The cancer will probably get me before Roger is released from prison. And so, dear cousin, I am asking you to please, please take care of my precious children. I know what a huge favor I am asking of you. An imposition of the highest order to your single lifestyle! Do it for love of me, please.
Your cousin,
Cassandra Hart Jessup
Single lifestyle? Did Cassie even remotely think I was so selfish as to choose my “single lifestyle,” whatever that is, over helping her? Miranda had tears in her eyes when she turned back to the lawyer. “Where do I sign?” she asked.
For the first time, the lawyer smiled at her. “You’ll never regret this decision, my dear.”
Miranda wasn’t so sure about that.
Two
In the year of Our Lord, two thousand and fourteen . . .
From cruiseship to casino, a vangel’s work was never done . . .
Mordr arrived at the castle shortly after dawn, in the year 2014, one thousand, one hundred, and sixty-four years since he had “died.” No one was up and about yet. Which was remarkable considering there were roughly seventy-five vangels in residence at any one time, and probably twice that number today with Mike flying in for a meeting, and, yes, Mordr meant that literally. Mike was the irreverent name the vangels gave to St. Michael the Archangel, their heavenly mentor.
There must have been hot times at the old castle last night if so many of the occupants were sleeping it off. Or the vangels might have been busy fighting Lucipires somewhere. Lucipires were Satan’s very own demon vampires, the reason for vangels’ existence here on earth. Wipe the Lucies out, and vangels could go off to their heavenly rewards. Presumably. One never knew what Mike would dream up next.
Guards patrolled the hundred acres surrounding the castle, of course. To keep out any Lucies that might stumble onto the so-far secret estate and any of the wacky townsfolk who were always sneaking around trying to take pictures of the “vampires” up on the hill. You’d think the photographers would be satisfied harassing the Amish in the area, who also abhorred picture taking.
Mordr was amazed at just how wacky the townsfolk were, but then what could you expect with a town named Transylvania? No, not Transylvania, Romania. This was Transylvania-frickin’-Pennsylvania, an economically depressed town that turned itself around five years or so ago by changing its name and jumping onto the vampire craze sweeping the country. A tourist trap of the vampire persuasion. Hah! Mordr would like to see some of these idiots have real fangs for a day. Then they’d know just how uncomfortable and unattractive they really were.
He parked his Hummer in the underground parking garage in the back, which had been his brother Vikar’s latest project here at the run-down castle he and his minions had been renovating the past few years. It was a never-ending job, which Vikar hated, which was probably Mike’s intent in assigning him here. Mike was all about pushing them beyond their comfort zones in the name of personal growth, or so he said, endlessly. Their brother Ivak was supposed to be renovating an equally run-down plantation house in Louisiana to be their southern headquarters, but apparently a snake problem was slowing him down. A big snake problem.
Mordr, ever vigilant to his surroundings, noted twenty-nine other vehicles parked in the underground garage. Vangels could teletransport, but they usually saved that for emergencies, like when rushing to aid a fellow vangel surrounded by a herd of Lucipires. It was important that vangels not call attention to their extraordinary skills, whenever possible.
Tapping in the codes on the security box, Mordr entered a steel-encased corridor. He walked quietly past closed doors that were once dungeons and wine cellars but were now padded-wall training rooms. There were also sleeping quarters, including large barracks-style ones for the younger vangels, those only a few hundred years old, unlike Mordr and his brothers, roughly twelve hundred years old, give or take.
When he entered the kitchen, he could smell coffee, even though no one was about. Lizzie, the cook, should be up soon. That was Lizzie Borden, the axe murderer. Now reformed, she wielded a sharp blade in a new fashion, cleaving meat and such. When she’d first arrived, one vangel had made the mistake of teasing her about her axe background; that vangel now had one less finger.
He went over to the massive coffeemaker, which had been set on an automatic timer, and poured a cup of the bitter brew. Sitting on one of many stools lined up before the pristine island that ran the length of the kitchen, he sipped at his coffee, just to occupy his time until everyone awakened.
Aside from the coffee, the smell of fresh fruit permeated the air, coming from the bowl of oranges, and apples, and bananas, and clusters of green and purple grapes in front of him. He plucked off one of the fat purple ones and popped it into his mouth, making a small sound of surprised pleasure at the succulent sweetness.
