Too soon, he found out.
Club Med for the undead . . .
In a cold, cold, miles-long cave known as Horror, far below the surface of the earth, Jasper paced. It was not Hell, of course, but that place where Lucipires brought their victims before eventually sending them off to Satan’s fiery pits, or to become vampire demons in Jasper’s personal army.
“It is too much!” he railed at his assistant Sabeam, who raced to keep up with him. Being a mung demon, a species of full demon, unlike former Seraphim angels like Jasper or even prestigious haakai demons, Sabeam had limited status and authority, even with his massive seven-foot height. Then, too, there was the slimy, poisonous mung that covered every surface of its body.
“What shall we do, master?” Sabeam asked, puffing for breath.
The boy, who was only three hundred years old, didn’t get enough exercise these days. Maybe Jasper should order him a treadmill.
“Satan demands his due,” Sabeam told Jasper, as if he didn’t already know that. “We must send the souls to him as prescribed by demon law.”
Unlike most mungs, Sabeam was not mute. Sometimes Jasper wished he were.
Still, Jasper nodded, knowing that he had no choice but to give up his collection soon. The last time had been two hundred years ago. This latest delivery was long overdue. “Grieves me, it does, to release my ‘babies,’ only to start all over. It will take us twice . . . no, thrice as long . . . to replenish the supply, what with the vangels hindering our efforts.” Vangels were vampire angels that Michael the Archangel had created specifically to fight Jasper’s legions.
He could not think at the moment of Michael, who had once been his friend. If he did, he would fall into the pit of despair that had held him the first hundred years of his exile.
Instead, Jasper gazed fondly around him at the life-size killing jars that held the newly dead human souls who fought wildly against the glass sides, to no avail. Once subdued, they were placed on display slabs with a two-foot pin through the heart holding them down. Like butterflies, they were, especially when they flailed their arms and legs in a wing fashion. Undead human butterflies that fought their confinement, eyes wide with horror at their fate. Jasper’s own personal human butterfly collection. Playthings, really, that he liked to take out from time to time and torture. Thousands of them.
Most special of all was one of the few vampire angels they’d been able to capture, and that only a lowly ceorl, David, who was stretched out on the rack at the moment whilst imps and hordlings, Jasper’s foot soldiers of grotesque appearance characterized by oozing pustules, danced about the body, piercing the skin with white-hot spears, wrapping barbed wire around the always erect phallus, jamming odious objects up the anus, stuffing imp offal in the mouth. “Good work, Fiendal,” he said, patting one of the hordlings on the head as he passed. “Do not go too far, though, lest the vangel get accustomed to the pain.”
Fiendal nodded, his excessively long tongue lolling out with dripping drool.
Jasper continued his pacing, trying to think. As he walked, fury turned his face into icy shards that flaked off like scales. His eyes glowed bloodred, his fangs hung down almost to his chin, and his tail dragged behind him on the stone floor. He hated that his once-renowned beauty could be turned into this travesty of ugliness. Oh, he could transform himself into the most beauteous of humans, male or female, when prowling the earth. But this monstrous carcass was his true self now. And he blamed Michael for this most odious fate.
Long ago, before the world was created, he had been one of the chosen archangels until he’d been expelled from Heaven, along with Lucifer and all the rest of his rebellious followers. And it had been Michael, a fellow archangel, who had been the one to kick their unholy butts out of the celestial presence of God. Forevermore.
Now Michael was after him again.
For centuries Jasper had been sending out his special creations, demon vampires, to the earth to bring in more doomed human souls in a faster, more efficient fashion than just waiting—ho-hum— for bad people to die. Horror was just a way station on the journey to Hell, but it was Jasper’s own special playground, and now Michael threatened to take even that away from him by creating vampire angels to fight him. At the same time, Satan was demanding his due.
“We cannot continue at our present pace, one soul at a time. We must needs speed up the process. Bring in hundreds, no, thousands of doomed souls at one time.”
“Like 9/11?”
“Holy Hades, no! God sent legions of His angels to Manhattan afore we could even arrive. Instead of Satan or I or any of the Lucipires being able to grab them, angels led them right and left to that holy place of which we do not speak. There were so many feathers flying about that day, it was a wonder the news media did not notice.”
