“I wasn’t always unhappy. It’s true, I married Jeannette for her money and social status, but I grew fond of her. Maybe even a little bit in love for a while. Then I met Sonja and . . .” He shrugged.
“So, it’s all the fault of your mistress?”
“Yes. No.” He rubbed his face between both hands. When he glanced up again, his face looked haggard. “What can I do . . . what should I do?”
“I can help you if you truly want help.”
“I do, but . . .” He hesitated, unsure of what that help would entail.
“You will need to say a few simple words, and then I will fang you.”
“What?” Emile stared pointedly at Harek's extended incisors. “For the love of God!”
“Precisely,” Harek said. “For the love of God, and in your wish to repent, you will allow me to give you a bite and take a small amount of your blood into my mouth. At the same time, a drop or two of fluid from my fangs will go into your body.”
“And that’s all?”
He nodded. “The rest will be up to you. A new beginning.”
“This is the strangest thing I’ve ever heard of, and there are lots of strange happenings in Nawleans. I need to think about this.”
Harek shook his head. “The time for thinking is over. You are already in the Lucipires’ crosshairs. The woman—the demon—at the cathedral today would have alerted others of her kind. Your sin taint reeks and will act as a lure for others to come after you. ’Tis only a matter of time.”
“I reek?” Emile once again raised his snooty nose, but then his nostrils flared as he no doubt smelled what Harek did. “Lemons?”
Harek nodded.
“I don’t understand.”
“You do not need to understand. All you need to do is repent.”
“But fanging and blood and . . .” Emile shivered with distaste.
“It is what it is. Take it or leave it. The decision is yours. If you do not accept my offer, nothing will be done to stop your murderous plan. I will not be going to the police. The decision is yours,” he repeated.
After a long pause, Emile sighed. “Just do it.”
Harek stood and motioned for Emile to stand in front of him. Harek made the sign of the cross across his chest and then Emile’s. “Say after me: For the love of God, I am sorry for my sins and promise to do better.”
Emile’s eyes widened at the simplicity of what he was being asked to do. He repeated the words. Then, without being told to do so, he arched his neck to the side.
It took only a minute for the fanging to take place, and, really, there was not much pain involved, just a momentary jab, like a needle. Once completed, there was an immediate transformation, for both parties. Harek was filled with warmth and his skin heated into a healthy tan complexion, that on top of the jolt he’d gotten from destroying the Lucie at the cathedral. Emile’s eyes went wide with wonder before his legs buckled and Harek had to help him back to his chair. Tears streamed from his eyes. Not an unusual reaction, but Harek had to ask, “Are you all right?”
Emile nodded and took a white linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his tuxedo. He used it to wipe away the wetness on his face. “It felt like an electric shock passing through my body, but not in a bad way. I can’t explain it, but somehow I feel lighter, from the inside out. And clean. And warm, like I might be oozing heat from every pore of my body, but not heat-heat, more like a glow.” He glanced down at his hand, probably checking to see if he was turning into a light bulb, or something, which he wasn’t, of course. “This is amazing,” Emile said with a child-like laugh. “Tell me everything.”
Harek got Emile a new glass of bourbon, then sat down once again in the other wingback chair. He didn’t need any more alcohol himself tonight. In fact, a fanging gave him a sort of adrenaline rush, not unlike a liquor high.
“You’ve lost your blue wings and fangs,” Emile remarked.
“Yes, though they are not wings exactly, as I said. More like the promise of wings.”
“And your eyes are back to being blue. They were silver there for a while, you know.”
“I know.” In any time of high emotion, his eyes changed color. Damn inconvenient it was betimes, too, especially when he was being aroused by a woman and didn’t want her to know.
For the next half hour, he gave Emile the short version of Vangel History 101. The academic in Emile required the asking of many questions. So fascinated was Emile that he barely sipped from his drink. You’d think he had discovered alien life on another planet, and he was the only one who’d been given the opportunity to interview his very own Mork. Interview with a Martian.
