The field became slippery with sword dew, as well as mud. The air rang with the clang of metal weapon against metal weapon, the death screams of the fallen, the grunts of soldiers brandishing heavy broadswords, and his own roars of berserkness.
Mordr cleared a path through the fray in front of him, trying to get to Geirfinn, who was being attacked from both sides. When he was almost there, he saw his good friend go down from a lance thrown from behind by yet another Saxon villain. A death blow, it had to be.
With a bellow of outrage, Mordr tossed his shield and leather helmet to the ground. Storming forward, he wielded his heavy broadsword in his right hand and his battle-axe in his left. One foeman got his head lopped off. Another Mordr speared through the heart with the sharp butt end of his battle-axe. Still another would ne’er swive any maids in the future, for Mordr firmly planted his sword Vengeance in the soldier’s groin.
As he was pulling his sword back out of the groaning man’s body, Mordr made a huge mistake. Ne’er turn your back on the battlefield. Someone had come up behind him, quickly reaching around and garroting him from shoulder to shoulder. Blood gushed forth, and he felt a flush of heat race across the skin of his entire body, as if he had been scalded. His arms went numb, and his legs gave out, causing him to fall forward. Soon, the sounds of battle faded as he felt his blood soaking the ground beneath him. Someone rolled him over with a booted foot and laughed. “King Edmund will give me a great boon for having felled this vicious Viking.”
But then Mordr heard nothing as he sank into a dark slumber, and it was not a peaceful sleep as he’d expected death would be. It sounded like beasts gnashing their teeth all around him, just waiting for the cue to devour his flesh and bones. Is this death then? Why am I not on the road to Asgard? Where are my Valkyries? Why am I not being welcomed into Odin’s great hall in Valhalla?
“Because thou art not in Valhalla, Viking,” a voice boomed above him.
Mordr hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. In truth, how could he speak with his neck nigh split through to his nape? He blinked his eyes open. He was still in the middle of the battlefield. Fighting was going on around him. Rain still came down in stinging sheets. Except for the circle surrounding him where a tall man stood over him. Instead of wearing a battle helmet and brynja of chain mesh, this lackwit wore a white robe, similar to those worn by men in eastern lands. It was tied at the waist with a golden rope, and his dark hair hung loose to his shoulder. Most amazing of all, a light emanated from the man, like a full-body halo. Mordr knew about halos, having once seen a Byzantine church mural depicting a saint, but that fellow’s halo had been surrounding his head only. This must be an important saint.
“Are you a saint?” Mordr asked, oddly unsurprised that he could speak.
“You could say that,” the man said, and from his back suddenly unfurled a massive set of pure white wings.
“Bloody hell! An angel?”
The man—rather, the angel—nodded. “I am St. Michael the Archangel, and you, Viking, are in big trouble.”
Mordr noticed that the angel did not say “Viking” in a complimentary way. “What do you have against Vikings?”
“You are a sorry lot of men. Vain. Prideful. Greedy. Vicious. Fornicators.”
“We are also brave in battle. Good providers for our families. Yea, I know what you are going to say. We provide by plundering, but that is not so bad when you consider we are doing a good deed by relieving your churchmen of the overabundance of wealth they garner for themselves. As for vanity, some could say that your God made Norsemen beautiful; therefore, ’tis not our fault that we are proud of ourselves.”
Michael’s eyes went wide before he shook his head as if Mordr were a hopeless idiot.
In fact, Michael said, “Idiot! Thou art in the greatest trouble of your life, and you dare to make excuses.”
“What would you have me do? In truth, I am not sorry to have my life end.”
Michael’s face softened for a moment. “Your children are safe and in a happy place.”
For the first time since he’d come across the ravaged bodies of Jomar and Kata, tears filled Mordr’s eyes and streamed down his face, mixing with the blood on his neck. A small sob slipped from his slit threat.
“Weep not for your children, but for yourself. You are a grave sinner, Mordr, as are your six brothers.”
Mordr stiffened, as much as a dead body could. “Are my brothers dead, too?”
