Kiss of Pride

by Sandra Hill

  “Whoa! The only taste you’re going to get is of the mace I’m going to blow your way.”

  “A gun and mace? What are you, some kind of bounty hunter?” He was fairly certain she referred to the eye-blinding substance, not the medieval ball and chain weapon. So he put both hands up in mock fear.

  She made a snarling sound and was already digging into a briefcase-style purse the size of a boar’s behind. As she bent forward, he relished the sight of her reddish-blonde hair falling forward out of the knot at her nape. He also relished the sight of the cleavage exposed under her flimsy upper garment, a wisp of flesh-toned silk and lace. “Ah, here it is.” She held up a pocket-size canister that might fell a dwarf, but not a man his size, and certainly not one with his supernatural makeup.

  He tried but failed to hide his grin. “Blow away, but the only effect it will have is to make me sneeze. You do not want to see a vampire angel in a sneezing fit. Last time my fangs turned my lower lip into bloody pulp, and feathers flew everywhere.” That was not quite true, his not being winged yet, but exaggeration was a God-given Viking prerogative, in his opinion.

  “Angel?” she scoffed. “First you’re a vampire. Now an angel. I can’t wait to hear what else you claim to be.”

  “Viking.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m a Viking vampire angel. A vangel. My six brothers and I, Norsemen to the bone, are called The Seven, or the VIK. I am the oldest, but not by much. We seven are leaders of the vangels.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Are journalists usually so cynical . . . and rude.”

  She blushed. “No. I apologize. Let’s start over here. I’m Alexandra Kelly, World Gazette magazine.” She extended her hand toward him.

  “And I am Vikar Sigurdsson.” He shook her hand, but only lightly, fearing a recurrence of the erotic current that flowed betwixt them. “I mean you no harm, that I do swear.” He placed a hand over his heart for emphasis.

  She studied him for a moment, then set her canister on the desk that was piled high with bills and account books and wallpaper samples, a Bible, and two empty bottles of Fake-O. Cobwebs hung from every corner. Apparently, she’d decided he was no longer a threat. “How come you’re being so open now, when a few minutes ago you were refusing my interview?”

  I have no idea. “Because I saw the fang marks on your neck.” Maybe Mike has put a motor on my tongue now.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Enough! There was no way to convince this woman that he needed to suck out a bit of her blood to test for a demon infection. No quick way, leastways. And time was of the essence.

  So, with a speed faster than any human could comprehend, he grasped both her wrists and held them behind her back with one of his hands, his hips propelled her back against the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and his other hand grasped her chin, forcing it to the side so that her neck lay open to him. With a reflexive hiss of anticipation, his fangs came out and he sank his teeth into her skin where she’d already been bitten.

  He’d done this hundreds of times before. He could do it in his sleep. He could do it and recite the Poetic Edda in his head. He could be cool, calm, and as collected as any Viking vampire angel in the midst of a fanging. But this was different, he recognized instantly.

  The taste of her washed over him like a tidal wave. His cock shot up without warning and he went lance hard without any forewarning. It was a thickening so exquisitely orgasmic that he felt his knees begin to buckle.

  Jerking backward, he released his hold on her and put the back of his hand to his mouth, rubbing. Staggering to the other side of the desk, he plopped down to the swivel chair to hide the continuing erection that tented his shorts, the thigh-length braies men wore here in the summer months.

  At the same time, she appeared more stunned than angry, although the anger was sure to come. Gingerly picking up a dirty tunic from another chair, she dropped it to the floor before sitting down to stare across the desk at him.

  “Who are you?” they both asked at the same time.

  Was that arousal hazing her green eyes? Was she feeling as shocked as he was? And why, after being dead for one thousand, one hundred and sixty-two years, was he being sucker-punched with this kind of temptation?

  Mike, he immediately thought. Again.

  On the other hand, what if the fiendish Jasper, head of all the demon vampires, had a hand in this? What if this reddish-blonde vision was actually a Lucipire? Hmm. He would have to tread carefully. At least the pole between his legs was unthickening.