That was proven true in the end when Emile said with excitement, “This will make a wonderful article. Even the New York Times will be interested. Hah! Any magazine would jump on the story. And the TV networks, too. Maybe I could get a book deal. Publish or perish is the rule for most professors. This would take that rule to a whole other level.”
And they would probably pay big money, too. Damn, but there are so many ways to gain great wealth in this new world, and I’m prevented from having more than a dollar in my pocket, practically. Ah, I guess ’tis better to be poor than to have crispy toes. “No,” Harek said emphatically.
“Not even the Times-Picayune?”
“No.”
“Well, a scholarly journal, then.”
“No.”
“Nothing? I can tell no one?”
“Not a soul.”
“Not even Jeannette? Or Sonja?”
“No and no.”
“How will I explain my sudden change of mind? Hell, my sudden change of life?”
Harek shrugged. Not his problem.
Emile rose from his chair. “I should go upstairs and begin to make amends to my wife. You know, I haven’t slept in the same room as Jeannette for years.”
Too much information.
“She will probably kick me out.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. She has stuck with you for all these years, Emile. There has to be a reason for that.”
“Hmm.” Emile stared at Harek for a long moment, seemingly searching for the right words. Then all he said was, “Thank you.”
“It is only my duty,” Harek replied. And my penance. “Go and sin no more.”
Harek was alone then, and he just sat, enjoying the silence, except for the loud ticking of a mantel clock. He couldn’t deny that it felt good to do good. A vangel wasn’t supposed to enjoy his work. It was supposed to be a punishment, a penance. Just a job. Still, betimes there was job satisfaction, nonetheless.
He smiled to himself, then yawned widely. It had been a long day, and would be even longer tomorrow when they headed back to Coronado. Soon after, he would be in Nigeria on the mission from Hell, literally.
Just a job.
Yeah, right.
Chapter 11
Sin on the rocks . . .
Far away, in the cold, cold North, in a mansion called Horror, Jasper, king of the Lucipires, was watching CNN. It was a breaking news story on the latest “atrocities” being committed by the terrorist group Boko Haram in Nigeria.
Jasper loved a good atrocity. And he loved terrorists, too, especially when they were so creative in their tortures and random in their killings. Of course, many of them were his very own demon vampires, who were increasing their ranks within the organization day by day. This world didn’t know how bad terror could become. Yet.
With him was the powerful Arab haakai Haroun al Rashid, one of his council members, who was in charge of infiltrating terrorist networks in his part of the world. They sat on reclining leather chairs called La-Z-Devils, not unlike the human La-Z-Boys, except these were specially designed with holes in the posterior region to accommodate a Lucipire’s massive tail. They were in humanoid form at the moment, though, so they could enjoy the special almas caviar that Haroun had brought with him, knowing of Jasper’s passion for the rare delicacy. It was hard to eat fish eggs on toast points with claws
and mung from their scales dripping onto the food. Alma translated to diamond in Persian, but in the case of caviar, referred to the eggs taken from white sturgeon that were a hundred years old. Expensive, to say the least.
“That’s him. That’s the American I told you about,” Haroun exclaimed, pointing at the TV screen. “David Baxter, from Denver. I recruited him myself.”
Jasper looked at the screen where a balaclava-clad man had just beheaded two missionaries from Khartoum. With the knitted black hood covering his entire head, except for the eyes, it would be difficult for the average viewer to determine his nationality, but those damn CIA forensics experts in the United States were getting too good at gaining information from the smallest detail, like height, and posture, and accent if the terrorist spoke.
Jasper chewed the last of his appetizer and followed it with a long swallow of Blood on the Rocks . . . vodka, seltzer, and human blood over crushed ice. Yum! “I am well pleased with the work you are doing with the terrorists,” he told Haroun.
“Thank you, master. It was your suggestion that we bring in more foreign sympathizers. We have so many volunteers now, we cannot train them all, or turn those ready into Lucipires.”