“If they are not dead, they soon will be.”
“Why?” Mordr asked.
“You know why, sinner.”
Mordr did not need to think before nodding. “My berserkness. The killing. It started with the assault on Stonegarth, with the murder of my children. I had good cause to—”
“Foolish Viking! Vengeance is the Lord’s, not man’s,” the angel said in a steely voice. Then, “Do not try to excuse your actions. Even if you could be forgiven for killing those who killed your children, and I am not sure it ever could be, there have been so many other lives you’ve taken. Many of them innocent of any crime.”
“I understand why I must be punished, but you mentioned my brothers, as well. Why must you take all of us at one time?”
“Because you are grave sinners, each guilty in a most heinous way of the Seven Deadly Sins,” Michael explained with growing impatience, “as are many of your Norse race. God in His anger has decided to use you seven as examples, and—”
“Lucky us!” Mordr muttered.
Michael cast a black look his way for the interruption.
No sense of humor.
Michael continued, “In truth, there will come a time in the future when the Viking race will no longer be. That is the will of the Lord.”
Mordr’s numb brain tried to comprehend what the angel told him. “How exactly are you—or rather, your God—going to use me and my brothers?”
“Ah. I thought you would never ask.” Michael smiled, and it was not a nice smile. “God has commissioned me to establish a legion of vangels to fight Satan’s Lucipires, demon vampires. And, at the same time, to save those humans fanged by the Lucipires with a sin taint afore they commit some grievous act, a grave sin.” Michael motioned with his head to a sight directly behind the circle of light that surrounded him.
Mordr recalled, when he’d first emerged from his death sleep, the sound of gnashing teeth, like leashed beasts. He saw now what had caused that noise. A band of grotesque beasts were trying—unsuccessfully, so far—to break into the halo barrier. They were huge, animal-like humans, tall as upright black bears, with scaly skin oozing slime. Their eyes were red, and their open mouths showed elongated incisors, like wolves, but longer and sharper.
“Lucipires?” Mordr asked.
“Precisely. You do not want to be in their clutches, believe you me.”
Mordr believed. With typical Viking self-confidence, Mordr knew he could fight off three or four foemen, but these were not men, exactly, and they numbered in the dozens. He thought for a moment, then burst out with a chortle of laughter, which only caused more blood to spurt from his mouth. “You said you would turn me and my brothers into angels. Now there is a task! Turning Vikings into angels.”
“Tsk, tsk. You do not listen carefully. I did not say angels. I said vangels.”
“And they are?”
“Viking vampire angels.”
“Huh?”
“For hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years, seven hundred years to begin with, you would serve the Lord as a vangel.”
“Seven hundred years?” Mordr exclaimed. “You mean, I would live for centuries.”
Michael nodded. “Mayhap even thousands.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course. You can choose to be a vangel, or join the other side.”
“The other side? Oh. Oh no!” Mordr realized that Michael meant he would be taken by those beasts, slobber dripping from their fangs, their eyes glowing like torchlights as they tried to break the barrie
r to get at him. “I choose vangels. Definitely.”
“So be it!” Michael said, and extended a hand over Mordr, causing him to be lifted to his feet.
Mordr put a hand to his neck and felt the skin intact. “Thank you.”
“Do not thank me yet, Viking.”
Mordr blinked several times. The golden halo was gone, as were the horrid beasts. In fact, the battlefield was now a clear field. No fighting soldiers. No dead bodies. There were so many questions riddling his mind, but he asked the most inane one. “Will I have wings, like yours?”
Michael hooted a short laugh. “Not yet. Maybe later. Probably never.”
That was clear as mud. “By the by, what is a vampire?”
Michael graced him with another of those smiles, which were not really smiles.
Immediately, Mordr felt a fierce pain in his mouth, as if his jaw were being broken and pierced with fiery tongs. When the pain went away, as suddenly as it had hit him, Mordr felt around his mouth with his tongue and realized that he now had a long—really long—tooth on either side of his front teeth on top. With horror, he said, “You made me into a wolf? I hate wolves. They are the most devious creatures, and they smell bad.”
