by Sandra Hill
Yakov, a former Russian Cossack, was one of the high haakai demon vampires on the council headed by Jasper, king of all the Lucipires. Yakov’s home base was somewhere in Siberia, in a place called Desolation, a site Harek had not yet been able to locate, precisely, although he was close.
“That is unfair! I have destroyed many of Yakov’s minions and saved many of his victims during my exile. I have fought beside my brothers on every mission to which I’ve been called. My kill and save records are nothing to scoff at.”
“Exile, is it now?” Michael homed in on that one, insignificant part of what he’d said.
But Harek recognized immediately that his word had been ill-chosen, and he, whose intelligence was his greatest asset, was at a loss for a better word. What in bloody hell am I doing, arguing with an archangel? He could tell by the silence around him and the disbelieving expressions on his brothers’ faces that they were stunned by his audacity.
“As for your sudden emphasis on fairness,” Michael went on. “If life were fair, you would be roasting on a spit in that Other Place.”
“Sorry,” Harek murmured, and raised his chin, waiting for whatever punishment would be doled his way.
But then Michael smiled.
He is smiling.
At me?
When an angel smiled, a heavenly warmth enveloped the recipient. When an archangel smiled, an indescribable sensation of peace flowed forth. It was like a blessing.
Huh? Harek was confused.
“In truth, we are pleased with your work, Harek. Why else would I have summoned you to head this new mission?” He put a hand on Harek’s shoulder and squeezed. “Come. We have much to discuss.”
Dazed, Harek followed Michael into the castle, through the back doors leading into the massive kitchen (Lizzie’s domain), down a long corridor (sporting murals depicting angels, what else? Angels with cute little fangs!), past a dining room (that could seat fifty in a crunch), a chapel (with hard-as-stone pews and kneelers), an office (where Vikar pissed and moaned about all his work leading the vangels; like herding cats, he claimed), a computer center (Harek’s pride and joy), salons converted into family and television rooms (vangels had a lot of time to pass between missions; there probably wasn’t a G-rated movie they hadn’t seen, and, yes, R-rated ones, too, for their sins), then into the front, formal living room. His brothers and several of the more experienced vangels, like Karl, Svein, and Jogeir, followed after Harek and Michael. Chairs had already been set up in a half circle with a high-backed upholstered chair in its center.
Michael started the meeting in his usual manner, with a prayer. “Lord, bless and protect your warrior vangels as they embark on a new mission.” When they were all seated, Michael addressed Harek. “Are you familiar with Boko Haram in Nigeria?”
The Islamic extremists best known for abducting young girls for sex slaves and forced child brides. Harek nodded. This was his expertise. Intelligence information. Despite his living at the end of beyond, he had spotty Internet access to the latest news. He wished he’d been forewarned and could have gathered more data, but still he could say, “The terrorist cell Boko Haram, or BK, started as a religious insurgency movement fighting to make it ‘haram’ or ‘forbidden’ for Muslims to engage in any political or social activity associated with Western culture, like the education of girls, but it has escalated into a militant insurrection intent on atrocities, sometimes for mere shock value. It has been in operation for more than five years, but the mass kidnappings became one of their prime tactics a year or so ago. Despite worldwide condemnation, especially when they took captive almost three hundred schoolgirls from Chibok in Nigeria, they are getting stronger and bolder. Bombing towns, setting fire to huts and businesses, stealing animals and what little food there is, in essence making thousands of people homeless.”
Michael exchanged looks with some of the others, as if to say, That Harek! A walking encyclopedia, he is.
“What? Is intelligence a sin now, too?”
“Only when it is accompanied by greed. Do not be so sensitive, Harek,” Michael admonished. Then, “Cnut, tell us what you know. And, please, spare us the lecture.”
Cnut was their security expert, head of a company called Wings International Security. Most of the vangels held outside jobs—doctor, Navy SEAL, prison chaplain, whatever—as a front for those times when they were not involved in vampire angel business. Lately, Cnut had taken to a strange hairstyle, strange even for a Norseman, based on that Ragnar Lothbrok character on the History Channel’s popular Vikings series. It was shaved on either side of his head, with intricate braids forming a sort of scalp lock through the center, from forehead to nape and down to his shoulders.
