The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

The dark thoughts hung on Penny like a shroud all evening. David must have been aware of it but he made no comment, which to her only compounded his guilt. She refused sex that night (unusually, he didn't try too hard to persuade her), slept badly and, when it was time for him to get up, lay still and silent, pretending that the alarm clock hadn't woken her. It fooled David; he dressed silently, then went downstairs to make his own breakfast, as she had begun to insist he should do.

Then the phone rang. It was unusually early for anyone to call, and Penny raised her head from the pillow. David answered it on the kitchen extension, and the kitchen was directly below their bedroom, so his side of the conversation carried clearly.

"David Blythe Oh — hi. This is a surprise No, no; it's all right What? When? Well, I don't Ah. Well, yes, perhaps we should Okay; 12:45 suit you? Right. I'll meet you there." Click . End of call.

When he had eaten and came back upstairs, Penny yawned and stretched and put on a sleepy voice. "Who was that on the phone?"

David had his back to her and was putting on his tie. He didn't use a mirror; there was no point. "I told you about that new client, didn't I?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, it was his secretary; just changing the time of a meeting. Bloody nuisance; I've got a lot of other things scheduled today." He turned and glanced at her. "You all right?"

"Fine." Go on, go away. I've got something to find out, and I don't want you around while I do it .

He left a few minutes later. Penny listened to the sounds of the troublesome car eventually starting (an old banger: we all know what happened to the decent one, don't we?) and as soon as he drove away she picked up the phone and keyed "recall", to see who had really phoned.

The number given was local, but not familiar. Could be the supposed client's secretary. However Penny entered the code that would stop her own call being traced, then punched the number in. A ringing tone began.

Click . "Carmine Smith."

Penny hung up. Carmine. Not at her office but, obviously, at home. Well, now she had all her answers. New client. Oh, sure .

"You bastard. You two-faced, lying, cheating, cold-blooded bastardl"

And that, although she didn't realize it until quite some time afterwards, was the moment when everything was set in train.

She watched. Oh, she watched, and she listened, and at every opportunity she searched through David's clothes, David's wallet, anything that David was unsuspecting enough to leave lying around for her. For six days she found nothing. Then on the seventh evening, while he was in the bath, the incriminating evidence finally appeared.

Penny did not know whether to feel triumphant or sick as she read the scribbled note at the back of David's diary. It said simply: Carmine, The Scream — Friday 12:30 . Not last Friday, because she'd looked in the diary more recently than that. Today was Thursday. Tomorrow, then. The Scream was a new minimalist cafe; Penny had suggested to David that they go there, but he had poo-poohed the idea, dismissing it as an overpriced trap for fashion victims. Now she knew why. Not exactly sensible to take one's wife to the same place where one met one's mistress

Noises from the bathroom announced David emerging, and hastily Penny replaced the diary in the inner pocket of his jacket. Twelve thirty tomorrow. Good. It would be the final proof.

The rain gave her the advantage of anonymity. It was easy to loiter next door to the cafe, hiding under a plain black umbrella and pretending to window-shop. Sheer good fortune staged the meeting as if it had been scripted: David arrived on foot, and as he reached the doorway a taxi drew up and Carmine got out.

Heart thudding painfully, Penny watched sidelong as they moved towards each other, and saw Carmine reach up to kiss her husband. It was not a sisterly kiss, and Penny waited no longer but turned and, quietly and unnoticed, walked away.

She therefore didn't see David's reaction to the kiss; didn't see him lay his hands on Carmine's upper arms and push her gently away. Carmine hesitated, searching his face, and what she saw there changed her expression. A small smile, a regretful and half-apologetic shrug. Then they went into the cafe together.

"I'm sorry." Carmine stirred her coffee but showed no inclination to drink it. "Yes, I confess I did hope that maybe something might develop between us. I'd be a liar if I didn't admit to finding you very attractive, and as we're both Well, it seemed logical somehow."

David thought the morality of that was dubious but didn't comment. "Apology accepted," he said. "And maybe under different circumstances"

"Thank you for being so tactful about it. But I overstepped the mark. I simply didn't realize how strongly you feel about Penny."

"I love her," he said. "And I don't want to lose her. When you called the first time, and told me what she'd asked you to do, it shocked me. I hadn't faced it before; hadn't thought through the implications of what I've become and what it'll mean to us in the future. Now, though"

"You want me to do it." She looked down at the table.

"Yes. So that Penny and I can stay together." His fingers moved restlessly. "I know it's a great deal to ask, Carmine; especially when you well, when I've disappointed you." He shook his head quickly. "Christ, that sounds so arrogant; I didn't mean"

"Forget it. I haven't lived as long as I have without developing a very thick skin. Yes, it is a great deal to ask. But you're asking it out of love, and I'd have a hard time coping with my conscience if I used love as an excuse for refusing."

David's eyes lit. "Then"

"I'll do it. Not for money; I won't accept payment this time." She raised her head, seemed to force herself to meet his gaze, and smiled. "Call it my love token to you."

There was a brief silence, then David let out a long breath and relaxed in his chair. "Thank you. I don't know how to tell you what this means to me."

"Then don't try." One of her hands, under the table, clenched until the fingernails dug painfully into her flesh. "I could begin this evening," she added after a few moments. "Sooner the better, yes? Then I'll be out of your hair for good."

"I don't know what to say, Carmine."

"You're making a habit of these 'don't know's." She manufactured a laugh to show that that was a joke. "I'll come to your house at eight o'clock, then?"

"Eight o'clock. Yes. Thank you."

Carmine stood up to leave, her coffee still untouched. "It might be better if you don't tell Penny before I arrive. She isn't very well disposed towards me at the moment."

"That'll change."

"Ah. My consolation, and reward for services rendered." Her mouth twitched with a sad drollery. "I'll see you this evening. Oh, and a glass or two of a decent Bordeaux or Burgundy would be welcome afterwards. Goodbye, David."

He hadn't intended to say a word to Penny about it, but when he walked into the house and saw her tight face and tense posture, he wanted to cheer her into a happier mood. So he kissed her (she responded stiffly) and said, "I've got a surprise for you."

"Oh?" Penny eyed him uncertainly, wishing she could hate him for what he was doing to her.

"Mmm. You'll find out what it is at eight o'clock. When Carmine arrives."

"Carmine?" She stared at him, her eyes glaring disbelief and outrage, but David was already on his way upstairs and didn't see the change. "That's right. No need to worry about food: she won't be eating with us. But I've bought some wine; if you open it now, it can breathe for an hour or two. Just going to have a quick shower and get changed."

His voice diminished up the stairs and Penny stood motionless in the living room doorway. She hadn't taken in his exact words; hadn't listened to them. One word, one name, was all that had registered. All afternoon she had been preparing herself for the great confrontation, when she would hurl down what she had seen today like a gauntlet and challenge him to deny it. Now all her plans were thrown into chaos; he had preempted her and snatched the advantage. Carmine was coming here . He had invited her, as if there was nothing between them, nothing to hide, nothing going on. What "surprise" had they cooked up between them to mollify her, put her off the scent? They must think she was a fool, a moron , to be taken in by their games!

Upstairs in the bedroom David was singing as he stripped off. He had a good baritone voice, but now it grated hatefully on Penny's ears. Fool. Dupe. Taken for granted, used, mocked A huge and uncontrollable rage was rising inside her like a storm-tide, and though a small part of her brain warned her it was a kind of madness, another part welcomed it because it was better, so much better, than the pain of enduring betrayal and making no effort to counter it.

Counter it . Penny moved at last. Down the hall, into the kitchen. Footfalls overhead; David was in the bathroom now. Faint sound of the shower running. He's stopped singing. I don't ever want to hear him sing again .

She opened one of the kitchen drawers at random, looked inside, closed it. Her mind wasn't functioning properly: it was the rage that was doing it, blocking logic, blocking efficient reasoning and leaving her only with a robotic level of half-conscious reflex to drive her. Second drawer. No, not in there. Third.

Ah

It doesn't actually have to be a stake. Anything will do, as long as it pierces far enough . Carmine's own words. Her daughter had died that way, caught out by — how had Carmine phrased it? "A tactical mistake", that was it. Found out, unmasked for what she was, and summarily executed without a judge, jury or lawyer in sight. It must have happened a long time ago, of course. A century, two centuries: Carmine was coy about her age, so she hadn't put a date on the event. Attitudes were different then. This was the modern world, a rational age. People didn't do such things. Did they.

As long as it pierces far enough.

Penny took the cook's knife with the eight-inch blade out of its plastic sheath in the drawer, and started to weigh and balance it gently in her palm.

Carmine was fifteen minutes late, but that didn't matter. Penny heard a car approach and slow down, and settled herself more comfortably in her cross-legged position on the hall floor. It would take Carmine a minute or so to park; spaces were always tight in the evenings as more and more people arrived home and squeezed into diminishing slots. Yes; there she goes. Rev, rev. Sounds as if she doesn't know the length of her own car. I don't think I'll go outside and help her. I don't think that would be a good idea .

The stain on the carpet was spreading. Her hands and arms still dripped, probably from when she had punched her clenched fists into his chest afterwards, to make absolutely sure. Funny; she was so squeamish about red meat, but tonight she hadn't felt sick. Still didn't, despite the fact that the whole thing had been much more spectacular than she had anticipated. Penny giggled. Movie-makers didn't know the half of it. The marks might come out of the stairs and hall carpet, but there wasn't a chance of eradicating the mess upstairs. Bathroom, bedroom — she hadn't quite struck cleanly {Ha! Joke!) the first time, so David had managed to get to the bedroom before shock and pain keeled him over and she had been able to finish it all properly. The heart really is an efficient pump, isn't it? I hadn't realized it would go on for so long .

The revving outside stopped at last. Footsteps now, click of elegant heels approaching the front gate. Penny giggled again, and this time had a degree of trouble making it stop. Silly woman. Control yourself. It's no laughing matter .

At that thought she covered her mouth with a stained hand and snorted like a horse. Her face was smeared when she finally sobered and took the hand away, but she wasn't aware of it and wouldn't have minded in the least anyway. Come on, footsteps. I can hear you. Up the path. Hello, Carmine. Come in. I've been expecting you and I'm all ready .

A shape loomed dimly through the frosted glass panel in the door, and the bell rang, just once, demurely.

Bitch. Two-timer, Cheat. Betrayer. Made my husband immortal, did you? Well, he isn't immortal any more. Maybe I'll let you see him. But I think it's better if I don't. Safer. I don't want to lose the element of surprise, after all.

Penny stood up and started to smile. The hall mirror, as she passed it, reflected a demonic vision of gory red and deathly white, with eyes that burned and laughed and burned. Her hands felt as if they were burning, too, but it didn't matter, any more than Carmine's lateness mattered. The smile on her face was fixed now, as if nothing could ever erase it, and her right hand closed more firmly on the hilt of the scarlet knife behind her back, as with her left she reached out to open the front door.

Aftermath

Janet Berliner

Janet Berliner received a Bram Stoker Award for the novel Children of the Dark, the third volume of "The Madagascar Manifesto" series, co-authored with George Guthridge. As an editor, her anthologies have included Snapshots: 20th-century Mother-Daughter Fiction, which she co-edited with Joyce Carol Oates, two volumes of Peter S. Beagle's Immortal Unicorn, David Copperfield's Tales of the Impossible, David Copperfield's Beyond Imagination and Desire Burn: Women's Stories from the Dark Side of Passion. She also created The Unicorn Sonata, an illustrated novella by Peter Beagle which is now in development as a film. She is currently coauthor of the high adventure novel Flirting with Death along with Kevin J. Anderson, Matthew J. Costello and F. Paul Wilson .

"At the risk of being branded a traitor, I admit to the fact that, excepting the original, I was never much into vampires of the traditional blood-sucking variety," admits the author. "Or so I believed, until I had an epiphany at a party in Las Vegas.

"Living in such an environment, running into Elvis or Marilyn at a party or the crap tables is commonplace, so it didn't seem all that peculiar to me when I met a tall, handsome man who called himself Vlad, spoke with a strong Balkan accent, and claimed to be from Transylvania.

"Immediately Vlad found out that I was a writer, he asked me if I had ever written any vampire stories. I hadn't. Then, as fate would have it, the very next day I was asked to write a vampire story, set in Jerusalem in or around the year 1197.

" There it was. The challenge I needed. I could continue to write about the human condition, and the next time I met Vlad I could tell him honestly that I had now written a true vampire tale "

In Canaan, which was also known as the land of Israel, in the spring of the year Christians called 1197, Muslems prayed openly but with a sense of unease. Jews, for whom the spring coincided with the celebration of Passover, called the year 4957. They prayed, too, in secret and with no less nervousness. Muslems and Jews alike were people whose families had endured and survived the injustices and cruelties of three Crusades. They knew, to a man and to a woman, that this brief respite from war would not last; a fourth Crusade would follow the third as surely as camels carried their own water across the desert.

The first three Crusades had been devastating. Entire Muslem families had been decimated; Jews, falsely accused of engaging in blood rites too horrific to contemplate, refused to convert to Christianity, to deny ha-rachamim , their Merciful Father, and laid down their lives for the sanctification of His name.

The Crusades denied fathers the pleasure of seeing their sons grow up; they denuded both communities of single men who could marry their daughters, so that they could no longer obey the Lord's or Allah's instruction to go forth and multiply.

And so it was that Meyer ben Joseph and Hamid el Faisir, who were the leaders of their communities and knew that they all needed protection against the evil to come, befriended each other. "If we are destroyed, it will not matter to the few survivors which God we worshipped," Meyer said.

Hamid assented.

On the first night of Passover, in the same spirit of co-operation, Hamid agreed to be present at the religious meal which his new friend Meyer called the Seder . "In this way," Hamid told his people, "I shall be an eye-witness to their rituals. If they do not drink of the blood of Christian children, as has been reported, then we shall defend our city together against the soldiers when they come."

And so it came to be that Hamid and his family joined Meyer, his wife, Rose, and their only surviving child Devora on the first night of Passover. They reclined and listened with respect as Meyer told the story of his people's journey across the desert in search of the Promised Land, they enjoyed the melodic songs, and they bowed their heads respectfully during the prayers.

"Pour the last of the wine, Meyer," Rose said, finally. "I sense that our guests are growing hungry."

Meyer poured a small amount of prayer wine for each person, though he knew that his Muslem guests did not drink. He was emptying the last of the carafe into a large goblet set aside for the Prophet Elijah, when there came a knock at the door. Meyer's hand jerked in surprise and a few drops missed the large goblet and landed on his wife's handwoven tablecloth. He grimaced; there was little more where that had come from. The extra glass of wine they poured each year — the extra place setting at the table was a tradition he would never have ignored. But for a stranger to know the exact moment in the Seder bordered on miraculous.

"Timing is everything," he said, thinking, the Prophet has a good nose.

"Go, Devora. Open the door for our visitor," he said, addressing his sixteen-year-old daughter.

She was not surprised, for each year at Passover her father had not so subtly knocked under the table and instructed her youngest brother to open the door and welcome the Prophet Elijah. Of course, there had never been anyone there, though her father said that Elijah's spirit entered.

Not so this time.

Standing at the door in the darkness was a robed stranger, a tall man whose handsome face spoke of unbearable weariness. Slightly behind him stood a second man whose appearance and bearing cast him in the role of manservant.

"Welcome to our home," Meyer said, beckoning the strangers to the table and thinking that Rose would have to set yet another place. "It may not be much, but it is one of the best in Mea Shearim."

Gesturing first to his manservant in such a manner that it was apparent he would remain outside, the Stranger entered Meyer's house. He did not remove his robe, nor did he look into the eyes of his host.

"Will you pray with us over the wine?" Meyer asked, thinking that he must remember later to have Devora take food and wine outside to the manservant.

The man sat but did not speak, neither did he eat or drink, even after the prayers were done. He was dark and swarthy, but did not seem to be of Jerusalem.

"What road have you travelled, Stranger?" Meyer asked, wondering if the man had been sent to observe the blood rites of which the Jews were accused. If so, he would leave disappointed.

"I travel the Road of Humanitatis," the man said.

Those were all the words he spoke.

When the meal was over, there was one more tradition to be observed before the final song could be sung. Earlier, Devora — the oldest and the youngest had hidden a piece of unleavened bread known as the Afikomen . Now she was sent to retrieve it.

