The fool! Even knowing that he was just teasing, Camille felt a flush of warmth rush through her body.
“I’m ’spectin’ the thunderbolt any minute now,” Tante Lulu announced, staring at her and Harek.
“What?” Camille said. “The sun is shining brightly, not a cloud in sight.” That’s all she would need, rain to make this wedding nightmare complete.
“Not that kind of thunder,” Tante Lulu explained. “Nope, it’s the thunderbolt of love. Do ya have yer hope chest yet, honey?”
“Are you talking to me?” Camille asked. Really, the old lady’s mind jumped from one subject to another like popcorn on a hot griddle.
“I was talkin ta Harek about the hope chest,” Tante Lulu said. “Not ta worry, mah boy. I’ll have one made fer ya, lickety-split. All the men in mah family, and all the male friends of the family, gets hope chests. No, no, ya doan have ta thank me. A man’s gotta have a place ta store his linens and doilies and such before the weddin’.”
“There. Is. Not. Going. To. Be. A. Wedding,” Harek said.
Camille laughed, not because she disagreed with him, but the red color in his face was so satisfying. She didn’t know what it was about his discomfort that entertained her. Immature of her, she recognized. But funny, dammit.
Suddenly, off in the distance, the sound of thunder could be heard. Very distinctly.
Camille stopped laughing.
Weddings were the bane of most men . . . more so if they were Vikings . . .
Once again, four hours later, Camille had the last laugh. On him.
Harek groaned on first seeing Camille come down the stairs of her parents’ home wearing a long, slim gown of pure silk temptation. It wasn’t white and it wasn’t rose-colored, something in between that made her skin appear creamy smooth, dusted with honey. Not that the dress was sluttish, not at all. It was sex on a sophisticated, subtle level. The worst kind. Or the best kind, depending on your point of view.
The front of the dress was cut in a wide half circle, barely caught off her shoulders by short cap sleeves and almost but not quite exposing the tops of her breasts. A tease. Behind, there wasn’t much skin exposed, but there were twenty-seven tiny buttons . . . Yes, he counted them as she turned halfway down the staircase to pose and show him all sides of the gown. The buttons led from below her shoulder blades down, down, down to the middle of her derriere. It was the fabric, though, that was the killer. Some kind of clingy silk stuff that moved when she did, cupping her breasts and her buttocks.
“Oops, I forgot my purse.” She went back upstairs.
And he got a hard-on just watching the movement of her arse. Up, down, up, down. Like a longship on the high seas. Holy frickin’ waves!
She was back, carrying a small gold mesh bag the size of a piece of toast. It had a long gold chain that she’d looped over her shoulder.
Which caused him to notice her neck that was bared by her upswept hair, hair that had miraculously turned blondish, or maybe it was the glittery stuff she seemed to have dusted herself with. It was going to be a constant struggle for him to keep his fangs retracted lest he pounce on her and take a bite, right where the curve of her neck seemed to throb with sweet blood close to the surface.
It was troubling, this growing need he had to feed. More than once in the past year, he’d felt vampire-ish in his hunger for blood, and not just to save sinners or destroy Lucies. Was it possible that his vampire side was overtaking his angel side? Not that he ever felt very angelic.
Down, Dracula, down, he joked with himself.
Her only jewelry was a pair of pearl stud earrings that called attention to her small shell ears, the whorls of which he would love to lick. He had a particular skill in ear play that he hadn’t practiced in more than a century. Perhaps it was time to . . .
No, no, no. No ear sex. No bloodsucking. No arse watching.
“You look very nice,” he said, taking Camille’s hand as she stepped off the last step. She was wearing high heels that matched her dress, so her height was enhanced by a good four inches. He liked that she didn’t have to crane her neck to look up at him. Necks again! I have got to stop thinking about necks.
“You look pretty good yourself.” She stepped closer and flicked a speck of lint off the lapel of his black tux jacket, then smoothed out the fabric.
“You smell like chocolate,” she said.
“You smell like roses,” he said at the same time.
“Chocolate roses? That’s some combination.”
“Works for me.” He gave a rueful laugh and considered for a brief instant of insanity that it wouldn’t hurt to lean in and taste her lips, just to see if there was such a thing as chocolate roses.
