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Synopsis
You never forget your first time with a vampire. Whether reaquainting yourself with some of your favourite, sexy creatures of the night or getting bitten by the vampire romance phenomenon for the very first time, let the biggest and brightest names in the business help you explore your dark side. Witness the bewildering array of complex vampire codes of conduct, dark ritual and dating practices as they chat up the locals and engage in the most erotic encounters you will sink your teeth into this side of un-Death. Because vampires never really die, do they?
Release date: June 1, 2009
Publisher: Robinson
Print pages: 532
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The Mammoth Book of Vampire Romance
Trisha Telep
The Mammoth Book of
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Edited by Trisha Telep
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2008
Copyright © Trisha Telep, 2008 (unless otherwise indicated)
Illustration © Louisa Minkin, 2008
The right of Trisha Telep to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in
any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN 978-1-84529-859-3
3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4
First published in the United States in 2008
by Running Press Book Publishers
All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Digit on the right indicates the number of this printing
US Library of Congress number: 2008927573
US ISBN 978-0-76243-498-5
Running Press Book Publishers
2300 Chestnut Street
Philadelphia, PA 19103-4371
Visit us on the web!
www.runningpress.com
Printed and bound in the EU
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Fade to Black Sherri Erwin
Ode to Edvard Munch Caitlín R. Kiernan
Fangs For Hire Jenna Black
The Righteous Jenna Maclaine
Knowledge of Evil Raven Hart
Viper’s Bite Delilah Devlin
Dreams Keri Arthur
Love Bites Kimberly Raye
What’s at Stake? Alexis Morgan
Coming Home Lilith Saintcrow
To Ease the Rage C.T. Adams and Cathy Clamp
Dancing with the Star Susan Sizemore
Play Dead Dina James
In Which a Masquerade Ball Unmasks an Undead Colleen Gleason
A Temporary Vampire Barbara Emrys
Overbite Savannah Russe
Hunter’s Choice Shiloh Walker
Remember the Blood Vicki Pettersson
The Sacrifice Rebecca York
The Midday Mangler Meets his Match Rachel Vincent
The Music of the Night Amanda Ashley
The Day of the Dead Karen Chance
Vampire Unchained Nancy Holder
A Stand-up Dame Lilith Saintcrow
Untitled 12 Caitlín R. Kiernan
Author Biographies
“Fade to Black” © 2008 by Sherri Erwin. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Ode to Edvard Munch” © by Caitlín R. Kiernan. First published in Sirenia Digest #6, May 2006.
“Fangs For Hire” © 2008 by Jenna Black. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Righteous” © 2008 by Jenna Maclaine. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Knowledge Of Evil” © 2008 by Raven Hart. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Viper’s Bite” © 2008 by Delilah Devlin. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Dreams” © 2008 by Keri Arthur. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Love Bites” © 2008 by Kimberly Raye. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“What’s at Stake?” © 2008 by Alexis Morgan. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Coming Home” © 2008 by Lilith Saintcrow. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“To Ease the Rage” © 2008 by C. T. Adams and Cathy Clamp. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of
the authors.
“Dancing with the Star” © 2008 by Susan Sizemore. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Play Dead” © 2008 by Dina James. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“In Which a Masquerade Ball Unmasks an Undead” © 2008 by Colleen Gleason. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed
by permission of the author.
“A Temporary Vampire” © 2008 by Barbara Emrys. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Overbite” © 2008 by Savannah Russe. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Hunter’s Choice” © 2008 by Shiloh Walker. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Remember the Blood” © 2008 by Vicki Pettersson. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“The Sacrifice” © 2008 by Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by
permission of the author.
“The Midday Mangler Meets his Match” © 2008 by Rachel Vincent. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by
permission of the author.
“The Music of the Night” © 2008 by Amanda Ashley. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“The Day of the Dead” © 2008 by Karen Chance. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Vampire Unchained” © 2008 by Nancy Holder. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“A Stand-up Dame” © 2008 by Lilith Saintcrow. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Untitled 12” © by Caitlín R. Kiernan. First published in Frog Toes and Tentacles, Subterranean Press, 2005.
Printed by permission of the author.
Trisha Telep
On any given day at Murder One in London, the crime and romance bookstore (where I work as the romance book buyer), you might come across romance
regulars clutching recent but dog-eared copies of the Romantic Times magazine, the pages marked up to show new romance titles they want ordered and the authors they follow religiously with
standing orders in the shop. You will also see readers browsing the romance shelves (stacked to the roof – and more – with books) and, although the romance room is a tad small, hanging
out and talking among themselves, reading back covers and first pages and getting advice from other readers before making final purchases. And you’ll certainly see die-hard customers leaving
with stacks of all types of romance, but mainly, at the moment, with paranormal romance. The massive demand for paranormal romance these days means that every month there is an avalanche of new
titles from publishers for romance readers to keep up with. Yet – somehow – romance readers seem to manage.
In this celebratory spirit, The Mammoth Book of Vampire Romance brings together the largest number of new paranormal romance stories ever assembled under one cover. The collection focuses
on one of the original, most ancient characters of this genre – the vampire – and includes not only those authors who have built their writing careers on bloodsuckers, but also great
writers from elsewhere in the paranormal genre for whom this is their first vampire outing. This means that you’ll find a fun, broad range of stories of all kinds of unexpected vampires, from
the traditional worlds of horror to gothic-romance and historical, to contemporary urban fantasy, fang-in-cheek comedy and the hottest erotica, all the way to the downright romantic,
boy-meets-girl, sweetheart stories from tried-and-true romances (albeit with a bite ripped out of the heart and a vase full of blood for the flowers).
