by Sandra Hill
Her apartment was small at the best of times, but with three six-foot-four men built like tanks, well, a person could get claustrophobic.
“These are my brothers—” Ivak started to say.
“No kidding! Which one invented near-sex?”
The two brothers looked at each other, then at Ivak, then at her, before bursting out with laughter.
“Neither,” Ivak said, giving her a telling frown at her disclosing something private he’d told her. “Gabrielle Sonnier, these are my brothers Harek and Sigurd. Harek is a computer genius, and Sigurd is a physician.”
Surprised, Gabrielle reached out and shook both their hands. Too late, she realized that she was still wearing her PJs, and nonrevealing as they were, the situation must look intimate. “We were just having dinner,” she stumbled.
“And what’s for dessert?” Sigurd mumbled, but she heard him and scowled.
He just winked at her.
Without being asked, the brothers removed their cloaks, and Ivak did, too, belatedly. They hung them carefully on the coatrack near the door. Now Gabrielle understood why they wore them. There was enough weapon power under them to take down the Taliban. Swords, knives, guns, throwing stars, and other things she couldn’t identify. She arched her brows at Ivak.
“We like to be prepared,” he said with a shrug.
“For what? World War III?”
“Ah, the wench has a bite to her tongue,” the one named Harek remarked with a wink of appreciation at Ivak. As if Ivak had done something right.
“Wench? Listen, buster—” But the three men had opened the French doors and were out on her balcony, gazing diagonally across the street at the Anguish restaurant. In fact, one of them, Sigurd, had some fancy kind of binoculars raised.
“Bad! Very bad!” Sigurd concluded.
“I see at least two haakai, a couple mungs, and a bunch of imps and hordlings,” Harek said. He was the one looking through the binoculars now. “No sighting of Dominique, though. She’s probably in her dungeon. But wait, they don’t have basements in New Orleans. Her torture chambers must be above stairs.”
“Torture chambers?” Gabrielle gasped out.
“Have there ever been any sightings of snakes loose on your street, Gabrielle?” Ivak turned to ask her.
She was just inside the door. “Actually, yes. There was a cobra out on the sidewalk last week. The police figured it was a pet that got away from its owner.” Gabrielle hated snakes, and she shivered with revulsion.
As the three came back in and plopped themselves down, tightly, onto her couch, each elbowing the other to make room, Harek said, “You were right, Ivak. This would make a good place for us to set up a stakeout. From here, we can easily track Dominique’s comings and goings. I could have a dozen vangels here by morning.”
“Wait just a frickin’ minute,” Gabrielle said. “This is my apartment, and you aren’t moving anyone in here. I have one bed, and I’m going to be the only one in it.”
Harek and Sigurd looked to Ivak, who was in the center.
“I didn’t get a chance to explain it to her yet. I’d just told her to pack a bag when you knocked.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Explain what?”
“It’s too dangerous for you to stay here. I’m taking you to Tante Lulu’s house as a temporary solution. She’s already agreed to take you in. In fact, she said you can help her embroider some pillowcases for your hope chest, whatever that is.”
“Aaarrgh! I don’t think so!”
“Uh, I think Sig and I will go down to that pizza shop on the corner. We’ll be back in an hour,” Harek told Ivak.
Now that they were alone, Gabrielle turned on Ivak. “How dare you speak to anyone on my behalf? I’ve lived here for two years. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“You stubborn woman! Can you not be biddable without proof? No? So be it.” He stood and grabbed her hand, pulled her out the door and down the steps to the street door, across Dumaine, through an alley that ran beside the Anguish restaurant, then around to a back courtyard. They had moved so fast that Gabrielle could barely comprehend what had happened. One moment they were in her apartment, the next moment she was standing in some bougainvillea bushes behind the Anguish restaurant courtyard in her PJs and fluffy slippers.
She shrugged away Ivak’s arm when he attempted to pull her closer. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Just watch,” he whispered, “and keep quiet.”
