Kiss of Wrath

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by Sandra Hill


  “For you, Isobella.” Her mother placed before Izzie a plastic Barbie plate of chocolate-sprinkled sugar cookies and a matching teacup of chocolate milk. Her mother would have already crushed some of the hated pills into the milk.

  “I’m not hungry, Nana,” Izzie whined, burying her face against Marisa’s chest.

  “You have to eat something, honey. At least drink the milk,” Marisa coaxed.

  After a good half hour of bribing, teasing, singing, and game playing, she and her mother got Izzie to eat two of the cookies and drink all of the milk.

  “What did the doctor say?” Izzie asked suddenly.

  Uh-oh! Izzie knew that Marisa had gone to the medical center to discuss her latest test results. “Doctor Stern said you are growing like a weed. No, he said you are growing faster than Jack and the Beanstalk’s magic beans.” At least that was true. She was growing, despite her loss of weight.

  Izzie giggled. “I’m a big girl now.”

  “Yes, you are, sweetie,” Marisa said, hugging her little girl warmly.

  Somehow, someway, I am going to get the money for Izzie, Marisa vowed silently. It might take one of my mother’s miracles, but I am not going to let my precious little girl die. But how? That is the question.

  The answer came to her that evening when she was at La Cucaracha, the Salsa bar where she worked a second job as a waitress and occasional bartender. Well, a possible answer.

  “A porno convention?” she exclaimed, at first disbelieving that her best friend Inga Johanssen would make such a suggestion.

  “More than that. The first ever International Conference on Pornography: Freedom of Expression,” Inga told her.

  “Bull!” Marisa opined.

  They were in a back room of the restaurant, taking a break. They wore the one-shouldered, knee-length, black Salsa dresses with ragged hems, La Cucharacha’s uniform for women (the men wore slim black pants and white shirts). They were both roughly five foot eight, but otherwise completely different. Where Marisa was dark and olive skinned, Inga was blond and Nordic. Where Marisa’s figure was what might be called voluptuous, Inga’s was slim and boylike, except for the boobs she bought last year. The garments they wore were not meant to be revealing but to accommodate the restaurant’s grueling heat due to the energetic dancing. They needed a break occasionally just to cool off.

  Inga waved a newspaper article at her and read aloud, “All the movers and shakers in the pornography industry will be there. Multi-billion dollar investors, movie producers, Internet gurus, actors and actresses, store owners, franchisees—”

  “Franchisees of what?” Marisa interrupted. “Smut?”

  Inga made a tsking sound and continued, “—sex toy makers, instructors on DIY home videos—”

  “What’s DIY?” Marisa interrupted again.

  “Do it yourself.”

  “Oh, good Lord!”

  “Martin Vanderfelt—”

  “A made-up name if I ever heard one.”

  “Please, Marisa, give me a chance.”

  Marisa made a motion of zipping her lips.

  “Martin Vanderfelt, the conference organizer, told the Daily Buzz reporter, ‘Our aim is to remove the sleaze factor from pornography and gain recognition as a legitimate professional enterprise serving the public.’ ”

  Marisa rolled her eyes but said nothing.

  “This is the best part. It’s being held for one week on a tropical island off the Florida Keys. Grand Keys, a plush special events convention center, comes complete with all the amenities of a four-star hotel, including indoor and outdoor pools, snorkeling and boating services, beauty salons and health spas, numerous restaurants with world class cuisines, nightclubs, tennis courts—“

  “I’d like to see some of those over-endowed porno queens bouncing around on a tennis court,” Marisa had to interject.

  Inga smiled. “So cynical! Becky Bliss will be there. You know who she is, don’t you?”

  Even Marisa knew Becky Bliss. She was the porno princess famous for being able to twerk while on top, having sex. “Are you suggesting we might learn how to do that?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt. Maybe it would enhance your non-existent sex life.”

  “Not like that!”

  “Okay. Besides, John Rocket will be there, too.”

  Marisa had no idea who John Rocket was, but she could guess.