Also, keep an eye out for the smattering of stand-alone stories that feature connections to a particular writer’s existing series, or that follow an intriguing character who didn’t
get a chance to realize their full potential in a previous book and whose story may be being told here for the very first time (see the story of Dante Valentine’s foster daughter, Liana, in
Lilith Saintcrow’s “Coming Home”, Tomas the vampire in Karen Chance’s “The Day of the Dead” and the story of Viper’s beginnings in Delilah Devlin’s
“Viper’s Bite”). And, if you find yourself hooked on a particular writer after reading one of their stories, you can always get a quick fix by going out and scooping up their
trademark series to tide you over until the next instalment! But the real question that you’ll find cropping up again and again within these pages is this: is being a vampire all it’s
cracked up to be? Sure, you get to live forever and never age, sure you get powers of sexual magnetism beyond any human’s wildest dreams, but is it worth it? This question is like an echo
through many of these stories. So go for the jugular (. . . and the carotid, the femoral artery at the inner thigh, the soles of the feet, the bend at the elbow, the ankle . . .) with this motley
crew of Mammoth vampires and find out.
Sherri Erwin
My mind wandered through a mental inventory of my life as I felt his teeth sink into my skin.
About to turn 30, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment that I could barely afford, even with the reduced rate of rent from my employer. Between my car bill, credit card debt and student loan
payments, I could barely afford any luxuries, and that was only if I left necessities behind in the grocery aisles. I lived for invitations to dine with the students in the dorm: free food.
And now? I had probably risked the career I’d come to resent, the only thing I had going in life, by accepting an invitation from Connor Black (my sole male student) to go out for a drink
– only to find he was a card-carrying member of Bloodsuckers Anonymous. A vampire.
Risked my career? It should have been the least of my worries as I prepared to be dinner for one. What the hell, though, right? Could he suck me any drier than my creditors, who apparently
thought I bled cash?
Oh, no. I bled blood, confirmation of which came as his fangs made their introductions to my veins via the tender flesh at the base of my neck. A dribble rolled down my bare shoulder to pool in
the lace edging of my shell-pink bra, a purchase that had sat in my drawer long after Victoria’s Secret had closed my account. Hopeful for a chance to show it off, I’d put it on this
morning for the first time. And here I was.
“You taste like the wine,” he said, coming up for air. His palm grazed my nipple through the silk. It reacted, hardening under his touch with traitorous speed.
I met his gaze, cobalt eyes set in a face more inspiring than anything painted by Botticelli.
“It doesn’t hurt.” Surprised, I reached up to stroke the puncture wound.
He smiled, beatific despite the sharpened canines. “We pack a sort of numbing agent. Localized.”
“Like mosquitoes? You don’t know they’re sucking until they’ve almost fed.”
He laughed, a low chortle, much deeper and richer than any sound I’d heard from him in the classroom, where he’d managed to pass himself off as an ordinary young man, albeit a
fascinatingly beautiful one.
A fascinatingly beautiful one who had captured the attention of every woman in the room, even the self-proclaimed lesbians. Rumour had it that he’d slept with every student in my Romantic
poets class. From the way they looked at him, with the tight focus of famished animals desperate to get a bite, I didn’t believe it. They hadn’t had a taste. Not one of them. Not
yet.
We’d all seemed to think we were the hunters and he our prey. Fools. Today, I’d worn a thin blouse over my new bra, unbuttoned further than usual, and I’d leaned low
over his desk, on purpose, when handing back his paper. The better to tempt you with, my dear. And when he’d asked me out for a drink after class “to discuss his grade” (a
solid A), I’d thought my little plan had worked. I had him right where I wanted him. Hard to believe I’d been so clueless just a few short hours ago.
Truth be told, I’d had a moment of reservation. I couldn’t date a student. It was wrong. What if someone saw us? But my libido had won out. I wanted him. I wanted him like I’d
never wanted a man in my life. And the fact that he seemed to want me – the oldest woman in the room next to all the lithe young coeds? Too tempting to pass up.
“That’s it, love.” He leaned in for a kiss, the tang of my blood on his tongue. “Give in. I can make you feel so good.”
The erotic drag of soft lips against skin as he dropped a trail of kisses down the valley between my breasts convinced me he was right. He could make me feel. Good, bad, it hardly
mattered. It had been so very long since I’d felt anything.
A lifeless drone, so steeped in debt and disappointment that I’d stopped allowing any reactions; I simply carried on. Work. Home. Eat. Sleep. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
He recaptured my attention as his teeth tugged at the lace of my bra, his mouth begging entry to the silken cups. I slipped my hands up to tangle in his dark hair, slightly in need of a trim,
and down to caress the corded muscles of his bare back. Caught in the throes of fresh passion, we’d stripped down almost as soon as we made it back to my apartment. His Stones concert T-shirt
was still in my doorway, my skirt and blouse not far ahead to mark the trail that led from hall to kitchen.
He cradled my buttocks in his hands, lifted, and rested my bottom against chipped Formica before forming his tongue around my bare nipple and sucking it in for a long, hot pull. My knees would
have buckled if I wasn’t already balanced on the counter.
Had he broken the skin on my neck with his bite? I couldn’t tell. His tongue stroked and laved, drawing me in. He suckled, as greedy as a newborn. But I was the mere babe.
Over the second glass of wine, he’d confessed to being nearly 600. I’d laughed, not yet moving past the state of disbelief. It took his confession to having been an intimate of the
Shelleys to push me into the realm of acceptance. His explanation of Mary’s belief that she had failed her husband struck a chord and felt so real.
He knew things that only years of study and access to sealed documents at the Bodleian Library would have confirmed. Mary’s private letters, many lost, came to life in Connor Black’s
descriptions. He would be far too young to know so much, unless . . . 600 years old? Really?
