The Mammoth Book of Vampire Stories by Women

by Stephen Jones

  When their daughter still did not return with the Afikomen, which fairly translated meant Aftermath, Rose said, “I am worried about our daughter. It is that time of the month for her. She should not be outside alone and in the dark for so long.”

  Meyer excused himself and went to find Devora.

  He found her in the small arbor which stood permanently in the garden, ready to be decorated each autumn in thanks for God’s bounty. She held the Afikomen in her hand. Silently, she gave it to her father.

  Silently, he took it.

  “We have been waiting for you,” Meyer said. “All but the Stranger, who came out of the night and has returned to it.”

  “I have been with him,” Devora responded. “And I have fed his manservant.”

  Devora, daughter of Rose and of Meyer ben Joseph, never spoke again of the two men or even of the child of the manservant, conceived that Passover during her time of bleeding and growing in her womb. More and more, she became morose. Each time she passed a mirror, it was spotted with droplets of blood and she was shamed before her father, the remaining man of her family. Soon she ceased to be obedient to him or to any man. As if she wished to die in childbirth, she baked challahs and deliberately neglected to take from the dough and give what she had taken to a priest in tithing.

  Meyer did not like his daughter’s behaviors but he accepted them as part of the changes wrought by childbearing, a process he did not pretend to understand. Rose was more frightened than angered. Though it was the word of God and of Allah that Their followers go forth and multiply, it was also His word that no child be conceived during niddah—menstruation—and for good reason.

  She feared for the life of her daughter and trembled for her daughter’s child, lest that child—conceived in blood—be claimed by the demon queen, Lilith.

  The child, a girl, grew strong inside the womb of her mother, Devora. Like all embryos growing into the fullness of their heritage, this one saw the history of her people by the light of a candle which burned in the womb, a white glow which allowed her to see the beginning and the end of the universe.

  Inside the womb, an angel kept watch over her, teaching her the Torah; outside the womb, Lilith—overpowered by the remembrance of her own childless and unhappy marriage—watched the angel and seethed with jealousy of Devora’s motherhood. She bided her time, smiling evilly as Rose constructed an amulet from the Sefer Raziel to protect the mother and child after birth and hung amulets aplenty around the walls and on the birth-bed to discourage the demonic queen from claiming the child.

  Just before birth, when—as it was written—the angel readied itself to touch the child lightly on her top lip so that the cleavage on her upper lip could be formed and she could forget all she had learned, Lilith interfered. Dousing the light in the womb, she pushed the infant into the birth canal.

  In that moment, Devora’s soul took leave of its earthly body. In that moment, Marisa was born. She emerged from her mother’s womb with a collective consciousness and with an arrogance which, in combination with her facial flaw, set her apart from the other children in Mea Shearim.

  Of the 613 Laws of the Torah, Rekhilut—the first, though the least prohibitive, law against bad-of-mouth gossip—was the most frequently disobeyed in the quarter where Marisa was born. In the case of this girl-child, the gossip derived more from fear than from any intent to do harm. It was no secret that she had been conceived during niddah, nor could it be kept secret that the child had no cleavage on her upper lip. Since her mother had died in childbirth, it was logical to assume that she had been claimed as the daughter and servant of Lilith. But the greatest fear was the one spoken in whispers, that because of the circumstances of her conception and birth, Marisa could be infected with the most dreaded of all diseases, leprosy.

  Meyer and Rose showered all of their love upon their granddaughter, whom they called Marisa Devora and who was the last of their living kin. Unfortunately, no amount of their goodwill could change the nervousness of a community which had been so badly hurt by the passage of the years that they feared anything which might bring more trouble into their midst.

  Again, Hamid el Faisir, who had reported favorably on the household ben Joseph, came together with Meyer. This time they joined forces to try to protect Marisa from those who, driven by unreasoned anxiety, threatened harm to the fatherless child.