  “Anyhow, this conference isn’t for your everyday Joe, the porn aficionado. It costs five thousand dollars to attend. The only access to the island is by water. You can’t drive there, of course. They expect to see lots of yachts and seaplanes.”

  “Okay, I give up. Why would you or I even consider something like this? Oh, my God! You’re not suggesting I make porno films to raise money for Izzie, are you?”

  “Of course not. Look. This article says they are looking to hire employees for up to two weeks at above scale wages, all expenses paid, including transportation. Everything from waiters and waitresses to beauticians to diving instructors . . . even a doctor and nurse. Waiters and waitresses can expect to earn at least two thousand dollars, and that doesn’t include tips. Upper scale professions, much more.”

  “I still can’t see us doing something like this.”

  “Why not? We don’t have to like all the people that come to the Salsa bar, but we still serve them food or drinks.”

  “I don’t know,” Marisa said.

  “There’s something else to consider.”

  “If you’re going to suggest that I might find a sugar daddy to pay for Izzie’s operation, forget about it.” But don’t think it hasn’t occurred to me.

  “No, but there will be lots of Internet types there. Maybe you could find someone with the technical ability to set up a website for Izzie to raise funds.”

  “I already tried that, but every company I contacted said it has been overdone. There’s no profit for them.”

  “Maybe you’ve made the wrong contacts. Maybe if you met someone, one on one . . . I don’t know, Marisa, isn’t it worth a try?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Marisa said, to her own surprise.

  “Applications and interviews for employment are being held at the Marriott in Key West next Friday,” Inga pointed out. “Don’t think too long.”

  “Don’t push,” Marisa said.

  They heard the Salsa band break out in a lively instrumental with a rich Latin American beat. A prelude to the beginning of another set of dance music.

  As they headed back to work, Inga said, “I’ll drive.”

  Two

  Transylvania, Pennsylvania, 2014 A.D.

  It was a male fantasy assignment . . . or was it?. . .

  Sigurd was late arriving at the castle for the conclave called by St. Michael the Archangel.

  He’d run into a traffic pile-up on the Beltway when he left his job as a cancer research physician at Johns Hopkins. Then he’d gotten behind a vampire parade in this whack-job touristy town that celebrated . . . guess what? Yep. Dracula wannabes.

  Hah! If they knew how inconvenient fangs actually are, Sigurd thought, running his tongue under his own pointy set, they would keep their fool mouths shut and take up a saner hobby, like sword fighting. Try kissing a maid when the incisors are out. Or drinking a cold beer, modern man’s wonderful invention that surely rivals our ancient Viking favorite beverage . . . mead. I scare even myself when I happen upon a mirror and see how I look.

  He could have teletransported, but vangels were warned to use that talent only on special occasions. Like when they were needed quickly to back-up one of their fellow Viking vampire angels. (He still shuddered after all these years to consider himself one of those.) Or when a Lucipire was about to gobble them up.

  He pressed the code numbers into the remote on his SUV dashboard and watched as the gates opened onto the massive property where his oldest brother Vikar was converting an old, rundown castle into one of the headquarters for all the vangels. Vikar was three years into the project, and the pro
gress was slow, as evidenced by scaffolding around one of the towers. Sigurd parked his vehicle in the back courtyard, rather than going down into the underground parking garage. He didn’t expect to be staying long.

  He entered the kitchen, about the size of most longhouses “back in the day,” a modern expression he was embarrassed to find himself using way too much lately. He wasn’t that old. Well, actually he was. Twenty-seven human years, but a mind-boggling one thousand, one hundred and ninety-one years. His original sentence . . . uh, assignment as a vangel had somehow been extended, and extended, by a few sins he was unable to avoid over the years. Or a lot. But, really, did Mike (the rude name the VIK—acronym for Sigurd and his six brothers—had given their heavenly mentor) expect virile Viking men to remain celibate for decades, let alone centuries?

  Sigurd shook his head to clear it. His mind seemed to be wandering so much today. Probably overwork on his latest medical project, not to mention having gone on a vangel mission in Baltimore over the weekend where a Lucie horde had been nesting in one of the slums, preying on drug addicts. Lucies was a nickname they had given to the demon vampires.

