by Sandra Hill
“Stuck in Portland. A male prostitute there was a bugger to save.” She grinned at her pun as she handed the shawl to Armod, the Michael Jackson wannabe, who was in the process of unloading groceries. Armod got a strange look on his face at the woman’s words, but then the woman noticed his expression, and said, “Sorry, Armod.” She gave the boy a quick hug, then began to roll up the sleeves of her blouse.
“Miss Borden, you know Armod, obviously, and Ulf, and Floki. This is Alexandra Kelly. She’s a . . . uh, visitor.”
Miss Borden eyed her warily as she hiked an obviously heavy canvas carryall up onto the counter and pulled out a meat cleaver. “Just call me Lizzie.” On those ominous words—Lizzie Borden—she began to expertly carve the side of beef into steaks and ribs, calling out orders as she worked. “Floki, get me some freezer paper. Ulf, do we have a roasting pan big enough for a twenty-pound rump? Armod, what in bloody mud are you doing with all those cans?”
Armod’s pale face turned pink. “No one wanted to cook, so we’ve been living out of cans,” he lisped as he pointed to industrial-size cans of stew, SpaghettiOs, SPAM, fruit cocktail, soup, pudding, tuna, and sardines. “Mostly we been having pizza delivered. Domino’s loves us.” He grinned sheepishly, exposing his two fangs.
“Well, put it all away,” the cook said. “Vikar, you could go out and help my assistants bring in bags of potatoes and some sweet corn I bought at a roadside stand.”
Vikar groaned and told Alex in a whispered aside, “You think lisps are bad? You do not want to see vampires eating corn on the cob.”
She laughed, but then had to ask, “Lizzie Borden? The Lizzie Borden?”
“One and the same.”
“And she was a vampire?” Alex had noticed that the woman’s upper lip protruded a bit, as if fangs were there, though not extended.
“Not until she died.”
“And she was a Viking?”
“She has a bit of Viking in her family history. Bordenssons from way back.”
He chucked her under her hanging jaw and went out to do the lady’s bidding.
While he was gone, Alex walked around the kitchen, examining things. All the appliances appeared new, including one whole wall of stainless-steel refrigerator and walk-in freezer units. She opened one and saw dozens of different kinds of beer. She laughed and took out a Sierra Nevada, one of her husband Brian’s favorites. Amazingly, that remembrance, and the image of them sitting on the back deck of their Barnegat Bay cottage drinking beer and eating late-night snacks, didn’t squeeze her heart as it might have months ago. Of course, that had been in the early years of their marriage. Before his betrayal.
The next unit held a pigload of pint- and quart-size glass containers, like old-fashioned milk bottles, holding a red beverage. They were marked Fake-O. She didn’t need to ask what they were, and, really, whatever was going on in this wacky castle, they knew how to get the special effects right. Creepy, that’s what it was.
She was opening the next unit where she discovered about fifty different gallon pails of ice cream when Vikar’s brother Trond walked into the kitchen. He picked up an apple from a basket on a side table and began to chomp on it as he approached her. His fangs were recessed, or in his pocket more likely, so he had no trouble eating.
“Vampires with a sweet tooth?” she inquired, pointing with her long neck toward the open freezer.
“More like Vikings with a sweet tooth. Back in our day, sugar was rare,” he replied, tossing his apple core in a high arc that slam-dunked into a waste can on the other side of the room.
When he saw her amusement over his dubious talent, he winked at her. “We have lots of time on our hands to perfect life’s important skills.”
“Why are you dressed like that?”
He glanced down at his gladiator costume. “Just got back from Rome.”
“The Vatican?”
“No, the Colosseum.”
She raised a hand to halt what she knew would be a bunch of baloney. “Tell me no more.”
“Are you married?” he asked, glancing at the platinum band on her left hand.
Vikar came up to join them just as Trond had asked his question. “I, too, am interested. For some reason, I assumed you were unwed.”
