by Sandra Hill
“Oh no, you do not!” Harek said, grabbing him by the back of his suit jacket and tugging him back. “Where did you kids get these clothes anyhow? And how did you know I would be here?”
“Yes, Harek, curious celestial minds would like to know how they knew you would be here.” Mike had his arms folded across his chest, glaring his way. “Could it be you are always here?”
“I am not!” he said vehemently. “This was my first time.”
Mike rolled his eyes.
“Well, my second time. In a hundred years.”
“We knew you were here because Mr. Trixson mentioned it to Miranda when she dropped us off at his pool this afternoon,” Ben informed Harek.
“Mr. Trixson works in a dance club next door and he came here for breakfast this morning,” Maggie added.
Mike glanced pointedly at his wristwatch. The message was clear. The archangel was now aware that Harek had been in the casino all day.
“Mr. Trixson has a whole closetful of costumes,” Linda, the little one, with two missing front teeth, added further information to the kids’ story of how and why they got here.
“Did Mr. Trixson bring you here?”
“No!” all five of them said with horror.
“He thinks we’re down in the basement playing videos,” Ben told him with way too much pride in their deviousness.
“We took the bus,” Larry of the freckled face said. “Whoo-boy! It took us two hours to get here.”
Harek sighed deeply, sensing that he was going to be blamed for the kids’ misbehavior, as well as his gambling. “Where is Miranda?”
“At work.”
Harek turned to Mike to ask if he should take them there, or would he? But Mike was already gone. Not that his heavenly mentor wouldn’t deal with Harek later. No doubt about that!
A short time later, Harek arrived at Miranda’s psychiatric clinic with five oddly dressed little people in tow.
The secretary, whose jaw dropped when he asked if he could see Miss Hart, just waved them on.
Miranda had been reading some document when they walked in.
“Um, Miranda, I have a little present for you. Five presents, actually,” Harek said.
She glanced up, then stood abruptly, almost knocking over her desk chair. “What have you done?”
He wasn’t sure if she was addressing the children or him.
It didn’t matter. They were all in big trouble.
Nineteen
Beware thou ruffling the feathers of an archangel . . .
Mordr was cleaning his nails with the tip of his sword in the tower room of the Transylvania castle, bored to the point of berserkness. Really, this was a new situation for Mordr. Never before had he felt like breaking out into a rage of violence from the tedium of his own dull company.
He was worried about Miranda and the children. Oh, not their safety precisely. His brothers would have saved her from Roger’s evil clutches, and he was fairly certain there was no Lucie presence in Las Vegas anymore. What he was worried about was how Miranda and the children were taking his absence. Oh, he’d warned Miranda that their relationship could end at any moment. That didn’t make it any easier to bear. He’d thought he would have time to at least say good-bye. And the children . . . ah, the children! They would not understand how he could suddenly go away. Their hurt must be immense.
Mordr hadn’t bathed or shaved in more than a week. Food was passed to him in silence through a slot in the door several times a day. Apparently the residents of the castle, his fellow vangels, had been forbidden to speak to the “prisoner.”
He recognized the cackle of Lizzie Borden, the cook, on a few occasions when food was delivered. Lizzie never did like him very much, and must be taking extreme pleasure in his discomfort, as evidenced by her serving him peas with almost every meal. He hated peas, and Lizzie knew it. Not to worry. He had amassed quite a collection of the now dry peas which he was using to aim like bullets at a large spiderweb in the corner.
He had just flicked his last pea when he sensed a presence behind him.
Michael.
And he was in full-blown angel gear, too. Pure white robe, gold braided belt, sandals, halo, and, of course, the massive wings. Mordr was in for it!
Shaking his head at the peas scattered about the floor, Michael said, “What am I going to do with you?”
“ ’Twould seem to me that you have already done it,” Mordr replied, glancing pointedly around the dismal tower room. “Besides, it’s just a few peas. It’s not like I’m depriving the poor children of China of their food.”
“I swear, you Vikings have brains the size of a pigeon’s. And that is an insult to pigeons, who are God’s feathered creatures, just as we angels are.”
Mordr nigh bit his tongue through preventing himself from remarking on the foul things pigeons did to holy statues. On a sigh, he asked, “What did I do now?”
“Your insolence knows no bounds. How could you, Mordr? How could you use little children to further your ends?”
“Huh? I was jesting about the poor children of China.”
“Aaarrgh! I am not referring to those children. I am referring to your children, the ones back in Las Vegas who are praying for your return.”
“They are my children now?” he asked, thoroughly confused. Michael was accusing him of doing something related to his children. But then, the rest of Michael’s statement sank in. “They are praying? For me? To come back?” He couldn’t help but smile.
Michael had not witnessed his smiles for more than a thousand years, but he was not touched. Oh no. Not him. And Mordr was accused of being grim!
“Forget pigeons. More like ants,” Michael remarked. “Teeny tiny brains to fit in big fat heads!”
Mordr would have been insulted, except he was still back there with Michael’s assertion that the children had prayed for him. “And you think I used the children for my own ends?”
“Why else would they be praying to God—to God! not me, by the by!—for your return?”
