The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

"I knew there was something fishy going on when I spotted the belt buckle on the Goth studmuffin. No self-respecting dead boy in his right mind would let that chunk of silver within a half-mile of his person! And all that hocus-pocus with the smoke and the Black Sabbat folderol! All of it a rank amateur's impression of what vampires and vampirism is all about, cobbled together from Hammer films and Anton Levy paperbacks! You really are a pathetic little twisted piece of crap, Rhymer — or whatever the hell your real name is! You surround yourself with the icons of darkness and play at damnation; but you don't recognize the real thing even when it steps forward and bloodies your fuckin' nose!"

Rhymer stands there for a long moment, then his eyes suddenly widen and he gasps aloud, like a man who has walked into a room and seen someone he has believed long dead. Clearly overcome, he drops to his feet before me, his bloodstained lips quivering uncontrollably.

"You're real!"

"Get up," I growl, flashing a glimpse of fang.

Instead of inspiring fear in Rhymer, all this does is cause him to cry out even louder than before. He is now actually grovelling, pawing at my boots as he blubbers.

"At last! I k-knew if I w-waited long enough, one of y-you w-would finally come!"

"I said get up , you little toadeater!" I kick him away, but it does no good. Rhymer crawls back on his belly, as fast as a lizard on a hot rock. I was afraid something like this would happen.

"I'll do anything you w-want give you anything you n-need!" He grabs the cuffs of my jeans, tugging insistently. "B-bite me! Drink my b-blood! Pleeease ! M-make me like you!"

As I look down at this wretched human who has lived a life so stunted, his one driving passion is to become a walking dead man, I feel my memory slide back across the years, to the night a foolish young girl, made giddy by the excitement that comes with the pursuit of forbidden pleasures and made stupid by the romance of danger, allowed herself to be lured away from the safety of the herd. I remember how she found herself alone with a blood-eyed monster that hid behind the face of a handsome, smooth-talking stranger. I remember how her nude, blood-smeared body was hurled from the speeding car and tossed in the gutter and left for dead. I remember how she was far from dead. I remember how she was me.

I can feel myself trembling like I've got a high fever. My disgust has become anger, and I've never been very good at controlling my anger. And part of me — a dark, dangerous part — has no desire ever to learn.

I try hard to keep a grip on myself, but it's not easy. In the past when I've been overwhelmed by my anger I've tried to make sure I only vent it at those I consider worthy of such murderous rage. Such as vampires. Real ones, that is. Like myself. But sometimes well, sometimes I lose it. Like now.

"You want to be like me?"

I kick the grovelling little turd so hard that ribs splinter as he flies across the basement floor and collides with the wall. He cries out, but it doesn't exactly sound like pain.

"You stupid bastard! I don't even want to be like me !"

I tear the mirrored sunglasses away, and Rhymer's eyes widen as he sees my own. They look nothing like his scarlet-tinted contact lenses. There is no white, no corona — merely seas of solid blood boasting vertical slits that open and close, like those of a snake, depending on the strength of the light. The church basement is very gloomy, so my pupils are dilated wide — like those of a shark rising from the sunless depths to savage a luckless swimmer.

Rhymer lifts a hand to block out the sight of me as I advance on him, his trembling delight now replaced by genuine, 100 per cent monkey-brain fear. For the first time he seems to realize that he is in the presence of a monster.

"Please don't hurt me, mistress! Forgive me!"

I don't know what else he might have said to try and avoid his fate, because his head comes off in my hands right about then.

For a brief second Rhymer's hands still flutter in their futile attempt to beg my favour, then there is a spurt of scarlet from the neck stump, not unlike that from a spitting fountain, as his still-beating heart sends a stream of blood to where the brain would normally be. I quickly side-step the gruesome spray without letting go of my trophy.

Turning away from Rhymer's still-twitching corpse, I step over the ruins of the antique coffin and its payload. No doubt the dirt had been imported from the Balkans — perhaps Moldavia or even Transylvania. I shake my head in amazement that such old wives' tales are still in circulation and given validity by so many.

As I head up the stairs, Rhymer's head tucked under my arm, I pause one last time to survey what is left of the would-be vampire king of the Goth chicks. Man, what a mess. Glad I'm not the one who has to clean it up.