Probably because of the sizzle they generated, but she wasn’t about to say that aloud. Besides, it was none of their business whether she was married or not, and Alex really didn’t want to discuss her personal life. On the other hand, it was a common question. “I was married. My husband died.”
Both men nodded, their faces reflecting sympathy.
“How long ago?” Trond wanted to know.
“Two years.” And it wasn’t just Brian who died. It was Linda, too. My precious Linda. Oh God! She gritted her teeth to calm herself.
Vikar’s eyes narrowed oddly with suspicion. “How did he die?”
Okay, this interrogation had gone on long enough. She took a long swallow of her beer, then carefully set the half-empty bottle on the counter. Turning slowly, she addressed Vikar, “Let’s get one thing straight right now. I’m here to interview you. While I’m willing to be polite, I have no intention of discussing my personal life.” She hated the shakiness of her voice that betrayed how emotional she’d become, and she hated that these two men witnessed her veneer cracking.
Trond reached forward and squeezed her arm before walking away, but Vikar remained, staring at her intently, as if trying to fathom some deep mystery. “I might be able to help you,” he said finally.
She put both hands to her head and tugged at her hair. “Have you heard a word I’ve said? My privacy is important to me, and you have to respect—”
“Would you feel better knowing where he is?”
“Who?” She was not a violent person, but she was seriously thinking about clunking Vikar over the head with a heavy object. Good thing Lizzie had a firm grip on her cleaver on the other side of the room.
“Your husband.”
He has a death wish. This idiot has a death wish. “My husband is dead.”
“So you said.”
Her heart kick-started into warp speed as she began to comprehend what Vikar was implying. “You can bring a dead person back to life?” I can’t believe I actually asked that.
“No! Oh, sorry I am if I led you to believe that. But I might be able to tell you whether he is in a good place. Or not. Would you want to know that about your husband?”
“Not Brian. Someone else. Well, yes, I would want to know that Brian was all right, but, more important, I would want to know about . . .” She gulped. “. . . my daughter. Linda.”
“Ah. You lost your husband and a daughter.”
“This is an intrusive, pointless conversation, and, frankly, I’m offended that you would even—”
“My leader . . . the man I work for . . . is the Mike Archer you mentioned as my agent when you arrived. He has influence Up There,” he explained, gazing upward, as if that were any explanation at all. “Up There,” he repeated.
The strangest, most outlandish idea occurred to her then. “Are you saying your boss is St. Michael the Archangel?”
“Precisely,” Vikar said.
And Alex, who’d never fainted a day in her life, even at the horrific moment when she’d been notified of the death of the most important person in her life, felt the blood drain from her head, and she was falling, falling, falling.
Eyes closed, she sensed a number of people looking down at her, and she recognized Trond’s voice as he said, “Well done, Vikar! You always did have a knack for having women fall at your feet.”
Four
Even vampire angels benefit from a good Excel chart . . .
Vikar was sitting at the kitchen table later that evening with Trond, two laptops and a printer in front of them, following a meeting they’d just completed with some of their jarls and karls. As a result, he now had a very detailed plan complete with computer printouts of how to transform the castle into a VIK fortress and comfy hom
e headquarters. Not that Michael would care about the latter; he would probably prefer that they sleep on concrete slabs and twiddle their thumbs between assignments. Or pray. Constantly.
Before going abroad, his brother Harek, still in Germany—1943 Germany—had given him a list of every existing vangel member and their specialties so that Vikar could come up with a chart of duties. In order to prepare for Michael’s arrival here next month, they all had to help.
Harek wouldn’t arrive for another few days, and Vikar knew from past experience that it would take a week or more for his brother to overcome the depression that enveloped him after having been in the Holocaust death camps. They’d all been there, done their jobs, and wept afterward. Yes, Vikings did weep when the atrocity was great. Needless to say, Hitler occupied a special suite in Hell.
Vikar took the organization chart of duties and tacked it on the wall for all to see in the morning. There was everything from housekeeping to security. Equipment, furniture, plumbing, food, landscaping, painting, accounting, computers, laundry, linens, clothing.
