by Sandra Hill
She rolled her eyes again, a habit he was beginning to find annoying, although he did like the way she turned in the cradle of his arm, still wrapped protectively around her shoulders, to look up at him, her mouth almost touching his. “I thought Odin and all those gods were a myth. Isn’t it kind of sacrilegious for an angel, even an angel vampire, to believe in other gods?”
“I did not say I believe in Odin. ’Twas just a . . . never mind.” He walked them out the doors and onto the crowded sidewalk of the Strip. They walked for blocks and blocks, she taking in the sights of Las Vegas, he taking in the sight of Lucies. “Stay close to me. That policeman over there . . . that prostitute on the corner . . . both Lucies.”
“How can you tell?”
“Mainly their scent, but also, we vangels can sense a Lucipire in the vicinity. The presence of evil hangs in the air. And they look a little different than humans, to us vangels.”
They walked into another hotel, this one lush with crystal chandeliers and velvety furniture. No bizarre themes, but the usual raucous noise of gambling—clanging slot machines, loud music, shouts and laughter, dealers calling out, “Place your bets, place your bets.” Here and there, he noticed Lucies working. A desk clerk. A concierge. Waiters and waitresses. With his free hand, he pulled out his cell phone, tapped one button, and sent a voice mail in Old Norse, “Lucies everywhere. Massive infiltration. Air filled with scent of sulfur and lemons. Send vangels.”
“Who are you talking to?” she asked.
“My brothers.”
She tilted her head to the side in silent question.
He didn’t have to answer, but he did. “There are demon vampires everywhere. Not in great numbers in any one place, but scattered about like a Satanic net. This city is in peril.” At the look of disbelief and pity on her face, he added, “Can you not smell them? The demons reek of sulfur. The sinners—those already fanged and on their way to being drained at first opportunity, or those already wallowing in their bad deeds, or those contemplating some great sin—they smell of lemons.”
“The only thing I smell is your cologne. Sandalwood and lime.”
“I told you afore, I do not wear cologne.” That damn life mate lure! “But that is neither here nor there. I must get you out of this town. All hell is going to break loose, and I mean that exactly as it sounds.”
“You’re starting to scare me, Mordr.”
“You should be scared.”
“Not that I believe there are such things as demon vampires, or vampire angels for that matter. The fact that you believe there are is what I find alarming.”
Just then, they got caught in a mob of folks shoving to enter a nightclub where a popular country music band was playing. Luckily, there was no smell of Lucies, just human body odor covered with vast amounts of deodorant, soap, and bottled scents.
Miranda escaped the half circle of his arm and stood before him, looping her hands behind his neck. Then she began to sway from side to side, smiling up at him. “Forget all that nonsense about demons. Let’s dance.”
The band began to play a song called “I Melt.”
For a certainty!
“What? Oh, no! I do not dance. I am too big and clumsy and . . . oomph!”
She yanked him flush with her body, her face resting on his shoulder. With each sway of her hips, she brushed his already burgeoning erection. An easy task with his parted cloak; the thin silk of her dress and the lightweight fabric of his braies provided no barrier at all to the size and power of his enthusiasm. He saw flashing lights behind his eyelids for a moment, but, no, it was the disco lights in the ceiling.
In another feat of surrender, he put his hands on her hips and yanked her even closer. All he did then was shift from foot to foot. If this was dancing, he was a sudden expert. A dancing fool!
In a futile effort to reinforce the crumbling wall of his defense against her attraction, he blurted out, “I do not like red hair.”
She lifted her head off his shoulder and glanced up at him. “Neither do I.”
So much for that attempt! “And I do not like it skinned back off your face like a drowned cat.”
“Meow!” Instead of being offended, she told him, “I only wore it this way because it was wet. It would have gone frizzy if I hadn’t.”
Huh?
While the band moved without break into “The Way You Look Tonight,” she tugged out some pins and let them drop to the floor. Then she shook her hair into a mass of flaming waves.
