by Sandra Hill
To give him credit, Trond reached over and swatted Zeb upside his fool head.
“What? I was making a simple observation.”
“Some observations should be kept to yourself,” Trond told him.
“Oh.” Zeb turned to her then. “My apologies, m’lady.”
Their attention turned back to the TV as the newscaster reported that author Selah ad Beham had just passed away of massive internal injuries, and there was a discussion of her various books and their poor reception in some parts of the Arab world. Various representatives of women’s organization spoke with regret of her passing and her legacy that would go on beyond her death.
Nicole made a mental note to buy her books once she returned home.
If she returned home. Oh God! I can’t think about that now.
The minor English princess, a cousin of Princes William and Harry about fifteen times removed, was already giving interviews; somehow, she would profit from the experience. But then, Nicole conceded, the woman deserved whatever she could bleed from the pain she’d suffered. They all did.
After that, the husband of the Greek starlet was interviewed. According to the surviving hostages, Athena had been killed during the first week of her captivity. One of the servants had let slip to Selah, who’d told the others, that Athena’s torture had gone too far and led to her unplanned death. Planned or not, Morris Goldstein, Athena’s husband, was devastated and furious. He swore he would get vengeance, even if it took all his fortune.
The young New York coed refused to be televised until her dental work could be completed. She would regain her looks, the commentator assured the audience, though that had to be the least of Beth’s worries, in Nicole’s opinion. Her father, like Goldstein, swore revenge and said that if his contributions to a militant Israeli group had been what caused the punishment inflicted on his daughter, he would double, no, triple his contributions in the future.
Then there were the on-site reports. Pictures were shown of the compound that seemed oddly undamaged, except for the wall of the harem chamber that the SEALs had blown open. None of the harem women had been harmed, but there were very few men left in the compound. That included Najid, who was mysteriously absent, though observers claimed he had been exiting the helo when attacked by hordes of huge scaly beasts, with fangs and long tails. There were also reports of odd, fanged creatures with wispy blue wings who fought the scaly beasts. The only thing left were piles of sulfurous slime all around the area.
Al Jazeera featured representatives of Najid’s now almost defunct organization claiming the U.S. military had engaged in chemical warfare of some type and demanding a UN investigation. As for the reports of prowling beasts, the experts put that in the category of bigfoot sightings, or possibly figments of near-death imaginations.
Nicole recalled the scene that she’d seemed to see when Zeb had mysteriously whooshed them out of the harem building. Had it been her imagination, too? Confused, she turned to the two men, “Are you beasts like those they’re describing?”
“Not exactly,” Trond said.
“Trond is being kind. I am a beast exactly as they are describing. He, on the other hand, is another kind of beast. A good beast.” Zeb smiled at Trond.
“Thanks a bunch,” Trond said. “And all this buttering up isn’t going to change anything, my demon friend.”
“Notice that he called me friend,” Zeb whispered loudly to Nicole. “I think I’m making progress.”
She gave Trond a look of disapproval, as if he ought to be helping Zeb.
Zeb just blinked those long lashes of his with exaggerated innocence.
“Let’s back up the bus,” Nicole said. “Exactly what are you two yahoos, and exactly what do you do?”
They both explained their histories, their astonishing—if they could be believed—histories. When they finished, Nicole had several questions for Trond. Well, actually, dozens, but two or three would suffice for now.
“Do you have wings?”
“No, not yet, except sometimes I’m told there are hazy blue shapes back there. I do have shoulder bumps for them to emerge sometime.”
She blinked at him with incredulity. An angel? This seemingly lazy, no-motivation guy was an angel?
“His one brother has wings,” Zeb inserted.
Trond cast Zeb another scowl.
“One of the admirals?” she asked.
“Admirals?” Zeb scoffed.
“Never mind,” Trond said when she arched her brows yet again. “No, it’s a different brother, but even Vikar’s wings come and go.”
“How old are you, Trond?”
His face flushed and he said, “I died in the year 850, that would be one thousand, one hundred, sixty-three years ago. Add on the twenty-nine years I’d already lived, and you could say I’m one thousand, six hundred, and ninety-two years old.” When she frowned, he raised his chin in a so-sue-me! fashion.
“A mere youngster!” Zeb said. “I’ve been around more than two thousand years.”
Is it possible I’m dead, and this is Hell? No, I don’t feel dead. “Is this like some kind of massive joke?”
“I wish!” he and Zeb said as one.
She noticed something else about the TV report. Not one single Navy SEAL or other military personnel who had been involved in the mission was being shown, which was as it should be. Anonymity was essential to the Silent Warriors. But, oh, Nicole was so proud to be a part of this elite group.
Something occurred to her then, something she should have thought of long before this. “We should call the command center and let them know we’re alive.” She almost giggled then when she realized she was the only one alive in this group.
“No can do,” Zeb said, licking the last of the cheesecake off his fork. “No cell phone reception here.”
“You have TV satellites that work, but no sat phones?” She raised her eyebrows skeptically. Her eyebrows were going to go into whiplash soon with all this sudden lifting.
“You could try.” He tossed her a phone that he pulled from the back pocket of his jeans.
