by Sandra Hill
“Are you questioning my judgment? Already? Keep in mind, you are a mung, Heinrich. This is a great honor I bestow on you. Mayhap you will even rise to the level of haakai someday, if you prove yourself worthy. On the other hand, you do not have to accept.”
Realizing his mistake, Heinrich bowed his head. “As you wish, master.”
“Good, good,” Jasper said. “Yakov can give you some tips before he leaves today.”
“Invest in a good pair of long underwear,” Yakov said, and everyone laughed with him.
Heinrich was not amused. Already he was pulling out his cell phone on his lap, placing what he thought was a surreptitious text. To Satan, no doubt. To complain. Little did he know that Jasper had commanded one of his geek minions to place a block, or whatever you called it, on Horror for the day so that no communications could go in or out. Jasper would inform Satan of his decisions on his own, thank you very much, Nazi asshole tattletale.
A murmur of low conversation went on around the room as folks discussed among themselves these changes.
“Good call!” Zeb murmured from his right side.
“I know. I can just picture him goose-stepping over the tundra,” Jasper whispered back.
“Maybe the ink on his rubber stamp will freeze,” Zeb offered.
“We can hope.”
“You mentioned three new appointments,” Hector reminded him from his other side.
“Ah, yes.” Jasper used his anvil to hammer the room to order again. At the same time he made a conscious effort to wipe the smile of satisfaction off his face. It was hard not to smile when Heinrich was obviously miserable. “Now you, Zeb.” He felt Zeb stiffen beside him. “With Dominique’s passing, we have a huge hole in the United States.” Dominique had run her operation from a restaurant named Anguish in the French Quarter of New Orleans. “You will take over the southern half of America, from the East to the West Coast. Virginia to California and Nevada. Lots of sinful cities in that territory. I will leave it up to you to decide where you want to settle. New Orleans would be good, or Las Vegas, but you may have a better idea.”
No one questioned Zeb’s suitability for that location since he worked so often in the States, in particular California where the Navy SEALs were located. SEALs were a group of elite militants that Jasper yearned to capture. Even one SEAL-turned-Lucipire would be a huge coup.
“As you wish,” Zeb said.
“We need another woman on the council. Equal rights and all that,” Jasper kidded. He could care less about equal rights, but he did have a good female candidate. “Red Tess will take on the northern part of the United States, from Maine to Washington State, up to and including the Canadian provinces. Stand and introduce yourself, Tess.”
Up stood a tall Amazon of a woman with pale green eyes and flaming red hair so bright it hurt the eyes. She was almost six feet tall, even in human form. She wore tight leather braies covered by a belted tunic of finest brushed green wool. Large gold hoop earrings hung from her ears. Wide gold armbands graced her muscled upper arms. She was beautiful, even with the scar that ran from her left eye to her chin, causing her to look like she was smiling lopsidedly, all the time. “Tess was a notorious pirate sailing the Spanish seas three hundred years ago. In her time, she caused many an innocent to walk the plank. How many would you estimate, dear?” he asked her.
“Three hundred,” Tess answered.
Everyone clapped in appreciation.
And Tess bowed.
“Zeb will introduce you to your new stomping grounds,” Jasper said. “Right, Zeb?”
“Of course.”
“Next, let me introduce you all to Ganbold the Mongol, who served with Genghis Kahn as one of his top lieutenants.” A short wiry man with Oriental features and an impressive mustache and goatee stood and bowed, then sat down abruptly in a no-nonsense way. He wore the long, traditional Mongol, robe-like coat of leather armor belted at the waist. Jasper envied its style. Perhaps he would have one made for himself. “We are honored to have Ganbold here with us, along with his scimitar, Blood Maker.”
They all looked at the ornate weapon propped against the wall behind Ganbold.
“’Tis said that fifty million foe were killed by the khan’s armies, many of them under Ganbold’s command,” Jasper told the others, then said to the new man, “I particularly like one of your famous tortures that involved pouring molten metal into your captive’s eyes and mouth and ears. Perhaps you can teach one of my hordling tormentors how to do that?”
