by Sandra Hill
“For now, as a newly betrothed couple,” Michael continued, “I am sure you two have much to discuss between thyselves, personal plans.”
“But—” Zeb started to say.
She jabbed him with an elbow.
Thus, he was left alone with his . . . dare he say, fiancée.
“I still don’t see why Michael is insisting on marriage,” Zeb complained.
“Because you’re not a Viking, and vangels have always been Vikings, and marriage to a vangel would make you a Viking-by-marriage.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Would you care to tell that to Michael?”
No, he wouldn’t. “What are we going to do?” he asked her.
She didn’t need to ask what he meant. She knew! “I don’t know what we can do. We have to find a way of turning lemons into lemonade, I suppose. Forgive the lemon association. Finding some good in a bad situation.”
“So, if we’re married, what are the benefits . . . the lemonade, so to speak?” Aside from the obvious, and he wasn’t even going there.
Several vangels looked in the room and were about to enter, then turned away when they noticed the room was occupied.
“C’mon. Let’s go outside. There’s a back exit through the parking garage,” she said and led him through several rooms and doorways, passing vangels at work. Mostly physical training or checking out weapons. Breaking down guns, oiling them, and putting them back together. Sharpening swords and knives. Taking out extra ammunition for weapons. Then making sure they had all been dipped in the symbolic blood of Christ.
Zeb didn’t recognize most of them, but Regina nodded here and there, or spoke briefly about Michael and the activity upstairs.
There were also strange men in their midst, giving quiet instructions or demonstrations. Most of them wore ancient attire, similar to what he’d worn as a Roman soldier. Thigh-length leather tunics with thick belts and cross-gartered sandals. They carried heavy swords or lances. An aura surrounded them, not unlike the full-body halo of Michael’s, but much fainter and more subtle. They also had a hint of wing bumps under their clothing.
“Archangel warriors,” Regina whispered to him.
“Of course,” he whispered back with a note of sarcasm. Why wouldn’t there be a legion of angels hanging out in the basement of a vangel castle?
She darted a reproving glance his way.
Just then, Regina’s cat shot out of a doorway, paused in front of them, hissed at Zeb, got in a position as if it was going to pee on his shoe, but ran away when Zeb said, “Don’t you dare!”
“Damn! Thor is still here,” Regina said.
“Your cat doesn’t like me,” Zeb told her.
“Thor doesn’t like me, either.” She shrugged, not at all offended.
He wasn’t either.
Finally, they got to the underground garage, obviously a new addition to the castle, and it was massive. He could only imagine Vikar supervising the work on this project, cursing and complaining the whole time at yet another of the seemingly endless improvements or restorations needed for the castle.
At least six dozen vehicles were parked there, lots of SUVs and pickup trucks, and a few luxury sedans, like a BMW and a Lexus. Even some motorcycles.
“All of them are black or dark-colored, I notice. Designed not to attract attention?” he asked.
“Right. Although, being located in a town known for flaunting its vampire character, being invisible almost makes us more visible.”
There was an odd logic in her illogic.
“Why would vangels need motor vehicles, if they can teletransport?”
“Vangels only teletransport in emergencies. We’re encouraged to use modern methods, wherever possible. Cars, trucks, trains, planes. And not just to appear normal to humans, but because teletransporting drains a vangel of energy.”
He’d known that, actually. He was just making conversation. Moving on to another subject, he remarked, “Seriously, Regina, why didn’t someone mention to me that you vangels would have archangels covering your backs in the fight against Jasper and his hordes? That puts a whole new perspective on the chances for success.”
She shook her head. “They’re only here as advisors. Once Michael leaves, they will, too.”
“So, no hometown advantage? A heavenly second team waiting in the background?”
“None,” she answered.
