The shock of his action immobilized her. That and the sweet, sweet euphoria that overcame her. His big hands held her face gently to the side, and he made a humming sound of satisfaction as he drank from her. She could tell that he was aroused by the hard ridge pressing into her thigh, but she didn’t feel threatened. Truthfully, she was also aroused. But unlike earlier when his touch and fanging had brought her almost to climax, this was a slow titillation of her senses. More sensual than overtly sexual.
It seemed like forever that he drank from her, and it must have been a lot because she started to feel light-headed. With a growl of frustration, he pulled out, then licked her neck over and over, as if unwilling to pull away totally yet.
“Are we done?” she asked groggily, no longer angry. More confused than anything else.
“No. This part will be hardest for you. The first time, anyway.” Without warning, he rose and sat on the side of the bed, pulling her up and onto his lap. She almost fainted at the fuzziness of her senses, due to the blood loss, no doubt.
While she watched, he used a penknife to slash his wrist, first one way, then another in an X, or was it a cross? Then he put his wrist to her mouth and forced her to swallow. At first, she gagged at the unpleasant taste, but he would not relent. He held her tightly in his embrace and kept making soothing sounds, “Shh. Don’t struggle. It will be over soon. Relax, sweetling. Relax. That’s the way. Suck. More. Good girl. Good girl.”
When he finally took his wrist away, she tried to pull it back, which confused her further. Her mind said this was repulsive, but her body said, Give me more.
“That’s it for now,” he said, laying her down on the bed again. “Sleep for a while longer.”
He pulled the fleece over her and kissed her forehead. Meanwhile his forehead was furrowed with what appeared to be confusion. Was he as affected by this strange ritual as she was?
“I don’t understand,” she murmured as her body succumbed to an unnatural lethargy.
“I will explain all in the morning,” he said as he approached the door. At the last minute, he turned and told her, “You are not to worry. Everything will be back to normal soon.”
But Alex knew—she just knew—nothing would ever be normal for her again. Especially when she awakened after dawn and heard the most incredible music. Truly, it was like angels singing.
Had she died and gone to Heaven?
Day One in La-La Land . . .
Vikar was in the chapel with Trond, on his knees, singing the “In Paradisum” hymn, their way of marking the end of morning services. It was the way the vangels started every new day.
They and all the other karls, ceorls, and thralls had already been given the bread and wine of Communion by the elderly priest, Father Peter, as in Peter Jorgensson, a seventeenth-century cardinal from Denmark who’d failed to take his celibacy vows seriously enough. He had sired fifteen children. Enough said! You could say he’d earned his fangs the enjoyable way, and his name as well. Drinking the symbolic blood of Christ was an important daily activity for the VIK and their underlings, with many parallels to their vampire blood activity.
Vikar and Trond, and his other five brothers when they were together, sang out the Latin “In Paradisum” chant, “In paradisum deductant te Angeli,” translated, “May Angels lead you into paradise.”
The rest of the vangels answered with their own chant, “Chorus Angelorum te suscipiat et cum Lazaro quondam pamere aeternam habeas requiem,” or “May a choir of Angels receive you and may we have eternal rest.”
It was amazing to Vikar, even after all these years, how good they sounded. Vikings loved to sing, of course, but usually ribald lyrics after consuming vast amounts of beer, but now they were like frickin’ angels.
If they weren’t vampires and if they didn’t already have other jobs, they could probably make it big in the Christian music business. Imagining his motley crew on The 700 Club boggled the mind.
It was then that he turned slightly and saw Alex standing in the hallway outside the chapel. A stunned Alex.
He whispered to Trond that they had company.
Trond, the idiot, turned and gave her a little wave.
He told Trond to get the “gang” on its way ASAP, as they’d discussed the night before.
“What? We haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“If you wait for Miss Borden to cook a meal, it’ll be noon before you’re out of here. Stop at McDonald’s.”