He groaned.
“Is that a groan of disgust or a groan of pleasure?”
“Definitely pleasure . . . if you consider that I am probably adding dozens of years onto my penance.”
“You might be punished for liking something about me?”
“No might about it. I will be punished but not for liking your hair down. Nay, ’twill be for all the bad things I am imagining that I could do to you. Many of them involving red hair.” And not just on your head.
They continued to engage in the foresport called dancing for several long seconds before Miranda looked up at him again. “What kind of bad things?”
He laughed, something he could not recall doing in years, or leastways not very often. It felt good. In this moment, there was no soul-searing grief, no darkness of spirit, no rage at his fate, just a warm joy.
“You are so good-looking when you smile,” she observed.
“And when I do not smile?”
“Trolling for compliments now?”
He shook his head, enjoying this light banter. “No, just being a troll.”
In silence, they danced then, so close their two hearts seemed to beat as one. Meanwhile, the band moved from one slow song to another on the crowded dance floor.
“You Were Always on My Mind.”
Yes, she was.
“Shameless.”
Yes, he was.
“Must Be Doin’ Somethin’ Right.”
It would seem so.
“Come a Little Closer.”
Any closer and he would be inside her.
Then, in what could have been a message from you-know-who, “God Gave Me You.”
No, He did not, a voice in his head disagreed.
“Then why offer her to me in such an enticing package?”
“Are you talking to me?” Miranda murmured.
“No. Just to myself.”
“I know how you feel. I keep telling myself that this is a bad idea, that I should hotfoot it home and take a cold shower.”
“Together?”
She never had a chance to answer because the band struck up a loud, raucous trill on electric guitars, and the leader announced, “Enough of these hokey slow songs. Time to liven up this party.” With a bit of applause from the customers, they began to sing, “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”
Mordr figured that was his cue to leave. A reminder of why he was there tonight. Not to mention he did not do wild, dervish-style dancing like what he was now witnessing around him. Really, some men had no sense when it came to their attempts to seduce women to their bed furs. “Come. Let us leave this place.” And, no, it was not cold showers he had in mind. If he had a mind at the moment!
They were not alone in the elevator down to the parking garage. They were not even touching. But a sharp awareness of each other resonated in the air, a promise of things to come. Things long forbidden to Mordr. Things still forbidden, but contemplated just the same. Like Adam, who was done salivating over the crisp, juicy, red apple and about to take that first bite.
The door binged open and everyone exited, leaving Mordr and Miranda to come out last. Instead of heading to the right where his car was parked, Mordr tugged Miranda into a dim alcove on the other side of the elevator. Backing her up against the wall, he succumbed to the taste of her rose-petal lips.
The apple was never so sweet. Note to self: Apples are red. Miranda is red-haired. Both are sweet temptation.
A fog swirled around them, carrying the scent of lilies
and cloves. Or in her case, he would wager his sword arm that she was smelling sandalwood and lime. His lips did not need to persuade hers to open. She was already parted and welcoming him in. With fingers tunneling through her hair, his mouth came down hard on hers, and the fierce drugging kisses that followed almost caused his knees to buckle.
Never had a kiss been so powerful. As intimate as the sex act itself, but not nearly as satisfying. Like the dancing they had just engaged in, they sought each other’s rhythm, then created a new, blended one of their own.
He tore his mouth from hers, and his head shot up with sudden alertness. He had heard something. Then he caught a faint whiff of something familiar. Sulfur. Lemon.
“Stay here, and do not move,” he ordered. Pulling a compact metal object from an inside pocket of his cloak, he flicked a switch and it snapped into a full-length sword. Like magic it would appear, but actually an engineering marvel created decades ago by an especially talented vangel blacksmith. In the other hand, he already held a throwing star. Both had been specially treated with the symbolic blood of Christ, which would destroy any Lucie when wounded. Only then did Mordr shoot with uncommon speed to the far, dark area of the parking garage where two Lucipires were engaged in fanging and draining a man to not just death, but a fate far worse than the ending of human life. A fast track to Horror.
