The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

This isn't the first vampire-wanna-be I've run into, but I've got to admit he had the best scam. The Goth chicks wanted the real thing and he gave them what they thought they wanted, even down to retro-fitting the church with theatrical trapdoors and magician's flashpots. And they bought into the bullshit because it made them feel special, it made them feel real, and, most importantly, it made them feel alive . Poor, stupid bastards. To them it's all black leather, lovebites and tacky chrome jewellery; where everyone is eternally young and beautiful and no one can ever hurt you ever again.

Like hell.

As for Rhymer, he wanted the real thing as badly as the Goths. Perhaps even more so. He'd spent his entire life aspiring to monstrosity; hoping that given time his heart-felt mimicry of the damned would either turn him into what he longed to be thorough sympathetic magic, or that his actions would eventually draw the attention of the creatures of the night he worshipped so ardently. As, indeed, it had. I was the real thing all right; big as life and twice as ugly.

But I was hardly the bloodsucking seductress Rhymer had been dreaming of all those years. There was no way he could know that his little trick would lure forth not just a vampire but a vampire-slayer as well.

You see, my unique and unwanted predicament has denied me many things: the ability to age, to love, to feel life quicken within me. And in retaliation against this unwished-for transformation, I've spent decades denying the monster inside me; trying — however futilely — to turn my back on the horror that is the Other who dwells in the dark side of my soul. However, there is one pleasure, and one alone, I allow myself to indulge. And that is killing vampires

And those that would become them.

Dawn is well under way by the time I re-enter the nave. The whitewashed walls are dappled with light dyed blue, green and red by the stained glass. I take a couple of steps backward, then drop-kick Rhymer's head right through the Lamb-of-God window.

The birds are chirping happily away in the trees, greeting the coming day with their morning songs, as I push open the wide double doors of the church. A stray dog with matted fur and slats for ribs is already sniffing Rhymer's ruined noggin where it has landed in the high weeds. The cur lifts its muzzle and automatically growls, but as I draw closer it flattens its ears and tucks its tail between its legs and quickly scurries off. Dogs are smart. They know what is and isn't of the natural world — even if humans don't.

Last night was a bust, as far as I'm concerned. When I go out hunting I prefer bringing down actual game, not faux predators. Still, I wish I could hang around and see the look on the faces of Rhymer's groupies when they find out what's happened to their "master". That'd be good for a chuckle or two.

No one can say I don't have a sense of humour about these things.

Just His Type

Storm Constantine

Storm Constantine lives in the Midlands of England with her husband Jim and nine cats. The author of seventeen novels that span the genres of science fiction, horror and fantasy, she has also co-written non-fiction titles on Egyptian feline goddesses and esoteric psychology, as well as numerous short stories.

Her recent works include the "Magravandias Chronicles", a fantasy trilogy whose second volume , The Crown of Silence, was published in 2000, and Silverheart, a novel co-written with Michael Moorcock .

" When I was researching my novel Stalking Tender Prey," recalls the author, "which was primarily about the legends of fallen angels, it seemed clear to me that the vampire myths might also have stemmed from the same origins .

"The Biblical rendition of the fallen angels derived from earlier myths from Sumeria, which perhaps came from times earlier than that. The old stories seem tantalizingly to suggest that the image of winged beings grew from memories of a real race of flesh and blood, who were vulture shamans. The idea of them having wings could derive from the fact that in their rituals they wore the wings of griffin vultures around their shoulders. (Ancient remains of these wings have been found in caves in the Middle East, along with bones and other evidence of ritual.) Drinking the blood of both animals and humans is something the fallen angels were accused of doing, and this may well have been part of their shamanic rites.

" It wasn't really appropriate to include this aspect of the myth in Stalking Tender Prey, so I was glad to be given the opportunity to explore it in the story for this anthology ."

The trouble was she was just his type. Sitting at the back of the stuffy pub function room, her eyes fixed upon him, she commanded his attention, apparently without effort. He could tell she was tall, because her head was the highest on the row. Her hands were clasped in her lap and she was dressed in black.