Even though vangels partook of normal human food and drink, they needed blood to survive, in particular the blood of the sinners they saved. For example, when Vikar was done cleansing Alex, his body would be greatly rejuvenated, a nice side benefit of a good deed. Fake-O was a poor substitute. Vangels, unlike the traditional view of vampires, did not attack humans for blood.
“Make sure you take a good supply of Fake-O with you, just in case,” he advised Trond.
Father Peter shh-ed at them.
He and Trond shrugged in apology, but then Trond grinned and added in an aside, “I can’t wait to see the look on the clerks’ faces at Mickey D’s when more than fifty vampire angels show up en force, swords in hand.”
“You could leave the swords hidden.”
“What would be the fun in that?”
Vikar stood then, and after bowing his head and genuflecting, made his way back to Alex. “You could have come in,” he told her.
“I don’t do religion.”
He arched his brows at her, even as he led her down the corridor toward the kitchen.
“I was born Catholic, and was a churchgoing pick-and-choose Catholic as an adult, but then . . . well, I got clobbered with enlightenment.”
He assumed she referred to the death of her husband and child.
“Are you all Catholic? I noticed a priest in there.”
He shook his head. “We are no precise religion. A bit of this and a bit of that.”
“Like Unitarians?”
“Hardly. We are way more conservative than that.”
“I don’t believe in God.”
He flinched at her words. Apparently, she was farther along than he’d thought. All it would have taken was a bit longer of a demon fanging, and she would have reached her tipping point. He still didn’t know what mortal sin she was contemplating. That was a subject he would address later. For now, he needed to get the vangels out of the house so he could launch his one-week makeover project with an empty castle.
“Your voice is incredible,” she remarked. “All of you. I don’t think I’ve ever heard such magnificent hymns. Are you famous singers I’ve never heard of?”
“Hardly.”
“You sounded like angels.”
“Exactly.”
She cast him a scoffing frown. “Not the vampire angels again!”
Now wasn’t the time for this argument. “Why don’t you go up and shower? Then we’ll break fast. And talk.”
“Is there a working bathroom in this place? The one attached to my tower prison has only a trickle of water, and the toilet appears to be circa 1900.”
“It probably is that old,” he said. “Use the bathroom next to my bedroom on the second floor. You can take the servants’ staircase here off the kitchen. It’ll be the first room on the right.”
She hesitated. “What you did to me last night . . .”
“Everything will be all right, I promise.” I hope. “Just give me a half hour to get some things taken care of with my brothers in the VIK, and—”
“The VIK? You mentioned that before. What is it?”
“Later.” He steered her up the first step. “There are plenty of towels, soap, hair products, even a robe, I think.” He and Trond had showered earlier using that bathroom. He hoped there was still hot water left. He’d soon find out if he heard a shriek from above.
She went up several steps as he watched, then turned. “If I don’t get some satisfactory answers, I’m out of here,” she warned.
“Absolutely,” he said. Not u
ntil you are purified.
An hour later, he sat on a stool at the counter in the kitchen, a laptop in front of him and a cordless phone at his ear; cell phones didn’t get any reception through all this rock. Thankfully, the old landlines still worked here, although he would eventually upgrade them, and he’d been able to get DSL service. Vangels today depended on the Internet for many of their supplies.
He was on the phone with a Harrisburg contractor he’d found online. J.D. Donovan & Sons had recently lost a big job at Penn State due to decreased public funding, so their schedule had a sudden hole. He was speaking to J.D. Sr. himself.
“Is this a joke? You have a seventy-five-room house you want renovated in seven days?”
“No joke. I don’t need everything done right away, but the specialized stuff has to be completed. Construction of some rooms with new walls”—he was thinking of the dungeon/dormitory—“plumbing, heating, electricity, tile work, some floor finishing and plastering or sheet rock, if there’s enough time.”
“There’s no way that—”
“I will pay three times the going rate. Cash.”
There was a long sigh. Vikar could tell he’d caught the contractor’s interest. “Buddy, you could be talking a half mil or more.”
