by Sandra Hill
“You came alone?”
He nodded. He was starting to get a headache with all this talking. Or it might have been that kick to the head by a guy with a red scarf. He was going to remember that red scarf.
“Can’t you do that teleshot thing and get us out of here?”
“That teleshot thing is only for special occasions.”
“This is a blinkin’ special occasion,” she said shrilly, which caused the guard to look her way and scowl. “Sorry,” she said, and waited for several minutes before she hissed at Harek, “Get us the hell out of here.”
“All of you? I’m not a magician.” She obviously had an overinflated opinion of his powers.
“Stop acting like a dope when we both know you have the brain of a computer.”
“Was that a compliment?”
“Aaargh! You’re giving me a headache.”
“Welcome to the club.”
She gave his injuries a brief look of sympathy. Then, very slowly, as if he were the opposite of Mensa, she said, “If you can’t get everyone out, all at once, how about a few at a time?”
“Camille! First of all, teletransport is a tool to be used in emergencies, when all else fails. I’ve already crossed the line with it for you. I will have many years added to my penance for its indiscriminate use, believe you me.”
“I would certainly consider this an emergency.”
Stubborn woman! “Secondly, it is done best alone, or with one other person. Not in multiple numbers.”
“Well, couldn’t you—”
Before she had a chance to come up with some other outrageous, impossible suggestion, he went on, “You are not to worry your pretty little head.” Even your not-so-pretty big head, at the moment. “I’ll think of something.” In truth, just before he entered the village, he’d alerted his brothers. They would arrive before the SEALs—in fact, they were probably out there already—thus being able to clear the area of Lucipires and save any of the BK willing to repent. The guide who’d brought him here, for example, seemed a prime example of a sinner who could be saved.
His guide had informed him that the kidnapped girls had been divided into three groups, taken to different hiding places. Upon questioning about a red-haired girl, Harek had settled on this particular village, which, fortunately, had been a good choice. After all, there must have been other red-haired girls at the school.
“You could go back yourself and bring help,” Camille offered in a small voice. He could tell she didn’t like the idea of his leaving, now that he was here.
“I won’t desert you here, not even for a moment. I won’t risk these terrorists packing up and taking you all somewhere you can’t be found.”
She surprised him then by saying, “Thank you.”
And then, thank the stars, she shut up for a while. All around them, the girls had been gaping at the exchange between the two of them. In fact, a little blond-haired pixie next to him, no more than twelve years old, with tear tracks on her grimy face, asked him, “Is Linda your wife?”
At first it didn’t register with him who Linda was. Then he realized that she referred to Camille by her pseudonym. “No. Why do you ask?”
“You were arguing just like my mommy and daddy do before they go into their bedroom for quiet time.” She waggled her little eyebrows at him for emphasis. The imp!
Yep. That’s what he needed. Quiet time. And not the kind Blondie referred to, although that wouldn’t be unwelcome. Later.
He knew that Camille must be anxious to know what had happened back at the school after she left. But she was being prudent in not asking in front of the young girls. Bad enough to know that they had been kidnapped along with a large number of their schoolmates, but they didn’t need to hear, now, that the school was burned to the ground and some of the staff were dead, along with all the fatalities and various injuries to those fighting to save them.
Harek closed his eyes then, trying to tune out the soft murmurings in the room, alert for any unusual noises outside. In fact, he dozed off for a moment, only to be awakened by rustling and shushing noises across the way.
It appeared as if the girl who had been sitting next to Camille was on her knees, leaning over, her mouth nuzzling Camille’s chest. Holy friggin’ clouds! Harek had never entertained those kinds of female-female fantasies, but this was . . . well, interesting.
Camille was the only one who was tied hand and foot—the others had their limbs free—and didn’t that raise questions about what Camille might have done to earn this special attention. But wait, the girl was still trying to burrow inside Camille’s blouse.
“It’s not working,” the girl wailed, and went back on her haunches.
“Don’t worry, Maggie. It’s not your fault.”
