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About The Book

A haunting anthology of vampire fiction—one that brings a colorful new dimension to one of the world's most erotic and enduring myths.

Featuring stories from some of the most popular African American writers:

Omar Tyree writes about The Old South, which falls prey to a handsome young vampire with a taste for beautiful women—love at first bite never hurt so good.

In Angela C. Allen’s story, the mafia is no match for the wicked charms of a beautiful young vampire once she's let loose on the New York City streets.

Can a pair of fangs help a sister burn more calories? A full-figured woman goes on a thirst-quenching search for the perfect low-carb diet in Monica Jackson’s story.

In Linda Addison’s story, it's a matter of life and the living dead for a half-vampire whose greatest wish is to save lives...and become human again.

Donna Hill writes about a sensuous vampire thirsts for something more...but can she find it without getting a dagger in her own heart?

Kevin S. Brockenbrough’s tale features a vengeful vampire pushes one woman to the edge, though she’s unaware that her family secret gives her the power to fight back.


Chapter 1: 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 word. 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.

I settled down on her overstuffed couch. She pulled the drapes to her big picture window and sank down next to me. I studied the table, still filled with mounds of golden catfish and fried potatoes exquisitely sliced to thin crispy perfection. The coleslaw looked as if it were confetti and gleamed with mayonnaise. My mouth watered.

"Would you like to eat?" she asked.

I averted my eyes, realizing that I'd been staring. I mumbled no, the word almost unintelligible.

"Maybe later," she said.

I noticed her scent. It unsettled me, made me feel strange. It smelled better than the aroma from her table. I leaned toward her and caught myself almost reaching for her. I jerked back as if I'd touched hot coals. Shit, I was going to...touch her. Wanted to touch her. Like she was a man. And there wasn't a thing male about her. It was crazy. I curled my fingers and stuck my hands in my pockets, not a graceful move since I was sitting. I sucked in a breath.

"My name is Sofia," she said, her voice breaking the silence like cream pouring into coffee.

"Where are you from?" I asked, relieved to have a distraction from my confusing reaction to her.

"Originally from eastern Africa," she replied.


"No, I'm from a kingdom closer to what is now Ethiopia."

Kingdom? I didn't know of any kingdoms in present-day Africa, but I let it ride. My brain oozed slow-motion-style around my chaotic emotions, but my mouth kept running. "I'm trying to lose weight and I noticed how you're in great shape," I nattered, all perky like a white girl in a TV commercial. "I wondered if you'd let me in on your secret."

She smiled at me and leaned closer. My mouth went dry. "You want to know my secret?" she whispered.

I tried to focus my suddenly fuzzy vision on her ruby lips, bloodred. Juicy. I felt the beginnings of moisture between my legs, a hot sweetness tingling and spreading.

Her sexy smile widened, her white teeth gleaming in the golden lamplight.

She moved closer and I felt my nipples harden. When I realized that her face was moving toward mine like she was going to kiss me, a rush of excitement mixed with astonishment flooded through me.

Now realize that my sexual fantasies have always centered around the concept of a big, hard cock. I loved the idea of a hot dick shoving up into me, pounding my pussy. This lesbian shit was tripping me out.

"Keesh, girl, you in there?" I heard Jelly's voice yell through the door and I swear I almost cried in relief.

"Yeah, I'm coming," I yelled, and I was off that sofa and to the door before you could say jackshit on a cat. I didn't look back. I was afraid to.

"How did you know I was in there?" I asked her as I shut the door behind me, panting slightly.

"You left your door open, your food half-eaten on the table and the house was dark, the window open. Not to mention I could see you two sitting there from your living room window. You've been going on and on about how that woman eats, so it wasn't hard to figure out where you could be. So what's she like?"

I swallowed hard. "Garden-variety skinny bitch," I said, but I was lying. I just didn't want Jelly to talk about her anymore. Because then I'd have to wonder why I wanted to go back and find out how her lips would feel against mine.

After Jelly left, I couldn't stop thinking about Sofia and, worse, I couldn't stop watching her. The next night this fly white boy went to her apartment. They ate a bloody rare steak together, and he touched her constantly. I imagined the outline of his hard dick through his jeans. I know he wanted her. How could he help it? Then she pulled the blinds, but there was this small sliver of golden light trickling through.