What drew him to me, he claimed, was reading my dissertation on Mary Shelley’s yearning for immortality as expressed in her novels. I’d apparently captured such a sense of the real
Mary that he wanted to meet me, and became a student to do so. He’d been close to her after her husband’s death, but she’d refused to let him turn her.
“Because it was too late for her,” I interjected, downing my third glass. Good Cabernet. “Why would she want to live when everyone she cared about had died?”
“The very reason she refused me,” he confirmed, with a lift of his glass. “But you won’t refuse me, will you?”
“Immortality doesn’t hold a lot of appeal right now.” Life being such a joy and all.
“How about a sharpening of your senses, all of them? Sounds, smells, tastes. You can’t imagine what chocolate tastes like to me. And this wine, oh.” He rolled his eyes back in
his head as if the wine was ambrosia of the gods.
“I can still eat chocolate, then?” I tingled with curiosity. “It’s not all about the blood?”
“The blood fortifies, it sustains you. But the food? Eat anything you like. You won’t gain a pound.”
I laughed. He had to be kidding.
“I’m completely serious. You’ll remain as you are now, perhaps a little leaner.”
“Only a little?” I raised a brow. “Perhaps I’ll call you after I lose another ten pounds.”
“No.” There was an edge in his voice. He grew insistent. “Now. We’ll go back to your place now. Let me show you.”
“Show me?” My nerves skittered with curiosity mixed with a hint of fear.
“What I can do to you. For you,” he corrected. “Tell me to stop if I make you uncomfortable. You’re in control.”
“I’m in control,” I echoed now, as if suddenly remembering. My nerves no longer skittered, but were as taut as violin strings. And how they sang.
“Mm.” He looked up, a drip of blood trailing down his stubble-dotted chin. “Your wish is my command.”
But he didn’t stop to take commands. He dropped to his knees, tugging the underwear that matched my bra down my hips and dipping his head between my thighs before I had a chance to
protest. I shifted, leaning back to allow him better access. He drank deeply, and for so long that I lost all thoughts of control. I lost my mind. I barely remembered my name.
And then, I nearly lost consciousness. I tingled all over, felt light-headed, euphoric. I’d never felt so at peace, and yet so high. So very high. I drifted in the air, hovering over the
scene. I looked good stretched out along my kitchen counter, my torso elongated to best advantage for my slightly rounded abs. My stomach looked flat, lovely. My breasts, firmer than I remembered.
My legs, longer than I ever imagined, and perfectly shaped as they wrapped around him, pulling him tighter, before they went quite limp.
He rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Wait, how was I watching? Was I – realization dawned. I was dead?
He left me there, an abandoned rag doll, and went off in search of something. A knife. He stripped off his shirt and sliced a red welt along his well-honed shoulder blade. He leaned in for a
kiss. “Your turn. Drink.”
I didn’t know how I could comply with his orders from way up in the ether, but I tasted brine, like seawater, on my tongue as he pressed against my mouth. Drowning, I drank him in, unable
to hold back, and I gasped, coming to the surface at last.
“That’s it.” He cradled my head in his hands.
The blue of his eyes shone through my haze to guide me, stars in a midnight sky. I dipped my head again and darted my tongue along the tangy red welt. Now I tasted the wine, the Cabernet
we’d had earlier, the rich berry essence with a hint of tobacco, earth and salt. Connor’s blood. Clarity returned with every taste. I became all too aware of my fingers sliding over his
bare chest, down his arms, and up again, pausing at every sinew and cord. He was real, no figment of my imagination. I slid my bottom down off the cabinets, cold linoleum under the balls of my feet
as I rose up on tiptoe to kiss his lush, quivering mouth.
My hands strayed to the button of his jeans, too much clothing. I wanted to feel him against me, inside me. I felt so new, so alive, aware of every little thing: my nerves pulsing under the
skin, blood thrumming through my veins, the tick of the clock in my bedroom, a soft mewling yawn from the baby next door. Next door? Could I hear that far?
“Your senses sharpen,” he said, as if he could hear my thoughts. And then I realized that he hadn’t spoken aloud. I could hear his thoughts, and he mine. We’re
connected now.
“For life?” Not used to telepathy, I’d asked it aloud.
He laced his fingers with mine. For eternity. My epipsychidion.
Soul of my soul. I knew the Shelley poem, the poet’s fixation with a lover. I also knew the reality behind the poem. Shelley had fallen for a phantom, his own idealized version of what
love should be. Was I, in fact, a phantom now? Or was I waking from past disillusionment, ready to accept a whole new life?
With my newly sharpened senses, I assumed the sound of breaking glass was the shock of my own realization. It took a second to comprehend that it was my actual window breaking. A man was
climbing in through the broken glass, and another two coming in the door I’d left unlocked. I assumed they were men, larger than life in dark jumpsuits and helmets, faces covered with masks.
Gas masks.
Connor shoved me behind him as if about to defend me. I was touched by the gesture until he fell at my feet. A heartbeat later, my shouts of protest echoing in deep-throated slow motion, I fell
atop him and into the black fog of my own mind.
I woke up in the dark. So dark I couldn’t see. I could feel that I was in bed, in a cotton gown, but not my bed and not my gown. Hospital? I sat up. Hospitals had those
infernal fluorescent lights, always on. I couldn’t see any cracks of light to indicate a window or a door. I inhaled, rubbed my arms, and discovered an IV jabbed into the inside of my left
elbow. Hospital, I reaffirmed, and tried to feel better about it.
Hospital. I squinted into the darkness. Had I gone blind? Panic set in. I was blind! Lord, I hoped it was only a temporary condition. I reached out at my sides, fingers meeting metal rails.
“Hello?” If I couldn’t see, how would I know if there was someone in the room? “Hello?”
