by Sandra Hill
“You and I.” Heinrich’s scaly face flushed with color.
Jasper hadn’t known that Lucipires could blush. Amazing. And alarming when you considered why Heinrich would be blushing. It did not bode well for Jasper, he would bet his best thumbscrew.
Jasper arched an overly thick brow at Heinrich.
Heinrich shifted uneasily from foot to foot.
Uh-oh! Jasper thought again.
“The solution might be for me to stay here.”
“Here?”
“At Horror.”
Jasper was horrified. “Why?”
“Well, I was thinking that since we lost one of the command council members last year that . . . well, uh, maybe I could familiarize myself with all the duties of a high haakai by studying under you here at Horror and, uh, eventually be appointed to fill that spot.”
Heinrich wanted to replace Dominique Fontaine? Holy Lucifer! She had been one of his seven high commanders until her permanent annihilation last year by the vangels led by those seven loathsome Sigurdsson brothers who comprised the VIK leadership. She’d operated out of a New Orleans mansion named Anguish that housed a five-star restaurant on the first floor and torture chambers that would impress the Marquis de Sade on the upper floors. Creole by birth, she’d been six feet tall with café-au-lait skin. Gorgeous when in human form. Evil to her rotted bones. Not that evil was a bad thing. Heinrich was evil, too, of course. They all were, but the German couldn’t begin to fill her seat.
“So, you think to nominate yourself for council membership?” Jasper asked.
Heinrich nodded enthusiastically. The dumb asswipe!
Over my dead body! “Heinrich, you’re a mung. Council members are commanders of high haakai standing.”
In the Lucipire society, there were a few Seraphim Lucipires, like Jasper, who had been archangels at one time and expelled from Heaven. Next came the high haakai, haakai, mungs, then the imps and hordlings, which were like foot soldiers to the demon vampires. Mungs were usually of large size, as much as eight feet tall, their scales oozing a poisonous mung, and dragging a tail. Well, all the Lucipires had tails, to Jasper’s discomfort. Try sitting on a toilet, for example.
“Couldn’t I be the first mung to serve on the council? After all, I have the ear of Satan. That should be an asset.”
“Did Satan come up with this idea?”
“No, but he might be convinced to favor my appointment if you back me.”
Was Heinrich delusional? Did he not know how much Jasper despised him? His ambition, his ladder climbing, his ass kissing . . . well, tail kissing. With more patience than the lackwit Lucipire deserved, Jasper said, “This is not a discussion for today. Let us revisit the question sometime in the future.” Like the far, far future. Can anyone say eternity? “The most important thing today is the proposal for our new mission.”
“That is another thing,” Heinrich said.
Jasper rolled his eyes. If Heiney did not soon move from the middle of the doorway, Jasper was going to make him a foot taller by putting him on his favorite rack.
Quickly, Heinrich explained, sensing Jasper’s growing impatience. “I do not think targeting casinos is the best thing to do. Not with all the heightened security related to terrorism.”
Ah, now Jasper understood why Heinrich was really here. The proposal up for discussion at this special meeting of the council had been generated by one of his favorite Lucipires, the Hebrew Zebulan. Since Zeb was a Jew, Heinrich, a Nazi, hated him with a passion. Perhaps that was why Jasper liked Zeb so much. Because Heinrich didn’t. How perverse was that? Or maybe it was just a case of: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
“Enough! Move aside, Heinrich, and take thyself back to Hell. I have no need of you at the moment. Tell Satan I will report to him directly after this meeting.”
Heinrich was about to protest, but Jasper rose to his full seven-foot-two height, his fangs elongated, and raised a clawed hand. With a mighty swipe, he cast the Nazi aside. Not that he had anything against Nazis, mind. Their particular kind of evil had been like chicken soup to a devilish soul.
Before the idiot could respond, Jasper entered the council room where Beltane was holding his chair out for him. Jasper slammed the door behind him, and locked it with a mind transmittal, which came in handy when dealing with bothersome gnats like Heinrich. Jasper could hear his frustrated scream through the thick wood, and smiled.