“Uh. Mayhap they are fond of me, small-brained as I am. Mayhap they see me as some kind of father figure to replace that nithing whose blood they unfortunately carry. Mayhap they suddenly got religion. Mayhap—”
Michael spoke right over him. “You usurped my authority, Viking, by going over my head, directly to my superior.”
“I did nothing except sit here in this tower. Wait a minute. Are you saying that your ultimatum about no more human/vangel relationships has been overruled by a higher authority?” He pressed his lips together in an attempt to hide his glee.
“The Lucipires are growing in strength, no thanks to you vangels, who need to work harder. You will no doubt be a vampire angel for many centuries to come, and that does not even count your penance for your most recent sins.”
“No less than I expected.” Mordr shrugged.
“She might not have you,” Michael said.
Mordr grinned. “I am a Viking. She will have me.”
A declaration of war . . .
Miranda wanted nothing to do with Mordr.
He’d been gone for more than three weeks now. Not a word from him. Not even a secondhand message via one of his brothers, who’d taken to dropping in on her on occasion, except for Harek, who had been sent to Siberia on a mission of indefinite duration. And she knew that Mordr had been released from his “prison” exactly six days ago.
Then, all of a sudden, Mordr had shown up, sporting a new, neatly trimmed mustache above his lip and a soul patch on his chin. And a haircut! He’d trimmed off all that beautiful hair into a modern do, low on the neck, but lots shorter than his previous tresses. His clothing had to have come from some upscale men’s shop. He was wearing a bleepin’ suit, for heaven’s sake. Black Hugo Boss over a crisp white dress shirt and a Ralph Lauren tie and Italian loafers. It was as if he was trying to expunge the Viking out of himself. Good luck with that!
“Miranda, dearling,” he had drawled out, his voice oozing sex.
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She’d give him “dearling”!
When his endearment didn’t cause her to do handsprings toward him, he crooked a finger, beckoning her toward him. And then he winked.
She almost laughed.
Or cried.
The clueless Viking actually thought he could just pick up where they’d left off weeks ago. In bed.
She had news for him. That door had closed. It had taken her a week to stop crying. It had taken even longer to convince the children that Mordr wasn’t coming back. No way was she putting herself or the kids through that pain again.
But Mordr wouldn’t give up.
That first day, before he’d left, she told him, meanly, “By the way, I don’t like facial hair. You look like you have a caterpillar on your lip.”
Next day, he was clean shaven.
Every day, like clockwork, he showed up at her house, at her workplace, at the coffee shop at the lower level of the clinic building, even on the jogging path where she ran every morning. You did not want to see a six foot four, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound hulk come running up beside you at half past dawn, even if he did look like pure sex in his running shorts and shoes, and that’s all.
And now, speaking to her through the narrow opening of the chain lock on her front door—not that he couldn’t teletransport, if he’d wanted to—he tried to defend his absence, “But I was locked in a castle tower like some bloody medieval princess. I could hardly come to you, on a whim.”
Excuses! He could have found a way if he’d really wanted to. “You ever heard of Rapunzel? You could have climbed down your hair or something.”
He didn’t even crack a smile. Great! They were back to the Grim Reaper again. Big deal!
“How about the six days after you were released?”
“I was making plans.”
“Oh? Were there no phones where you were making those plans?”
“Yes, there were phones, but I wanted to have our future mapped out before I spoke with you.”
“Are all Vikings so dumb, or is it just you?”
“Probably just me. What did I do wrong?”
“You were mapping out our life, as if I had no say in it.”
“Of course you would have a say in it. After I decided what it would involve. Must you always be at cross-wills with me? A man takes care of those—”
“If you say, ‘those under your shield,’ I am going to scream,” she interrupted. “I never asked to be under your frickin’ shield, nor do I want to be.”
“Where do you want to be?” he asked with a grin, probably thinking he was making inroads with her.
“Far away from you,” she replied, and tried to shut the door.
He stuck his flip-flopped foot in the space to prevent the door from shutting. After the first day, he’d given up on the dressy duds and was back to shorts and a T-shirt, this one proclaiming, “Got Viking?”
“How are the children?” he asked to keep her talking.
“Fine. And Roger’s going to be in jail for a long time. So, no problems there, either. Good-bye.”
“You prayed for me,” he pointed out, as if that meant she should welcome him with open arms . . . and legs.
“The children did.” That was only a half lie.
“Miranda, I love you.”
Her heart about melted, but she had to be strong. “Too late. Mordr, go away. I appreciate all you’ve done for me . . . for us, but we’re better off without you.”
He flinched at her harsh words. But then, he asked, “Can you say that you do not love me in return?”
When she didn’t reply, he smiled. “I give you fair warning, m’lady.” He took out his sword and planted it in the wooden threshold of the door frame. “I do now declare war against you, heartling. Raise the drawbridge, build a moat, bar the doors, I will be assaulting your defenses forthwith. You will surrender, or I am not Mordr the Brave.”
She smiled inwardly. That had been his name before he’d gone berserk, according to his brothers. “And I am Miranda the Stubborn.”