She turned to look where Ivak was pointing and gasped. He immediately put a hand over her mouth and held her tightly in front of him, facing forward. Luckily, no one seemed to have heard her.
There were at least a dozen people . . . or creatures—she wasn’t sure what they were—moving about the courtyard and entering the building by way of stairs leading up not to the first floor, where the restaurant was located, but to a wide gallery and through big sliding metal doors on the second floor. They seemed to be carrying boxes inside, and bringing large trash bags outside. Some of them were extremely tall and covered with slimy scales, and they had tails. Tails! And red, glowing eyes. And, oh good Lord, fangs? Other smaller creatures were scurrying around creating chaos until one of the larger creatures swatted them into order.
But then she saw the most alarming thing. Several of the creatures, before her very eyes, morphed into regular people. A man and a woman, him dressed in what could be a hand-tailored suit with a red power tie and mirror-shined black wingtips, and her in a little black dress with stiletto heels and enough diamonds to support a small country. They were beautiful.
“I’ve seen enough,” she whispered to Ivak.
Once again, quicker than she could fathom, they were back in her apartment. She blinked several times, wondering if she had imagined the whole thing.
“No, you didn’t imagine that scene.”
“God! Can you read minds, too?”
“No, I just guessed by the expression on your face. Gabrielle, I swear, what you saw is what goes on behind the scenes at Anguish.”
“Who . . . what are they?”
“Lucipires. Demon vampires. Jasper is the leader, and Dominique, who owns Anguish, is one of his top commanders. There are torture chambers there, Gabrielle. Unspeakable things go on. You need to be away from here. It’s not safe.”
“You mean, I’ve lived two years with this danger on my doorstep?”
“Mostly you would be safe. Lucies . . . that’s our nickname for Lucipires . . . prey on humans who are in a state of mortal sin. They fang them and suck out their blood, causing them to die before their time, before they have a chance to repent. For others who are on the verge of some great sin, they fang them with a sin taint that causes them to grow more and more evil with their deeds; then, they, too, are killed. After that, they either go to Hell, or become Lucies. But that is not to say that you are not in danger. If you get in their way, they would kill you before asking questions. And . . .” He hesitated.
“What could be worse than what you’ve already told me, or that I’ve seen with my own eyes?”
Ivak exhaled whooshily. “They might come after you because they were thwarted in getting Leroy.”
“Whaaat?” she shrieked.
“Now, don’t get upset, but—”
“Don’t get upset? I’ve been nothing but upset ever since I met you.”
“—we recently discovered that some Lucies have infiltrated Angola, and one of them tried to fang Leroy.”
She started to hyperventilate, panting for breath.
“Wait, wait, wait . . .” he said, “Leroy is fine. I was able to override the sin taint.”
“Oh, that makes me feel better.”
“As you probably suspected, Leroy had been contemplating something very bad. He probably would have killed the convict who testified against him in the prison murder trial.”
She put both hands to her head and pulled at her own hair.
“I’ll keep an eye on him from now on.”<
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Gabrielle was reeling with shock. “I thought Angola was hell before, but this takes it to a new level.”
“My brothers and I are working to correct that situation.”
Which brought her to the most important question, one she was almost afraid to ask. “Who are you? I mean, how can humans fight those paranormal creatures?”
He forced her to sit down on the couch before answering. “Because we are not human. Not precisely.”
She felt as if her brain might explode. “What do you mean?”
“I am a vangel. A vampire angel. A Viking vampire angel, to be precise.” He smiled at that last addition as if it made what he’d said more palatable.
“I don’t believe this. I can’t believe this.” It was all too much for her to comprehend. Vampires roaming the world? Twilight in the French Quarter? Hell at Angola? What next?
He sat down beside her on the couch and pulled her into his embrace. “Trust me, sweetling. I will explain it all to you.”
She raised her tear-filled eyes. “Can you really help Leroy?”
“I can.”
“Then that’s all I need to know. For now.”
With those words, she fell into a dead faint.