“What in bloody hell is going on?” Harek asked Camille.
“Can’t you tell?”
You were about to have sex with a girl, in the midst of being kidnapped by ruthless terrorists? That was lame, he realized immediately. “Actually, no.”
“My breast binder slipped and now one breast is exposed. I’m the bleepin’ One-Breast Wonder.”
“Oh.” He couldn’t help but notice, now that she’d called his attention to the fact, that she looked lopsided, with a flat chest on one side and a nice plump breast on the other. He also couldn’t help but smile.
“Fix it,” she demanded.
“Me? How?”
“Squirm yourself over here and use your teeth to pull the fabric back up.”
Squirm? Is she demented? He tried to picture himself doing that, tied up as he was. “Are you serious?”
“Serious as a train wreck on a black op. I have to get straightened out before Red Scarf comes to take me for my afternoon pee.”
“Did you say afternoon tea? Why would the BK serve you tea?”
“Not tea, you idiot. Pee, as in urine.”
“Someone serves you urine, and you drink it?” These BK were more perverted than he’d thought.
“I swear, you must have lost your IQ to aliens, or the jungle heat. Red Scarf comes in and carries me over to that bucket, pulls my panties down, and put me down to pee. Is that clear enough?”
He snapped his gaping mouth shut and realized that the Red Scarf she referred to must be the same sadistic bastard who’d been torturing him. He saw red for a moment, and it wasn’t any scarf, either.
“So hurry up. Squirm your pretty ass over here and put those fangs to good use.”
“Fangs? What fangs?” the blond cutie next to him asked.
“She thinks my teeth are pointy. It’s a joke,” he explained, and glared at Camille for her careless words.
Just then, all thoughts of breasts and fangs evaporated at the loud noises outside. He recognized the roar of Lucipires, and his brothers’ angry taunts.
Camille made eye contact with him, even as he was slipping a thin blade from the sole of his boot and using it to carefully slice the rope that bound his hands behind his back. “The SEALs?” she asked.
He shook his head and, now that his hands were free, began sawing at his ankle restraints. “My brothers and the Lucies.” He put a fingertip to his mouth for silence.
The guard at the door was nervously watching some scene outdoors, his rifle aimed and ready to fire when Harek moved up, faster than the blink of an eye, and grabbed the man from behind. With the stink of lemon on the fellow, a clear sign he was far gone in grievous sin, Harek made a split-second decision and sliced his throat from behind, grabbing his rifle as he fell to the ground.
“Wait!” Camille yelled as he was about to rush out and help his brothers. He eyed the giant, old-fashioned key in the door, and decided he would lock the girls in for now. “Cut me loose first. I can help.”
“Not a chance,” he said. “You are not fighting Lucies.”
“What are Lucies?” he heard the girls asking one another.
“I can at least protect the girls here.”
He went over, slit her ankle and wrist r
opes, then tugged her to her feet. Handing her the confiscated rifle, he gave her a quick kiss, and murmured the same words he’d said to her before, “Wait for me”—except this time, he added, “ . . . heartling.”
Then, with a whoosh of speed, he was gone.
Chapter 20
Evil comes in many forms . . .
Horrible noises were coming from outside. The schoolgirls huddled together in fear, but Camille admonished them to be quiet and get to work. First she untied one girl and thereafter each of them worked on their classmates until they were all free. Free, except for being locked inside their “prison.” Not that anyone was willing to venture out to those violent sounds of battle.
Camille couldn’t help herself, though. She pulled an empty water bucket over to a high window, upended the container, and stood on it. If she stood on tiptoe, she was barely able to see through the bottom edge of the filthy glass. She recoiled and almost fell at what she saw.
There were dozens of beasts . . . that was the only way to describe them. The same as what Harek had shown her in a cloudy fog picture back at her parents’ home in New Orleans. Giant creatures, men and women, but not really human, with red eyes, scaly bodies, claws, and enormous fangs. They were fighting with swords and other weapons against what Camille knew must be vangels. Dozens of them, too.