No answer. I sighed, reached over, and worked my hand up the IV tube to a box-like machine. My finger hit a button, something. A buzz went off, and stopped, followed by a soft whir, and what
felt like a pulsing down the tube. Maybe I was getting more drugs, whatever had knocked me out. Maybe I didn’t care. But I did care. I struggled to remember what had happened, why I was here.
And then my mind found Connor.
I’m here. Connor Black’s voice in my head, as if he were speaking to me.
Where? Whether I was crazy, dreaming or drugged, what did it matter? I may as well answer.
You have to find me, he said. Find me.
I preferred to find me first.
Deductive reasoning had never been my strong point, which was why I’d gone into teaching literature. Teaching. The Shelleys. I’d been having wine with Connor. It all came
flooding back to me. The wine. The apartment. His mouth on me. My wrist flew up to stroke my neck. My breath caught up with me a second later. Vampire? It couldn’t be.
My blood pounded in my veins so hard I could practically hear it. I remembered the window shattering, three men in jumpsuits and masks, my falling at their feet, and the world fading to black. I
sat up fast, the tubing ripping from my skin on a snap of pain that faded as realization dawned. Hospital? Or had I been abducted?
The world came into focus, a dim glow lighting the room, or were my eyes finally working? I squinted in the darkness until I realized that I didn’t need to squint. I could see everything
fine, even in the dark. The machinery at my side, a medical-looking box with two bags hanging suspended – one as clear as water, the other as opaque as blood – both feeding in to the
tube that had been stuck in my veins. The bed, covers rumpled at my feet, the walls covered in what looked to be watered silk, there were gilded wall sconces, tasteful paintings of flowers in
vases, two dressers, a vanity with an enormous mirror, a chair, and doors – a bathroom? Closet? Hall? No curtains, no windows. My bare feet found the soft, woven carpet, not exactly standard
hospital issue.
The doors should have been my target. Which one to exit? Where to call out? I headed for the mirror, my breathing suspended. I feared what I might, or might not, see but there I was, bathed in a
golden glow as if kissed by the dawn, lovelier than I’d ever appeared. My hair hung in soft, honeyed curls to my shoulders. I stroked my cheek, pale or simply an effect of the darkness? My
eyes glowed, cat’s eyes, predatory and shrewd. Me, but not me. What had happened? Where was I?
Again, I left the doors unchecked in favour of sifting through the dresser drawers. My favourite jeans, a not favourite sweater. My clothing was here, and what else? I pulled the jeans on, not
bothering to look for more. The jeans hung, just barely staying around my hips. The sweater had been nearly too tight, but now it draped my frame. No time to think. Shoes. I needed shoes and I
could walk out of here and into the night. Something told me not to call out, not to stay. A voice in my head, not my own. Connor.
A sound caught my attention, a rustling from the direction of the door at the far end of the room. A heartbeat later, the door swung open.
A man stood outlined in a halo of light. Once he stepped inside, I could see that he looked something like an angel. Blond curls, structured cheekbones. I met his gaze as he stepped inside and
closed the door behind him. I didn’t know how I could so clearly make out the colour of his eyes through the dark, but they shone amber, warm as candlelight diffused through a glass of Irish
whiskey.
He held a clipboard, his arms crossed over his white coat, which reminded me of folded wings.
“Luke.” He held out his hand and smiled, straight white teeth, no fangs. Another good sign. Not that Connor had appeared to have fangs until he’d been about to bite.
“Luke Jameson.”
“Doctor Jameson?” I asked, hesitant, as I placed my hand in his soft, warm grip.
He nodded. “I’d prefer that you call me Luke, but whatever makes you comfortable. The whole suite—” he gestured around us “—was designed for your comfort.
I’d prefer you thought of it as home.”
“I’d like to go home.” To my real home. Not that my shoebox apartment had ever felt much like home.
“Why don’t we go have a seat? We’ve a lot to discuss.” He opened the door adjacent to the one he’d come in, the one I’d assumed was a closet but turned out to
be a sitting room. I followed him into the light, to an overstuffed lavender sofa in front of a brick hearth with a walnut mantel. A pastel woven rug covered a bare wood floor. Heavy curtains
covered a back wall.
Windows? He settled on the ottoman of the chair that matched the sofa, set the clipboard on a side table, picked up a remote control and lit the gas-fuelled fireplace.
“Very cosy,” I said to break the silence. I curled up in the corner of the couch.
“I’m glad you like it.” He leaned forwards. “It is your home now.”
A prickle of foreboding ran up my spine. I narrowed my eyes. “Is that a threat? Are you saying I don’t have the freedom to leave?”
I struggled to hear Connor’s voice in my head, but there was no sign of him.
Luke sighed and tented his fingers, elbows resting on the knees of his long slender legs. “It’s not that complicated, but it may be hard to get used to at first. You’ve been
given a virus.”
“A virus?” I stood quickly, but didn’t miss that his gaze lingered on my braless breasts bouncing under my sweater. He cleared his throat. I crossed my arms and sat down
again.
“Vampirism is caused by a virus,” he said, meeting my gaze again, warmth in his amber eyes. “Infectious. Passed through body fluids.”
“Blood.” I felt it rush to my cheeks at the memory of drinking from Connor. “I’m infected.”
“It’s more than vampirism. There’s also hypertelomerase at work, the excess production of a hormone that halts the ageing process. It’s not a death sentence. We’re
working to find a cure.”
