The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

From the Journals of Sonja Blue

Nancy A. Collins

Nancy A. Collins currently makes her home in Atlanta, Georgia. She is the author of several novels and numerous short stories, as well as having served a two-year stint as the writer of DC Comics' Swamp Thing. The recipient of the HWA's Bram Stoker, British Fantasy Society's Icarus, and the Deathrealm Awards, her books include Sunglasses After Dark, Walking Wolf, Lynch: A Gothik Western and Avenue X and Other Dark Stories, a self-published collection of thirteen short stories the author herself selected to show off her diverse literary talents .

Her newest works include Knuckles & Tales, a Southern neo-Gothic collection illustrated by Stephen R. Bissette, and Dead Roses for a Blue Lady, a collection of Sonja Blue short fiction. The vampire Blue is also the subject of Collins's fifth and final novel with the character , Darkest Heart.

" ' Vampire King of the Goth Chicks' originally started out as the first comic book appearance of Sonja Blue," explains Collins. "Entitled 'The Real Thing', the script was commissioned by Joe R. Lansdale for Weird Business, a hefty hardback comic 'book' he was co-editing for Mojo Press back in 1995 .

"Although I was not overly thrilled with the art that ended up being used, I always liked the story, and after a couple of years I decided to translate it into prose making it the first Sonja Blue short story. The transition from comic book to prose story wasn't particularly hard for me to accomplish, since the original script for the comic story was extremely detailed."

The Red Raven is a real scum-pit. The only thing marking it as a bar is the vintage Old Crow ad in the front window and a stuttering neon sign that says lounge . The johns are always backing up and the place perpetually stinks of piss.

During the week it's just another neighbourhood dive, serving truck drivers and barflies. Not a Bukowski among them. But, since the drinks are cheap and the bartenders never check ID, the Red Raven undergoes a sea change come Friday night. The bar's clientele changes radically; growing younger and stranger, at least in physical appearance. The usual suspects that occupy the Red Raven's booths and bar stools are replaced by young men and women tricked out in black leather and so many facial piercings they resemble walking tackle boxes. Still not a Bukowski among them.

This Friday night's no different from any others. A knot of Goth kids are already gathered outside on the kerb as I arrive, plastic go-cups full of piss-warm Rolling Rock clutched in their hands as they talk among themselves. Amid all the bad Cure haircuts, heavy mascara, dead-white face powder and black lipstick, I hardly warrant a second look.

Normally I don't bother with joints like this, but I've been hearing this persistent rumour that there's a blood cult operating out of the Red Raven. I make it my business to check out such rumours for myself. Most of the time it turns out to be nothing, but occasionally there's something far more sinister at the heart of urban legends.

The interior of the Red Raven is crowded with young men and women, all of whom look far stranger and more menacing than myself. What with my black motorcycle jacket, ratty jeans, and equally tattered New York Dolls T-shirt, I'm somewhat on the conservative end of the dress code.

I wave down the bartender, who doesn't seem to consider it odd I'm sporting sunglasses after dark, and order a beer. It doesn't bother me that the glass he hands me bears visible greasy fingerprints and a smear of lipstick on the rim. After all, it's not like I'm going to drink it.

Now that I have the necessary prop, I settle in and wait. Finding out the low-down in places like this isn't that hard, really. All I've got to do is be patient and keep my ears open. Over the years I've developed a method for listening to dozens of conversations at once — sifting the meaningless ones aside without even being conscious of it most of the time, until I find the one I'm looking for. I suspect it's not unlike how a shark can pick out the frenzied splashing of a wounded fish from miles away.

" told him he could kiss my ass goodbye "

" really liked their last album "

" bitch acted like I'd done something"

". . . until next pay day? I promise you'll get it right back "

" the undead. He's the real thing "

There. That one.

I angle my head in the direction of the voice I've zeroed in on, trying not to look at them directly. There are three of them — one male and two female apparently in earnest conversation with a young woman. The two females are archetypal Goth chicks. They look to be in their late teens, early twenties, dressed in a mixture of black leather and lingerie and wearing way too much eye make-up. One is tall and willowy, her heavily applied make-up doing little to mask the bloom of acne on her cheeks. Judging from the roots of her boot-black hair, she's probably a natural dishwater blonde.