by Sandra Hill
“Maybe at the mall. What’s your favorite color?”
Mordr glanced up just then, sensing her presence, and said, without skipping a beat, “Red.”
Miranda felt her face heat, with embarrassment as much as pleasure.
“Mine is blue. G’mornin’, Aunt Mir. Mordr is gonna take us all to McDonald’s for breakfast.”
“How nice!” Without asking me. Again. At least, Linda wasn’t calling him Daddy anymore. “Is that the big adventure I heard about?”
“No, there’s another big adventure.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
Holy moly! He’s gone from Mr. Grim Reaper to Flirty Fred. Did someone give him a happy pill?
“I’m havin’ pancakes. Mordr is havin’ the Big, Deluxe, Super-Duper Breakfast ’cause he’s so hungry he could eat a bear, and he did one time. Eat a bear. It tasted gross. He has a big tummy an’ it gets so empty sometimes they kin hear the rumbles for miles. Some folks think it’s thunder. Isn’t that silly?” She gazed up at Mordr for his approval.
He nodded and motioned with his head for Miranda to get a cup of coffee from the machine he’d already started. Just for her? Must be since he didn’t particularly like the “bitter brew” himself. As she walked into the room he studied her appearance and made a mock gesture of dismay, forearm to forehead, “Oh no! Another bow!”
She glanced down to see the belt of her terry-cloth robe tied at her waist with a bow. It was the least sexy garment she could imagine, but he was looking at her like she was sex on a stick. “Puh-leeze!” she said, and took her first sip of the “bitter brew.” And, boy, was it bitter! He must have used double the amount of coffee grounds needed. She tried her best not to grimace.
“And how many sheep had to die for your feet to be shod?
“An animal rights activist, are you now?” She knew perfectly well that he was a meat eater and had been a hunter, in his time. His time? Oh Lord, she didn’t want to think about that. “Just for the record, these are made of fake sheepskin.”
He grinned. He’d been teasing her. Would wonders never cease?
“Can we talk yet?” one of the boys yelled from the den.
Maggie walked in and sat down at the table, figuring she wasn’t the one who talked too much and therefore didn’t fall under the zipped lips threat. She had braided her long red hair into a single braid down her back and wore a clean tank top with Bermudas. Linda sported a braid, too. One blond braid on each side of her freckled face. She wore the new shorts set Miranda had bought on sale last month.
Did Mordr help them do all this? Even the hair braiding?
Her heart melted just a little bit more.
Just then all three boys came skidding into the kitchen, each trying to talk over the other.
“I’m the winner. I’m the winner,” Sam proclaimed. “I bet Ben that I could be quiet the longest. And I was. Thirty-three whole minutes.”
“I was quiet just as long as you were,” Ben contended.
“No, you weren’t. You said, ‘Holy shit’ when Larry let loose a smeller feller.”
“I did not,” Larry protested. “It was just the sound of my bare legs on the leather couch. The smell came from your pickle breath.”
“Loser!”
“Dickhead!”
“Swear jar!”
Someone, possibly Larry, dug into a pocket, and the clink of a quarter could be heard in the jar.
“I’m hungry.”
“You ate a whole jar of pickles.”
“Did not!”
“Did so!”
“Sam has cards in his back pocket. He’s practicing so he can get up a game of poker with Johnny Severino. For money,” Maggie said, raising her chin sky-high with superiority.
“Tattletale!” Sam spat out, giving Maggie the evil eye.
“It was only gonna be for pennies,” Ben defended his twin.
“Unless Johnny wants to bet his new snake,” Larry amended. “It’s in an aquarium and everything. He feeds it mice.”
“You guys are dumber than dog poop,” Maggie proclaimed. “Aunt Mir would never let you bring a snake into the house.”
Which reminded Miranda of something. “Where’s Ruff?”
“He’s having a quiet time on a leash out by the shed,” Maggie said.
“He ate Mordr’s underpants and then barfed them up on his shoes,” Linda explained, “an’ I almos’ puked when I saw the pile. It had pickles in it.”
