How clear could it be? Your voice is two decibels above a screech, my ears are ringing, and thank God I’m not sitting up front, Ivak thought.
An FBI agent and several Justice Department higher-ups stood at Benton’s side, stone-faced. They’d brought an army of agents, forensics experts, and other personnel to help in the investigation. A few of them were vangels; Michael’s way of getting more aid to Ivak without garnering too much attention. While Benton seemingly welcomed any assistance coming his way, he must resent all the outside “help.”
The FBI agent, Jack Laraway, told them, “The administration has learned that at least a dozen day employees, those who live outside the prison gates but drive in to work every morning, have disappeared, and an equal number of terminally ill inmates in the prison hospital or hospice program are gone. No bodies to bury. Just disappeared.”
Benton elaborated with names and other details.
Oh damn! The Lucies! Ah, well, this was bound to happen. The demon vampires got greedy and failed to take their evil slowly, covering their evil tracks.
The inmate representative at the meeting, the editor of the Angolite, blurted out, “Why has it taken so long to discover these disappearances?”
Benton scowled. The inmate would hear about his intrusion later, for sure.
“Because there are more than fifteen hundred prison staff members, and on any one day, there are always a lot who call in sick, are on vacation, or just decide to quit without notice. That’s why. As for the dying, the caretakers assumed the bodies had been taken for burial, and it was only when a routine count was done that we discovered reports of empty beds. Presumed deaths, but there were no bodies to bury.”
And, actually, no one really cared enough to keep an accurate count of the dying until this happened, Ivak mused. He knew because of his work in saving some of them.
The general consensus was that there had been one massive prison escape, or a number of individual escapes, that had gone badly awry. The wide Mississippi would have swallowed some of them. The wild predators in the swamps and forests on the other sides would have gobbled up the rest, clothes and all.
It was the large number that had everyone so upset. Could it be a plot of some type? And was there more to come?
For the next few days, as investigators moved about the prison, inmates were permitted no contact with the outside world. And movement inside the prison was severely restricted. Mealtimes were particularly tedious because there were more security guards, and the convicts had to be accounted for every minute. Calls and visits from or to the outside world were forbidden, for the time being. Employees’ cell phones had been confiscated for the duration.
The news media were going crazy trying to figure out what was going on at Angola. TV vans with their rooftop dishes were lined up all along Snake Road, leading to the prison gates. To no avail. Anyone who spoke to the press was threatened with imprisonment, and those already imprisoned would have their sentences extended. As a result, rumors and false information were reported as fact, even a headline in the Star magazine, “Alien Abductions at Angola.”
Ivak was able to move about somewhat and he made sure the second day that he got to visit Leroy’s dorm, where one of the newly arrived vangels was keeping an eye on Gabrielle’s brother.
“Jesus Christ! What the fuck is going on?” Leroy asked when Ivak sat down on the cot next to him. Ivak cringed at his language, and Leroy corrected himself, “Good grace! What in heaven’s name is going on?”
Ivak let out a hoot of laughter. “You don’t have to go to that extreme.”
“Well?”
“I told you about Lucipires and vangels,” Ivak said in a low enough tone that they couldn’t be overheard. The bunks in the dorms were only two feet apart, and about sixty to one unit. “Well, apparently the Lucies have gone wild, taking a couple dozen humans already, both inmates and staff.”
“Holy hell!” Leroy said, then, “Oops!”
“We have vangels inside now, too. In fact”—he motioned for another man to sit on the next bunk, facing them—“have you met Svein? Svein, this is Leroy Sonnier.”
A tall, lean man with light blond hair and pale blue eyes, wearing the T-shirt and jeans “uniform” of an Angola convict, extended a hand to Leroy, “Greetings, Mr. Sonnier.” His skin was almost albino-ish white, but would tan up soon enough once he’d fed.
“Uh, hello,” Leroy said, gaping, even as he shook hands with the newcomer. He stared at Svein, then Ivak, then back at Svein. “Don’t tell me . . .”
Ivak and Svein nodded.