“So it’s more of an eternal-life sentence?” I smil
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The Mammoth Book of CSI
The Mammoth book of the Deep
The Mammoth Book of Dirty, Sick, X-Rated & Politically Incorrect Jokes
The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Egyptian Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Online Diaries
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Women
The Mammoth Book of Extreme Fantasy
The Mammoth Book of Funniest Cartoons of All Time
The Mammoth Book of Hard Men
The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Illustrated True Crime
The Mammoth Book of Inside the Elite Forces
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica
The Mammoth Book of Jack the Ripper
The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Killers at Large
The Mammoth Book of King Arthur
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica
The Mammoth Book of Maneaters
The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories
The Mammoth Book of Monsters
The Mammoth Book of Mountain Disasters
The Mammoth Book of New Gay Erotica
The Mammoth Book of New Terror
The Mammoth Book of On the Road
The Mammoth Book of Pirates
The Mammoth Book of Poker
The Mammoth Book of Prophecies
The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Sex, Drugs and Rock ’N’ Roll
The Mammoth Book of Short Spy Novels
The Mammoth Book of Sorcerers’ Tales
The Mammoth Book of True Crime
The Mammoth Book of True War Stories
The Mammoth Book of Unsolved Crimes
The Mammoth Book of Vintage Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Women Who Kill
The Mammoth Book of
Edited by Trisha Telep
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2008
Copyright © Trisha Telep, 2008 (unless otherwise indicated)
Illustration © Louisa Minkin, 2008
The right of Trisha Telep to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in
any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN 978-1-84529-859-3
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First published in the United States in 2008
by Running Press Book Publishers
All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher.
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US ISBN 978-0-76243-498-5
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Printed and bound in the EU
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Fade to Black Sherri Erwin
Ode to Edvard Munch Caitlín R. Kiernan
Fangs For Hire Jenna Black
The Righteous Jenna Maclaine
Knowledge of Evil Raven Hart
Viper’s Bite Delilah Devlin
Dreams Keri Arthur
Love Bites Kimberly Raye
What’s at Stake? Alexis Morgan
Coming Home Lilith Saintcrow
To Ease the Rage C.T. Adams and Cathy Clamp
Dancing with the Star Susan Sizemore
Play Dead Dina James
In Which a Masquerade Ball Unmasks an Undead Colleen Gleason
A Temporary Vampire Barbara Emrys
Overbite Savannah Russe
Hunter’s Choice Shiloh Walker
Remember the Blood Vicki Pettersson
The Sacrifice Rebecca York
The Midday Mangler Meets his Match Rachel Vincent
The Music of the Night Amanda Ashley
The Day of the Dead Karen Chance
Vampire Unchained Nancy Holder
A Stand-up Dame Lilith Saintcrow
Untitled 12 Caitlín R. Kiernan
Author Biographies
“Fade to Black” © 2008 by Sherri Erwin. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Ode to Edvard Munch” © by Caitlín R. Kiernan. First published in Sirenia Digest #6, May 2006.
“Fangs For Hire” © 2008 by Jenna Black. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Righteous” © 2008 by Jenna Maclaine. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Knowledge Of Evil” © 2008 by Raven Hart. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Viper’s Bite” © 2008 by Delilah Devlin. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Dreams” © 2008 by Keri Arthur. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Love Bites” © 2008 by Kimberly Raye. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“What’s at Stake?” © 2008 by Alexis Morgan. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Coming Home” © 2008 by Lilith Saintcrow. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“To Ease the Rage” © 2008 by C. T. Adams and Cathy Clamp. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of
the authors.
“Dancing with the Star” © 2008 by Susan Sizemore. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Play Dead” © 2008 by Dina James. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“In Which a Masquerade Ball Unmasks an Undead” © 2008 by Colleen Gleason. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed
by permission of the author.
“A Temporary Vampire” © 2008 by Barbara Emrys. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Overbite” © 2008 by Savannah Russe. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Hunter’s Choice” © 2008 by Shiloh Walker. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Remember the Blood” © 2008 by Vicki Pettersson. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“The Sacrifice” © 2008 by Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by
permission of the author.
“The Midday Mangler Meets his Match” © 2008 by Rachel Vincent. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by
permission of the author.
“The Music of the Night” © 2008 by Amanda Ashley. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“The Day of the Dead” © 2008 by Karen Chance. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Vampire Unchained” © 2008 by Nancy Holder. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“A Stand-up Dame” © 2008 by Lilith Saintcrow. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the
author.
“Untitled 12” © by Caitlín R. Kiernan. First published in Frog Toes and Tentacles, Subterranean Press, 2005.
Printed by permission of the author.
Trisha Telep
On any given day at Murder One in London, the crime and romance bookstore (where I work as the romance book buyer), you might come across romance
regulars clutching recent but dog-eared copies of the Romantic Times magazine, the pages marked up to show new romance titles they want ordered and the authors they follow religiously with
standing orders in the shop. You will also see readers browsing the romance shelves (stacked to the roof – and more – with books) and, although the romance room is a tad small, hanging
out and talking among themselves, reading back covers and first pages and getting advice from other readers before making final purchases. And you’ll certainly see die-hard customers leaving
with stacks of all types of romance, but mainly, at the moment, with paranormal romance. The massive demand for paranormal romance these days means that every month there is an avalanche of new
titles from publishers for romance readers to keep up with. Yet – somehow – romance readers seem to manage.
In this celebratory spirit, The Mammoth Book of Vampire Romance brings together the largest number of new paranormal romance stories ever assembled under one cover. The collection focuses
on one of the original, most ancient characters of this genre – the vampire – and includes not only those authors who have built their writing careers on bloodsuckers, but also great
writers from elsewhere in the paranormal genre for whom this is their first vampire outing. This means that you’ll find a fun, broad range of stories of all kinds of unexpected vampires, from
the traditional worlds of horror to gothic-romance and historical, to contemporary urban fantasy, fang-in-cheek comedy and the hottest erotica, all the way to the downright romantic,
boy-meets-girl, sweetheart stories from tried-and-true romances (albeit with a bite ripped out of the heart and a vase full of blood for the flowers).