No surprise that she didn’t even get a welcome screen.
She looked at Trond then, who didn’t bother to pretend surprise. With a clucking sound of disgust, she tapped the mic embedded between her thumb and forefinger three times, four times in a row, before speaking into her hand. She should have had a response in her ear buds. Nothing. Even after several tries. With disgust, she tossed the ear buds, as well as the specially designed contact lenses that had long passed their usefulness. “How about Internet?”
“I don’t have a computer,” Zeb said.
“Everybody has a computer,” she contended.
“Not much use for social networking where I come from.”
She was pretty sure that was a gurgle of mirth that came out of Trond’s mouth, but when she glanced his way, he just stared back at her innocently. Yeah, right, as innocent as a fox in a henhouse.
“Can’t you send mind messages or something to your brothers?” she asked Trond.
“Mind messages?” He laughed.
“Yeah. Telepathy or whatever you call it.”
“Let me see.” He closed his eyes and scrunched his nose. Then he opened his eyes. “Nope. No telepathy today.”
“My force shield is very strong,” Zeb explained.
She suspected they were both playing with her.
After the newscast and a quick cleanup of the kitchen, they were all tired and went to their separate bedrooms. Nicole had so many questions hammering her brain that she thought she’d never be able to sleep. Instead, she conked out within minutes and didn’t wake until a brilliant sunrise woke her the next morning.
When she walked out to the kitchen, Trond was already up and fiddling with the luxurious coffeemaker with all its bells and whistles, trying to figure out how it worked. She slapped his hands away and made quick work of getting it to percolate. Only then did she ask, “Where’s Zeb?”
His somber f
ace told the story before he said, “Gone.”
Fear rippled over her skin for some reason. “Gone? Gone where?”
He pointed to a note on the counter, written in bold masculine script:
Trond and Nicole:
I had to leave in the middle of the night. Jasper is calling. I won’t return to Horror right away. Will go elsewhere to get him off your track. If I don’t return within five days, the shield around the bungalow will disappear and you’ll be free to leave. If I don’t return within five days, pray for me.
Zebulan
P.S. Take advantage of this time alone. You may never get another chance. Believe me. I know.
“Who exactly is this Jasper?” Nicole asked Trond.
“Zeb’s boss. King of the Lucipires. One of the fallen angels kicked out of heaven with Lucifer. Evil to the core.”
“What will happen to Zeb for having helped us?”
Trond kept his back to her and didn’t speak.
“Trond, answer me. What will his punishment be?”
Trond turned then, and the expression on his face scared her. He was being wracked by some internal pain. “Unspeakable.”
She leaned on the counter for support. “Tell me.”
“My brother Vikar was held by Jasper for a mere week. The things they did to him were so vile and agonizing I cannot speak of them. It took months for Vikar’s physical body to recover, and we vangels have a tremendous capacity to heal almost instantaneously. Zebulan, on the other hand, will probably suffer much, much more and for many, many years until he breaks, as he will surely do, eventually.”
Nicole walked over to Trond, shaking with shock. “You have to help him.”
“I wish I could, but I can’t.” He shook his head sorrowfully.
“Don’t you dare,” she sobbed, pounding her fists against his chest. “Don’t you dare say that you can’t help. That man gave himself up for us. I don’t understand half of this crap, but I do know, if there’s a God, He is merciful.” She hesitated before asking, “Have you met God?”
He shook his head. “No, we deal with someone else.”
“Who?” she jeered, still finding it hard to believe his story.
“St. Michael the Archangel.”
She almost laughed, until she saw how serious he was. “Ask him to help Zeb then.”
He groaned. “Mike . . . that’s what we call him . . . is, let’s just say, unbendable.”
“Everyone can bend,” she insisted. “Can you bear to hear another motivational quote?”
He crossed his eyes with frustration, which she would have thought was cute under other circumstances.
“Friends are God’s way of taking care of us. If Zeb’s action doesn’t exemplify the true meaning of friendship, I don’t know what does.”
“You don’t understand,” he said, holding her tight in his arms, despite her struggles to escape. “There is no reversing the penances handed down from on high.”
She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, surprised to see that his eyes were wet with tears, too. “You have to at least try.”
He sighed and said, “I’ll try.”
Twenty
The lull before the storm . . .
Could a man die of horniness?
Better question. Could a dead man die again of horniness?
Ever since he’d read that P.S. on Zeb’s note, and understood perfectly what he’d been suggesting, Trond hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Nicole and what he’d like to do to her, or with her.
It was understandable, of course. Plant the idea of sex in a red-blooded man’s brain, even a dead one, and it was all he could think about. Like an erotic splinter.
Even worse, every time Nicole came within twenty feet of him, his cock went on hair trigger alert. He swore the fool organ had jackknifed at least twenty times in the past three hours.
“What’s wrong with you?” Nicole asked as she walked in off the deck and watched him rubbing an ice cube over his forehead. What he should have been doing was rubbing the ice cube someplace else, someplace that he was hiding behind the counter.
“Do you have to walk around half naked?” he grumbled.