"Let our daughter also take food and wine to the man who is outside in the moonlight," Meyer said to Rose. "She will be rewarded for returning the Afikomen to the table," Meyer explained to his guests, "for without it the Seder cannot be completed. It will not take long for her to find it. Rose and I watched her hide it in the garden."

After a few moments, when Devora had not returned, the Stranger stood as if to leave. Meyer bade him Godspeed and glanced at the family of Hamid el Faisir, wishing they too would depart. Despite his best efforts it had been a strained night; he wanted it to be over.

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 arbour 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 behaviours 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 evily 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 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 that might bring more trouble into their midst.

Again, Hamid el Faisir, who had reported favourably 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 meagre 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 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 travelled 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 is a Chicago-area writer with twelve published novels and sixty-plus stories to her credit. Her latest solo book is the suspense novel , That's Not My Name, and she has also written a number of media tie-in books such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Paleo, Species, and others. In the limited time between a score of ongoing writing projects and her study of martial arts, she dreams, still, of relocating to the never-ending sunshine and heat of the American southwest .

" '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 small-town, 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 name tag 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 spit-shined 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 scepticism. "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 towards 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-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 any more."

"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 spectre 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 aluminium 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 towards 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 on to the coffee table, reaching eagerly for one of the mugs. Sondra sank on to 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 meagre 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?

"Okay," McShaw said after a moment. He made no move to pick up the clipboard he'd set on the table next to his pen. "Tell us about the other two times."

"I thought I saw him when I took the babies to the paediatrician at the free clinic last Tuesday," Sondra said hoarsely. She was proud of the way she kept her voice from shaking, from giving away her petty deception. "Following us again. But it was too crowded there and when we got out it was rush hour. He was gone."

"You thought?"

Sondra nodded but didn't elaborate. Let them discount this one if they wanted; it was a lie anyway, mere icing on an already poisoned cake.

"And when was the other time?"

"Last night. I took the babies up to the park for the fall festival. He w-was there, and he followed us home."

McShaw leaned forward. "Ms Underwood, if he followed you home last night, why did you wait until this morning to call us?"

Sondra looked at her hands, the knuckles red from scrubbing furiously at the filth of this place, the fingernails strangely white under the edges from baby powder. "I-I don't know," she whispered. "I guess I was hoping he would just go away, but when I got up this morning and I thought about it, I realized that's probably not going to happen."

"Has he ever tried to make contact? Threatened you?" Walters's voice was smooth and vaguely sweet , like one of those expensive frozen drinks the upscale restaurants served. She thought she heard all kinds of innuendo in it, as rich and varied as the variety of liquors dumped into the exotic glasses edged with garnishes made of fruit and plastic sticks.

Sondra's gaze found his unwillingly and she lost herself for a single, panicked moment, snapped back in time to answer before McShaw noticed her lag. "No." With a dying feeling, she realized how lame all of this must sound and she had to force the answer past her stiff lips. She had called too soon, they would never believe her; she was alone in her efforts to protect Mallory and Meleena, as she had been from the moment of their birth:

"We're going to have to call a doctor" the midwife said grimly. Sondra lifted her head and saw the woman's heavy, black face peering back at her through the inverted triangle of her spread legs and over the spasming mound of her bloated stomach. Apprehension made her southside accent run the words together. " You're bleeding too much and you've been in labour way too long."

" No doctor," Sondra hissed. The refusal ended in a scream as agony rippled through her uterus, as if the child inside were trying to tear its way through the prison of tissue and mother's blood. Had it heard the midwife's words and realized the danger of prolonging her agony? "It's coming now!" she screamed and pushed, bore down as she had never done before to expel the thing within her body that was trying to kill her .

" I see it — push again!" The midwife's hands were warm and wet with Sondra's blood and they pried at her ravaged flesh for a moment, then locked around something huge and painful. "I've got the head. Come on, Sondra — if you don't keep pushing you'll kill it and yourself besides !"

Sondra screamed again and dug into the sides of the mattress with her fingernails, felt the decrepit fabric tear at the same time as the child shot from her body with a wave of pain that nearly made her lose consciousness. Dear God, she thought disjointedly as she fought to find her breath, why hadn't the mound of her stomach grown smaller? Was it afterbirth — could the fruits of her coupling have filled her with that much dark debris?

She was still panting from Mallory's birth when deep within her belly the fire began anew, making her writhe on the soaked sheets and open her mouth in a scream too huge to be heard. The midwife was there in an instant, her large, slick hands working at Sondra's belly, kneading and pressing.

"Twins!" she declared. "Hold on, girl there's another one coming!"

Sondra's wail found substance as a second child forced its way free. Something deep inside her relaxed and let her breathe, disregarded the short, puny cramps that followed as the midwife worked her stomach to get Sondra's body to eject the bloody afterbirth. "What?" Sondra finally managed, sucking in welcome air as she fought to sit up. "W-what are they?"

"Girls," the midwife said, turning back to the changing table. "Just as healthy as can be, too. A little over six-and-a-half pounds each — big for twins." Despite her assurances, the black woman's voice was reserved, puzzled. Exhausted, Sondra listened to the splash of water from the basin as the midwife expertly sponged down the infants, then wrapped them in receiving blankets.

"Can I see?"

"Here you go. One for each arm."

Warmth settled on either side of her and Sondra tucked her chin to her chest for a glimpse of her babies. Sleeping already, come into the world without so much as a whimper; tiny fingers bunched into loose fists, delicate lips still bluish-purple but pinkening by the second. Their heads were crowned with thick, dark hair above perfect eyebrows and petite, titled noses; as she gazed at them, the second one — Meleena — spread her heart-shaped mouth in a barely discernible yawn .

Sondra jerked and both babies opened their eyes and regarded her solemnly. "What was that?" she asked. Her voice was shaking.

For a moment the midwife said nothing, then the big woman folded her hands in front of her as though she were trying to pray unobtrusively. "Something I've never seen on a newborn," she said at last. "Teeth."

And now Sondra faced a new danger: Walters . There was something about him that reminded her of the twins' father, an elusive call to forbidden sexuality that she'd thought only one man, one creature , possessed.

"Open your legs."

"No!"

"Bear my children."

She gasped when someone touched her arm, then realized it was McShaw. "Are you all right, Ms Underwood? You don't look like you feel very well."

"I'm f-fine," Sondra stammered. "Tired, that's all. It's hard to get a good night's sleep with two crying babies." She clamped her lips shut, abruptly afraid she was whining. It was another lie anyway; the twins never cried. Her sleep was broken by the stealthy creaking of the stairs in the hallway outside the apartment, a thousand phantom shadows in the corners of the dark rooms, the hushed rasp of steel fingernails along the bottom of the too-flimsy front door.

Walters nodded sympathetically and for a moment she had the absurd notion that he could read her mind. "Of course," he said. "We understand."

Sondra bit back a sharp remark and they both stood, as if some invisible puppet master had pulled the "up" strings simultaneously. She found herself watching the subtle movement of muscles beneath the taut fabric of Walters's uniform, then flushed when her gaze travelled to his face and she realized he was watching her watch him. For the first time she noticed that his eyes were a strange yellowish colour unlike anything she'd ever seen, the stare of a lion surveying its prey.

"If you see him again, you call 911," McShaw said. "Plus we'll put your building down for a few extra drive-bys every shift, try to make the squad cars more visible. Until you give us something more concrete, that's about all we can do. I'm sorry." The chunkier cop looked down at his clipboard and frowned. "It doesn't seem like he's ever got close enough for you to get a solid description."

Sondra opened her mouth, then shut it again when Walters ran his cat-coloured gaze across her. She'd been about to say He looks like him, and point to Officer Walters; horrified, she put a trembling hand to her mouth and prayed McShaw wouldn't see her shivering. Was there that much of a resemblance? No, of course not.

Of course not.

Open your legs.

Walters was the last of the two to go out the front door. She didn't know why the tense words came, but when he looked back at her, all she could say was, "He wants the twins."

He nodded. "I know." Before she could close the door, he reached back through the opening and placed his fingers lightly on her wrist — a speed search for the hot pulse of life just below the skin? — then glanced surreptitiously towards his partner's retreating back, as though he were her colleague in some great and secret conspiracy. "I'll be in touch," he whispered.

I will fill you with blood and fire.

Sondra slammed the front door and stood trembling with anticipation and terror.

The babies were bathed and fed and put down for the night. They lay crowded against each other in the playpen — she couldn't afford a crib — content and quiet, like two halves of a whole. Sondra watched them for a while, knowing they wouldn't close their eyes for hours, wondering what they'd be like when they grew up. Right now they were small for their age, but would they catch up later? Go through one of those amazing growth spurts that parents were always crowing about and paediatricians predicted with nauseating regularity? She wished she could think of a way to keep them small and safe for ever, by her side and without the sweet, dangerous offering of the rest of the world.

After a while she went into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. Her image was shell-shocked and pale, a thin face with prominent cheekbones and a nondescript nose, hazel eyes undercut with purple shadows of exhaustion. Budget shopping and constant worrying had made her gaunt and graceless, left her mouth an oversized flesh-coloured slash across the bottom part of her face. Even her brown hair was nothing special — cut to shoulder length, then falling into a stupid wave that made the ends go in all directions. What was it about her that drew them? Why her ?

"Because you are one among millions, Sondra."

She spun with a slow-motion movement that felt like she was trying to turn underwater. "You!"

Officer Walters gave her a handsome smile. "I told you I'd be in touch."

Sondra took a step backward, felt the sharp edge of the cheap drawer pull dig into her spine. For a moment she thought it was teeth and her knees tried to buckle; she locked her muscles and felt behind her for reassurance — an old, bent brass handle, that's all. "How-how did you get in?"

"The door was unlocked."

"That's impossible," she said hotly. "I didn't"

He was standing in front of her before she had time to form her next word, the width of the room no more than a blink between them. Whatever she was going to say broke off when his hand, cool and white and alarmingly powerful, reached up to cup her jaw. His thumb skated delicately along the line of bone, then skipped up to trace her lips. "I think you left it open for me…"

"No!"

"Didn't you?" Walters leaned over her, his face only an inch away. His breath was thick and meaty but not unpleasant, a cool, unnatural draught against her cheeks. He looked different than he had earlier, as if the chunky, donut-plied town cop were only a costume he donned to give stereotypical service to the public job and complement his partner's rotund figure. The basic features were still there, but now he looked like a predator, something long and sleek and dark; a panther, slipping through the night that was her life and ready to ambush its quarry.

"Please," she heard herself say. She wanted to cry but her eyes were as dry as her mouth. "Don't touch me."

"You don't mean that," Walters murmured against her neck as he grasped her upper arms and pulled her from the bathroom and into the cramped kitchen. Sondra tried to turn her head and made the monumental mistake of locking gazes with him. Immediately she felt like she was dropping through space, an exhilarating dive from a hundred-storey building and no concern about the unyielding earth rushing up to crash into her; she would have tilted sideways except that he was pressed fully against her now, holding her, the temperature of his skin bleeding through both his clothes and hers.

"Open yourself to me, Sondra."

His voice had deepened and twisted and sounded so much like the other's that a moan of dread made it past her lips. Shivering violently, she could be lying face down on a blanket of finished leather for all the heat she felt from his muscular chest, the hard plane of his stomach, the firm pressure of his thighs. Her heart was slamming in her chest long before his fingers hooked around the collar of her blouse and tore it open.

" You can do this for me, make a miracle. Let me be inside you . . ."

"I am not a fucking breeding farm!" Sondra wailed. "Get away from me!" She tried to beat at him but she was pinned against the wall, the refrigerator, against something that made it impossible to escape. When his hands slid over her breasts and cupped them, then began to massage away the chill of his own touch, she wanted to screech as she unwillingly pressed her hips against his and her fingers tangled in the heavy locks of his hair to yank him closer.

" I can make you warm again, my sweet. I can fulfil you. With blood . . ."

His teeth, so sharp and wet, scratched along the line of her neck and sent a spike of pleasure into the deepest pit of her stomach.

" and fire ."

In response, damning herself the entire time, she started tearing at his clothes, desperate to feel his wintry flesh against her heat, shuddering with the need to cool the fire he'd started inside her. Sondra screamed as he took her standing against a kitchen cabinet, then screamed again when she came and remembered she didn't even know his first name.

"Nicholas will come for you," Sondra said woodenly. It was the first time she'd spoken the other's name aloud since the night sixteen months before when he had first possessed her mind and body in a basement bedroom more than 500 miles away. Perhaps she deserved all of this for letting him bewitch her so easily back then, allowing him to pick her up in a bar and enchant her into following him docilely into his loft apartment with the huge windows and black-sheeted, oversized bed. But how well she had suffered for her weakness! She should have been stronger then; she should have been stronger tonight. But she was nothing to Nicholas, or to Walters, a poorly used and ragged feather, blown crazily about by the wind of their cravings. "He might even kill you."

Her words were slurred with cold, her legs still sticky with the testimony of their mating. The dull tiles of the kitchen floor beneath her bare skin were freezing, the unseasonable cold outside seeping through the concrete foundation and crawling up her limbs and lower back. She wanted to move, get up and huddle within something warm until she could feel her blood pulse once again in her veins, but Walters had wrapped his legs and arms around her from behind like a giant spider sucking the essence out of its juiciest kill. Even the cockroaches had gone, fled from this oh-so-superior hunter.

"Nicholas only wants to see his children," Walters said against her hair. His lips nuzzled the strands, tongue flicking out now and then to taste. "If you allow him a meagre visit every so often, everyone will be happier. His mind is younger, more fickle. His life has lacked experience and the babies will prove overwhelming — I doubt he'll even stay. Instead you run from place to place like a terrified jackrabbit with her offspring, forcing him to follow and calling the police every time he comes too close. But I am not so foolish or irresponsible as brother Nicholas, my love."

"What do you mean, brother? What are you talking about?" Panicked by the realization that he knew their pursuer was actually the twins' father, Sondra tried to twist out of Walters's grasp and face him, but the arm across her ribcage was like a tight steel band. She started kicking at his feet in frustration and his free hand dipped between her legs and stroked; behind her spine he began to harden again and he ground his hipbones against her and started to rock. Gasping with shame and pleasure, her hands gripped his knees as her legs parted and she arched to meet his fingers. She forgot the icy kitchen floor and the disappearing cockroaches and most of everything else as Walters probed and readied her, finally raised her whole body effortlessly and settled it on his. Beyond the orgasm pounding through her senses, Sondra still managed her strangled question. "What did you mean ?"

" I thought it was clear ," Walters said. His voice had deepened to the familiar sexual growl and he rolled forward with her, still joined, until Sondra was on her knees beneath him. One of his large hands slipped beneath her left arm and encircled her throat; he didn't squeeze — never that — simply held tight enough to feel the hot rush of her pulse through the artery so close to his killing fingers. The feel of her blood excited him more and he drove deeper into her, making her cry out in surprise and spiralling ecstasy. His other arm snaked across her hipbones and lifted until her knees were clear of the floor and she dangled from his body with only her fisted hands to keep her face from banging against the tiles. Flopping loosely in the air while he fucked her like she was some kind of whore doll, Sondra would have been furious except for the tenderness in his dark voice and the convulsions of rapture that were enveloping her. The words in her ear were like ice-crusted velvet as his mouth grazed the soft juncture of her throat and shoulder and left another barely bloody scratch for him to suckle like an infant.

"Remember what I said, Sondra? You're one among millions, able to do something that should be treasured. And I will do just that. I will exalt you and place you above all else, for ever."

Sondra didn't know if it was his next words and the way his hand moved from her throat to caress her waiting belly, her rippling, final orgasm, or her sanity giving way that made her begin to shriek as he came and filled her with a blazing, blood-streaked icy liquid and passion.

"Unlike my twin brother Nicholas, I will be with you at every moment as you carry my precious sons and bear them into this world."

Luella Miller

Mary E. Wilkins-Freeman

Mary Eleanor Wilkins (1852-1930) was born in Randolph, Massachusetts. Her husband, Dr Charles Freeman, was an alcoholic who was committed to the state hospital for the insane in 1920, where he died three years later.

Having made her literary debut in 1881 with a ballad for children, her poems and fiction appeared in a number of publications. A member of the regionalist "local colour" movement of American fiction, she wrote twelve novels, including Jane Field (1893) , The Shoulders of Atlas (1908) and The Butterfly House (1912), and some of her more than 200 short stories are collected in A Humble Romance and Other Stories (1887) , A New England Nun and Other Stories (1891) and The Best Stories of Mary E. Wilkins (1927). In 1926, the author received the William Dean Howells Gold Medal for Fiction from the American Academy of Letters .

