Dark Thirst Read online

  Edgy, erotic, irresistible—drink in this thrilling collection of vampire fiction from some of today’s hottest African American writers.

  Dark Thirst

  “These sensual vampire stories should not be read alone. Read them quickly and watch your pulse! Dark Thirst packs quite a bite.”

  —Sheree Renée Thomas, award-winning editor and creator of the Dark Matter series

  “With stories ranging from the erotic to the ironic to the outright disturbing, Dark Thirst will satisfy vampire familiars everywhere.”

  —Tananarive Due, author of The Living Blood and The Good House

  “A dark, disturbing, hauntingly unique compilation of stories told in multiple, talented voices. Sip slowly and savor!”

  —L. A. Banks, author of the Vampire Huntress Legend series

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Compilation copyright © 2004 by Angela C. Allen

  “The Ultimate Diet” copyright © 2004 by Monica Jackson

  “Vamp Noir” copyright © 2004 by Angela C. Allen

  “Human Heat: The Confessions of an Addicted Vampire” copyright © 2004 by Omar Tyree

  “Whispers During Still Moments” copyright © 2004 by Linda Addison

  “The Touch” copyright © 2004 by Donna Hill

  “The Family Business” copyright © 2004 by Kevin S. Brockenbrough

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dark thirst / edited by Angela C. Allen—1st Pocket Books trade pbk. ed.

  p. cm.

  Contents: Introduction—The ultimate diet / Monica Jackson—Vamp noir / Angela C. Allen—Human heat: the confessions of an addicted vampire / The Urban Griot—Whispers during still moments / Linda Addison—The touch / Donna Hill—The family business / Kevin S. Brockenbrough.

  1. Vampires—Fiction. 2. Horror tales, American. 3. African Americans—Fiction. 4. Short stories, American—African American authors.

  I. Allen, Angela C.

  PS648.V35D376 2004

  813’.0873808375—dc22 2004053382

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-0758-1

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-0758-2

  First Pocket Books trade paperback edition October 2004

  POCKET BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Contents

  Introduction

  The Ultimate Diet

  Monica Jackson

  Vamp Noir

  Angela C. Allen

  Human Heat: The Confessions of an Addicted Vampire

  The Urban Griot

  Whispers During Still Moments

  Linda Addison

  The Touch

  Donna Hill

  The Family Business

  Kevin S. Brockenbrough

  Introduction

  In 1865, as African American slaves were getting their first taste of freedom following the Civil War and being granted the legal right to read and write, French author Alexandre Dumas was creating a five-act play entitled Le Vampire. This grandson of a Haitian slave and a French aristocrat was the first black writer to pen a version of the vampire myth and, some might argue, was also the father of black horror. The play was set in Spain and predictably peopled mainly by whites—but, interestingly enough, Dumas did introduce the first dark-skinned character to appear in a vampire story, a woman he described as “Moorish” and cast in the role of a pagan witch.

  The myth of the vampire had been around for centuries in as many forms as there were foreign languages, embodied in tales of fanged demons like Kali in India, stories of the shape-shifting and bloodsucking tlahuelpuchi of Mexico and the legends of soul-stealing witches among the Hausa tribe in Niger. In pre-colonial Africa, among the polygamous Yoruba in Nigeria, the vampire tale took the form of witch-wives. These women were described as jealous witches who secretly sucked the blood of their husbands and of the children of their other wives. The local folklore even said women could be turned into bloodsucking witches against their will if they were tricked into eating human flesh or drinking human blood.

  But the vampire myth didn’t take on literary life until it traveled beyond the remote villages of Transylvania in Eastern Europe and into Western Europe, where it was reborn in the deliciously decadent novels of early English horror writers, who added dark twists and turns to the supernatural legend of an undead being who haunted the living and stole their very blood.

  In 1897, Bram Stoker’s Dracula burst onto the literary scene. It was not the first vampire book, but it was to become the most well known, setting the standard for later efforts and spawning a new genre so vivid and so enthralling that other writers would follow his lead for centuries to come.

  It would not be until one hundred years after Dumas that black hands would again take up the vampire torch. African American writers were diving into speculative fiction with authors like W. E. B. DuBois and George S. Schuyler giving us race-based science fiction stories like “The Comet” (1920) and “Black No More” (1931), but the field of horror seemed strangely off-limits, a segregated social club populated solely by whites. One of the first black writers to integrate the genre was Octavia E. Butler. This literary diva gave birth to “Doro,” the compelling Nubian immortal and star of her Patternist series that debuted in 1976. This vampirelike character was a departure from the evil-incarnate vampire fiends created by early European authors. Instead of physical force Doro used his telepathic powers to suck his victims dry before taking over their empty bodies.

