The Mammoth Book of Vampire Stories by Women

by Stephen Jones

  “When she leaves, identify yourself and ask her to come down to the station. If you get any trouble, arrest her,” he instructed.

  Janet winced. “What are the charges?”

  “Being a danger to the health of aging Senators, for a start. We’ll think of something. Just don’t lose her,” Brasher told her.

  He looked around. There was no sign of either the Senator or Hisako.

  “Damn. Where’d they go? Watch the door,” Brasher ordered.

  He placed the empty glass he had been nursing on the windowsill and walked purposefully toward the spot where he had last seen the Senator and his lovely guest.

  The door to the terrace was open and he eased into a position where he could see outside. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could just make out two figures standing by the balustrade. He didn’t now what to do. He felt like a Peeping Tom. Hisako moved closer to the Senator and took off the long gloves she was wearing. There was something menacing about the way she unveiled her hands and it was not lost on Brasher. He still had no clear idea what he was going to do. He coughed and stepped out onto the terrace. The Senator saw him and swayed back, putting a little distance between himself and temptation. But he wasn’t pleased.

  “Yes?” he barked.

  Before Brasher could think of something to say, Hisako reached up and took the Senator’s face in her hands and gave the old man a passionate kiss on the lips. Hisako stepped back and gave a deep bow. A faint, amused smile lurked around her lips, taunting the policeman to do something. With a movement that Gypsy Rose Lee would have envied, Hisako ripped off her silk kimono and dropped it to the floor. Underneath she was wearing a tight-fitting catsuit that revealed every curve and dimple of her perfect body. The Senator was beginning to recover his equilibrium.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked loudly, but nobody bothered to answer. Still with her eyes fixed mesmerically on Brasher’s face, Hisako tossed aside the highly-lacquered hairpiece she was wearing. Beneath it her skull was hairless. But even this didn’t diminish her ravishing beauty. Brasher managed to pump some air through his vocal chords.

  “Detective Inspector Brasher. I wonder if you would mind accompanying me to the station. I would like to ask …” He trailed to a halt, feeling inept.

  Hisako walked slowly toward him.

  “I don’t think so, Inspector. I have other plans,” she said softly.

  Before Brasher had a chance to move, her hand shot out and crashed into his throat. Brasher staggered back, knocking over a stand with a huge pot plant. The sound of the crash brought two of the guards running, pistols in hand. Hisako was already on the move. As the first guard came through the door he was met with a flying mata-geri which crashed him into the wall. The second guard decided it was one of those times when you shoot first and ask questions later.

  Hisako did a back flip and her arched foot thudded into his neck. His gun went off but missed Hisako. Other guards came running. They were no match for their daintily lethal opponent.

  Janet arrived on the scene in time to see one of the eighteen-stone bodyguards tossed over the balustrade. If the trained American guards with their guns weren’t getting anywhere she was hardly likely to make a difference with her telescopic night-stick.

  Janet hastily hid behind the thick wooden door leading to the entrance hall. She saw Hisako break away and run toward where she was hiding. The policewoman threw her weight at the heavy door. There was a satisfying crash as Hisako, taken completely off guard, ran into the swinging portal. The force propelled her across the room.

  Janet didn’t hang about. The dazed Japanese woman was already recovering, almost on her feet. Janet snatched up a bronze statuette of John Wayne and dived forward. The heavy ornament smashed into the side of Hisako’s head with the full weight of the policewoman and the impetus of her dive behind it. The thud as it crunched into Hisako’s bald head echoed around the room.

  Exhausted by the effort, Janet slumped to the floor and stared at the hideous wound she had opened in Hisako’s naked skull.

  She let the guards take care of the unconscious woman and eventually went looking for Brasher. She found him crouched over the Senator. He looked up.

  “Get an ambulance,” he told her. “The Senator’s been shot.”

  Hisako was proving to be a medical miracle. The wound in her head was healing at a phenomenal rate. It was only four hours since Janet had laid her out, but already the gash had closed and left only a jagged red scar to mark its passing.