Ticking away the seconds was a new wall clock with a yellow smiley face in its center. Someone had a warped sense of humor around here. Surely not Lizzie, who wouldn’t know a smile if it hit her in the face. Not that Mordr was inclined to humor himself, but he didn’t surround himself with silly smiley faces, either. He could see how the ticking of the clock would be rather soothing, or irritating, depending on one’s mood.
The sun was just beginning to come up, peeping through the large windows, which looked out over a wide lawn leading to a gazebo. Someone had been doing some landscaping. Probably Vikar’s human wife, Alex. What Viking would ever waste space on such a frivolous structure, lest it was to store firewood for the cold winters in the Norselands?
He had hoped this peaceful atmosphere would calm his always fuming rage. Even after all these years, his berserkness lurked just below the surface, waiting for the least trigger to set him off. Modern people referred it as carrying a chip on one’s shoulder. In Mordr’s case, it was more like a boulder. It was a curse, really.
Vikar strolled in then, announcing his presence with a wide-mouthed, jaw-cracking yawn. “Hey, brother! You’re early.”
Mordr shrugged. “The sooner I got off that friggin’ boat, the better.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk!” Vikar clucked. “We are Vikings, Mordr. We grew up loving water and our longships. You have a dream job.”
“Pfff! Not my dream!”
“Remember the time you were assigned to those Quakers in Philadelphia. You in the midst of pacifists? Now, that was a flinch-worthy job for a berserker!”
Michael liked nothing better than putting the vangels in positions the opposite of the sins they had committed.
“Yea, I remember well. But you have suffered just as much. Like the time Mike forced you to prowl the poor streets of Britain as a leper. You wore ragged, stinksome garments, and even got lice. Folks made a wide path to get around you. Or when he made you a humble priest in a Russian monastery.” Vikar’s sin had been pride. Immense pride.
Vikar shrugged. “I still say a ship should be a welcome change for you. How would you like to be landlocked like I am here in the middle of nowhere, my arse tied to this moldering castle?” Vikar poured himself a coffee and scratched his belly as he leaned against the wall, watching him. Vikar was barefooted, wearing only a pair of sleep pants. Gone were the days when men were men and could walk about naked if they so chose in their mostly male keeps. Not that they subjected females, other than wives and concubines, to their nudity back then, either, unless they were drukkinn.
“First of all, I’m on a cruise ship, not a longship. Dodging every other minute the dozens of husband-hunting females.”
“You never fail to amaze me, Mordr. A Viking who dislikes women!”
“I did not say that I dislike women in general, but these are desperate females. A man likes to do the hunting, not be the hunted.”
“I do not know about that. In the old days, mayhap. Now, a little role reversal is not unwelcome, if you ask me.”
Mordr laughed. “Role reversal? You are becoming too modern by half.” Actually, Mordr was trying to steer the conversation in another direction. Unlike
most Vikings—bloody hell, unlike most men in general—Mordr did not like to discuss sex. Too close to a reality he avoided thinking about. Truth to tell, while his brothers and many of the vangels found their forced celibacy to be a hardship, Mordr did not have all that much interest in mating these days. That particular urge was overshadowed by the always simmering rage inside him. He feared he would hurt any woman he took to his bed. But if his brothers got even a hint of his “problem,” there would be jokes aplenty about his lance having lost its steel, or his candle having no wick. Which would probably cause him to go berserk and hurt one of them for the jest.
“By the by, where is your entourage of vangels?”
“Someone needed to stay behind to maintain my undercover security force there, and Mike didn’t precisely request their presence here. Only that of the VIK.” The VIK was an acronym for the seven Sigurdsson brothers, leaders of all the vangels. “Besides, they, unlike me, enjoy cruise ships.”
Vikar arched his brows.
“Efrim has developed a taste for bikini-clad women. Gissur is in the ship’s kitchen making caviar tarts fit for a king. Halveig sings like an angel as part of the shipboard entertainment. Teit has been showing off his talent on a high board, diving through a ring of fire. Haki is teaching a class on swordplay.”
