Good Vampires Go to Heaven

by Sandra Hill

  “Yep. Almost five hundred, but I expect we’ll be going out on missions almost immediately. In and out. Probably no more than a hundred in residence at one time. I should be there now, helping to plan.” Cnut was known as a great battle strategist. She could see why he would resent time wasted here, not to mention the fact that she was responsible for this whole debacle to begin with, by initiating an unauthorized rescue of Zeb.

  Regina couldn’t feel guilty about that, though. She just couldn’t.

  “And I need to get back to Coronado,” Trond interjected, coming from the kitchen where he’d nabbed a carrot which he was chomping on. “Gotta come up with a way to involve the SEALs without telling them exactly what’s going on. A bit of force multiplication on the home front.”

  Chomp, chomp, chomp.

  Trond could be so annoying sometimes, and Regina’s nerves were already on edge.

  “Do you think Vikar will send me out to fight on one of these missions?” Regina asked.

  Cnut and Trond looked dubious.

  “It’s the brig for you, babe,” Trond said. Chomp, chomp, chomp. “That would be my guess.”

  He was probably joking.

  Chomp, chomp, chomp.

  If she had some barbed wire handy, she would wrap it around something, probably Trond’s tongue.

  “How about me?” They all turned to see Zeb standing in the hallway. It was the first time he’d gotten up on his own, and he was looking better than he had hours ago. Not back to normal by any means, but surprisingly better. In fact, he’d even put on a sweatshirt and jeans and had flip-flops on his sore feet.

  Without thinking, she glanced toward his crotch. The denim material might irritate the stitches.

  Catching her glance, Zeb grinned and said, “I put a sock on it.”

  He was probably teasing. Still, she hated the heat that filled her cheeks, probably his intent. After all the intimate parts of his body she’d come to know, it was a miracle that she could still blush.

  Apparently, she was the only one who’d heard Zeb’s remark, and he had already turned his attention back to Cnut and Trond, repeating, “What about me?”

  “What do you mean?” Cnut asked.

  “Will Vikar use me? Surely, my insider information could help.”

  “We’ll soon find out,” Cnut said.

  And they did.

  Less than an hour later, they were down on the beach, where three vangels and a coven linked arms around a hard-to-categorize former demon and tried to focus on moving their bodies through the air.

  “Praise the Lord!” Regina prompted.

  And they were up, up, and away.

  No matter the danger, no matter the circumstance, it still comes down to a man and his penis . . .

  It was barely past dawn, but Vikar was up and about, in the castle kitchen, having a carton of Fake-O, enjoying the quiet before the daily madness began. Alex was still sleeping when he’d left their bed. Likewise, their children, Gunnar and Gunnora, in their adjacent nursery.

  He was staring idly out at the back courtyard, still not fully awake. Throughout the quiet castle, especially down below in the former dungeons, where most of the vangels were accommodated, he heard the rustling sounds of awakening . . . soft footsteps, toilets flushing, loud yawns, farts, water running. He had really good hearing.

  Soon, he would get down to final plans for the war to end all wars with the Lucipires, which would be launched two days from now. One of the dining rooms had been turned into a war room, with maps laid out on the long table, several computers and printers, and wall charts showing a division of not only the various planned campaigns by geography but by those who would command and serve in those divisions. Vikar and his brothers had been working on the plans nonstop the past few days, as well as battening down the security here at the castle and on Grand Key Island.

  Michael, who was a warrior himself, or had been, could have been of so much help, but, as usual, he had stepped back to let them blunder on their own. “Be strong and be of good courage, that is what God said to Joshua before going into battle,” Michael had reminded him.

  As if Vikar were in Joshua’s league! When he’d repeated Michael’s words to Mordr, a skilled fighting man, he’d likened Joshua to the NFL and they were mere Pee Wee players. Vikar wouldn’t have gone that far, but still . . .

  There was so much to do, and so few vangels for such a monumental job. Yes, a thousand Viking warriors sounded like a lot, but he could use ten times as many, and still not feel confident of the odds. Five hundred of the vangels were currently crammed in every corner of this castle and its grounds. Four hundred and fifty of the five hundred being temporarily housed on Grand Key Island would be returning here day after tomorrow when the vangels’ aggressive missions against the Lucipires would commence.