  The strength of the two proved to be sadly insufficient against the many. One evening, when it was almost sundown, Marisa was wrest from them and taken into the desert. There, a dried water-hole had been filled with the blood of several lambs and a meager shelter had been built to shield the child from the last rays of the desert sun.

  As if she were being baptized in blood, the little girl was submerged and held there until nightfall. Being barely six years old, she could certainly not fight her way out of the grasp of strong adults. She could have cried out, but she did not even do that and appeared, instead, to submit herself to the wishes of the good people of Jerusalem.

  In the house in the district of Mea Shearim, Hamid said in an anguished voice, “Surely they intend to dry her off and carry her home at the rise of the moon.”

  “Surely they do,” Meyer agreed, his eyes filled with tears for his granddaughter. “What do you say, Rose?”

  Rose said nothing. She left the house and walked into the desert. Even had she wanted to speak, her anger and foreboding would have prevented the words from forming on her tongue. As the rim of the moon appeared on the horizon, she came upon the child.

  She stood at a distance, her gaze was riveted upon the little girl.

  The child had never looked more contented. She dabbled happily in the red pond, drinking from her cupped hand with an eagerness she had never shown for her grandmother’s chicken soup.

  Looking up, Rose saw the Stranger, tall and hooded, riding a camel led by his manservant. “No,” she cried out, as the townsfolk stepped aside and he laid claim to Marisa Devora.

  The child raised her arms and the manservant lifted her up. The Stranger took her, seated her astride the camel with him, and rode away.

  Rose wept, but she did nothing to try to stop him.

  At dawn, the people of Jerusalem returned to their daily business and to gossiping of other things. Only then did Rose cease her weeping and make her report to Meyer ben Joseph and Hamid el Faisir. She did not tell them that she had heard a female voice, calling the man and the child to join her. She did not say that Lilith had taken the man and the child to her bosom.

  Meyer and his friend Hamid embraced each other. Now it was their turn to weep. Then they dried their tears and waited as the message of Marisa Devora and the dark stranger traveled to Cyprus and reached the ears of Amalric; “Beware,” the messenger said. “In the land of Canaan, there is a daughter of Lilith who is loved by man and God and Allah and marked by the Devil. Do not cause her to be angry, for her anger could devour you all.”

  ONE AMONG MILLIONS

  Yvonne Navarro

  Yvonne Navarro lives in southern Arizona with her husband, writer Weston Ochse, and a menagerie of animals. She has published more than twenty novels, ranging from vampires (AfterAge) to the end of the world (Final Impact and Red Shadows). Other titles include deadrush, DeadTimes, That’s Not My Name, Mirror Me, Highborn, and Concrete Savior. She is also the author of a number of tie-ins and spin-offs, including the movie novelizations Ultraviolet, Elektra, Species, Species II, Hellboy, and Aliens: Music of the Spheres, and seven novels in TV’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer “Buffyverse.” Her work has won the HWA’s Bram Stoker Award, plus a number of other writing awards.

  “‘One Among Millions’ evolved from a pretty run-of-the-mill ‘what if’ question,” explains the author, “namely, What if you were being stalked by someone? From there it grew to the stalker being a vampire, but why would a vampire do such a thing to an ordinary woman … unless the woman were anything but ordinary.

  “So many people think vampire stories are used up, out of vogue
, or all the same; I think they couldn’t be more wrong. Yes, vampirism is about stealing, but it isn’t just about blood. It’s about the theft, or loss, of life, of self, of everything that you are or could have ever been, the evolution of that thing that you once were into something you might or might not be able to control.

  “There’s so much potential in it, and there always will be. Those who turn up their noses and declare vampires are extinct should remember their own mortality. New generations of readers are born every day, and they are always hungry.

  “Just like vampires.”

  SONDRA KNEW EXACTLY when the vampire started stalking her and the babies.

  She called the police and they came out to the house, two dutiful smalltown, small-minded men with beer bellies and the smell of grease and old cigarettes on their clothes. The twins, their cherubic blue-eyed faces achingly beautiful beneath wispy, platinum curls, cooed and giggled from the playpen in their room, oblivious to the terror on their mother’s face and the tense conversation a room away.