  The Senator hadn’t fared so well. He had begun to develop the symptoms that were becoming so well known to Brasher and Janet.

  The doctors had no answers to their questions. The best they could come up with was that Hisako’s body was basically different, it had become more efficient and, they reluctantly added, improved. The interesting thing about her immune system seemed to be that it was externalized through her lymph glands. This explained the deaths of those unfortunate enough to come into physical contact with her.

  Shortly before midnight the Senator died an agonizing death, virtually rotting alive. The doctors were having a field day. Already they were calling the disease, which totally destroyed the victim’s immune system, “The Hisako Syndrome,” and vying for the honor of giving it a Latin label. Hisako was locked up in an isolation cell until a secure and germ-free environment could be made available to her at the hospital.

  Janet finished reading through her report on the incidents of the day. She felt a certain sympathy toward the captured woman. It must have been terrible for her. All her life she had been kept in an airtight bubble. Treated like a guinea pig. Somehow she had been touched by another human being. Only to see him or her die, rot and shrivel before her eyes. Janet could imagine the rage that welled inside her.

  Her records showed that she was way above average intelligence. She spoke several languages and had a score of PhDs. Her intelligence and isolation had fed her mind, but she had no idea about the simple things of life. And it was all down to the bomb the Americans had dropped on her hometown.

  Somehow Senator Manhelm had become responsible for all her problems and she had set out to destroy him. The rowing club and the others had just been unfortunate to get in her way.

  Janet locked the report in her drawer and was preparing to leave when the telephone rang. Hisako had become ill and was asking to see her. Janet hesitated. Although sympathetic, she didn’t want to get too close to the captured woman. Then she shrugged. What harm could it do?

  When Janet entered the cell she gagged on the smell of putrefaction which even penetrated the surgical mask she was wearing. Hisako was strapped in a straitjacket, lying on her side facing the wall. Her bald head was already mottled and had developed nauseating, pus-dribbling, boils. Hisako rolled over so that she was facing Janet. The policewoman was shocked at the change to the delicate features of the beautiful woman. Hisako’s face had blown up into a scarlet pumpkin. Her eyes, which had been so fine and clear a few hours earlier, were now milky cataracts that flickered feverishly. Her perfect mouth a deformed crater of festering ulcers. Slowly Hisako pushed herself to her feet. Effortlessly, she flexed her muscles and the straitjacket ripped and fell in a heap on the floor.

  Janet wanted to call out, alert the guard to what was happening, but she couldn’t move.

  Hisako limped painfully towards the mesmerized policewoman and reached out her nightmarish hands.

  Janet felt her mind slipping away as the ghoulish entity ripped aside her shirt and jacket and gently touched ulcerated lips to her bare breast. As consciousness fled, Janet felt Hisako’s feverish breath suck the vitality from her body.

  When Janet regained consciousness, Hisako was sitting on the floor by the side of the door. She was still naked, but her skin was as clear and unblemished as it had been defiled and corrupt a few minutes earlier.

  Janet knew with a terrible certainty what that meant. She calmed the panic the thought provoked in her mind and looked at Hisako. She
was no longer afraid of the woman.

  The beautiful killer grabbed the front of Janet’s tattered shirt and hauled her to her feet so that she was standing facing the entrance. With the flat of her hand she pounded on the cell door. There was a flutter at the spy-hole, a rattle of the key in the lock and before Janet could shout a warning the door began to open.

  Hisako gave Janet a sweet smile as she wrenched open the door. The policeman on guard didn’t stand a chance. Hisako’s daggerlike hand pierced the wall of his stomach and drove up into his heart. Janet lunged forward but the deranged woman brushed her, almost gently, aside. It was as if she didn’t want to harm her. Just leave her to die the horrendous death that was her ultimate legacy.

  Brasher was on his way to check out the condition of the prisoner for himself. He heard the scream as Hisako ripped open the PC’s body. He was just in time to see Hisako smash through the door which led into the reception area of the station. He ran after her, but by the time he reached the outer office she had overpowered the officers who attempted to restrain her and left by the front door.