  It was during the 1970s that the vampire was to undergo a renaissance, with its eerie blend of death and eroticism capturing the imagination of a new generation, thanks to creations like the Marvel Comics character “Blade,” an African American superhero who was half-human and half-vampire. This period also saw the birth of Anne Rice’s prolific Vampire Chronicles series and Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot. But, again, horror writers of color working in this popular genre were still out of the ordinary. Ironically, it was Hollywood, with its voracious appetite for profit, that unwittingly served as the evolutionary catalyst that transformed the traditionally pale-skinned vampire into a dark-skinned African prince. In the 1972 blaxploitation movie Blacula, the late actor William Marshall brought new fans to the vampire genre with his stunningly powerful portrayal of the tortured dark prince. Critics could only watch in wonder as he stole the show by bringing an unmistakable grace to every scene, breaking our hearts at the climactic end when he perishes under the glare of a red-hot sun.

  A black man would not play the role of the vampire again with such commanding charisma for nearly thirty years, until Wesley Snipes slashed his way onto the big screen in 1998 as “Blade.” His rippling muscles under smooth chocolate skin mesmerized audiences, while his dazzling martial arts moves brought the popular Marvel Comics hero to life and propelled the film to blockbuster status. Snipes gave the ancient Eastern European myth of the bloodthirsty vampire yet another face and gifted it with the cachet of cool.

  The 1990s also brought an end to the long literary drought as groundbreaking writers of color like Jewelle Gomez gifted us with unconventional story lines that for the first time presented the vampire from an African American viewp
oint. The 1991 Gilda Stories, about a runaway slave girl from the Mississippi Delta of the 1850s who turns vampire, once again flipped the script on the original Stoker creation. In its wake has come a rush of talented writers like Tananarive Due, Jemiah Jefferson and L. A. Banks, whose vivid imaginations gave us books like The Living Blood, Voice of the Blood and the übercool vampire huntress Damali Richards, bringing the vampire into the new millennium with an edgy, urban energy.

  Dark Thirst aims to push the envelope still further and shatter stereotypes about the face of contemporary horror. Three of today’s most popular black writers, Omar Tyree, Donna Hill and Monica Jackson, along with a few noteworthy newcomers, have stepped outside their usual genres and entered the dark world of the vampire. As you will soon see, there are few rules and no taboos. The vampires in these pages range from the traditional image of a demonic, fanged-tooth monster to the leather-wearing icon of urban cool, a sexy, fallen hero or a seductive temptress able to lure her prey with a single steamy glance.

  Each of these artists has dared to enter the world of the vampire not as pale imitations of themselves, stripped of all cultural identity and reduced to cheap caricatures, but as strong African American writers who bring a new dimension to an old story, taking it above and beyond the accepted norm. In doing so, they change the definition of vampire forever.

  Angela C. Allen

  New York City, 2004

  The Ultimate Diet

  Monica Jackson

  Desire

  It was almost midnight. I wrapped my mouth around the pizza, the doughy crust mingling with the tart sauce and the salty melted cheese sliding over my tongue. Then the roof of my mouth hit the spicy pepperoni, the tangy sausage and the meaty hamburger and I rolled it all over my taste buds, my teeth working the gooey goodness.

  It was something like sex, the sensation building to the point where you can’t let it go…Oh, don’t stop, baby. I stuffed another bite in my mouth before I swallowed the first one. My cheeks pudged out and my eyes closed. I was in pizza hog heaven. This was as close to nirvana as I got.

  Shoving it in fast, I covetously counted the pieces in case my girl Angelica, or Jelly, like everybody calls her, got ahead of me and copped some of my share. Jelly jams as good as I do when it comes to food. I feel downright petite next to her. I weigh two hundred and twenty-five pounds. I know Angelica tops three hundred.

  Jelly and I go way back. I met her in high school when we were picked out of the projects for a math enrichment program, of all things. Nobody had ever given a shit about potential mathematical Negroes before. But some bleeding hearts had this idea to test tons of black kids and apparently Jelly and I were among the cream of the crop. They said we had high IQs and big potential. We both were surprised because you couldn’t have guessed our smarts by our grades. We were run-of-the-mill fat black girls newly promoted into would-be math nerds.

  We liked it because they took us all on fancy field trips and bought us stuff. We got big-time perks. It was the only reason we hung in there because the whole thing was a social drawback. It was definitely not down in an inner-city black school to be stylin’ like some sort of nerd.

  But Jelly and I often discussed that if it wasn’t for that program, we’d probably still be in the projects with ten kids between us and less than ten dollars left out of our welfare checks each month once we’d spent for the necessities.

  Now we were both computer programmers with nice homes and healthy incomes. But when you think about it, success is all relative. If we were back in the projects, we’d be getting fucked, maybe by low-life, no-working, dependent losers, but we’d at least be getting some. We’d get high when we could and we’d party when we could. We’d have friends and family and kids and we wouldn’t worry too much about shit.

  All we had now was each other and our jobs. We worked together in a big company, you’ve probably heard of it, with a bunch of white folks. White folks don’t think much of fat black women. Surprise, surprise.

  One thing I’ve noticed about white nerdy men, they worship bony white women with big tits. It ain’t natural. But I don’t envy white women, because most of them don’t look like that.