“I understand. Really, the world is in such chaos now—thanks be to Satan—that people, especially vulnerable, young, extremist Muslim men, jump at the chance to be part of a greater cause.”
“Yes, yes.” Haroun wrung his hands with glee. “Fighting against democracy appeals to those wanting a return to the old ways. Of course, it is a ruse, this recruitment process. What we really want is evil men to become Lucipires who in turn recruit more men to join the cause who in turn become Lucipires.”
“Be careful that in the midst of this influx of new members there are not vangels trying to undermine your efforts.”
“Of course. They are sneaky angels, ha, ha, ha.”
Jasper smiled at Haroun’s jest, although it wasn’t all that funny. Haroun had been a Silk Road merchant at one time, best known for his ruthless slave trading. In many ways, he had not caught up with the twenty-first century. Unlike Jasper who prided himself on being a modern man . . . rather demon. He even carried a cell phone these days and played Dungeons and Dragons on the Internet, and, yes, he’d been known to check out some of the porno sites. And people thought demons were depraved!
“Now, tell me about this upcoming event,” Jasper encouraged Haroun.
“We would love nothing more than a terrorist attack on American soil, but hiding any young people we would kidnap would be difficult there. The next best thing will be an attack on one of those Global Schools in Nigeria, housing children of Americans and Europeans who work there. Perhaps the one in Kamertoon. It is not that far from the Sambisa Forest which BK has found to be a particularly good hiding place.”
Jasper was familiar with the Sambisa Forest, once a nature preserve. It was now a neglected, overgrown jungle.
Jasper nodded and listened attentively as Haroun outlined the details of the new mission.
“Here is the best part,” Haroun said. “The Kamertoon facility is a boarding school for girls, ages ten to fifteen. We will take the children, but we will lock the teachers in the building and set it afire with explosives.”
“I love it!” Jasper said, licking his lips. Not that he had any interest in innocent children. So sickeningly sweet! Yuck! But the evil ones who would capture and torture them? Yes, yes, yes!
“As appalled as the world has been with young African girls being kidnapped and sold into forced marriages or prostitution, imagine the horror at these mostly white girls facing such fates! Such is the bigotry of the world. Don’t you love it, master?”
“Just don’t go overboard,” Jasper cautioned. “We have learned, to our regret, to make our missions short and unremarkable. In and out, like we did on the casino project. Greed is a sin, and who doesn’t love a good sin? But greed is also a weakness we cannot afford. It could make the difference between a successful mission and utter failure.”
“Agreed.”
There was a loud, agonizing scream then.
Jasper and Haroun jerked to attention, almost spilling their drinks.
The screaming continued, joined in with others.
Beltane, Jasper’s hordling assistant, ducked his head inside the open doorway and said, “Forgive my intrusion, master, but they have just begun torture on the latest arrivals. You have to see this. Craven has invented a new tool called the Wire Impaler.”
Jasper stood and set his glass aside. “Will you join me?” he asked Haroun. “This should be fun.”
Caviar, bloody cocktails, and torture . . . could life get any better than this?
A funny thing happened on the way to . . .
Camille was lying on the top of her coverlet in her old high school nightshirt. On it was Snoopy wearing a tutu and the logo, “I’m a Smart Person, I Just Do Stupid Things.” The story of her life.
She’d been listening for a long time for her father and Harek to come upstairs so that she could find out what had happened with the cleansing, or whatever the hell it was called, but she must have fallen asleep. Checking her bedside clock, she saw that it was 1:10 a.m., an hour since she’d come upstairs.
She got out of bed and tiptoed downstairs and went toward the library, where a lamp still burned, but no one was there. Backtracking upstairs, she heard the light murmur of voices from the master suite. Her mother and father? Wow! That must mean something. They hadn’t slept in the same room since she was a child, as far as she knew.