“That I am.” Vikar took his black American Express card out of his pocket and read the numbers over the phone.
While he was waiting for a response, the contractor no doubt checking out his credit rating, Alex walked into the kitchen. Her hair was still wet and combed off her face and down her back. She wore tight, calf-length white pants and a lime-green T-shirt that proclaimed, “D.C. Marathon.” On her bare feet, he noticed pale peach enameled toenails.
Immediately his cock did a happy dance. Aroused by toes? What next?
“You have an American Express Centurion card?” he heard in the phone still pressed to his ear.
“Yes, I do.”
“How ’bout I come up there in say, two hours, no later than noon, and we can talk?”
“I will be here.” Vikar gave the man the address and directions.
Before the contractor hung up, he added, “Do me a favor, pal? Don’t call anyone else. I might be able to handle it all with subcontracting. Unemployment is high in Pennsylvania at the moment.”
“Agreed! But a seven-day completion schedule is a deal breaker for me. Ten days in a crunch, but that’s it.”
After he ended the call, he turned and saw Alex standing in front of the open cooling box . . . refrigerator. She’d already turned on the coffeemaker and it was bubbling away. He would have done it himself but last time he’d tried, he’d ended up with hot water and nothing else.
“I’m starved,” she said.
“Me too.”
She arched her brows at him. “Where’s Lizzie?” She cocked her head to the side, listening. “And everyone else?”
“They’re all gone, except for you, me, Armod, two warrior karls, and one blood ceorl.”
She opened her mouth to ask more questions about where everyone had gone, why they’d gone, and what were a warrior karl and a blood ceorl, no doubt, but instead asked, “Has anyone eaten yet?”
He shook his head slowly.
“How does a mushroom and cheese omelet sound?”
“Wonderful,” he started to say, but his stomach growled first, giving her a better answer. They both laughed.
“Go see if anyone else wants to share breakfast with us,” she ordered.
He did, and soon he, Alex, Armod, Svein, Jogeir, and Dagmar were seated on stools along the counter, devouring cheese-oozing omelets, toasted and buttered French bread—turned out Armod knew how to work a toaster oven—along with cold orange juice, warm Fake-O, and hot coffee. Everyone talked amiably, except for Alex, who was soaking up all the information she could from their conversation, and Dagmar. Blood ceorls were unable to talk.
While Svein and Jogeir went off to their guard stations, and Armod and Dagmar were cleaning up the dishes and countertops, Vikar booted up his laptop and pulled out a legal pad and pen from a box of supplies he’d brought from the office.
“What are you doing?” Alex asked, sipping at her second cup of coffee. He could only handle one. Caffeine affected vampires like a sugar high for kids. His nerves were already jangling.
“I’ve sent everyone . . . almost everyone . . . away for one week. Maybe ten days. I need to have this heap of rocks renovated by then, or at least habitable.”
“You’re joking.”
“That’s what the contractor said on the phone a little while ago. He’ll be here soon to assess the situation.”
“It would take a miracle.”
“Money creates miracles betimes. If you throw enough cash at the right person, it might be doable.”
“So, what’s on your list?” she asked, pulling her stool closer so that she could see his computer screen.
For a moment, he was disconcerted by the scent of her apple-scented shampoo. First peaches, now apples. He was becoming a fruit connoisseur. He stupidly said the first thing that came to mind. “Your hair doesn’t look so red when it’s wet.”
“I do not have red hair,” she said indignantly. “I have strawberry-blonde hair, I’ll have you know.”
He smiled. Peaches, apples, and strawberries. Can anyone say fruitcake? “Having red hair is a bad thing?”
“Hah! Try having red—rather, strawberry-blonde hair—as a kid and being teased all the time. ‘Red head, peed the bed!’ Or ‘Red head, never wed!’ ”
“Huh?”
She ignored him and studied his list, reading aloud, “ ‘Reframe dungeon into dormitory with flat-screen TVs and game room. One large bathing room with six shower stalls, six toilet stalls, and sinks.
