There were quite a few Amish farms in this region, but the plain folks kept mostly to themselves.
Soon, Cnut approached the town itself where a billboard announced:
WELCOME TO TRANSYLVANIA, PENNSYLVANIA
DRACULA’S OTHER HOME
(themed restaurants, lodging, and entertainment)
The poster was illustrated with a picture of Ben Franklin sporting fangs and a black cloak, leaning against a Liberty Bell, bats flying overhead. The usual kitschy caricature of vampires.
Cnut had left his black cloak at home, but he did have an ample supply of specially treated knives, a switchblade sword, a pistol, and the like under his black leather jacket. You never knew when you might run into a demon vampire. The castle here in the Pennsylvania mountains being a vangel headquarters had remained a secret so far from the Lucipires. The townfolk thought they were vampire wannabes planning to open a castle hotel eventually once the building restoration was complete, which might be never. Vikar further played on this idea by self-proclaiming himself Lord Vikar, as if he were some friggin’ royalty just slumming it in the Pennsylvania hills.
In any case, Cnut fully expected Jasper, fallen angel and king of the Lucipires, to show up with his cohorts any day. The VIK, composed of Cnut and his brothers, were prepared for that eventuality, and, in fact, were already spreading themselves out into secondary command centers in Louisiana, Key West, and a Caribbean island, taking with them the more than five hundred vangels working under them.
Cnut drove slowly through the main street of Transylvania, where most of the businesses were still asleep. They would be teeming with visitors in an hour or two, this being the summer tourist season.
He always smiled when he saw what the town had to offer in terms of vampire-abilia. Shops sold an array of black cloaks, fake fangs, vampire stakes that did double duty as tomato plant supports, bottled blood aka red Kool-Aid, and T-shirts with logos that were sometimes creative, to say the least. “Fangs for the Memories” was one of his favorites, along with “Bitten But Not Beaten.”
Garlic was sold everywhere, lots of garlic, which was known in these parts as Smelly Roses. Though where anyone got the idea that garlic repelled vampires, Cnut had no idea. Probably some medieval farmer with a surplus of the crop and a vivid imagination for marketing. Cnut personally liked a good garlic pesto on his pasta. Or garlic lime chicken. Garlic mashed potatoes. Garlic marinated filet mignon. Garlic shrimp linguine. Who was he fooling? He liked food, period, and while he didn’t overindulge these days (well, hardly ever), he had become a Food Network fanatic. His secret pleasure. Other men glommed porn or ESPN. He glommed Iron Chef and Chopped and Barefoot Contessa. It was like those priests who self-flagellate as a penance, such as the nutcase cleric in The Da Vinci Code. Yes, I watch way too much TV. Cnut tortured himself watching Bobby Flay barbecue ribs (pun intended) or Ina Garten whip up a crème brûlée (another pun intended).
Not to be outdone by the shops, the restaurants and bars in Transylvania displayed names like Good Bites, Blood and Guts, Vlad’s Vittles, Fangy Foods, Suck and Suds, Drac’s Hideout. He noticed a new one that must have opened since he was here last, called Whips and Cuffs, offering Fifty Shades of Blood (Cocktails).
He stopped at a red light, and his bike idled with a va-room, va-room that seemed overloud in the quiet street. Two young women in waitress uniforms glanced his way, then gaped. Leather did that to some women, or motorcycles. Then again, it might be the Ragnar Lothbrok hairstyle he’d adopted the last year or so, worn by that character in that History Channel show The Vikings during the first few seasons. Shaved on the sides, with triple dark blond braids interwoven together from his forehead to his nape, then tied off with a leather thong to hang down his back. His brothers mocked the fashion as some weird form of vanity, but it was more a case of efficiency on his part. It kept the hair out of his face, always a good thing for a fighting man, which he was, and, frankly, it suited him, dammit. No different than the war braids Viking men of old wore, framing both sides of their faces, ofttimes intertwined with crystal beads or fine jewels. Leastways, that’s what he told himself.