He was saved by the bell, or rather the belle, who made a very unladylike snort of disgust as she approached, coming from a downstairs bathroom in a wave of some sophisticated perfume with tones citrusy floral. Dr. Jeannette Dumaine was wearing a pale blue gown with about a million sparkling crystals, not to be outdone by the diamond necklace and earrings that could very well be worth a million dollars. “Camille, darling, let me see how you look.” Camille’s mother shoved him aside—she blamed him for Camille being gone all day—and inspected her daughter with a critical eye.
“The gown fits perfectly,” she conceded. A bone of contention had apparently been Camille’s refusal to come back to New Orleans weeks ago for a proper fitting, “but why aren’t you wearing the pearls?”
“It seemed like too much. The dress speaks for itself, don’t you think?” Camille patted her mother on the arm and said, “You look very elegant, Mother. Too young to be the mother of the groom.”
Jeannette preened at the compliment.
At fifty-something, the lady did look much younger, probably due to some work being done on her face and neck. Modern men had no way of knowing for sure how old women were, with all the sly artifices available, including plastic surgery. And don’t even think about bosoms with silicone or enhancing bras to fool clueless men. Not that he was looking at Camille’s mother’s breasts. Jeesh! He was just saying . . . thinking.
“Is everyone ready?” Dr. Emile Dumaine asked, coming out of the library with Alain. Both of them wore similar white tuxedo jackets over black formal pants, and Harek wondered briefly if he should have gone for the lighter color. But, no, even if he was half angel, he rarely wore white because his skin was pale when he’d gone too long without feeding.
Dr. Dumaine wore a subtle clove/citrus-embued cologne that hit Harek like a silent punch. Harek was being assaulted by all these conflicting scents. Roses, spices, fruit. Whew!
Emile and Alain were both carrying tumblers of an amber liquid. Bourbon, would be his guess. He could have used a glass himself. That, or a gallon of Fake-O. Yeech!
“You look lovely, Jeannette,” Emile said, kissing his wife lightly on the cheek in an oddly formal fashion. Then he turned to Camille and said, “You, too, sweetheart.”
“That color suits you, Cam,” Alain added. Apparently, Camille had been complaining to him about the “pink” gown.
Camille made a face at her brother.
Harek reached out and shook Alain’s hand. “Good luck tonight, man.”
“Thanks. Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk more while you were here,” Alain said.
“How could you? They were gone all day,” Mrs. Dumaine pointed out.
“Now, Jeannette. Let’s not spoil the happy occasion,” Emile chastened.
To Harek’s surprise, the usually strong-minded harpy zipped her mouth into a tight line, then said, “The limo is waiting outside. Are we ready?”
They all nodded, and Harek whispered to Camille, “I’ll follow in your car. That way we can leave when we want.”
“Good thinking,” she whispered back.
The wedding went off as planned at St. Louis Cathedral. Beautiful setting. Beautiful bride. Beautiful music. Beautiful church rituals.
Ho-hum.
Harek hated weddings.
He amused himself by watching Camille’s ass in the clingy dress during the processional. Then he amused himself by watching Camille’s ex-fiancé, who was one of the groomsmen, watching Camille’s ass. Further bored, he amused himself by singing along when the organist played “Ave Maria” for a small choir, until he realized that people were turning to look at him, even Camille from up on the altar where she stood, gaping. What? Other people were singing, too. But then, he realized he’d called attention to himself because he was so good. Vangels had remarkably good singing voices.
He made a rueful shrug of apology to Camille and those closest to him while the choir continued until the end of the song. Finally, it was the time for the exchange of vows. Will this service never end? I need a beer, or something stronger, or a swig of Fake-O, or a combination of both. Yeah, that would be good. I could create my own mixed drink. Bottle it up. Make a million bucks. Scotch and blood on the rocks. Blood-tini. Bloody Sour. Blood Bliss. Drac’s Fang. Fuzzy Fang. Fangs for the Memories. A Fanger, instead of a Banger. Or maybe the emphasis should be on angels. Something like Angel Blood, Heavenly Hooch, or a Dirty Angel.