During her lifetime, only six of the author's supernatural stories were collected between hardcovers, in The Wind in the Rose-Bush and Other Stories of the Supernatural (1903). The 1974 Arkham House volume , Collected Ghost Stories, added five more .

One of her most famous stories was adapted for the 1970 episode "Certain Shadows on the Wall" of the TV series Rod Serling's Night Gallery. It is a pity that nobody has yet attempted to film the classic vampire tale that follows

Close to the village street stood the one-storey house in which Luella Miller, who had an evil name in the village, had dwelled. She had been dead for years, yet there were those in the village who, in spite of the clearer light which comes on a vantage-point from a long-past danger, half believed in the tale which they had heard from their childhood. In their hearts, although they scarcely would have owned it, was a survival of the wild horror and frenzied fear of their ancestors who had dwelled in the same age with Luella Miller. Young people even would stare with a shudder at the old house as they passed, and children never played around it as was their wont around an untenanted building. Not a window in the old Miller house was broken: the panes reflected the morning sunlight in patches of emerald and blue, and the latch of the sagging front door was never lifted, although no bolt secured it. Since Luella Miller had been carried out of it, the house had had no tenant except one friendless old soul who had no choice between that and the far-off shelter of the open sky. This old woman, who had survived her kindred and friends, lived in the house one week, then one morning no smoke came out of the chimney, and a body of neighbours, a score strong, entered and found her dead in her bed. There were dark whispers as to the cause of her death, and there were those who testified to an expression of fear so exalted that it showed forth the state of the departing soul upon the dead face. The old woman had been hale and hearty when she entered the house, and in seven days she was dead; it seemed that she had fallen a victim to some uncanny power. The minister talked in the pulpit with covert severity against the sin of superstition; still the belief prevailed. Not a soul in the village but would have chosen the almshouse rather than that dwelling. No vagrant, if he heard the tale, would seek shelter beneath that old roof, unhallowed by nearly half a century of superstitious fear.

There was only one person in the village who had actually known Luella Miller. That person was a woman well over eighty, but a marvel of vitality and unextinct youth. Straight as an arrow, with the spring of one recently let loose from the bow of life, she moved about the streets, and she always went to church, rain or shine. She had never married, and had lived alone for years in a house across the road from Luella Miller's.

This woman had none of the garrulousness of age, but never in all her life had she ever held her tongue for any will save her own, and she never spared the truth when she essayed to present it. She it was who bore testimony to the life, evil, though possibly wittingly or designedly so, of Luella Miller, and to her personal appearance. When this old woman spoke — and she had the gift of description, although her thoughts were clothed in the rude vernacular of her native village one could seem to see Luella Miller as she had really looked. According to this woman, Lydia Anderson by name, Luella Miller had been a beauty of a type rather unusual in New England. She had been a slight, pliant sort of creature, as ready with a strong yielding to fate and as unbreakable as a willow. She had glimmering lengths of straight, fair hair, which she wore softly looped round a long, lovely face. She had blue eyes full of soft pleading, little slender, clinging hands, and a wonderful grace of motion and attitude.

"Luella Miller used to sit in a way nobody else could if they sat up and studied a week of Sundays," said Lydia Anderson, "and it was a sight to see her walk. If one of them willows over there on the edge of the brook could start up and get its roots free of the ground, and move off, it would go just the way Luella Miller used to. She had a green shot silk she used to wear, too, and a hat with green ribbon streamers, and a lace veil blowing across her face and out sideways, and a green ribbon flyin' from her waist. That was what she came out bride in when she married Erastus Miller. Her name before she was married was Hill. There was always a sight of 'ls' in her name, married or single. Erastus Miller was good-lookin', too, better lookin' than Luella. Sometimes I used to think that Luella wa'n't so handsome after all. Erastus just about worshipped her. I used to know him pretty well. He lived next door to me, and we went to school together. Folks used to say he was waitin' on me, but he wa'n't. I never thought he was except once or twice when he said things that some girls might have suspected meant somethin'. That was before Luella came here to teach the district school. It was funny how she came to get it, for folks said she hadn't any education, and that one of the big girls, Lottie Henderson, used to do all the teachin' for her, while she sat back and did embroidery work on a cambric pocket-handkerchief. Lottie Henderson was a real smart girl, a splendid scholar, and she just set her eyes by Luella, as all the girls did. Lottie would have made a real smart woman, but she died when Luella had been here about a year — just faded away and died: nobody knew what ailed her. She dragged herself to that schoolhouse and helped Luella teach till the very last minute. The committee all knew how Luella didn't do much of the work herself, but they winked at it. It wa'n't long after Lottie died that Erastus married her. I always thought he hurried it up because she wa'n't fit to teach. One of the big boys used to help her after Lottie died, but he hadn't much government, and the school didn't do very well, and Luella might have had to give it up, for the committee couldn't have shut their eyes to things much longer. The boy that helped her was a real honest, innocent sort of fellow, and he was a good scholar, too. Folks said he over-studied, and that was the reason he was took crazy the year after Luella married, but I don't know. And I don't know what made Erastus Miller go into consumption of the blood the year after he was married: consumption wa'n't in his family. He just grew weaker and weaker, and went almost bent double when he tried to wait on Luella, and he spoke feeble, like an old man. He worked terrible hard till the last trying to save up a little to leave Luella. I've seen him out in the worst storms on a wood-sled — he used to cut and sell wood — and he was hunched up on top lookin' more dead than alive. Once I couldn't stand it: I went over and helped him pitch some wood on the cart I was always strong in my arms. I wouldn't stop for all he told me to, and I guess he was glad enough for the help. That was only a week before he died. He fell on the kitchen floor while he was gettin' breakfast. He always got the breakfast and let Luella lay abed. He did all the sweepin' and the washin' and the ironin' and most of the cookin'. He couldn't bear to have Luella lift her finger, and she let him do for her. She lived like a queen for all the work she did. She didn't even do her sewin'. She said it made her shoulder ache to sew, and poor Erastus's sister Lily used to do all her sewin'. She wa'n't able to, either; she was never strong in her back, but she did it beautifully. She had to, to suit Luella, she was so dreadful particular. I never saw anythin' like the fagottin' and hemstitchin' that Lily Miller did for Luella. She made all Luella's weddin' outfit, and that green silk dress, after Maria Babbit cut it. Maria she cut it for nothin', and she did a lot more cuttin' and fittin' for nothin' for Luella, too. Lily Miller went to live with Luella after Erastus died. She gave up her home, though she was real attached to it and wa'n't a mite afraid to stay alone. She rented it and she went to live with Luella right away after the funeral."

Then this old woman, Lydia Anderson, who remembered Luella Miller, would go on to relate the story of Lily Miller. It seemed that on the removal of Lily Miller to the house of her dead brother, to live with his widow, the village people first began to talk. This Lily Miller had been hardly past her first youth, and a most robust and blooming woman, rosy-cheeked, with curls of strong, black hair overshadowing round, candid temples and bright dark eyes. It was not six months after she had taken up her residence with her sister-in-law that her rosy colour faded and her pretty curves become wan hollows. White shadows began to show in the black rings of her hair, and the light died out of her eyes, her features sharpened, and there were pathetic lines at her mouth, which yet wore always an expression of utter sweetness and even happiness. She was devoted to her sister; there was no doubt that she loved her with her whole heart, and was perfectly content in her service. It was her sole anxiety lest she should die and leave her alone.

"The way Lily Miller used to talk about Luella was enough to make you mad and enough to make you cry," said Lydia Anderson. "I've been in there sometimes towards the last when she was too feeble to cook and carried her some blancmange or custard — somethin' I thought she might relish, and she'd thank me, and when I asked her how she was, say she felt better than she did yesterday, and asked me if I didn't think she looked better, dreadful pitiful, and say poor Luella had an awful time takin' care of her and doin' the work — she wa'n't strong enough to do anythin' when all the time Luella wa'n't liftin' her finger and poor Lily didn't get any care except what the neighbours gave her, and Luella eat up everythin' that was carried in for Lily. I had it real straight that she did. Luella used to just sit and cry and do nothin'. She did act real fond of Lily, and she pined away considerable, too. There was those that thought she'd go into a decline herself. But after Lily died, her Aunt Abby Mixter came, and then Luella picked up and grew as fat and rosy as ever. But poor Aunt Abby begun to droop just the way Lily had, and I guess somebody wrote to her married daughter, Mrs Sam Abbot, who lived in Barre, for she wrote her mother that she must leave right away and come and make her a visit, but Aunt Abby wouldn't go. I can see her now. She was a real good-lookin' woman, tall and large, with a big, square face and a high forehead that looked of itself kind of benevolent and good. She just tended out on Luella as if she had been a baby, and when her married daughter sent for her she wouldn't stir one inch. She'd always thought a lot of her daughter, too, but she said Luella needed her and her married daughter didn't. Her daughter kept writin' and writin', but it didn't do any good. Finally she came, and when she saw how bad her mother looked, she broke down and cried and all but went on her knees to have her come away. She spoke her mind out to Luella, too. She told her that she'd killed her husband and everybody that had anythin' to do with her, and she'd thank her to leave her mother alone. Luella went into hysterics, and Aunt Abby was so frightened that she called me after her daughter went. Mrs Sam Abbot she went away fairly cryin' out loud in the buggy, the neighbours heard her, and well she might, for she never saw her mother again alive. I went in that night when Aunt Abby called for me, standin' in the door with her little green-checked shawl over her head. I can see her now. 'Do come over here, Miss Anderson,' she sung out, kind of gasping for breath. I didn't stop for anythin'. I put over as fast as I could, and when I got there, there was Luella laughin' and cryin' all together, and Aunt Abby trying to hush her, and all the time she herself was white as a sheet and shakin' so she could hardly stand. 'For the land sakes, Mrs Mixter,' says I, 'you look worse than she does. You ain't fit to be up out of your bed.'

" 'Oh, there ain't anythin' the matter with me,' says she. Then she went on talkin' to Luella. 'There, there, don't, don't, poor little lamb,' says she. 'Aunt Abby is here. She ain't goin' away and leave you. Don't, poor little lamb.'

" 'Do leave her with me, Mrs Mixter, and you get back to bed,' says I, for Aunt Abby had been layin' down considerable lately, though somehow she contrived to do the work.

" 'I'm well enough,' says she. 'Don't you think she had better have the doctor, Miss Anderson?'

" 'The doctor,' says I, 'I think you had better have the doctor. I think you need him much worse than some folks I could mention.' And I looked right straight at Luella Miller laughin' and cryin' and goin' on as if she was the centre of all creation. All the time she was actin' so — seemed as if she was too sick to sense anythin' — she was keepin' a sharp lookout as to how we took it out of the corner of one eye. I see her. You could never cheat me about Luella Miller. Finally I got real mad and I run home and I got a bottle of valerian I had, and I poured some boilin' hot water on a handful of catnip, and I mixed up that catnip tea with most half a wineglass of valerian, and I went with it over to Luella's. I marched right up to Luella, a-holdin' out of that cup, all smokin'. "Now," says I, "Luella Miller, you swaller this!"

" 'What is — what is it, oh, what is it?' she sort of screeches out. Then she goes off a-laughin' enough to kill.

" 'Poor lamb, poor little lamb,' says Aunt Abby, standin' over her, all kind of tottery, and tryin' to bathe her head with camphor.

" ' You swaller this right down ,' says I. And I didn't waste any ceremony. I just took hold of Luella Miller's chin and I tipped her head back, and I caught her mouth open with laughin', and I clapped that cup to her lips and I fairly hollered at her: 'Swaller, swaller, swaller!' and she gulped it right down. She had to, and I guess it did her good. Anyhow, she stopped cryin' and laughin' and let me put her to bed, and she went to sleep like a baby inside of half an hour. That was more than poor Aunt Abby did. She lay awake all that night and I stayed with her, though she tried not to have me; said she wa'n't sick enough for watchers. But I stayed, and I made some good cornmeal gruel and I fed her a teaspoon every little while all night long. It seemed to me as if she was jest dyin' from bein' all wore out. In the mornin' as soon as it was light I run over to the Bisbees and sent Johnny Bisbee for the doctor. I told him to tell the doctor to hurry, and he come pretty quick. Poor Aunt Abby didn't seem to know much of anythin' when he got there. You couldn't hardly tell she breathed, she was so used up. When the doctor had gone, Luella came into the room lookin' like a baby in her ruffled nightgown. I can see her now. Her eyes were as blue and her face all pink and white like a blossom, and she looked at Aunt Abby in the bed sort of innocent and surprised. 'Why,' says she, 'Aunt Abby ain't got up yet?'

" 'No, she ain't,' says I, pretty short.

" 'I thought I didn't smell the coffee,' says Luella.

" 'Coffee,' says I. 'I guess if you have coffee this mornin' you'll make it yourself.'

" 'I never made the coffee in all my life,' says she, dreadful astonished. 'Erastus always made the coffee as long as he lived, and then Lily she made it, and then Aunt Abby made it. I don't believe I can make the coffee, Miss Anderson.'

" 'You can make it or go without, jest as you please,' says I.

" 'Ain't Aunt Abby goin' to get up?' says she.

" 'I guess she won't get up,' says I, 'sick as she is.' I was gettin' madder and madder. There was somethin' about that little pink and white thing standin' there and talkin' about coffee, when she had killed so many better folks than she was, and had jest killed another, that made me feel 'most as if I wished somebody would up and kill her before she had a chance to do any more harm.

" 'Is Aunt Abby sick?' says Luella, as if she was sort of aggrieved and injured.

" 'Yes,' says I, 'she's sick, and she's goin' to die, and then you'll be left alone, and you'll have to do for yourself and wait on yourself, or do without things.' I don't know but I was sort of hard, but it was the truth, and if I was any harder than Luella Miller had been I'll give up. I ain't never been sorry that I said it. Well, Luella, she up and had hysterics again at that, and I jest let her have 'em. All I did was to bundle her into the room on the other side of the entry where Aunt Abby couldn't hear her, if she wa'n't past it — I don't know but she was — and set her down hard in a chair and told her not to come back into the other room, and she minded. She had her hysterics in there till she got tired. When she found out that nobody was comin' to coddle her and do for her she stopped. At least I suppose she did. I had all I could do with poor Aunt Abby tryin' to keep the breath of life in her. The doctor had told me that she was dreadful low, and give me some very strong medicine to give to her in drops real often, and told me real particular about the nourishment. Well, I did as he told me real faithful till she wa'n't able to swaller any longer. Then I had her daughter sent for. I had begun to realize that she wouldn't last any time at all. I hadn't realized it before, though I spoke to Luella the way I did. The doctor he came, and Mrs Sam Abbot, but when she got there it was too late; her mother was dead. Aunt Abby's daughter just give one look at her mother layin' there, then she turned sort of sharp and sudden and looked at me.

" 'Where is she?' says she, and I knew she meant Luella.

" 'She's out in the kitchen,' says I. 'She's too nervous to see folks die. She's afraid it will make her sick.''

"The doctor he speaks up then. He was a young man. Old Doctor Park had died the year before, and this was a young fellow just out of college. 'Mrs Miller is not strong,' says he, kind of severe, 'and she is quite right in not agitating herself.'

"You are another, young man; she's got her pretty claw on you, thinks I, but I didn't say anythin' to him. I just said over to Mrs Sam Abbot that Luella was in the kitchen, and Mrs Sam Abbot she went out there, and I went, too, and I never heard anythin' like the way she talked to Luella Miller. I felt pretty hard to Luella myself, but this was more than I ever would have dared to say. Luella she was too scared to go into hysterics. She jest flopped. She seemed to jest shrink away to nothin' in that kitchen chair, with Mrs Sam Abbot standin' over her and talkin' and tellin' her the truth. I guess the truth was most too much for her and no mistake, because Luella presently actually did faint away, and there wa'n't any sham about it, the way I always suspected there was about them hysterics. She fainted dead away and we had to lay her flat on the floor, and the doctor he came runnin' out and he said somethin' about a weak heart dreadful fierce to Mrs Sam Abbot, but she wa'n't a mite scared. She faced him jest as white as even Luella was layin' there lookin' like death and the doctor feelin' of her pulse.

" 'Weak heart,' says she, 'weak heart; weak fiddlesticks! There ain't nothin' weak about that woman. She's got strength enough to hang onto other folks till she kills 'em. Weak? It was my poor mother that was weak: this woman killed her as sure as if she had taken a knife to her.'