“What?” She looked down at herself. The temperature was at least a hundred today and the humidity high; a storm was brewing. Thus she was bare-footed, wearing one of Zeb’s tank tops tied below her breasts, with a pair of his spandex shorts cut off mid-thigh which were too big in the waist, so they sat low on her hips. Then she looked back up at him. “You’re walking around shirtless. You’re more half naked than I am. Honestly! I repeat, what’s wrong with you?”
“I think Zeb must have sprayed the area with some kind of aphrodisiac before he left. I’m so turned on by you I can barely walk. How’s that for honesty?”
Instead of being shocked, or offended, she said, “Is that what it is? I wondered why those bumps on your shoulders turned me on.”
My shoulder bumps turn her on? Oh, that’s what a man wants to hear. Not! Well, he could give her tit for tat. “Your toes turn me on.”
She curled her toes, as if to hide them.
“I never had a toe fetish before, but I think I do now.”
She gulped several times, and he could swear her nipples peaked beneath the thin fabric, though maybe that was wishful thinking.
“Have you contacted your, uh, mentor yet?” she asked suddenly, which was a hard-on buzzkill if he’d ever heard one.
“I’ve tried.” In fact, after examining the entire property this morning and determining that the shield was indeed as strong as kryptonite, he’d actually knelt and prayed to Mike on Zeb’s behalf. He’d gotten no response, but that wasn’t surprising. Mike rarely answered prayers instantaneously, if at all. And he solved problems in his own way and his own good time.
“Does that mean he won’t help?”
“He who?”
“St. Michael, or God, or all the legions of angels, or whoever your boss is.”
All of the above, sweetling. All of the above. “Prayers are always answered, just not always in the way we want or expect.”
“Like that Garth Brooks song?”
“Huh?” What a country music singer had to do with God was beyond him. He shook his head to clear it. “We just have to keep praying, and wait.”
“We? You said ‘we.’ You don’t expect me to pray, too, do you?”
He shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt.”
“I don’t even remember how.”
“No expertise needed. Just ‘Hey, God! Long time no talk! I need a little help here.’ Or something to that effect.”
She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.
He had. That, and a few other things, like his self-control. Next, his fangs would be coming out to scare the hell out of her.
“I will say one thing, though, Nicole. We’re here because Mike wants us to be.”
“Huh?”
“His powers are greater than Jasper’s or anything Zeb might put in place. If Mike didn’t want us to be here, we wouldn’t be.”
“I don’t understand. Why would he do that?”
“Most of the things Mike makes us do rarely make sense. At first. In the end, sometimes his reasoning becomes clear. Sometimes not.”
She pushed past him into the kitchen and made a pitcher of lemonade with ice and fruit slices floating on top. Filling two glasses, she handed one to him and said, “Come on. Let’s go out on the deck and you can regale me with all your deep dark secrets.”
His you-know-what shot out, like the back end of a bird dog on point, not just at her mention of his dark secrets, which were darkly sexual, but at the appearance of her rear end as she walked before him. Up, down, up down, up, down. God bless spandex! Is that a blasphemy? He hoped not.
The sky was still a clear blue, and even though there were distant, dark clouds and an electricity in the air portending the coming storm, it was a beautiful tropical setting anyone would appreciate. The lush plants about the property with th
eir fragrant flowers only added to the allure.
Sitting in side-by-side teak loungers, which Trond had deliberately placed under the porch overhang for shade, he told her stories about St. Michael the Archangel. First of all, how they called him Mike with irreverence, just to annoy the hoity-toity archangel. How Mike always called them Viking, with equal irreverence. Usually it was, “Can’t you do anything right, Viking?” or “Did you really think near-sex didn’t count as a sin, Viking?”
Then he told her how Mike had talked Harek into setting up an archangel website, still a work in progress, so that the celestial beings could get in tune with the twenty-first century. When some of the VIK had resisted, Mike had replied, “God doesn’t care if his followers come to him via a palm-waving crowd on a Jerusalem roadway, or via some palatial cathedral, or via the Internet superhighway. Just so they come.”
Nicole was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes when he told her about some of the jobs he’d had over the years, including his days as a gladiator fighting lions in the Colosseum. “You do not want to get up close and personal with lion breath,” he assured her.
Her eyes went wide with interest when he told her about the run-down, long-abandoned castle in Transylvania, Pennsylvania, built a hundred years ago by an eccentric lumber baron, that his brother Vikar had been sent to renovate, and was still renovating, and would be renovating for centuries to come. She giggled when he described the antics of the strange town that used vampirism as a tourist attraction. And he told her about the extended family of vangels, aside from his six brothers, hundreds of them, who inhabited the castle from time to time, including Lizzie Borden, their cook, and a witch who was always threatening to put a curse on the male vangels’ favorite body parts when they misbehaved, and even the young teenage vampire angel Armod, who fashioned himself a reincarnated Michael Jackson. “You do not want to see a vangel moonwalk,” Trond assured her.
When he took a break in his long-winded blathering, she smiled at him. “You really are one of those . . . things. Aren’t you?”
“If you mean a vangel, for my sins, yes, I am.”