“I feel much better having all this spelled out,” Vikar told Trond, who’d just opened two bottles of dark ale and handed one to him.
For a long moment, they both just swallowed and enjoyed. That was one good thing modern times had to offer. A wide variety of beers. Vikings had long appreciated a good brew, whether it be honeyed mead or a hearty malt ale, but there had been no choices between light, dark, sweet, bitter, hearty, even where they had been made.
“Wait until Regina finds out that you’ve put her in charge of the household cleaning.” Trond chuckled. “I plan to be in town with Armod buying groceries, or something.”
Regina had been a witch back in the Norselands of the 1200s. A real spell-casting, cauldron-boiling, spooky witch. Spookier than vampires, truth to tell. And she had delusions about her importance in the vangel world. “She’ll have a dozen ceorls working under her. I do not imagine Regina will ever pick up a toilet brush herself, or mop a floor.”
“Unless Michael wishes to humble her,” Trond pointed out.
“True. True.”
“I’ve been thinking . . .” Trond said, pausing until he had his attention, “there are some big jobs here that would be better done by outside people. Like plumbing and electricity. Remember the time I tried to fix that light socket and about electrocuted myself? Wait. Hear me out. How about you send us all out of here for a week? If only you and a handful of others stay behind, you can stay out of view while the workers are here.”
“You’re right that some of these things are beyond our expertise. In fact, we could bring in wall framers, plasterers, floor refinishers, and bathroom tilers at the same time. Give them a deadline of one week or they don’t get paid.”
“You’d have to toss out a lot of cash to get those kinds of results.”
“Money talks in these bad economic times.”
Trond nodded. “I’ll take care of all your people as well as mine.” Trond’s half hird of about twenty vangels had arrived the night before; the others were still out in the field on assignments. Vangels were stepping on vangels at every turn here inside the castle. “Mayhap we could go to that mountain retreat we rented years ago.”
Vikar had to laugh. Retreat was a glorification of what had been ten excruciating days in tents, eating over open fires, in the forests of Upper Mongolia.
“We could leave behind a blood ceorl in case you need her services. And mayhap Armod. He still needs constant watching during this transition period, not to mention speech lessons to get rid of that lisp. Plus you better keep a few warriors here in case more Lucies show up.”
The idea was becoming more and more appealing to Vikar.
“What about your ‘guest’? Have you started the cleansing yet?”
“No. I’m going up now.” He’d placed Alex in a tower room where there was a single bed and not much more. Thankfully, he’d had the foresight to put a tranquilizer in the water she’d been offered when she’d first awakened from her faint. As a result, she’d been sleeping these past four hours.
“If we all vacate the premises, you would have time to cleanse her thoroughly,” Trond said with a grin that implied the cleansing might involve something other than the ritual de-demonizing. “Speaking of cleansing, while you have the plumbers here, how about a few Jacuzzi tubs, and I’d personally like one of those rainforest showers that hit you from a dozen different directions.”
“What would Mike say about that?”
“Does he have to know everything?” Trond stood and stretched, prepared to leave the room. “Is the cable hooked up? There’s a Three Stooges marathon on AMC.”
Vikar smiled as he straightened out some of their papers and put the empty beer bottles in the recycling bin. Yes, Vikings who recycled! “Keep the volume down. There are probably ceorls sleeping on the couches.”
After Trond left, a cold six-pack under his arm, Vikar prepared a tray for Alex since she hadn’t been awake for dinner.
Sliced roast beef, whipped potatoes, a thick-sliced tomato, an ear of buttered corn on the cob, and a piece of garlic bread, along with a bottled water and a can of diet soda.
With trepidation, he then climbed the four flights of stairs to the tower room, wondering what reception he would get. He was weary, both physically and mentally. So it was with a sigh of relief that he opened the door that had been locked from the outside and found that Alex was still asleep, lying on her side, facing the wall.
He put the tray on a side table where a fat beeswax candle burned brightly. Armod had gone to the bed-and-breakfast and brought back Alex’s luggage and other belongings, which he’d placed on a window seat, opened but unpacked. A pint of vodka, nestled among her clothing, caught his attention.