Ganbold just nodded.
Jasper wasn’t sure he liked Ganbold’s silent demeanor, as if he were too good to join their ranks. Or rather too bad.
“Ganbold will take over Haroun’s territory in the Arab lands. An important post, as you all know, with the rise in terrorism. Do you accept, Ganbold?”
“As you wish, master,” Ganbold replied.
Right answer, even if the Mongol said it without a smile of pleasure. He should be pleased at such a plum assignment.
“One last action before we move on to new business. I have a promotion to make. Beltane the Creole will become a member of the council, as of today.”
His announcement was greeted with silence. Beltane, frozen in place where he stood near the buffet table, gaped at him in stunned disbelief. “I know what you are all thinking. Beltane is a mere hordling, and never has there been a hordling on the council. But then, there has never been a mung, either.” He glanced pointedly at Heinrich, who was still futilely tapping away on his cell phone. The idiot! “And I know that Beltane has no warrior skills to speak of. But his loyalty is unquestioned, and he will serve not as a Lucipire operative in the field, but as director of operations, a coordinator of all activities. ’Tis what he does already.” He paused. “Any objections?”
There were clearly many, but Heinrich was the only one who spoke up. “Outrageous, that’s what it is. It demeans the office of council member.”
“Some would say that a mung on the council is demeaning,” Hector pointed out.
“Who really cares?” Yakov said. He was still gloating over leaving Siberia.
“As long as Beltane serves no military role, I have no objection,” Zeb said.
“Tess and Ganbold?” Jasper inquired.
“As you wish, master,” they both said.
“So it is agreed, then,” Jasper declared, then smiled at a still-stunned Beltane. “Congratulations, my boy.” There were actually tears of gratitude in Beltane’s eyes. It was enough to warm a demon’s cold, cold heart.
Jasper asked for reports from Zeb, Yakov, and Hector on recent dealings, and Beltane gave an update on kills and turnings during the past year. They now had a thousand full-blown Lucipires and eighty-seven in training. Business was good, despite some losses in Nigeria last year, including the passing of Haroun. Heinrich grudgingly reported that Satan was happy with the proceedings here on Earth.
As if Jasper didn’t already know that! It’s not as if Satan didn’t communicate with him, too. Jasper cleared his throat. “I have a new mission in mind for all of you, as evidenced by my attire today.”
“What are you supposed to be? Hopalong Cassidy?” Heinrich asked.
Jasper gritted his teeth and responded, “You date yourself, Heinrich. I am John Wayne. The Duke.”
“Of what?” Heinrich scoffed.
“The Old West.”
Jasper turned away from the moron before he asked more asinine questions intended to embarrass Jasper, and continued, “As I was saying, my attire should be a clue as to our next mission. Zeb and Tess and I will be working on this particular project in the United States. All others will be working out of your own territories. Same mission, different locales. And it all involves ISIS, that extremist Muslim group that is terrorizing the world, praise be to Satan.”
There was a communal “Ah!” of understanding. At least, somewhat. He hadn’t yet explained the Old West connection.
Now that he had everyone’s attention, he explained. “
ISIS is by far the most evil entity in the world today, thanks be to Satan. We already know that the world’s population is increasingly more immoral. ISIS banks on that propensity to wickedness and hardly needs to recruit new members. They seek the terrorists out. Especially in the United States but also in Europe and South America, as well, young people are flocking to join in their terrorist groups. Cults, that’s what many of them are, conduits to terrorist evil on a massive scale. The Internet makes it all so much easier. Social networking for sin.”
“And our role in this?” Zeb asked.
“We are already infiltrating the ISIS ranks. Haroun was actively engaged in those endeavors before his passing. Ganbold will continue with those efforts. We need to harvest some of the worst of the ISIS members, but not so many that our presence will be noticed, or that the organization will be weakened. But in addition, we will grab some of those recruits and new members before they have a chance to repent.”
“Why would they repent?” Tess asked. “Most of those foolish young ones engage in the cults willingly. Why would they change their minds and repent?”