I couldn't help myself. I put on black sweatpants and a black sweatshirt and I crept outside, easing into the bushes outside her apartment. I crept along the walls, the shrubs tearing at my skin. I rubbed my hand across wetness trickling down my cheek. I thought it was sweat and I was surprised to see my hand come away red with blood.

When I finally peeked through the opening of her heavy drapes, I saw Sofia naked on the sofa, splayed out. Perfect, she was perfect, every inch of her gleaming black skin flawless. Her breasts round and firm with hard, black nipples, the black areolas blending into the darkness of her skin. Her muscles flexed under her skin like a panther, and her glossy black pussy hairs were neatly trimmed.

The white boy was worshipping her body. He'd taken off his shirt and I could see the sweat trickling down his back. His pink tongue trailed down her taut belly to her pussy. His eyes were closed. He knew what he was doing, his tongue holding a rhythmic dancing beat, right next to her clit. Her head was thrown back in ecstasy, her neck and back arched.

My fingers crept inside my sweatpants and under my panties to work in rhythm with his tongue. I was close to coming when he suddenly stood up and pulled off his jeans. His dick sprang free, pink and engorged. He moved on top of her in one motion and drove his dick deep into her pussy. I came in hard jolts when I saw her mouth move with the cry of her pleasure as he shoved his hard, pink dick in and out of her slick pink cunt edged in blackness.

When I looked up again, she was burying her face against his neck. I gasped as I saw redness seep from around her lips. Then she opened her eyes and looked straight at me. I dropped down into the bushes and scrambled away, barely getting my sweatpants back up over my ass.

Back in my apartment, I stared at my hand. Blood, blood? White boy blood oozing from under Sofia's lips. Her knowing glance up at me. Fuck, I was more scared than a lobster staring down at a boiling pot. I locked all the doors and checked the windows.

I never thought much about weird shit like monsters or ghosts. Horror flicks had never been my thing because the black guy usually dies first. When black folks started getting some play in scary movies as the big-bad, I knew we'd arrived and my interest picked up a touch. But I never dreamed that shit could be for real.

Maybe the blood on Sofia's lips was my overactive imagination. But I remembered her hypnotic hot attraction. Her too-white teeth. And I wasn't the imaginative type.

I suppressed a shudder.

But being scared for too long isn't my style. I rummaged in the kitchen and found some macaroni stuck in the back of a cabinet, boiled it up and made some from-scratch mac-and-cheese. Then I booted up my computer and signed on to the Internet while I chowed down straight from the pot. The diet was history. What was important was what the fuck did I know about vampires? Not bloody much.

Copyright © 2004 by Monica Jackson

About The Authors

Stephen Hudgins

New York Times bestselling author Omar Tyree is the winner of the 2001 NAACP Image Award for Outstanding Literary Work—Fiction, and the 2006 Phillis Wheatley Literary Award for Body of Work in Urban Fiction. He has published more than twenty books on African American people and culture, including five New York Times bestselling novels. He is a popular national speaker, and a strong advocate of urban literacy. Born and raised in Philadelphia, he lives in Charlotte, North Carolina. Learn more at

Essence bestselling author Donna Hill began her career in 1987 with short stories and her first novel was published in 1990. She now has more than seventy published titles to her credit, and three of her novels have been adapted for television. Donna has been featured in Essence, the New York Daily News, USA TODAY, Black Enterprise and other publications.
Donna lives in Brooklyn, NY with her family.

Monica Jackson is the award-winning author of numerous novels and short stories. Her first novel, Midnight Blue, was produced as a BET television movie of the week. She lives in Topeka, Kansas. Visit her website at

Photo Credit: Ken Hollis

New York Times bestselling author Omar Tyree is the winner of the 2001 NAACP Image Award for Outstanding Literary Fiction. His books include Diary of a Groupie, Leslie, Just Say No!, For the Love of Money, Sweet St. Louis, Single Mom, A Do Right Man, Flyy Girl, Capital City and BattleZone. He lives in Charlotte, North Carolina.

Product Details

  • Publisher: Gallery Books (October 5, 2004)
  • Length: 320 pages
  • ISBN13: 9780743496667

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