by Sandra Hill
Harek realized in that moment that he had not only gained a roommate who happened to be an archangel, but he was expected to be a cook for him as well, and a website designer. Who knew what else? It occurred to him then that Michael never asked about the outcome of the events of the day with the Lucipires in Nigeria. He probably already knew.
A Viking living with an angel? I will be scarred for life. On the other hand, I am dead, so it doesn’t matter. Ha, ha, ha. I am going off the deep end here.
With a sigh of surrender, Harek followed after Michael.
Not for the first time, Harek thanked God for modern computers. He needed to Google something ASAP: “how to cook a barracuda.”
The aftershocks are often worse than the tragedy itself . . .
Upon return to Coronado, a debriefing was held with all team members, as usual. Even though sixty-three of the Global School girls had been rescued, even though twenty-two of the Boko Haram tangos were dead, and even though twelve BK had been taken prisoner, including two high-ranking members of the terrorist cell, even though CNN and the other networks painted the SEAL Deadly Wind operation a huge success, the mission was not deemed a success by the SEALs themselves. There were still twenty-some girls missing, they’d lost one of the Deadly Wind team—the FBI agent Henry Rawlings—and numerous injuries were sustained.
“Like I predicted, a goat fuck,” Geek concluded.
“We learn from our mistakes,” Slick said, though it was obvious he was as disappointed as anyone at the outcome.
They spent days going over every detail of the mission, the good and the bad, to determine what they had done right and wrong. The SEALs and WEALS would not be involved in any immediate plans to attempt another rescue; that would now be up to the Nigerian army and diplomatic efforts on the parts of various countries. In other words, probably a lost cause. A goat fuck.
In addition to the classroom exercises in Monday morning quarterbacking and woulda/coulda/shoulda, each of the team members was required to meet with the base psychiatrist, Dr. Abe Feingold, based on the principle that killing, even for a noble cause, did a head job on people. Although the jocks usually pooh-poohed this requirement, Camille realized after a week of counseling that she was having a delayed reaction to her Deadly Wind experience. Borderline PTSD. Probably it was the realization that she’d just barely escaped her most terrifying nightmare: slavery.
“I’m recommending that you take a leave of absence,” Dr. Feingold told her. “Two weeks minimum, a month preferably. You shouldn’t be working out with that wrist anyhow.”
“But—” Camille felt a sudden panic at the idea of nothing to do but dwell on her near escape . . . and other things.
“Maybe you could go home to Louisiana for an extended visit. Let your family pamper you a bit.”
Camille almost laughed at that prospect, but then she recalled that her mother and father were on that cruise. She would have the house to herself. Appealing.
But . . .
Bottom line was, she hadn’t heard from Harek since he’d kissed her good-bye in Nigeria and asked her to wait for him. Trond claimed not to know where he was, said he hadn’t seen Harek all week, either. Rumor was that he was in the Caribbean on a special mission.
The Caribbean? That sounded more like a vacation than a mission. A mission for whom?
Trond had just shrugged.
Camille wavered over whether to use the forced liberty to leave Coronado for a while. What if Harek came back and she wasn’t here, as she’d promised. Well, he’d told her a week, and a week had already passed.
But maybe there were extenuating circumstances.
Yeah, like some island beauty.
He could have at least called her, asked how she was feeling, told her that he “thought” he loved her. Ha, ha, ha.
Am I pathetic or what?
Oh Lord, am I being dumped again?
In the end, she left word with her roommates where she would be, and was off to the Deep South. That’s when her nightmares began.
He wasn’t feeling very angelic . . .
Michael was driving Harek bonkers.
First of all, for a guy—okay, an angel—who claimed to know nothing about computers, Michael had somehow managed to block Harek’s e-mail so that he couldn’t contact Camille or anyone else for that matter. Same was true of his cell phone. And Harek, who could probably hack into the FBI, the CIA, and Interpol, all in one click of his keyboard, couldn’t figure out how to undo Michael’s action.