That was how Gabrielle found herself later that night sleeping in a bed in a small cottage on Bayou Black, the snores of a ninety-plus-year-old woman coming from another bedroom, the sound of a gator growling outside her window, and a St. Jude nightlight providing a dim view of the room. Considering the kind of day she’d had, she was not surprised when she turned over and saw a blue feather lying on her pillow.
Eight
Wet dreams were either gifts from the gods, or else, just wet . . .
That night, for the first time in ages, literally, Ivak dreamed. And it was an erotic dream of the most intense proportions.
Ivak had no home of his own at the present time. He slept in an isolation prison cell, giving him a limited amount of privacy. His choice of quarters brought even more disapproval from the warden; Benton couldn’t understand why Ivak wanted to stay with the inmates when he could have a very nice room in the Ranch House, the place the warden used as a daytime residence and a place to entertain visitors; it was near the B-Line village that housed two hundred or so guard families. Ivak had souped up his cell accommodation to fit his needs . . . a better mattress, books on a shelf, a small flat-screen television, an mp3 player. Still, it was a cell.
The first years after his turning, his nightly dreams had been more like nightmares. Over and over and over, he relived his dastardly deeds that culminated in Serk’s suicide. His best friend’s face as he’d hung from the stable rafters featured in all of them.
Centuries and centuries of dreamless nights followed. His pattern thereafter was to sleep lightly and not for many hours at a time. Maybe, subconsciously, he was forestalling the return of the nightmarish retelling of his last human day on earth.
But now, this night, the dreams returned with a vengeance, and they were not nightmares by any definition. Oh, he knew about sleep peakings, what they called wet dreams in this time. Not that he’d experienced them all that much in his human life. Engaging in so much sex as he had then, when he’d fallen into bed, he’d been too sated to succumb to imaginary sleep sex.
It was that kiss with Gabrielle that was to blame, of course. And his suspicion that Gabrielle might be his destined mate.
He was standing in a room full of people. What they called a cocktail party in this country and time.
In walked Gabrielle. She wore the sleeveless red dress that Charmaine had worn this afternoon at the prison, except that it was different. On Gabrielle, it appeared to be a wraparound affair that hugged her abdomen down to a wide belt that cinched her small waist, curving outward over her hips down to her knees. The material molded her behind and her breasts, half exposed by a deep, plunging neckline. It was obvious she wore no undergarments. Sheer silk stockings enhanced her long legs, and her red high heels caused her body to arch seductively. Her lips were painted crimson, matching the dress.
Her dark hair curled from a pile atop her head, leaving bare her nape and the sides of her neck, tempting the vampire blood in him.
Ivak barely stifled a hiss of arousal. He closed his mouth to hide his emerging fangs.
But wait. She was with a man who wore a dark suit with a pristine white shirt and a tie. His face was turned away from Ivak, but then his identity did not matter. He had no business being with Ivak’s woman.
Jealousy raged inside Ivak like a green-eyed monster.
He surged forward, but invisible bonds held him back. He could not be angry about the restraints, reminding himself, belatedly, that he was a Viking . . . Ivak the Viking. He shouldn’t have to make an effort. Women came to him. He did not pursue them. Leaning back against the wall, Ivak watched. And waited.
The man took two stemmed wineglasses off a tray carried by a waiter and handed one to Gabrielle. To his chagrin, Ivak recalled an old adage the skalds were wont to quote. “Wine makes good women wenches.”
It better not, Ivak fumed. Not with another man.
Just then, as she sipped at her drink, Gabrielle raised her thick lashes and looked at him. A little Mona Lisa smile tugged at her lips.
The witch! She knew he was here and was enjoying his jealousy.
He definitely would not go to her now.
The man in the dark suit, his head averted from Ivak, led Gabrielle off to an alcove, directly across the room from Ivak. It was as if there were no other people in the teeming room where at least two dozen people chatted amiably, except for Ivak, Gabrielle, and the mystery man.