  Trust in God, he kept hearing in his head. And that’s what he would do. Except he was reminded often by Trond of that old military saying, “Trust in God, but pass the ammunition.”

  Lizzie came in, yawning, and nodded at him. Within minutes, she had the commercial-size, automatic coffeemaker brewing, and Vikar prepared to take the first mug. Coffee was a brew unknown to Vikings of old, but he’d come to rely on its morning kick start. Mayhap he was just getting old. Ha, ha, ha.

  Suddenly, he was jarred to alertness, and not by caffeine.

  There was a loud noise outside.

  Cnut and Trond must have returned. Praise God! Now they could complete their war plans.

  But then, Vikar’s jaw dropped with astonishment at the scene unfolding before him.

  They’d left an open “fold” in the shielding around the castle in anticipation of his brothers’ return. Only they knew how to access that opening, and it would be sealed after them. However, this was not a soft landing he was viewing out in the back courtyard. In fact, Trond ended up in the pool, Cnut on the gazebo roof, and Zeb lay on his back in the grass with his knees drawn up to his chest, moaning in pain.

  But it was the other three, no, four characters that drew his incredulity. There was Regina, and she was certainly more voluptuous than he’d ever realized as she raised her butt to get up off the ground and arched her back to ease some bruising from the fall. It was probably her attire, which was unusual for her, a pair of skin-hugging, knee-length shorts and a T-shirt that proclaimed “I Love Devil Dogs.” Her red hair, which she usually had pulled off her face in a ponytail or braid, stood out like a flaming bush.

  Turning, she helped an old lady to stand. The gray-haired witch—and that’s exactly what the old hag looked like in a long black gown with a long, black, open-sided apron in the Viking style—held a broom in one hand and a burlap bag in the other.

  Then there was a pretty, black-haired wench in a Puritan costume. Leastways, that’s what it looked like to him. But what did he know about female clothing. Maybe it was Quaker. Or even some new Amish group. She was adjusting her apron and dusting off her backside, having landed in the children’s large sandbox.

  And, finally, a dark-haired, dark-eyed guy, wearing jeans, a denim shirt, and Zeb’s Blue Devils baseball cap, strolled confidently toward the others who gathered at the far end of the patio, talking among themselves.

  Vikar opened the French doors and got a good whiff of . . . sulfur! “Holy shit! They’re Lucipires!”

  “No, they aren’t,” Lizzie Borden said, coming up to his side. “They’re witches, and they better not be coming into my kitchen.”

  “Huh? What?” Vikar looked again. “Witches? Like Regina?”

  “Not exactly. They’re demon witches.”

  Michael is going to have a bird!

  As Regina came forward, Vikar said, “What have you done?” And he didn’t just mean going off to rescue Zeb and setting off a war.

  Regina bowed her head and said, “Master Vikar, I beg leave to enter the castle.”

  “Bullshit!” Regina didn’t consider him her master any more than did her cat, Thor, which must have escaped from the pantry whe
re it had been locked because it now hurled itself, not at Regina, but at the old crone who dropped her broom and bag to open her scrawny arms wide. “There’s a pretty. Come to Mother.” She smiled . . . and Vikar doubted she had more than two teeth, and both of them fangs . . . and petted the cat which was already draped around her shoulders.

  Regina didn’t look at all put out at the disloyalty of her cat. In fact, she muttered, “You’re welcome to him.”

  “Is baby hungry? Does he want a little mouse to eat?” The old crone glanced toward the kitchen.

  “His name is Thor,” Regina told her, as if that mattered. “And this is Vikar.” She nodded toward him, then told him, “This is Grimelda.”

  “How do you do?” he said as politely as he could muster. Then in a misguided attempt at humor, he asked, “Do people call you Grimey for short?”

  “Only if they value black tongues and bleeding hemorrhoids.” She waggled the fingertips of one hand at him as if wielding a curse. And she cackled, of course.

  Lizzie straightened with indignation, or as much as she could with her short frame, and not about Regina’s failing to introduce her. “There are no mice in my kitchen. I keep a clean kitchen, that I do.”