“Sounds like they fit right in.”
“Like lackwit pegs.”
“Dammit, Mordr! I just noticed your paleness. Are there no sinners on those cruise ships?”
“Plenty,” he said, “but the hot Caribbean sun counteracts all the repentants I am fanging.”
A vangel’s skin changed from pale, even translucent, to a healthy tan after they saved human sinners, partaking a small amount of their blood, or when they destroyed (not merely killed) Lucipires.
Vikar opened the commercial-size refrigerator, taking out two cartons of Fake-O, the synthetic blood invented about fifty years ago by their physician brother, Sigurd, to supplement the needs of vangels. Mordr quaffed them down quickly, followed by several swallows of the hot coffee to kill the putrid taste. It was questionable which tasted worse. “Son of a troll! Could Sig not add some flavoring to this scum? Tastes like curdled piss!”
“Actually, some of the younger vangels have requested strawberry or chocolate Fake-O. Armod wants carbonation added, like Pepsi.”
Mordr gaped at Vikar to see if he was serious. He was.
“Can you imagine thickened, bubbling, slimy, Pepsi-flavored Fake-O?”
He and Vikar both shivered with disgust.
Speaking of the devil—uh, angel—Armod, a young Icelandic Viking with slicked-back, black hair, walked into the kitchen. Rather, he moonwalked into the kitchen.
Mordr was the one gaping now.
Vikar laughed as Armod gave them both a wave, mid-moonwalk, and went over to a cabinet where he pulled down a box of Froot Loops. He poured the sweet cereal into a bowl and covered it with milk. “Armod fancies himself Michael Jackson reincarnated. He moonwalks everywhere he goes about the castle, plays that ‘Thriller’ music ad nauseam, and wears his braies so short his white hose is exposed.”
“I’ve met Armod many times before,” Mordr reminded Vikar, “but I thought he would have outgrown this foolishness by now.”
“Hardly. In fact, he is gaining a following.”
Mordr shook his head at the image. “Really, Vikings moonwalking? Or rather angels moonwalking?”
“Don’t forget vampires.”
“You complain about your arse being tied to this moldering castle,” Mordr said, “but I would wager my best sword that your arse enjoys being tied to your wife’s bed, moldering castle or not.”
“There is that.” Vikar grinned.
“Can you imagine how much worse it would be if we were in the real Transylvania?”
Vikar made an exaggerated grimace. “I met Count Dracula one time when we vangels were still time traveling. He was one scary dude, and you know we Vikings are rarely scared.”
Dude? Vikar really is becoming too modern. “Speaking of scary, I heard a rumor that Mike is thinking about turning Ivan the Terrible into a vangel,” Mordr said, popping a few more grapes into his mouth and crunching loudly.
Just then, Lizzie came ambling into the kitchen. She wore the same Victorian gown she’d worn in Victorian times and carried a cleaver. For chopping meat, Mordr hoped. A half dozen kitchen ceorls followed after her.
Lizzie must have heard the tail end of their conversation because she muttered, “He better not send Ivan here. I have enough to do cooking for Vikings. I draw the line at learning Russian cooking.”
Vikar just smiled. “It’s just a rumor, Lizzie.”
“Besides, Ivan was no Viking,” Mordr pointed out, “and vangels thus far have been only Viking vampire angels.”
“Thus far.” Vikar homed in on just those words of Mordr’s. “Remember, Mike insinuated to Zeb last time he was here that, if he fulfilled his duties for another fifty years, he might make him a vangel. And Zeb is a Hebrew, a far cry from a Norseman.”
Zebulan was a Lucipire who acted as a double agent, so to speak, for Michael. Zeb had done some favors for Mordr’s brothers Trond and Ivak in recent years, which had apparently impressed Mike, not an easy thing to do.
