Kiss of Surrender

by Sandra Hill

  Trond would have liked to question the Lucipire more . . . assuming that’s what Zeb still was, disheartening as that prospect was, but it was his turn to enter the office for his showdown with Mike.

  He squeezed Nicole’s hand. They’d had no chance to talk yet, but they would later. He hoped. He noticed that she didn’t return his squeeze.

  Mike had his desk chair tipped back precariously. The edges of his wings, tucked in behind him, swept the floor. His long, denim-clad legs were propped on the desk. His pure white T-shirt bore the logo: “Faith Makes Things Possible, Not Easy.”

  Should Trond be scared by that message?

  The archangel didn’t look up when Trond first came in. Instead, he studied a folder.

  Those damn folders again! Vangels had come to hate them when called into a meeting with their mentor. Trond couldn’t wait until Harek got Mike to convert everything to computers. If Mike had been staring at a computer screen when Trond walked in, he might just as well have been playing Solitaire, or IM-ing with God or one of the other archangels. Not deciding on his fate, based on a few missteps documented in a folder.

  When Mike set the folder down, his gaze pierced Trond. “With all the years you’ve been a vangel, when will you learn?” Mike asked him.

  Talk about trick questions! If I answer wrong, I might be volunteering information he doesn’t have. “Are you talking about my trying to save Zeb?”

  “Of course. What else would I be referring to, Viking?”

  “It seemed like the right thing to do. The only thing to do. If Zeb was willing to offer himself for me, shouldn’t I have been willing to do the same for him?”

  “Your motives were pure. Your execution was not. What gives you the right to make such a decision? When you were given a second chance and became a vangel, you offered yourself up to God. You belong to God. How dare you offer yourself to Jasper?”

  Trond hadn’t thought about it in quite that way. I am in bigger trouble than I thought.

  “I’m not going to add more years to your penance for that offense, but I am going to give you a mission that you might consider a penance of sorts.”

  Uh-oh!

  “You will get U.S. citizenship papers, after which you will apply to become an official Navy SEAL. For years to come, you will be assigned to that post where you will save those SEALs who teeter on the edge of sin. Jasper has not given up on his mission to turn some special forces men into Lucipires.”

  This would indeed be a penance because Mike knew full well how much he hated extreme exercise, and he would probably have to start from the beginning in SEAL training with all that involved, including Hell Week. Ironic, really, since he’d volunteered to go to Hell.

  But he could foresee many problems with this mission, not just his hate for hard work or hell in any format. “How can I take on a contemporary job? My comrades in SEALs would grow older, while I remained the same age.”

  Mike thought for a minute. “Ten years, then.”

  Trond wouldn’t even bother to ask about all the complications of security clearances and Jaeger history, the red tape of joining an elite military group, even explaining his absence for several weeks. Mike would handle all that. He knew people.

  “I’ll be like a red light blinking target for Jasper.”

  “That you will, but you will have Zebulan to work with you, from the other side.”

  Ah! He was beginning to understand. “Zeb is going to be a good demon?”

  “There is no such thing. He will pretend to be a demon.”

  Trond tilted his head in confusion. “What is he then? Surely not . . . a vangel?”

  Mike waved a hand dismissively. “Zeb’s status is his concern; you need only to work with him.”

  He wondered how long Zeb’s sentence . . . uh, penance . . . would be. Surely not as short as ten years.

  “What about Karl?” Trond suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen or heard from Karl since he’d been back.

  “Karl’s human wife died. He is grieving. Later, I will decide his future missions. Probably not SEALs.”

  Now they came to the real complication of Trond’s returning to Coronado and a military career. Nicole. How was he going to withstand the temptation of being around her and not acting on his baser inclinations? How was he going to stand loving her and not being with her? Was that to be the punishment in his new mission?

  As if reading his mind, Mike asked, “Was she worth risking your immortal soul?” He was referring to the sex, of course.

  “Yes, it was worth whatever punishment you will levy.” Trond doubted that meant his immortal soul. That would be too harsh a punishment. “Honestly it didn’t . . . doesn’t . . . feel wrong.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “Because I love her?”