But that was neither here nor there.
“I’ve been in Nigeria for the past few months, primarily around Maiduguri, and the tangos are amping up for an operation that might very well outdo the atrocities of the Chibok school attack.” Tango was a term they’d learned, and adopted, from their brother Trond, a Navy SEAL. It meant terrorist or bad guy. “Jasper is in the area and Lucies are infiltrating their ranks, right and left.”
That was news to most of them. Truly, the Lucies were like cockroaches; annihilate their nests in one area and they pop up in another. It wasn’t surprising, though, that Jasper would target such evil men. Hell, it might even have been Lucies who started the organization to begin with. Evil begets evil, or something like that.
Cnut set up an easel and put a large map of Africa on it that could be seen by all of them. “Everywhere you see an X indicates a place where an attack has taken place in the past two years. You can see how their range of operation is expanding. I’ve been able to pinpoint the location of some of their cells; those are indicated with a checkmark. There’s no main headquarters to target because they keep moving, especially in the dense Sambisa Forest area. But here’s the thing. They’re planning something big in the next few weeks. Really big. Possibly hitting the Global School in Kamertoon, where there are multinational students. It’s located halfway between the capital of Abuja and the Sambisa Forest. Or they could aim for several of the Global Schools for girls, located throughout Africa, all at one time. The Global Schools are particularly repugnant to Boko Haram because they’re privately owned by an American conglomerate.”
“What do you want us to do?” Harek asked.
“I’ll need help,” Cnut said, waving a hand around the room. “Even with the two dozen vangels I have there with me, it’s not enough. Initially, though, I think it should be a three-pronged effort. Harek, if you and your team would come back to Nigeria with me, I can familiarize you with the situation, firsthand. With your trusty laptop, you could probably get better intelligence than I could in half the time.” That was true. Harek knew more about computers than Bill Gates, if he did say so himself. “Then you’ll travel to Coronado, California, where you’ll be our link with Trond and the Navy SEALs.”
Trond, who was a member of those elite special forces, sat up straighter. Apparently, this was the first he’d heard of his involvement.
Harek frowned with confusion. “Why would we involve the SEALs?” Usually, vangels worked alone. There was always the danger of discovery. He could see the headline now, “Vampire Angels Help Navy SEALs Save the Day.” Or vice versa.
“It is not the job of vangels to save innocents,” Michael answered for Cnut. “Let the human heroes rescue those children who have been abducted or are about to be taken. Vangels will destroy the Lucipires and save any evil humans who choose to repent.”
“What makes you think the Navy will welcome any outside involvement?” Trond asked, looking at Cnut and Harek.
“Even the Navy will appreciate the intelligence Harek will bring them, hitherto unknown information about the terrorists,” Michael said. “It will be up to you, Harek, to imply that Wings works for the Nigerian government,”
“A lie? You are encouraging me to lie?” Harek inquired of the archangel, going for a bit of levity.
“Is Harek going to become a Navy SEAL, too?” Trond asked hopefully. “I can’t wait to see him go through Hell Week. He’ll probably puke his guts out the first time he’s put through drownproofing.”
“I do not think that will be necessary,” Michael said, frowning at Trond, too, for his teasing in the midst of a serious discussion. “As I said, Harek can be at the SEAL compound as a representative of a private security company with information on one of their targets . . . Boko Haram,” Michael explained. “In the past, before 9/11, SEALs operated mainly on their own, but with terrorism rising by the day, and not enough time to train a corresponding number of new SEALs, they have had to work with other special forces and agencies.”
“Other countries even send their best soldiers to train with us, to learn the Navy SEAL way,” Trond added. “So outside persons on the compound aren’t unknown.”
