The Mammoth Book of Vampires: New edition (Mammoth Books)

by Stephen Jones

As roaring blackness closed in he wondered if he’d done it, if this last desperate, foolish act had succeeded. He didn’t want to die without finding out. He wanted to know—

  But then he knew no more.

  XVII

  Joe shouted incoherently as he hung over the rail and watched Zev’s fall, gagged as he saw the bloody point of the pew remnant burst through the back of Palmeri’s cassock directly below him. He saw Palmeri squirm and flop around like a speared fish, then go limp atop Zev’s already inert form.

  As cheers mixed with cries of horror and the sounds of renewed battle rose from the nave, Joe turned away from the balcony rail and dropped to his knees.

  “Zev!” he cried aloud! “Good God, Zev!”

  Forcing himself to his feet, he stumbled down the back stairs, through the vestibule, and into the nave. The vampires and the Vichy were on the run, as cowed and demoralized by their leader’s death as the parishioners were buoyed by it. Slowly, steadily, they were falling before the relentless onslaught. But Joe paid them scant attention. He fought his way to where Zev lay impaled beneath Palmeri’s already rotting corpse. He looked for a sign of life in his old friend’s glazing eyes, a hint of a pulse in his throat under his beard, but there was nothing.

  “Oh, Zev, you shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have.”

  Suddenly he was surrounded by a cheering throng of St Anthony’s parishioners.

  “We did it, Fadda Joe!” Carl cried, his face and hands splattered with blood. “We killed ’em all! We got our church back!”

  “Thanks to this man here,” Joe said, pointing to Zev.

  “No!” someone shouted. “Thanks to you!”

  Amid the cheers, Joe shook his head and said nothing. Let them celebrate. They deserved it. They’d reclaimed a small piece of the planet as their own, a toe-hold and nothing more. A small victory of minimal significance in the war, but a victory nonetheless. They had their church back, at least for tonight. And they intended to keep it.

  Good. But there would be one change. If they wanted their Father Joe to stick around they were going to have to agree to rename the church.

  St Zev’s.

  Joe liked the sound of that.

  NANCY HOLDER

  Blood Gothic

  NANCY HOLDER lives in San Diego with her seven-year-old daughter, Belle, who has just completed her own latest novel, The Mistry of the Gost.

  Holder has sold around sixty novels and 200 short stories, essays and articles. She has received four Bram Stoker Awards, and has been nominated for a fifth.

  Her work has appeared on the Los Angeles Times, USA Today, Locus and other best-seller lists, and she has been translated into over two dozen languages.

  The author of many successful novelizations, her most recent books include Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel: Heat and the Wicked quartet about two feuding witch families: Witch, Curse, Legacy and Spellbound, all from Simon and Schuster. She also has a new novella in Tales of the Slayer 3 about Buffy’s predecessor, India Cohen.

  “‘Blood Gothic’ was the very first horror short story I ever wrote,” reveals the author. “I got a few rejections, one with a scrawled note of encouragement, and that kept me going for a couple of years.

  “Then I met Charlie Grant and we had lunch at the Carnegie Deli in New York. He said he was looking for stories for his Shadows series of anthologies. I said, ‘Oh, I have a story about a vampire!’ and he looked as if he had just swallowed a cockroach. I was so embarrassed that I almost didn’t send it to him. But he liked it, and he bought it. It was my first short-story sale.”

  Holder’s memorable debut can best be summed up as a dark romance . . .

  SHE WANTED TO HAVE a vampire lover. She wanted it so badly that she kept waiting for it to happen. One night, soon, she would awaken to wings flapping against the window and then take to wearing velvet ribbons and cameo lockets around her delicate, pale neck. She knew it.

  She immersed herself in the world of her vampire lover: she devoured Gothic romances, consumed late-night horror movies. Visions of satin capes and eyes of fire shielded her from the harshness of the daylight, from mortality and the vain and meaningless struggles of the world of the sun. Days as a kindergarten teacher and evenings with some overly eager, casual acquaintance could not pull her from her secret existence: always a ticking portion of her brain planned, proceeded, waited.

