The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

The apparition before her clutched at the gaping hole in its chest, dried rose petals falling from between its fingers. The thing's face began to lose detail, its imitation of Mona's dark eyes melting into twin holes, lipsticked mouth splitting into a reptilian slash.

Grabbing a wrought-iron candelabra from a low table (Mona remembered buying it in a second-hand shop, a gift for Victorine's nineteenth birthday), she thrust the five burning candles into the monster's softening face.

A scream that was like two voices woven together and as one faded, the other swelled until Mona thought her eardrums would burst. She squeezed her eyes shut, vertigo filling the cavity of her skull and coursing through her belly. She felt as if she were suffocating, choking on the stench of burning. When she was able to open her eyes, she saw dull orange flames swathed in black smoke. The sagging old bed was burning, careful piles of letters swallowed by the greedy flames and Victorine was screaming, beating at the fire with her bare hands. Her ratted hair caught in a burst of carnival colour and her screams became more frantic as she spun round and round like a flaming angel. In that moment, she was beautiful again and Mona remembered what it had been like to love her.

It must have been Mona who was screaming then when she sprang up and ripped the velvet curtains from the window. Throwing the heavy cloth over Victorine, she tackled the shrieking angel, knocking her to the floor.

The flames had begun a slow creep across the walls, tasting the photos and finding them good. All around them, the remnants of Diva Demona were being devoured one by one.

Victorine fought fiercely as Mona struggled to drag her out into the hallway, all the while ignoring the soft, reasonable voice in her head that whispered, Leave her. Let her die if she wants it. Let her die and Diva Demona will die with her .

It was all so preposterously B-movie-esque, monster and mad creator die together in the flaming ruin of the collapsing laboratory while the credits roll serenely over the destruction. But Mona knew that it could never be that simple. Diva Demona was a part of her and always would be. Victorine's patchwork version was gone, her festering obsession cauterized, cleansed and scraped clean. Letting her die now would be selfish and unnecessary, like shooting ex-lovers to avoid the uncomfortable experience of running into them at parties. Throat rough with ash and determination, Mona half carried, half dragged the girl she used to love out of the past and into the uncertain future.

There were already fire trucks outside the building when she staggered out into the street. Someone official took the struggling burden of Victorine from her arms and although she was still mostly covered by the singed velvet, Mona could see the skin that showed was shiny and lobster red, split bloodlessly in some places and charred black in others. Mona sat down on the kerb, light-headed and dizzy with blood pulsing and churning in her throat. She hoped that she had done the right thing.

"One more time, Mona," the low voice of the producer suggested in the intimate space inside her headphones. She turned slightly and saw Minerva giving her the thumbs up from the board. Then the music filled her head and she listened intently, waiting for her cue.

This new version of her old song was a little slower, more muscular. Nocturna and the new guitar player had both brought their own strange twists to the familiar notes, giving it a life of its own.

Mona took a deep breath and came in soft over the driving bass, her heart beating hard in her chest.

As she sang, she found herself playing around the sounds more than she ever had before, weaving in and out of the spaces between the notes.

"Do you remember how it used to be," she sang. "When you and I were one. Come home to me, my long-lost sister, and embrace the damage done."

And somewhere between her memory and her mouth, the old words gained a kind of rich melancholy that seemed to transform the simple lyrics into a love song to a lost era. It felt so good, so cleansing. When she was through, there was a sheen of tears in her eyes.

Minerva burst into the booth and pressed a wet kiss to Mona's forehead.

"That was fucking inspired!" she said, yanking one ear of the headphones away from Mona's head and then letting it snap back.

"Ow, hey!" She pulled the headphones off and smiled.

"Come on." Minerva took her chilly hand. "Don'tcha wanna hear how fabulous you are?"

Sitting in a folding chair behind the science-fiction glitter of the mixing board, Mona listened to herself. In her own ears, her voice sounded almost alien, like a living thing. There was an edge beneath the words, a rough tenderness that she had never heard before.