“Actually, scientists have discovered that men everywhere think about sex every seven seconds. I saw it on the Internet.” This from Harek, of course.
“That’s because they are not as virile as us Vikings,” Trond pronounced.
“ ’Tis true, ’tis true,” they all concurred.
This was a ridiculous conversation to be having just before battle, but then it was the way of soldiers everywhere to lighten the mood when they were going to a dark place . . . possibly death. All of their fangs emerged and elongated. As one, they joined hands, bowing their heads.
“May St. Michael lead us in battle. May God be at our backs. May a legion of angels guide our weapon hands,” Ivak prayed.
“Death to the Lucies! Hew them down like sheaves of wheat!” Vikar yelled, raising a fist high in the air.
Mordr howled like a wolf.
“Death to the demons!” Sigurd howled, too.
And Trond shouted, “Hoo-yah!” That was SEAL for “Hell, yeah!” or so Trond had told Ivak on numerous occasions.
“Luck in battle!” they all wished one another then, followed by loud war whoops.
Only then did Ivak notice the pounding on the floor, as if someone were hitting the ceiling in the apartment below with a broom handle. Which was proven true when a gruff male voice shouted, “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m calling the police.”
They took that as their signal, and with a whoosh of air, they were outside Anguish, all in preassigned places. Earlier that day, Cnut and Mordr had supervised the discreet planting of explosives in the walls of the historic building that housed the restaurant and Dominique’s domicile, but they didn’t want the edifice to implode onto itself until after the Lucies were gone. There was no sense in just killing the demon vampires; they would just come back again after healing themselves, a slow or long process depending on the severity of the wounds. No, the vangels would have to eliminate the Lucies one by one using the slivers of the symbolic, specially blessed splinters of the True Cross by He who had hung there. The knives they used had been quenched in the symbolic blood of Christ based on an ancient custom of warfare in which knives and swords were heated by blacksmiths to white hotness, then doused to hardness not in cold water but in the blood of their enemies.
Several of Ivak’s ceorls traced a line of holy water around the perimeter of the property, an additional precaution. Holy water would burn the skin of a Lucie, slow them down.
Ivak raised an arm, then chopped it down. The signal to begin. Mordr let loose with a bloodcurdling battle cry Ivak hadn’t heard since that last battle with the Saxons.
First, one Lucie peeked out the back door. Then a window upstairs opened. One of the timed explosives went off on the first floor, then one on the roof; these were only noisemakers, intended to alert the Lucies to an attack. The more powerful ones would hit in exactly fourteen minutes.
What followed could only be described as controlled chaos.
The Lucies in full demonoid form came running and flying out of every opening in the building, wood doors and windows crashing. Mungs were especially powerful demons, often seven feet tall with the strength of Goliath.
Ivak and all the vangels were prepared for them. And no one should discount the strength of a vangel warrior, either, especially those who were more than a thousand years old. Full Lucipire/vangel warfare ensued. Swords swinging, bullets zinging, bodies dissolving into puddles of sulfur. There were at least two dozen destroyed within five minutes before Dominique made an appearance. And what an appearance it was!
Six foot five, give or take, with a long tail and green scales. And breasts! Breasts with huge nipples as red and big as cherries that matched her red eyes. She was one pissed-off Lucie. Hissing, she hurtled out into the yard, swatting with her razor-sharp talons at one vangel after another until she came face-to-face with Ivak, Trond, and Vikar. They all smiled, big fangy smiles.
His other brothers and their vangel soldiers were handling the Lucies coming out of the building like angry bees from a rattled hive. And snakes! For the love of St. Patrick, there were dozens of snakes, some of which erupted into demonoid form, while others just slithered about angrily.
To give Dominique credit, she didn’t attempt to escape as many of her Lucie minions were trying to do. She raised herself even taller, a sword suddenly appearing in one hand and a chained mace with pointed studs swinging in the other. She was a powerful opponent, having more than five hundred years on any of them. Ivak wasn’t sure any one of them could withstand her force on their own, but the three of them together were formidable. Within minutes, there was a puddle of stinksome slime before them.