  “Aha! The Viking has a brain, after all.”

  Mike’s snideness on occasion was something Trond and his brothers had learned to abide, but that didn’t mean they liked it.

  “What are you going to do about this love of yours?”

  “Nothing.”

  Mike raised his angelic eyebrows.

  “I have nothing to offer her.”

  “Material wealth is easy to come by.”

  Trond shook his head. “I am a shell. I am not worthy of her.”

  Mike laughed. “Dost know nothing, Viking? Men are rarely worthy of the good women in their lives.”

  Trond had no clue where they were going with this conversation.

  “There will be no more premarital sex. Not even that ludicrous near-sex that is fooling no one. You will either mate with this woman for your eternal life, or stay away from her. Totally.”

  A choice. He was being offered a choice. He assumed it would be under the same conditions as Vikar had with Alex, something they’d all thought was a one-time exception. Married forever. Fidelity required. She would live only as long as he would. No children. “But . . . but . . . but I’m not sure she would have me.”

  “You’ll never know unless you ask.” Picking up a cell phone on the desk, Mike pressed a few numbers, then spoke into it. “Vikar, send the woman in.”

  “You,” Mike said, pointing to Trond, “sit down before you fall down.”

  Trond sank into one of the two chairs in front of the desk and watched as Nicole walked hesitantly into the room and sat in the chair next to him. She seemed frightened to look at Mike, who was studying her through steepled fingers. She avoided looking at Trond, too. Not a promising sign.

  “Miss Tasso,” Mike finally said.

  She looked up and gasped.

  Trond could understand that. Mike was a formidable sight, even in modern clothing. His features were just too perfect. And ethereal. Plus, there were those wings. And the sun shining through a stained glass window gave the appearance of a halo.

  With what was probably hysterical irrelevance, Trond noted that he probably hadn’t earned his wings on this last mission. Probably wouldn’t ever. No big loss there.

  “What are your feelings toward this sorry excuse for a vangel? A Viking, no less!”

  The question surprised her, but then she smiled. A slight smile, but a smile nonetheless. “He lies. He has the sensitivity of a rock. He’s arrogant. He—”

  “That comes from being a Viking,” Mike interrupted. “The whole lot of them are full of themselves.” He waved a hand for her to continue. He was obviously enjoying her criticism of Trond.

  “He’s lazy. Refuses to listen to motivational tapes.”

  “I love motivational tapes!” Mike said. “Have you ever heard Roger Atwood speak on ‘Listening to a Higher Power’?”

  Trond looked at the archangel as if he’d lost his mind.

  Nicole’s smile was getting wider. “You should order Trond to listen to motivational tapes,” she told Mike.

  “Wait a minute here,” Trond protested. That really would be punishment.

  “Be quiet, Viking. I am talking to your woman.”

  He wasn’t the only
one who caught Mike’s reference to “your woman.”

  Nicole didn’t correct Mike, but her face flushed with color. “I’ll tell you what really bothers me about this man. The lout!” she resumed, talking to Mike. “Can you believe a man would tell a woman he loves her . . . well, not in actual words, but mouthing the words? And then just disappear—poof!—into thin air and never contact her again, letting her think he was being tortured in some devil’s lair.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk!” Mike said. “I had no idea.”

  “Oh, that is so unfair,” Trond complained to Mike. “You had every idea. Besides, you wouldn’t let me contact her.”

  “Did I say that?” Mike tapped his head as if he didn’t recall. “In any case, Miss Tasso, the lout has something to ask you.”

  “I do?” Trond asked. Then, “Yes, I do.”

  He got down on one knee before her chair and took one of her hands in his. “Will you marry me, Nicole?” Before she had a chance to answer, he quickly added, “It would be for life . . . the length of my life, which can be eternally boring after a while. And we would never have children, ever. And while I could be in Coronado for the next ten years, I would have to move on to other assignments then, and you would have to decide whether to stay there in WEALS or move with me.”