"But the doctor he didn't pay much attention. He was bendin' over Luella layin' there with her yellow hair all strea-min' and her pretty pink and white face all pale, and her blue eyes like stars gone out, and he was holdin' onto her hand and smoothin' her forehead, and tellin' me to get the brandy in Aunt Abby's room, and I was sure as I wanted to be that Luella had got somebody else to hang onto, now Aunt Abby was gone, and I thought of poor Erastus Miller, and I sort of pitied the poor young doctor, led away by a pretty face, and I made up my mind I'd see what I could do.

"I waited till Aunt Abby had been dead and buried about a month, and the doctor was goin' to see Luella steady and folks were beginnin' to talk; then one evenin', when I knew the doctor had been called out of town and wouldn't be round, I went over to Luella's. I found her all dressed up in a blue muslin with white polka dots on it, and her hair curled jest as pretty, and there wa'n't a young girl in the place could compare with her. There was somethin' about Luella Miller seemed to draw the heart right out of you, but she didn't draw it out of me . She was settin' rocking in the chair by her sittin'-room window, and Maria Brown had gone home. Maria Brown had been in to help her, or rather to do the work, for Luella wa'n't helped when she didn't do anythin'. Maria Brown was real capable and she didn't have any ties; she wa'n't married, and lived alone, so she'd offered. I couldn't see why she should do the work any more than Luella; she wa'n't any too strong; but she seemed to think she could and Luella seemed to think so, too, so she went over and did all the work — washed and ironed and baked, while Luella sat and rocked. Maria didn't live long afterwards. She began to fade away just the same fashion the others had. Well, she was warned, but she acted real mad when folks said anythin': said Luella was a poor, abused woman, too delicate to help herself, and they'd ought to be ashamed, and if she died helpin' them that couldn't help themselves she would — and she did.

" 'I's'pose Maria has gone home,' says I to Luella, when I had gone in and sat down opposite her.

" 'Yes, Maria went half an hour ago, after she had got supper and washed the dishes,' says Luella, in her pretty way.

" 'I suppose she has got a lot of work to do in her own house tonight,' says I, kind of bitter, but that was all thrown away on Luella Miller. It seemed to her right that other folks that wa'n't any better able than she was herself should wait on her, and she couldn't get it through her head that anybody should think it wa'n't right.

" 'Yes,' says Luella, real sweet and pretty, 'yes, she said she had to do her washin' tonight. She has let it go for a fortnight along of comin' over here.'

" 'Why don't she stay home and do her washin' instead of comin' over here and doin' your work, when you are just as well able, and enough sight more so, than she is to do it?' says I.

"Then Luella she looked at me like a baby who has a rattle shook at it. She sort of laughed as innocent as you please. 'Oh, I can't do the work myself, Miss Anderson,' says she. 'I never did. Maria has to do it.'

"Then I spoke out: 'Has to do it!' says I. 'Has to do it! She don't have to do it, either. Maria Brown has her own home and enough to live on. She ain't beholden to you to come over here and slave for you and kill herself.'

"Luella she jest set and stared at me for all the world like a doll-baby that was so abused that it was comin' to life.

" 'Yes,' says I, 'she's killin' herself. She's goin' to die just the way Erastus did, and Lily, and your Aunt Abby. You're killin' her jest as you did them. I don't know what there is about you, but you seem to bring a curse,' says I. 'You kill everybody that is fool enough to care anythin' about you and do for you.'

"She stared at me and she was pretty pale.

" 'And Maria ain't the only one you're goin' to kill,' says I. 'You're goin' to kill Doctor Malcom before you're done with him.'

"Then a red colour came flamin' all over her face. 'I ain't goin' to kill him, either,' says she, and she begun to cry.

" 'Yes, you be!' says I. Then I spoke as I had never spoke before. You see, I felt it on account of Erastus. I told her that she hadn't any business to think of another man after she'd been married to one that had died for her: that she was a dreadful woman; and she was, that's true enough, but sometimes I have wondered lately if she knew it — if she wa'n't like a baby with scissors in its hand cuttin' everybody without knowin' what it was doin'.

"Luella she kept gettin' paler and paler, and she never took her eyes off my face. There was somethin' awful about the way she looked at me and never spoke one word. After a while I quit talkin' and I went home. I watched that night, but her lamp went out before nine o'clock, and when Doctor Malcom came drivin' past and sort of slowed up he see there wa'n't any light and he drove along. I saw her sort of shy out of meetin' the next Sunday, too, so he shouldn't go home with her, and I begun to think mebbe she did have some conscience after all. It was only a week after that that Maria Brown died — sort of sudden at the last, though everybody had seen it was comin'. Well, then there was a good deal of feelin' and pretty dark whispers. Folks said the days of witchcraft had come again, and they were pretty shy of Luella. She acted sort of offish to the doctor and he didn't go there, and there wa'n't anybody to do anythin' for her. I don't know how she did get along. I wouldn't go in there and offer to help her — not because I was afraid of dyin' like the rest but I thought she was just as well able to do her own work as I was to do it for her, and I thought it was about time that she did it and stopped killin' other folks. But it wa'n't very long before folks began to say that Luella herself was goin' into a decline jest the way her husband, and Lily, and Aunt Abby and the others had, and I saw myself that she looked pretty bad. I used to see her goin' past from the store with a bundle as if she could hardly crawl, but I remembered how Erastus used to wait and 'tend when he couldn't hardly put one foot before the other, and I didn't go out to help her.

"But at last one afternoon I saw the doctor come drivin' up like mad with his medicine chest, and Mrs Babbit came in after supper and said that Luella was real sick.

" 'I'd offer to go in and nurse her,' says she, 'but I've got my children to consider, and mebbe it ain't true what they say, but it's queer how many folks that have done for her have died.'

"I didn't say anythin', but I considered how she had been Erastus's wife and how he had set his eyes by her, and I made up my mind to go in the next mornin', unless she was better, and see what I could do; but the next mornin' I see her at the window, and pretty soon she came steppin' out as spry as you please, and a little while afterwards Mrs Babbit came in and told me that the doctor had got a girl from out of town, a Sarah Jones, to come there, and she said she was pretty sure that the doctor was goin' to marry Luella.

"I saw him kiss her in the door that night myself, and I knew it was true. The woman came that afternoon, and the way she flew around was a caution. I don't believe Luella had swept since Maria died. She swept and dusted, and washed and ironed; wet clothes and dusters and carpets were flyin' over there all day, and every time Luella set her foot out when the doctor wa'n't there there was that Sarah Jones helpin' of her up and down the steps, as if she hadn't learned to walk.

"Well, everybody knew that Luella and the doctor were goin' to be married, but it wa'n't long before they began to talk about his lookin' so poorly, jest as they had about the others; and they talked about Sarah Jones, too.

"Well, the doctor did die, and he wanted to be married first, so as to leave what little he had to Luella, but he died before the minister could get there, and Sarah Jones died a week afterwards.

"Well, that wound up everything for Luella Miller. Not another soul in the whole town would lift a finger for her. There got to be a sort of panic. Then she began to droop in good earnest. She used to have to go to the store herself, for Mrs Babbit was afraid to let Tommy go for her, and I've seen her goin' past and stoppin' every two or three steps to rest. Well, I stood it as long as I could, but one day I see her comin' with her arms full and stopping' to lean against the Babbit fence, and I run out and took her bundles and carried them to her house. Then I went home and never spoke one word to her though she called after me dreadful kind of pitiful. Well, that night I was taken sick with a chill, and I was sick as I wanted to be for two weeks. Mrs Babbit had seen me run out to help Luella and she came in and told me I was goin' to die on account of it. I didn't know whether I was or not, but I considered I had done right by Erastus's wife.

"That last two weeks Luella she had a dreadful hard time, I guess. She was pretty sick, and as near as I could make out nobody dared go near her. I don't know as she was really needin' anythin' very much, for there was enough to eat in her house and it was warm weather, and she made out to cook a little flour gruel every day, I know, but I guess she had a hard time, she that had been so petted and done for all her life.

"When I got so I could go out, I went over there one morning. Mrs Babbit had just come in to say she hadn't seen any smoke and she didn't know but what it was somebody's duty to go in, but she couldn't help thinkin' of her children, and I got right up, though I hadn't been out of the house for two weeks, and I went in there, and Luella she was layin' on the bed, and she was dyin'.

"She lasted all that day and into the night. But I sat there after the new doctor had gone away. Nobody else dared to go there. It was about midnight that I left her for a minute to run home and get some medicine I had been takin', for I begun to feel rather bad.

"It was a full moon that night, and just as I started out of my door to cross the street back to Luella's, I stopped short, for I saw something."

Lydia Anderson at this juncture always said with a certain defiance that she did not expect to be believed, and then proceeded in a hushed voice.

"I saw what I saw, and I know I saw it, and I will swear on my deathbed that I saw it. I saw Luella Miller and Erastus Miller, and Lily, and Aunt Abby, and Maria, and the doctor, and Sarah, all goin' out of her door, and all but Luella shone white in the moonlight, and they were all helpin' her along till she seemed to fairly fly in the midst of them. Then it all disappeared. I stood a minute with my heart poundin', then I went over there. I thought of goin' for Mrs Babbit, but I thought she'd be afraid. So I went alone, though I knew what had happened. Luella was layin' real peaceful, dead on her bed."

This was the story that the old woman, Lydia Anderson, told, but the sequel was told by the people who survived her, and this is the tale that has become folklore in the village.

Lydia Anderson died when she was eighty-seven. She had continued wonderfully hale and hearty for one of her years until about two weeks before her death.

One bright moonlight evening she was sitting beside a window in her parlour when she made a sudden exclamation, and was out of the house and across the street before the neighbour who was taking care of her could stop her. She followed as fast as possible and found Lydia Anderson stretched on the ground before the door of Luella Miller's deserted house, and she was quite dead.

The next night there was a red gleam of fire athwart the moonlight and the old house of Luella Miller was burned to the ground. Nothing is now left of it except a few old cellar stones and a lilac bush, and in summer a helpless trail of morning glories among the weeds, which might be considered emblematic of Luella herself.

Sangre

Lisa Tuttle

Lisa Tuttle was born in Texas, but has lived in the United Kingdom since 1980. She presently resides in Scotland with her husband and daughter. Her novels include the John W. Campbell Award-winning Windhaven (1981, with George R.R. Martin) , Familiar Spirit, Gabriel: A Novel of Reincarnation, Lost Futures, The Pillow Friend and The Changelings along with several titles aimed at young adult readers. Her short fiction has been collected in A Spaceship Built of Stone and Other Stories, A Nest of Nightmares, Memories of the Body: Tales of Desire and Transformation and My Pathology, and she has edited the anthologies Skin of the Soul and Crossing the Border: Tales of Erotic Ambiguity. Her how-to volume , Writing Fantasy and Science Fiction was recently published in A&C Black's "Writing Handbooks" series .

" Although I've often used the vampire theme metaphorically," says the author, "I think 'Sangre' is the only time I've written about a traditional, blood-drinking vampire "

Glenda stepped out of the shower and stopped before the mirror. Her hair looped up and confined beneath a shower cap left her long neck bare and made her eyes look larger and darker.

"You look Spanish," Steve said.

She didn't turn, but continued staring at herself in the mirror, her beautiful face impassive.

He put his hands on her wet shoulders, bent his head to kiss her neck.

"Dry me," she said.

He picked up a towel and patted her reverently, tenderly dry. She reached up and pulled off the cap and let her hair tumble, a flow of honey and brown, to her waist. He caught his breath.

"When is checkout?" she asked.

"Noon."

Now she turned to face him. "And then what? After we leave an hour from now, then what?"

"Anything you want. I'll take you to lunch anywhere you say, and then we'll have time to do a little shopping before you have to be at the airport. Anything you want." His eyes pleaded with her.

"Anything you want," she mimicked. Her face contorted in anger; she gave the towel he still held a jerk and wrapped it around herself. "How can you?"

"Glenda"

"I'm not talking about today! I'm talking about what after today? When I come back, do we just pretend it never happened? Do we just forget about us? How can you take me out and screw me, and then go tripping home to my mother? And what is this trip to Spain thing? Can't you handle it any more? Mother getting suspicious?"

"Darling, don't. Of course I don't want you out of the way. I love you. And I love your mother. Believe me, this is as hard for me"

"Oh, sure it is. Just tell me this: why should I be the one to lose? What happens to me after you marry my mother?"

"Sweetheart, try to understand…"

"Oh, yes, I'm the one who has to understand, and Mother's the one who doesn't suspect. Just how long do you think that's going to last?"

"In time," he said, straining for patience, for the sound of wisdom in his voice, "in time I hope we the three of us can work something out. But this is very difficult. You, you're young, while people like your mother and myself are very much shackled by the old morality; you can accept relationships that are more free and in time, maybe after your mother and I are married, the three of us can" He faltered and stopped. Her expression mocked him.

"I never lied to you," he said, suddenly defensive, suddenly angrily sure that he was making a fool of himself. "You knew what you were getting into; you knew who I was when you became my mistress"

"Mistress." She said the word with loathing, and he caught the steely glint of hatred in her eyes. He tried to recoup but before he could speak she shook her head impatiently and let the towel drop.

"Well," she said. "We've still got an hour."

Debbie opened her mouth and desperately forced a yawn as the plane began to take off. As the air pressure stabilized she turned to Glenda and said approvingly, "Your stepfather is good-looking."

"Steve's not my stepfather."

"Well, whatever. They're getting married soon, aren't they?"

"July. Right after I come back from Spain." Glenda laid her cheek against the window and shut her eyes.

"He looks awfully young."

Glenda shrugged. "A couple of years younger than my mother."

Debbie bent her dark head over her copy of The Sun Also Rises when it became obvious that Glenda was in no mood for conversation. The two had played together as children and remained friends into the same college in an undemanding, almost superficial fashion.

Glenda chewed her lip. "Look what he gave me," she said suddenly, holding out her hand. "Steve, I mean." It was a silver ring, very simple, the ends bent into a curving "S" design. It had been made for her while she watched in the narrow dark handcrafts shop, clutching Steve's hand with emotion she didn't show on her calm face.

Debbie nodded. "Pretty. He's paying for this trip, isn't he?"

"He insisted. And Mother — well, she's so hung up on him that whatever he says is fine with her."

"I think it's great," Debbie said. "Your mother getting married again. And you like him so much, too."

"Oh, we're great friends."

Their room in Sevilla had two beds, a red-brick floor and a balcony from which could be seen La Giralda, the Moorish tower. Glenda stood on the balcony in the evening, the heat of the day already fading from the air, and watched the swallows dip and soar around the tower, pink-auraed from the setting sun.

Glenda had not known why, but coming to Sevilla after the noise and cars of grey Madrid had felt like coming home. She had led Debbie (plump Debbie panting a little under her backpack) through the winding streets as if guided by something, coming upon the little hotel and finding it perfect without feeling surprise. But at the same time she felt giddy, her stomach clenched with excitement, the way she always felt on those rare occasions when she was to be alone with Steve. With evening the feeling of something impending had become stronger and Glenda felt reality slipping away from her as if it were a dream.

She put a hand to her cheek and found it unnaturally hot. She turned back into the room where Debbie was putting on a skirt.

"It's nearly eight," Debbie said. "I think it's legal to go out to dinner now."

Glenda felt herself drifting as they sat at dinner, and blamed it on the wine when Debbie commented on her inattentiveness. Things were slipping away from her. Everything seemed unnaturally bright and unreal as if she watched it on a screen in a dark, muffled room.

Once back, Glenda went straight to bed while Debbie wrote a letter to her parents.

"Sure the light won't bother you?"

"I'm sure." It was an effort to say the words. The room went spinning away from her, telescoping into another world, and Glenda slept.

She woke, her mouth dry. Debbie was a dark lump in the next bed. The shutters were open and moonlight sliced into the room. Glenda felt ragingly hot. With part of her mind she noted that fact and it registered that perhaps she was sick, with a fever. Her own body began to seem as remote to her as everything else around her.

There was someone on the balcony. Now he blocked the light, now he moved and it illuminated him. There was the tightness of terror in her throat, but her mind clicked observations into her consciousness as unemotionally as a typewriter.

He wore a cloak, and some sort of slouch-brimmed hat. Polished boots gleamed in the moonlight, and was that a sword hung at his side? Don Juan? noted a coolly amused voice within her. Come to seduce this Andalusian cutie?

Oh, really?