He gave a little nod of acknowledgment to the women, no more than twenty. Practically children to this old man. One of them giggled. The other pointed a forefinger at him, then herself, then crossed that forefinger with the one of her other hand and raised her eyebrows at him in invitation. No way when he was about to be raked over the coals by Michael! He just smiled and eased off as the light changed.
He drove out of town, then up the mountain road that led to the castle. New electronic gates had been installed, and he tapped in the code on a secure app he’d downloaded onto his cell phone. Soon he was approaching the castle itself, which was, as always, a work-in-progress. It appeared as if something was being done on the fourth-floor windows, maybe reglazing of the old glass. He drove around the side of the massive structure to the back courtyard where he could have entered the underground garage, but a note had been tacked on the door, “Lot Full, Park Outside.”
So everyone must be here already. Probably arrived last night. His own dozen vangels who were stationed with him in Philadelphia would be here by noon, their presence not required until after the morning session.
He glanced around the back area of the castle, which at one time had been nothing but a cobbled courtyard but now held an in-ground swimming pool, bathhouse, gazebo, patio, and other luxuries that Cnut found hard to believe Michael had approved. Vikar, at least, was living the good life, or so it seemed. Unlike Cnut, who lived in a Philadelphia row house, the first floor of which housed his company, Wings International Security; the second floor, his austere two-bedroom apartment; and the attic, dorm-style living for his vangels.
The first person he saw when he went inside was Lizzie Borden—yes, that Lizzie Borden—who gave him a fangy smile of welcome as she bustled about, beginning to prepare the morning meal for what must be a virtual army in residence at the moment. A half-dozen, sleepy-eyed young vangel women did her bidding, pulling hams, eggs, bacon, and such from the commercial-size fridge. It was going to be a banquet by the looks of the two enormous gas ranges, where various meats and potatoes sizzled, including some of the Amish or Pennsylvania Dutch specialties of this region, like scrapple and blood sausage. A feast fit for a king, or at least an archangel, right hand of the King.
Cnut grabbed a carton of Fake-O while the door was open. The synthetic blood invented by his brother Sigurd tasted like curdled horse piss, but it sufficed to satisfy the vangel need for the real thing in between missions. He chugged it down with a shiver of distaste, followed by long swig of bottled water, then tossed both empty containers into a trash bin. When Lizzie’s back was turned, he grabbed several crisp bacon strips that were draining on a paper towel–covered platter and popped them into his mouth. Delicious. Before he realized what he was doing, the plate was half empty. He reached for more, then caught himself. No, no, no. Must resist temptation.
He made his way toward the family room, where he could hear a television playing. Cartoons. The children must be up. You’d never know vangels were sterile by the sounds of youthling chatter. Actually, most everyone was up by now, he realized, as he passed and spoke briefly to vangels in the dining room, the chapel, the front and side parlors, the computer room, and Vikar’s office. Obviously, Michael was not yet here.
He was shrugging out of his leather jacket in the hallway when he noticed Regina leaning against the wall, arms crossed over the bosom of a loose, floor-length gown which failed to hide her voluptuous form. Her silver-blue eyes, same as all the vangels, gave him a quick head-to-toe survey. “Holy freakin’ fangs, Cnut! I can’t decide whether you look like a rock star or a lackwit vain Viking compensating for a wee wick. Just because you can now fit into leather braies does not mean you should.”
“They’re not leather. They’re black denim.”
“You may as well tattoo BADASS on your forehead. I could do the job for you with my trus
ty rusty needle,” she offered.
A low growling noise escaped his throat.
She sneered with satisfaction, having annoyed him as she’d no doubt intended.
Cnut flashed his fangs at her.
Regina flashed hers back at him.
“And who do you think you’re fooling in that nun garb?” he countered. “Everyone knows you’re more slut than saint.”
“Everyone knows nothing,” she snapped back.
Cnut deliberately banked his temper. Best not to rile Regina too much. She was, or had been, a witch in her human life, and she’d been known to throw a curse out with less provocation than the foolish insult he’d just hurled at her, ofttimes at a Viking’s “wee wick.” With exaggerated politeness, and one hand placed discreetly over his crotch, he said, “My apologies, m’lady.”