  “Listen,” Sondra said, “I’ve seen it following us—”

  “It?” The older of the two cops wore a nametag that said MCSHAW and sent his partner a meaningful look. He jotted something quickly on the form attached to his clipboard.

  “Him, I mean.” Her face was calm but inside she slapped herself for the verbal slip. Fear was a nasty, constant companion and could cause all kinds of mistakes, make a person tell the truth when that was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. She couldn’t afford the truth here, not when the price was Mallory and Meleena’s safety. “I’ve seen him.”

  “Okay.” The other lawman was younger but headed the way of his chunky partner; too many donuts and sitting on his ass in the patrol car, wheeling around town and thinking he looked so smart in his blue uniform and spitshined shoes, the carefully oiled .38 snug in its leather holster. Galena was far enough from Chicago to leave the murders and brutality to the city folk; little occupied these men during the day besides petty theft and speeding teenagers, maybe a few alcohol and drug situations. His revolver had probably never been fired at anything but a paper target—what did this man know of blood and terror? “So you saw someone following you in Fox Valley Mall,” he repeated. “And you say he walked behind you and your children nearly all the way to your car—”

  “Yes.”

  “—then disappeared when you turned to confront him in the presence of another couple.”

  Sondra finally saw his nameplate, slightly askew on his shirt pocket. “Exactly, Officer Walters.” She sat back.

  McShaw grimaced. “Fox Valley is a big place, Ms. Underwood.” He peered at her over the rim of his glasses, brown eyes full of skepticism. “Isn’t it conceivable that this man’s car could have been parked close to yours? That it was nothing but a coincidence?”

  “I’m telling you he was following us,” Sondra said, too loudly.

  The twins made a noise from the other room and she glanced anxiously toward the doorway, then lowered her voice. “He …”

  Her voice trailed away and she rubbed at her neck absently. These two placid cops … how could she explain the panic she’d felt when the man with the familiar razored teeth fastened his gaze on hers in front of the Toys ’R’ Us store? She was only window-shopping with the babies, of course—she had no money for anything other than the essentials—but Sondra had forgotten all about the silly mechanical dog that yapped happily from behind the plate glass. The wide, brightly-lit corridors and garish lights of the mall had done an odd sort of spin and fade, until nothing remained in the world but her, and him … and the twins, of course. Their little arms waving in the air as they began to cry for him, as mesmerized as her by his dark presence amid the shine and hustle.

  “He what?” prompted McShaw. Pen poised above his clipboard, another three dozen boxes to be filled and checked-off before he could leave for his next coffee-shop appointment.

  Sondra swallowed. Careful now, she warned herself. Be very, very careful. “I’ve seen him following us before.”

  The younger policeman’s attention picked up. “How many times?”

  “Twice,” she said. “Once when I took the children to the clinic, and once when we were out for a walk.”

  “So he knows where you live?”

  Walters’s voice had sharpened, but instead of feeling vindicated, Sondra had the urge to slap him. Why should she have to lie to get them to protect her? Because being stalked once or twice was okay, but the magical number three was not. “I’m afraid to go out anymore.”

  “Tell us about the other two times,” McShaw said.

  Abruptly, Sondra stood. “Would you … like some coffee?” she asked shakily. “I’m going to pour myself a cup.”

  “If it’s no trouble.” The older policeman looked at her speculatively.

  “None at all.” She walked to the door of the nursery and checked inside before pulling it shut. Mallory and Meleena were settling down for a nap within the netted confines of the playpen, their soft, chubby bodies curled around each other like well fed kittens. The door firmly closed, she turned back to the men waiting on the couch. “Sugar? Cream?”

  “Black is fine,” Walters said. “For both of us.”

