by Sandra Hill
“I remember hearing something about Masada one time. I think there was a movie.”
“Yes, but none of the books portrayed the real happening. I got there a little too late. The fire was still burning, and I actually saw the bodies of my wife and children. They were so thin, like Holocaust victims.”
Tears rolled down his face, which he swiped away with the back of his hand. “I went on a rampage then, killing every Roman I could find, even their women and children. And then I killed myself.”
She was holding both of his hands in hers. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, it was. I as good as set the fires myself. By taking a place in the Roman Army in Britain, I relieved other soldiers to war against my people in Judea.”
A moment of poignant silence ensued. Regina wasn’t sure what to say.
“So, that is my story,” he said.
“Do you know, your eyes are blue now?” she remarked.
“Really? Like all the vangels?”
She nodded.
“Little by little, I am becoming one of you, I think. But did my eye color just change now?”
“I think so. When I sat down, I was admiring your eyelashes again—”
“These fool eyelashes!” he said with a grin.
“—and I know your eyes were brown then.”
“Hmmm.” He probably thought she was trying to make him feel better.
“Maybe it’s a sign that you’re forgiven,” she proffered.
“I’ll never be forgiven,” he declared. “Never! I’ll never forgive myself.”
“That’s not for you to say.”
“Quite the religious zealot, are you?” He chucked her under the chin playfully, an attempt to veer away from his painful revelations, she was sure.
He got up to help some vangels refill the coffeemaker and then went off somewhere, probably the bathroom to check his eyes in the mirror. Regina didn’t have the energy to get up herself. She yawned and thought about going into one of the bedrooms to lie down for a while, but it was only six p.m., and she doubted she’d be able to sleep.
Many of the vangels were not having that problem. Some had already gone to their beds, while others slept on couches or the floor as the TV hummed on. They were wise to rest when they could. Fighting took a lot out of a man, or woman, physically and emotionally.
Zeb came back and poured himself another cup of coffee. She put a hand over her cup to indicate she wanted no more. He sat down again and said, “Yep. They’re blue.” He seemed pleased at that. “And I think my hair is coming in blond.”
“No, it’s not.” His hair was brown, normally. “And you don’t have to be blond to be a vangel, anyhow. There are brown-haired and black-haired Vikings and redheads, too, for that matter.” She put a hand to her own mop which was still damp from her shower, but was probably frizzing up already. She would braid it when she got a chance.
“Your turn now, Regina.”
“For what?”
“Tell me your story.”
She waved a hand airily. “My life was not nearly as interesting.”
“Hah! Interesting is not how I would describe mine.” He jabbed her shoulder with a forefinger and prodded, “C’mon. Spill. How does one get to be a witch?”
“You don’t get to be a witch, you’re born that way. Usually. You either have the gift, or don’t.”
She could see his skepticism at the word “gift.” She couldn’t take offense. Most people felt that way.
“My mother was a witch, and my grandmother before her. But, despite our serving the people, we lived apart from them. In a hut somewhere in the woods. Also, despite the villagers and even upper classes coming to us for help, medicinal or otherwise, they feared us. They burned my mother’s hut down, with her in it, for some infraction, real or otherwise, doesn’t matter. I just managed to get away.”
“Oh, Regina.”
“Don’t pity me,” she said, pride rearing its head. She hated people pitying her. “I built up my own business, and I managed to defend myself better than my mother had.”
“What business?”
“There are good witches as well as bad, you know?”
“Were you a good witch?”
She shrugged. “In the beginning, I was. I dealt in healing herbs, spells to help people overcome some problem, even acting as midwife on occasion. But there was no money in that, I realized over time. And as I grew up and realized how the people used me, I also saw how separate I was from them. I wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, but I was desperately lonely. So, I set a goal for myself. I would amass a vast amount of coins, enough to buy a home for myself in the Saxon lands, where I was not known. Nothing fancy. A farmstead where I could raise some sheep. But to accumulate that kind of wealth, I needed to expand my business. That’s when I became a black witch, dealing in potions that killed, curses that caused harm, draughts to abort babies, that kind of stuff. My last black act involved giving a young jarl a potion to kill his conniving relatives, but instead he killed the whole party, women and children included.”