  A couple of police constables walking toward the building stopped in surprise as the naked woman burst out of the front door. Brasher shouted to them to stop her. There was a ten-foot wall along the side of the road. Without decreasing her speed, Hisako leapt onto a parked car and without apparent effort cleared the obstacle.

  Brasher ran to his car. As he began to pull away from the curb, Janet leaped into the road and stopped him. She jumped into the front passenger seat.

  “What happened?” he asked as he accelerated away in the direction taken by Hisako. “You all right?”

  Janet ignored the question and pointed off to the right. “There she is.”

  Hisako had made it to the Embankment and was running along the parapet at a fantastic speed. Brasher tried to cut across the traffic to the opposite side of the road, but the after-theater rush-hour was heavy and he lost valuable seconds before he managed it. By this time Hisako had disappeared.

  “Where the hell has she got to?” Brasher demanded.

  Janet opened the car door. “She’s making for Lambeth Bridge. It’ll be quicker on foot.”

  Brasher nodded agreement and pulled out his radio.

  “Control—Brasher here. Get someone to block off the south side of Lambeth Bridge. I’m in pursuit on foot with DS Cooper, north of the Embankment. We need back-up. Fast!”

  Brasher stowed his radio away and set off at a jog behind Janet. As they turned onto the bridge they saw a police car pull across the road at the far end. Janet slowed to a walk and Brasher caught her up.

  “Can you see her?” he panted as he bent over and sucked air into his heaving lungs.

  Janet shook her head. “She must be on the bridge. She didn’t have time to get completely across.”

  A police car pulled up beside them and the driver leaned out of the window.

  “What you want me to do, Guv?” he asked.

  Janet answered. “One of you stay here and divert the traffic. The other clear the bridge. Now!” she ordered.

  The driver swung the car sideways, effectively blocking off that end of the bridge. Brasher and Janet took opposite sides of the road and walked slowly toward the patrol cars at the far end. Brasher was the first to spot the hunted woman. She was leaning elegantly against one of the suspension struts of the antique viaduct, the suspicion of a smile on her lips.

  “Okay, Miss,” Brasher said reassuringly. “Just come down off there and let’s talk. I’m sure we can sort something out.”

  Hisako swung around one of the stanchions and landed on the side wall with a peal of laughter, as if it was all a game.

  “Of course we can, Inspector. You’ll find me a nice warm isolation cell where I can become a clinical curiosity for every half-baked doctor with a theory and a fascination with Jekyll and Hyde. Thanks but no thanks, Inspector.”

  Hisako hunched down on her knees so that her head was almost at the same level as Brasher’s. Her eyes appeared to have become enormous. The Inspector had an overwhelming desire to let himself float down into their dark depths.

  “Come on, Inspector. Come to me,” Hisako whispered.

  Brasher’s reason told him to keep a safe distance between them, but his will was not strong enough. He took a faltering step toward the woman.

  “That’s right, don’t fight it, you know you want me. Quick, give me your hand.” Her voice was a soft erotic caress. Brasher was a spectator as his hand reached out to the beautiful temptress crouched naked on the parapet. Their fingers were almost touching. Brasher made one last supreme effort to control his action, but Hisako’s will was too strong.

  He heard Janet’s voice call out to him to stop, but it meant nothing. He had to be with Hisako.

  Suddenly there was a pounding of feet and he was thrown violently aside.

  Hisako saw Janet coming and tried to move into a more secure position on the narrow parapet. The policewoman had nothing left to lose. She knew with a terrible certainty that within hours she would fall victim to all the ills that Hisako was able to release and that knowledge drove her on.

  She hurled herself at the ogress on the parapet, wrapped her arms around the other woman’s legs.

  Hisako tried to brace herself, but the force of the impact of Janet’s hurtling body was too much for even her superior strength to withstand. For a moment they teetered on the edge of the bridge and then, almost in slow motion, they toppled backward.

  Brasher snapped out of the trance he was in and ran to the bridge, too late to save either woman.

  He could only stand and watch as they plunged down into the dark, swirling waters of the River Thames below.