  “That’s your idea of a proposal?” she asked with affront, tugging her hand out of his grasp.

  “Pitiful, isn’t he?” Mike remarked, a hint of mirth in his voice.

  “The only upside to that lamebrained offer that I can see,” Nicole remarked, “is that I could torture him for life with my peppiness and motivational tapes.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?” Trond snarled.

  “It’s a ‘Hell, no!’ You are an idiot.” There were tears in her eyes that he couldn’t understand.

  “What am I missing here?” Trond asked.

  “The most important thing,” Nicole and Mike said at the same time.

  “Ah!” He stood, dragged her up and into his arms, kissed her hard on the mouth, and then said, “I love you desperately. More than my life. I think an eternity with you would not be enough. I don’t care if you play motivational tapes or nag me to stop being a slugabed or make me jog even when I don’t have to. As long as we can be together.” He kissed her deeply. Then pulled away. “Will you marry me, Nicole Tasso?”

  “Yes!”

  They were kissing again, oblivious to their surroundings when they heard a discreet clearing of the throat. Mike stood, his wings outspread and touching both opposing walls. He blessed them with a sign of the cross in the air and just before disappearing, wagged a forefinger at them. “No more sex before marriage.”

  Trond looked at Nicole and said, “Can we get married tonight?”

  Turns out they couldn’t, but that was another story.

  Epilogue

  Vikings, Vikings, everywhere, and not a longship in sight . . .

  The wedding of Trond Sigurdsson and Nicole Tasso took place one month later. To everyone’s surprise, the ceremony was held at Blue Dragon Vineyard in Sonoma, California, home of Magnus Ericsson, Max’s father and the father-in-law of Commander MacLean.

  Trond and Nicole wanted to wed sooner and in the Transylvania castle, but they wouldn’t have been able to invite any outside guests. Too many young vangels unable to control their fangs. Plus, the location of the VIK headquarters had to remain as secure as possible.

  The SEAL command was not happy about their decision to marry, just as they had disapproved of Sly and Donita tying the knot and others in the past. It was the Navy contention that if they wanted their men to have wives, they would have assigned them ones of their choice. But facing a possible resignation by Nicole from WEALS and Trond’s possible change-of-mind regarding the new BUD/S class, they acquiesced.

  When Max heard about the wedding that Trond and Nicole were going to hold in the base chapel—just a small affair—Max insisted they hold a grander event at Blue Dragon Vineyard where he’d been married himself to another Viking, Hilda Berdottir. “Vikings need to stick together,” Max had said.

  So, here they stood on their wedding day on a gorgeous estate.

  Unique speckled-bark oak trees lined the drive up to the massive Victorian mansion with its wraparound porch. The low stone walls on either side of the road were dotted every ten feet or so with enormous, dragon-design terra-cotta planters spilling over with baby’s breath and crimson roses, especially filled for this wedding. Wildflowers in every color of the rainbow appeared especially bright today on the lawns, as if knowing it was a special day for them to shine. Beside a spring-fed pond framed with willow trees, tents had been erected for today’s reception. Behind the house were several hundred acres of plump grapes awaiting next week’s fall harvest. A white carpet led from the side of the house to the arched, rose-twined trellis with its makeshift altar where the ceremony would be held.

  It would be a Christian ritual, but the couple did bow to the Blue Dragon patriarch’s wishes in one regard. Trond and Nicole would wear Viking wedding attire passed down in their family.

  Nicole wore a long-sleeved, collarless chemise of gauzy white linen . . . ankle-length in front and pleated and slightly longer in back. Metallic gold, green, and white embroidery portraying intertwined roses edged the red bands about the wrists and circular neckline. A crimson silk overgown, open-sided like typical Norse aprons, had matching bands of embroidery in reverse colors along the edges. Rosebud shoulder brooches held the gown in place.

  Trond had balked but eventually donned a black, long-sleeved, cashmere wool tunic that hung to mid-thigh over slim trousers. At the waist was a wide leather belt with a solid gold buckle. A white, silk-lined mantle of the same fabric, embroidered with roses matching the bridal attire, completed the outfit. The roses were what had Trond balking. “Men do not wear roses!”