Michael shook his head. “Not a wolf. A vampire.”
Then more pain hit him. On his shoulder blades. He reached behind him, over his shoulders, and discovered two bumps there. He arched his brows at Michael. “Please do not tell me that you put teeth in my back.”
“Thickheaded dolts, that is what these Vikings are,” Michael muttered. Then, he told Mordr, “Do not be ridiculous. They are bumps. Where your wings might emerge someday.”
“There is hope for me then?”
“Viking, Viking, Viking! Didst not know, there is always hope? Are you ready to begin your penance?”
Penance? Ah. He means punishment. Still, Mordr nodded, hesitantly. What choice did he have, really?
The angel took him by the hand, and Mordr found himself rising above the ground, higher and higher, spinning, through the clouds, across the skies, over countries. Where he would land, Mordr had no idea.
One thought emerged through his battered brain. I have been given a second chance. Praise the gods! Nay, that is incorrect. Praise God!
Michael smiled, and this time it was a good smile.
Some inheritances are better than others . . .
Dr. Miranda Hart, psychologist, prided herself on always maintaining a dignified calm. She did a half hour of yoga every morning, after all, and she gave lectures on stress management. Even so, she stared with stunned horror at the lawyer in front of her and practically screamed, “Noooooo!”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Hart.” Bradley Allison, elderly Cincinnati lawyer and longtime family retainer, clearly was not sorry. In fact, he recoiled, obviously disgusted with her reaction. “I thought you’d be pleased at this ‘bequest.’ The highest compliment!”
“Are you crazy?” Miranda asked, immediately realizing that she was the one who sounded crazy. And crazy was not a word that a mental health professional should be using. She inhaled and exhaled several times, finding her center. “You have to understand, Mr. Allison. I’m thirty-four years old. I’ve never been married, by choice. It’s taken me eight years to pay off my college loans and establish a successful practice in Las Vegas. Not Cincinnati, by the way. I live in a luxury high-rise apartment with two bedrooms, one of which has been converted into an office. I have no desire for children . . . or a dog.” She shivered with distaste.
“It was your cousin Cassandra’s wish that you adopt her five children. If you decline, there’s no option but to put them in foster care. Cassandra’s neighbor is unable to care for them for much longer. She has a big family of her own. I must warn you, if the Jessup children are adopted, I’m sure they will be separated.”
The oldest of Cassie’s children was eight-year-old Margaret, or Maggie. One set of twins was six-year-old Benjamin and Samuel, Ben and Sam. The other twins were three-year-old Linda and Larry. Mr. Allison was right. Miranda would bet her hard-earned degree that there would be two separate adoptions for the twins, and Maggie might not be adopted at all because of her age.
Miranda steeled herself not to care. “What about Roger’s family?” Roger Jessup, Cassie’s no-good husband, was in prison for assault and battery, and not for the first time, which had been news to Miranda when she’d arrived for Cassie’s funeral three days ago.
“No family,” Mr. Allison informed her. “Just you.” By his seventy-five-year-old nose raised northward, she could tell what he thought of her. She knew for sure when he added, “Perhaps they would be better off in foster care, after all.”
Miranda didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, but she didn’t like some old codger pointing out her flaws. Besides, she didn’t consider a lack of desire for procreation a flaw.
Despite his obvious misgivings, the lawyer tried a different tack. “If money is the issue, the family home could be sold.”
She waved that remark aside. “I own half the house, our grandparents’ to begin with, and Cassie and I both signed contracts years ago that, if one of us died first, the home belonged to the remaining cousin. Even if her husband were around, Roger has no claim on the house.”
“He might try,” Mr. Allison told her.
“Let him.” After what she’d recently learned about Roger, she would welcome the fight. “Cassie made a good living as a nurse, but, as you mentioned earlier, there’s only a few thousand in her bank account. Roger is welcome to that. Let’s hope that satisfies him.”