“Halt!” he shouted, causing both Lucies, a man and a woman, to raise their heads. Blood dripped from their huge fangs. Although he had identified them as male and female, it was sometimes difficult to tell the difference when demon vampires were not in humanoid forms. These were mungs. Huge in size, at least seven feet tall, they were covered with scales that oozed slime. Their eyes were red with bloodlust, and their hands were clawed. And tails. How could he forget the tails? If Mike had thought of it, he probably would have given vangels tails, too. As if fangs were not bad enough!
First things first. He must offer the victim—a terrible sinner, he sensed—a chance to repent.
The female mung lunged through the air toward him, and he finished her off quickly with a throwing star to the heart. “Good-bye, Lucie. Give Satan my regards.” Immediately, she began to dissolve into a pool of sulfur-smelling slime.
The victim, half-drained of blood but not yet in stasis, let loose a terrible scream. “Help me,” he pleaded.
The other mung was still trying to feed on him.
Mordr kicked the Lucie aside, and the beast hit the concrete wall with a loud cracking noise.
Mordr retrieved his throwing star and turned his attentions to the dying man, and there was no question he would be dead shortly. The question was whether he would die after repenting and await God’s judgment on the Final Day. Or go to Horror today and eventually become a Lucie.
Through mind reading, something vangels were able to do when in the midst of saving souls, Mordr knew that this man, Lewis Robideaux, had profited for many years on child pornography. One of the worst kinds of sinners. Still, Mordr had to offer the man a chance to repent before his death. “Do you, Lewis, repent of your sins? Do you revile Satan and take Christ as your Lord and Savior?”
Robideaux’s bleary eyes tried to focus on Mordr, whose fangs were out in preparation for a fanging to save his soul, if possible. Once he was able to bring Mordr into focus, not too happy with another fanged being, Robideaux laughed, blood gurgling from his mouth, and said, “Fuck you!”
“So be it!”
Mordr turned away from the man to find that the other mung had only cracked his head open, not a deadly blow for a powerful Lucie. They just stuffed their brains back in and resumed normal evil activities, like charging at Mordr with a battle-axe raised on high. Swinging the instrument in a wide arc, he almost decapitated Mordr, who jumped back just in time. The force of the heavy weapon pulled the mung with it, not having made purchase with Mordr’s neck—thank you, God—and Mordr was able to thrust his sword into the miscreant’s heart. The Lucie soon joined his partner in slimeville.
Through his side vision, Mordr noticed that yet another Lucie had come on the scene and was draining Robideaux to the point where his body was evaporating into thin air. Another convert for the other side. This Lucie was a haakai, older and stronger than the mungs. Mordr knew him well. Quintus, a former Roman soldier, had delighted in feeding Christians to the lions back in Colosseum days.
“Ah, Mordr, so we meet again,” Quintus drawled, pulling a pattern-welded long sword from its jewel-encrusted scabbard at his side.
Mordr assumed a battle stance, legs spread, knees bent. He wished he had his old broadsword with him, Vengeance, but this thinner, more flexible rapier would do.
They both thrust and parried several times, getting their bearings, testing each other.
But then, Quintus made the mistake of taunting Mordr. “I met a fellow the other day down in Hell, Olaf Hordsson, he who raped your daughter and cleaved your son’s skull through like a melon. Tasty treats, they both were, according to Olaf.”
Mordr could not control the berserk rage that came over him then. With a roar of fury he cleft Quintus from skull to groin, watching with satisfaction as the Lucie’s skin turned bright red and began to dissolve. Even then, Mordr continued to hack away at what was left of the man until there was naught but a puddle of slime. Bending over with palms on his thighs, he scanned the area to see if there were any more Lucies about. There were not. He panted for breath, trying to force his berserkness back inside. Otherwise, the bloodlust would be on him for any killing, not just demon vampires.
