by Sandra Hill
“Then, after Mom died when I was fourteen and Celie only four, my dad met Darla, a yoga instructor half his age, and bam, he got married again. Less than a year after he buried Mom. Not that I blame him. Mom was sick for so long, and he was lonely, and . . .” She shrugged again.
And he was a horndog, Cnut concluded, as most men are when without sexual release. Try being a celibate vangel! For centuries! “Things were better for you then? Once you got a new mother?”
“Hah! You haven’t met Darla.” She rolled her eyes. “To give her credit, Darla tried, but Celie and I had been on our own too long by then, and we would have resisted any new woman in the house. We made her life miserable, and she wasn’t the maternal type to begin with.”
“So, you continued being the ‘little mother’?”
She nodded. “To this day.”
“That doesn’t explain the cooking interest.”
“Oh, right. Anyhow, my mother was a really good cook, and a gardener, too. She had the neatest little vegetable and herb garden out back. A raised bed that Daddy built especially for her. Darla had it plowed and paved over with flagstones for an extended patio when she moved in.
“While my mother was healthy, she grew the best heirloom tomatoes, and string beans, and beets, and a variety of lettuces, and incredible white icicle radishes. Nothing in the world will ever rival her fresh tomato sandwiches. We even ate radish sandwiches with only salt and pepper on buttered white bread. Yum!” She sighed. “The smell of basil and rosemary and dill always remind me of her. Someday I’d like to have a house where I can have my own garden.” She sighed again, deeply, then continued. “Mom always seemed to have an apron on, and she was always teaching me things in the kitchen. Simple cooking but wonderful dishes, using fresh ingredients, with high-quality utensils. My memories of her will always be associated with the kitchen, not with the sickroom which became her prison later on. When I have that little house I mentioned, the kitchen is going to be fabulous, the heart of the home. Nothing fancy . . . no stainless steel, institutional look. More soft colors, butcher block, farm-like.” She glanced at him and seemed to realize how much she’d revealed with her ramble. “Sorry, but you did ask.”
He waved a hand to dismiss the need for apology. He was intrigued by the mind picture she painted. “Like Ree Drummond’s kitchen.”
“Exactly, except not so big.” Her brow furrowed as she turned to look at him more directly. “You watch The Pioneer Wife?”
His face heated but he told her, “Hah! I watch all the cooking shows when I am between missions. My brothers much prefer war movies or shows like The Walking Dead, but I prefer Food Network.”
“Lots of people find them soothing. Comfort food in troubled times.”
Exactly, though his brothers thought they were not manly subject matter for a Viking warrior. It pleased him that she understood. Sort of.
“Do you like to cook?” she asked.
“Holy clouds, no!”
She laughed. “Typical man!”
He wished! “So, why are you not married and living in such a dream home? I mean, I assume you are not wed.” He stared pointedly at her ringless fingers.
“What makes you think I need to be married to have my own home? I’ll have you know, I own the condo I’m living in now.”
“I forgot. Women in this ti—uh . . . country are independent of men. You are not . . . um . . . are you?” Surely his Viking radar was not so far off that he would not recognize that kind of woman. But then, women had been fooling men since the beginning of time. Take that wily Eve, for example. Got Adam in a hell of a lot of trouble.
She laughed. “No, I’m not gay. And before you ask, I am not, nor have I ever been married.”
“Why not? Are you opposed to marriage?”
“Not at all. I hope to marry someday and have children, hopefully three.”
That rules me out. “Should you not get started soon then before—”
She swatted him on the arm. “Don’t you dare mention my age. I am not too old for children. Not for another ten years, at least.”
That was a stretch, in his opinion, but dumb as men were purported to be, even he knew not to mention that fact.
“How about you?” She glanced at his fingers, which were also ringless, which meant nothing, of course. Men did not wear wedding rings in his time, and in fact many men didn’t do so today, either, for obvious reasons.
“Never wed. No desire to. Same goes for children.” Enough on that subject!
Of course it wasn’t.
“Why not? A guy who looks like you must have to beat women off with a stick.”
“I told you afore, I did not always look like this.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A long time.” A very long time!