He made no move to enter the room and she gained some measure of courage from that, enough to raise herself on her elbows and stare at him. If he noticed her movement he made no sign. She sat up then and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The room receded and advanced dizzyingly before it settled into its detached and unreal, but at least stable, form.

He was waiting for her on the balcony. She opened her mouth to speak, to end the joke, to let him know she was awake and that, perhaps, he had come to the wrong window. But to speak seemed a desecration, a monumental undertaking of which she was not capable. He opened his arms to her, that cloaked figure, his face masked by shadow, and waited for her to step into them. She saw herself as if from a distance, a somnambulant figure in a long white gown, long hair flowing, face pale and innocent from sleep, and she watched this figure move into the waiting arms.

She looked up, he moved his head and the moonlight spilled fully across his features. She realized then that it was not Don Juan at all, but another legend entirely: the pasty face, the oddly peaked eyebrows, the parted red lips over which pointed teeth gleamed Her head fell back against his arm, her eyes closed and her sacrificial neck gleamed white and pure.

"Glenda?"

A rush of nausea hit her, she opened her eyes, stumbled, and caught herself at the railing.

"Glen, are you all right?"

Glenda turned her head and saw Debbie — no one else, only Debbie, solid and comforting in pink nylon.

"I was hot," she said, and had to clear her throat and say it again. She was hot, and very thirsty. "Is there anything to drink?"

"Part of that litre of Coke from the train. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, yes only thirsty." She gulped the Coke desperately but it burned her throat. She choked and felt sick. "G'night." She crawled back into bed and would say nothing more to Debbie, who finally sighed and went back to sleep herself.

"I hate to leave you alone," Debbie said, hovering uncertainly at the door. "How do you feel?"

Glenda lay in bed. "Really, it's nothing. I just don't feel up to anything today.. But I'm not so sick that I can't make it down three flights to get the manager or his wife if I need something. You go out sightseeing with that nice Canadian and don't worry about me. I'll get some sleep. Best thing."

"You're sure? You wouldn't rather move to a bigger hotel? So we'd have our own bathroom?"

"Of course not. I like it here."

"Well Shall I bring you anything?"

"Something to drink. A bottle of wine. I'm so thirsty."

"I don't think wine well, I'll get you something."

And finally Debbie was gone. Glenda relaxed her stranglehold on a reality that had become more strange and tenuous with every passing second. She fell.

She was on the street called Death, one of the narrow, cobbled streets bound on each side by houses painted a blinding white. The name of the street was painted in blue on a tile set into one of the houses: Muerte .

The girl had been crying. She was dirty and her face was sticky with tears and dirt. It was siesta and she was alone on the quiet street but she knew that she would not be alone for long. And they must not find her. She knew that she must leave the city for safety, but the thought of wandering alone through the countryside frightened her as much as did the thought of remaining, and so she was at an impasse, incapable of action.

If they found her, they would take their vengeance on her although she had done nothing, was innocently involved. She thought of the past month, of the widespread sickness throughout the town, of the deaths — bodies found in the street, pale and dead with the unmistakable marks upon their necks — and of the fear, the growing terror.

Her mother had taken to staying out all night, returning pale and exhausted at dawn to fall into a heavy sleep. But as she slept she smiled, and the girl, standing by the pillow and smoothing her mother's tangled hair, found the words of the townspeople creeping, unwanted, into her mind. Was it true, what they said, that she consorted with the devil? That her mother with her lover swooped through the night in the form of bats, seeking out unwary night travellers, to waylay them and drink their blood? She began to be frightened of her mother, while still loving her, and watched through half-closed eyes as she crept out every night. And finally one night had ended without bringing her mother home and the girl had been alone ever since.

She wandered, not knowing where to go, hungry and thirsty but too frightened to knock on a door and ask for wine and shelter. It grew later, and as it grew dark doors began to close and people went hurriedly in twos and threes. Once the streets had been as filled with lanterns as a summer meadow is filled with fireflies, but now there was a monster abroad.

The moon came up and gave her light and finally she came to a small plaza with a fountain in the centre. But the fountain was dead and dry and she leaned against it, crying with frustration until she was too tired to cry any more.

Something made her look up, some feeling of danger. The moon was high. A man stood in one of the four entrances to the plaza, a man draped in the folds of an all-encompassing cloak. The toes of his boots gleamed as did his eyes, two points of light beneath his slouch hat.

She kept still, hoping he had not noticed her in the shadows.

"Daughter," he said, in a voice like dry leaves in the wind.

An involuntary twitch.

"My darling daughter." He took a step forward.

She was running, never looking back, sobbing deep in her throat and running down one street and then another, perilously afraid that she would run a circle and re-enter the plaza to find him there She ran. Then down a street she should not have taken, a cul-de-sac. She turned to escape and found him there, in her way.

She was rigid. The dry leaves rustled in his throat as he came towards her. He raised his arms and his cloak as if they were joined, as if he were draped in huge wings which he would fold around the two of them. His lips parted; she could hear his breathing, could see the gleam of his teeth. She fell.

Glenda woke, trembling violently.

"Did I wake you up? Honey, are you all right? You look pale as a ghost. We're going for lunch, do you want"

Glenda shook her head. "Uh, I'm not feeling too great." The words felt torn from her raw throat. She was thirsty. "Did you get me something to drink?"

"Oh, I'm sorry! I forgot. What would you like? I'll run and get it for you. And something to eat?"

Glenda shook her head again. "No. Just a drink." It was hard to concentrate, harder still to focus.

Debbie came to the bed and reached towards Glenda who pulled away violently.

"Glen, I just want to see if you have a fever. Hmm you are pretty hot. My God, what'd you do to your neck?"

Glenda caressed the twin shallow wounds with her fingertips and shook her head.

"I think we should get you to a hospital."

"No. I'll be I'll take some aspirin I'll stay I'll be all right"

Debbie's face was blurring and clearing like something seen from underwater. She fell.

The moon was down and the sky beginning to lighten when she opened her eyes. She was sprawled on the cobblestones of a short narrow street, and got painfully to her feet. She was ragingly thirsty. Her mouth felt gummy, her tongue too large. She pushed her hair back, away from her face, with both hands and felt the trace of something sticky. She returned her hand for a lingering exploration and remembered the marks on the necks of certain townspeople, and remembered their eventual deaths.

She travelled twisting streets until she came within sight of la Giralda. The rising sun illumined it and she saw a single bat hanging like a curled leaf in the tower.

The people of Sevilla, in the form of two drunken men, had at one time attempted to keep the devil (who was reputed to inhabit the Moorish tower in the form of a bat) in his resting place and out of the streets of Sevilla by boarding up the door. But it was pointed out to them that, even assuming wooden slats could keep the devil prisoner, bats did not need to fly through doorways when the tower had so many windows, and they abandoned their project half-finished.

She climbed over the uncompleted barricade, scratching her leg as she did so. She watched the tiny beads of blood appear in a curving line and then looked away. And now, up? To the bell-tower where hung bells which never rang? And then she saw a door to one side, a wooden door free of spider webs, as if it were often used. She went to it and pushed it open, revealing steps which led down into darkness. She left the door open behind her, for the little light its being open provided, and descended the steps. They were shallow steps, but there were a great many of them. Her legs began to ache from the seemingly endless descent.

At the bottom was a huge chamber, she could not tell how large, poorly lit by torches burning smokily in wall niches. She saw the coffin at once, and went to it. It was open and inside, his slouch hat discarded but still clothed in cape and boots, was the man she had run from in the night; the man her mother had loved, or served.

A bat flew at her head, silent and deadly. She ducked, but felt the edge of its leathery wings across her cheek. She turned and ran for the stairs; the bat did not pursue her. Upstairs, in the daylight, she rested and thought of what she had seen. She thought of his cruel face, and of his blood-red lips. Slowly she licked her own dry lips and, unconsciously, her hand went towards her throat. Was he the devil, or something else? The devil could not be killed, but something else

Her hands were covered with tiny cuts and full of splinters when she was done, but she had her weapon: a large, sharply pointed piece of wood. Outside there was a pile of rubble and she found a brick. An old woman in black, an early riser, glared at her suspiciously as she passed, but said nothing.

When she entered the chamber again the bat swooped at her and flew around her head. She ducked to keep it from her eyes, but did not let it deter her. She put the brick down to grasp the wooden stake with both dirty, bloody hands and plunge it into the man's heart. She was blinded by her hair, and then by her own blood as the bat bit and tore at her head, but finally the stake was anchored and she was rewarded with a low moan from her victim. The bat cluttered once, a screech of defeat, and flapped away. She raised the brick and brought it down with all her might on the stake.

There was a scream, which seemed to come from the walls around her, and then a fountain of blood spattered her chest, arms and head. She kept pounding, unwilling or unable to stop, until the stake must have been driven entirely through him, and then, triumphant, she threw the brick away and stood, panting, watching the still bubbling blood. It was very quiet. And then the thirst assailed her, sweeping away all pains and triumphs with its intensity. She sank to her knees, laid her face to his chest, and drank and drank until she was sated.

Glenda opened her eyes. The room was empty and sunlight lay warm on the red bricks and white walls of the room. Everything was hard and clear to her now; the fever must have passed. Things had a diamond edge on them, with textures and solidity she had never noticed before.

Debbie came in, from off the balcony, looking startled to see Glenda sitting up. "Well! How do you feel? You really had us worried."

" 'Us'?"

"Roger, the Canadian from down the hall. He's gone for a doctor."

"I don't need a doctor. Didn't I tell you?"

"Yeah, right before you fainted. Lie down, will you? Take it easy. How do you feel?"

"Fine. Excellent. Never better."

"Well, just stay in bed. Do you want something to drink?"

"No thanks." She lay back.

The doctor found nothing wrong with Glenda although he was puzzled by the marks on her neck. When his inquisition began to annoy her she pretended not to understand his actually quite adequate English, and pulled the sheet over her head, complaining that the light hurt her eyes and that she was very tired.

Glenda was very determined and very persuasive and came at last to be seated on a 747 headed for New York. Debbie — poor, confused Debbie — remained in Spain, travelling now with her Canadian and his friends.

"You ought at least to cable your mom, then," Debbie had said, but Glenda had shaken her head, smiling. "I'll surprise her — take a cab in." Steve would be with her mother, she knew. It would be early morning when she arrived and they would not be awake yet, but sweetly sleeping. They would be asleep in each other's arms, not expecting her.

Glenda smiled at the blackness beyond her window and touched her silver ring. She pulled it off and toyed with it, tracing the S with her finger. S for Steve, she thought, And S for Spain. She suddenly caught the ring between her fingers and pulled at it, distorting the S shape and forcing it finally into a design like twin curved horns. Then she held it and clenched it tightly until the blood came.

A Question of Patronage

A Saint-Germain Story

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Author and professional Tarot reader Chelsea Quinn Yarbro was born in Berkeley, California. Her first story was published in 1969 in If magazine. A full-time writer since the following year, she has sold more than sixty books and as many short stories .

Her novels include the werewolf volumes The Godforsaken and Beastnights, the quasi-fictional occult series Messages from Michael and More Messages from Michael, and the movie novelizations Dead & Buried and Nomads. Yarbro's "Sisters of the Night" trilogy (The Angry Angel, The Soul of an Angel and Zhameni: The Angel of Death,) is about Dracula's three undead wives. Unfortunately, it was substantially rewritten by the editor .

However, the author is best known for her series of historical horror novels featuring the Byronic vampire Saint-Germain, loosely inspired by the real-life eighteenth-century French count of the same name. The first book in the cycle , Hotel Transylvania: A Novel of Forbidden Love appeared in 1978. To date it has been followed by thirteen sequels : The Palace, Blood Games, Path of the Eclipse, Tempting Fate, Out of the House of Life, Darker Jewels, Better in the Dark, Mansions of Darkness, Writ in Blood, Blood Roses, Communion Blood, Come Twilight and A Feast in Exile. A spin-off sequence featuring Saint-Germain's lover Atta Olivia Clemens comprises A Flame in Byzantium, Crusader's Torch and A Candle for D'Artagnan, while the author's short fiction has been collected in The Saint-Germain Chronicles and The Vampire Stories of Chelsea Quinn Yarbro.

" When Robert Eighteen-Bisang of Transylvania Press approached me about doing a 500-copy limited edition collection of my vampire short stories, he asked if I would do a story for that specific volume," recalls Yarbro; "he said he would like it to be a Saint-Germain story and, if possible, have some reference to Dracula. At the time, I said yes to the Saint-Germain part, but told him I doubted I could manage Dracula as well, since the two vampire concepts were so very different as to have almost nothing but Transylvania in common .

"Toying with the possibilities, I finally hit upon Henry Irving, Bram Stoker's boss. I had a look at a few references about him, hoping to find a time I could slip Saint-Germain into his life. The beginning of his career seemed more attractive to me than when he was well-established, as well as giving an indirect link to Stoker, making Saint-Germain someone Stoker might hear about but never meet.

"This story was the result"

Outside it was dank and clammy; inside it was stuffy and over-warm. The clerks in the merchants' emporium office yawned as the afternoon ran quickly down to the early falling November night.

"Do you lock the door, John Henry," said the oldest of the clerks to the youngest, exercising his privilege. "No one will come at this hour."

John Henry Brodribb got off his stool and bowed to the senior clerk with a flourish that amused and annoyed the other clerks; John Henry was known for his lavish, theatrical manner. He pitched his voice to carry. "Whatever you desire, Mr Tubbs, it is my honour to perform for you." His accent was a curious mix of London public school flavoured with a broadness that might be Devon or Cornwall. He was long-headed and lanky with the last remnants of youth; he was three months shy of his eighteenth birthday.

Before he could reach the door, it opened suddenly and a man in a black, hooded cloak stepped into the office, looking like a visitor from another age; a monk from the Middle Ages, perhaps, or an apparition of a Plantagenet in disfavour with his cousins. "Good afternoon. Is Mr Lamkin available?" he asked in a pleasant, foreign voice, taking John Henry's startled surprise in his stride. There was a suggestion of a glint in dark eyes within the shadow of the hood.

"Is he expecting you?" asked John Henry, recovering himself adroitly, and doing his best to match the style of the man.

"Yes, but not necessarily at this time," said the stranger. "I have only just arrived in London, you see." He threw back his hood, revealing an attractive, irregular countenance, fine-browed and mobile if unfashionably clean-shaven; his hair was dark and waved enough to make up for his lack of mutton-chop whiskers or moustache. Although he was somewhat less than average height, he had a presence that was commanding no matter how amiable his demeanour; it originated in his dark, compelling eyes.

"Mr Lamkin has left for the day," said John Henry, glancing towards the door of the office of the man who handled the firm's overseas business. "He will not be back until Thursday next. He is bound for Southampton, to inspect the arrival of a cargo of muslin."

"From Egypt or America?" asked the foreigner with enough curiosity to require an answer.

"From Amer" John Henry began only to be interrupted.

Mr Tubbs, the senior clerk, intervened, shoving himself off his stool and hastening towards the newcomer, prepared to take charge of the unknown gentleman. "I am Parvis Tubbs, the senior clerk; good afternoon. May I, possibly, assist you, Mr ?" He waited for the stranger to give his name.

"Ragoczy," he answered. "Count Ferenc Ragoczy, of Sain"

John Henry cut him short with enthusiasm. "Ragoczy! Of almost everywhere." His eyes lit and he flung out one hand. "I've been copying your accounts, sir, and let me say you are by far the most travelled gentleman of all those buying from us abroad. You have holdings in Bavaria, in Saint Petersburg, in Christiania, in Holland, in Italy, in Prague, in"

Mr Tubbs stopped this catalogue. "I am certain Mr Ragoczy does not wish his affairs bruited about, John Henry."

The youngest clerk lowered his eyes and stifled himself. "No, Mr Tubbs," he said.

Ragoczy took pity on him. "It is good to know that at least one of your staff has my interests in hand." His smile was quick and one-sided, and held John Henry's attention as Ragoczy turned towards him, encouraging him. "Where else do I have property: can you tell me?"

Now John Henry faltered, upset by Mr Tubbs's covert glare. "In in Hungary." He steadied himself and went on. "There are two addresses in Hungary, now I think of it; one in Buda and one in a remote area of the eastern sector. In the Carpathians. That place is in Hungary, isn't it?"

"Technically, yes, at present it is," he replied, and glanced up as the office clock struck the half hour. "Although it is closer to Bucharest than to Buda-Pest. Saint-Germain is on the current border of Hungary and Romania, but that has not always been the case. It is a very ancient estate." Ragoczy fell silent.