Harek nodded, and could feel excitement begin to pump through his veins. It was always an adrenaline rush when a new mission began. Besides, the climate in California was warm. Anything was better than freeze-your-arse Siberia. And maybe, if he completed this mission well, he would no longer be exiled. Maybe he would even be sent somewhere pleasant, like the Caribbean, where he had a hidden retreat, earned with his stock market winnings. Maybe the powers-that-be, i.e., Mike, would realize that his talents were better used far from the frozen north. Maybe he would even be permitted to form his own technology company, for the good of the vangel cause, of course.
He could swear he heard laughter in his head.
His head shot up, and sure enough, Michael was looking directly at him, his eyebrows arched.
On the other hand, maybe not.
Chapter 2
Roses are red, violets are blue, she stunk, all right, pee-you! . . .
Camille Dumaine was dragging her feet as she walked from the beach at the Coronado Navy SEAL training compound, her almost-thirty-year-old bones feeling every jarring step of her just completed six-mile jog in heavy boots on wet sand under a bright, ninety-degree California sun. Fun, fun, fun!
Didn’t help that she was sweating like a pig or that one of the swabbies in the newbie class had barfed all over her during “sugar cookies,” an exercise designed to punish. Also didn’t help that she heard a male voice call out, “Yo, Camo! The CO wants to see you.”
It was Trond Sigurdsson, whose Navy SEAL nickname was Easy. All SEALs got appropriate, and not-so-appropriate, nicknames when they first entered BUD/S training, Basic Underwater Demolition SEAL. Goose, Whiz, Stud, Dog, K–4, Geek, Spidey, Zombie, F.U., JAM, Slick. Trond, or Easy, was a mite lazy, known to always look for the easy way.
Same nicknaming was true of the elite WEALS, Women on Earth, Air, Land, and Sea, the sister unit to the SEALs, of which Camille was a charter member, two years of training and five years on duty now. Thus Camille’s nickname of Camo, which wasn’t a play on her name, or not totally, but was based on her ability to camouflage herself, no matter the setting. Being invisible in a crowd could be invaluable for a special forces operative, male or female, she’d learned on more than one occasion. It was one of the prime reasons she’d been recruited to begin with.
A chameleon, that’s what she would put on her résumé, if she had one. Who knew, growing up in New Orleans’s upscale Garden District, that being of average height and weight, with plain brown hair and eyes, and just a touch of Creole coloring in her skin, would be such an asset? Certainly not her, and definitely not her father and mother, Dr. Emile Dumaine and Dr. Jeannette Dumaine, world-renowned professors of Southern studies at Tulane University and authors of numerous books on the subject, or her overachieving brother, Alain Dumaine, who was a NASA rocket scientist—(No kidding! There really are rocket scientists.)—currently teaching at Princeton University. But she had learned early on that, with the aid of makeup, clothing, a wig, even something as simple as posture or hand gestures, she could change herself into whatever she wanted to be. (Honest, Mother, I wasn’t in the French Quarter after midnight. You heard the police description of those underage kids, “drunk as skunks.” And they thought one was me? Blond, six foot tall, boobs out to here. Ha, ha, ha.)
“I need to shower first,” she told Easy.
“I think Mac means now. They’ve been holding off the meeting ’til you got back from your run.” He sniffed the air and took a step back, even as he spoke, and then grinned. Easy knew well and good that SEALs and WEALS had to work just as hard, physically, after they’d earned their trident pins, to keep in shape. Smelling ripe was not so unusual. “The more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in battle” was a familiar mantra. “Just make sure you stand downwind,” Trond suggested.
A meeting? He mentioned a meeting? She went immediately alert. Rumors had been circulating for weeks about a new mission. One that involved taking down those African scumbags who had been kidnapping young girls for sex slaves. Boko Haram, or whatever terrorist-du-jour group felt compelled to perform atrocities for some self-professed higher good. Camille felt passionately about what was being done to these innocent children in the name of religion, and she wanted in on this mission. Partly she was infuriated by a women’s rights issue, but it was also her history as a Creole that fueled her fire. Camille’s great-grandmother many times removed—her namesake, actually—had been “sold” at one of the famous pre–Civil War Quadroon Balls when she was only fifteen.