“Vangels!” Jasper, Zeb, Hector, and Yakov said as one.
“They are like bloody shadows, those vangels are.” Jasper slammed his cowboy hat down on the table in anger. “Wherever we go, they show up behind us, saving sinners before we have a chance to turn them and killing off our best demon vampires. Our numbers would be doubled if not for them.”
“And the John Wayne attire?” Zeb prodded him.
“Ah, yes. One of the cults I wish to target is working out of a ranch in Montana. That is where we will start.” He looked pointedly at Zeb and Tess.
With perfect timing, Beltane passed out stapled sheets of paper to each of the council members.
“On these handouts you will see a list of fifty of the most important ISIS recruiting headquarters across the world. Starting on July 15, for three days only, we will target those locations. In and out. Shock and awe, as the Navy SEALs say. Right, Zeb?”
“Right.”
“We don’t all have to wear cowboy gear, do we?” Heinrich asked.
“No, Heinrich,” Jasper said, as if speaking to a child. “The operation in Montana is the only one located on a ranch, as far as I know.” But then, he added, “there is one using a flamenco dance club in Spain as a front. Do you dance?”
Heinrich’s jaw dropped open.
Jasper guessed the answer was no.
“We can discuss the details in depth this afternoon, but in the meantime . . .” He motioned to Beltane, who had the naked boys and girls rush to serve everyone a glass of champagne. When they all had glasses in hand, Jasper raised his and said, “A toast to our new council members.”
“Hear, hear!” everyone said, and took a sip.
“And to sin!”
That got even more cheers.
On days like this, Jasper was glad to be on the other side.
Chapter 7
Home, home on the range . . .
Andrea was exhausted but nervously excited when they drove to the ranch the next morning. Hopefully, they would find Celie with little effort and be able to get her out of this beautiful, but scarily remote area. The farther they’d gotten from the city, other than occasional deer or antelopes seen from a distance, and of course cattle, lots of cattle, there were few homes or signs of human habitation. Montana was one of the biggest states but also one of the most sparsely populated.
Luckily, Cnut had insisted on renting some fancy SUV at the Bozeman airport and not the cheaper economy-size sedan. Even in the 4WD vehicle, the three-hour drive north was bumpy at times over the occasional dirt roads and hazardous inclines. No supermarkets. No gas stations. No small towns. Just long stretches of unpaved roads. But beautiful. Oh-my-God-beautiful! No wonder it was called Big Sky Country. With the snow-capped Rocky Mountains as a backdrop, the land stretched out forever, with blue skies visible for many miles in every direction. They even saw buttes, like in old cowboy movies, the flat-topped, steep-sided hills that sprang up seemingly out of nowhere, as if carved from rocks and soil eons ago by a giant with a huge chain saw, but more likely the result of glaciers and erosion. It was like stepping into an Albert Bierstadt landscape painting.
There was hardly any traffic, and thank God for that, because occasionally some of the free-range cattle wandered onto the road, and Cnut had to slow down until they passed.
Cnut was wearing denim jeans and an open denim shirt over a white T-shirt. Scuffed, flat-heeled boots on his feet. Can anyone say, “Mothers, Don’t Let Your Daughters Grow Up to Love Cowboys”? Except for the absence of a cowboy hat, which he’d refused to buy at the airport, despite her prodding, he fit the ranch scene perfectly. He probably didn’t want to mess up his fancy hairdo.
She’d dressed appropriately, too, in a plaid shirt over a T-shirt tucked into her favorite well-worn, True Religion skinny jeans and a pair of gorgeous Old Gringo “Razz” boots in distressed leather with a blue embroidery design she’d bought half price for $215 at Nordstrom’s yesterday.
She’d justified the expense by telling herself, They’re not really an extravagance. I can wear them all winter. Yep, overpriced snow boots.
The T-shirt carried that raunchy country music title on back, which Andrea now had misgivings about and therefore had yet to uncover: “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.”
What was I thinking?