When he asked him about it, Michael just blinked at him with innocence . . . and a bit of iron regard. “Sorry. I thought you would like privacy for work. Is there someone special you want to contact?”
He wasn’t sorry at all, Harek could tell. So Harek seethed but kept his mouth shut, for now, and worked on the website, which they’d decided to call The Archangels Network. Very uncreative, but sometimes simplicity was best. They’d wasted one whole day just arguing over titles. Discarded had been Angels Around Us, Wings Away, Flutters, Heavenly Warriors, Miracles in a Modern World, Mike’s Café, Messages from Above, Angelic Musings, Ladders to Heaven, and Celestial Sense. Yeah, I know. Gag me with a feather.
There would be the main home page with menu options, such as Q&A with an Angel, History of Angels, Blogs, Recommended Reading, Prayers, Angelic Miracles: Past and Present, even a one-on-one chat room. Harek was beginning to think he would be spending the rest of his “life” maintaining what was becoming a gargantuan website.
“Not to fear,” Michael reassured him as he prepared to go off and relax on the beach, again, and probably catch another damn fish. Harek was sick of eating damn fish. He was especially sick of degutting and cleaning damn fish. And he wanted his phone and e-mail privileges back, dammit. “I will do my part, and Gabriel and Rafael will help, as well. Maybe some guardian angels, too. Even the pope might have some wise words.”
“The pope? You know the pope?”
“Of course I know the pope. All of them. Oh, by the way, I have a wonderful suggestion for the ‘wallpaper’ background for our website.” Michael put down his towel and rosary beads and went back to his bedroom to get something. Harek liked the way Michael had said “our” website. Not! That implied further involvement on Harek’s part, and, frankly, his skills were better utilized elsewhere, if you asked him, which, of course, Michael didn’t.
Harek’s eyes about bugged out when he saw what Michael was carrying. It was an absolutely gorgeous oil painting of angels. In the forefront was a warrior angel, presumably Michael, and in the background, a sort of mural of various angels through history. Gabriel with the Virgin Mary, for example. The whole thing was only about twenty by thirty inches, but the details were exquisite. Even Harek, who was not an art expert, recognized its quality. Then he noticed the signature at the bottom, “Michelangelo.”
Harek groaned. “Where did you get this?”
“I had it painted especially for the website. Isn’t it perfect?”
“Michael! You can’t just have a new painting by an Old Master show up out of the blue, without explanation.”
“Why not?”
“People will wonder where it came from?”
“A miracle? After all, the website is about angels and the miracles of God and religion—”
“No!”
“Well, I’m not as fond of Picasso’s work, but—”
“No!”
“Perhaps I could fix this one. Hide the signature, a dab of paint here, a dab there. No one would know it was done by Michelangelo.”
Harek exhaled with frustration. “You can’t ruin a masterpiece like this. Don’t you have someplace to hang it for your own enjoyment? Some wall in your mansion in the sky?”
“What mansion? What would I do with a mansion?”
That’s the way their conversations went over every little thing. That’s why a week had gone by, and they still weren’t done.
“Shall I bring a coconut back with me from one of those palm trees on t
he beach?” Michael had propped the painting on the floor against the wall, as if it were a Wal-Mart print and not a gazillion-dollar painting, and picked up his towel and rosary beads again. “Coconut shrimp would be good for dinner.”
“We don’t have any shrimp,” Harek said, disgruntled.
“I’ll catch some.”
“There are no shrimp in these waters.”
Michael gave him a look that pretty much translated to Says who?
Harek was alone again, tapping away on his keyboard, resigned to doing whatever Michael asked, according to his own time frame. It was futile to try to hurry up an archangel.
Harek couldn’t help but worry about Camille, though. Was she all right? Was she as worried about him as he was about her? Was she still waiting for him? Was the time right to broach the subject with Michael?
How the hell did you make coconut shrimp?
That night he dreamed about Camille, and it was a really weird dream.
Chapter 21
Dream lover, for sure . . .