Also, keep an eye out for the smattering of stand-alone stories that feature connections to a particular writer’s existing series, or that follow an intriguing character who didn’t
get a chance to realize their full potential in a previous book and whose story may be being told here for the very first time (see the story of Dante Valentine’s foster daughter, Liana, in
Lilith Saintcrow’s “Coming Home”, Tomas the vampire in Karen Chance’s “The Day of the Dead” and the story of Viper’s beginnings in Delilah Devlin’s
“Viper’s Bite”). And, if you find yourself hooked on a particular writer after reading one of their stories, you can always get a quick fix by going out and scooping up their
trademark series to tide you over until the next instalment! But the real question that you’ll find cropping up again and again within these pages is this: is being a vampire all it’s
cracked up to be? Sure, you get to live forever and never age, sure you get powers of sexual magnetism beyond any human’s wildest dreams, but is it worth it? This question is like an echo
through many of these stories. So go for the jugular (. . . and the carotid, the femoral artery at the inner thigh, the soles of the feet, the bend at the elbow, the ankle . . .) with this motley
crew of Mammoth vampires and find out.
Sherri Erwin
My mind wandered through a mental inventory of my life as I felt his teeth sink into my skin.
About to turn 30, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment that I could barely afford, even with the reduced rate of rent from my employer. Between my car bill, credit card debt and student loan
payments, I could barely afford any luxuries, and that was only if I left necessities behind in the grocery aisles. I lived for invitations to dine with the students in the dorm: free food.
And now? I had probably risked the career I’d come to resent, the only thing I had going in life, by accepting an invitation from Connor Black (my sole male student) to go out for a drink
– only to find he was a card-carrying member of Bloodsuckers Anonymous. A vampire.
Risked my career? It should have been the least of my worries as I prepared to be dinner for one. What the hell, though, right? Could he suck me any drier than my creditors, who apparently
thought I bled cash?
Oh, no. I bled blood, confirmation of which came as his fangs made their introductions to my veins via the tender flesh at the base of my neck. A dribble rolled down my bare shoulder to pool in
the lace edging of my shell-pink bra, a purchase that had sat in my drawer long after Victoria’s Secret had closed my account. Hopeful for a chance to show it off, I’d put it on this
morning for the first time. And here I was.
“You taste like the wine,” he said, coming up for air. His palm grazed my nipple through the silk. It reacted, hardening under his touch with traitorous speed.
I met his gaze, cobalt eyes set in a face more inspiring than anything painted by Botticelli.
“It doesn’t hurt.” Surprised, I reached up to stroke the puncture wound.
He smiled, beatific despite the sharpened canines. “We pack a sort of numbing agent. Localized.”
“Like mosquitoes? You don’t know they’re sucking until they’ve almost fed.”
He laughed, a low chortle, much deeper and richer than any sound I’d heard from him in the classroom, where he’d managed to pass himself off as an ordinary young man, albeit a
fascinatingly beautiful one.
A fascinatingly beautiful one who had captured the attention of every woman in the room, even the self-proclaimed lesbians. Rumour had it that he’d slept with every student in my Romantic
poets class. From the way they looked at him, with the tight focus of famished animals desperate to get a bite, I didn’t believe it. They hadn’t had a taste. Not one of them. Not
yet.
We’d all seemed to think we were the hunters and he our prey. Fools. Today, I’d worn a thin blouse over my new bra, unbuttoned further than usual, and I’d leaned low
over his desk, on purpose, when handing back his paper. The better to tempt you with, my dear. And when he’d asked me out for a drink after class “to discuss his grade” (a
solid A), I’d thought my little plan had worked. I had him right where I wanted him. Hard to believe I’d been so clueless just a few short hours ago.
Truth be told, I’d had a moment of reservation. I couldn’t date a student. It was wrong. What if someone saw us? But my libido had won out. I wanted him. I wanted him like I’d
never wanted a man in my life. And the fact that he seemed to want me – the oldest woman in the room next to all the lithe young coeds? Too tempting to pass up.
“That’s it, love.” He leaned in for a kiss, the tang of my blood on his tongue. “Give in. I can make you feel so good.”
The erotic drag of soft lips against skin as he dropped a trail of kisses down the valley between my breasts convinced me he was right. He could make me feel. Good, bad, it hardly
mattered. It had been so very long since I’d felt anything.
A lifeless drone, so steeped in debt and disappointment that I’d stopped allowing any reactions; I simply carried on. Work. Home. Eat. Sleep. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
He recaptured my attention as his teeth tugged at the lace of my bra, his mouth begging entry to the silken cups. I slipped my hands up to tangle in his dark hair, slightly in need of a trim,
and down to caress the corded muscles of his bare back. Caught in the throes of fresh passion, we’d stripped down almost as soon as we made it back to my apartment. His Stones concert T-shirt
was still in my doorway, my skirt and blouse not far ahead to mark the trail that led from hall to kitchen.
He cradled my buttocks in his hands, lifted, and rested my bottom against chipped Formica before forming his tongue around my bare nipple and sucking it in for a long, hot pull. My knees would
have buckled if I wasn’t already balanced on the counter.
Had he broken the skin on my neck with his bite? I couldn’t tell. His tongue stroked and laved, drawing me in. He suckled, as greedy as a newborn. But I was the mere babe.
Over the second glass of wine, he’d confessed to being nearly 600. I’d laughed, not yet moving past the state of disbelief. It took his confession to having been an intimate of the
Shelleys to push me into the realm of acceptance. His explanation of Mary’s belief that she had failed her husband struck a chord and felt so real.