Mordr and Vikar watched with fascination as Lizzie ordered her kitchen staff about with an authority that would do a Viking chieftain proud. “Alov, get four dozen eggs. Hove, five slabs of bacon and five pounds of sausage and no dawdling. Freya, start toasting and buttering bread. Torgny, whip up some of those biscuits you do so well. We’ll need ten quarts of orange juice. Someone start the juicer. Hurry, hurry, we don’t want to be eating when Michael gets here.” Soon, Lizzie was using her cleaver on the cutting board to expertly make thick, uniform slices of bacon, and the kitchen was being filled with delicious smells of cooking. “I forgot. Armod, go get that scrapple you and Mistress Alex bought at the Amish market. It would go good with syrup. You did buy a gallon of that good maple syrup, too, I hope.” Armod nodded, his mouth full of that sickeningly sweet cereal, and moonwalked off to do as he was ordered. They all did, except for the moonwalking, despite where they fell in the social strata of the castle. The lowest of them all, thralls, who were actually mere servants (slaves per se not being permitted in modern times) were rushing about setting placemats, dishes, and cutlery along both sides of the fifteen-foot island, working around Mordr and Vikar, and in the dining room. The vangels would eat in shifts, or fill their plates and go into other rooms, or outside.
Mordr’s brother Ivak, a minister of sorts in a Louisiana prison, strolled in, wearing rubber thong sandals, shorts, and a sleeveless muscle shirt over a clerical collar, which he best remove before Mike arrived. The archangel would not see the humor in the attire. Ivak saluted Vikar with his middle finger.
“I assigned him and his wife to different bedchambers last night,” Vikar explained with a grin. Another warped attempt at humor. Really, vangels had too much time on their hands.
To Mordr, Ivak said, “Welcome, Brother Grim. I have missed your merry countenance.”
Mordr started to rise to go after the fool, but Vikar held him back. “Temper, temper,” Vikar warned.
Laughing, Ivak went over to the stove, where he kissed Lizzie on the cheek. Eeew! Then, the fool snuck a piece of crisp bacon and popped it into his fool mouth.
Lizzie smiled.
“Did you see that?” Mordr asked Vikar. “In all these years, I have never seen Lizzie smile. I did not even know she had teeth. Well, except for fangs.”
Vikar shrugged. “Ivak always had a way with women.”
And a lot of good it did him, too. Ivak was guilty of the sin of lust. Not that he would be having lustsome thoughts about the old woman. Or would he? “Anyone else sneaking a bit of food risks her axe—rather cleaver—hitting a body part,” Mordr grumbled.
Just then, the sound of giggling could be heard coming from down the hall, soon followed by two little mitelings, Vikar and Alex’s “adopte
d” children Gunnar and Gunnora, who skipped into the kitchen. “Unca Mord!” the twins squealed as one.
What was it about children and dogs, that they always sought attention from people who favored them least, or were skittish around them? That is me. Skittish. Damn, damn, damn!
“Gun. Nora,” Mordr greeted them. Then, feeling trapped, he stood abruptly, knocking over his stool. His ears rang, and he felt light-headed as the little ones ran toward him, arms outstretched as they anticipated being swung high in the air, as all their uncles were wont to do. Except Mordr.
He swiveled on his boots and began to take long strides toward the back doorway.
“Why doesn’t Unca Mord like us?” he heard Gun ask his father in his little boyling voice.
Mordr’s heart, what was left of it, nigh broke, but he did not stop.
“Maybe he found out that you pick your nose,” Nora replied.
“Or that you cry like a baby when you fall,” Gun countered.
“Mordr!” Vikar called out with concern as he leaned down and took one child in each arm, lifting them up to his bare chest.
“Daddy, why don’t you have boobies, like Mommy?”
“Ask your mother,” Vikar advised with age-old male wisdom.
Mordr waved to Vikar over his shoulder, indicating he was all right. “I just want to check out the gazebo.”
Lackwit, lackwit, lackwit, Mordr berated himself as he walked around a huge hole in the backyard—another renovation project?—and sat on a gazebo bench, rubbing his face with both hands. When will I be able to bear being around children again? When will I stop seeing Kata and Jomar’s faces in every little person I come across? When will the pain of their loss end?
Vikar left him alone, thank God! And Mordr watched silently as more and more vangels awakened and went about their work, awaiting Michael’s arrival. He could hear Lizzie’s voice raised stridently as she continued to prepare breakfast for the horde. Laughter abounded as vangels who hadn’t seen each other in a long time got reacquainted.