“Good day, gentlemen,” he greeted the council members warmly, looking around the U-shaped table at the four high haakais waiting for him. Each, garbed in magnificent capes over their demonoid forms, rose and bowed to him. There was enough slime in this room, oozing from porous scales, to lubricate a locomotive. The smell of sulfur, the bane of Lucipires, was rank in their midst. Jasper had grown accustomed to it. In fact, on certain occasions when he coupled with a female Lucipire, it rather turned him on. “Master,” the council members said as one.
Hector, the former Roman soldier, lived in the hidden catacombs beneath the Vatican; his headquarters were called Terror. The Arab Haroun al Rashid, had been a Silk Road merchant who specialized in slave trading; his luxurious tent city in the desert was called Torment. Yakov the Russian lived in Siberia in a dwelling he called Desolation. And Zebulan the Hebrew, his favorite, dwelled in volcanic ruins in Greece that he deemed Gloom. Jasper’s own palace was alternately referred to as Despair or Horror. Same thing.
“Sit, sit,” he said to his comrades. “We have much to accomplish today. But first, have you all been offered a beverage?”
Nubile naked humans, both male and female, who would eventually become Lucipires, stood ready with trays of pure virgin blood in crystal goblets. His council members declined his offer, pointing to drinks already placed in front of each of them. He waved for a young girl to bring one for him and for Beltane, who sat to his right, but back farther from the table. The girl’s nipples were pierced with rings from which hung small silver beaded weights. Through her waxed genitalia, he could see that her labia had also been pierced, the folds stretched apart with a slim bar, the clitoris prominent and always exposed. He’d personally participated in the torture of this woman and patted her rump appreciatively for the pleasure it had given him. She flinched slightly and he licked his lips with anticipation. He looked forward to her further punishment. Although she’d reached the stage of stasis, she’d not yet accepted her fate. She would. Before nightfall.
The other naked humans had vibrating phalluses protruding from their vaginas and anuses that could be turned on or off by remotes sitting in front of his council members. To entertain council members until his arrival and later, if they were so inclined. By the expression on some of the humans, he could tell they’d been well titillated so far. Some still were.
“Shall we have reports first?” Jasper suggested.
One by one, they told of the “kills” in their areas. “Kills” were not really kills in the usual sense whereby a soul went to Heaven or Hell or Purgatory based on their life deeds. No, this was something entirely different. Long, long ago. Satan had put together bands of demon vampires to harvest human souls before their time, before they had a chance to repent.
Lucipires generally only attacked those who had already committed some grave sin or were contemplating such. Everything from bad to truly evil; the Lucipires weren’t particular. They just helped the victims along the path to Lucipiredom by fanging them with a sin taint. If the humans were already advanced on the road to Hell, that’s all it would take to kill them, making their bodies disappear and be transported to whichever headquarters was to handle the torture and change to Lucipires. Many of these victims were referred to as missing persons in the human society. Few humans accepted their new lives as Lucipires, not right off. They needed convincing.
Haroun reported prosperous harvests in his part of the world. Not surprising with the wars that still raged in the Middle East.
Hector was concentrating on sinners who journeyed to Rome hoping to have all their bad deeds a
bsolved. Not if Hector and his Lucipires could fang them first.
Yakov said his job was somewhat easy because the Russians loved their vodka, and everyone knew that liquor was the gatekeeper to Hell. They should call vodka Satan’s Handmaid.
Zeb stood then, and Jasper preened. He didn’t know why he was so fond of the Jew. It wasn’t as if he had more kills than any of the other haakai. In fact, his present assignment to the Naval Air Base in Coronado, California, had been decidedly unsuccessful.
“Have you managed to turn any of the Navy SEALs yet?”
Zeb shook his head. “No, but I’m working on two of them who are wavering on the side of extreme sin. But there are more than ten thousand men and women at the Naval Amphibious Base there who are away from home and thus easily tempted.”
Hector was looking at a paper in front of him. “Your numbers are not that great there, Zeb. Do you consider that site a lost cause?”
“Absolutely not. Yes, it is taking me a while to turn a SEAL, but we never thought it would be easy. Loyalty, faithfulness, dedication, and all that crap. Damnation, but how do I fang men or women who run five miles, twice a day?”