“Mordr made us hose off his shoes,” Larry added. “He said they were his second best boots for goin’ a-Viking.”
“Ahem!” Mordr cleared his throat, but no one heard him over their own chatter. She was used to being ignored when the kids were all excited like this. Mordr was stunned.
Miranda put her forehead on the table, trying to pan out the noise. It was too early in the morning and she didn’t have enough caffeine in her to fortify her for the day to come.
Slowly, she heard silence come over the room. Without any shouting from Mordr, which was her usual way to make the little ones shut up. She raised her head and saw that Mordr just sat, arms folded over his chest, glaring.
The five children, even Maggie and Linda, stared expectantly at Mordr.
“Is this the way you behave when you want something?”
They all ducked their heads.
“Was I being good?” Linda asked tearfully.
“Yes, little mite,” he said, patting her on the head.
“I was being good, too,” Maggie said, indignant that Linda would be the only one complimented.
“You too, Maggie, though you have a habit of telling on others.” Mordr reached over and squeezed Maggie’s hand to soften his criticism.
For a man who abhorred being around children, he was doing a lot of touching today, Miranda noticed.
“Maggie’s a snitch,” Sam declared with disgust.
“Yeah, Maggie’s a snitch,” Ben and Larry echoed.
“What’s a snitch?” Linda wanted to know.
“Mayhap your sister would not snitch if you did not give her reason to,” Mordr said to the boys. “Be nice to her.”
“Huh?” the three of them said as one.
“You can gain more with honey than vinegar. Sweet trumps sour any day,” Mordr went on.
What? Who is this alien talking about sweet talk? Miranda was looking at Mordr, wondering what had come over him suddenly. Not that she didn’t like it.
Time for Miranda to get her two cents in. “What’s this I hear about a big adventure today, Mordr? I don’t recall anyone asking me for permission to take the children on an adventure.” Besides which, they were supposed to be sticking close to, preferably inside, the house until the danger of Roger and/or vampire demons subsided. She felt silly just thinking the words vampire demon. Anyhow, she couldn’t conceive of any big adventure that would take place inside the house.
The kids went blessedly quiet, but she could see their excitement and the fear that they might have put the kibosh on it with all their squabbling.
“I had been thinking of taking you all on a voyage today,” Mordr revealed to Miranda. “With your permission, of course.”
“A-Viking?” three little boys asked hopefully.
“No, not a-Viking. More like a-boating on Lake Mead.”
“Yippee! Speed boating!” Ben did a little Snoopy dance around the kitchen. “Varoom, varoom, varoom!”
“Waterskiing? Oh, man! I always wanted to go waterskiing.” Sam was beaming from ear to ear. “That would be better than five-card stud for a snake any day.”
“I could wear my water wings,” Linda said in a weak voice. Even though she’d had swimming lessons, she probably feared being tossed into the lake, something her brothers might very well do.
“No, it would not be speed boating,” Mordr said, shaking his head at how any comment exploded into a discussion with these kids. “I have rented a pontoon boat for the day.” Realizing his mistake, he immediately turned to Miranda and added, “If you agree.”
&n
bsp; “A pontoon? That’s booor-ing!” Sam declared.
“Well, you could always stay home with a babysitter.” Mordr yawned as if he could not care less, either way. “I am sure one of my brothers would come watch over you. I, on the other hand, am looking forward to boating and swimming and fishing.”
Sam and all the others agreed that sounded like a wonderful adventure and they turned expectantly to Miranda.
“Are you sure it would be safe?” she asked Mordr. The unspoken question was not just the safety of boating on a lake, but the danger from Roger or the demon creatures.
“Very safe,” Mordr assured her.
“Well, okay, I guess.”
The words were barely out of her mouth than the children shot off in all different directions to get beach gear—towels, flippers, goggles, swimming suits, etc.
“Do you know how to drive a boat?” she asked Mordr as he went out into the garage to get an ice chest for drinks and snacks.
“Miranda! I grew up on boats. I am a Viking.”