They emerged through a series of tunnel-like corridors, reinforced with steel (more kudos to Vikar and his renovating efforts), up some concrete steps, and out onto the back lawn, beyond the swimming pool. Normally, on a warm day like today . . . mid-September, but balmy weather . . . there probably would have been children and some adults in the still-open pool and surrounding patio, taking advantage of the last days of what was known as “Indian Summer.” But, in deference to the pandemonium out in the world and Michael’s visit here, almost everyone seemed to be staying inside. Except for some vangel gardeners working on landscaping. Zeb could hear a lawn mower in the distance. Still others were using nets to clean the pool and hose down the patio. And wait . . . in the distance, a field held dozens of vangels, who wore leather armor, practicing swordplay. They would all transform into fighting men and women, when called to battle, even the gardeners and pool boys.
When they got to the gazebo, Regina sat down on a cushioned wicker chair and motioned for him to do the same in an opposing one. He was, frankly, glad to get off his feet. All the vangel blood he’d been given had improved his health immensely, but he was still not back to normal, and he felt it in his weary, battered bones. His ribs, especially, were aching and his feet hurt from all the walking he’d been doing in the castle since he awakened this morning. He would need several more vangel “transfusions” today, and tomorrow, too.
Maybe Regina would . . .
No, he couldn’t go there, not with the new betrothal business.
For a moment, he closed his eyes and just relished the peacefulness of the setting. He hadn’t felt so calm and hopeful . . . and clean, truth to tell, inside and out . . . since the days when he’d owned his own small vineyard and had been satisfied with just a modest harvest and enough wine to sell to take care of his family. But this was not Israel. And the scent was not of grapes, but late-blooming roses filling the air, except for the occasional wafts of cinnamon.
“Are you smelling rain?” he asked suddenly.
“Oh, yeah.”
He’d been expecting her answer, but still it bothered him. He wasn’t sure why. It was amazing to him that he could be so opposed to a union with this woman . . . any woman, really . . . but so attracted to her scent. “So, what’s this lemonade idea of yours?”
“We could be partners. Vangel partners. Combine our talents. Brainstorm ideas. Fight side by side. I could see that working.” There was excitement in her voice.
Ambitious wench! “Batman and Robin? Mulder and Scully? Holmes and Watson?”
She smiled. “Whatever floats your boat.”
“You think I’m a vangel, then?”
“What else?”
“I still don’t have shoulder bumps. I checked when I showered this morning.”
“Stop fixating on wings. None of us have wings so far, except maybe Vikar who flew one time when Michael helped him escape from Jasper.”
“I’m looking for proof, that’s all. Shouldn’t I feel different if I’m a vangel?”
“Different how?”
“Gooder.”
“What?” She laughed. “That’s not a word.”
“More good. Purer. Angelic.”
“Vangels aren’t angels, Zeb. Never will be.”
“I thought—”
“Nope.”
“So you think we should try working together as vangels? A team?” Zeb commented. “No offense, but it seems to me that benefits you more than me.”
“How so?”
“Being a woman, you’re more likely to get plum assignments if you’re joined at the hip with a ma
le, especially one of my superior fighting skills.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
He was teasing, but he could tell she didn’t appreciate the sexist nature of his remark. Even if it was true. Point of fact, there were no high-level female vangels. It was probably because the seven VIK members were Vikings, and Vikings were known to be rather chauvinistic. Leastways, they had been in the old days.
About to backtrack, and explain his poorly chosen words, he saw that it was too late.
She bristled and made a hissing sound through her clenched teeth.
He couldn’t help observing, “You look just like your cat when you do that.”
“Best you be careful then, that I don’t spit a hairball on you.”
And he knew just where it would land. She was staring right at his crotch. Trond had told him in the past how Regina was known for throwing her witchly curses on men’s male parts when they offended her in any way.
“Don’t even try it, Regina. I’m immune to your curses.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Listen, sweet witch,” he said, having no clue why he referred to her with that half-assed endearment, “my cock was already in sleep mode for a long time before Jasper got hold of it. There isn’t much more you could do to it.”