  The police searched the river and its banks for days, but they never recovered the bodies of either Janet Cooper or the mysterious Hisako San.

  BUTTERNUT AND BLOOD

  Kathryn Ptacek

  Kathryn Ptacek’s novels include Gila!, Shadoweyes, Kachina, The Phoenix Bells, The Black Jade Road, The Willow Garden, Ghost Dance, and The Hunted, under her own name and other bylines. She edited two volumes of the Women in Darkness anthologies, and her short fiction was collected by Wildside Press in Looking Backward in Darkness: Tales of Fantasy and Horror. She also edits The Gila Queen’s Guide to Markets, a market newsletter that goes to writers, artists, editors, and agents throughout the world.

  Ptacek was married to author and editor Charles L. Grant from 1982 until his death in 2006.

  “Vampires in the American Civil War?” asks the author. “A natural, if you ask me. The War Between the States proved one of the bloodiest conflicts known to man, and what better place to find a lamia who preys upon young men?

  “My novel, Blood Autumn, marked the first appearance of a lamia sister (there are many in this lethal family), and then she and another sister played instrumental roles in the prequel, In Silence Sealed (the true story of what happened to Byron, Keats, and Shelley). Different sisters have also surfaced in numerous short stories, and I’m sure other historical tales of their deadly deeds will be unearthed from time to time.”

  HE FIRST SAW her on the autumn night when the temperature plunged toward freezing, and the stink of smoke combined with that of dying leaves and dying men.

  John Francis Foster had himself been wounded just three days ago in battle, and after laying a full day and a chill rainy night on the blood-soaked field—there were not enough able-bodied men to collect the wounded and dying—he had finally been located and brought in.

  The first evening there in the relative comfort of the hospital tent Foster had done nothing but sleep and occasionally moan. The second night he had slept less heavily, and once he woke, fell back to sleep quickly, hardly aware of his injuries, for the moment.

  The third night he was fully awake, fully aware of the pain in his side where the Minié ball had puckered his flesh, and where a fall had broken his arm in two places; and it was then he saw the woman.

  She stood at the
far end of the tent talking to one of the patients there, a young dark-haired man whose left leg had been shattered by shot, and then later amputated. The man’s condition was fair because he was young and in good health overall, and he was expected to leave the hospital in a week or so. The man was far luckier than many other of his comrades here, Foster thought.

  A woman in this hellish place was an odd sight, Foster realized, for all the nurses, save one, were male, mostly marines assigned to this duty. Perhaps this woman was one of the civilians from a nearby farm or town, come to visit the wounded, come with gifts of food, come to cheer them up.

  He shifted his head slightly, closed his eyes when the nausea hit him, then once he was all right, looked to his right. A boy, surely no older than fourteen, lay curled on the cot. A smell of pus and urine came from him. Foster, too long accustomed to the sharp smells of battlefield and hospital now, scarcely noticed the stench. On the far side of the boy—Foster thought the lad’s name was Willy—slept an overweight man with a reddened countenance.

  A drinker, Foster thought, and envied the man his liquid escape. Now, though, the drinker snored heavily, spittle bubbling on his plump lips. Foster didn’t know what was wrong with the drinker, but he’d been there the longest of any of the patients, and he did not seem likely to leave any time soon.

  To Foster’s left lay an old sergeant; the man must have been all of fifty or so, but he looked elderly now. His skin was gray, and hung in folds upon his body where he had lost so much weight. Since Foster had been there, the sergeant had not opened his eyes; his breathing, scarcely audible, never varied. Across the narrow walkway between rows of cots Foster could see others similar to him—men with bandages on heads, across their eyes, around stumps of arms, and legs, swathing torsos.

  During the day some of them talked—those in less pain—but at night it was bad. While some slept, oblivious to their pain and the anguish of those around them, most of the wounded suffered more through the long dark hours. Few spoke at all, but Foster heard much groaning and sobbing and cursing and whimpering, while others wordlessly tossed in their fevered states; occasionally a plaintive voice prayed to die.