Mr. Allison nodded. “You do not need to tell me what can or cannot be done with the family home. I am very aware of the circumstances surrounding the house, young lady. Your grandfather was a good friend of mine. I drew up that contract.”
Boy! Talk about pole-up-the-ass irritable! They have a syndrome name for it, in fact. Irritable bowel syndrome. Oh God! I can’t believe I am making psychiatry jokes with myself. Must be the thought of sudden motherhood. To FIVE children! I need a Valium, or a fast train out of town.
“Will you or will you not be taking responsibility for the children, Ms. Hart? It’s Friday afternoon. If you’re going to reject your cousin’s wishes, I need to contact social services.” Bradley pursed his lips and twitched his nose as if there was a foul odor in the room.
Miranda wasn’t ready to make that decision, and the old fart’s pressuring her didn’t help at all. “Argh! What woman chooses to have five children today, anyhow?” Miranda wondered aloud, not really directing her thoughts at anyone, least of all the judgmental lawyer. “My cousin Cassie always was a ditz. Any stray animal—dog, cat, bird, rabbit—found its way into her house. She and her family lived down the street from me in Cincinnati, and their home was like a zoo. Cassie’s mother, Aunt Mary, was just the same. Apparently, Cassie extended her bleeding heart to popping out children.”
Mr. Allison looked at her as if she were a species of smelly bug. “Be that as it may—”
“Who says ‘Be that as it may’?” she inquired meanly.
“Be that as it may, your cousin died. Her husband is in prison, and even if he weren’t, Cassandra did not want them to be in his custody. You might want to read this letter that Cassandra left for you before making a final decision.”
“Why didn’t you tell me there was a letter?” she asked coldly.
The lawyer shrugged. “I mistakenly thought you would do the right thing before reading the letter.”
She took the sealed envelope from him. “Do you know what’s in the letter?”
“I can guess.”
Oooh, she was developing a real dislike for the man. Turning away from the lawyer, she opened the envelope and unfolded the letter, which was dated a year ago.
Hey Mir:
If you’re reading this, I’m no longer around. Sorry we didn’t keep in touch more after college, but I always felt close to you when we did talk. I love you like a sister. Remember that time we did the blood oath thing
up in Willy Markle’s tree house? “Sisters to the End!”
Well, cousin, I need your help now. I have cancer. Looks like I won’t make it past another year. I know, I know, I should have talked to you about this. But it’s hard to admit that your life has been a huge mistake. Except for the kids, of course.
Suffice it to say, my asshole husband Roger is an abuser. The beatings started after Maggie was born. The usual pattern, violence followed by profound apologies and promises to never do it again. As a nurse, I should have known better.
Miranda stopped reading and turned to the lawyer, who was watching her from behind his antique lawyer’s desk, with his bony hands tented in front of his mouth. “The assault and battery that landed Roger in jail this last time—was it for beating Cassie?”
He nodded. “Broke an arm, cracked several ribs, and knocked out a tooth. He also hit Maggie so hard with a belt that it broke the skin on her back.” Mr. Allison glared at her, as if Miranda should have done something to stop the abuse. “Thankfully, we have a judge here in Ohio who has a low tolerance for wife abusers, and even less for men who hit children. He gave Roger Jessup the maximum of five years. With good behavior, Roger might be out in two or so years. You can see why the issue of the children needs to be settled before that.”
“No one ever told me,” she said defensively. “Cassie could have come to me at any time, and I would have helped.”
Mr. Allison arched his unruly white brows at her in silent recrimination. Like now? he seemed to be saying.
Miranda returned to the letter.
Even knowing that I have cancer, Roger’s rages haven’t let up. In fact, they seem to be getting worse. For the first time, last month, I called the police and had him put in jail. Aside from hitting me, he also lashed out at Maggie when she tried to intervene. He beat her with a belt. Can you imagine? The poor girl has scars. And he locked the twins—all four of them—in a closet. I fear the direction his rages might take in my absence if he did this when I was around. That is a travesty I will never allow. I should have stopped this horrible pattern long ago, for my children’s sake, if not my own.