To her surprise, Camille was enjoying her “vacation” in the empty Evermore mansion in the Garden District. The staff had been given time off while Emile and Jeannette were away on the cruise, which was just the way Camille wanted it. No one to watch her laze about, eat junk food, watch corny TV shows, wallow. Just eat, sleep, and dream.
Dr. Feingold had given her the names of several Crescent City psychiatrists that she could consult while here, but she didn’t feel the need for help, until the second night. That’s when the dreams . . . fantasies . . . nightmares . . . whatever . . . started.
It was the 1850 Quadroon Ball, and she was there. Wearing a white ball gown with tiny embroidered roses and her light brown hair piled atop her head in cute ringlets, she was the picture of innocence, except for the off-the-shoulders neckline that exposed half her breasts. And she was dancing, along with about fifty other young women, some no more than fifteen, wearing beautiful pastel creations that gleamed like jewels under the candle chandeliers.
One man after another danced with Camille. Some young. Some old. Dressed the way she imagined Creole gentlemen of another era might. Tailored jackets over brocade vests and snowy white shirts, slim pants, shiny shoes, trim mustaches. One thing the men all had in common: the spark of lust in their eyes. This was after all the marketplace for buying a slave . . . a sex slave. Call it plaçage, call them placées, but the end result was the same. Was that what would happen to the kidnapped girls in Nigeria? Sold as forced brides, or sex slaves? Is that what would have happened to me?
But then she noticed a man leaning against the open French doors leading to a balcony, a thin cheroot in his mouth. Camille hated men who smoked, especially cigars, but she wasn’t repelled by this guy, for some reason. The thin cigar seemed almost like a prop to give the appearance of lazy indifference. His dark blond hair was mussed a bit, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. He was taller, much taller than these rather short Creole men. His outfit was all black, except for the blue silk vest that matched his eyes.
It was Harek, of course. A Civil War–era Harek, but Harek nonetheless. Was he here looking for slaves to trade, or for a mistress? Each was equally abhorrent to her. And she would tell him so.
Walking up—not an easy task in about fifty yards of swishing fabric—she confronted him. “You have some nerve showing up here.”
He just raised his insolent eyebrows at her. Meanwhile his eyes took in her décolletage.
“Why are you here?”
“For you, cherie.” He tossed the cheroot into a sand-filled pottery jar and took her hand in his, leading her onto the dance floor. The band started playing a waltz.
“I’m not sure I know the steps,” she said, although she’d been dancing all night.
“Just follow me.”
And she did. In fact, when he smiled down at her, she would have followed him anywhere, so entranced was she. Was this how her grandmother, the quadroon, had felt all those years ago? Not trapped but loved?
The second night, the dream/nightmare started the same way, but then, instead of dancing, he led her to an anteroom, where he shoved down the bodice of her gown and made love to her breasts, just her breasts, until she was moaning out her ecstasy, while he was asking her, “Will you be mine? Will you be mine?”
“Your what?” she’d asked, and he’d just laughed.
The third night, as they rode through the French Quarter in a closed carriage, he’d knelt on the floor, flipped her gown up, and showed her that even back then, men knew what to do with their tongues. “Viking men,” he’d corrected her. She’d forgotten about that. And, by the way, oral sex with the added element of fangs was something else again. They sort of framed a part of the female anatomy for . . . well, you get the drift. When the carriage stopped on Rampart Street, he pointed to a small, pretty cottage of pale yellow with blue shutters and said, “Yours, if you will agree.” And Camille wept inside, because all he was offering her was plaçage.
The next day, Camille knew she had to do something. She feared what she might agree to in her dreams. She feared it would change the Camille of the future. She either had to make an appointment with a psychiatrist or find Harek and discover what the hell was going on. She decided on the latter.
Driving out to Ivak’s plantation at Heaven’s End, she felt a sense of déjà vu. Was she in the twenty-first century, or reliving something in the past?