“Run after them,” Yakov suggested, and they all laughed. Hard to picture Lucipires jogging with their tails dragging. Of course, Zeb would be in humanoid form there.
“In my defense,” Zeb continued, “remember our discussion before I relocated to Coronado? One SEAL kill would equal a hundred others. Maybe several hundred. A real coup!”
“You’re right, Zeb. Continue your work there,” Jasper said.
“But what is this proposal you are making here today?” Haroun wanted to know. Even as he spoke, he was fussing with a remote and watching a red-haired Irish girl on the other side of the room as she began to squirm. A buzzing sound resonated in the momentarily silent room.
“I followed some military men for a weekend trip to Las Vegas recently, and it occurred to me that casino cities like Las Vegas or Atlantic City or Reno or Monaco or Macau would be prime hunting grounds for sinners.”
Everyone sat straighter with interest.
“You could be right, Zeb,” Jasper said. “They don’t call Las Vegas Sin City for nothing.”
The others nodded.
“And Macau in China is being touted as the new Las Vegas,” Hector added.
“We must proceed cautiously this time,” Jasper said, not wanting to bring up the last three failed missions. A Sin Cruise, the SEALs, and then Angola Prison. “Planning will be everything. What do you have in mind, Zeb?”
“Well, let us try to hit several of the casino cities at once. That way, the vangels will have to divide their ranks to fight us, assuming they learn of our plans.”
“There are four of you here,” Jasper pointed out. “Each of you can handle operations in Las Vegas, Reno, Monaco, and Macau. I will oversee operations. We can leave Atlantic City for some other time.”
They all had suggestions for how to proceed, and Jasper loved how they worked together. Not like it had been when Dominique was around, always creating discord.
“We will immediately infiltrate the casinos with some of our Lucipires,” Zeb said, apparently having put some thought into this already. “They can work in many capacities. Everything from maintenance to roulette dealers to showgirls to—”
“Well, if you’re going to have some of our female Lucipires be showgirls, you might as well let some of them be hookers. Is that not what they call paid harlots in this time?” Haroun grinned, which was not a pretty thing on a demon vampire. The fangs and long tongues got in the way.
“They would like that,” Yakov agreed. “In fact, some of the men could hook, too.”
When the council finished making initial plans and agreed to meet again in one week, Zeb asked Jasper for a private moment.
“Would you agree to my taking a few days off?”
“At the beginning of a mission?”
Zeb shrugged. “I feel a bit burned out.”
Odd statement for a demon! “Where would you go?”
Zeb shrugged again. “Somewhere warm, I think.”
Jasper had heard rumors that Zeb had a secret hideaway which he escaped to on occasion. Thus far, Jasper hadn’t felt a need to investigate further. “I could go with you,” he surprised himself by saying.
Zeb was shocked, but he immediately regained his calm. “I do not think that would be a good idea. Not this time.” He waggled his big eyebrows at him. Even as a demon vampire, Zeb was rather handsome.
So, a woman was involved. “Anyone I know?”
Zeb shook his head.
“A Lucipire?”
“Not yet,” Zeb said, and that sealed the deal for Jasper.
“Have a good time, then work hard to make this new operation successful,” Jasper said, patting Zeb on the shoulder.
Once his council members had departed, Jasper sighed with satisfaction, thinking, Betimes it is good to be me. Then he turned to Beltane and said, “Care for a game of eyeball Ping-Pong?”
Four
Even Vikings get lost sometimes . . .
Mordr was in a foul mood.
He had walked from one end of the famous Las Vegas Strip to the other. All he had was a blister on his heel and a stupid address. At first he had cruised the gambling mecca in the cool air conditioning of the Lexus SUV with blacked-out windows that Trond had lent him, but the GPS was malfunctioning. So, he had reverted to the age-old method of transport. Walking. Even a street policeman he had approached had no idea where Crescent Street was. Must be a new development, the cop had said.
“Develop what?” he’d asked.
“Move it, buster.” The cop must have thought he was jesting. Like Mordr ever jested!