Gabrielle’s partner stood facing outward in the alcove, his face in shadows. Gabrielle stood in front of him, also facing outward. Framed by the arch, they resembled a picture. A moving picture, Ivak soon realized.
While she sipped at her wine, her dark eyes held Ivak’s gaze. And the man leaned down to lick the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder.
Gabrielle shivered and arched outward, which caused her breasts to press against the fabric of her dress. Even from this distance, Ivak could see the clear delineation of her nipples. At the same time, she tilted her head to allow the stranger better access to the delicious curve.
Ivak stiffened and pressed his shoulder blades against the wall behind him. His blood thickened and slowed. His cock swelled.
While he watched, the man set both glasses aside and reached under Gabrielle’s arms to lift her breasts, using his thumbs to strum the tips into even harder peaks. Gabrielle’s crimson lips opened slightly on a sigh.
She parted her thighs, balancing herself on high heels. Her rump was braced against the man’s thighs that were also parted into a widespread stance to cradle her hips.
The man slipped one hand inside the deep neckline of her dress and played with the bare skin of her breast. The other hand tipped her chin so that she was turned sideways for his kiss.
Blood sang in Ivak’s ears so he could hear nothing but his racing heartbeat. Fury gurgled up like a volcano about to erupt. But before he could act, Gabrielle was raising the hem of her dress inch by inch, exposing long, long legs that were like a two-lane highway to paradise. The lace tops on her thigh-high hose left a patch of bare skin above leading to the dark curls of her woman-fleece. To his amazement, and, yes, appreciation, she used her own fingertips to pleasure herself.
He saw the moment that her peak arrived because she was undulating her hips forward and backward against the man’s thighs.
Ivak’s enthusiasm rose and rose until, to his embarrassment, though no one seemed to notice, he spilled his seed inside his braies, like an untried youthling.
Only then did Ivak notice something extraordinary. The man behind Gabrielle glanced upward, staring at him.
The man was Ivak.
He awoke in his prison bed, the sheets damp with the evidence of his erotic dream.
Centuries of no dreams, then suddenly he dreamed, and his dreams i
nvolved this new woman. What did it mean?
Was Gabrielle intended for him?
Or some other man?
Was he destined to pursue her, to no avail?
Was he being shown what he could have, if only he did something or other?
Was Mike giving him a taste of paradise, just to pull it back in further punishment for his lustsome ways?
Ivak closed his eyes and hoped he would dream again.
Nothing came. Literally.
Where’s Simon Cowell when you need him? . . .
The biggest surprise of the day was not the arrival of Tante Lulu to help with the talent show auditions, along with another member of her presumably huge family . . . in this case, her nephew René LeDeux. Nor was it Warden Benton bending over backwards—a difficult task with his excess weight—trying to please these Cajun celebrities.
Ivak really did appreciate the proffered assistance from the LeDeuxs. It was a six-hour round-trip drive for Gabrielle to make her frequent visits to Angola from New Orleans, and about the same from Bayou Black. Nothing to be sneezed at. But the old lady had enlisted yet another nephew, Remy LeDeux, a pilot, to fly them here in a small plane he owned, then pick them up this afternoon.
No. Ivak’s biggest surprise was Leroy Sonnier and how helpful he was as his assistant now that he’d resigned himself to being in Ivak’s, or more precisely God’s, hands. Really, except for being an angel . . . sort of . . . Ivak didn’t consider himself a religious person, but Leroy had taken his words to heart. He was saved! And that meant he was sticking to Ivak like celestial glue. And being more than competent, truth to tell. Prison must have taught Leroy some skills, or more likely, he’d taught himself.
The only problem . . . well, one of the problems . . . was that Leroy had the mouth of a sailor . . . or a convict . . . and every other word was “motherfucking,” “goddamn,” “son of a fucking bitch,” “Jesus!” and numerous other expletives. Ivak had advised him to come up with some substitute swearwords, as he tried to do. “Holy clouds!” “Son of a troll!” That kind of thing.