Moving barefoot over the Oriental carpet, she made her way to the guest room at the end of the hall. She thought she heard movement, maybe water running, but then silence. She considered knocking but didn’t want to alert her parents to her whereabouts. How silly was that for an almost thirty-year-old woman? Worrying that she’d be caught in the sack with a boy? Jeesh!
Opening the door slowly, she sidled inside the room. The bed was empty, although the covers had been turned down. A light emanated from the adjoining bathroom, where the door was half open. And then, there stood Harek with a towel wrapped around his middle, low down. He was using another towel to dry his hair.
Startled, he just gaped at her, but then he took in her nightshirt and bare legs, from mid-thigh downward, and smiled, adding his own Snoopy-ism, “Good grief!”
“You were supposed to stop at my bedroom and tell me what happened,” she said quickly, trying to hide her embarrassment. All her good parts were covered, but she somehow felt naked under his perusal.
“I was?”
She nodded. Then she added her own “Good grief!” when she noticed how tan he was, more so than earlier this evening. How could that be? Surely he wasn’t using a self-tanning product, along with mousse. On the other hand, men could be so vain that way, sometimes more so than women. “Been out in the sun since I saw you an hour ago?”
“Oh,” he said, and put a hand to his face, realizing to what her “Good grief!” had been directed. He’d probably thought it was because of his hot body, which, incidentally, was very hot, what she could see of it, which was a lot. Even his muscled calves and narrow feet were kind of sexy. And his blond happy trail? She would fan herself if it wouldn’t be too obvious. And chocolate! She could gain five pounds just inhaling the air in this room. Sinfully sweet!
“A vangel tans after killing a Lucie or removing a sinner’s blood taint.”
Damn! The vangel nonsense again! “Did you talk to my father?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He won’t be harming your mother, and, if my guess is correct, I believe he will be recommitting himself to his marriage.”
“Really? Just like that? Twenty years of cheating and he’s suddenly a changed man?”
Harek shrugged. “God works in wondrous ways.”
“Oh good Lord!”
“Exactly.”
“Do you really expect me to believe that?”
“You asked and I told y
ou. ’Tis up to you to believe or not.”
Great! Make me feel like the bad guy. “And Sonja?”
“A thing of the past.”
What? Is he serious? Yes, he looks serious. This is amazing. Unbelievable. But amazing, if true. “And his children with Sonja?”
“Do not push it, Camille. They will always be his daughters.”
Camille sank down to the side of the bed, trying to take in these new happenings, including the events of the day.
“Do you really think that is a good idea?” he asked in a choked voice.
She glanced up to see what he meant.
“Sitting on my bed, wearing naught but a wanton shirt, smelling like roses.”
“Huh? This shirt is not naughty.”
“I didn’t say naughty. I said wanton.”
“Same thing.”
She realized that he’d meant naught, as in “nothing but.” “How did you know I’m not wearing a bra or panties? Do you have Superman vision or something on top of everything else?”
“Super . . . super . . . ?” An odd gurgling noise came from his throat. “You’re not wearing undergarments? Oh, I am lost. Fifty years of celibacy, and I am felled by roses and a Snoopy dog.”
Fifty years . . . How could he be celibate for fifty years if he was only thirty? Oh, wait, there was that thousand-year-old stuff. She felt a giggle of hysteria bubble up in her, which she quickly stifled. Good thing, too, because while she’d been distracted, Harek had dropped his towel, and not just the one he’d been using to dry his hair.
Holy.
Mother.
Of.
God!
Camille had seen a few erections in her time, but this was different. Harek was different. Magnificent seemed too small a word—ha, ha, ha, small, hardly!—for the way he looked to her. Like the statue of David, but better. All well-defined muscles and bones, from wide shoulders, to narrow hips, to lean-sinewed thighs, all a framework for his penis that was veined marble, standing out from his body, signaling his attraction—his need—for her.
How heady a compliment was that?
She didn’t look down, but there was a good chance Snoopy was doing the happy dance, just looking at Harek.