that this house and garden are the manifestation of the owner's soul," I reply archly. "Will they change, when he is dead?"

"Don't do this," Karl says, shaking his head. "If you single out humans and make something special of them, you'll drive yourself mad."

"Why should it matter to you if I am driven mad?"

He puts his hand on my shoulder; and although I have always desired him, I am too irritated with him to respond. "Because you are young, and you'll only find out for yourself when it is too late. Don't become involved with humans. Keep yourself apart from them."

"Why?"

"Otherwise they will break your heart," says Karl.

They think they know it all, the older ones, but they will each tell you something different. You can't listen to them. Give them no encouragement, or they will never shut up.

We stand like a pair of ravens on the grass. Then I am stepping away from him, turning lightly as a dancer to look back at him as I head for the house. "Go to hell, Karl. I'll do what I like."

I am inside the house. The corridors are draughty and need a coat of paint. Yet Old Masters hang on the walls and I finger the gilt frames with excitement. Riches. This seems ironic, that Daniel should collect these grimy old oils for their value and yet consider his own son's potential work valueless.

Following Rupert's instructions, I find the white panelled door of the bedroom, and I go in.

The father is not as I expect.

I stand beside the bed staring down at him. With one hand I press back the bed-curtain. I am as still as a snake; if he wakes he will think someone has played a dreadful joke on him, placed a manikin with glittering eyes and waxen skin there to frighten him. But he sleeps on, alone in this big austere room. Dying embers in the grate give the walls a demonic glow. Like the rest of the house it is clean but threadbare. Daniel is hoarding his wealth. Perhaps he thinks that if he disinherits Rupert he can take it with him.

Why did I assume he would be old? Rupert is only twenty-three and this man is barely fifty, if that. And he is handsome. He has a strong face like an actor, thick chestnut and silver hair flowing back from a high forehead. His arms are muscular, the hands well-shaped on the bedcover. Even in sleep his face is taut and intelligent. I stand here admiring the aquiline sweep of his nose and the long curves of his eyelids, each with a little fan of wrinkles at the corner.

He will not be easy to kill. I expected a frail old goat in a nightcap. Not this magnificent creature, who is so full of blood and strength, a lion.

I bend over the bed. I am salivating. I touch my tongue to his neck and taste the salt of his skin, the creamy remnant of shaving soap, such a masculine perfume I am shaking with desire as I press him down with my hands, and bite.

He wakes up and roars.

I try to silence him with my hand in his mouth and he bites me in return! His teeth are lodged there in the fleshy part of my hand but I endure the pain, I don't care about it; all is swept away by the ecstasy of feeding. We lie there, biting each other. His body arches up under mine.

A scratching noise at the door.

We both freeze, like lovers caught in the act. I stop swallowing. Slowly I withdraw my fangs from the wounds. Daniel gives only a faint gasp, though the pain must be excruciating. We look at each other; the door opens; an apparition floats in.

She's wearing a thick white nightgown and she carries a candle that reflects in her eyes. "Daniel?" she whispers. "It's midnight"

I can tell from her manner that she hasn't come in response to his cry. I doubt she even heard it. No, she comes in like a thief and it's obvious that she is here by appointment. I am partly hidden by the bed curtain so I have a good look at her before she sees me.

She is lovely. Dark brown hair flowing loose over the white gown. Ah, such colours in it, the lovely strands of bronze and red. She has the sweetest face. Dark eyes and brows, a red, surprised bud of a mouth.

She's coming towards the bed. Daniel rasps, "Meg, no!" and then she sees us, sees the blood on his neck and on my mouth. The candle falls to the carpet, her hands fly to her face. She is backing towards the door crying, "Oh, God, no! Help! Murder!"