A Whisper of Blood by Ellen Datlow (ed)

A Whisper of Blood

A Whisper of Blood: Stories of Vampirism by Ellen Datlow (editor)
English | 2019 | Fantasy | ePUB | 7.6 Mb

A Whisper of Blood : Featuring stories by Jonathan Carroll, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, and Robert Silverberg, A Whisper of Blood is a “consistently engrossing anthology” from award-winning editor Ellen Datlow (Publishers Weekly). Continuing to expand the boundaries of the concept of vampirism—as she did in her first collection, Blood Is Not Enough—Datlow has assembled eighteen fascinating stories that range from tales of literal vampires to what she calls “metaphorical bloodsuckers,” who can drain another’s life force without ever sinking their teeth into necks.

In “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep” by Suzy McKee Charnas, an elderly Jewish woman who’s taken her own life has second thoughts and makes a deal to become a vampire to stay immortal, the only condition being she has to drink blood by request only. An amnesiac operative tries to sort out if a secret government agency is trying to help him regain his memory or is wiping it clean in Chelsea Quinn Yarbro’s Kafkaesque “Do I Dare to Eat a Peach?” And in Jonathan Carroll’s “The Moose Church,” a tourist in Sardinia is literally scarred by asking questions of death in his dreams . .

“Good heavens, somebody was in there, also looking at her—two men, Bill the super and Mr. Lum the day concierge! Rose recoiled, burning with shame. Her vacated body couldn’t even make the gestures of modesty.

They were talking, the two of them. She had given them generous holiday tips for years to repay them for helping her organize a life that had never required her to leave her apartment after Fred’s death and the consequent money squabbles in the family.

Bill said, “Two mil at least, maybe more on account of the terrace.”

Mr. Lum nodded. “Forgot the terrace,” he said.

She wished she hadn’t tipped them at all. She wished her body didn’t look so—well—dead. Definitively dead.

“Okay, I can’t go back,” she admitted to the Angel, relieved to find herself alone with it on the roof again. “But there must be something I can do besides go—you know.” She shuddered, thinking of the monstrous shape lowering above her—a wrathful, a terrible, a vengeful God. She needed time to get used to the idea, after Papa Sol and a lifetime of living in the world had convinced her otherwise. Why hadn’t somebody told her?

Well, somebody besides Mary Hogan, who had been a Catholic, for crying out loud.

“Well,” the Angel said, “you can postpone.”

“Postpone,” Rose repeated eagerly. “That’s right, that’s exactly what I had in mind. How do I postpone?”



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