And, yes, she’d also bought a white cowgirl hat. Talk about touristy!
To shade my face from the sun. Jeesh, give a girl a break!
Cnut probably thought she looked foolish. He didn’t actually say so, though. In fact, she’d caught him checking out her butt this morning. She might be thin and a mite deficient in the breast department, but she had an admirable caboose, and she knew how to work it.
When they entered Spruce Sap Valley, it took another ten miles of dirt road before they approached a sign announcing, “Circle of Light Ranch.” Along the way, they began to see high tensile wire fencing enclosing endless pastures and periodic warnings: “No Trespassing!” and “Caution: Electrified Fence.”
“You’d think this was a prison compound and not a cattle ranch, or even a dude ranch,” she commented. What has Celie gotten herself into?
Cnut just grunted, becoming grumpier and grumpier the closer they got to their destination. He seemed increasingly more focused on their surroundings, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes. “Do you smell something?” he asked.
“No. Just the air freshener.” A little cardboard pine tree hung from the radio knob, giving off an artificial spruce scent.
He shook his head. “This is not good,” he said enigmatically.
“The smell? I can throw it away.”
He shook his head again and continued to scowl.
She was afraid to ask what he was looking for. Surely not some ISIS terrorist lurking behind a tree. This wasn’t the Old West where bad guys had smelled from lack of bathing. Heck, even the good guys hadn’t bathed very often. Was he thinking ISIS followers had particular B.O. or something? If so, he ought to inform the Navy SEALs. They could probably use that intel to sniff them out. Sniff. Get it? Ha, ha, ha! Maybe I won’t share that thought with him. This time. But, really, his moodiness is irritating.
Up ahead was the gatehouse to the ranch with a sign warning: “Stop. Identification required before entry.”
She dug in her purse for her driver’s license. “I didn’t know that ranches even had gatehouses.”
“They don’t, usually.” Mr. Tall, Blond, and Silent said nothing more.
Okay.
But then, she noticed that the gatehouse was empty. “There’s no one here,” she pointed out.
He gave her a no-shit! look.
Someone needs a grumpy pill. “Maybe it’s one of those automatic things where a person flashes their ID and the gate opens.”
“Must you talk constantly?”
Well, that was rude. “I talk when I’m nervous. I’m worrie
d about my sister,” she said. “So sue me.”
“I know you’re worried. You wouldn’t have hired me if you weren’t.”
“You got that right.”
“I told you to stay home.”
“Bite me.”
“Later.”
“Ha, ha, ha! Now you’re a comedian.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
She put down her window and leaned out to get a better view. “Phew! I smell it now. Rotten eggs. Must be manure.” She immediately put her window back up.
He laughed. “Cow shit doesn’t smell like sulfur.”
“Well, how would I know? I’m a city girl. What’s that puddle of slime over there? Cow puke?”
“You do not want to know.” Cnut unbuckled his seat belt and opened the driver’s door. “Stay here.” He was carrying a pistol in one hand, which she hadn’t noticed earlier. Of course, he would carry a weapon. This was a dangerous assignment. She just hadn’t thought about the need for weapons beforehand.
Walking over to the small building, he pointedly stepped around the puddle of slime. The door was open, an oddity in itself. Through the window in front, she could see him fiddling with something on the desk. Suddenly, the electric gate swung open, and he came back to the vehicle, got in, and turned on the ignition again.
“Holy freakin’ Ponderosa!” she said as they drove up to the lodge a mile or so later. The massive log structure was something straight out of that old TV series Bonanza. If long-dead Ben Cartwright—who was a fictional character for cripes’ sake!—stepped onto the front porch, she was out of here! “Uh, Cnut,” she said tentatively, “have you ever watched reruns of Bonanza on TV?”
“A time or two. On the Western Classics Channel. Why?” he replied as he parked the vehicle in the lot on the side of the building, which was discreetly screened with tall hemlocks to preserve the historic image. There were eight or nine other vehicles parked there, mostly pickup trucks and a silver Mercedes with New York plates, but no people about.