Microsoft Word - The Mammoth Book of Vampire Romance.doc (13 page)

Justine felt a small pang of regret that the light of day was not something she would enjoy again after this night. Her regret, however, was short-lived as Devlin entered her and all thoughts fled her mind except for the utter triumph she felt in the knowledge that she would have this spectacular man in her bed for nights, years, centuries to come.  It had been so long, for both of them, and within minutes they exploded together like

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fireworks over the palace at Versailles. At the height of their  pleasure he sank his teeth into her neck and drank from her. The  rush of sensations Justine felt as he bit her hurled her over the

edge once more, leaving her spent and quivering in his arms.

Devlin pulled her on top of him and ran his tongue  over the fresh puncture marks on her neck. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked.

She sighed. “All I remember about the night I was attacked

is the unimaginable pain.”

Worry crossed his face and, as if he were unsure of her

response, he asked. “And tonight?”

She smiled a coquette’s smile and began kissing her way down his hard belly to that part of him that was again flagrantly demanding her attention. “Tonight there was only unimaginable pleasure.”

Three times during the night he drank from her. When she was nearly unconscious from blood loss, he sliced open his wrist and spilled his blood into her mouth, forcing her to drink. As the sun rose on another glorious spring day, Devlin held her in his arms and watched her die.

Three nights later Justine, the Devil’s Justice, rose as a

vampire, and Paris was never the same again.

Cas tle Tara, I reland, 1 728

Morrigan, Great Phantom Queen, war goddess and harbinger  of death, leaned over her sleeping warrior, brushing a

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lock of his multicoloured hair from his face. His hand came up

and caught her wrist as his eyes flew open.

“Why are you here, Morrigan?” he asked, surly even in his

sleep.

“Solange Rousseau died in her sleep in the convent of Rue

Saint-Jacques last night.”

He frowned. “So soon?”

Morrigan  shook her head. “The years pass quickly, do they

not? She was 68 years old, my love.”

He nodded. “So Devlin and Justine will be content to leave  Paris now and bend the vampires of the Western Lands to my laws?”

“Yes, they have groomed Antoine to take the  Regency of

Paris.”

“Do you know that already vampires call them ‘The

Righteous’?”

Morrigan smiled. “We did well.”

The High King reached out and ran the backs of his fingers across her cloak of raven feathers. “Yes,” he murmured, “we did.”

Morrigan dropped the feathered cloak to the floor, revealing the long pale lines of her naked body. The High King pulled her down into his bed.

“I still hate you,” he whispered, as he pressed her soft body

against the hard length of him.

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The goddess smiled as her lips trailed down the side of his

neck. “I know.”

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K nowledge of Evil

R aven Hart

I
 
am a scholar. I know more about  human history than anyone, yet I am not human. I have learned more about the natural world than anyone alive, yet I am not myself alive and assuredly not natural. I am a vampire.

I have travelled the world in search of knowledge, studied with every important intellectual from da Vinci to Hawking.  And still the question that has burned inside me for thousands of years remains unanswered. Wherefore the blood drinker? What is my purpose?

I have entertained the notion that my purpose might be to kill other vampires. I have hunted them almost to extinction on every continent. I have saved the Americas for last.

Why do I destroy other blood drinkers? Because I despise them. A newly minted vampire is subhuman, a barley sentient creature whose bloodlust overwhelms reason. As a man for

whom intellect is the most prized of all human attributes, I  despise the primal baseness of my own kind. So much so that I  cannot suffer them to live.

A young blood drinker is born with the survival instincts to appear and act human, but it is a ruse. It takes decades for the

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immature vampire to regain the intellect he or she was blessed  with as a human being, if they survive that long.

I am a refined, sophisticated, creature of the night. I feed on  humans, but never to the point of exsanguination. My bloodsucking leaves them weak and my glamour leaves them with no  memory of having been preyed upon. Younger vampires tend  to  seek out the anonymous unfortunates in our culture  –  the  homeless, the addicted, the mentally ill  –  those who won’t be  missed. Fledgling blood drinkers are all about the kill.

For my part, I prefer to obtain sustenance from other seekers of knowledge.  Thus, I have haunted university campuses all over the world. These venues afford me an abundance of young, sweet smelling blood upon which to feed, plus the occasional stimulating conversation. And then, of course, there’s always the sex.

After I came to  the New World, I worked my way down from the universities of the north-east until I found myself in the southern United States, where  the mild climate suited me well.

Athens, home of the University of Georgia, calls itself the  ‘Classic City’ after the ancient city of my birth. Intrigued, I’ve settled here for the present. My fake identification papers, in addition to cash, of course, allow me to audit any classes I choose. I drift from night class to night class, absorbing new ideas on everything from philosophy to veterinary medicine.

Fall semester was about to get under way, but the oppressive southern heat still saturated the air with humidity and emboldened the young women to clothe themselves in short, strapless dresses and midriff-bearing tops that exposed their tanned flesh. Their bodies were as ripe for sex as their eager young minds were for higher education.