  “I am Vikar Sigurdsson,” he repeated. I sound like a dumb dolt. “You ask who I am. I am the owner . . . um, developer of this property.” Well, that was true. To a point.

  “And a vampire?”

  The smirk on her face was not pleasing to him. Not at all.

  Still, he advised himself, tread carefully. “Not precisely. The word vampire implies dark. Evil. I am neither of those.”

  She arched her pretty reddish-blonde brows in question.

  “I am a Viking vampire angel. A vangel, to be precise.” Betimes honesty was the best policy. She’d never believe him anyhow.

  “I notice you’ve put your fangs away.”

  Vikar felt himself blush. “I only go fangy on occasion. We Vikings are vain about our appearance.” He shrugged as if he could not help himself.

  “Do you ever turn into a bat?”

  He shivered with distaste. He hated the ugly buggers.

  “Do you even have wings?”

  “Not yet.” Probably never.

  “And you drink blood.”

  “Anything red will do,” he joked.

  “So, a vampire and a Viking. I guess instead of going a-Viking, you go a-vamping.” The snide tone to her voice betrayed her disbelief. She must have realized how impolite she sounded for a person requesting a favor . . . an interview. “Sorry. Sometimes I have trouble suspending disbelief. Seriously, though, what’s going on here?”

  “Seriously, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “Are you a Lucipire?” he blurted out.

  “Huh? No. I already told you my name is Alex.”

  “Lucipire is the name for one of Satan’s vampires. You know, fires of Hell, burn and sizzle, and all that.”

  “Sizzle? Hah! Don’t blame me for the sizzle between us. I didn’t create this fire. That’s your magic crap.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, realizing how once again she’d failed to rein in her tongue.

  But sizzle? She feels the sizzle, too. Her blood is on fire for me. Oh, I am in big trouble. “Lucipire. L. U. C. I. P. I. R. E.”

  Her face turned a lovely shade of beet.

  “A demon vampire.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You people in this town really do take this whole vampire charade a bit too far. I understand why. The tourist attraction and all that. But I’m not writing a promo piece for you in my magazine. If you’re not going to be straight with me, you’re wasting both our time. And, frankly, I don’t appreciate your biting me, either.” She put a hand to the bite mark on her neck, but the way she rubbed it was almost a caress.

  Which caused the air to crackle again and ripples of electricity to shoot right to . . .

  Down, thickening! Down!

  All right, so maybe she wasn’t in league with the devil. But how much information could he trust her with? On the other hand, she said Mike had sent her. Besides, there wasn’t any way he could let her leave after having tasted her blood. She’d definitely been infected. He had work to do on her if she was to be saved.

  “You’ve been bitten by a Lucipire, not a mosquito. That’s why I had to sample your blood, to evaluate the extent of your infection.”

  “Oh please . . .” she started to say.

  He held up a halting hand. “The Lucipire must have been interrupted in the midst of feeding on you.” He tilted his head in question at her.

  “The Yoders’ dog did start barking wildly,
now that you mention it. I slapped a hand at my neck at the same time I heard Mr. Yoder walking down the hall to call the dog in. But it was a mosquito,” she insisted, “not some devil bloodsucker.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  The warrior in him recognized that it was best to surprise the enemy with a sudden attack. Not that she was his enemy. So he launched his big question point-blank: “What big sin have you committed?”

  “What?” That question certainly got her attention and caught her unawares, as he’d planned. She stared at him like a deer in the headlights, poleaxed.

  “You are clearly in a state of mortal sin.”

  No longer poleaxed, she was now pole-stiff. “How dare you make such a personal statement about me, a perfect stranger?”

  “The Lucipires only attack those who have committed some grave sin, or are contemplating such.” Plus the scent of it teased his enhanced sense of smell, as well.

  “Oh.” That one word said it all, guilt personified, along with another beet blush.