“And that’s when Michael rescued you?”
“Well, rescue isn’t quite how I’d describe it. But, yes, he gave me a second chance.”
“You’re an attractive woman, Regina. Wasn’t it dangerous living out in the woods, alone? Didn’t men bother you?”
“They did, in the beginning. The first time I was raped, I couldn’t fight back. I had no skills or weapons. I hadn’t perfected my talents yet. The second time I was raped, I killed the bastard. After that, I became proficient with knives, and no one bothered me. In that way.”
“Ah, Regina! How old were you?”
“The first time? Fourteen. And don’t you dare spout some pity pap at me. It happened. I’m over it.”
He smiled, and she realized she was being overly vehement.
“And you’re still fighting against the restrictions of your life. Then, it was the restrictions placed on a witch. Today, the restrictions on a female vangel.”
She was going to argue, but he was right. “I think I’ll go get my clothes out of the dryer and lie down for a while. Things seem to be quiet outside. Will you call me if . . . when . . . the Lucies return?”
“I will,” he said, then added, “It was good talking to you, Regina.”
She agreed and as she walked away, she mused to herself, Maybe it isn’t so bad being married.
A voice in her head said, See! I told you so!
Chapter 15
Cuddling is just another form of foreplay . . .
All was quiet as Zeb worked with a couple of vangels to clean up the kitchen and living area. He had no idea what would happen to this space after tomorrow, or whenever they departed. If it would be used by the demon vampires or the vangels, or not at all. Just in case the vangels decided to keep it, he didn’t want to leave it a dump.
He supposed he’d become a neat freak. Like a soldier who still kept his room excessively shipshape, who folded his socks and hung his shirts a certain way years after leaving the service. In his case, it came from living alone for so long, often in tight spaces. By necessity, he told himself. If he’d become, or was about to become, a vangel, would he be able to abide living with others who might not be so fastidious?
Silly, it was, to dwell on such a minor point.
Jogeir came in, having just returned from his scouting foray, and drank a cup of coffee, standing. This was Jogeir’s first time heading a large mission, and he took it seriously. As he should.
“I sent patrols out five miles in six different directions and nothing, so far,” Jogeir reported. “No alert in that village, either.”
“I scouted myself, too, after you left, and nothing,” Zeb told him. “But that doesn’t mean they won’t be back. I’ve talked with Vikar, and there are Lucipires in large numbers causing trouble all over the world, at the same time. Jasper has to be tearing his hair out, trying to set priorities.”
“And where would this plac
e . . . um, Gloom . . . be in terms of priorities?” Jogeir had trouble referring to this cave-like home, no matter how comfortable, by the distasteful name of Gloom.
“High. It’s a strategic location for them. They might not be here tomorrow morning, or even the next day, but they’ll be back.” Zeb had told Jogeir all this before, of course. It needed repeating.
“Hmmm.”
“On the odd chance they don’t show up, how long do you think we should stay?” Zeb asked.
“Depends on how much Vikar needs us on other operations. Certainly, he’ll want every vangel with him when he hits Horror.”
Zeb wanted desperately to be there when that mecca of evil was taken down. Please, God, that would be done! Even now, Zeb was anxious to get moving. He knew it was important to safeguard Gloom, but he would still like to be somewhere in the midst of the action, more action than they’d seen here. Perhaps it was vain of him, but he felt he had much to offer the vangels, and he was being underutilized. Ah, well, it was not his decision to make.
And by the by, they would have to change its name of Gloom if the vangels took it over. Maybe Glory.
“You find humor in this?” Jogeir asked.
Zeb must have been smiling at the idea of giving this cave a pretty name. “Hey, we get our yucks wherever we can.”