When she got there, Ivak was still at his job as chaplain at Angola Prison. He would be home “directly,” Gabrielle told her, and welcomed Camille as if they were old friends. She led Camille into the kitchen, where something delicious was bubbling on the stove. Crawfish gumbo, Gabrielle told her. They sat at the wooden block table, and Gabrielle served them both tall iced glasses of sweet tea with sprigs of mint and slices of lemon. There was also a plate of animal-shaped sugar cookies.
“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, but I haven’t heard from Harek in more than a week,” Camille said right off. “And I’m a little worried.”
“Gee, I’m the wrong one to ask. I’ve been so busy with my little one . . . He’s down for a nap right now, thank heavens.”
How anyone could sleep with all the sawing and pounding going on was beyond Camille. It appeared as if workmen were on the roof today.
“And I’ve been involved in a ton of pro bono legal cases for my agency.”
Camille recalled that Gabrielle was a lawyer who worked for a nonprofit in the city.
“What are you doing here in Loo-zee-anna?” Gabrielle asked then. “Visiting your parents?”
“No. Actually, they’re away on a cruise. I’m just hanging out in their house, decompressing from a recent mission.”
“Oh my God! Were you involved with those kidnapped girls in Nigeria?”
Camille nodded. Even though Gabrielle was sister-in-law to both a SEAL and a WEALS, she had to be careful how much she disclosed.
“Well, good for you! It makes me so damn mad to see women treated like that by men, in this day and age. It’s an outrage. I’ve donated to that save-the-girls effort, but I wish I could do more.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Are the conditions as deplorable as I think they are?”
“Worse.”
“You said you’re worried about Harek. Do you have some special reason to be concerned?”
“Not exactly. It’s just that he didn’t return to Coronado with the teams, as expected. He hasn’t called me all week, and he promised he would. He asked me to wait for him and said he wouldn’t make me wait for more than a week. And, well, a week has passed, and there are those blasted dreams.” Camille could tell she was blathering and not making much sense.
“What dreams?”
In for a penny, in for a pound, Camille thought, and revealed, “I’ve been having these strange dreams, or nightmares, really, where it’s 1850, and I’m at a Quadroon Ball, and Harek is there.”
“You, too?” Gabri
elle said and clapped her hands with delight. “Before Ivak and I got married, I had these strange dreams where I was a Southern belle living in this plantation house, and he came home, running up those front steps, and—” She blushed. It was obvious what came next.
“In this very house. Oh God! I hope it wasn’t my grandfather you were having sex with. Yuck!”
Gabrielle laughed. “I don’t think so. He looked just like Ivak. I mean, he was Ivak But then, he wasn’t.”
“Same thing for me.”
“Okay, you can’t stop there. Spill it, girl. What happened in your dream?”
To her surprise, Camille told her, in detail.
“Wow!” Gabrielle said when she finished. “That was some sexy dream!”
“Do you think so? It was like voluntary slavery, in a way.”
“It wasn’t real. And, as for your dreams, it’s okay to be politically incorrect in a fantasy. Can anyone say Fifty Shades? I mean, I don’t want to be spanked, but I don’t mind reading about it . . . or watching the movie.” She pretended to fan herself.
They both laughed then.
“Let’s backtrack a minute here,” Gabrielle said. “You mentioned that Harek asked you to wait for him. Wait for what?”
“He thinks he loves me, but he’s not sure.”
“Men! Dumb as dirt sometimes.”
“I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”
“And why not? The things I could tell you about Ivak and the clueless things he’s done! Know this, though, sweetie, if a Viking tells you that he thinks he loves you, he’s already there. Harek just has things to iron out.”
“That’s what he said, pretty much.”
“And if he says he loves you and wants you to be with him, are you prepared for all that entails?”
“Like what?”
“Hasn’t he told you anything?”
“Some things.”
“You’ll never have children. You’ll live only as long as he does. You can’t have a normal life with friends and stuff because there’s always the fear that someone will discover that they’re vangels. Your life, everything about it, is secondary to a higher power. When Michael calls, they jump. They have to.”