“Bullshit, m’lord,” she replied succinctly.
“Witchy wench!” he muttered.
He heard laughter behind him and saw that Vikar had emerged from the office and overheard his conversation.
Regina laughed, too, his “wee wick” was relieved to note, and walked away, hips swaying.
Vikar shook his head at Cnut. “You know she just loves to bait you.”
“And succeeds,” Cnut agreed.
Vikar motioned him into his office, where Trond was sitting in a side chair, wearing a U.S. Navy T-shirt and jeans, his long legs extended and crossed at the ankles. He cradled a mug of what Cnut assumed was coffee in his hands. Cnut should have grabbed one himself while he’d been in the kitchen scarfing up smoked boar strips aka bacon. Trond grinned and said, “Hey, bro! Still channeling Ragnar Lothbrok, I see.”
“Definitely.” He was not going to rise to another bait. Even so, he remarked, “Still channeling Rambo, I see.”
“Definitely,” Trond said with a grin. He was a Navy SEAL.
“I noticed that Ragnar shaved his head in later seasons of The Vikings.” Vikar arched his brows at Cnut.
“No, I am not going to shave my head.” Bloody hell! Did his brothers have naught to do but discuss his hair? Cnut sat down in the other chair. “So what’s new?” he asked both of them. “Any word on what Mike has on the agenda for today?” Mike was the rude name the vangels had adopted for Michael. Not to his face, of course.
“Not a clue,” Trond said.
The annual Reckonings were held to keep all the vangels in line, to tally up all their good deeds and bad ones, and reevaluate their penances. Usually, that meant more years added on to their original sentences. Being Vikings, they found it hard to be good all the time. Thus, it was no surprise that the original seven hundred years was now well over a thousand for all of them. They’d probably be vangels until the Apocalypse.
But, in addition to the individual evaluations, there was usually some big announcement. It started four years ago when Michael revealed they would be staying in the present, not bouncing back and forth through time, as they had in the past. One day a gladiator, another they could be a Regency gentleman, or a Civil War soldier, even a Greek Olympian. Once Cnut had even ridden with William the Conqueror. And Mordr, guilty of the sin of wrath, had fought against Genghis Khan. Now there was a Rambo, if there ever was one!
Last year, Michael told them that more new vangels would be created and trained in light of the increasing evil in the world, aka Lucies, the vangel nickname for Lucipires. Cnut had no idea what the exact number was by now. He would have to ask Vikar, later.
“Mayhap Mike will bring Gabriel and Raphael or some of the other archangels to help, and mayhap it will be just a cursory review of our sins, and mayhap this will be an unusual Reckoning. Fun.” It was Trond offering this optimistic view.
Cnut and Vikar looked at him as if he was barmy.
“Or mayhap not,” Trond conceded.
Just then, there was a strange, flapping sound outside, overhead in the skies, like thousands of geese flying north for the winter. Except this was July. And there was no honking. Just an ethereal silence and an incredible—you could say heavenly—fragrance filling the air.
It was Michael and he must have brought an entourage to help with the Reckonings. He walked in, leading a procession of white-robed angels, wings closed but stray feathers fluttering in their wake. Not Gabriel and Raphael this time, but other archangels of equal stature. They were an impressive sight, but none had the presence of authority that Michael had. With a mere lift of his hand, the angels scattered in different directions to set up “confessionals,” or rather private spaces where they could interview each of the vangels individually.
At least it was not being done in a communal setting, as it had been in the old days, but then their numbers had been much smaller. The brothers had learned a whole lot more about each other than they ever wanted to know when their sins were disclosed in front of one and all. In fact, that was the first time that Cnut had learned that his brother Ivak, the lustsome one, could . . . well, never mind.
Michael nodded to Cnut and the others in greeting as he passed. Suddenly, he paused and sniffed the air, “Do I smell bacon?” The archangel gave Cnut a head-to-toe survey, as if checking for extra poundage.
Cnut sucked in his stomach.
“Busted!” Trond whispered to him, under his breath.
“Bite me!” he muttered back.