After an awkward pause, Mr Tubbs said, "Is that all you can tell Mr Ragoczy, John Henry? You are the one who has his ledger to copy. Show him you are not a laggard."

Stung by this reprimand, John Henry squared his angular shoulders and continued. "You have holdings, Count, in Moscow, in Egypt, in Crete, in Persia, in Morocco, in Spain, in Poland, in Armenia, in Canada, and in South America: Peru, as I recall."

"Yes, and in Mexico, as well." He nodded his approval.

"You also have transferred goods to China and India, according to our records, during the last thirty years. I have not seen any entries before that time. The ledger begins thirty-one years ago." This last was John Henry's most determined bid to show his grasp of what he had recorded.

"You keep excellent records," Ragoczy said.

"It is necessary for merchants to do that, or they will not last long in business," said Mr Tubbs officiously.

They had the attention of the other four clerks now, and John Henry made the most of it. "If you would like to inspect the account books, Count, it would be my pleasure to show them to you."

Mr Tubbs looked askance. "John Henry!" he admonished the youngest clerk. "That is for Mr Lamkin to do."

"Well, but he is away, isn't he?" countered John Henry with a show of deference. "I have the records on my desk. I've been copying them for Mr Lamkin, at his request, of course. So long as Count Ragoczy is here, it would be practical to show him what our records show instead of requiring him to return when Mr Lamkin gets back."

"It is a late hour; Mr Ragoczy would have to come back in the morning, in any case, or at another, more suitable time." Mr Tubbs regarded the youngest clerk in consternation, then turned on Ragoczy with an obsequious gesture. "It is unfortunate that you came at this hour. We do not wish to offend, but we will be closing business for the day shortly."

John Henry's expression brightened. "I don't mind staying late if that will make matters easier for you, Count." He made a point of emphasizing Ragoczy's title, as much for his own satisfaction as for the discomfort it gave Mr Tubbs. "If that would be convenient?"

"A very generous offer, I'm sure, John Henry," said Mr Tubbs, his jowls becoming mottled with colour and his manner more stiff and overbearing. "But such a man as Mr Ragoczy must have other claims upon his time. He will inform us of when he wishes to review the accounts."

Ragoczy favoured the two clerks with an affable look. "I have no plans for this evening until much later. I am bidden to dine at ten."

"Then it's settled," said John Henry before Mr Tubbs could speak. He indicated his desk. "Yours is the oldest of the account books there." His gaze was speculative. "Your family must have a long tradition of enterprise."

"Um," said Ragoczy, a suggestion of amusement in his fathomless eyes.

Mr Tubbs, aware that he had been outmanoeuvred by his most junior clerk, began to dither. "It is not acceptable, John Henry. You have not worked here long enough to be entitled to lock the door." He cringed as he looked towards Ragoczy. "I am afraid that we will have to arrange another time, Mr Ragoczy."

Before John Henry could voice his objection, Ragoczy said smoothly, "You would not be adverse to entrusting a key to me, would you? I have done business with this firm for longer than you have been employed here. Surely that makes me trustworthy, Mr Tubbs. I will return it tomorrow, if that is satisfactory to you?" He said it politely enough, but it was apparent he would not be refused. "I appreciate your concern and precaution, of course."

This was more opposition than Mr Tubbs was prepared to fight. He ducked his head. "It would be most acceptable. I will provide you with a key at once, Mr Ragoczy," he said, and moved away, casting a single, angry look back towards John Henry and the black-cloaked stranger.

John Henry paid no notice of his superior's disapproval; he motioned to Ragoczy to come with him, and hastened back to his desk, his face radiant with anticipation.

"I don't understand it," said John Henry, shaking his head at what he read in the old ledger. "There should be another two hundred pounds in this transfer. How can it have been overlooked? They can't have made such an error in arithmetic, can they?" The office was quite dark now, and the rumble in the streets had died to an irregular echo of hooves and wheels; the oil lamp on John Henry's desk and the lume of the dying fire in the hearth provided the only light. It was no longer hot in the office, but it remained stuffy in spite of the chill.

"They did not," said Ragoczy with a sigh of annoyance. He had shed his cloak and was revealed in a black woollen jacket cut in the latest French fashion. His shirt was silken broadcloth and immaculately white. He wore his cravat in the Russian mode: it was silk, patterned in red and black. His trousers were also of black wool, expertly tailored so that the fullness never became baggy. Indeed, the only note that John Henry could find in the foreigner's ensemble to criticize was the thickness of the soles of Ragoczy's neat black boots.

John Henry's eyes widened. "But, Count, that would mean that someone has has"

"Been stealing," Ragoczy supplied gently; he tapped the open ledger with the end of his pencil. "Yes, it would seem so."

"But why?"

"For gain, I would suppose," said Ragoczy, making a worn attempt at a philosophical smile. "That is the usual reason people steal; for gain of one sort or another."

"Gain," repeated John Henry, as if the notion was unfamiliar to him. "In this firm?"

"Probably there are two of them: one here and one outside England." He hefted the old ledger. "It will take time to find out who has done it, and for how long." He put the ledger down and pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket. "Look at the hour."

John Henry glanced up at the clock over the desks. "It is coming nine," he said, astonished that so much time should have passed. "I ought not to have kept you so very late, Count."

"I supposed I had kept you ." Ragoczy held out his hand to John Henry. "I have to thank you for giving me so much of your time, Mr Brodribb. I am grateful to you for the attention you have shown me."

"It is my pleasure," said John Henry, flushing as they shook hands.

Ragoczy's expression remained friendly, but he said, "I doubt it." And in response to John Henry's startled look, went on. "No doubt a young man like you has things he would rather do of an evening than assist in discovering a pattern of errors in a ledger."

"Most evenings, I study," said John Henry, for once not very forthcoming.

"Ah," said Ragoczy. "Then perhaps you will let me impose upon you a bit more. If you would be willing to continue this examination for another evening, I would be willing to pay for your time. Provided you do not feel you are compromised by helping me."

"Why would I feel that?" asked John Henry. "They are the ones who are taking from you. You are entitled to recover all that has been pilfered. I would be a poor employee indeed if I countenanced wrong-doing by my employer."

"Quite so. And all the more reason for you to accept money for your aid. I would have required much more time if you had not been willing to help me." Ragoczy looked pleased.

"Oh, that is hardly necessary." John Henry directed his gaze towards the dying fire. "Mr Tubbs allowed me to stay because I am the most junior of the clerks. He did not think I could uncover anything of significance."

"You assume he knows there is something to uncover," said Ragoczy, his expression remaining kindly but with a keenness in his eyes that was unnerving to John Henry.

"I doubt he would have let me remain if he feared you would learn what you have learned. "He lifted his hands. "And you could have managed without me. I have done very little to earn''

"Nevertheless, you will permit me to compensate you for the time you have lost." Beneath the elegant manner there was something unyielding; John Henry sensed it and nodded.

"Thank you, Count," he said. "I will stay tomorrow night, if that is suitable."

"Eminently," said Ragoczy, and reached out for his cloak even while he slipped his hand into one of his inner jacket pockets. He drew out a five pound note and handed the flimsy to John Henry, who stared at it, for it represented more than a month's wages. "For your service. At this hour, I should take a cab home if I were you, Mr Brodribb."

"But five pounds" John Henry could not find the words to go on.

"Considering the magnitude of the theft you have helped me to uncover this evening, it is a very poor commission. Had I retained someone to perform this task, he should have cost me much more. And who knows what success we would have? You are familiar with the ledger entries, which another might not be." Ragoczy's swift smile lit his face again. "And he would have been much less entertaining."

John Henry looked up from the money in his hand and stared at Ragoczy. "That's very kind, Count."

"Do you think so." Ragoczy slipped his cloak on with a style John Henry swore to himself he would one day master.

"Tomorrow night, then," said John Henry as he watched Ragoczy go to the door while he folded up his five pound note to a size small enough to slip into his waistcoat pocket.

"You had better come with me," said Ragoczy in amusement. "I have the key."

"Oh. Yes." Hurriedly John Henry grabbed his greatcoat, thinking it was sadly shabby next to Ragoczy's splendid cloak. He extinguished the lamp, stirred the embers of the dying fire with the poker, and hurried out of the door and watched while the count set the locks.

"Please inform Mr Tubbs that I will keep the key another evening," he said, then reconsidered. "No. That will not do." He nodded decisively once. "I will send a note around in the afternoon, informing him that I will need the key one night longer. I will request you remain to assist me again. He will not have time to ask me to change plans."

"Do you think he would?" John Henry asked, shocked at the implication of Ragoczy's instructions.

"I think it is possible," said Ragoczy as he raised his hood. "Come. At the next corner we should find cabs about, no matter how late it is."

For an instant the five pound note in this waistcoat pocket seemed to emit a brilliant light; John Henry realized that such an extravagance would truly be a sensible, prudent act when he had so much money. "Right you are, Count," he said, and tagged after the black-cloaked foreigner.

"This is really most inconsiderate," complained Mr Tubbs as he lingered at the door the following evening, glaring balefully at the thickening Thames fog. "Imagine! Putting you out this way twice! It is outside of enough, and so I will tell Mr Lamkin when he returns. What right does he think he has, making these demands?" He modified his indignation. "Well, foreigners never do know what is proper behaviour."

John Henry professed surprise that Ragoczy had not yet arrived, though he had anticipated the excitement when the count's note, written in a fine, small, sloping hand on cream-laid stationery, had been delivered a few minutes after four by an austere man of middle years and steadfast demeanour.

Mr Tubbs,

I find I cannot get away for another hour at least. Would you be kind enough to ask Mr Brodribb to wait for me? I realize this is an inconvenience for you and for him, and I regret the necessity of making this request of you. Believe me all contrition; the press of circumstances are such that my time will not be my own for a while.

Accept my thanks and the enclosed for any inconvenience I may have caused you.

Ferenc Ragoczy

Count Saint-Germain

(his seal, the eclipse)

Three shillings had accompanied the note; Mr Tubbs pocketed them with alacrity.

"I'll use the time to study," said John Henry. "It's no matter to me if I do it here or elsewhere."

"That's generous of you," said Mr Tubbs. "You are aware, are you not, that if Ragoczy fails to arrive, you will have to spend the night here? I cannot yet entrust a key to you, or I would do it." This last was patently false and both of them knew it.

"I will manage," said John Henry, going to draw the shades. "Hurry on, Mr Tubbs. You'll miss your tea."

Reluctantly Mr Tubbs backed into the street, his coat collar raised and his hat set low against the mizzle. After he pulled the door to behind him, he made a point of testing the lock when he had set it.

John Henry listened to Mr Tubbs's footsteps fade into the rest of the noise from the street. He finished the last of a cold, bitter cup of tea that stood on his desk, and then, with caution, he removed a small book from the locked lower drawer of his desk. He could not help grinning at the well-thumbed pages: The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare .

He moved the chairs and made himself a small rehearsal area in the middle of the room, then set about his on-going memorization of Romeo.

Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set

On the fair daughter of rich Capulet:

As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;

And all combined, save what thou must combine

By holy marriage: when, and where, and how,

We met, we woo'd and made exchange of vow

I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,

That thou consent to marry us today.

John Henry was so caught up in his performance that the spoken answer rattled him the more for being the words he spoke in his mind.

" Holy Saint Francis, what a change is here !" said Ragoczy. He was standing just inside the door, his cloak blending with the shadows.

Looking around as if he feared he had a larger audience, John Henry said, "I didn't hear you knock."

Ragoczy held up the key.

"Of course," said John Henry, his manner now crestfallen. "You came in very quietly."

"You were preoccupied," said Ragoczy, indicating the script John Henry held.

"This." He sighed. "You know my secret, then. I suppose you'll tell Mr Tubbs."

"Why should I?" asked Ragoczy, taking off his cloak and revealing formal evening dress, including a glistening red silken sash over his shoulder with the diamond-studded Order of Saint Stephen of Hungary blazing on it. "What has Shakespeare to do with your work here?"

"They would turn me off if they knew that I am studying to be an actor," said John Henry with a direct candour that was as unexpected to him as it was to Ragoczy.

"Why?" Ragoczy chose one of the pulled-back chairs, turned it to face John Henry, and sat down. "What reason would they have to turn you off?"

"Acting is not a very honourable profession," said John Henry quietly.

"It was good enough for Shakespeare, and he ended up a baronet." Ragoczy looked slightly amused. "But the Elizabethans were not so squeamish as you modern English are."

"Influence makes a difference," said John Henry, with a sigh. "And a clerk at a merchant's emporium has little to hope for in regard to advancement of that sort."

"They say Shakespeare himself began in the butcher's trade, in Warwickshire." He shook his head once. "He made his own advancement, and you can, as well. What do you want to do, Mr Brodribb?" asked Ragoczy as he made himself more comfortable. "You may tell me without fear. I will keep your confidence."

"Finish up tonight, if we can," said John Henry at once.

"No," Ragoczy responded. "In regard to your acting: what do you want to do?"

John Henry stared at Ragoczy, thinking the answer was obvious. "Why, be an actor, of course. To perform Shakespeare well for appreciative audiences. To introduce new plays of merit." There was much more to it, but he hesitated to voice these intentions, for that might jinx them.

"Is that all?" asked Ragoczy blandly.

"No," John Henry admitted.

"Would you be willing to tell me of your aspirations?" He asked so casually but with a look of acceptance that broke through John Henry's reserve.

"You must not tell anyone," he cautioned Ragoczy, his nerve all but deserting him.

"Of course," said Ragoczy gravely. He gave John Henry a measuring look. "And how would you set about being an actor? Have you planned?"

As this very subject had taken up most of John Henry's dreams since he came to London, eight years before, he had an answer; over that time he had arrived at a plan that he was sure would succeed if only he could get the funds to put it into operation. "First," he said, launching into his scheme with gusto, "first I would arrange to act with a good amateur company, one where I can gain the basic experience, and meet those who know others in the profession. If I could afford to pay to play a leading role, that would be the best"

"Pay to play a leading role?" Ragoczy interrupted. "Is that usual?"

"It is," said John Henry, thrown off his stride. "It would be better to pay for a whole production, but that is wishing for the stars." He paused and regained his inner momentum. "I would outfit myself and take lessons in fencing and other skills. Once I had some favourable reviews, and a few introductions, I would find a touring company, probably in the north or the Midlands, and sign on to do small parts. That way I would master my craft and have the advantage of experience in the process. Eventually, I would want to come back to London. And one day, I would like to have my own company." This last came out in a rush.

Ragoczy studied him, then said, "And you are learning Romeo as a starting point."

"Yes. I have learned Brutus and Henry V already, and I am working on Angelo. Eventually I will learn Macbeth. Not that I would be ready to play them yet, at my age." He laughed selfconsciously. "I can make myself up to appear older, but I haven't the training to carry it off, yet. When I try, I do too much and the results are laughable."

"Hence Romeo, since you are a young man," said Ragoczy.

"Oh, yes," said John Henry, his eyes bright. "But I have been studying people, trying to learn their characteristics so that I may use them at some future time." He strode across the floor in the ponderous roll Mr Tubbs affected. "That is but one example."

"Very well done," said Ragoczy. "You have caught his obsequious pomposity."

John Henry lowered his eyes. "Thank you."

Ragoczy continued to watch him in silence. Then he got to his feet. "Well, shall we give our attention to the ledger? The sooner we are finished here, the sooner you will be able to return to Romeo." He went to John Henry's desk and glanced at the page John Henry had set out earlier. "How bad do you think it is?"

Difficult though it was, John Henry set his own ambitions aside and gave his attention to the figures on the page. "I would have to say, Count, that in the last decade alone, more than two thousand pounds have been siphoned off your accounts. Between that and what appears to be a consistent pattern of overcharging, you are at a considerable disadvantage." He found himself wondering what it must be like to have more than three thousand pounds to lose.

"And you have no doubt that the pattern you have discovered is deliberate?" Ragoczy's voice was light but firm and John Henry knew that one day he would duplicate it on the stage.

"I wish I did have doubts," he admitted. "But today I have gone over all the records of the accounts in the ledger, not just the current ones but those going back some time. What disturbs me is that the same theft has been continuing for thirty years, or so I have come to suspect. I'll show you," he went on, proffering two large, neat pages of numbers. "This is what I was able to find today."

"What a great deal of work you have done on my behalf," said Ragoczy, looking down at the neat entries.

