Ellen Datlow - Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

There’s something about her that still makes you uneasy: the way the moon looks over her shoulder, the way her hair moves when there wasn’t any wind, the way her nostrils flare when there is. Finally, though, you give in. She’s stroking your arm, and her voice is gentle, and the bed in your own apartment is cold.

When you get inside she offers you a glass of wine and puts on some soft music. There’s a dull ache inside you like a lump of congealed blood, and you aren’t sure whether it’s lust or loneliness or fear. You hope it’s not just fear. You want her the way you want air, the way you want your nightmares to leave you alone. A part of you is screaming no, no, we’ve done this before, but when she reaches up and strokes your cheek the lump in your gut dissolves, and there’s nothing you can do anymore. You need to touch her, need to touch someone, there’s an empty feeling in your fingertips like parts of them are missing. You stroke her arm and she kisses you. Her mouth is as hot as blood.

She pulls you toward the bedroom and you don’t resist. She pulls off your clothes and lays you out on the bed, then climbs on top of you and engulfs you. Her hands clutch your shoulders and she cries out as she forces you inside her. For this one moment you’re important to someone else; for this moment you’re her world. As she rides you and cries out into the night, you are a part of something larger than yourself, for you are hers. Even as her arms stiffen and grow hair, even as the fingers on your shoulders grow heavy and sharp, still you are hers and she is yours, and as you see her teeth shine in the moonlight you climax in ecstasy and fear.

Some women never turn all the way. Sometimes it’s just an ear pointing, a claw sharpening, a muscle that tenses suddenly with the strength of wind. “That was wonderful,” she says, and you see the loup passing from her face like a shadow; the newly grown hair fades and turns wispy and falls like snow. Her nose is still wide, though, and she sniffs the air above you. “You’re afraid, darling,” she says. “I’m sorry, I should have warned you. Were you scared that I would hurt you like your wife did?”

Mutely, you nod. She climbs off and lies down beside you, resting her head on your shoulder. “Not all of us do that,” she says. “That’s not really what loup is about.” She strokes your chest for awhile with a thick finger, and then she says softly, “I’ll protect you, darling. I’ll keep you safe.”

“What is it about?” you ask, and you turn to look into her deep gray eyes. You think you see the answer inside them: It’s something that’s strong, and young, and very, very old.

“The night is where we belong,” she says finally. “Out where the moon burns white-hot at midnight. The stars go on forever, and the only thing for us to be afraid of now is the sound that the moon makes in our blood. Do you know what that’s like?”

I remember, you tell her. I remember.

Later you fall asleep. You dream that you are lying in the moonlight, and dark shapes are gathered around you. They are ripping you open and feasting on your warm insides, but you feel no pain. If anything, you are glad to be a part of them, for it is good to feel needed. Then one of them moves up and kisses you with bloody lips, and you see that the eyes on her dark face are your own.

You wake up and check to make sure you are still in one piece, and you think back to the time when a woman’s heart would grow cold at the sound of a man’s footstep in a lonely place at midnight. How long, you wonder, how long until both of the moon’s twin children will be able to walk beneath her without fear? And without fear, would love still taste as sweet?

She is sleeping behind you, her breasts pressed against your back, her arms around your chest. The backs of her hands are covered with short black down, and her fingernails are as thick as dimes. Her breath on the back of your neck is hotter than blood.

Feeling her hot breath on your skin, staring into the darkness, you lie awake until dawn.

Edward Bryantbegan writing professionally in 1968 and has published more than a dozen books, including Among the Dead , Cinnabar , Phoenix Without Ashes (with Harlan Ellison), Wyoming Sun , Particle Theory , Fetish (a novella chapbook), and The Baku: Tales of the Nuclear Age . He first focused on science fiction and won two Nebula awards for short stories in 1978 and 1979. While he still occasionally dabbles in science fiction (such as his 1994 story “The Fire That Scours”), he gradually strayed into horror. Most of his work is now in the horror genre, as with his series of sharply etched stories about Angie Black, a contemporary witch, the zombie story “A Sad Last Love at the Diner of the Damned,” and other marvelous tales.

Most of his horror fiction will be reprinted in an upcoming retrospective.

Storm Constantineis the author of more than thirty books, both fiction and nonfiction, as well as numerous short stories. Her fiction titles include the bestselling Wraeththu trilogies, the Grigori trilogy, and stand-alone novels Hermetech and Thin Air . Her esoteric nonfiction works include Sekhem Heka and Grimoire Dehara: Kaimana . Constantine lives in the Midlands, England, with her husband and four cats.

Doris Eganwrote the Ivory series: The Gate of Ivory , Two-Bit Heroes , and Guilt-Edged Ivory . As Jane Emerson, she wrote City of Diamond . She’s been a writer and producer on several television shows, including House , Torchwood , Smallville , Tru Calling , and The Agency . She currently lives in Los Angeles and is working on Black Sails , a show about eighteenth-century pirates.

Kelley Eskridgeis a writer and screenwriter, author of the novel Solitaire and the short story collection Dangerous Space. Solitaire was a New York Times Notable Book and a finalist for the Nebula, Gaylactic Spectrum, and Endeavour awards, and is currently in film development with Eskridge as screenwriter. The works gathered in Dangerous Space include an Astraea Prize winner, two Nebula finalists, three James Tiptree, Jr. Honor List stories, a story collected in the Year's Best Fantasy and Horror (1995), and a story adapted for SyFy.

Eskridge edits and coaches writers as co-owner of Sterling Editing. She is a board member of the Clarion West Writers Workshop. She is currently working on a screenplay about dangerous women and pondering new fiction. She lives in Seattle, Washington, with her partner, novelist Nicola Griffith, where she loves to talk, drink, laugh, dance, and write.

Wendy Froudis a doll- and model-maker, writer, and teacher.

She was born in Detroit, Michigan, and has lived for the past thirty-two years with her husband, Brian Froud, in Devon, England. She worked on the films Dark Crystal , Labyrinth , and The Empire Strikes Back , and has illustrated, written, or otherwise contributed to more than a dozen published books.

Neil Gaimanhas been writing professionally for almost thirty years. He won the Newbery Medal, the Carnegie Medal, and the Hugo Award for The Graveyard Book . He won no awards of any kind for A Walking Tour of the Shambles , his little book with Gene Wolfe, but is ridiculously proud of it anyway. He has three children, two dogs, and about half a million bees.

In addition to teaching British Literature at Piedmont Virginia Community College in Charlottesville, Virginia, and helping raise a family, Bruce Glassco’s biggest claim to fame is designing the board game Betrayal at House on the Hill, winner of the 2004 Origins Gamers Choice award.