He knew things that only years of study and access to sealed documents at the Bodleian Library would have confirmed. Mary’s private letters, many lost, came to life in Connor Black’s
descriptions. He would be far too young to know so much, unless . . . 600 years old? Really?
What drew him to me, he claimed, was reading my dissertation on Mary Shelley’s yearning for immortality as expressed in her novels. I’d apparently captured such a sense of the real
Mary that he wanted to meet me, and became a student to do so. He’d been close to her after her husband’s death, but she’d refused to let him turn her.
“Because it was too late for her,” I interjected, downing my third glass. Good Cabernet. “Why would she want to live when everyone she cared about had died?”
“The very reason she refused me,” he confirmed, with a lift of his glass. “But you won’t refuse me, will you?”
“Immortality doesn’t hold a lot of appeal right now.” Life being such a joy and all.
“How about a sharpening of your senses, all of them? Sounds, smells, tastes. You can’t imagine what chocolate tastes like to me. And this wine, oh.” He rolled his eyes back in
his head as if the wine was ambrosia of the gods.
“I can still eat chocolate, then?” I tingled with curiosity. “It’s not all about the blood?”
“The blood fortifies, it sustains you. But the food? Eat anything you like. You won’t gain a pound.”
I laughed. He had to be kidding.
“I’m completely serious. You’ll remain as you are now, perhaps a little leaner.”
“Only a little?” I raised a brow. “Perhaps I’ll call you after I lose another ten pounds.”
“No.” There was an edge in his voice. He grew insistent. “Now. We’ll go back to your place now. Let me show you.”
“Show me?” My nerves skittered with curiosity mixed with a hint of fear.
“What I can do to you. For you,” he corrected. “Tell me to stop if I make you uncomfortable. You’re in control.”
“I’m in control,” I echoed now, as if suddenly remembering. My nerves no longer skittered, but were as taut as violin strings. And how they sang.
“Mm.” He looked up, a drip of blood trailing down his stubble-dotted chin. “Your wish is my command.”
But he didn’t stop to take commands. He dropped to his knees, tugging the underwear that matched my bra down my hips and dipping his head between my thighs before I had a chance to
protest. I shifted, leaning back to allow him better access. He drank deeply, and for so long that I lost all thoughts of control. I lost my mind. I barely remembered my name.
And then, I nearly lost consciousness. I tingled all over, felt light-headed, euphoric. I’d never felt so at peace, and yet so high. So very high. I drifted in the air, hovering over the
scene. I looked good stretched out along my kitchen counter, my torso elongated to best advantage for my slightly rounded abs. My stomach looked flat, lovely. My breasts, firmer than I remembered.
My legs, longer than I ever imagined, and perfectly shaped as they wrapped around him, pulling him tighter, before they went quite limp.
He rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Wait, how was I watching? Was I – realization dawned. I was dead?
He left me there, an abandoned rag doll, and went off in search of something. A knife. He stripped off his shirt and sliced a red welt along his well-honed shoulder blade. He leaned in for a
kiss. “Your turn. Drink.”
I didn’t know how I could comply with his orders from way up in the ether, but I tasted brine, like seawater, on my tongue as he pressed against my mouth. Drowning, I drank him in, unable
to hold back, and I gasped, coming to the surface at last.
“That’s it.” He cradled my head in his hands.
The blue of his eyes shone through my haze to guide me, stars in a midnight sky. I dipped my head again and darted my tongue along the tangy red welt. Now I tasted the wine, the Cabernet
we’d had earlier, the rich berry essence with a hint of tobacco, earth and salt. Connor’s blood. Clarity returned with every taste. I became all too aware of my fingers sliding over his
bare chest, down his arms, and up again, pausing at every sinew and cord. He was real, no figment of my imagination. I slid my bottom down off the cabinets, cold linoleum under the balls of my feet
as I rose up on tiptoe to kiss his lush, quivering mouth.
My hands strayed to the button of his jeans, too much clothing. I wanted to feel him against me, inside me. I felt so new, so alive, aware of every little thing: my nerves pulsing under the
skin, blood thrumming through my veins, the tick of the clock in my bedroom, a soft mewling yawn from the baby next door. Next door? Could I hear that far?
“Your senses sharpen,” he said, as if he could hear my thoughts. And then I realized that he hadn’t spoken aloud. I could hear his thoughts, and he mine. We’re
connected now.
“For life?” Not used to telepathy, I’d asked it aloud.
He laced his fingers with mine. For eternity. My epipsychidion.
Soul of my soul. I knew the Shelley poem, the poet’s fixation with a lover. I also knew the reality behind the poem. Shelley had fallen for a phantom, his own idealized version of what
love should be. Was I, in fact, a phantom now? Or was I waking from past disillusionment, ready to accept a whole new life?
With my newly sharpened senses, I assumed the sound of breaking glass was the shock of my own realization. It took a second to comprehend that it was my actual window breaking. A man was
climbing in through the broken glass, and another two coming in the door I’d left unlocked. I assumed they were men, larger than life in dark jumpsuits and helmets, faces covered with masks.
Gas masks.
Connor shoved me behind him as if about to defend me. I was touched by the gesture until he fell at my feet. A heartbeat later, my shouts of protest echoing in deep-throated slow motion, I fell
atop him and into the black fog of my own mind.
I woke up in the dark. So dark I couldn’t see. I could feel that I was in bed, in a cotton gown, but not my bed and not my gown. Hospital? I sat up. Hospitals had those
infernal fluorescent lights, always on. I couldn’t see any cracks of light to indicate a window or a door. I inhaled, rubbed my arms, and discovered an IV jabbed into the inside of my left
elbow. Hospital, I reaffirmed, and tried to feel better about it.