“Holy hell!” he said again.
Svein gave Ivak a telling look about Leroy’s language.
“He’s learning,” Ivak said.
Another inmate, Ed Chesney, tried to sit down next to Svein, figuring it was some kind of casual chat, but at Svein’s glower, he backed off, muttering, “Shit! Talk about unsociable! What are you? The ‘Mean Boys’?”
“Give it a rest, Chesney. We’ll talk later,” Ivak said to the departing man, who just waved over his shoulder.
As soon as they were alone again, Svein looked directly at Leroy and dropped a bombshell. “Little Eddie Hebert has third stage colon cancer.”
“Fuck!” Leroy exclaimed. “If he dies before recanting, I’m dead in the water here until I die.”
“There’s more. Hebert has been fanged by a Lucie. That’s why he’s resisted withdrawing his lie,” Svein said.
Leroy stood abruptly. “Oh shit, oh damn, I might as well just give up.”
Ivak pushed him back down and warned him, “Don’t you dare say it’s hopeless, or I’ll sic Tante Lulu and her St. Jude brigade on you.”
Leroy smiled, halfheartedly.
“The real danger is that Lucies will sense his approaching death and rush in to complete the fanging,” Ivak explained.
“You guys are seriously weird,” Leroy said, not for the first time.
“Jogeir was in the same prison camp as Hebert, and he’s sticking close to the hospital,” Svein told Ivak. “He’s already trying to save him. No luck so far, but he’s keeping an eye on him so that no Lucies can approach.”
“Plus, Tante Lulu is going to speak with Hebert’s mother to see if she’ll intercede on your behalf,” Ivak added. “Mrs. Hebert and Tante Lulu play bingo together at Our Lady of the Bayou Church.”
“Good Lord!” Leroy muttered. “My fate is in the hands of weirdo angels with fangs and old ladies who bingo.”
After Svein left, Leroy asked Ivak, “Have you talked to Gabby lately?”
“Not since Saturday . . . three days ago. Phone lines are shut down for staff, too, except for emergencies, and even then, the calls have to be monitored.”
“Can’t you use supernatural means to contact her and let her know I’m okay?”
“Best not to draw attention in any way,” Ivak said, and told Leroy to hold on until things settled down here.
Actually, Ivak could contact Gabrielle, but he wasn’t sure what he would say. That afternoon with her had cemented his certainty that she was his soul mate, despite her protests to the contrary. But he was just as certain that they could have no future together based on their conversation that day.
First and foremost, he was a thousand-year-old vampire angel and she was a human. Didn’t matter that exceptions had been made for Vikar and Trond. I know well and good that Mike shut that gate. He made that announcement after the mess Trond and Nicole created before their marriage.
Second, Gabrielle wanted children, lots of them. I can’t give her even one.
Third, as if I need any more reasons, she wanted to move far away from Angola and any other prison atmosphere. I might very well be assigned here for many years to come, even if I managed to live off the premises.
Fourth, she wanted normal. Alas, I will never be normal again, if I ever was.
When he got back to his office, Ivak found two text messages on his hidden second phone. Apparently, some calls . . . those of a c
elestial nature . . . could get through.
“Buy the plantation.”
“Save the girl.”
Both were equally alarming.
The plantation, he understood, though not the why of it.
The girl, he understood, too. Mike was referring to Gabrielle.
But why did she need saving? She was not in any state of grave sin, or contemplated sin, that he could detect, requiring his “saving” her with a fanging. It must mean . . .
Oh no! Oh no, no, no! If Mike wanted him to buy that so-called plantation, he must intend Ivak to be in Louisiana and Angola for some time. What did that portend for him and Gabrielle, who wanted nothing to do with either after Leroy’s release?
And if Mike wanted him to save Gabrielle, and her heart was not in any state of sin . . . His heart nigh stopped, and his heart was already dead. It must mean that Gabrielle was in some physical danger.
And he was stuck in the Alcatraz of the South.
Twelve
Oh no! The old harem fantasy! . . .
