The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

Beside her on the bed that she had shared with a goddess so many years ago (yesterday) was a fetishistic arrangement of love letters and memorabilia. Keys to hotel rooms and scraps of black lace. Bar napkins kissed with black lips and fragile bundles of dried roses. Rings of silver and onyx and rosaries with filigree beads. Nipple clamps and razor blades. In the dim illumination, the careful sprawl might be mistaken for a long, lanky figure reclining with one knee cocked like a dancer. On the pillow, where the figure's head would lie, Victorine had set a ragged oval of black velvet soaked in her mistress's perfume, a heady brew of cloves and roses called Night's Breath. She refreshed it every day. Its haunting aroma was the thread that bound the illusion, that gave it form. When Victorine was caught in its olfactory web, the letters and dreams became flesh and her goddess was real, the sting of her kiss and the delicious agony of her touch as true as the first time. It was as if there had never been a betrayal, and she had never been alone.

Victorine took in a deep, greedy breath, letting the fragrance transport her. The steel rings her mistress had driven through the tender flesh of Victorine's pale nipples felt cold, electric almost. Diva Demona would come again tonight. Victorine could feel it.

Mona gripped the grungy sink in the bathroom of a coffee shop in the East Village, panic sweat clammy in her armpits and on the back of her neck. She stared at her wide-eyed reflection in the cracked mirror. Until now, she had always thought the thick twists of early silver that had sprung up in her dark hair were striking and classy, a genetic tip of the hat to her Italian heritage. Now she wondered in a desperate frenzy if she shouldn't have had some kind of rinse. Minerva would think she was an old fart. She felt like an old fart in her plain black jeans and motorcycle boots. Yet trying to squeeze her new self into the old crushed velvet and leather would have been a joke, an exercise in infantilism.

"You look like a successful, independent thirty-one-year-old woman," she told her reflection. "You know who you are."

She fiddled with her belt buckle and slicked her mouth with an unnecessary extra coat of dark lipstick. With a deep breath, she grabbed her suitcase and yanked the door open.

Minerva had arrived while she was having her little moment in the john. Her heart froze and then revved like a Harley. She considered retreating to the bathroom but Minerva spotted her and there was nothing to do but wave and smile sheepishly.

Minerva rushed over and swept Mona up in a warm sandal-wood embrace. The blonde dreadlocks were gone, shaved close to the scalp, and Minerva's tattoos seemed to have multiplied, colonizing her shoulders and the back of her neck. There were tiny lines around her dark eyes and a ring through her lower lip, but the rich scent of her skin and the mischievous curl in the corner of her wide mouth were just the way Mona remembered.

"You dirty bitch," Minerva cried, holding Mona's face between callused hands. "You look absolutely edible." She coiled a silver lock of Mona's hair around her finger. "I love the Elsa Lanchester thing. It makes you look like a real writer."

Mona pulled away, laughing. "You trying to say I look old?"

Minerva pulled her close. "I'm trying to say I missed you, you silly slit!"

Tears caressed the back of Mona's throat as she hugged Minerva back.

"I missed you, too," she said.

They held each other for a good minute, content to lean into the embrace and let silent memories wash over them. Then, feeling a little wobbly, Mona let Minerva guide her to a table and order her a double espresso.

As the tide of catch-up chat flowed between them, the story of Daniel, the story of Minerva's latest butch beloved and her subsequent police-escorted departure, Mona became aware of something waiting to be said. Something important and delicate that Minerva wasn't sure if she should keep her mouth shut about. She knew her friend well in spite of ten years gone and sure enough, there came a strange break in the conversation. Mona sipped her second espresso, caffeine glittering in her veins.

"Y'know," Minerva said finally. "Not like it's my business, but I saw something really strange the other day and I thought you might like to know about it."

"Yeah, what's that?" Mona asked over the rim of her tiny cup.

"Well" Minerva toyed with her napkin, folding it into chaotic origami. "Remember our new bass player, the one I told you about. Well, she lives in the building on East 9th where you used to live. In fact, she lives in the apartment directly underneath the one you lived in. With Victorine."

The espresso in Mona's stomach gurgled, burning up the remains of her airline lunch. Just the name Victorine was enough to make her feel like eating a bottle of Rolaids.