“Well, how about today? No significant other?”
“No.” The only significant other in my life is an archangel with an attitude who has thrown me into the duck pond. He took a flight magazine from the seat pocket in front of him, a silent signal to her that he was done talking.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers.” She put her hand on his, which was resting on the armrest between them.
For his sins, he turned said hand so that they were palm to palm. In fact, he twined their fingers together and said, “Ruffle away.”
Chapter 6
COCKTAILS & NIBBLES AT HORROR CASTLE
Deviled eggs and deviled tongue (from fertile females)
Wicked wings soaked in diablo sauce
Blood fondue with toast points
Black Mass caviar on small blinis with crème fraîche
Lucifer’s Loin Chops (mini lamb lollipops)
Bite-size devil’s food cupcakes
Crispy lady fingers
Designer marshmallows toasted over hellfire
Satan’s Whiskers Rambutan, the hairy fruit (beware of occasional maggot)
Bloody Marys (with thanks to Lucipires-to-be Mary Higgins, Lady Mary Ethridge, and Mary Contraire)
Hooch from Hell
Beelzebub’s Beard Punch (it will put hair on your chest, if not your chin)
Devil Juice (nonalcoholic but sinfully good)
Yippee-ki-yay, get along little dogies, uh, demons . . .
John Wayne was walking down the hallway of Horror Castle in the remote icy mountains of northern Scandinavia, beyond Svalband, presumably an uninhabited area too cold for humans to withstand. That was the very feature that appealed to demons. Spend a minute in Hell and you develop an appreciation for ice. A lack of neighbors was also an asset. He could only imagine what would happen if someone knocked on the door to borrow a cup of sugar and was confronted with a Lucipire. The scream would be heard ’round the world.
The spurs on his cowboy boots jingled as he strutted his long, tall Rio Bravo self, complete with chaps, hip holster holding a pair of Colt pistols, and the traditional Stetson Silver Belly hat. He even walked a little bowlegged, from all that horse riding, dontcha know? he joked to himself. Or another kind of riding.
Bloody hell, but it’s great to be me, thought Jasper, king of all the demon vampires. Not John Wayne, of course, but a good facsimile Jasper had chosen of the Old West king for a new Lucipire mission he was contemplating. Usually, Lucipires were huge creatures with scaly skin and claws and fangs and red eyes, not to mention a long tail, but they could transform their bodies into any outward appearance they wanted, including humanoid ones. Thus, his choice of John Wayne this time.
“Are you still sulking that I didn’t choose the Lone Ranger and Tonto?” he asked Beltane, his French hordling assistant who skipped every other step to keep up with Jasper’s long strides. There were many classes of Lucipires, the highest being Seraphim haakai demons, like himself, who had formerly been archangels eons ago, followed by the high haakai, then mungs, hordlings, and Satan’s foot soldiers, the imps.
“I never sulk, master,” Beltane replied with affront. His longtime assistant was relatively
young for a Lucipire, having been taken from the 1700s Vieux Carre in New Orleans, compared to himself and some others who had been around for thousands of years.
“I know, I know,” he said, patting Beltane on his scaly arm. “I was just teasing. I did try, though, I want you to know that, but the mask wouldn’t fit over my bulgy eyes.”
Jasper was on his way to the council chamber of his castle for a meeting with his high commanders. Important business would be negotiated this day, and not just about the new mission. He intended to surprise a few of his lieutenants, including the loyal Beltane.
Along the way of the Corridor of the Condemned, he took note of the life-size killing jars that lined either side. Inside the tall, glass cylinders—his inventions modeled on butterfly killing jars—were newly captured, naked humans, the vilest of sinners—rapists, murderers, terrorists, pedophiles, and the like—in the process of being turned into demon vampires. Some were already in a state of stasis, others still fought against their fate, eyes wild with fright, banging the sides of their containers with bloody fists. Jasper’s cold heart lifted with joy at the sight. So much evil! So many new bodies to torture! Life was good!