He stood at the end of the bed and watched Alex for several long moments. She looked so peaceful. Mayhap she wasn’t really hungry. Mayhap he could put off the cleansing until morning to avoid her inevitable distress. Mayhap she wouldn’t mind if he lay down with her, just to rest, just to soak in some of her peace. Mayhap he was an idiot.
So, with a cluelessness ingrained in men through the ages, he kicked off his flip-flops and arranged himself carefully against her back, spoon-style.
There was still that crackle in the air, as earlier today when he’d fanged her, and his cock appreciated being nestled against the crease of her backside, but it was more than that. In truth, he felt as if a warm cocoon was enveloping them, like the wings of a giant bird. Please, God, let it be a bird, and not an angel.
This was almost better than sex. Almost.
Just before he closed his eyes for a short rest, his nose tickled and he barely suppressed a sneeze. Putting a hand to his face, he found—surprise, surprise—a white feather.
Blood of my blood . . .
Alex awakened groggily in the middle of the night.
For a long time, since Brian and Linda’s deaths to be precise, she’d had trouble sleeping. Vodka had become her nighttime friend. She wondered idly how much she’d drunk to reach this state of baby-like slumber.
She wriggled her butt and burrowed deeper into the soft mattress. Against her back she felt something hard. The wall? But over her was the softest, cuddliest blanket she could ever imagine. Like a cloud, it was, especially when it kind of fluttered over her. Forget Amish quilts. She wanted one of these blankets. She would have to ask Vikar in the morning where she could buy one.
But then, her nose twitched. Was it a feather from the pillow that tickled her? Or the scent? The scent of a man.
She rolled over suddenly, causing a large object to jerk backward and fall off the single bed.
It was Vikar.
“What the hell are you doing in my bed?” she demanded, sitting up. At the same time, she glanced downward to see a common fleece blanket about her waist, nothing like what she’d been imagining.
He stood in one fluid motion, rubbing his behind as if he’d been hurt when he landed on the stone floor.
He probably had with that tight butt sans fat padding. Well, it served him right.
“I brought a tray of food up for you”—he glanced at a wristwatch and seemed surprised—“five hours ago. You were sleeping so soundly I thought I would lie down for a moment to rest, and . . .” He shrugged. “What can I say? You are snuggly.”
“Snuggly? A Viking who snuggles?”
He shrugged again. “Must be the angel in me.”
“Or the vampire?” she scoffed.
“Vampires do not snuggle.” She noticed something odd then. Vikar was wrapping a rubber tube around his arm, just above the elbow, the kind labs used as a tourniquet before taking blood samples. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure that the blood down to my wrist remains pure.”
“Why wouldn’t it?” she asked, suspecting that she was somehow not going to like his answer.
She didn’t.
“Because I must suck some of the demon-tainted blood out of you, and then replace it with some of my pure blood.”
“Oh no! No, no, no!” She had no idea how he intended to complete such a process, and she didn’t want to know.
“It’s essential for the cleansing ritual.”
“Sorry. I decline. I’ll keep my blood just the way it is, thank you very much.”
“Not an option.” He was also setting a glass on the table next to the bed, into which he poured two inches or so of vodka. Her vodka, by the way. When had her luggage been brought here? He had a helluva nerve going through her things. “Drink this,” he said. “It will relax you.”
“No!” She squirmed away until her back was against the wall.
Undaunted, he leaned over, pinched her nose with two fingers of one hand, and forced her to drink the vodka with the other, even as she sputtered and flailed.
Most of the booze went down, and she felt an immediate buzz.
“You are in so much trouble. The magazine has a boatload of lawyers on retainer. We are going to sue your ass off.”
Ignoring her threats, Vikar tugged on her legs, forcing her to lie on her back. Putting a hand under her back, he arched her up, exposing her neck. Before she could kick out at him or scratch his eyes out, he laid himself gently over her and bit into her neck.