"It is as much for myself as for you," said John Henry. "I want the name of the firm restored, and it cannot be without these records."

"No one has exposed the firm yet," Ragoczy reminded him.

"It is enough that I know," said John Henry, standing straighter.

"And have you determined which of the London partners is the culprit on this end?" Ragoczy glanced swiftly at John Henry, all the while studying the pages.

"I I cannot be certain, though Mr Lamkin is in the best position to do it," he said. "If the trouble comes from that part of the firm."

"So I think, as well," agreed Ragoczy, then perused the figures John Henry had supplied him a third time. "How is it," he mused aloud, "that this can have gone on for so long without someone catching the errors? Do you know?"

John Henry had an answer for him. "I've been thinking about that, and I suppose it is because your ledger has not been copied until now. You are not often in London, and when you are, you rarely call here. The entries have been made with great correctness and regularity, and by a senior member of the firm, and so there would be no occasion to doubt what had been done, unless you were suspicious from the first. And since the errors could not be easily seen without extensive comparisons, I would imagine it would be surprising to have them found."

Ragoczy nodded. "But what possessed them to give you the ledger to copy, do you suppose?"

"It is an old ledger. Your family has long done business with us, or so I would suppose." He lowered his eyes. "The account has been here for a very long time. More than thirty years from the entries in the ledger, for there are figures that have been carried forward from earlier entries in what would have to be an older record-book."

"It is a reasonable assumption, Mr Brodribb," said Ragoczy. "And you doubt that I was signing documents thirty years ago?"

"Possibly not," said John Henry. "For you are not much more than forty, judging by your appearance." He wanted to say more, but could not bring himself to go on.

"What is it?" Ragoczy prompted in a neutral voice.

This time John Henry found it difficult to answer. "It is only that I observe people closely. It is what I must do if I am to be a good actor." He collected himself and said in a rush, "I have noticed something about your eyes. They are not as other eyes I have seen, except, occasionally, in the very old, who have kept their strength and their wits."

Ragoczy nodded. "I am older than I appear," he said without obvious emotion. "Those of my blood do not show their years."

John Henry made a nervous gesture, his burst of confidence deserting him. "I thought it might be something like that. There is a world-weariness that Foreigners are not as easily" He began to flounder in a number of half-finished words.

"Let us return to these records," suggested Ragoczy. "There is much to finish, and I want it accomplished tonight, if that is possible."

"But you must" John Henry broke off, indicating Ragoczy's finery.

Ragoczy smiled and shook his head. "I have come from a reception; there is a banquet in progress even now."

John Henry was more startled than ever. "I would have thought you would prefer to attend the banquet than look over figures. It is an honour to be invited to such an event." He managed a quick, quirky smile. "Surely the fare at so elegant a function is better than what you can purchase from the local publican, and that is likely to be your lot if we work much later."

"It is certainly more elaborate, and my needs, in that regard, are simple," said Ragoczy.

"Oh," said John Henry, hoping to imply he understood what Ragoczy meant, though he knew he did not.

"How inconsiderate of me. I ask you to forgive my rudeness. Are you hungry?" Ragoczy enquired suddenly. "If you are, I will wait while you purchase something to eat."

"No," said John Henry quickly. "I made a good collation for tea, and it will suit me well enough. I want to continue with your records."

"Let us look at the records from Greece," Ragoczy recommended, opening the page in question. "As you have indicated, the entries there begin in 1828," he added as he ran his finger down the second page of the ledger. "It would appear that the first few years were without incident. All the entries tally, by the look of them. Would you agree?"

"Your family has traded in spices for a long time, haven't they, Count? The indication here is that your account with the spice traders in Arabia is an old one. And the entries from Egypt are of long standing," commented John Henry as he allowed himself to be drawn back into the haven of numbers.

"Yes," said Ragoczy. He inspected the pages closely and in silence for several minutes, and then looked over at John Henry. "I gather that the senior clerk was a Mr Boulton for many years."

"I've heard that," said John Henry, cautiously.

"And Mr Boulton was a relative of sorts of the founder?" asked Ragoczy.

"Yes, that is my understanding," said John Henry, his confidence again increasing. "He died more than twenty years ago; at least that's what I've been told."

"Yes," said Ragoczy. "And the uncle of Mr Tubbs took his place. A Mr Harbridge. This looks to be the place where the trouble starts."

"So you think that Mr Tubbs is aware of what is going on?" asked John Henry, doing his best not to be shocked by this suspicion.

"It is possible. He certainly was not eager to have me review these accounts, as you will recall, which, under the circumstances, is significant," said Ragoczy. "How long has he been senior clerk?"

"Mr Tubbs? About four years, I think. Four or five." He looked around the office as if he expected to be overheard. "He was given quick advancement through the graces of his uncle, or so two of the clerks say." He cleared his throat, and continued. "He was already the senior when I was taken on here."

"Perhaps the partners expected him to protect their interests, and perhaps his uncle advanced him in order to conceal his thefts," said Ragoczy, his face growing sombre. "Whatever the case, I will have to put a stop to this, I fear."

"Certainly you must," said John Henry, astonished that Ragoczy could sound so reluctant to protect himself from theft. "It cannot be overlooked or allowed to continue. If they have stolen from you, it may be that there are others who have been so lamentably"

"Yes," said Ragoczy, cutting him short. "No doubt you are right." He looked at the figures one last time. "Would you be willing to make a copy of these two pages for me? I will send my manservant to get them from you tomorrow, if that would suit you. He will also return the key to Mr Tubbs, with my apology for keeping it so long." There was a quality to his words that disturbed John Henry.

"I will do as you like, Count," he said, a chill tracing itself up his spine.

"That is very good of you," said Ragoczy. "All in all, it has been most interesting to meet you, Mr Brodribb."

"Thank you," John Henry said, and suppressed a shudder. Then, before he could master himself, he blurted out, "Are you Doctor Faustus?" Beginning to realize he had actually spoken his apprehension aloud, he stepped back, the enormity of what he had done coming over him; he could think of nothing to say that would be a sufficient apology.

Ragoczy looked faintly amused. "No, Mr Brodribb, I am not. Nor am I ' going to and fro in the earth and walking up in down in it' , as Mephistopheles is said to do." He looked John Henry over carefully. "You will probably succeed very well at your chosen profession; you have a keen eye and an insightful nature, which should take you far."

"I did not mean it was" John Henry faltered.

"Do not fear," said Ragoczy with an ironic chuckle. "In my time I have heard worse."

"How old are you?" John Henry demanded, convinced that he was in too deep to attempt to escape now.

"If I told you," said Ragoczy at his most urbane, "you would not believe me."

"Oh, I would," said John Henry, too caught up to be frightened. He knew the terror would come later, when he was safe in bed and his imagination would have free rein.

"I think not," said Ragoczy, closing the subject.

"Are you going to demand anything of me now? Order me to silence or face a terrible fate?"

Ragoczy cocked his head. "This is not a performance. You are not playing a role now, Mr Brodribb. I rely on your discretion and good sense to keep your various speculations to yourself."

"Or I will suffer for it?" John Henry knew he had gone too far again, and for a second time could not arrive at an adequate apology.

"No," said Ragoczy quietly but beyond any dispute. "You have nothing to fear from me: my word on it." He walked away from John Henry towards the fire, then stopped and turned back to him, asking in a different voice, "Tell me: how much would you need to put your acting plans into motion? Have you arrived at a figure for that in all your calculations?"

This change of subject jolted John Henry, but he did his best to answer. "Well, I would need wigs and beards and paint, and all the rest of that; and swords and costumes, too." He did not need to consult the pages of the notebook he kept in his waistcoat pocket. "That would cost between forty and fifty pounds, all told. And then there would be the payment for the leading part. That would be another fifty pounds, if I am to do Romeo." He brightened as he said this, but his enthusiasm waned as he listened to himself, thinking that it would be impossible for him to earn enough to achieve his dreams.

Ragoczy tapped his small, well-shaped hands together, fingertips to fingertips. "Suppose," he said, "I should settle a portion of what I recover from this firm upon you for the service you have rendered me? From what you have discovered, the amount might be considerable."

Chagrined, John Henry shook his head. "It would appear that I have been bribed to show things in your favour, at least that could be claimed by the partners to the court. And the other clerks would probably believe the worst of me, because I am the newest of them. The partners might well have a claim against me, one that the courts would uphold."

"A legacy, then," said Ragoczy, undaunted by John Henry's protestation. "You must have a relative somewhere who might leave you an inheritance."

John Henry sighed. "Why should any of my family do that? Not that most of them have ten shillings to spare for anyone. And coming immediately after I have helped you, it would not be a useful ruse, in any case. Someone here would be bound to question how I came by it."

"Listen to me," said Ragoczy firmly. "Suppose that six months from now a distant shall we say uncle? of yours leaves you a hundred pounds. The money would be handled by a solicitor in the north, and there would be no question of compromising you, no matter what the courts might or might not do to the partners here. Could you then afford to start on your theatrical career?"

Little as he wanted to admit it, John Henry's pulse raced at the thought. He calculated what it would mean to him to have the money, and he set his prudence aside. "It might work, saying it was left to me, if it happened later." His excitement was building and he could not contain the satisfaction he felt.

"Six months, then. My London solicitors should have made all the necessary arrangements for recovering what is owed me by that time." Ragoczy watched John Henry with interest.

"Will things be unpleasant for you here when my claim against the firm has been filed? There could be police involvement, you understand."

"It is possible they could hold me to blame," said John Henry. "It is no secret that I have been copying your ledger. They will have to assume you had your information from me."

"But they need not know you discovered the theft," Ragoczy said persuasively. "I could charge my London solicitors to review the ledgers; I could require a full disclosure of the state of my account. That would spare you the brunt of the partners' displeasure. I do not like to think you would be punished for being an honest man, Mr Brodribb."

"When I leave the company, it will not matter," said John Henry.

"You think it will not, but it will, you know," said Ragoczy. "You do not want whispers following you, saying that you have abused the trust of your employer. Not even the theatre excuses such things, Mr Brodribb. Rumours are constant in the world of players, and you do not want to begin with a reputation that is tainted. Believe this."

John Henry could not help but agree. He realized that Ragoczy was not only generous but more knowledgeable than he had suspected. "All right. A distant relative could be invented. An uncle. In the north."

"You would do well to mention that you have heard the fellow is ailing, and dismiss any suggestion that you might benefit from his death," Ragoczy recommended. "That way when you express your amazement at the legacy, none of the clerks will link your good fortune to the assistance you have given me."

As he slapped his hand on his thigh, John Henry burst out, "By all that's famous! You've hit on the very means to make this happen." He laughed aloud. "You are a canny man, Count, a complete hand; a peevy cove as the lower orders would say."

"A peevy cove. What a delightful expression," said Ragoczy sardonically, his fine brows lifting. "Still, I have been called worse." For an instant a bleakness came over him; seeing it, John Henry was chilled.

He started to speak, coughed, and tried again. "I suppose you've learned, over the years, to guard yourself. That's why you're so quick to make the suggestions you have."

"There is some truth to that, yes," said Ragoczy, his dark, enigmatic eyes haunted. With a gesture he dismissed the gloom that threatened to overcome him. "But you will think you've been caught in one of Mrs Radcliffe's dismal romances if I say much more, or that farrago of Maturin's."

" Melmoth the Wanderer?" asked John Henry, a little taken aback that Ragoczy should know the work.

Ragoczy did not answer. He glanced at the ledger one last time. "Tomorrow a clerk from my solicitor will visit Mr Tubbs. He will say that I have asked to have my business here reviewed. Oh, never fear. I will demand the same of the other merchants with whom I have done business. I will not single this firm out for the solicitors' attention." He took a rapid turn around the room; the lamplight danced and sparkled in the jewels on his Order. "I will do everything I can to make it appear that this is not an unusual request. Since I am a foreigner, I am certain that Mr Tubbs will be willing to think the worst of me for that."

John Henry coloured. "He is one of those who thinks Jesus Christ spoke in English."

"He has that look to him," Ragoczy agreed. He halted in front of John Henry and held out his hand. "It's settled then."

"Yes, all right," said John Henry as his large hand closed over Ragoczy's small one. "It's settled."

In the private parlour of the pub, the company of actors were still exhilarated by the great success they had had with their new production of Romeo and Juliet . At the head of the long table, the young man who had paid for the Royal Soho Theatre production and for the privilege of playing Romeo, was still holding court, flushed with a heady combination of port and applause.

"You were quite wonderful, Henry," said the woman beside him, a cozy matron who had played Lady Capulet. "You'll go far, you mark my words."

Henry was willing to be convinced. "Ah, Meg, Meg. It's such a good play, that's what makes the difference." He frowned a little, wishing his family had been willing to come, but they were such strict Christians that they rarely ventured out to public entertainments of any sort.

The director, who had also played Mercutio, was more than half drunk, and he swung around to face Henry, lifting his glass.

"So you think you'll take the London stage by storm, do you?"

"One day I hope to," said Henry, already hungry for the time it would happen.

"That's what they all do," the director muttered, sounding bitter.

"You leave off baiting him," Meg ordered the director. "Just because he's a better player than you"

"Better player!" scoffed the director, taking another long draught of dark ale. "Why, he's as green as as" He lost the direction of his thought.

"Yes, he's green," said Meg with some heat. "But he's got it in him. You can tell by what he does. He's got the touch." She beamed at Henry, her smile not as motherly as it had been. "You'll all see. I know Henry's going to go far."

Henry basked in her approval and watched as the rest of the company caroused themselves into fatigue, and then began to drift off into the night. Henry was one of the last to leave, pausing to tip the landlord for allowing them to hire the private parlour for the later hours.

As he stepped into the street, he paused, realizing it was very late; the windows were dark in the buildings that faced the road. No traffic moved over the cobbles. Only the skitter of rats attracted his attention as he pulled his coat about him and started towards his home.

Then he heard a soft, crisp footfall, and with a cry of alarm he turned, expecting to see one of the desperate street thieves who preyed upon the unwary. He brought up his arm. "I have a pistol," he warned.

The answer out of the dense shadows was amused. "Do you really, Mr Brodribb." A moment later, Ferenc Ragoczy stepped out of the darkness. He was wearing his hooded cloak, as he had been the first time John Henry had seen him. As he walked up to the young actor, he said, "Congratulations. That was a very impressive debut."

"You saw it?" asked John Henry.

"Yes." Ragoczy smiled, the pallid light from the distant street lamp casting a sharply angled shadow over his features. "I am pleased your inheritance was so well spent."

John Henry felt suddenly very callow. "I should have thanked you, I know, but with the trial and all, I didn't think it would"

"What reason do you have to thank me? The legacy was from your uncle, wasn't it?" He started to walk towards the main road, motioning to John Henry to walk with him. "If anything I should thank you for the six thousand pounds my solicitors recovered from Mr Tubbs and Mr Lamkin."

"Everyone believed it," said John Henry, still marvelling at how easily the clerks had been convinced that so distant and unknown an uncle would leave a sizable amount to his nephew. "I never thought they would."

"People believe things they want to think happen. What clerk would not like a distant relative to make them a beneficiary of his estate? So they are willing to think it has happened to you." He went a few steps in silence. "Tell me, was there some specific reason for taking the name Irving?"

"Yes," said John Henry. "There was. My mother used to read me the sermons of Edward Irving. He was a Scottish evangelist, and a powerful orator. And I admire the American author Washington Irving."

"And why Henry instead of John?" asked Ragoczy. They were nearing Charing Cross Road and could see a few heavily laden wagons making their way along the almost deserted thoroughfare, and one or two cabs out to pick up what few shillings they might from late-night stragglers.

"It sounds more distinguished," said John Henry at once; he had given the matter much thought and was prepared to defend his choice if questioned.

But Ragoczy, it seemed, was satisfied. "Then the best of good fortune to you, Henry Irving." He nodded to an elegant coach waiting at the corner. "This is where we part company, I think."

John Henry accepted this with a surge of embarrassment. "You should have come into the pub. We could have had a drink. They have decent port at the pub." He hated to see Ragoczy walk away. "I want to thank you. To drink your health."

Ragoczy paused, and bowed, and said in a voice John Henry would never forget, "You are very kind, Mr Irving, but I do not drink wine."

Hisako San

Ingrid Pitt

Polish-born actress and author Ingrid Pitt is best known to film fans as Hammer's Queen of Horror. Her roles in Sound of Horror (1964) , The Vampire Lovers (1970) , Countess Dracula (1970) , The House That Dripped Blood (1970) , The Wicker Man (1973), Clive Barker's Underworld (1985) , Green Fingers (2000) , The Asylum (2000, opposite her daughter Steffanie, who plays the lead) and the recent "Vampirology" episode on the Urban Gothic TV series have established her as an icon in the fantasy film genre .