  Magnus, a massive, barrel-chested Viking, still impressive even in his fifties, overheard Trond and smacked him upside the head. “I wore roses. My brother wore roses. My sons wore roses. You’ll wear roses and be happy about it.”

  Trond wore roses.

  What had started out to be a small affair was now a huge wedding reception. Nicole had declined to have her father at her wedding, choosing Commander MacLean to “give her away.” His wife, Madrene, a gorgeous Amazon of a Norsewoman, had been very helpful to Nicole in planning the quick ceremony. Almost like a mother, although she wasn’t really that old.

  Nicole’s sister, Teresa, was her maid of honor, with Marie, Donita, and Alex as her attendants. Trond had all six of his brothers as his best men when they’d all argued for that honor. Of course, their SEAL buddies were there: JAM, Sly, Cage, Geek, Slick, F.U., and a few others. And all of Magnus’s children, all twelve of them, from teenagers to thirty-somethings, along with their extended families; Magnus prided himself on being a very virile Viking.

  When Nicole walked along the white carpet and saw Trond for the first time under the arch, she missed a step, so impressed was she at her vampire angel in Viking wedding attire. But then, Trond gasped himself on seeing his beautiful bride.

  A local priest was to perform the ceremony, but at the last minute Michael stepped forth in regal church vestments. Afterward, everyone wanted to know who that remarkable clergyman had been, but he seemed to have disappeared.

  When they were pronounced man and wife, and turned to face the crowd for the first time as a married couple, Trond whispered in Nicole’s ear, “Look over there, under the willow tree.”

  There stood a handsome man in a black suit, pristine white shirt, and a red and black striped tie. It was Zeb. He gave them a little wave, then faded away into the now milling crowd.

  Between the service and the setup of the reception tables, Trond led Nicole into a little sewing room off the kitchen where he flipped up her gown and “swived her silly”—his words—up against the wall. “These thirty days of celibacy seemed longer than centuries of celibacy,” he told her afterward.

  Between the dinner
and the cake cutting, Nicole told Trond she wanted to show him something in the wine-pressing building. Once inside, she shoved him onto a table and had her way with him. “Celibacy sucks for women, too,” she’d told a laughing Trond afterward.

  When it was time for dancing—a band was about to play on the portable dance floor that had been set up—they did the traditional bride and groom dance. No father-daughter dance for her, but she didn’t mind. In the glow of Trond’s family and all their friends, she had enough.

  Just then, the band struck a particular note, and Trond turned on her. “Nicole! You didn’t!”

  “Me?” she asked, putting her hand over her chest with exaggerated innocence as “Chain of Fools,” began.

  Trond and his brothers looked at each other with disgust—Mordr was particularly disgusted—as they walked out onto the dance floor with resignation, and formed a line. While the band belted out “Chains, chains, chains,” and the rest of the guests joined in, the seven brothers did the Michael dance. And they were good. Really good. For a long time afterward, people said it was the best entertainment they’d ever witnessed at Blue Dragon, and that was saying a lot. Vikings knew how to have a good time. There was even a video of it up on YouTube for a day before someone yanked it off. Probably Harek.

  When Trond sat down next to a smirking Nicole, he pinched her behind and said, “I have a surprise for you.”

  “Uh-oh! Is this payback?”

  “No, this is a gift from Zeb. I found it in my jacket pocket.”

  He handed her plane tickets and a set of directions. Her eyes were wide with wonder and a slight mist of tears. “His hideaway? For our honeymoon?” They both bemoaned the fact that the demon had been unable to participate in their celebration. They both also feared for Zeb, back in that horrible den of evil, but this was a time for happiness. They would worry about Zeb later.

  That night, when they were on a plane with Nicole’s head resting on Trond’s shoulder—no teletransporting this time—she inquired sweetly, “I was wondering, honey, if you would teach me that Michael dance later.”