“ ‘Rewire entire castle, indoors and out, including security lighting. Refit the other eleven bathing rooms with fixtures: toilets, sinks, showers, tubs.
“ ‘Refinish floors, tile bathrooms, painting.’ ”
“How about furnishings?”
He groaned.
“Won’t you at least have to provide beds and mattresses for all those rooms? A dining room table and chairs? Living room furniture? Lamps and ceiling lights? Bed linens and towels?”
He groaned again. “ ’Tis impossible!”
“Hey, you’re the one who believes in miracles.”
“What are you saying?”
“Honey, you have just met Ms. Super Shopper. I can spot a bargain at one hundred paces. With an unlimited budget? Be still my heart! Plus I have great taste.”
He smiled. “You would be willing to help me?”
She nodded. “You should smile more often. You’re handsome when you smile.”
And I am not handsome all the time? he wondered with consternation, foolish pride rearing its head, then immediately chastised himself, Look where my appearance has got me thus far.
Her face turned a light shade of pink, a wonderful complement to her red . . . uh, strawberry-blonde . . . hair, which was incidentally now forming unruly waves.
Oh crap! First, fruit gets my sap running. Now colors. What next? “Why would you help me?”
“Tit for tat.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. “Explain yourself, wench.”
“You mentioned something about St. Michael the Archangel and perhaps being able to tell where my daughter is.”
Uh-oh!
With much reluctance, he conceded, “I did.”
“Great!”
Great for whom? So that’s why she was being so amiable.
Mike is going to kill me. Again!
Five
Have credit card, will travel . . .
Transylvania feature, Kelly Page 1
Draft Two
With the world spinning out of control, crime rampant, jobs disappearing, and the economy tanking, angels sent to the rescue would be a boon to mankind. But angels don’t really exist. Do they?
The residents of a castle in Transylvania, Pennsylvania, known more
for vampires than angels, would beg to differ . . .
“Hey, Ben,” Alex said into the cordless phone she held to her ear in Vikar’s office while he was off giving the contractor a tour and signing contracts. It appeared that money did truly talk. The job would be done in one week, or the guy wouldn’t be paid.
“Alex! Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call you.”
“Sorry. Here’s the landline telephone number in case my cell isn’t working.” She gave him the number because, even when she’d plugged her phone into a kitchen outlet this morning, she still didn’t get any bars.
“I thought you were staying at some bed-and-breakfast.”
“I was, but when Lord Vikar invited me to stay here at the castle, I decided to go with the flow.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
Probably not. “What could go wrong?” More than already has.
“Is there a story there?”
“Oh yes! Definitely.” The question is what.
“Tell me.”
“First of all, Transylvania itself has got to be the nutcase capital of the world. It could make a fun feature.”
“And? I can tell there’s more.”
She hesitated, not sure how much to tell him. Oh hell! He wouldn’t believe her, anyway. “The castle is a monstrosity which Lord Vikar is going to renovate in one week.”
Ben laughed. “Obviously, he’s never worked on a renovation before.” Ben and his wife, Gloria, had been renovating a Virginia farmhouse for twenty years now, and they still weren’t done.
“But that’s not the real story. You are going to think I’m crazy, Ben, but the folks here at the castle claim to be Viking vampire angels. Vangels.”
“Have you been bitten yet?” He was teasing, of course, and never expected her answer.
“Actually, yes.”
“What?” he roared. “You get yourself out of there right now. Do you want a police escort?”
“No. It wasn’t one of the vangels who bit me,” she said quickly, although that wasn’t quite true. With selective honesty, she explained, “It was a demon vampire, a Lucipire, and it happened back at the B&B which is incidentally called Bed & Blood.” She had to suppress a giggle every time she said that name for the B&B. “It’s run by a couple who sell stinking roses, garlic bulbs the size of baseballs, at a roadside stand, to ward off vampires, and spiffy hand-carved caskets on the Internet.”