“Bring me that one later,” he told Beltane, pointing to a red-haired wench with cone-shaped breasts and a bald pubic mound. No more than twenty, the girl had given a heroin overdose to a ten-year-old boy, just to amuse herself and a drug-addict lover. The lover was here somewhere, too. The boy was in a coma in a London hospital.
“Good choice. She still has some fight in her. I know you like them unwilling.”
“For a certainty,” Jasper agreed.
“I must warn you,” Beltane said, hesitantly, as if fearful of Jasper’s reaction, “Heinrich is here already, and he has a particularly gloating expression on his face.”
“I know,” Jasper said, gritting his teeth, not an easy task with fangs that were extended somewhat, even when retracted. “But he will not be gloating for long, if I have my way.”
Heinrich Mann was a former Nazi general who, unfortunately, had a direct line to Satan’s ear. He was an arrogant, anal, annoying bastard who was constantly name dropping, as in “Luce told me . . .” or “When I was sharing a fireball with Luce . . .” or “Luce and I were just thinking . . .” or “While jogging with Luce last night . . .” Luce was Heinrich’s nickname for Lucifer.
The Nazi asshole was so full of it. Everyone knew demons did not jog. Tails and all that. Even in humanoid form. Jasper knew because he’d tried it one time, and all that jarring caused his fangs to keep hitting his bottom lip. There was so much blood dripping from his mouth, a passerby called 911.
On the other hand, he wasn’t about to call Heinrich a liar. Not outright, leastways. ’Twas best not to offend the man too much because he reported every little thing back to the Big Guy. A snitch who carried around a rubber stamp of a swastika—can you believe it?—which he used on every paper he touched—probably had it imprinted on his toilet paper. You’d think he invented the thing.
Heinrich was a mere mung, with aspirations to be on the Lucipire High Council. No doubt, he wanted Jasper’s job eventually. While Jasper usually chose his top commanders from the upper ranks of the haakai, he knew that Satan wanted Heinrich to be given a position of authority as a reward for some evil or other. Probably the Holocaust, which demons preferred to call the Holycause. Talk about evil!
Jasper had put this favor off for too long, and now Satan’s wish regarding Heinrich was sounding more like a command. Jasper knew of Satan’s wish because his boss sent him an e-mail last week. Yes, an e-mail from Hell! Don’t ask. Suffice it to say, if you get an e-mail from [email protected], you better answer. That didn’t mean Jasper couldn’t do the devil’s will and at the same time get some satisfaction in doing things his own way. Surprise, surprise, Heinrich! Jasper chortled to himself.
Beltane rushed forward to open the double doors of the conference room for him. “Ah, everyone is here,” Jasper said to Beltane. “And I can see that you prepared a fine repast for our guests.”
Beltane beamed. “Yes, even the Russian caviar you wanted.”
“Good, good!”
There was a large U-shaped table in the room with name plates arranged at various places. At the end of the room, a buffet table had been set up in front of a windowed wall that gave a panoramic view of the bleak, icy mountains. About fifteen Lucipires stood about, conversing among themselves as they ate and drank. All of them had received personal invitations. They were in humanoid form today, these haakai, mungs, and hordlings, dressed in the finest designer clothing, out of respect for Jasper. Everyone knew he set high standards for his minions and was displeased when they appeared before him in sloppy attire. Even Zebulan the Hebrew, one of his favorite council members, wore a dark brown Hugo Boss suit over a pure white, silk T-shirt, instead of his usual denim braies and Blue Devils cap.
There were also a half-dozen newly turned Lucipires walking about to serve the needs of the visitors—young, naked, nubile men and women with studded collars on their necks and weighted rings hanging from pierced nipples and nether regions. As a special treat for his guests, Jasper had ordered that these young demon vampires be force-fed just one specific fruit for weeks, and now when his guests sampled their blood, they would get hints of pineapples, strawberries, oranges, mangos, pears, watermelon, and so on. If they took a swig of vodka or whiskey first, it would like having a fresh fruit cocktail. Ingenious! he complimented himself.
They all turned as one to stare at him before bowing their heads in deference. Zeb was the only one who dared speak his mind, “Planning to ride broncos at a rodeo, Jasper?”