“Yeah, but are you familiar with motorized boats, like a pontoon?”
“Of course,” he said. At her look of doubt, he admitted, “Not so much. But how different could they be?”
She rolled her eyes. “You seem so different today. You’d never recognize you from the man who came here, reluctant to even be around children.”
He shrugged. “I have decided not to fight fate anymore. What will be will be.”
“Really?”
He came up behind her where she was dumping ice cubes from the ice maker bin into a large zipper bag. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he kissed her neck.
She turned in his arms and realized that he’d undone the bow of her robe. His hands were already inside, rubbing against her butt. With the thin barrier of her nightgown, she felt almost naked. And the evidence of his attraction to her pressed against her belly, his cargo shorts hiding nothing.
She put her arms around his neck and leaned back so that she could see his face. “Does this surrender to fate apply to us, as well?”
“Do you doubt it, wench?” He rubbed himself back and forth against her. While he seemed to turn her on with just a look, let alone such blatant action, she was more turned on by her effect on him. His eyes—always a clear, stunning blue—turned silvery blue. His lips parted. She could feel his strong heartbeat. And, God help her, but his incisors seemed to be slightly elongated with arousal.
“You said you would be in big trouble if you got involved with me,” she squeaked out in a lame attempt to slow down this speeding train of sexual attraction.
“True,” he said, and nipped at her ear.
Just his breath at her ear caused ripples of pleasure to skim over her skin and lodge in her girl places. His hands were another story altogether. They explored her body with lazy, long-fingered expertise. Her bottom, her breasts, the small of her back, her shoulders. Slow hands! Just like that old Pointer Sisters song.
“You are smiling,” he noted, and kissed her softly. “Does that mean you agree?”
“To what?”
He chuckled. “To boating on Lake Mead.”
She frowned with confusion. “I thought we were talking about something else.”
With a teasing grin, he told her, “That is the best thing about us Vikings. We can do more than one thing at a time.”
“Multitaskers?”
“Definitely. The more erotic the tasks, the better.”
And, yes, he was stimulating her in more than one place at a time, in more than one way at a time. Oooh! She was the one who was in trouble here.
Just then Larry rushed into the kitchen, about to ask Miranda a question, “Aunt Mir, where is my—? Mordr! You’re playin’ kissy face with Aunt Mir. Yuck! Aunt Mir, he has his hand on your bum. Double yuck!” On those words, he rushed back out, no doubt to report their carnal activity to his siblings.
“We will finish this later,” Mordr promised her as he stepped back and retied the belt to her robe.
“Finish what? The discussion?”
“The time for talk is long over.”
She tilted her head to the side in question. “And the time is now for . . . ?”
“Surrender.”
Fourteen
Sweet surrender . . .
It was a day out of time like no other. Being one thousand, one hundred and ninety-five years old, that was saying a lot.
After some initial fumbling and flooding of the pontoon boat’s motor, Mordr had learned to handle the vessel. He’d spent hours cruising the manmade lake, stopping here and there to set the children up for fishing with the rented equipment. It amused him tremendously to find modern folks fishing for entertainment. In his time, Vikings fished for subsistence and found it to be woefully hard work.
The whole time they were riding on the boat, the song “Pontoon” by some band called by the lackwit name of Little Big Town kept blasting out on the sound system. Something about making waves out on the ocean with a catchy refrain, “Mmmmmmm . . . motorboatin’.” Soon all the children, and Miranda, were singing along.
If Mordr heard the expression “Are we there yet?” in the car or the boat, he was thinking about wrapping that wonderful modern invention over each of their mouths. Duct tape.
Sam was, of course, betting that he would catch the biggest fish, and he did—a bass almost as big as he was, which broke his line. An argument ensued over whether a fish actually had to be brought on board to count. Mordr finally had to intervene and threaten to toss both Sam and Ben overboard if they didn’t behave.
On the other hand, what a joy to watch Linda catch her first fish! Not so joyful was her crushed demeanor when she was made to throw the baby crappie back into the water. She’d wanted to bring it home in a bucket and keep it as a pet.