“Well, I’m off then,” Jogeir said. “I just talked to Vikar, too, by the way, and things are wild in the Arab lands. The news media is going crazy, not sure what’s going on. They blame it all on terrorists, of course. Only we know how much Lucies are involved, too.”
Zeb nodded. “Be safe,” he told Jogeir.
“And you, as well.” And just like that, Jogeir was gone.
Zeb yawned. He hadn’t realized how much of a toll the day had taken on him. Health-wise, he felt almost back to normal, and, like the vangels, his skin had turned a healthy tan after killing Lucipires. Another clue that he might not be one of them anymore.
He went down the hall to the “dorm” area where two dozen vangels were sleeping or resting with books or television or music headphones. All was well. After that, he checked the second bedroom where the two female vangels, Inga and Dagmar, were soundly asleep. Inga opened her eyes and raised herself up on an elbow, whispering, “Is anything amiss?”
“No,” he whispered back, putting a fingertip to his mouth so they wouldn’t awaken Dagmar.
Next, he checked his own bedroom where Regina slept, although she had sworn she would be unable to do so. Through the dim light of a low-watt lamp, he saw that she’d put her hair in a ponytail, and it hung in a swath over one shoulder. Probably she’d been too tired to braid it.
It was a big bed, and Zeb didn’t hesitate. He removed his boots and slid under the sheets, fully dressed. Regina was dressed, as well. He would just close his eyes for a second, he promised himself.
But her cinnamon scent enveloped him, even from across the space that separated them. He inhaled deeply, and felt so sleepy. It was as if a weight had been lifted off his soul by revealing his history to Regina. His sleep promised to be deep and peaceful, which would be rare for him. In fact, he rarely slept more than a few hours each day. Maybe Regina really did have witchy powers and had put a spell on him.
Usually he awakened at the slightest sound, but it was Regina who shook him now.
He jackknifed to a sitting position. “What? Did something go wrong? Is it time for my shift?”
“Neither of those,” she said. “It’s only eight o’clock.”
“I have two more hours then.” He plopped back down, wanting to burrow back into that soft, peaceful sleep.
But she leaned over him. “You smell so good,” she said in a low, husky voice that every male recognized. Female arousal!
That thought caused an instantaneous reaction down below, and there was nothing halfway about it this time. He was wide awake now and tried to calm himself down as she continued to lean over him, enveloping him in her own spicy scent.
“Some men would take offense at being told they smell,” he told her. And couldn’t help himself from reaching up and stroking several loose strands of her hair behind her ear.
She arched her neck, like a cat being petted. In fact, she made a low, purr-like sound.
“What are you doing, Regina?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, nuzzling against him, her face now resting on his chest, and one knee raised over his thigh. “Something woke me up and told me to touch you.”
“The devil made you do it?” he teased.
“No, I think it was someone else.”
“What? God . . . or Michael . . . told you to put the moves on me?”
“I’m not putting the moves on you,” she said, even as she tucked a hand under his T-shirt and ran a fingertip over one of his many scars, this one running from his rib cage to his navel. “I’m just cuddling.”
To keep himself from rolling her over and taking her like a randy war horse, he made a silent count to ten in Old Hebrew, then Latin, then two different versions of Arabic. When he could finally speak above a squeak, and had pulled her hand out from under his shirt, he said, “Hah! Cuddling is just another word for foreplay.”
She was running a forefinger over his bare forearm now. Up, down, up, down. Then she asked with a coyness he didn’t know she had in her, “Does that mean you object?” And she made a quick pass over the bulge in his jeans. It might have been an accident. It probably wasn’t.
“Bloody hell, no!” He tugged her over so that she lay fully atop him, his hands resting on her butt. “Am I going to lose my chance to become a vangel if I do this?”
“We don’t have to do that. Besides, we have our clothes on.”
“Surely you’re not so naïve as to think sex can’t happen with clothes on.” Can anyone say “dry humping”? He decided not to share that crude expression with her.
“Well, clothes are a deterrent.” She sniffed at his neck.