“Smoke,” Sabeam remarked.
“Huh?”
“The feathers were hidden by the smoke,” Sabeam said.
I was kidding. Can a demon not even tease anymore? I am surrounded by idiots.
“So, there is no event where you could harvest souls in large numbers?” Sabeam concluded.
“I did not say that.” Jasper thought for a long moment as he continued to pace. Then he stopped abruptly. “I have the perfect idea. Did Satan not invent the Internet to blacken the souls of mankind?”
“I thought Al Gore invented the Internet.”
Jasper rolled his burning eyes. Can anyone spell idiot? “It matters not who invented what, but how Satan uses human obsessions for his own ends.”
“Okay,” Sabeam said, though he clearly did not understand. No matter!
“We will prowl the Internet superhighway ’til we find the perfect venue for mass harvest of sinners all in one place at one time.” Jasper would have licked his lips with anticipation if his frickin’ fangs were not in the way.
One
There’ s Transylvania, and then there’ s TRANSYLVANIA . . .
Vikar Sigurdsson hadn’t had sex in a hundred years, and he was not in the greatest of moods. The last time had resulted in two hundred years being added to his penance, and it hadn’t even been good sex.
Add to that hated celibacy the fact that he was on Seven Mountains in podunk Transylvania, Pennsylvania. He was presumably trying to turn a hundred-and-twenty-year-old crumbling castle, built by an obviously demented lumber baron Joseph Waxmonsky, into a five-star hotel. Hotel Transylvania. Presumably being the key word. And oh, by the way, in his spare time he was expected to fight off Satan’s vampires.
Then the doorbell rang, loud enough to be heard in every corner of this seventy-five-room monstrosity. That’s all he needed . . . company. That, in addition to the twenty-seven various annoying, troublesome, needy members of his personal troop of vangels. Who ever heard of a needy Viking?
In the middle of the ringing, he yelled out, “Go away!” as if anyone could hear him about two dozen rooms away from the kitchen, which he had been contemplating for the past half hour. It needed a major cleaning now that new appliances had been delivered and the floor retiled. Where should I start? he wondered, staring with dismay at the mess that surrounded him. Enough dirty dishes and pots and pans to feed a Viking army—who knew twenty-eight people could eat so much? Greasy countertops—no one ever mentioned cutting boards to him afore. Groceries to be ordered—his list was now two feet long, and growing. He sighed. I can kill a dozen Saxons in the blink of an eye. I can guide a longship across the ocean. But command a kitchen? It’s demeaning, that’s what it is. Immediately, he chastised himself. Pride was e’er his downfall.
Gong! Gong! Gong! Gong! Gong! Gong! Gong!
The fact that it was seven rings told him loud and clear that it was not one of the cuckoo bird wannabe vampires from the village, or one of the Lucipires, who would hardly knock, but one of the vangels, God’s vampires. Another brand of cuckoo bird, for the love of . . . well, God. Yep, almost immediately his brother Trond materialized before him.
“Your doorbell is loud enough t
o wake the dead,” Trond remarked.
“Good thing we’re dead.”
They looked at each other, burst out laughing, then drew each other into a bear hug worthy of six-foot-four Vikings.
“You’re early,” Vikar said when they drew apart. “The Reckoning isn’t for another month.” The Reckoning was the centennial meeting of all the vangels. Hundreds of them would be in attendance, in addition to The Seven, or the VIK, the designation given to him and his six brothers.
The high mucky-muck at the Reckoning would, of course, be their heavenly mentor, St. Michael the Archangel, whom they rudely referred to as Mike.
Mike just called them Viking, each and every one of them, and he did not say it like a compliment. Usually, it was something like, “Viking, God is not pleased.”
Uh, I’m kinda aware of that fact since I’ve been sporting these fangs for more than a thousand years.
Or “Viking, I saw what you did on that yacht.”
That wasn’t me. I swear, it was Mordr.
Or “Viking, you are not here for a vacation.”
No shit!
And, by the runes, was Mike hard to please! At the last Reckoning in 1912 Vikar had another four hundred years smacked on to his “penance” for a few teeny tiny sins, including the bad sex. The angel jury of one had obviously not been of the same opinion on the “teeny tiny” evaluation.