On this particular night I seated myself on a wrought-iron bench near the library on north campus and engaged in what the

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moderns call ‘people watching’. Students walked purposefully  to and fro, besides the clothing and the mores, not too very  different from university students of days gone by.

The breeze rustled the pages of the campus newspaper,
 
Red and Black,
 
which someone had left on the  bench next to me, and  I idly picked it up. It had been turned back upon itself to the features section: ‘HOLD ONTO YOUR HAEMOGLOBIN:

NEW   ANTHROPOLOGY   PROF.   IS   EXPERT   ON

VAMPIRES’ read the headline.

Delighted, I read further. Noted cultural anthropologist  Professor Victoria Lenox, author of the book
 
Vampires Through the Ages
, was teaching this semester at UGA as a visiting professor. According to the article, she had devoted her academic career to studying vampire folklore in cultures all around the globe.

A folklorist devoted to vampire myths. How perfectly marvellous. A quick phone call to the college of anthropology indicated I was in luck. The first lecture by Professor Lenox was later that night, and I attained consent to audit the class. I headed off  to Baldwin Hall prepared to be highly entertained.

When I arrived a teaching assistant was calling roll. As I entered the hall I attracted the notice of a pair of young women students a few rows in front of me. One elbowed the other in the ribs and inclined her chin in my direction. The one who’d been nudged stared at me wide-eyed for a moment before getting her reaction under control. I smiled at them and they each blushed prettily and turned away.

It has been thousands of years since I saw my reflection, but

I have been assured that I am beautiful. In my youth I was

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adored and was even called  upon to model for
 
Charioteer of

Delphi
, one of the most famous of the great surviving sculptures of ancient Greece. I was made a blood drinker as a man of 35

years, so I will always be in my prime.

Today, young women praise my dark hair, green eyes and flawless skin. I say these things not out of conceit but by way of explanation. I do not need to use coercion to obtain my food.  Young women follow me willingly into the shadows  –  or wherever else I choose to lead them.

I seated myself, and the teaching assistant launched into an awkward introduction of the professor. Her academic credentials and list of publication credits were impressive. I pictured the anthropologist as a middle-aged, bookish and bespectacled scholar along the lines of the late Margaret Mead.

When the young graduate student finished the introduction, he scurried to shake the hand of the professor, who rose gracefully from a seat in the front row. As the tall, willowy academic walked to the lectern in a beige linen blazer over a coral shift dress and matching high-heeled shoes, I noted the regal nature of her carriage, not to mention the shapeliness of her legs.

The scholar who turned to face the  lecture hall was not a frumpy, middle-aged matron but a rare beauty. As one, the young men in the hall gathered themselves from their slouching posture and sat up straight. The professor scanned her audience, as if taking their measure, paused only long enough to smooth her long black hair over one shoulder, and began her lecture.

When she began to speak I was as mesmerized by her words as I was by the perfection of her fair skin, the fullness of her lips and the lovely almond shape of her dark eyes.

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“The myth of the blood drinker cam be found in almost  every culture through the ages,” she began. “they are powerful,  immortal and seductive. Their preternatural strength and beauty  make them the stuff of our nightmares and sexual fantasies  alike. And yet for  all their power, we also feel for them, because  they are cut off from the grace of God and cannot walk in the

sun.

As she spoke, she stepped out from behind the lectern and walked slowly back and forth, her every movement and gesture elegant and sylph-like. Watching her was such a feast for my eyes it was difficult to concentrate on her words. I let the honeyed tones of her voice flow over me as she lectured about the Mayans and their propensity for filing their teeth into pointed fangs and anointing their nobility with sacrificial human blood.

It seemed in no time at all that the lecture was nearly over.  When she’d finished with her prepared remarks, she asked if the students had any questions. Many hands shot upwards, and she called upon a young man a few rows in front of me.

“Do you believe in vampires?” he asked. “Real ones, I

mean?”

The audience tittered for a few moments as the professor considered the question. A coquettish smile played over her face and she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I’ ll never tell,” she said.

The students laughed.

More hands were raised. When she scanned faces in the

crowd to pick the student for the next question, her gaze met and  held mine for a moment. Without thinking, I raised my hand and  she nodded.

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“If you did meet a real vampire, I said, “What would you do

with him?”

The students laughed again and she smiled. “Why, study

him, of course. I yearn for knowledge above all things.”

Be still my unbeating heart
.

After a few more questions, from the students, Professor  Lenox dismissed the class. Four or five pupils stayed to ask additional questions while she put some papers into her briefcase, so I took my time walking to the front of the class. By the time I reached her, she was alone.

“Professor Lenox,” I said,  extending my hand. “My name is  Nick Manos. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed your lecture.”  If she only knew how much I couldn’t tell her.

She put her slender hand in mine. “Mr Manos, how nice to

meet you,” she said. “Are you a vampire enthusiast?”