The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

There were three rooms, set like boxcars one behind the other. Danielle stood in the kitchen. A door to the left led to a parlour. A door to the right led to a bedroom. There was a pot on the cast-iron stove half filled with slop. There was a bedpan on the floor by the table, filled with urine.

"Alexandre," whispered Danielle. "What has brought you to another difficult life? You suffered in Paris, and you suffer here. What, precious love, has so cursed you?"

She moved silently into the parlour. Several framed portraits sat, covered in dust, on a tiny table. The cushion of the blue-upholstered settee had popped its seams, and down oozed from the splits. There was a small shelf on the wall behind the settee. On it was an ink well, a pen, several volumes and a black leather book bound with string.

"Yes!" hissed Danielle. "It is my love, no doubt!" She took the book from the shelf and dropped on to the lumpy settee. He had not wanted her to look in this Bible, but she could not let it be. She flipped through the thin, yellowed pages and came to a place that had been thumbed to near illegibility.

It was in the Book of Trials. She read:

When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing to save the man Jesus and that Jesus was indeed to die to please the crowd, he offered the execution of noble captives, to have the man's wrists slashed with sword and thus causing him to bleed quickly unto death. But from the crowd called up the man Andrew, son of Phinneas the shepherd, who said, Jesus must suffer for his words! Crucify Him! The crowd joined in the mocking call, He must suffer for his words!

"What has this to do with you, Alexandre?" Danielle wondered aloud. "I don't understand. Jesus, give me understanding so I can help my dearest lover!"

There was thumping at the door, and a woman came into the kitchen. It was Tillie. She saw Danielle through the doorway, and her lips drew back in a snarl. "Bitch!" she shrieked. "Come back to fix my shoe and what do I find here? One of William's whores, no doubt, brazen and bold as a sow, sitting on my very own sofa, she is! Waiting for him to come home, eh? Waiting to suck his little worthless worm for a few pennies, yes?"

Danielle stood slowly. There would be no contest with this woman, but she didn't care to kill her if she didn't have to. "I'm sorry," she said. "I've made a mistake. I thought this was the home of my cousin Randolph Sykes. I beg your pardon, miss."

But the woman was not to be appeased, and she reached for a hatchet that was leaning against the stove.

Danielle held out her hand. "Miss, just let me go. It would be for the best."

"What's the best is that William quit his whorin'. What's best is you die quickly and keep your trap shut about it." Tillie ran her wrist across her nose, sniffed, and stepped into the parlour, hatchet raised.

Calmly: "Put it down."

Tillie's mouth opened wide; she growled and stepped closer. "Down middle o' your head, that'd look good! Part your hair right down the middle!" And the hatchet swung out in an arc, and down towards Danielle's forehead. Danielle stepped deftly to the side and the settee received the full force of the blow. Feathers flew. "Damn it!" screamed the woman. She tugged the hatchet free and spun on Danielle again. Danielle backed into the kitchen. She would come back again, later. She'd been invited into the building so entering would be no trouble.

Suddenly there was panting on the steps, in the hall, outside the door, and she whipped about to see Alexandre standing there, clutching the door frame and panting. He looked past Danielle to the woman with the hatchet.

"You cow!" he cried. "I could hear you wailin' from the street below! What you doin' now, gonna kill some woman who looks like she just got lost?"

"Alexandre," whispered Danielle in amazement.

But the man brushed past her and flew at Tillie, snatching for the hatchet as he clutched her hair with his other hand. "Pig! You can't be trusted with nothin' or nobody! Oughta stick you in the asylum, I oughta! Give me the damned hatchet or you'll find yourself up for murder!"

Tillie jumped away, stumbled against a straight-backed chair and fell to the floor. Alexandre — William — leaped again and grabbed for the weapon. She swung it at him and missed his face by a hair's-breadth.

Danielle stepped into the parlour. She could be cut, it wouldn't matter. But she would not let Alexandre be killed. Not again. She reached for the wavering hatchet just as the man snatched it from the woman on the floor.

"Get back!" he cried to Danielle.

Tillie was up on her feet in a second, and latched on to Alexandre's arm with her teeth. He screamed, and began to strike her shoulder with the blade. Again. Again.

Again.

"I'm sick of you, I'm sick of you, I'm sick of you!" he wailed.