His brother Harek, once a highly skilled battle strategist, now a computer geek, of all things, was teaching Mike how to organize a software spreadsheet for every blasted member of vangeldom. Mike was inputting every single sin or grace each of them had committed. It was enough to give a Viking warrior hives. When Harek asked Vikar if he wanted to learn how to set up his own computer chart, Vikar told him what he could do with his mouse. Vikar did make use of Harek’s talents in ordering supplies for the castle, and clothing for all the vangels. It wasn’t that they couldn’t shop in stores themselves, but the less notice they garnered, the better.
Mike might bring Gabe and Rafe with him this time. He hoped so; those two tended to act as a counterbalance to Mike’s testiness. That would be Gabriel and Raphael, in angel circles.
“You better feed,” he advised Trond now. “Your skin is getting transparent, almost like Saran wrap. I can see your veins.”
Back in the old days, like the Roman empire where Trond had spent the past twenty years, there were no SPF 1000 sunscreens or tanning products. Contrary to popular opinion, vampires could go out in sunlight, providing they’d blood-fed properly, except that their skin got whiter and whiter, eventually translucent, broadcasting to one and all, Hey, look at me. I’m a vampire. Wanna get sucked?
On the other hand, demon vampire skin got red when overexposed to the sun. Really, really red.
Trond walked over to the commercial-size fridge and took out three pint bottles of Fake-O, invented by their very own ceorl chemist, who worked with his brother Sigurd, a physician. Not as good as real blood, but it would do in a bind. Trond’s fangs slid out, and he punctured the thin plastic lids. He bowed his head and said grace in a low murmur. When he’d sucked the pints dry and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, his skin tone was already changing. Not the good, healthy color obtained by drinking real blood, but satisfactory. With a soft belch, he said, “I thought you might need some help. That’s why I came early.”
“Hmpfh! I hope you brought an army.”
“I did. Well, about fifty karls and ceorls. Half of them will be here this evening.” Like ancient Viking society, the VIK was organized below The Seven into jarls, comparable to earls; karls, high but not necessarily of noble standing; ceorls, who were apprentices; and thralls, or slaves. “Where are yours, by the way?”
“Hiding.”
“Hiding?” Trond folded his arms over his massive chest and leaned back against the stone wall.
“I have twenty-seven karls and ceorls here already. I might have snarled at them one or two or a hundred times. Rollo is afraid of bats, and, whoo-boy, do we have a hird of them here. Any idea what I should do with a truckload of guano? That’s bat shit, in case you didn’t know.”
“I know what guano is. Just because I’m lazy does not make me a halfbrain.”
That was debatable, in Vikar’s opinion. Trond really was lazy—big-time, as modern folks would say. He had been condemned for sloth, which was one of the seven deadly sins. Vikar’s biggest sin had, of course, been pride.
Vikar continued his tirade. “Thrain fell off a shaky balcony.” Everyone knew that Thrain had to be the clumsiest Viking, or vampire angel, who ever lived . . . or died.
“Good thing he has a hard head.”
“Tell me about it. Then there is Armod, the teenage ceorl from Iceland. He keeps scaring the clerk at Uni-Mart, deliberately. The youthling is fascinated with his new set of fangs and hasn’t got past the lisping stage yet.”
“A lisping rock star?” Trond laughed. “I heard about him. The kid is only sixteen years old, right?”
“In years, yes, but considering how many people he killed before being saved, well, he’s an old fellow. And now Armod fashions himself the new Michael Jackson. You ever seen a vampire moonwalk? Not a pretty sight. I had to buy him an iPod because he kept blasting out ‘Thriller’ on that music box he carries everywhere.”
“Jacksson? Hmm . . . that is a fine Viking name.”
Vikar rolled his eyes. “Trond! Michael Jackson was a pop music star. He was as far from a Norseman in appearance as a cat from a tiger.”
Trond’s chest shook with suppressed mirth. Then he punched Vikar in the arm. “I know who Michael Jackson was, lackwit.”