Her other movie credits outside the horror genre include Where Eagles Dare (1969) opposite Richard Burton and Clint Eastwood , Who Dares Wins (aka The Final Option, 1982) , Wild Geese II (1985) and Hanna's War (1988). She has also appeared in many TV shows on both sides of the Atlantic (Ironside, Doctor Who etc.), and has toured extensively throughout Britain and South America with her own stage company .

One of her forthcoming projects in development is Dracula Who ?, a film which has Dracula desperately trying to keep off blood and become a vegetarian .

For Batsford she has written The Bedside Companion for Vampire Lovers, The Bedside Companion for Ghosthunters, The Bedside Companion for Murdering Monsters and the forthcoming Bedside Companion of Butch Bitches, while her autobiography , Life's a Scream, was published by Heinemann in 1999. She was short-listed for the Talkies Awards for her own reading of extracts from the audio book .

The autobiography detailed the harrowing experiences of her early life in a Nazi concentration camp, her search throughout the European Red Cross refugee camps for her father and her escape from East Berlin one step ahead of the Volkpolitzei.

She also writes regular columns in magazines such as Shivers, Femmes Fatales, Bite Me, It's Alive and The Cricketer.

About her various appearances as an undead femme fatale, the actress reveals: "They are always roles you can get your teeth into ."

Detective Sergeant Janet Cooper picked up a photograph from the Shinto altar and studied it. It was black and white and slightly faded, but it gave a good likeness of the man and woman dressed in traditional Japanese kimonos and proudly holding a newborn baby.

Janet carefully put the picture back and fingered the other mementos on the small makeshift altar. A couple of spent candles in saucers, a battered watch with Japanese characters on the dial, and a string of beads. She looked around the room but found nothing else of interest.

She went back into the sitting-room. It was sparely but expensively furnished. The door was open, and the caretaker of the block stood just inside the door watching them suspiciously. Detective Inspector Tom Brasher turned away from the window and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Janet shook her head.

"Nothing there," she reported.

Brasher took a colourful folder off the table and handed it to her.

"What d'you think of that?" he asked.

The folder was from a Japanese shipping line. Inside was a number of newspaper clippings. They were all from London papers and the subject was the same in each. Senator Osram Manhelm. Janet skimmed through a couple of articles and learned that the senator was in London with a trade mission. He was due to meet his Japanese counterparts and sign a Nippon/US agreement that evening. But first there was some socializing to do. Janet handed the folder back to Brasher.

"What does that tell us?"

Brasher shrugged. "For one thing this Hisako woman seems to have a special interest in the senator," he said and turned to the caretaker.

"When did Miss Hisako arrive?"

The caretaker was determined to be unhelpful. "It's in the book," he said coldly.

Brasher smiled brightly. "Right. How about you fetch the book and we go down to the station and my sergeant gives it a nice long once-over?"

The smile unsettled the caretaker.

"Three days ago," he mumbled.

"Where from?" Janet encouraged.

The caretaker shrugged. "It's a private booking. Try the estate agents."

Brasher and Janet walked back to their car parked outside the flats. Brasher leaned on the bonnet.

"You go round to the estate agents, see what you can pick up there. I'll take a taxi back to the station and check on immigration," he said as he pushed away from the car and opened the door for Janet in one smooth move.

Janet got in behind the wheel and wound down the window.

"What d'you think this Hisako woman's got to do with those blokes falling to pieces in the hospital?" she queried.

Brasher gave her a bland, humourless smile. "Nothing probably, but she is interesting," he told her.

Brasher stood and watched the car disappear into the traffic. Janet was right of course. Twelve young, fit men cut down in their prime took a lot of swallowing. And just because the Japanese woman had been seen to kiss them shortly before they became walking cesspits didn't necessarily mean that she had anything to do with it. Brasher wasn't keen on coincidences. He couldn't see how the two disparate facts knitted together, but visceral prompting told him the connection was there. He was lucky with a taxi and was back at the station within ten minutes.

A DC called to him as he opened his office door. "Hi, Guv. You're on this rowing club thing, aren't you?" he asked.

Brasher nodded.

"Two more," the DC said cryptically.

"Two more?" Brasher echoed.

"Two more er suspicious deaths."

He placed a couple of sheets of paper in front of the inspector. Brasher scanned them and looked up in surprise.

"Why wasn't I told about this before?" he asked, a note of threat in his voice.

"They were just separate incidents. No follow-up for us." The DC shrugged off responsibility adroitly.

"Okay. Get on to the Japanese Embassy. Ask them what they know about a woman called Hisako. Probably just arrived in London. Maybe with the Japanese trade delegation."

The DC nodded and left. Brasher thought for a moment and was about to follow when the phone rang.

"Brasher." He listened, nodded. "Fine. Meet me at St George's Dock. We've got two more nothing to do with the rowing club as far as I can see."

The large gwooden crate stood isolated by a cordon of Police Keep Out tape. Brasher walked slowly around the box. The front of the crate was slightly open. He pulled the lid wider and examined the interior. There wasn't much to examine. Just a crudely padded plank at sitting height and straps screwed to the wall. Janet was talking to one of the security men. Brasher called her over.

"See if you can get in there," he said.

Janet couldn't come near to wedging her five-foot nine-inch frame into the space provided.

"I'd need to shed two stone and saw my legs off at the knees," she volunteered.

Brasher helped her out of the case.

"What did you get from the guard?" he asked.

"Doesn't know anything," she said as she straightened up. "Jim Bailey has worked here for about twenty years. Retiring at the end of the year." She thought and carefully corrected herself. "Was."

"And the seaman?"

Janet took out her notebook.

"Taki Takamura, twenty-eight years old, from Soma. Taken ill yesterday evening and died this morning," she read.

"Anything else?" he asked in a negative tone.

Janet shook her head. Brasher's mobile rang and he hooked it out of his pocket.

"Brasher." He listened intently without interrupting. "You're sure of this ? Right, put out a bulletin and let me know if we get a break." Brasher pocketed his telephone.

"We've had feedback from the Japanese Embassy," he said. "Hisako is not a member of the trade delegation and there is no report of anyone with her name or fitting her description entering the country in the last ten days." He thought through his next words carefully before continuing.

"There is, however, a report about a Hisako who went missing from a military hospital in Soma. Her description fits and it could be her except for one thing. She has a rare lymphatic disease and has been living in an isolation bubble since shortly after she was born. The doctors insist that she would be dead by now. And you know what caused the disease?"

Brasher sucked in his breath and answered his own question. "Fallout from the atomic bomb the Yanks dropped on Nagasaki."

Janet frowned and walked to the edge of the jetty and stared out over the gently heaving water.

"She can't be that old," she said slowly.

Brasher nodded agreement. "She's not. It was her parents who were affected. They showed no ill-effects but passed on the disorder to their daughter."

He thought for a minute. "Any ideas?" he asked.

Janet turned to face him. "Those clippings in the folder. There was one that gave some background on Senator Manhelm. He was a part of the team that dropped the bomb."

The party at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square was in full swing when Brasher and Janet arrived. The embassy staff had flatly refused to give them security status and insisted that they were there only as guests.

The invitation had said 8:00 p.m. to 10:30 p.m. It was 9:45 p.m. and Brasher was beginning to think they had overreacted, seen too many Arnie Schwarzenegger films. When you thought it through rationally, in a detached manner, the whole theory was ridiculous. How could a young woman with a deadly disease come all the way to London, leave a trail of hideous death behind her and still move around with every appearance of good health?

He was about to suggest to Janet that they picked up their coats and left when there was a ripple of comment that cut across the hubbub of sound. Brasher glanced around. Everyone was looking towards the main entrance.

Nothing had prepared Brasher for the sheer beauty of the exquisite woman who stood in the doorway. She was small but beautifully proportioned. Her midnight-black hair was piled high on her head and secured with brightly lacquered combs. The light blue silk kimono she was wearing covered her from throat to toe but the thin material did nothing to disguise the body beneath.

"That's got to be her," Janet stated unnecessarily.

The senator was the first to snap out of it. He put on a wide Texas grin and bore down on the diminutive woman like an avalanche in early spring.

Janet tapped Brasher on the arm and claimed his attention. "What now?" she asked simply but to the point.

Brasher physically shook himself and refocused on the job in hand. "Just keep an eye on her."

The senator was busy introducing Hisako to the other guests. He was obviously smitten and he was oblivious to the venomous looks his wife shot at him as he pranced around in a flawed attempt to shed fifty years. Half an hour later the guests were beginning to drift away. Brasher beckoned to Janet and stationed himself by the door. Janet joined him.

"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 ageing 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 towards 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 know 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 on to 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 which 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 cords.

"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 towards 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 18-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 towards 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 honour 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 towards 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 home town.

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 strait-jacket, 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 strait-jacket 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 dagger-like 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 that 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 towards 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 leaped on to a parked car and without apparent effort cleared the obstacle.

Brasher ran to his car. As he began to pull away from the kerb, 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-theatre 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 on to 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 towards the patrol cars at the far end. Brasher was the first to spot the hunted woman. She was learning 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 were 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 towards 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 backwards.

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 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 has sold more than 200 stories, reviews and essays. Her recent publication credits include tales in Canadian Fiction Magazine, Northern Horror, Grotesques: A Bestiary and two stories in Barnes & Noble's 100 Crafty Little Cat Stories. She also edits the Gila Queen's Guide to Markets, a market newsletter that goes to writers, artists, editors and agents throughout the world .

"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 ."

The first saw her on the autumn night when the temperature plunged towards 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 lying 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 minie 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 grey, 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.

At the end of the tent, just a few feet away from the woman, stood a tall movable screen. It had once been white cloth, but now was spotted with red and yellow and black, from all the patients who had faced the surgeon's desperate ministrations behind it. A sturdy table upon which operations were conducted sat behind that barrier, and one modest cabinet which stored the surgeon's meagre supply of drugs and tools.

The woman glanced up now and saw Foster watching, and she smiled, and he thought how beautiful she was, quite the loveliest he had seen in a long time. Her waist-length hair, caught at the nape of her slender neck, appeared to be a reddish gold, or so it seemed in the dim light. He could not see the colour of her eyes though they seemed dark. Her lips were red and full, her skin pale, but that was the way of many of our Southern ladies, he reflected. She wore a gown of good cloth, a sober grey in colour, much like the uniforms of Foster's army.

Or the uniforms that we once had, he thought, as he noted the appearance of each of the patients. Some still wore the remnants of their uniforms — the grey with butternut trim, but most had only discoloured rags, and even those with nearly whole uniforms had added a colour: the men wore grey and butternut and blood.

The woman was bending over the young amputee now, holding his hand. Foster looked away. Perhaps she was a sister or the man's fiancée.

He fell asleep soon after that, and when he woke again, the woman was gone.

The next day the young man died.

The doctors came by that afternoon and examined each man. They told Foster that he must rest more and spooned down some awful-tasting medicine. His meals that day were several mouthfuls of a thin gruel over which a chicken had been passed for flavour, or so he suspected, and in which floated a few wild onions. It was all that his stomach could tolerate.

That night he felt much worse than he had the night before, the pain radiating out from his side, coursing down his legs until he thought his limbs were on fire; his arm throbbed each time he took a breath. He forced himself not to think about his condition, forced his mind to other matters, such as his family.

His family waited for him at home in eastern Tennessee, and, God willing, he would be with them soon. He wished he could get a letter home to his wife, but no one had come by, asking if he wanted to write letters, no one in the tent had pencil or paper for him to use. So he wrote the letters to Sarah, and to his parents, in his mind. Each night he revised the letter from the previous night; he concentrated on each word, each phrase. He thought it was the only way to keep the pain at bay.

He was not always successful.

That night he slept fitfully, and once he woke — or perhaps it was simply a dream — he saw the titian-haired woman again, and this time she was at the second cot from the door, and she had somehow crawled up on to the body of the sleeping soldier there, and she seemed to be leaning over his chest and whispering to him. Her hair hung in long burnished folds, and all Foster could see through that curtain was the tips of her breasts pushing at the confines of her gown. He blinked, his vision blurred, and when he awoke, the man in the second cot — an Irishman with flaming red hair — lay alone.

The next day as Foster struggled to sit upright he thought of his dream the night before. How curious it had been. He'd never dreamed anything like that before; never. And what did this most peculiar dream mean?

Perhaps it meant, he thought with what passed for a grin, he had been too long without a woman.

He saw that a man across from him was awake and spooning down the gruel the nurses brought them, and he decided that he would visit a little.

"John Francis Foster," he said when he had caught the other man's attention.

"Webster Long," the other said.

They exchanged information on their individual companies and their fighting experiences real and exaggerated, and that last battle which had sent them to the hospital. Long, a private who'd volunteered as had Foster, had lost an eye to a bayonet and his head was nearly encased with dressings so that Foster couldn't tell what colour the man's hair was. Long had a fair moustache, though, and pale blue eyes. Foster shifted slightly, wincing at the jab of pain.

"Did you see something odd here last night?" he asked when he'd settled himself more comfortably.

"Odd?" Long paused, a piece of cornbread in his hand. "What do you mean by that?"

"A woman was here. I saw her last night and one night before."

Long shook his head. "Didn't see no woman. You must be dreaming." He smiled. "Wish I had those dreams."

Foster grinned back. "No, brother, I tell you; I saw a woman. Down there." He pointed with his chin where the red-haired Irishman lay.

"No; didn't see it." Long popped the last of the cornbread in his mouth, then brushed the crumbs from his moustache. "Was she purty?"

"Beautiful."

"Tell me," Long said as he leaned back against the wall.

Foster proceeded to describe the woman in great detail; it was true that after a moment or so he began to embellish the description. It was the look in Long's remaining eye that made him do it. Long wanted something out of the ordinary, something to keep him from thinking of his condition, and Foster decided he would give it to the other man.

"An angel," Long breathed.

"I would think so," Foster said. It was true he had never seen a woman as lovely as this one. His Sarah was right comely, but not the way this other woman was. Sarah, too, worked the farm with him and she had red, roughened hands and skin darkened by the sun. She was just as lovely, he thought, as the day he'd first married her three years before.

At that moment one of the nurses, a husky man — they had to be, Foster knew, strapping and strong so that they could hold down the screaming men whose arms or legs were being sawn off without the benefit of anaesthesia — entered the tent. He was here to check each convalescing man; he began at Foster's and Long's end, and then when he reached the other end he shouted for another nurse, who rushed in.

"This man's dead," and the first nurse pointed at the red-haired Irishman.

Foster had thought the man was simply sleeping.

The two nurses managed to take the corpse out; Foster and Long looked at one another, but said nothing. An hour later another man, freshly injured in the fighting that continued, had claimed the vacant cot.

Foster spoke a little more with Long and several others who were that day more alert; and when nightfall came, and their last meal was being served, he knew he was ready to sleep.

Still, it puzzled him that Long hadn't seen the woman; and neither had the two other men Foster questioned. He could see that Long might not have seen her because of the bandages across that side of his face. Still

Foster ate his cornbread, slightly greasy but still tasting the best he'd ever had, and quickly slurped up his broth and called for more. It was the first time he'd ever wanted more than the one bowlful.

After using the chamberpot held by one of the nurses, a great ugly fellow who looked as if he much preferred to kill each one of the wounded men rather than wait upon them, Foster eased himself down on to his cot, pulled up the coarse sheet. The sun had long ago set and a light chill had set in. From outside he could smell newly mown hay, the last of the year, and he wondered if the hospital lay close to a farm still being worked. There were so few left intact since the war had begun.

He missed his own farm and wondered how it fared. He had men to work it, but had they left for the war as he had? What had his wife done, left with only her old infirm father and the handful of slaves they owned?

He caught a scent of something else now, a smell almost of spice, some exotic fragrance that seemed to have no place in this hell that reeked of urine and loosened bowels and unwashed bodies, and he opened his eyes and saw that the woman had returned. She was sitting primly in a chair alongside the bed of Patrick DeLance, a lieutenant in Foster's own company. DeLance had been injured a day or two before Foster, but his wounds were healing rather nicely. DeLance was talking intently with the woman, his eyes never once straying from her face. Their voices were low, so Foster couldn't make out too many words, but once he thought he heard the name "Ariadne".