Hospital. I squinted into the darkness. Had I gone blind? Panic set in. I was blind! Lord, I hoped it was only a temporary condition. I reached out at my sides, fingers meeting metal rails.
“Hello?” If I couldn’t see, how would I know if there was someone in the room? “Hello?”
No answer. I sighed, reached over, and worked my hand up the IV tube to a box-like machine. My finger hit a button, something. A buzz went off, and stopped, followed by a soft whir, and what
felt like a pulsing down the tube. Maybe I was getting more drugs, whatever had knocked me out. Maybe I didn’t care. But I did care. I struggled to remember what had happened, why I was here.
And then my mind found Connor.
I’m here. Connor Black’s voice in my head, as if he were speaking to me.
Where? Whether I was crazy, dreaming or drugged, what did it matter? I may as well answer.
You have to find me, he said. Find me.
I preferred to find me first.
Deductive reasoning had never been my strong point, which was why I’d gone into teaching literature. Teaching. The Shelleys. I’d been having wine with Connor. It all came
flooding back to me. The wine. The apartment. His mouth on me. My wrist flew up to stroke my neck. My breath caught up with me a second later. Vampire? It couldn’t be.
My blood pounded in my veins so hard I could practically hear it. I remembered the window shattering, three men in jumpsuits and masks, my falling at their feet, and the world fading to black. I
sat up fast, the tubing ripping from my skin on a snap of pain that faded as realization dawned. Hospital? Or had I been abducted?
The world came into focus, a dim glow lighting the room, or were my eyes finally working? I squinted in the darkness until I realized that I didn’t need to squint. I could see everything
fine, even in the dark. The machinery at my side, a medical-looking box with two bags hanging suspended – one as clear as water, the other as opaque as blood – both feeding in to the
tube that had been stuck in my veins. The bed, covers rumpled at my feet, the walls covered in what looked to be watered silk, there were gilded wall sconces, tasteful paintings of flowers in
vases, two dressers, a vanity with an enormous mirror, a chair, and doors – a bathroom? Closet? Hall? No curtains, no windows. My bare feet found the soft, woven carpet, not exactly standard
hospital issue.
The doors should have been my target. Which one to exit? Where to call out? I headed for the mirror, my breathing suspended. I feared what I might, or might not, see but there I was, bathed in a
golden glow as if kissed by the dawn, lovelier than I’d ever appeared. My hair hung in soft, honeyed curls to my shoulders. I stroked my cheek, pale or simply an effect of the darkness? My
eyes glowed, cat’s eyes, predatory and shrewd. Me, but not me. What had happened? Where was I?
Again, I left the doors unchecked in favour of sifting through the dresser drawers. My favourite jeans, a not favourite sweater. My clothing was here, and what else? I pulled the jeans on, not
bothering to look for more. The jeans hung, just barely staying around my hips. The sweater had been nearly too tight, but now it draped my frame. No time to think. Shoes. I needed shoes and I
could walk out of here and into the night. Something told me not to call out, not to stay. A voice in my head, not my own. Connor.
A sound caught my attention, a rustling from the direction of the door at the far end of the room. A heartbeat later, the door swung open.
A man stood outlined in a halo of light. Once he stepped inside, I could see that he looked something like an angel. Blond curls, structured cheekbones. I met his gaze as he stepped inside and
closed the door behind him. I didn’t know how I could so clearly make out the colour of his eyes through the dark, but they shone amber, warm as candlelight diffused through a glass of Irish
whiskey.
He held a clipboard, his arms crossed over his white coat, which reminded me of folded wings.
“Luke.” He held out his hand and smiled, straight white teeth, no fangs. Another good sign. Not that Connor had appeared to have fangs until he’d been about to bite.
“Luke Jameson.”
“Doctor Jameson?” I asked, hesitant, as I placed my hand in his soft, warm grip.
He nodded. “I’d prefer that you call me Luke, but whatever makes you comfortable. The whole suite—” he gestured around us “—was designed for your comfort.
I’d prefer you thought of it as home.”
“I’d like to go home.” To my real home. Not that my shoebox apartment had ever felt much like home.
“Why don’t we go have a seat? We’ve a lot to discuss.” He opened the door adjacent to the one he’d come in, the one I’d assumed was a closet but turned out to
be a sitting room. I followed him into the light, to an overstuffed lavender sofa in front of a brick hearth with a walnut mantel. A pastel woven rug covered a bare wood floor. Heavy curtains
covered a back wall.
Windows? He settled on the ottoman of the chair that matched the sofa, set the clipboard on a side table, picked up a remote control and lit the gas-fuelled fireplace.
“Very cosy,” I said to break the silence. I curled up in the corner of the couch.
“I’m glad you like it.” He leaned forwards. “It is your home now.”
A prickle of foreboding ran up my spine. I narrowed my eyes. “Is that a threat? Are you saying I don’t have the freedom to leave?”
I struggled to hear Connor’s voice in my head, but there was no sign of him.
Luke sighed and tented his fingers, elbows resting on the knees of his long slender legs. “It’s not that complicated, but it may be hard to get used to at first. You’ve been
given a virus.”
“A virus?” I stood quickly, but didn’t miss that his gaze lingered on my braless breasts bouncing under my sweater. He cleared his throat. I crossed my arms and sat down
again.
“Vampirism is caused by a virus,” he said, meeting my gaze again, warmth in his amber eyes. “Infectious. Passed through body fluids.”
“Blood.” I felt it rush to my cheeks at the memory of drinking from Connor. “I’m infected.”
“It’s more than vampirism. There’s also hypertelomerase at work, the excess production of a hormone that halts the ageing process. It’s not a death sentence. We’re
working to find a cure.”
“So it’s more of an eternal-life sentence?” I smil
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