He shook his head at Trond’s mirth making, oddly touched at this simple expression of closeness betwixt them. It was lonely living for all these years, isolated from the rest of society . . . living but not really living. At least they had each other.
He coughed to get his emotions under control. Time to change the subject. “And then Hoder is making pets of the rats in the dungeon. Yes, this place has a friggin’ dungeon. I’m thinking about locking myself in there for a decade or two.” He tried to continue frowning, but it was hard when Trond was laughing his arse off.
“Where were you assigned before this?” Trond asked him.
“Sodom and Gomorrah.” Vikar grimaced. Enough said! At least Vikar hadn’t been turned into a salt shaker. “I thought you were in Rome playing Spartacus with a bunch of lions.”
“I was, but Mike said I was killing too many lions. Too conspicuous. Besides, lion blood tastes like curdled piss.”
“You get all the good assignments, and you get to dress cool,” Vikar teased. Actually, Trond got jobs that required work, lots of demanding exercise that forced him off his lazy arse. “Lion fighting, that’s what I’d like to do,” Vikar said. What is it with my teasing? Have I suddenly developed a sense of humor after all these centuries? Or more likely my brain is melting. Sucking blood does that to a man, I warrant.
Trond did in fact look like a gladiator in his thigh-length, pleated leather tunic, with a wide leather belt, and cross-gartered sandals, exposing his big feet and bare, hairy legs. He might be lazy, but he was one good-looking lazy man.
“Wait ’til you hear what my next assignment is. I’m gonna be a SEAL,” Trond revealed.
“Holy crap! Mike’s gonna turn you into an animal? That’s a first for us VIK. My luck he’ll turn me into a maggot.”
“Not an animal, lackwit. A Navy SEAL.”
“That’s just great. If I asked to be in the military, he’d probably plop me into the middle of Genghis Khan’s army with no weapon except for my teeth.”
Trond smiled.
Vikar wondered if Trond realized how much hard work was involved in SEAL training. Well, he would find out soon enough.
“Actually, I’ve got some news for you,” Vikar said. “We’re no longer going to be traveling through time on our assignments. We’re going to stay in this time period. While we’ll still work around the worl
d, the headquarters is going to be here. Our heavenly bosses believe this modern world is as sinful and depraved as Sodom and Gomorrah ever were. So we’ll concentrate all our efforts in the twenty-first century.”
“My SEAL assignment makes sense then.” Trond tapped his closed lips with a forefinger thoughtfully, then asked, “How do you know all this?”
“Mike told me. Called me in for a special one-on-one last month.” He sighed deeply. “He’s given me until the Reckoning to have this pile of rocks at least minimally suitable to house all the resident and visiting vangels.”
Trond snorted his opinion. “For two hundred and sixty-seven VIK members? That was the number last count I heard.”
Vikar nodded.
“Is that even possible in four weeks?”
“It will have to be. You know the alternative.”
Trond cringed. “What did you do to piss Mike off?”
“I mocked his molting wings.”
“Oh, I remember now. Anyhow, you wouldn’t have wanted to be a gladiator. Lions stink, in case you didn’t know. Speaking of stink, what is that smell? Have you been eating hard-boiled eggs again?”
Vikar flashed Trond a dirty look. ’Twould seem his brother’s brain must be melting, too. Either that or he was changing the subject to make him feel better. Fat chance! “Very funny! You know damn well what that smell is. Lucies.” Long ago, the vangels had invented that nickname for Lucipires. “I killed one of Satan’s pals who snuck in here last night.”
“And it still reeks?”
“Molly Maids were supposed to start working here today. Yeah, I know we’re supposed to avoid outside help, but . . .” He shrugged. “Anyhow, the two ladies who showed up took one look at my bloody broadsword over there on the counter and the pile of slime left behind on the floor and took off faster than a Saxon with an arrow in his arse.”
Any time one of Satan’s vampires was killed by the vangels, either with a bullet containing a tiny shard of wood representing slivers of the True Cross or metal weapons “quenched” or hardened in the symbolic blood of Christ, they melted into a puddle of smelly, sulfurous slime. Holy water was a great deterrent, too, but it only burned their skin off, didn’t kill them. And you did not want to see a skinless Lucipire. Eew!