Even if she didn’t recognize Trond, and Ivak, and Harek, she would know they must be some kind of angels by the bluish hazy wings at their backs. They had large fangs, too. Except for the wings and fangs, they resembled Viking warriors of old. Belted leather tunics over slim pants. And ancient-looking broadswords and battle-axes and spears.
Even Harek had somehow become so attired. A quick change from here to there? Not possible. He claimed not to be a magician, but . . .
It was a brutal, to-the-death battle. Blood spurting out, on both sides. Slime forming as demons were stabbed through their hearts. Some vangels injured and being carried to the sidelines. Some of the demons had severed limbs and still fought on.
Meanwhile, the Boko Haram guys must be hiding or had run off, if they were seeing the same things as Camille was. Their practice of mass executions that so outraged the world must seem tame compared to this.
The girls crowded around, wanting to know what she was seeing.
“What’s happening?”
“Can I look?”
“Is it the SEALs?”
“Are we being rescued?”
“No, it’s not the SEALs,” Camille said. “Not yet, but I’m pretty sure they’re on their way. And, no, none of you are looking out this window. You would be scarred for life.”
“We’re already scarred for life,” someone said.
And she was probably right.
As quickly as it started, it was over. Suddenly, any remaining demon vampires were fleeing the scene, and the vangels were picking up their injured and carrying them off. All that was left was a lot of slime, which smelled putrid, even from this distance. The Boko Haram began to filter out of their hidey-holes, gazing about them in confusion.
What? Surely the vangels weren’t going to abandon Camille and the girls to the terrorists now that they’d destroyed their own enemy? Surely Harek wasn’t going to abandon her.
But then she realized that the “real” rescuers had arrived. And another battle ensued. This time between the Navy SEALs, Nigerian military, and other operatives against the terrorists. This was a more normal type of warfare, one Camille yearned to participate in. Gunfire, grunts, roars of fury, expletives, death cries. It was what she’d been trained to do. But she also knew that protecting the girls was equally important. She stepped down from the bucket and kicked it aside. Adjusting her breast binder, she picked up the rifle and waited. If one of the BK came through that door, hopefully Red Scarf, he was dead meat.
Only a half hour or so later, they heard the key turn in the lock. Camille had her rifle trained on the door, but it was only Slick who stepped through.
“U.S. Navy SEALs. We’re here to take you home.”
Guess who’s coming to dinner? . . .
Harek expected to teletransport back to Transylvania, where he would assess the day’s mission with his brothers, help Karl to continue healing, and then bebop, so to speak, back to check on Camille. What he had not expected was to land on the sandy beach of his small Caribbean island hideaway.
And he was not alone.
Nope. Sitting at the edge of the beach, his bare toes cooling in the surf, was none other than St. Michael the Archangel. He was wearing Hawaiian-print swimming trunks and a white T-shirt. A gold crucifix on a chain hung around his neck. His long black hair was pulled off his face with a leather thong at his nape. No wings today, but there were obvious bumps on his shoulder blades.
Harek’s first thought was Uh-oh, my secret getaway island isn’t so secret.
His second thought was Uh-oh, I am in trouble.
Michael’s presence here was not good news.
Harek sank down onto the sand beside the archangel, but what he’d really like to do was dive into the cool water and wash away the dirt and blood and scum of the past few days.
“Go ahead,” Michael said, reading his mind.
Harek stood and shucked out of all his clothes, except for his boxer briefs. Nudity was no big deal to him, but he was oddly modest around the celestial mentor. Running out into the surf, he dived into the undertow of a wave and then swam overhand for about twenty yards before dipping under water. Then, flipping to his back, he did a backstroke horizontally to the shore for another twenty yards, going and coming, before swimming back to plop down onto the sand.
“Feel better?” Michael asked. And he wasn’t even being sarcastic.
What’s up with that?
“Is it not wondrous what God has created in this world?” Michael remarked to him as he stared out over the clear blue water and the coral reef that could be seen in the distance. Sea birds floated through the cloudless sky.