He and his brothers, all sporting some serious cuts and abrasions but no mortal wounds, looked at each other and just nodded. No high fives, or hoots of triumphant laughter. This woman . . . this high-ranking Lucipire . . . had been evil at its worst. She had caused so much pain, had turned so many humans into monsters of depravity. It was sad, really.
But Ivak glanced at his watch. “Time to get out of Dodge. Two minutes to go.” He gave the telepathic signal and vangels swooshed out of the immediate area and into the predesignated hiding places. Some of the Lucies were escaping, but they would chase them down later, if the Lucies were not taken down by vangels along the pathway to Angola.
Just then, there was a massive boom, followed by a series of other explosions, causing the historic brick building to implode on itself. The noise was incredible, waking the entire neighborhood, whose residents came rushing out onto the streets. Police and fire truck sirens could be heard approaching.
Back in Gabrielle’s apartment, Ivak and his brothers bowed their heads in thanks for a successful mission. Later, they would assess the number of Lucies annihilated and those sent to Hell, as well as the damage to their own ranks. Ivak suspected there would be many injuries, and he knew of at least two vangel deaths. When vangels were killed before their time, they went to Tranquillity, a place similar to Purgatory or Limbo, to await the Final Judgment. Not a bad place, just not Heaven.
As they were gathering up all their weaponry and belongings—a cleaning service would come in the morning—Ivak talked to his vangels who were patrolling inside and outside the prison, as well as a one-mile swath from New Orleans to Angola.
“We got a swarm of them. Lots of imps and hordlings and a few mungs. No haakai,” Mordr told him.
“We didn’t get them all, though,” Cnut piped in. “I suspect they’ll go into hiding for a few days until Jasper is notified of Dominique’s demise.”
Ivak agreed.
“I’m depressed just being near that prison. I don’t know how you stand it.” This from his usually dour brother Mordr, a berserker in Viking times, who had seen and done some very bad things.
“Why don’t you take off a few days?” Sigurd suggested. “Cnut can watch over things for you.”
“Huh? Why me?” Cnut asked.
“Because I have a job to get back to. You’re between missions,” Sigurd told Cnut.
“I’m not sure if I should be away from the prison right now.”
But then Ivak thought of something. Gabrielle and their date for the next evening. They were going to the Swamp Tavern near Houma for some kind of dance to benefit Tante Lulu’s charity foundation.
He smiled then and said, “On the other hand . . .”
And he thought of yet another thing. He hadn’t thought about sex for a whole half hour. Was that a record or what? Did he qualify for a prize?
By the runes! It was great to be a Viking!
In the end, Ivak did go back to the prison to gather some of his clothing and decided to stay until morning when he would inform the warden that he was going to be gone for a few days. Ivak couldn’t remember the last time he had a “vacation.” Lots of free time between missions, but somehow this was different.
He hadn’t intended to sleep, it being past four a.m. Dawn would soon be rising over the levees and razor wire–topped cyclone fences tha
t enclosed Angola. But he did lie down on his cell cot and folded his hands behind his head, thinking, thinking, thinking. Of Gabrielle, of course. Then his mind drifted toward sleep.
He was on his favorite longship, Sea Sword, riding the waves on a fjord near his home. Gabrielle was there, too. And whoa! This was something he hadn’t expected . . . or planned. A man couldn’t plan something like this. Ivak smiled in his sleep and thought the same thing he had earlier.
By the runes! It was great to be a Viking!
Eighteen
A-Viking she did go . . .
Gabrielle had awakened about four a.m. and turned off the ceiling fan. It had gotten chilly during the night, as it sometimes did on the bayou. Hot as Hades during the day, and blanket weather at night.