Michael heard and gave Trond a full-body examination as well, checking to see if his laziness had come back and he might not be working as hard as he should. As if that were possible in SEALs training where the motto was “Pain is your friend.”
Trond blushed, and his body went military straight under the saintly perusal.
Cnut felt his own face heat up, as well. Being singled out at a Reckoning was not a good thing.
With a grunt of disgust—everyone knew Michael was not overfond of Vikings—the archangel went directly to the front salon where folding chairs had been set up in a circle with a wingback chair at one side, much like a throne. Michael sat and waited for each of them to be seated. Idiots that they were, they all scrambled to be farthest away. All seven were there, the leadership of brothers known as the VIK: Vikar, Trond, Ivak, Mordr, Sigurd, Harek, and himself.
Then, Michael said, “Greetings from the Lord.”
They bowed their heads at that gift.
Vikar spoke up then, “Would you like coffee or refreshments before we start? Lizzie is cooking up a storm. Even those buttermilk biscuits you favored last time you were here.”
“They were heavenly. Manna, truth to tell. But no, thank you. We can partake at the mid-morning break.” He looked at each of them, individually, and it was as if he could read their souls. Not a comfortable feeling. They all squirmed in their seats.
“Let us start with a prayer.”
Seven heads bowed.
“God bless this gathering of thy loyal subjects. Help us to know Thy path in fighting the evil Lucipires and in curing our own sinful natures. Thou art truly the light in a world of darkness. Enlighten and strengthen us. Amen.”
“Amen,” they repeated after him.
“Now, let us start with you, Vikar. How is your family? Have you finished training those last vangels I sent you? How is the castle restoration coming?”
“My family is fine,” Vikar answered. “My wife, Alex, is a writer, as you know. She wants to write a children’s book about a naughty Viking angel, if you approve.”
Michael raised his eyebrows at that. “I will discuss the project with her later today.”
“Gunnar and Gunnora are thriving. Both of them can read now, and they have prepared a special song for you, if you have time to listen this afternoon.”
“I will make time.”
“Our numbers of vangels are now up to seven hundred and fifty, spread across the world, and twenty still in training. Sadly, that is not nearly enough. Jasper’s minion troops are growing. According to Zeb, they are flourishing with the rise in terrorism, perhaps even causing it. And he is about to appoint several more haakai to his high command, re
placing Dominique and Haroun who were sent to their final hellish rewards. Zeb says these replacements are a most evil lot.” The Zeb referred to was Zebulan the Hebrew, a Lucipire double agent who had hopes of one day becoming a vangel.
Trond was next. He and his wife, Nicole, were Navy SEALs in Coronado, California. Well, Nicole was in WEALS, Women on Earth, Air, Land, and Sea, a female equivalent of SEALs. Trond spoke of the special forces’ efforts to combat terrorism. In many ways, the vangels and SEALs were the same, increasing their ranks in a seemingly endless fight against tangos, or bad guys.
“And how is our Southern headquarters coming?” Michael asked Ivak.
Ivak, who was stationed as a chaplain at Angola Prison—an irony since he was guilty of the sin of lust—was married to lawyer Gabrielle Sonnier, and they had a son, named Michael. Something that was never supposed to happen since vangels were sterile. (Yes, Ivak, the world-class suck-up, had named his son after the archangel.) Vikar and Alex’s children were “adopted,” so to speak. Like Vikar with the endless renovations to the Pennsylvania castle, Ivak was restoring a rundown plantation in Louisiana.
“Can anyone say ‘snakes’?” Ivak said. “The snake problem halted our progress for a while, but I hired a snake catcher, and we are moving along now. Some people down there claim there are one thousand species of snakes in the world, and nine hundred and ninety-nine of them live in Louisiana,” he joked.
No one laughed, having heard that exact complaint hundreds of times already.
“Anyhow, the former slave quarters are now remodeled into apartments, and I should be able to house a hundred more vangels by the end of summer,” Ivak went on.
“And not soon enough,” Sigurd exclaimed. Their physician brother was retrofitting a Key West island hotel into a hospital for sick children, a front for another vangel headquarters. “We are so crowded on Grand Key Island, some of the vangels are having to sleep on boats.”