  Sondra nodded and hurried to the kitchen, fumbling out mismatched mugs from one of the cabinets and making sure none of the nasty cockroach egg casings were stuck to the bottom. The insects in this place were a terrible problem and she didn’t want to be embarrassed, but what could she expect from a place of hiding, a place of exile?

  The coffee was too strong from sitting on the burner since this morning, and she didn’t really want any, but she needed time to gather her thoughts so she didn’t screw up the story. Her claim of seeing the man who hunted her and her babies by the clinic had been a lie, but Sondra could gloss that over by saying she’d only had a glimpse of him then; they might write that sighting off, but they might not. Saying he knew where they lived was the truth, as was telling that he trailed after them every time she stepped out of the house, a specter of living hunger that was impossible to deny.

  Her knees went suddenly weak and she leaned against the counter for support. Would any of this do any good? Perhaps she would have to run again, flee in an endless, exhausting effort to give her babies a normal life. Dear God, would he never let them be?

  Without warning his mocking, cruel chuckle filled her mind and the memory of his frigid hands sliding over her skin made her flush—

  “Open your legs.”

  “No!”

  His eyes were black, his gaze oddly sprinkled with yellow glitter, like a reflection of a midnight sky swollen with stars. His fingers, tipped with nails sharp enough to split her skin, scraped along the insides of her thighs. His touch made her veins throb with need.

  “Bear my children.”

  “Let me go!” she cried. She cursed him, then damned her own body as her thin knees began to spread. Lying against the black sheets, her limbs were like the petals of a pale lily unfolding to float upon an onyx ocean.

  “I will fill you with blood and fire,” he whispered in her ear as his body weighed her down and pierced her with exquisite ice. Her insides pulsed around him in involuntary response and he moaned against her neck as he rocked, a wolf’s growl of pleasure as the sharp edges of his teeth rubbed along her throat, so very close to the one thing he had yet to steal from her. Everything else was gone; her pride, her self-esteem, her virginity. She was his harlot and his slave, and soon she would carry the ultimate proof that he had used her. Surely he would allow her to keep the final, fragile bit of her humanity that pumped within her arteries. Surely—

  The sugar jar jittered dangerously in her grasp and she slammed it on the counter and decided to do without rather than risk spilling it. He had sent the cockroaches to this place to torment her, to try and make her leave, and she’d be damned if she’d do anything to feed them. Turning to the sink, Sondra rinsed her hands and face in cool water, then used a
paper towel to pat her skin dry. Easy does it, she told herself. Ten more seconds and her hands were steady enough to fish a battered rectangular cake pan from the drawer by the oven and use it as a makeshift serving tray to hold the mugs. She nearly dropped it when she turned from the counter and found the younger of the cops standing directly behind her. His eyes met hers and she felt trapped for an instant, came perilously close to telling him everything, the whole corrupt story burning at the edges of her lips. On the battered aluminum surface, the mugs rattled against each other.

  “I’ll take that for you,” Walters said. He reached for the pan and his fingers, cold like hers, brushed her arm. His face was unreadable but his touch left her oddly weak, disoriented. Standing before him in the small kitchen, Sondra saw that she’d been wrong about his build; he wasn’t overweight at all. In fact, his entire body seemed to have elongated somehow and become lean, like a dog that looks soft and warm and sleepy until it stands up and stretches. Fear bubbled into Sondra’s throat, but he only took her elbow with his free hand and guided her toward the living room and his waiting partner, his flesh burning against her own like dry ice.

  McShaw looked up from scribbling on his form and dropped his pen onto the coffee table, reaching eagerly for one of the mugs. Sondra sank onto the worn love seat with a feeling of relief that shattered when Walters settled loosely next to her instead of returning to his place on the old rocking chair across the coffee table. Everything about the apartment was small: the rooms, the windows and the meager amount of sunlight they permitted inside, the furniture; his thigh, bunched with muscle beneath the fabric of his slacks, pressed coolly against hers, but there was nowhere for her to move to get away. Was she suffocating here or was the pulse hammering in her throat simply getting in the way of the air trying to flow into her lungs?