  She spent her meager earnings on dark antiques and intricate clothes. Her wardrobe was crammed with white negligees and ruffled underthings. No crosses and no mirrors, particularly not in her bedroom. White tapered candles stood in pewter sconces, and she would read late into the night by their smoky flickerings, she scented and ruffled, hair combed loosely about her shoulders. She glanced at the window often.

  She resented lovers – though she took them, thrilling to the fullness of life in them, the blood and the life – who insisted upon staying all night, burning their breakfast toast and making bitter coffee. Her kitchen, of course, held nothing but fresh ingredients and copper and ironware; to her chagrin, she could not do without ovens or stoves or refrigerators. Alone, she carried candles and bathed in cool water.

  She waited, prepared. And at long last, her vampire lover began to come to her in dreams. They floated across the moors, glided through the fields of heather. He carried her to his crumbling castle, undressing her, pulling off her diaphanous gown, caressing her lovely body until, in the height of passion, he bit into her arched neck, drawing the life out of her and replacing it with eternal damnation and eternal love.

  She awoke from these dreams drenched in sweat and feeling exhausted. The kindergarten children would find her unusually quiet and self-absorbed, and it frightened them when she rubbed her spotless neck and smiled wistfully. Soon and soon and soon, her veins chanted, in prayer and anticipation. Soon.

  The children were her only regret. She would not miss her inquisitive relatives and friends, the ones who frowned and studied her as if she were a portrait of someone they knew they were supposed to recognize. Those, who urged her to drop by for an hour, to come with them to films, to accompany them to the seashore. Those, who were connected to her – or thought they were – by the mere gesturing of the long and milky hands of Fate. Who sought to distract her from her one true passion; who sought to discover the secret of that passion. For, true to the sacredness of her vigil for her vampire lover, she had never spoken of him to a single earthly, earthbound soul. It would be beyond them, she knew. They would not comprehend a bond of such intentioned sacrifice.

  But she would regret the children. Never would a child of their love coo and murmur in the darkness; never would his proud and noble features soften at the sight of the mother and her child of his loins. It was her single sorrow.

  Her vacation was coming. June hovered like the mist and the children squirmed in anticipation. Their own true lives would begin in June. She empathized with the shining eyes and smiling faces, knowing their wait was as agonizing as her own. Silently, as the days closed in, she bade each of them a tender farewell, holding them as they threw their little arms around her neck and pressed fervent summertime kisses on her cheeks.

  She booked her passage to London on a ship. Then to Romania, Bulgaria, Transylvania. The hereditary seat of her beloved; the fierce, violent backdrop of her dreams. Her suitcases opened themselves to her long, full skirts and her brooches and lockets. She peered into her hand mirror as she packed it. “I am getting pale,” she thought, and the idea both terrified and delighted her.

  She became paler, thinner, more exhausted as her trip wore on. After recovering from the disappointment of the raucous, modern cruise ship, she raced across the Continent to find refuge in the creaky trains and taverns she had so yearned for. Her heart thrilled as she meandered past the black silhouettes of ruined fortresses and ancient manor houses. She sat for hours in the mists, praying for the howling wolf to find her, for the bat to come and join her.

  She took to drinking wine in bed, deep, rich, blood-r
ed burgundy that glowed in the candlelight. She melted into the landscape within days, and cringed as if from the crucifix itself when flickers of her past life, her American, false existence, invaded her serenity. She did not keep a diary; she did not count the days as her summer slipped away from her. She only rejoiced that she grew weaker.

  It was when she was counting out the coins for a Gypsy shawl that she realized she had no time left. Tomorrow she must make for Frankfurt and from there fly back to New York. The shopkeeper nudged her, inquiring if she were ill, and she left with her treasure, trembling.

  She flung herself on her own rented bed. “This will not do. This will not do.” She pleaded with the darkness. “You must come for me tonight. I have done everything for you, my beloved, loved you above all else. You must save me.” She sobbed until she ached.

  She skipped her last meal of veal and paprika and sat quietly in her room. The innkeeper brought her yet another bottle of burgundy and after she assured him that she was quite all right, just a little tired, he wished his guest a pleasant trip home.

  The night wore on; though her book was open before her, her eyes were riveted to the windows, her hands clenched around the wineglass as she sipped steadily, like a creature feeding. Oh, to feel him against her veins, emptying her and filling her!

