The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

I reach out with my mind as I climb up the side of the church, trying to pick up the garbled snarl of ogre-thought or the telltale dead space of shielded minds that accompany renfields, but all my sonar picks up is the excited heat of the foursome I trailed from the Red Raven and a slightly more complex signal from deeper inside the church. Curiouser and curiouser.

The spire doesn't house a bell, just a rusting Korean War-era public address system dangling from frayed wires. As it is, there is barely enough room for a man to stand, much less ring, but at least the trapdoor isn't locked. It opens with a tight squeal of disused hinges, but nothing stirs in the shadows at the foot of the ladder below. Within seconds I find myself with the best seat in the house, crouched in the rafters spanning the nave.

The interior of the church looks appropriately atmospheric. What pews remain are in disarray, the hymnals tumbled from their racks and spilled across the floor. Saints, apostles and prophets state down from the windows, gesturing with upraised shepherd's crooks or hands bent into the sign of benediction. I lift my own mirrored gaze to the mullion window located above and behind the pulpit. It depicts a snowy lamb kneeling on a field of green and framed against a cloudless sky, in which a shining disc is suspended. The large brass cross just below the sheep-window has been inverted, in keeping with the desecration motif.

The only light is provided by a pair of heavy cathedral-style candelabra, each bristling with over a hundred dripping red and black candles, flanking either side of the pulpit. The Goth kids from the Red Raven gather at the chancel rail, their faces turned towards the pulpit situated above the black-velvet-draped altar.

"Where is he?" whispers Shawna, her voice surprisingly loud in the empty church.

"Don't worry," Tanith assures her. "He'll be here."

As if on cue, there is the smell of ozone and a gout of purplish smoke arises from behind the pulpit. Shawna gives a little squeal of surprise despite herself and takes an involuntary step backward, only to find her way blocked by the others.

A deep, highly cultured masculine voice booms forth. "Good evening, my children. I bid you welcome to my abode, and that you enter gladly and of your own free will."

The smoke clears, revealing a tall man dressed in tight-fitting black satin pants, a black silk poet's shirt, black leather English riding boots, and a long black opera cape with a red silk lining. His hair is long and dark, pulled back into a loose ponytail by a red satin ribbon. His skin is as white as milk in a saucer, his eyes reflecting red in the dim candlelight. Lord Rhymer has finally elected to make his appearance.

Serge smiles nervously at his demon lord and steps forward, gesturing to Shawna as Tanith and Sable watch expectantly. "W-we did as you asked, master. We brought you the girl."

Lord Rhymer smiles slightly, his eyes narrowing at the sight of her.

"Ah, yesss . The new girl."

Shawna stands there gaping up at the vampire lord as if he were Jim Morrison, Robert Smith and Danzig rolled into one. She starts, gasping more in surprise than fright, as Rhymer addresses her directly.

"Your name is Shawna, is it not?"

"Y-yes." Her voice is so tiny it makes her sound like a little girl. But there is nothing childlike in the lust dancing in her eyes.

Lord Rhymerholds out a pale hand to the trembling young woman. His fingernails are long and pointed and lacquered black. He smiles reassuringly, his voice calm and strong, designed to sway those of weaker nature.

"Come to me, Shawna. Come to me, so that I might kiss you."

A touch of apprehension crosses the girl's face. She hesitates, glancing at the others, who close in about her even tighter than before.

"I I don't know."

Rhymer narrows his blood-red eyes, intensifying his stare. His voice grows sterner, revealing its cold edge. " Come to me, Shawna."

All the tension in her seems to drain away and Shawna's eyes grow even more vacant than before, if possible. She moves forward, slowly mounting the stairs to the pulpit. Rhymer holds his arms out to greet her.

"That's it, my dear. Come to me as you have dreamed, so many times before" Rhymer steps forward to meet her, the cape outstretched between his arms like the wings of a giant bat. His smile widens and his mouth opens, exposing pearly white fangs dripping saliva. His voice has been made husky by lust. "Come to me, my bride"

Shawna grimaces in pain/pleasure as Rhymer's fangs penetrate her throat. Even from my shadowy perch above it all I can smell the sharp tang of blood, and feel a dark stirring at the base of my brain, which I quickly push aside. I don't need that kind of trouble — not now. Still, I find it hard to look away from the tableau below me.

Rhymer holds Shawna tight against him. She whimpers as if on the verge of orgasm. The blood rolling down her throat and dripping into the pale swell of her cleavage is as sticky and dark as spilled molasses.