Gabrielle dreamed about Ivak that night. And the night after that. And the night after that. Every one of them had the same theme, one that was erotic and ridiculous at the same time. Sex with a hot stranger.
She was a renowned Saxon beauty being held in an Arab harem for the pleasure of some visiting Norse noblemen.
Imagine that! Her a renowned beauty? And how she, with her short supply of experience, could pleasure some Viking was beyond her. Someone was going to be very disappointed. But it was a dream, and in her dreams anything was possible, she supposed.
“Wake up, miss. Oh, please, wake up. It is time for us to go.”
Gabrielle raised her heavy lids slowly, blinked, then opened her eyes wide to the most fantastic scene. She was in some kind of marble palace with fountains and low chaises, such as the one she was lying on. She sat up and saw wispy sheer curtains and low tables with platters of fruit . . . dates, figs, pomegranates, and slices of lush melons . . . and another bowl of green and black olives. And there were women. Lots of women. Scantily clad and chattering like jaybirds in a foreign language, probably Arabic, which she could, amazingly, understand. In fact, in the distance she could hear the haunting adhan, the call to prayer by the muezzin. Much closer, somewhere in this palace—if that’s what this was—exotic Arab music filled the air, the kind you heard scantily clad women belly dance to in Middle Eastern restaurants.
With an irrelevance she excused as just being a dream, she remembered a friend in college telling her one time that belly dancers had better orgasms. She’d always intended to take lessons some day but never seemed to find the time. Too late now.
“Come, come,” the woman who’d awakened her said, tugging at her hand, pulling her to follow a group of women wearing nothing but scarves. Standing woozily, Gabrielle glanced downward, then did a double take. She was wearing the same kind of outfit. Scarves on the top, which ended just below her breasts, and scarves on the bottom hanging from a waistband of harem-style pants that began at her hips, leaving about eight inches of skin bare, including her belly button, where a red ruby-like stone had been glued. Jeesh! There were tiny bells attached at the ankles. When she walked, she would be like an oversize Tinker Bell.
Just then she noticed something about the other women. She glanced downward at herself. “Oh no!” Lifting the scarves over her breasts, she peeked inside and squealed. “Oh my God!” Her nipples and areolas had been rouged or painted red.
“Good Lord! If the bells don’t tell everyone when I’m coming, these neon sign boobs will do the trick.” This breast makeup better be washable, or someone is going to pay. Can anyone say lawsuit?
“Huh?” said the young woman who’d awakened her. She was no more than seventeen and firmer than Gabrielle in strategic places.
A big, heavyset, effeminate-looking man wearing a turban clapped his hands and began to lead the scarf women, herself included, out of the harem and along a corridor. A eunuch? Must be. This is just like a Bertrice Small novel. “Hurry, hurry! The master is anxious to impress his guests.”
Oh yeah! All us red-light boobs are going to impress.
“Make sure you lower your eyes when you are dancing,” the eunuch reminded them.
Dancing? What dancing?
They were led into a room where several dozen men sat or half reclined on cushions or low divans, some braced on both elbows, some lying on their sides braced on just one elbow, before short tables groaning with food. Bare-breasted, nubile girls fanned some of them with peacock feathers or fed them grapes. No kidding! Grapes? What a cliché!
Some male servants moved the food tables aside, leaving a space in the center that was about twenty-by-twenty, just enough room for the ten scarfies who snaked to the center in a hip-shimmying dance. She, the tail end of the dance, wouldn’t know how to shimmy if her life depended on it.
And it just might, as evidenced by the sharp-looking swords in evidence.
The men sat in a U-shaped pattern around three sides of the marble-walled room. The floor was covered by an enormous, jewel-colored Persian rug that felt like silk under her bare feet, which, incidentally, sported several toe rings. Most of the men wore Arab attire, long robes of white or black, some with felt caps on their heads and others with the traditional head wraps like turbans held in places with ropes or twisted cloth. Precious jewels in gold-framed pendants hung around their necks or were displayed on numerous fingers.