I’m losing my mind here.
He cursed under his breath, and the heavyset lady in the pew in front of him, wearing a black straw hat the size of an umbrella dripping with purple flowers, turned and hissed at him.
He did another shrug-apology, and tried just twiddling his fingers while the ceremony went on endlessly. Was he the only one who had to piss? The only one bored, bored, bored?
Taking out his cell phone, which was on silent mode, he checked for text messages. There was one from his brother Vikar.
Call me
Well, he couldn’t very well call now, so he texted back.
In church. can’t talk. what’s up?
Almost immediately, there was a response.
WTF! U, in church? Roof fall in?
LOL. 4 a wedding.
Even better. Or worse.
U better not say that around Alex.
Having fun?
Yeah, like root canal on angel fang.
Ouch. I hear u found life mate. Not ur wedding, is it? Knowing u, texting during marriage wouldn’t be odd. U always have cell phone or computer glued 2 ur arse or other body parts. Do you sleep w/laptop, btw?
No, haven’t found a life mate. No, not my wedding. No, I don’t sleep w/computer. U contact me just 2 annoy me?
Cnut called. Something big coming down, as suspected. Suggests 4 of VIK, including u, come 2 his aid with team of vangel warriors. ASAP.
Myself & . . . ?
Mordr, Ivak & me w/troops, 2nite. Trond w/u & SEALs.
He nodded to himself. A good combination. And just the right number since he and Trond would be unable to bring their own vangel fighters without risking secrecy of the group.
Be back in Coronado 2moro. Prob won’t be in Nigeria ’til next week.
Just then, Black Hat Lady made a tsking sound, and Harek figured he was on her shit list, again, this time for texting in church. But when he looked up, he saw that it was the woman next to her, cell phone at her ear, who was getting the dirty eyeball. The woman, a pretty blonde wearing a tiny feathered hat with fake rosebuds, glanced his way, and he winked conspiratorially at her. She grinned and winked back.
For a moment, he thought he detected fangs, but she’d turned back to face the altar. He was probably wrong. He seemed to have fangs on the brain at the moment. Fang Me. Bang Me. Yep, he was losing it.
That little bit of flirting occupied at least a half minute.
At the same time, a foul odor filled the air. Had someone farted? In church? It was probably Big Hat. Phew!
He signed off with Vikar and breathed a sigh of relief—actually, he released the breath he’d been holding in the wake of the gas lady—when the priest told Alain he could kiss the bride, a sure sign that the wedding was over. Soon the recessional started and Harek got another gander at Camille’s ass in the clingy gown. The other bridesmaids wore similar gowns, but none of them had Camille’s posterior curves to carry them off in quite the same way. No doubt all the WEALS exercises—crunches and squats and the lot—developed muscles in that area that some women yearned to have. Not a bad side advantage, from his viewpoint, anyhow.
It annoyed the hell out of him to see Julian glance Camille’s way repeatedly. A bit of dog in the manger on Julian’s part, if you asked Harek, which no one did. Julian didn’t want her and yet he did. And, besides, it was dog in the mangerish for him, too. He didn’t want her, that way . . . well, yes, he did, but not as a life mate. At least he wasn’t married like good ol’ Julian.
Harek slipped out the side door and was about to head for the Benz when he got another whiff of that stinky odor. Something unpleasant, like sulfur. That meant there was a Lucie in the area. Just one, by the strength of the odor, Harek guessed, already reaching inside his tux jacket for several throwing stars, which had been cured in the symbolic blood of Christ. He placed them in his outside tux pockets. He scanned the area. Someone in the church or just outside must be a really bad sinner, or about to commit some major transgression to lure a lone Lucie out in the open like this.
Almost immediately, he realized that the Lucie in question was the blond woman with the cell phone. So it hadn’t been gas he’d smelled, and blamed on the lady in the black hat, but the rotten egg odor of a demon vampire. And the Lucie was staring directly at Camille’s father.
Huh?