  So the sin has not yet been committed. That is good. Although even the small amount of demon infection is heightening her already heightened inclination to evil. He tented his fingers in front of his face, his two forefingers resting on his forehead. Finally, he came to a conclusion.

  “You have to tell me everything so that I can save you,” he said.

  “Save me?” she sputtered. “Like you’re my guardian angel?”

  “So to speak,” he agreed. Time enough to explain later.

  “That’s it. I’m out of here.” She stood and walked to the door. When she tried the doorknob, it was, of course, locked. “Unlock. This. Door.” She glared at him over her shoulder.

  “Sorry, m’lady, but you are going nowhere.”

  She gasped. “You’d force me to stay?”

  He shrugged. “I prefer to say you are the first guest of the Hotel Transylvania.”

  “Are you people escapees from a mental hospital? Is this the vampire version of One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest? Am I going to see Jack Nicholson popping out of the woodwork with an axe in hand like he did in The Shining?”

  She was going to see an axe or two, that was certain. Battle-axes. Lots of them. Along with swords. Lances. And any number of modern weapons, including his favorite Sig pistol. But he did not need to inform her of that just yet.

  “Aren’t you a little old for these kinds of silly games? How old are you, anyway?”

  “You do not want to know.”

  “Which means you’re older than you look. Let me guess. That’s a weave you’re wearing to hide your receding hairline. And they say women are vain about their appearance!”

  He hated that she’d hit his sin right on its unruly head. Vanity, ever his downfall! Still, he attempted to defend himself. “I shaved my head one time so I could avoid the sin of pride. Mike made it grow back even better. He said cloistered virtue was no virtue at all.”

  “The poet John Milton was the one who said that.”

  “He did? Wait ’til I tell Mike about stealing someone else’s quote.”

  “Who’s Mike?”

  “Saint . . . I mean, Mike Archer. My . . . uh, agent.”

  “And he told you not to shave your head?”

  “I have a thing about hair.” He shrugged.

  She went on to discuss just about everything that was wrong with the male gender, from plagiarism, to comb-overs, to infidelity, to sex obsessions, to selfishness. On and on she went, lumping him in with the worst.

  He let her vent for a while longer, then asked politely, “I don’t suppose you know how to cook? We have a side of beef in the kitchen that we got from a local Amish farmer, and our cook has not yet arrived. No one knows how to prepare it without building a fire, and that would surely ruin the new floor tile.” He was teasing, of course, just wanting to stop her tirade.

  She told him to do something to himself that he knew for a fact was physically impossible.

  The woman was going to have to do something about her language before Mike got here. “I take that for a no.”

  “Correction. That would be hell, no!”

  “We don’t mention that place here.”

  She gave him a look, the one women have perfected through the ages that essentially said of their menfolk, Dumb dolt!

  He widened his eyes with innocence, pretending not to understand.

  “I need a drink. A Dirty Martini would go over great about now. Even a Bloody Mary, minus the blood. I don’t suppose you vampires have any alcohol?”

  “M’lady! We are Vikings. We practically invented beer.”

  “Angels who drink beer,” she muttered as she followed him out of the office.

  “We prefer to think of ourselves as beer-drinking Vikings. We Northmen do love our mead, but a Rolling Rock or Bud will do in a pinch. Of course in our day cold beer was an unknown. Now I cannot imagine drinking warm ale.”

  She ignored his attempt at humor. “And vampires, besides. I suppose you only suck on beer-sodden alcoholics.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” he said. “You have much to learn, wench. Much!”

  He wondered if her obvious sense of humor would be intact after a day or two in VIK land.

  It was a castle, all right, but he was no Prince Charming . . .

  Alex didn’t for one minute think she would be prevented from leaving Land of the Lost Idiots, in other words, Hotel Transylvania. It was an empty threat tossed her way by Prince Not-So-Charming, meant to frighten her, she was sure. Well, fairly sure.