  Soon and soon and soon . . .

  Then, all at once, it happened. The windows rattled, flapped inward. A great shadow, a curtain of ebony, fell across the bed, and the room began to whirl, faster, faster still; and she was consumed with a bitter, deathly chill. She heard, rather than saw, the wineglass crash to the floor, and struggled to keep her eyes open as she was overwhelmed, engulfed, taken.

  “Is it you?” she managed to whisper through teeth that rattled with delight and cold and terror. “Is it finally to be?”

  Freezing hands touched her everywhere: her face, her breasts, the desperate offering of her arched neck. Frozen and strong and never-dying. Sinking, she smiled in a rictus of mortal dread and exultation. Eternal damnation, eternal love. Her vampire lover had come for her at last.

  When her eyes opened again, she let out a howl and shrank against the searing brilliance of the sun. Hastily, they closed the curtains and quickly told her where she was: home again, where everything was warm and pleasant and she was safe from the disease that had nearly killed her.

  She had been ill before she had left the States. By the time she had reached Transylvania, her anemia had been acute. Had she never noticed her own pallor, her lassitude?

  Anemia. Her smile was a secret on her white lips. So they thought, but he had come for her, again and again. In her dreams. And on that night, he had meant to take her finally to his castle forever, to crown her the best-beloved one, his love of the moors and the mists.

  She had but to wait, and he would finish the deed.

  Soon and soon and soon.

  She let them fret over her, wrapping her in blankets in the last days of summer. She endured the forced cheer of her relatives, allowed them to feed her rich food and drink in hopes of restoring her.

  But her stomach could no longer hold the nourishment of their kind; they wrung their hands and talked of stronger measures when it became clear that she was wasting away.

  At the urging of the doctor, she took walks. Small ones at first, on painfully thin feet. Swathed in wool, cowering behind sun-glasses, she took tiny steps like an old woman. As she moved through the summer hours, her neck burned with an ungovernable pain that would not cease until she rested in the shadows. Her stomach lurched at the sight of grocery-store windows. But at the butcher’s, she paused, and licked her lips at the sight of the raw, bloody meat.

  But she did not go to him. She grew neither worse nor better.

  “I am trapped,” she whispered to the night as she stared into the flames of a candle by her bed. “I am disappearing between your world and mine, my beloved. Help me. Come for me.” She rubbed her neck, which ached and throbbed but showed no outward signs of his devotion. Her throat was parched, bone-dry, but water did not quench her thirst.

  At long last, she dreamed again. Her vampire lover came for her as before, joyous in their reunion. They soared above the crooked trees at the foothills, streamed like black banners above the mountain crags to his castle. He could not touch her enough, worship her enough, and they were wild in their abandon as he carried her in her diaphanous gown to the gates of his fortress.

  But at the entrance, he shook his head with sorrow and could not let her pass into the black realm with him. His fiery tears seared her neck, and she thrilled to the touch of the mark even as she cried out for him as he left her, fading into the vapors with a look of entreaty in his dark, flashing eyes.

  Something was missing; he required a boon of her before he could bind her against his heart. A thing that she must give to him . . .

  She walked in the sunlight, enfeebled, cowering. She thirsted, hungered, yearned. Still she dreamed of him, and still he could not take the last of her unto himself.

  Days and nights and days. Her steps took her finally to the schoolyard, where once, only months before, she had embraced and kissed the children, thinking never to see them again. They were all there, who had kissed her cheeks so eagerly. Their silvery laughter was like the tinkling of bells as dust motes from their games and antics whirled around their feet. How free they seemed to her who was so troubled, how content and at peace.

  The children.

  She shambled forward, eyes widening behind the shields of smoky glass.

  He required something of her first.

  Her one regret. Her only sorrow.

  She thirsted. The burns on her neck pulsated with pain.

  Tears of gratitude welled in her eyes for the revelation that had not come too late. Weeping, she pushed open the gate of the schoolyard and reached out a skeleton-limb to a child standing apart from the rest, engrossed in a solitary game of cat’s cradle. Tawny-headed, ruddy-cheeked, filled with the blood and the life.

  For him, as a token of their love.