All of the children had been required to wear life vests, something Ben and Sam protested vehemently, claiming to be expert swimmers. Which they were, all of them, actually, but it was a regulation, and it allowed Mordr the freedom of not having to watch their antics every single minute. Like the time Ben fell overboard trying to loosen his fishing hook from some seaweed. Which, of course, prompted Sam to do the same. Before he knew it, five children were in the water, and Mordr had to stop the boat and go back for them.
Mordr couldn’t recall children being so much trouble when he was growing up. But then, he was probably recalling the past through a different prism. Besides, under no circumstances, would he ever recall those as the proverbial “good old days.”
By late afternoon, they’d boated, fished, ate the food Miranda had packed, swam, boated, and fished some more. Now the boat was anchored in a small cove. He was lying, elbows braced, on a blanket on a grassy knoll, watching Miranda scamper about in the shallow waters playing dodgeball with the children, boys against girls.
Laughing, she finally yielded victory to the boys and said she was getting too old for such energetic play. Walking up toward him, she dried her wet hair with a towel, causing a mass of long, damp waves to spring out, framing her sun-warmed face with its newly emerged scattering of freckles. Her jade-green eyes flashed with pleasure at his blatant perusal of her as she sank down beside him, the same green as the one-piece bathing suit she wore, with two thin straps over the shoulders. (By the by, to a Viking, thin straps were just as appealing as bows.) The garment was high on the hips and low on the breasts, hugging her thin frame, leaving little to the imagination. She probably thought to dampen his ardor by wearing such a modest swim outfit, compared to the bikinis many women wore, but he had news for her. She was more enticing for what she hid.
“This was a wonderful idea,” she said, flopping onto her back, arms extended over her head and eyes closed, letting the still-warm sun bake her skin. Modern folks were strange in that way, always wanting to tan their skins, like leather.
He chuckled then.
“What?” She cracked one eye open.
“There is one practice of modern women that I like. Well
, several, but in this case, the shaving of armpits.” He glanced pointedly at hers.
Her eyes were both wide open now, and she arched her brows in question.
“My wife was dark-haired, and, whew! She had a virtual forest hanging from her armpits.”
“Thank you for sharing that.” She closed her eyes again, but a small smile curved her lips. She remained silent for several moments before saying, “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“Aside from the fun of being out in the sun and water, it’s such a relief just to be away from all the stress back in Vegas.”
“The danger will still be there when we return.”
“Don’t rain on my parade.”
At first he didn’t understand. These modern phrases! “I promise not to rain, if you promise to be careful.”
She nodded. “How much longer do you think this will go on?”
“The Lucipire threat should be over within a week. As for Roger, I am not sure. One thing at a time. Hopefully.” He laughed when his attention was caught by the children playing leapfrog in the shallow water. Ben had stood suddenly when Larry was leaping and caused Larry to be riding his shoulders until the two of them fell over and under the water.
“You don’t seem to have as much trouble anymore . . . you know, being around children.”
“It is still difficult. The enjoyment of being with your children does not wipe out the pain of losing my own.” He thought about what he had said, and it was true. “My grief is no less for Kata and Jomar, but it is tempered somewhat.”
“Do you mind talking about them? What were they like?”
He lifted his elbows and eased back onto the blanket, folding his arms under his head. He did not discuss his dead children. Never. Not even with his brothers. Still, he found himself saying, “A joy, they were. Kata, the older at six years, was a bossy little miss. Fearless, a born leader. Always up to some mischief. Jomar, a year younger, adored his sister and followed her about like a playful puppy. More serious than Kata, Jomar did not act impulsively. He thought things out, remarkable for one so young.” He paused, finding that instead of feeling pain at speaking of his children, there was a relief of sorts. Turning on his side to face Miranda, he said, “Kata was blonde like Linda. Jomar had black hair, but he resembled Larry in some ways, especially the way Larry is always tugging up his sagging braies—I mean, pants—having no buttocks to speak of, to hold them in place.”