Only when his heartbeat slowed down to a hundred beats a minute, give or take, and the roar in his head calmed down to a mere rumble did he replace his soiled weapons to their special pockets inside his cloak. He turned then and began to walk back toward Miranda. And saw her standing not where he had left her in the protective enclosure of the alcove, but a short distance away. Watching him.
How long had she been standing there? What had she seen?
He reached out a hand to comfort her and she flinched, drawing back several steps. “Don’t you dare touch me, you . . . you monster.”
He could not argue with that. He was a monster of sorts. Why else would he have been made a vangel?
But then he saw something else in her eyes and horrified expression. She was afraid of him. Or repulsed. Or both.
She stared fixedly at his bloodied hands and the bits of demon vampire slime on his cloak and his fangs, which were still extended. He ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth, causing the fangs to retract. With a grunt of disgust, he went over to the SUV, where he popped the tailgate. Taking off his cloak, he placed it carefully in the back. Then he went around to the passenger side and opened the door. He took several holy water wipes from a special box in the glove compartment, using them to wipe his face and hands, then tossed them in a nearby trash bin.
Motioning toward the still-open car door, he said, “Come. I will take you home.”
She shook her head. “Who are you? Are you one of them?” She motioned with her head toward the piles of slime.
“No, I am not a demon vampire. I am a vangel, as I told you afore. A Viking vampire angel.”
“But . . . but you killed those . . . things.”
“I did. The first two were the man and women you saw in the Valhalla casino. I recall you saying they were a beautiful couple, that he was a gorgeous hunk.”
“No!” she said with utter disbelief.
“Yes,” he replied on a sigh.
“Do you enjoy doing this kind of thing?” She was still clearly in a state of shock.
“Get in the car, Miranda. I’ll answer any of your questions when we are not out in open view. Where there is one Lucie, there may be others.”
She scurried over and into the passenger seat so fast her dress rode up her thigh, giving a clear view of an almost transparent undergarment. Apparently, she was red all over, as he’d already surmised. Not just on her head.
Once in the driver’s seat, he turned to h
er. “No, I do not particularly enjoy killing, even when it is ridding the world of demons whose evil is beyond human comprehension.”
“Then why—”
“It is my job.”
“You didn’t just kill that last one. You were like a madman, hacking away when he . . . it . . . was already dead. Why?”
He swallowed several times. He should not reply. He really should not. But did he listen to good sense? No. “The demon mentioned something horrible, something particularly offensive to me.”
“Words? You let words rile you to that extent? Clearly, you are in dire need of anger management, Mordr. I did my master’s thesis on rage resolution. You need help. Believe me, I know about out-of-control anger issues.”
He felt the anger rising in him again. He waited several seconds before turning to her. “You know nothing,” he spat out. “That demon, Quintus by name, told me that he spoke with the man who murdered my children. How he repeatedly raped my little Kata, only six years old, and watched her bleed to death. How he cleaved my five-year-old son Jomar’s little skull with a broadaxe like a melon. A melon!”
To his mortification, Mordr felt tears well in his eyes. “Even after all these years, I am shattered by the memory of their bodies as I found them on first coming home.”
He could not face Miranda in his weakened state, but then he heard a soft sound and had to look. She was openly sobbing. For him? For his dead children?
This was just too much. More than he could bear. He was about to open the car door and call for Harek or Cnut to come get Miranda, but before he could get his cell phone out, she launched herself at him and somehow wedged her body between his chest and the steering wheel. Her ass sat on his lap.
“Oh, Mordr,” she said, gazing at him through green pools of sympathy. “I am so, so sorry.” Tucking her face into the crook of his neck, she wept voluminous tears. No one had ever cried for him before.
To his shame, his own tears streamed down his face and over his chin and blended with hers, a precious sharing of sorrow.