“Hmpfh!” she said. Then, “As for one-sided marriage benefits, here’s one for you. If you’re married, women might stop hitting on you.”
“What makes you think women hit on me?”
“Are you kidding? You’re gorgeous, even with a bald head, which is starting to grow out, by the way. You already have a little fuzz. Besides, your eyelashes alone are enough to make a saint swoon.”
He grinned. This was fun. “You think I’m gorgeous?”
“Don’t let it go to your head. There are lots of good-looking vangel men. They’re Vikings, after all. That doesn’t mean they get to spread the love.”
“Spread the love,” he choked out. “Not even to their wives, if they’re married?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s your point?”
“I’ve been thinking. If I’m going to have to be married, if Michael won’t let me be a priest, I am damn sure not giving up celibacy.” He had no idea where that thought came from. He certainly didn’t mean it.
“But you said . . .”
“I’ve reconsidered.” No, I haven’t. I’m just kidding. Honest. Why won’t my tongue correct itself?
At first, she looked alarmed, but then she said, “Don’t you think that’s a two-way decision? And I can tell you right now, I’m not interested.”
“I could convince you.” Damn, my tongue has a mind of its own.
“Hah! You could try.”
“Okay.” Who’s driving this runaway train of a tongue of mine? Not me!
“What?”
“You invited me to seduce you. So that’s what I’ll do.” Why don’t I just lie down and surrender . . . to whatever or whoever is pulling my puppet strings?
“You never mentioned seduction.”
“Convince, seduce, same thing.”
“Are you freakin’ kidding me?”
“Yes,” he said, finally gaining control of his unruly tongue.
“Idiot!” she said. “Here’s my idea if you’ll let me finish a sentence. Michael said we would marry after the mission is over. All we have to do is pretend to be compliant, and then we can do lots of good things to change his mind. Time is our friend.”
“It might work,” he said. “First of all, the mission might not succeed. We might all be destroyed. Then, our marriage would be a moot point. Second, it would give us time to come up with worthy arguments against our wedding.”
“Exactly.”
“The only thing is,” he hesitated, “in the Jewish religion, as it was when I was human, a betrothal was as legal as an actual marriage. Oh, not consummation or love play of any kind, but for the year or so between engagement and wedding, the man and woman were considered man and wife.”
She pondered his words, then concluded, “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”
“What in bloody hell does that mean?”
“Times have changed,” she explained, standing. Apparently, their meeting was over. In her mind, anyway.
He stood, too, and said, dubiously, “If you say so.”
“It’s a deal then,” she said, extending a hand for him to shake.
Which was a big mistake.
The second his flesh touched hers, palm to palm, a blue mist of cinnamon rain emanated from their clasp and swirled about, enveloping them in an erotically charged cocoon. Really. It did. Like magic, or something weird.
Every hair on his body stood on end, even the fine bristles on his head. Carnal caresses seemed to sweep over his body, in slow motion, like feathers.
She moaned.
He groaned.
And then he succumbed to the need that overwhelmed him, tugging her closer. He even felt a jolt down below.
She succumbed as well, stepping into his embrace.
The kiss that followed defied description. Lips met lips, then shifted reflexively to get the best angle of fit. Turns out fangs against fangs was no problem, after all.
Zeb didn’t touch her, except for his fingertips on her upper arms. Her hands were pressed, lightly, against his chest.
But you would have thought they were joined in the most intimate way. His brain seemed to melt, and all logical thought was gone. He was just one big mass of throbbing need. For what, he wasn’t sure.
He moved his mouth against hers, then tasted her with his tongue. Sweet. And spicy. Cinnamon with a bite. And the perfect match to his raging hunger.
She sighed and kissed him back, licking at his lips and fangs, then inserting her tongue into the hot sheath of his mouth.
He breathed into her mouth.
She breathed into his mouth.
He felt tears well in his closed eyes at the utter pleasure/torment of their kiss. It was wonderful. It was terrible.