What kind of great sin had Dr. Emile Dumaine committed, or was he planning to commit? And why hadn’t Harek detected a lemon scent on Camille’s father? There had been that citrusy clove cologne he wore, but it had been subtle, not overpowering, like a sin scent. It must be something bad Emile was contemplating, then, not yet a sin set in stone, brimstone, so to speak.
More important, why hadn’t Harek detected a Lucie sitting right in front of him? Had he been distracted by boredom, less than diligent? If so, he would hear about it soon enough from Michael. Usually Harek could spot a Lucie from half a mile away, though this one was a lowly hordling, not a powerful haakai. And why hadn’t the Lucie known he was a vangel . . . a high VIK, for cloud’s sake? Perhaps a church setting diffused the odors of demons and angels. He would have to check on that. Good info to have, if true.
People were exiting the church now, heading toward their vehicles, while the bridal party hung behind for pictures. Camille hadn’t noticed him yet. In fact, she appeared to be fending off advances from that horndog Julian. Harek would have something to say to the man. Later.
Moving quickly, he placed himself midway between the Lucie and Emile, forcing the demon vampire to notice him. His eyes were probably already turning from blue to silver, and he could feel his fangs elongating. Her eyes went wide with recognition and immediately began to redden as she began to morph into demonoid form, which she could not—should not—do in public. Scales were breaking out on her skin. Soon a tail would appear and deadly mung would seep from her demon pores. Her size would increase for combat.
But she had to know she was no match for a vangel of his powerful lineage. He might be a computer geek in present times, and he might have been a merchant in the old days, but at heart he would always be a Viking warrior.
In a rush, she dashed for a back door of the cathedral. He followed her into a storage room where priestly vestments hung on padded hangers, and jars of holy water and anointing oils were lined up on built-in shelves.
The Lucie was now in full demonoid form complete with clawed hands and three-inch fangs, and, yes, breasts. Big, red, scaly breasts and black nipples. Its mons was covered with long, straggly, black hair, though the hair on its head was still blond and oddly beautiful. Seeing there was no escape, the demon lunged for him. Mung flew off its scaly skin and hit the walls, as well as some of the priestly garments. Luckily, he was able to jump aside and avoid both being clawed and having his tux get stained. Mung could be poisonous if it got into an open wound, and if demon fang juice entered the body o
f either a vangel or a human, it was a sure ticket to Lucipiredom. Not to be confused with any of the Magic Kingdoms, believe you me, he joked with himself.
Stay alert, Harek, he chided himself. Never turn your back on a Lucipire. Never underestimate your enemy, though they be Saxon or Satan’s minion. Get the bloody damn job done.
Outraged at being thwarted, the Lucie spun awkwardly and raised high a long hatpin, of all things. Not to be dismissed, of course, since it had probably been treated with some vile substance. A pin that size must have been stuck not just in her feathered hat, but all the way through her evil, dumb blond head. Amazing the things a Lucie would do for Jasper.
The Lucie backhanded him across the face, catching him by surprise, and causing Harek to fly against the wall. Harek swiped blood from his lip with the back of his hand and glared. No way would he let himself be bested by a mere hordling.
With his agility restored, Harek jumped to his feet. Before the Lucie could pierce him with the sharp hatpin, he took one of the throwing stars out of his pocket. He aimed it at the Lucie’s left thigh, causing the creature’s knee to buckle, and it went down to the floor with a heavy thud, the pin rolling out of its hand. Immediately, Harek followed with another star to the wretch’s neck, causing it to claw with both hands, trying to pull it out. The Lucie fell backward, growling with pain, furious with frustration.
Both of those wounds would cause the demon vampire to die, eventually, but that would only send it back to Jasper’s lair. The weapon had to pierce the heart in order to destroy the Lucie for good, condemning it to hell for all eternity.
He did not want this Lucie dead yet, thus his well-aimed hits. He needed to know why Camille’s father was in the demon’s crosshairs.
“Are you here alone?” he asked the dying demon as it writhed on the floor, its blood seeping from both wounds, especially the neck.
The demon refused to answer.
So Harek stepped on the star in her thigh, causing the sharp edges to go deeper.
The demon screamed.
“Tell me, are you here alone?”
She nodded. “My partner . . . killed in Angola last year . . . I . . . I have been wandering.”