  Not to worry. Grimelda, or Grimey . . . what a name for a witch, he thought . . . reached down into her burlap sack and pulled out a dead rodent (long dead by the dryness of the thing) and gave it to the cat. It probably came from Horror and was a demon mouse. Thor, pleased at his prize, took it in his pointy teeth and jumped off her shoulders to go off and devour the treat.

  Vikar had always been told that cats only eat live prey. Perhaps witch cats were different. Yuck!

  Grimelda was off, as well, brushing past Lizzie into the kitchen. “I need a cauldron. Where do you keep the cauldrons?”

  “No, no cauldrons!” Lizzie screeched, rushing after the witch. “Don’t touch anything. And leave that filthy broom outside.”

  Andrea, Cnut’s wife and a pastry chef, who helped Lizzie in the kitchen, walked in then and stared after the old woman who was surprisingly quick on her feet and cackling up a storm as Lizzie chased her around the long kitchen island. Andrea wore a white chef’s coat over black jeans. Must be she was preparing to bake for the masses today. His stomach rumbled at the prospect of her warm bread spread with butter and peach jam from the Amish market.

  Vikar would notify Michael of Regina and Zeb’s arrival, and the archangel might very well be here to confront the two of them by this afternoon, or maybe tomorrow. He would have to tell Andrea to bake some of those chocolate-filled croissants that the archangel favored. Yes, even heavenly beings had sweet tooths.

  A huffing Lizzie gave up on her chase and came over to them. “She’s a witch,” Lizzie whispered to Andrea.

  Andrea arched her eyes in surprise, but not too much surprise. She was a human, not a vangel, and, during the year or less she’d been here, there had been lots more, bigger surprises than a mere witch.

  Grimelda, who was standing a short distance away, must have heard the remark, though, because she eyed Andrea’s attire which would seem odd to her, and instead of remarking on her white coat, she asked, “Ya got any eye of newt around here?”

  She was probably kidding.

  Wasn’t she?

  Quick to react, Andrea replied, “Just the eye of my husband Cnut,” and waved to the vangel who had jumped off the gazebo and was grinning as he walked toward her. By the gleam of lust in Cnut’s blue eyes, you’d think he had been gone a year and not just a day.

  “Well, one new witch down, two more to go,” Vikar said to Regina. “What were you thinking? Bringing witches here. Demon witches.”

  She shrugged. “I had no choice. They helped me rescue Zeb.”

  “You had a choice, all right, girl. Starting with your decision to leave this castle without permission.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “You are not!”

  “Well, I’m sorry that I had to defy your orders . . . implied orders, I might add. You never actually said that—”

  “Do not play word games with me,” he practically shouted. “There have been vangel transgressions over the years, but none so serious as yours. And none with such monumental consequences that affect us all. God only knows what your punishment will be. If it were up to me, it would be banishment.”

  “No!” she cried. “Let me explain—”

  The young male witch interrupted them now, stretching out a hand to Vikar. “Y’all mus’ be Vikar Sigurdsson. It’s a privilege ta meet you. Mah name is Beauregard Doucet from La-fay-ette, Loo-zee-anna. At yer service. Call me Beau.”

  Vikar shook his hand, before withdrawing it quickly with distaste. Vangels did not willingly touch demons, and there was no doubt this man was still a Lucipire. He reeked of it.

  “And this heah is mah friend, Patience Allister.”

  The plain-dressed lady with the white apron (a regular apron, not the Norse kind) stepped forward and bowed her head at him. “Greetings, sir,” she said.

  “Patience usta be a Puritan, but now she jist wants ta become a Victoria’s Secret model,” Beau told him with a wink.

  Patience elbowed Beau. “Fool!”

  “We three are known back at Horror as the Crazy Coven,” Beau continued. “We doan mind if y’all call us that, too, jist so you let us stay.”

  That is just great. I can see it now. “Michael, I’d like to introduce you to the Crazy Coven.” At a loss for words, he just nodded at the man, but then he told Regina, “Take these new friends of yours to my office and make sure they stay there until I have a chance to make a decision.” Implied in his words was the directive that the door be locked and that she keep them from leaving, or moving about the castle. “And make sure you grab that old crone, too, before Lizzie wields her hatchet at her.” Before she left to do his bidding, he added for Regina’s ears only, “Only you would dare to bring a coven of witches into a vangel lair!”