  In the meantime, she would do what she did best. Snoop around for the story behind the story. Her journalistic instincts were on red alert. Besides, she needed a bit of space to evaluate what had just happened to her when Vikar had put his mouth to her neck . . . and sucked. She hadn’t been turned on like that since . . . well, forever.

  “So, are you going to show me around?” she asked.

  He rose from behind the desk, eyeing her suspiciously. “You’re not going to fight your stay here with us?”

  “Depends on how long of a stay,” she answered truthfully.

  Then, to avoid an argument, she said, “Tell me about this place. Oh, not its history. I already know that. How long have you owned it? What did you pay for it? What are your plans? When will the hotel open? What attractions or amenities do you plan? And who are all those weird people out there?”

  “C’mon,” he said, opening the door and holding a hand out to her. “I’ll give you the tour. Afterward, we’ll talk.”

  Then began the most bizarre trip Alex had ever taken, and she’d been in some bizarre places in her journalistic history, not least of which was interviewing Bin Laden’s daughter in a desert harem while both of them were in full purdah. As they walked back toward the front door, Vikar pointed out the various rooms, telling her what they had been originally—in some cases, there were old sepia photographs taped to the wall—and how they would be used after the renovations. Built on the side of a mountain, some of the rooms had a cave-like appearance.

  None of Vikar’s descriptions sounded like a hotel to her.

  A game room contained billiards, dartboards, and every kind of video game imaginable. A TV and movie screening room held theater-type seats as well as numerous cushy sofas. A weight room already had StairMasters, stationary bikes, and Nautilus equipment. A tanning salon drew raised eyebrows on her part, but Vikar said he would explain later. A weapon room he allowed her only a brief glimpse into, but she’d seen enough to know they could supply a small army. A chapel was already complete with stained glass windows, a life-size crucifix, and pews with kneelers. And this was only half the rooms on the first floor.

  As they entered the kitchen, which was incidentally the size of her whole D.C. apartment, she burst out with laughter. There was indeed a side of beef lying on one of the counters. An alarming prospect occurred to her. Did these pseudo vampires feed on raw meat?

  She turned to Vikar.
“Isn’t this taking steak tartare to a new level?”

  There were several beats of silence in which he just stared at her, but she could see his displeasure in the tic at the side of his mouth. She’d become very cynical and sarcastic lately . . . in the past two years, specifically. Not a very attractive trait, she had to admit. Maybe she’d gone too far this time.

  “Yes, a dinner bell rings, and all us vangels come running to feed on the carcass. Saves on dinnerware. And no clean-up.”

  Well, he’d matched her sarcasm tit for tat that time. At least she assumed he was being sarcastic. The alternative didn’t bear imagining. And what was that he called himself? A vangel. That was a new one.

  “Ulf! Floki!” Vikar yelled suddenly, causing Alex to jump back with surprise. “Get your arses in here and put this carcass in the freezer.”

  Immediately two young men rushed in. Twentysomething, wearing jeans and T-shirts and the latest in athletic footwear, they were Nordic in appearance, with differing shades of blond hair and blue eyes. More Vikings?

  “Sorry, Lord Vikar,” one said. “We were helping Trond carry mattresses down to the dungeon.”

  Alex arched her brows and mouthed, Dungeon? at Vikar.

  “We are going to use it for dormitories for the time being,” he explained. “A big . . . um, convention is coming up, and not enough rooms to house all the attendees.”

  Alex knew from her research that there were twenty-five bedrooms in this mansion. How many attendees were there going to be? And a convention of what? Vampires? Angels? Vikings? Escapees from mental asylums? This story was getting more and more bizarre. And compelling. Alex had learned over the years that the most hyped story idea often petered out in the interview, and a gold mine of an exclusive could emerge in the oddest places.

  Just then a heavyset, older woman bustled in from the back door. She wore Victorian upper-class attire, a fringed, black silk shawl over a white, high-necked, lace-trimmed, mutton-sleeved blouse that was tucked into a full-length black skirt.

  “Miss Borden, thank God!” Vikar said, going over to give her a hug. “We expected you two days ago.”