Not much of one, at the moment. Damn, damn, damn! Her scent is killing me!
Her fangs were elongated, he noticed.
So were his.
He groaned, trying his best to resist her temptation. Forget counting to ten in various languages. He thought about Lucipire slime, Jasper’s fury, oatmeal, which he abhorred, rap music, prunes, bad wine, soap operas. Nothing worked.
“I have an idea,” Regina said then as she very slowly moved her hips from side to side over his crotch . . . his very happy crotch.
Beware of women with ideas! Or was that, welcome women with ideas! He never could get that straight.
“Trond always claimed to have invented something called ‘near sex’ that was allowed for vangels, or leastways not forbidden. Did he ever explain it to you?”
Did he ever! “He might have,” Zeb admitted.
“Show me,” she demanded.
Zeb was no fool.
Amazing what two people could do with their clothes on! . . .
Regina might be a witch, but it was Zeb who was casting a spell on her. It was either that, or she was losing her mind.
What possessed her to awaken from a sound sleep with an urge to have sex? And I don’t even like sex.
What possessed her to be the aggressor, the one to suggest sex play? I wouldn’t know sex play if it hit me in my lady parts and played the tuba.
What possessed her to suck in fresh, rainy air like it was life-giving oxygen? Oxygen is overrated, in my opinion.
What possessed her fangs to elongate and throb? Well, not really throb. More like, become overly sensitive. Semantics!
Regina was lying atop Zeb (how did that happen?), and his talented hands were alternately caressing her back under her T-shirt, where he magically undid the clasp of her bra, and then they crept inside her sweatpants and panties, both at once, and were cupping her bare behind, urging her to move against him in ways she couldn’t have imagined. Who knew? Who knew?
“So soft, so soft,” he murmured against her neck. “I forgot how soft a woma
n’s skin is.”
Is he thinking about Sarah?
Do I mind?
Only a little.
His palms ran from her shoulders to her thighs, and back up again, under her clothing. “How sweet it tastes!” He licked her neck.
I think my bones are melting.
She wanted to stroke the scars that she knew crisscrossed his back, but he was pressed to the mattress. So she examined with her fingertips the soft bristles of new hair on his bald head. “There’s something sexy about a bald man,” she whispered against his ear.
She could hear the laughter in his voice as he replied, “Then I’ll have to continue shaving it.”
“I also like long hair. You looked good in long hair when I saw you last year.”
“Well, then, I’ll have to alternate. Anything to please my lady.” He nipped at her ear as he spoke, then laved it with his tongue.
Yikes! His breath in her ear was as erotic as the most intimate act. And she thrilled at his calling her his lady, even as she realized how pathetic and needy that must make her. She did not care. These feelings . . . these wonderful, torturous, too-good-to-be-true erotic sensations . . . were too hard to resist.
Totally new to her.
And totally unexpected.
Who knew there was such a sensual side of her just waiting to be unleashed? She knew exactly what it was. She’d been asleep her whole misbegotten life, and now she was awakening into her newborn self. Not unlike her cat Thor after a long nap. Stretching out, arching, unfurling. Layer upon layer of new senses.
Zeb cupped her nape then and drew her mouth to his. At first he adjusted them from side to side so they fit just right. (Those damn fangs!) But then he forced her mouth open and plunged his tongue inside. Before she had a chance to protest that she did not like tongue kissing, he withdrew. Then in again, and this time, it wasn’t so bad. By the third time, she was welcoming him. Hot, wet, hungry kisses ensued. She gave as much as she got.
When she moaned her pleasure and rubbed her breasts against his chest, reflexively, he groaned his pleasure back at her, and slid both hands under her shirt, brushing her loose bra aside. Then he lifted both breasts from underneath and used his thumbs to strum the nipples to life. As if anticipating her response, he held her head in place with one hand so he could kiss her, hard, and she cried out into his mouth her sheer bliss. He would not stop. He continued to play with her breasts with one hand as she was forced to endure his deep kisses by his hand gripping the back of her head.