  “My little one, do you remember me?” she said softly.

  The boy turned. And smiled back uncertainly in innocence and trust.

  Then she came for him, swooped down on him like a great, winged thing, with eyes that burned through the glasses, teeth that flashed, once, twice . . .

  soon and soon and soon.

  LES DANIELS

  Yellow Fog

  LES DANIELS HAS BEEN a freelance writer, composer, film buff and musician. He has performed with such groups as Soop, Snake and The Snatch, The Swamp Steppers, and The Local Yokels. A CD of his 1960s group with actor Martin Mull, The Double Standard String Band, was recently released.

  His first book was Comix: A History of Comic Books in America, since when he has written the non-fiction studies Living in Fear: A History of Horror, Marvel: Five Fabulous Decades of the World’s Greatest Comics and DC Comics: Sixty Years of the World’s Favorite Comic Book Heroes. More recently, he is the author of “The Complete History“ volumes of Superman: The Life and Times of The Man of Steel, Batman: The Life and Times of the Dark Knight and Wonder Woman: The Life and Times of the Amazon Princess. Daniels is currently working on a new book about the early days of DC Comics.

  His 1978 novel The Black Castle introduced his enigmatic vampire-hero Don Sebastian de Villanueva, whose exploits he continued in The Silver Skull, Citizen Vampire, Yellow Fog (an expanded version of the novella that appears here) and No Blood Spilled. His occasional short fiction has appeared in a number of anthologies, most recently Dark Terrors 6, and he has edited Thirteen Tales of Terror (with Diane Thompson) and Dying of Fright: Masterpieces of the Macabre.

  “Like several other things I have written, this tale was inspired by a dream,” explains Daniels. “In this case I saw the startling image which climaxes chapter ten, ‘The Wine Cellar’. Of course, this scene is a variation on a type of revelation which has appeared in several horror narratives. However, the changes which my subconsciou
s had rung on the theme struck me as sufficiently startling to form the basis for a story. From there, it was merely a matter of working backwards toward the beginning.”

  I. Black Plumes

  THE BOY ON THE steps had been told to look unhappy, and he was doing his best, but he found it hard to mourn for a corpse he had never known, especially when the old man’s death was making him money. Still, a job was a job, and Syd had no desire to lose this one. He stifled a smirk and glanced across the black-draped door toward his partner, but the sight of the old fellow with his fancy dress and his watery eyes was more than Syd could bear. He knew he must look just as foolish himself, wearing a top hat festooned with black crepe and carrying a long wand draped with more of the same, yet he felt a laugh rising in his chest that he barely succeeded in changing into a cough before it reached his lips. The crepe rustled, and Syd’s partner altered his expression for an instant from dignified melancholy to threatening wrath. Mr Callender had paid Entwistle and Son a substantial sum for a proper funeral, and that meant that the mutes would remain mute.

  Syd stiffened, hoping that the procession would arrive soon to relieve him of his post. His nose itched, and his left foot seemed to have gone numb. After a whole morning standing on duty in front of Callender’s house, Syd was beginning to look to the long march to All Souls as a positive pleasure. It would at least mean a bit of exercise, and it would bring Syd closer to the time when he would finally be able to make a little profit out of the business. There was no pay in being apprenticed to an undertaker, even if it was Entwistle and Son. Just the Son now, actually, thought Syd, and it didn’t look like he could expect to live much longer himself, except that he couldn’t bear the thought of dying and letting anybody else bury him. Entwistle and Son was the best there was, and the hearse Syd saw turning the corner from Kensington High Street proved it.

  Six matched black horses drew the hearse, their heads crowned with bobbing black plumes of dyed peacock feathers, their backs covered with hangings of black velvet. The low, black hearse, its glass sides etched in floral patterns, bore the oaken coffin upon a bed of lilies, under a canopy of more swaying black plumes. The driver proceeded at a measured pace to accommodate the mutes who trudged with downcast eyes beside the slowly rolling gilt-edged wheels. Behind them came the first mourning coach, and then the second; when the procession drew up before the house Syd was startled to see that there were no more. It seemed incredible that such an expensive funeral should have so few mourners; Syd could hardly believe that a man rich enough to afford Entwistle’s best should have had so few friends.