She made her way in the dark to the bathroom, and when she returned to crawl back into her bed, she yawned widely and thought, So much for Ivak’s sweet dreams! Not that she cared. No, the sex dreams were embarrassing, really. Pathetic when you thought about it. So deprived of a love life that she had to conjure one up in her dreams.
She yawned again and fell into another deep sleep.
At first it was the waft of a soft breeze on her bare skin that awakened her. Hadn’t she turned off the fan? Oh, maybe she’d just turned it on low.
Then there was the scent of water . . . salt water. How could that be? Here on the bayou?
And the sounds. No chirping, rustling, grunting of swamp animals. No, it was the sound of male voices that awakened her. And a strange creaking noise. Her eyes shot open.
To the most amazing sight.
She was on a longship . . . at least she thought that was what they called those Viking boats. Beautiful workmanship on the wood construction. Magnificent red-and-white checkered sails. Shiny shields arrayed along the outside of the rails. And men . . . lots of men . . . sitting on sea chests as they rowed the sleek dragon-shaped vessel. That’s where the creaking sound came from . . . the rubbing of oars in the oarlocks.
Standing among the men, hands on hips as he glowered at her, was Ivak Sigurdsson in full Viking attire. A suede-like, thigh-length tunic, tucked tight at the waist by a wide leather belt with a luxurious gold buckle in a writhing beast design. His tight, black, brushed-leather leggings were tucked into scuffed, calf-high boots. Long, sun-bleached brownish-blond hair framed a deeply tanned seaman’s face. A Viking stud!
That was when she realized that she was tied to the mast pole, or whatever you called that tall timber thing that held the main sails. Looking down, she saw that she was wearing some medieval-type gown of scarlet silk. Off the shoulders and a wide scooping neckline that exposed the tops of her breasts. Good thing it was a warm day or she would be freezing her boobs off.
Ambling toward her, slowly, Ivak said, “Well, Princess Gabrielle, have you decided to accept your fate yet?”
Princess? Me? She giggled.
“You find humor in your circumstance?” Ivak asked, walking around her with an arrogance that she didn’t find surprising as he eyed the restraints that held her arms behind her around the mast pole, causing her breasts to arch outward.
“Well, yeah. I’m no princess. Unless you consider me Princess of the Bayou. Or Princess of the French Quarter.”
He frowned. “French? Nay, you are not from the Franklands. You are a Saxon, daughter of that vicious cur King Edmund.”
“Okaaay. And what precisely am I doing here, tied up on a Viking ship?”
“I do not like the games you play, Belle. You know good and well what your fate shall be.”
“Belle? My name isn’t Belle. See, you’ve got the wrong person.”
“Belle is the short name you were given from birth. Do not deny it.”
“Okaaay,” she said again. “And what is this fate worse than death that you mentioned?”
“Not worse than death. Leastways, many women would disagree with that sentiment.” He gave her a knowing grin.
Jeesh! “Spell it out, Viking.” Like she didn’t know what the macho jerk meant!
“You were promised as my bride. A peace pact betwixt your father, the self-proclaimed king of the Saxon lands, and my father, the king of Norse holdings in Northumbria. But once our troops withdrew, your father reneged.”
“And so you kidnapped me?”
He shrugged. “I prefer to think of it as a wedding journey.”
“Except that the wedding is to come at the end of the trip, rather than the beginning?”
“Or anytime in between.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that I reject your proposal?”
“Not a whit. Besides, you will be willing afore this day is done.”
“Oh. What are you going to do? Torture me?”
He nodded. “Sweet torture.”
“Oh, puh-leeze! This feels like one of those 1980s romance novels.”
“Precisely. Forceful seduction,” he said.
“Your language sometimes seems anachronistic.”
“Ah. But then, I am a modern Viking.”
She would have argued that point, except he was undoing her ties, then securing her wrists again in front of her with a leading rope that he used to tug her toward a doorway. It led to a tiny cabin that was presumably a captain’s quarters. It was only big enough for a cot built into the wall, a chair, a large chest, and pegs on the wall holding clothing.