But then there were the other men. A half-dozen big men wearing brushed leather, thigh-length tunics, cinched in at the waist by gold or silver linked belts, over tight pants, like leggings. Gold and silver arm rings adorned their biceps. Their hair was long, all shades from blond to black, some with single braids down the back, others with thin “war braids” twined with crystals framing their handsome faces. Sharp knives and swords with ornate hilts were close at hand. And in the midst of all these stood the bane of her life . . . or rather her dreams . . . none other than Ivak Sigurdsson in all his Viking glory.
She gave a little wave, causing the eunuch behind her to pinch her butt. She scowled at him, rubbing her sore posterior, and turned back to get Ivak’s attention.
But he didn’t even notice her. The lout! He was staring at one of the scarfies in the front. A small blonde with breasts that were not so small. They jiggled when she danced, for heaven’s sake!
The head Arab guy . . . a sultan, she supposed . . . clapped his hands and said, “Welcome, favored friends and guests.” He bowed toward the Vikings. “May Allah shine on you whilst in my country, and may we have good trading tomorrow. Now, let me present my best dancing girls.”
Once again, Gabrielle could understand everything that was said, even though it was in Arabic.
“After the dancing, you are free to enjoy any of the girls at your leisure.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa! Girls served up like food and drink. I don’t think so! Her fellow scarfies didn’t seem to mind, though. They smiled and giggled, some of them batting their heavily kohled eyelashes at particular men. That made Gabrielle wonder with hysterical irrelevance if she was kohled up, too. Probably. A slutted-up Barbie doll, for heaven’s sake!
There was movement among the several musicians, indicating the start of the entertainment. First a flute provided a haunting Arab melody, soon joined by a man with an hourglass-shaped hand drum. And finally, a man began playing a stringed instrument, like a guitar, but it was probably a lute.
The dancers were arranged four across in three rows. Only then did the scarfies begin to move into a circle, adding to the music with cymbals and tambourines, a circle that moved slowly in a walking shimmy. Since Gabrielle couldn’t shimmy, or at least had never tried, she just did a little hula-type move, wanting to get as far away from the eunuch as she could. First chance she got, she was going to make a run for it since Ivak was obviously not going to be her knight in shining leather. Her erotic dream was turning into a nightmare.
Several different songs were play
ed, each with corresponding dance moves. Belly rolls, back bends. Holy cow! Gabrielle almost fell over with that one . . . squeezing glutes, a camel walk, hip bumps, and all kinds of shimmies . . . forward, backward, and walking. There was even a solo performance by blondie that ended in her being a whirling dervish that drew much applause from the appreciative crowd. Blondie would undoubtedly be the pleasurer of choice tonight.
Finally, the dance performance seemed to be over and there was much chatter as men began to pick partners. Gabrielle was across the room from Ivak, who was momentarily distracted by a new man who had walked into the room and was whispering in his ear. The man resembled Ivak’s brother Harek. The two of them were engrossed in some serious conversation, the expressions on their faces concerned.
Eventually, they stopped talking, and Harek walked off. Turning, Ivak seemed surprised to see that blondie was gone. In fact, all the women, except Gabrielle, had gone off with their partners. A few men had started to approach Gabrielle, but she gave them such dirty looks that they backed away. In fact, one Arab with an especially elaborate turban had motioned with a beckoning finger for her to come to him; she gave him an answer with her middle finger and turned away.
Ivak’s gaze locked with hers then, studying her body in the skimpy outfit. Then, to her chagrin, it appeared as if he was going to turn away, rejecting her.
No, no, no! That was not the way it was supposed to happen in dreams. She stomped up to him, put her hands on her hips, and said, “Well?”
A smile twitched at Ivak’s lips as he gave her another arrogant head-to-toe survey. “You’ll do,” he said, and took her by the hand, leading her out of the room.
“I’ll do,” she shrieked. “Do?” She tried to dig in her heels, but he just dragged her along. She thought she heard him chuckling.
Finally, they came to a small room that was open on one side to a mini-courtyard with a fountain. He shoved her inside and locked the door.