  “Maybe misery loves company,” she sniped at him. “Maybe I’m tired of all the witch jokes around here.” On those words, she stomped off.

  “Maybe we’re tired of all the witch curses on our manparts,” he called after her.

  He could swear she gave him the finger over her shoulder. But he was probably mistaken. He turned back to the patio.

  A dripping wet Trond was helping Zeb walk toward Vikar. Cnut left Andrea’s side and went over to help. Zeb was in bad shape. Battered would be the best description and that didn’t even take into account his gaunt, half-starved body and shaved, bald head. Vikar could only imagine how bad he must have been when Regina had first found him. But the teletransport must have drained Zeb’s energy even more.

  The interesting thing was that the three witches Regina had brought here carried the demon scent, heavily. No question they were still Satan’s disciples of one sort or another. If they’d wanted to escape Horror, it wasn’t out of a burgeoning distaste for the Lucipire life.

  Unlike Zeb, who carried no scent at all. Not sulfur. Not lemon, which was the odor of dire human sinners. Nothing, except maybe a fresh scent of something like rain. Where that weird thought came from, Vikar had no idea.

  Zeb, whose arms were now wrapped around Trond’s and Cnut’s shoulders, holding him up, raised his heavy lids to Vikar. “Lord Vikar, I would beg leave to enter your domain.”

  Vikar didn’t know if by “domain” Vikar meant his castle or vangeldom, in general. Either way, it didn’t matter. He was here. For now.

  “You may enter,” Vikar said. “Looks as if Jasper has used you for a whipping post.”

  “If you only knew!” Trond interjected, and blurted out, “Zeb had barbed wire wrapped around his cock for the past year. And the TV tuned to nonstop movies, probably porn. Leastways, that’s what Regina said, not about the porn but the movies. Like a barbed wire condom, I’m guessing.”

  Vikar’s eyes went wide.

  “Regina took the barbed wire out and had to give him some stitches,” Cnut added.
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  Vikar’s eyes went even wider.

  They all looked down at Zeb’s groin area.

  “Wish I could have seen that,” Vikar said.

  Within the hour, while Zeb lay passed out in one of the third-floor bedchambers, word of his barbed wire penis passed among all the vangels. Some even had the nerve to ask Regina if she could draw a picture of how it had looked, but they’d only asked once before having one of her famous curses laid on them. Even so, jokes on the subject abounded.

  “What looks like a metal condom and hurts like a metal condom? Must be Zeb’s phallic sculpture.”

  “Gives new meaning to the word Tickler.”

  “How many cuts can a barbed wire make in one penis? Depends on the size of the penis. Size matters, dontcha know?”

  “There are times when a needle dick comes in handy.”

  “You could say it was a male chastity device.”

  “Mayhap it was a lightning rod for demons flying during a storm.”

  When Vikar’s wife, Alex; and Trond’s wife, Nicole; and Mordr’s wife, Miranda; and Harek’s wife, Camille; and Karl’s wife, Faith; all in residence at the castle for the duration, heard the jokes, they said as one, “Men!”

  Chapter 10

  The best laid plans of mice and men, rather demons and angels . . .

  Zeb couldn’t stop smiling.

  He was by no means safe. From the Lucipires, the vangels, or his own weak body. But he had escaped from Horror, and there was hope. Hope was everything.

  Vikar, Harek, and Mordr had given him blood “transfusions” all day yesterday and through the night to supplement what he’d already received from Cnut, Trond, and, of course, Regina. This morning, he was a new man. And he was hungry as a bear, lured by the scent of frying bacon and coffee coming from down below.

  After showering and shaving (his face, not his head), he donned some clothing left in his small bedchamber and made his way down the back stairway to the kitchen, the one originally intended for servants. The fact that Vikar hadn’t locked him in didn’t surprise Zeb. They knew good and well that he had nowhere else to go, and besides, Zeb had made it known for years that he yearned to become a vangel.