He put a fist to his heart and extended the open palm toward her before turning and walking away.
If he’d only known, that heart sign would have won him entry in a nanosecond.
And thus the mighty do fall . . .
A week went by with no sign of Mordr.
Did he really give up so easily?
She suspected something was up when Jack Trixson convinced her to let the children go on a weekend camping trip with his family. Even Maggie had developed a sudden interest in outdoor living.
And Darla had talked her into a day at the Mecca Hotel health spa for the two of them. Massages, facials, manicures and pedicures. Followed by dinner and entertainment at a male revue called Thunder From Down Under. While definitely hot, those Aussie hunks had nothing on Mordr.
She almost expected to see him parked on her doorstep when she got home. But no. No vehicle in her driveway or garage. No extra lights on in the house. Not even a love note in her mailbox.
The next morning, a Saturday, she dragged herself to work, where she had three group therapy sessions scheduled. Staff psychologists alternated who would supervise these weekend clinics.
It was contrary of her, Miranda knew, but she was disappointed that Mordr had followed her orders to go away and stay away. And she hadn’t even built a moat. So much for his declaring war against her!
After two cups of coffee, she managed to lead the first session on addictions, primarily gambling. It was a successful meeting with a dozen clients, even though half of them would probably head for a casino afterward. She considered it progress that they continued to show up.
After a fifteen-minute break, she led the next session on teenage self-esteem. It was sad to hear all the young girls bemoan their self-identities tied in with magazine and TV images of gaunt, too-thin body frames and outer beauty as an indicator of worth. Even more alarming was the bullying that went along with physical appearance.
Finally, the sexual dysfunction group filed in. Only six people came today and they sat on half the folding chairs arranged in a circle. Martin “Marty” Gallagher, a Marine vet who suffered impotency due to PTSD. Jenny Laird, a self-proclaimed nymphomaniac, although Miranda believed she got off just talking about sex in therapy. Bob and Helen Morgan, a couple who argued constantly about sex. He wanted less; she wanted more. And then there was Mordr, sitting there as if he belonged. Today he wore Harley-Davidson attire. All leather, right down to his big boots and a jacket that said, not “Hell’s Angels,” but “The Other Angels.”
Despite being discomforted by Mordr’s presence, Miranda started the meeting. “Jenny, did you try that exercise class I suggested as a way of working off some of your sexual energy?”
“Pfff!” Jenny said, tossing her long blond hair over one shoulder and eyeing the newcomer to the group, who had yet to be introduced. Mordr. “The instructor in the class was a male, and he had us doing these pelvic thrusts to the rhythm of some weird rap music. By the time the class was over, I was so hot I dry-humped him in the locker room. The little weasel reported me to the manager, but not before nailing me in the shower, from behind, and after I gave him a blow job under his desk.”
Marty yawned. He’d heard Jenny’s stories before, most of which were fabricated. Helen gazed at Jenny with envy, and Bob cringed, fearing that his wife was going to be demanding even more of him when they returned home today. Mordr, on the other hand, was gaping at Jenny.
“Thank you for sharing that, Jenny,” Miranda said quickly before Mordr could speak, as he obviously was about to. “Do you think it was wise to engage in such activity in a public place?”
“Well—” Jenny started to say.
“All the sex books say that if it feels good, go for it,” Helen interrupted. “And Jenny wasn’t even doing it in front of anyone else, which would have been all right, too. Exhibitionism is a natural female fantasy. Bob wouldn’t even do it with me in the bathroom of the country club.”
“Hell! If I could get it up, I’d do it in Times Square,” Marty said. To Mordr, Marty explained, “Ever since I got back from Iraq, I’ve been unable to make the old soldier stand to attention. I keep seeing this kid who had a bomb strapped to his cock. Went off in a pink mist right in front of my whole company.”
Mordr put a sympathetic hand on the man’s arm. “I had men serving under me who suffered such after battles. Usually, it went away over time. Betimes, a bout of alehead madness helped, but mostly it was time and a patient woman who brought the staff back to life.”
Miranda was amazed at Mordr’s empathy. Most men would make a joke about such an affliction.
“Dr. Hart thinks I need a sex surrogate,” Martin added.
“Dr. Hart?” Mordr frowned in confusion. It was probably the first time he’d heard anyone refer to her as a doctor.
“He’s talking about me. I have a doctorate in psychology,” she told Mordr.
“And a sex sir . . . whatever he said?” Mordr inquired.
Miranda explained what a sex surrogate did.
“Over my dead body!” Mordr declared.
Everyone sat up with interest now, sensing a spark between her and Mordr.
Spark? It was more like a bonfire.
“If you will be having sex, it will be with me, not another man,” her Viking blabbermouth went on.
Miranda felt herself blush. “I’m not a sex surrogate. There are women who provide that professional service.”
“Harlots?”
“No, there are trained women, and men, who have the clinical experience to help those suffering from sexual issues,” she said.
“How do I get to be one of those surrogate things?” Jenny wanted to know.
“Yeah. Can we sign up here?” Helen asked.
Marty winked at Mordr, as if they shared some manly joke.
Enough of this nonsense!