She watched as another man joined Easy. The similarities, and the differences, between the two men were immediately apparent. Both were very tall, probably six foot four, lean, and well muscled, but whereas Easy’s attire—athletic shorts, drab green SEAL T-shirt, and baseball cap, socks, and boondockers—said military to the bone, this guy wore a golf shirt tucked into khaki pants with a belt sporting an odd buckle in the shape of wings, designer loafers without socks, and a spiffy gold watch. Whereas Easy looked as if he was about to work the O-course, the other man carried an over-the-shoulder, high-end, leather laptop case, more suited to Simi Valley. The most dramatic difference was between Easy’s dark high-and-tight haircut, and the new guy’s light brown hair spritzed into deliberate disarray. The pale blue eyes they both shared were the gravy on this feast for the eyes.
Camille wasn’t drawn to overendowed men, especially ones who were so vain they moussed their hair in the morning, especially since she worked in testosterone central where muscles were the norm, but holy moly! This man, probably no more than thirty, was the epitome of sex on the hoof.
She licked her lips and forced herself to calm down. I look like hell, she reminded herself. On a good day, this superior male specimen wouldn’t give me a passing glance. After three failed near-marriages, I do not need another complication. Wash your mind, girl. While I’m at it, I better check to make sure I’m not drooling. “Your brother, I presume?” she said to Easy.
“How could you tell?” Easy said with a laugh. “Camo, this is my brother Harek Sigurdsson. Harek”—he nodded his head in her direction—“this is Camille Dumaine, the female Navy SEAL I told you about.”
Why would Easy be discussing me with his brother? Definitely not proper protocol for secretive special forces members to be made known to civilians, even a family member. And why do the SEALs continually refer to the WEALS as female SEALs, as if they aren’t a powerful force on their own? So irritating! She frowned at Easy, who just grinned. The idiot! Even if he was married to a fellow WEALS member and a good friend of Camille’s, Nicole Tasso, his charm was wasted on her.
His brother, on the other hand . . . whoo boy!
She took the hand that Harek extended to her as he said, “I’ve heard so much about you that—”
They both froze, extended hands still clasped. A sensation, like an electrical shock, except softer and coming in waves, rippled from his fingers into hers, then rushed to all her extremities. It was like having world-class sex without all the
bother.
“What is that odor?” Harek asked, as if stunned.
Talk about an instant lust destroyer! “Vomit,” she disclosed.
He shook his head. “No. Roses.” He closed his eyes, leaned forward slightly, and inhaled deeply. “Hundreds and hundreds of roses.” Turning to his brother, he asked, “Can’t you smell it?”
“Are you demented? She smells like she’s been rolling in . . .” Easy’s voice trailed off as something seemed to occur to him. “The mating scent! Finally! You’ve been bitten! Oh man! Oh man! Mike swore a moratorium on any more human mating. I can’t wait to tell Vikar and the others.”
“No! That’s impossible!” Harek stared at her now like she was some strange, repulsive creature. And what was it with those slightly elongated incisors of his? She hadn’t noticed them at first. Not that they looked bad. It was just that today, with all the modern orthodontics, folks, especially male ones pretentious enough to get designer haircuts (she would bet his cost at least a hundred dollars at some high-priced unisex salon), would have corrected the imperfection.
“What scent? What bite?” Did he say something about mating? Human mating? Huh? As compared to nonhuman mating? And mating crap? Is that code for sex? “Oh hell! I don’t have time for this nonsense. I need to see what the CO wants.” She tugged her hand out of Mr. Sexy’s continued clasp and was about to walk away.
Easy, who had been bent over laughing, raised his head and said, “ ’Tis the musk men and women in my, uh, family give off when they meet their destined life mates.”
Well, that was clear as mud, especially since Harek was muttering, “No, no, no! Not now. Not her! I just got back from Siberia. I haven’t thawed out yet.”
“You come from Siberia? Nobody comes from Siberia.”
“Well, I came from Siberia originally, by way of Pennsylvania, and then Nigeria . . . all those -ia places.”