  Jelly pulled me away from my thoughts when she snorted, turned the lights off, and pulled open the window blinds. I was irritated. What could be going on outside that was important enough to interrupt my pizza groove?

  “Keeshia, check out those Mexicans heaving that heavy shit like it was nothing. They’re moving fast too. Where were they when I moved from my house and had to deal with those niggas leaning upside their truck and holding it upright while I was getting billed by the hour?” she demanded.

  I sighed and moved to the window. Short, stocky men were unloading a moving van. I guess Jelly decided that they were Mexicans because of their small size and height. But they seemed uncommonly strong as I watched one handle a seven-foot sofa as if it were made of Styrofoam.

  A classic silver VW Beetle pulled beside the van and Jelly and I both drew in a breath when we saw the woman who stepped out of it. She stood under the streetlight as if she were voguing for a magazine shoot. The light threw her ebony marble features into relief. Her hair and skin blended, both the color of black patent leather.

  She turned slowly, surveying our quiet tree-lined suburban neighborhood like she owned it. She had fine, chiseled features and huge eyes, the whites standing out against the black skin like they were opals. Her hair fell almost to her waist in waves like black ocean water.

  Her outfit matched her attitude. She was decked out in head-to-toe bloodred leather. To top it off, she was tiny, one of those skinny little hos with big tits and a round African ass that filled me with envy.

  Suddenly, she looked straight at us. Jelly and I shrank back from the window. Her lips parted and her teeth reflected the light like pearls. I shivered.

  I wondered why she was moving in at midnight. What did it feel like to be a skinny bitch like her? Not that I was the envious type or anything. I just wondered. I stared at her through the window as she went in the house and pointed out to the movers where her heavy and expensive furniture was to go.

  I suddenly felt empty, despite the sodden mass of pizza lying at the pit of my stomach. If only I could…I stuffed another slice of pizza in my mouth rather than finish the thought.

  “There’s sauce on your chin,” Jelly said, holding two slices of pizza at once. I wiped at my chin.

  “You still starting that Paradise Resort diet Monday with me?” I asked.

  What if I could get little like that skinny heifer moving in across the way? My life would be perfect. Everything would be easy. Everyone would admire me. I wouldn’t have to deal with my goddamn job and my asshole boss…. I’d have the man of my dreams, fuck, I’d have a man, period. Satisfaction of the sexual sort consisted only of my fantasies and the fingers of my right hand.

  “Keeshia!” Jelly was saying. “I was asking you about walking.”

  “Walking? I walk every day, otherwise I wouldn’t get from point A to point B.”

  Jelly sighed. “You know what I mean. Around the block, a couple of miles a day.”

  “That’s not going to lose me any weight. I’m going to blast out on the Paradise Resort diet on Monday. Are you with me?”

  “You always starting some diet, girl, and they never stick. I’m giving up on the diets. I’m going to walk and cut out the sugar and fast food. That pizza was it, I’m cooking at home from here on out,” Jelly pronounced, trying to fold her arms over her girth.

  I raised an eyebrow. So my obese partner in dietary trauma was giving up on me. “I ain’t never going to give up,” I said softly. “Whatever it takes.” I meant every word.

  I admit I was hungry as fuck the next week. I’d get off my job and cook up my diet crap and go into the living room and open my blinds, eating my nasty food in the dark while I watched that skinny ho eat. Every evening, a little after dark, she sat right in front of the window and grubbed. I do not exaggerate the w
ord. The bitch ate full-course meals with wine, soup and the works. She ate steak one night, rare. Slurped up lasagna the next. Ate what looked like veal on Wednesday, tender and babyish, covered with cheese. Then she munched on leg of lamb with new potatoes. Friday, she sat down to crispy fried catfish.

  I had enough. I pushed my plate of rabbit food and tasteless dry chicken breast away and marched my fat ass to her apartment. I carried a cup and fork like they were weapons. I do admit that I sincerely wanted to stick the fork in her small, shapely, overeating ass. It wasn’t fair.

  I punched at her doorbell with a stiff finger. She opened the door fast, like she was standing on the other side waiting for me. I jumped back and blinked. Then I noticed that the skinny bitch looked better close up than she did far away. It wasn’t fair.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  She had some sort of strange accent.

  “Hi, I’m Keeshia and I live over there.” I gestured to my apartment across the parking lot. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” I handed her the fork. She stared at it. “It’s a collector’s item,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Then I held out the cup. “I wondered if I could borrow some sugar.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have none. I’m not much into baking or sweet things.” She had this cute crooked smile with gleaming white perfect teeth. Then, without an ounce of shame, she dropped the fork in the trash can. I had said it was a collector’s item!

  “Won’t you come in?” she asked.

  The hell with the fork. I didn’t hesitate to step inside her apartment. The door closed behind me with a swish and a thud. I noticed the sound because the coreless doors of my apartment don’t close with such finality.

  My thoughts turned again to her skinny body. Maybe she was on some exotic diet I hadn’t heard about yet. Something like that grub-down-at-dinner-only diet. But I’d tried that one with the ever-burning hope that it would be different. I’d gained weight on it.