“There’s an idea,” he commented. “Not for me, though. I think you would look good bouncing your arse on a randy bull.”
At the expression of sudden suspicion on Zeb’s face, Jasper said, “I have a new mission in mind. Not the rodeo, my friend. But we can discuss that later. Everyone, grab a drink and take your seats. Those who are not council members but invited guests can sit anywhere at the end of the table.” He smiled at each of them to let them know he acknowledged their individual presence and was pleased to have them here. It was something he learned from one of his minions who’d written a book called Secrets of a Successful Leader. Unfortunately, that particular fellow had failed to follow his own rules and ended up bilking hundreds of people of their life savings and, worst of all, getting caught at it. Well, unfortunate for his human self. Fortunate for the Lucipires.
When Heinrich tried to take the seat next to him at the center of the U-shaped table, Jasper hip-bumped him to indicate a seat off to the right. Instead, he placed Zeb on one side of him and Hector, a former Roman soldier, on the other side. Yakov, the Russian Cossack, was on Hector’s other side. “As you know,” Jasper said right off, “Zeb and Hector and Yakov are the only members of my High Council left, with the passing of Haroun al Rashid and Dominique Fontaine.”
He bowed his head, and the others followed suit to mark the passing to Hell of their comrades, who had failed as Lucipires and were now doomed to Hell on a permanent basis, though Jasper couldn’t think of a single soul who would mourn Dominique’s absence. Never had there been a more irritating, repulsive creature, even worse than Heinrich, in Jasper’s opinion.
“As a result, the Lucipire command is weakened, and we cannot have that,” Jasper continued. “Therefore, we will fill Haroun and Dominique’s seats on the council today by transferring current members, and add three new people to the council.”
Through his side vision, he could see Heinrich preen, knowing what was coming. Hah! He thought he knew what was coming.
“Hector, you will continue with your base command at Terror.” Hector’s so-named compound was in the catacombs under the Vatican. “It is always a delight to see you tempt the sinners drawn to the Holy City, even the supposed holy ones. Satan is particularly pleased at the increase of sins among the priesthood. We do not like this new pope and his efforts to clean house, so to spea
k . . . God’s house. So, beware.”
Hector nodded, both an acknowledgment of the compliment and agreement to be diligent in the future. Hector had been a Roman general, once assigned to the Colosseum, where he forced Christians to become lion kibble. He liked staying in Rome, even if it was under what had once been the seat of a great empire. In fact, he still wore his military uniform: knee-high belted tunic with sheathed short sword; cross-tied sandals; gauntlets; a red, satin-lined cape; and a bronzed helmet. If Hector had his way, they would be raising man-eating lions and erecting another Colosseum, perhaps here at Horror.
Not going to happen. Not that it wasn’t a great idea, but it would be too expensive, and they didn’t have any lion keepers among the current batch of Lucipires.
“Moving on. Yakov, your long years of service to Satan and to me are noted and appreciated.” Yakov maintained a headquarters named Desolation in Siberia. “Therefore, you are being transferred to Gloom.”
That caused Zeb to sit up more alertly. Gloom was Zeb’s command in the honeycombed volcanic caves of Greece. He had to wonder what Jasper had planned for him.
“I am sure you will find the climate in Greece much more to your taste,” Jasper said to Yakov.
“As you wish,” Yakov said with a smile.
“And you, Heinrich.” He turned and looked directly at Heinrich. “Our esteemed Lord Lucifer wants to reward you for services well rendered, and I of course agree. You should be given a position on the High Council.”
Someone snickered at that last remark. It could be anyone. Everyone knew how much he detested the Nazi, except for the Nazi, who was beaming like a bloody moron.
Not for long.
“And isn’t it fortunate that we have the perfect opening. You will take Yakov’s place in Siberia.” He cast a fangy smile at the Nazi, who didn’t seem to understand what he’d just said.
“Huh? What? No.”
“No? You no longer wish to be on my High Council?” Jasper asked.
“Yes, of course. I mean, no, not in Siberia. Why not Haroun’s old territory, or Germany. Yes, Germany would be good. I could regenerate anti-Semitic sentiments and—”
