Blood and Other Cravings: Original Stories of Vampires and Vampirism by Today's Greatest Writers of Dark Fiction
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
When we think of vampires, instantly the image arises: fangs sunk deep into the throat of the victim. But bloodsucking is merely one form of vampirism. For this brilliantly original anthology, Ellen Datlow has commissioned stories from many of the most powerfully dark voices in contemporary horror, who conjure tales of vampirism that will chill readers to the marrow.
In addition to the traditional fanged vampires, Datlow presents stories about the leeching of emotion, the draining of the soul, and other dark deeds of predation and exploitation, infestation, and evisceration…tales of life essence, literal or metaphorical, stolen.
Seventeen stories, by such award-winning authors as Elizabeth Bear, Richard Bowes, Kathe Koja, Margo Lanagan, Carol Emshwiller, and Lisa Tuttle will petrify readers. With dark tales by Laird Barron, Barry Malzberg and Bill Pronzini, Kaaron Warren, and other powerful voices, Blood and Other Cravings will redefine the terror of vampires and vampirism.
missed the old pinks and purples. “You’re supposed to wait until I say come in.” “I thought … I thought I heard you say something.” Both her hands were empty; I couldn’t see her phone. Her room was not too untidy: the bed unmade, but only a few discarded clothes and her black schoolbag disturbing the creamy flow of carpet. “No, you didn’t; you didn’t even wait, you didn’t give me time to say anything.” “I’m sorry.” “What do you want?” My mind was blank; I could think of nothing but those
home, and was more easily accessible. Instead of a ceiling hatch and a ladder, there was a door in the wall just at the head of the stairs. It was about half normal height, so you had to stoop to go in, and once inside even I had to be cautious about standing up straight. We’d been so ruthless about culling our possessions before paying someone to move them that we hadn’t needed to use this space for storage. I moved the dollhouse in there, tucking it away to the side of the entrance so that even
way up my arm like she’s never seen an arm before. I roll my eyes and put up with it until she grabs my left boob, and then I’ve had enough. I slap her hand away. “What the hell are you doing?” She sits there in my lap, examining her wrist from every angle like she’s trying to see if I left a mark. If I weren’t so drunk I’d have dumped her on the floor by now; as it is I can’t seem to get up the momentum. She touches her own face, then mine, then—“What the hell,” she says. And kisses me. For
of toilet paper. The thing rushes avidly to it and pushes at the bandage roughly, tugging it aside. It will expose the open wound. It will push its way under the bandage. It will get inside me. * * * Perfect black. With a slender ring of gold lace. A gleaming crescent at the far edge. Apparitions of steam. That’s only from an oblique angle. Looking directly down into the mug involves seeing myself, so I don’t do it. Shifting my eyes askance, it looks like night seen through the pale sheen of
that I haven’t about some person, some question she has that would never occur to me. It’s as if I cannot hold to my own self, to my own forest, if another person is with me. “Feed him some more,” says Phillips, and points to the sack beside me. “As many as he can take. We might avoid a breakage yet if we can stuff enough into him.” I untie the sack, and put aside the first layer, dark leaves that have been keeping the lower, paler ones moist. I roll a leaf-pill—the neater I make it, the less I