Then, the unthinkable happened. Reflexively, he turned her head and sank his fangs into her neck.
And she let him.
He drank deeply. Only for a second. But it was enough to feel as one with this woman. He could swear they melded together. This fanging was more intimate than an actual mating.
Was she truly his lifemate?
Did he have no say in the matter?
Was she Eve to his Adam, tempting him?
Or was he tempting her?
What did it all mean?
Surely, pleasure this intense is of another dimension, he thought, and had no idea where that word dimension had come from.
With an inner strength that he didn’t know he had, Zeb drew away from her.
She stared up at him, dazed.
And he responded, finally and belatedly, to her question, the one posed when she’d first extended her hand for a shake. “It’s a deal,” he said. “God help me, it’s a deal.”
Chapter 13
They were a sight to behold . . .
Regina waited with Zeb on the lawns in front of the castle where nine hundred or so vangel warriors had gathered. Mostly male, but there were some female vangel soldiers, as well, Regina included. A hundred vangels remained on Grand Key Island where they provided defensive security for Sigurd’s and Ivak’s families. Both men were here now, but Sigurd would return to the island shortly.
Yes, nine hundred was a large number of bodies, but the fields surrounding the Transylvania castle covered several acres, and some of the vangels had arrived only this morning. Despite the appearance of disarray, or one huge crowd, there were prearranged military groupings, based on a vangel interpretation of army rankings. Today, Vikar, Ivak, Trond, Mordr, Harek, Cnut, Jogeir, Sigurd, and Karl would act as generals. Under them would be captains, and lieutenants/soldiers. Regina and Zeb would be captains serving under Jogeir.
It was a huge clearing, mostly grass, on the flat top of the mountain, not unlike the motte and bailey ca
stles of old. The man who’d built this castle, an eccentric lumber baron, must have spent a mint just leveling this area.
The vangels, regardless of rank, wore long black cloaks over their apparel, whether it be denims or tight braies. Easier to hide weapons that way. And they were all heavily armed. And all of them had elongated fangs, a reflex preparatory to battle. Some of them had braided their hair, or beards, in the old Viking style. Some had even put temporary tattoos on their faces and arms. At least, she thought they were temporary. Mike would have a fit over body embellishments like that, considering it another sign of Viking vanity.
She could only imagine what they must look like from above. A huge flock of ravens, about to take wing. Although there was not a wing in sight.
And Regina fit in perfectly. She had chucked her demure gown, after Zeb’s teasing, and wore a black turtleneck shirt tucked into black jeans which were tucked into black ankle boots. Her wild red hair, the bane of her appearance, in her opinion, was twisted into a tight braid and wrapped around her head in a coronet. Being adept with knives, she had an assortment sheathed in specially sewn inner pockets, along with her compact M11 Sig Sauer, and a few throwing stars. She’d never been very good with swords.
Zeb, of course, had no hair to braid, and he was concerned about reflections on his bald pate. So he camouflaged it with dirt and fireplace soot. He, too, wore the long vangel cloak over black attire, in his case black T-shirt, black jeans, and black athletic shoes. He carried a sword as well as a foldable AK-47. Extra mags holding up to thirty bullets each were stored in specially designed pouches of the chest rig he wore. In other words, he looked hot, as in sexy as hell. Like a bald Magic Mike would look in vangel attire.
Even though they didn’t touch, she was very aware of his proximity. Ever since the kiss, she’d avoided getting too close to the rogue. Zeb had told her that they were already married in his old religion. My husband, she thought, testing the words on her brain. They weren’t as repulsive as she would have expected.
But she couldn’t think about any of that now.
Vikar, clipboard in hand, stood on the wide front steps of the castle with his brothers. As he called out the various mission assignments, groups of vangels along with one of the brothers or other high-level vangel commanders were expected to either disappear into the air via teletransport, or go off to the long driveway or the parking garage to get their vehicles.