At an all-you-can-eat buffet palace (though there was naught about it that resembled a palace), he’d eaten so much that the manager gave him dirty looks. He’d dirty-looked the lackwit right back, then flashed his fangs, something that was not only immature but forbidden to vangels in less-than-dangerous situations. He was inordinately pleased to see the miscreant scurry away in fright.
He’d been propositioned three times back on the street. One time the offer had involved some explicit sexual activity that defied imagination. He was not interested, though he was curious. He would have to ask Ivak later. Ivak fashioned himself the expert on all things of a sexual nature.
In a casino, bored to the bone, he put a dollar in a Wheel of Fortune machine and, to his embarrassment, heard bells and whistles go off all around him. Folks turned to stare at him. Apparently, he’d won some kind of jackpot. Five thousand dollars. Michael would have his skin if he knew he’d been gambling.
He’d stopped two young men from picking the pocket of an elderly woman in denim braies, high-heeled boots, and a cowboy hat. The woman, who was eighty if she was a day, also tried to proposition him, as a reward. Not if his eventual wings depended on it!
One hotel pretended to be a Roman palace (Las Vegas had a thing about palaces—Caesar’s Palace, the Palace Café, the Palace Wedding Chapel, Palace Deli, Palace Pedicures). Another hotel claimed to be a riverboat. In the middle of the desert! Yet others were an American frontier town, a circus, a Greek spa, even a Viking world, complete with a longship in the lobby in a miniature pool that churned out waves, like an ocean. That particular hotel was called—what else!—Valhalla. The waitresses were dressed up as some halfbrain’s idea of what a Valkyrie would wear. As if Odin would allow his females to half expose breasts pushed up nigh to their chins by some artificial means or other. They wobbled about in heels so high their buttocks arched out. He supposed some men might consider them a lustsome sight. Mordr did not!
The last straw for him was when a half dozen Elvis clones riding bicycles almost ran him over and didn’t even stop to see if he was all right. Disgusted, he went into a little tavern where he ordered a cold beer. He was sitting there when an exceedingly tall woman came in and sat on a bar stool beside him. She was what was known here as a showgirl . . . or a
prostitute. It was hard to tell the difference in this town. With feathers in her big blond hair, thick makeup including red pouty lips and eyelashes so long and curly they had to be fake, and a skimpy outfit that was three sizes too small, she let out a long sigh. Without her placing an order, the bartender, who obviously knew her well, passed over a tall glass of iced water.
“How’re tricks, Trixie?” the bartender quipped.
“Tricky.” The woman shrugged and used a napkin to pat the perspiration from her forehead. “Only a dozen people in the audience today. If we don’t get more business, the show will close down.”
“The economy,” the bartender concluded.
“Tell me about it.”
As she sipped at her drink, being careful not to smear her lipstick, the woman turned to him and said, “Where you from, pal?”
You do not want to know. Just then, Mordr noticed something. Under the thick layer of paint on the woman’s face was a faint hint of . . . whiskers? He arched a brow.
“Yep,” the woman—uh, man—replied with a grin.
Mordr burst out with a short laugh—at himself for being so easily duped.
“Jack Trixson,” the man-woman said, stretching out a hand in greeting.
A nice Viking name, Mordr decided, and shook the man’s hand. “Mordr Sigurdsson.”
“Great hair, Mordr!” Jack remarked.
Mordr did not think much about his appearance. His hair was long in the Norse style with war braids framing each side of his face, but to him the color seemed a dull blondish brown and unremarkable. Normally, he would have scoffed or done violence at such a compliment, especially from a man, but he needed to tread carefully in this strange city. “Thank you. Yours is quite . . . um, impressive, too.” Impressive it was, indeed. Big and blond, reaching down to his wide shoulders.
“A wig,” Jack informed him with a grin. “Looks real, doesn’t it? Pantene conditioner. You oughta try it. It’ll give your hair more body and luster and take care of those split ends.”
Split ends? I have split ends? What are split ends? This was the strangest conversation Mordr had ever had with a man . . . or woman. He could not contain his curiosity then. “Are you a man who likes women? A man who likes men? A man who likes both? Or . . .” He tossed his hands in the air. “I mean no offense. Truly.”