Before she could get a closer look, he picked her up by the waist and tossed her on the bed. She fell back helter-skelter, not able to balance herself with her hands still being tied. “Do you have to be so rough?”
“You consider that rough?” he asked with genuine surprise.
“Untie me.”
“You give me orders now, Princess? I think not!” Reaching down, he took the rope between her wrists, yanking it and her arms above her head, looping it over a finial on the headboard.
“How convenient to have a hitching post on your bed. Why not just put hooks in the walls and ceiling?”
He tapped a forefinger to his head in an exaggerated gesture of pondering. “Now there’s a thought. Mayhap I could visit the Marquis de Sade on one of my voyages to the Franklands and make a few purchases.”
“I thought the Marquis de Sade lived in the 1700s, not Viking times.”
He waved a hand airily if that was of little importance.
“I’m not a virgin, you know,” she told him.
“And that should matter to me . . . why?”
“I thought men in your time wanted virgins for their brides.”
“Virgins are much overvalued, in my opinion.”
“Aren’t you worried about a wife who might be carrying another man’s child?” She’d thought that was one of the reasons for the emphasis on virginity in olden days.
That gave him pause. “Are you breeding?”
“Of course not!”
“Well, then!
She squirmed up on the small bed, trying to lift her arms and the loop over the finial, to no avail. All she’d accomplished was her bodice riding down dangerously low, and the hem of her gown riding up to her knees. She turned back to flail him with some insult or other, but, whoa!
While she’d been trying to release herself, he’d removed his sword and its belted sheath. It was a really big sword, she noted with irrelevance. He lifted the tunic over his head and tossed it on a chair. Next, he toed off his boots and began to lower his leggings. If he thought to intimidate her, she had news for the idiot. She was enjoying the view.
“There is a priest out on deck awaiting your decision to wed with me,” he said, giving her a perfect view of his very fine butt while he walked over and hung both the tunic and leggings on a peg. Then he turned.
“Oh. My. God!”
He smiled, knowing perfectly well that he had a very impressive package . . . an aroused package . . . framed by a body that would put a cover model to shame.
But wait. What did he say? “A priest? I thought Vikings were heathens.”
“Another misconception
propagated by biased monk historians. Many Vikings practice both the Norse and Christian religions,” he said. Then added with a grin, “For expediency. We would no doubt adopt the Arab religion, as well, if it would be to our benefit.”
“Would you mind covering yourself?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s hard to carry on a conversation with a man sporting a mondo erection.”
At first, his brow furrowed. “Ah, you refer to my enthusiasm.” He started to walk toward her, pointing downward at his now bobbing . . . enthusiasm. “Mondo? Does that mean magnificent?”
“Humble, are you, Ivak?”
“Glad I am to hear you call me by my given name. We are making progress, methinks, if you no longer call me Viking all the time, as if it were an insult. I will give you another chance, wench. Will you marry me?”
“With a proposal like that? No way!”
“So be it!”
“You know this is only a dream, right?”
“You can pretend to be dreaming if you wish,” he said as if granting her some favor. Before she had a chance to give him a sharp retort, he sat his naked self on the edge of the too-small bed, giving her almost no room to move with the wall on her other side, and ripped her gown from neckline to hem. She was naked underneath, of course. Like . . . come on! Did women really put on luxurious silk gowns like this with no underwear?
Remember, Gabrielle, this is a dream, she told herself.
He was staring at her breasts. “They are rather small,” he said.
“Huh?”
“I have seen bigger eggs on a hot skillet.”
“Are you for real? You expect to win me over with insults like that?”
“I was not trying to win you. When I use charm, you will know it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Besides, my breasts only look small because I’m lying down. They’re not so small when . . .” Her words trailed off when she saw his lips twitching with a suppressed grin. He’d been deliberately goading her. Well, two could play that game. “You know what they say about men with big dicks, don’t you? Premature ejaculation. Wham, bam, I’m done!”