It was beautiful. That’s why he’d purchased it. Without Michael’s permission.
“Of course, ’tis nothing compared to Heaven. A veritable Garden of Eden, the Lord’s home is.”
“I’d love to see it.”
“Only you can determine that, God willing.” Michael gave him a probing look. “Is there something I should know?”
If he thinks I’m going to provide the blade to cut my throat . . . uh-uh. Later, I will broach the subject of Camille. When I have a clearer idea what’s going on. He doesn’t seem in a bad mood. Still . . . “No, nothing important.”
“So, what have you done so far?”
What? He does know!
“Seems to me, two years is plenty of time.”
Huh? “For what?”
“You Vikings are so thickheaded betimes. For a man blessed with a sharp brain, you can be very dull. The Internet, Harek. The Internet. Remember, you are supposed to be bringing us angels into the modern age so that we can spread God’s word in a more relevant manner.”
“Oh, that!” Harek said with obvious relief.
Which caused Michael to give him another probing survey.
Because he was so relieved that Michael wasn’t here to call him on the carpet—uh, sand—over personal issues, Harek blurted out, without thinking, “That’s not my fault. You can’t make up your mind what you want.” He immediately wished he could take the words back. Nothing to be gained by alienating his touchstone with the higher powers. Hah! He was a higher power himself.
Instead of taking offense, Michael gave him a short bow of apology and said, “You are right. I have been busy, but this is important. Thus, I have made special time to get the job done. That is why I am here.”
“Uh,” Harek said with the dullness Michael had just accused him of. “What exactly do you mean?”
“I will stay here with you until the websites, and blogs, and whatnot are set up. Day and night we can work on it until He is satisfied that the product is to His satisfaction.”
&nb
sp; Ah, Harek was beginning to understand. Michael was the one who’d been called on the carpet . . . cloud . . . whatever.
“That could take days,” Harek pointed out.
“I know,” Michael said, standing and drawing his shirt over his head. He began to walk toward the water.
“Are you saying that you and I are going to stay together in my bungalow, together? It’s kinda small. You’d feel cramped. Wouldn’t it be better if you tell me what to do, and I can stay here alone while you go off and do angel things?”
“You don’t know cramped until you’ve been in certain parts of Heaven. Like Disney World on the Fourth of July it is, on All Saints’ Day,” Michael said over his shoulder.
Harek just gaped at him.
Michael turned and grinned at Harek. What a red-letter day this was turning out to be. He couldn’t wait to tell his brothers that Mike had grinned at him. “That was a jest, Harek.”
Which was not funny, at all. “There’s only one bedroom,” Harek tried as a last-ditch attempt to save his sanity.
“You can sleep on the couch,” Michael said, and waded deeper into the sea. He seemed to be studying the knee-high water, searching for something.
“What are you doing?” Harek asked, standing to get a better view of the angel who was now waist-deep and bending over to peer through the clear depths. With a swift swoop, he ducked underwater and came up grinning. Again! In his hands, he held a squirming, big-ass fish. A three-foot monster, with jagged sharp teeth the size of Lucipire fangs.
The 1970s song “Barracuda” by Heart came immediately to mind.
“Thanks be to God,” Mike said. “Dinner.” He tapped the fighting fish on its nostril and it went immediately still.
“I don’t suppose loaves will be falling from the sky any minute?” Harek quipped. He was kidding. Sort of.
“No. I’m fresh out of miracles.” Michael walked up and handed the fish to Harek.
The weight—at least fifteen pounds—surprised him, and he almost dropped it.
Michael yawned. “I think I’ll take a nap. Wake me when dinner is ready.”
Huh? Harek stared at the departing archangel, whose wings suddenly appeared on his back, so huge that the tips swept the sand as he walked. The modest wood bungalow was raised on stilts, a necessity against the occasional hurricane flooding in this region. Michael’s wings dragged against the steps, as well, as he climbed.