  The scent of cooking food hit Sigurd first, and he noticed one of the vangels, their cook, Lizzie Borden (yes, that Lizzie Borden) hacking away at what appeared to be the hind quarter of a cow, then tossing the pieces to brown in a huge, sizzling iron skillet.

  “Good morn, Mrs. Borden,” he said.

  “Pfff! What is good about feeding fifty ravenous Vikings?” Lizzie always complained about her cooking chores, but she guarded her domain like a Norseman protecting his longship.

  He opened the commercial size fridge to get a bottle of Fake-O, the blood substitute he had invented several years ago to supplement the vangels’ supply when it had been too long since they saved sinners or annihilated Lucies. Blood caused a vangel’s skin to have a nice suntanned hue. Without it, their skin turned lighter and lighter until it was almost transparent.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked Lizzie after quaffing down the thick beverage in one long swallow, then wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, fighting a shiver of disgust. One of these days, when he had more time, he would have to do something about the taste.

  “In the front parlor. They started an hour ago,” Lizzie pointed out with relish. She didn’t care much for Vikings.

  “Thanks, Liz,” he said, just to annoy here.

  She said something very unangelic as he walked away. Not that any of them were angels. More like fallen angels.

  On the way down the long corridor he ran into Regina, who had been a witch back in the thirteenth century Norselands. A real witch, the kind who brewed potions in a boiling cauldron and issued curses hither and yon. She was always threatening to do unsavory things to the manparts of the various VIK when they displeased her.

  “Why aren’t you in the meeting?” he asked, in a very polite manner, if he did say so himself.

  Despite his good manners, she sneered at him. “Mike was done with us peons hours ago. He is dealing with the sins of you VIK now.” She cackled. She actually cackled, and added, “Someone is about to have his arse chewed up good and well.”

  “Me?” he inquired with mock innocence and made a rude gesture at the hissing black cat that followed on Regina’s heels.

  The cat tried to piss on his boot but he managed to get away, unscathed. Regina was muttering something behind him, probably a curse. He would have to get a codpiece to protect himself when he left here today. Where did one buy a codpiece anyhow?

  He tried to enter the parlor unobtrusively, to no avail.

  His six brothers turned as one, eyebrows arched, lips twitching with humor at his expense. They sat in a semicircle before Mike, who was sprawled lazily in a throne-like, wingback chair, jeans-clad legs crossed at the ankles over a pair of athletic shoes. The latest, very expensive Adidas. Mike had a fascination with modern footwear. A large, gold cross hung on a thick chain around his neck, nestling on his pure white t-shirt. The only other indication of his saintliness was a rather halo-like glow about his long, black hair. No wings today.

  “Ah! The prodigal vangel deigns to honor us with his presence,” Mike said. Sarcasm was a favorite tool of Mike’s, and it was usually directed at the VIK. None of them were immune.

  “Sorry. There was a—”

  Mike waved a hand, uninterested in his explanation. “Vikar, recap for the tardy one what we have been discussing.”

  Vikar winked at Sigurd, who sat down in the empty chair beside him. “It appears that Jasper and his demon vampires are growing in number. Well over two thousand, at last count. Whereas the number of vangels is closer to five hundred.” Jasper was the king of the demon vampire, one of the fallen angels who had been kicked out of heaven along with Lucifer. “We are going to add more new vangels to our ranks . . . one hundred at a time, under the training of Cnut and Mordr. And there is a big event being planned by Jasper for next month.”

  Sigurd tilted his head in question.

  “Let Harek show him,” Mike directed.

  Harek sat in the chair on Sigurd’s other side. He was the computer guru in their ranks. He slid the laptop from his knees to Sigurd’s and pointed to the screen. “St. Lucy Island.”

  “And is that not an appropriate name?” Mike interrupted.

  Sigurd saw a picture of a lush, tropical island with what appeared to be a massive hotel complex from which bungalows stemmed out like the spokes of a wheel. Luxury yachts and sailing vessels were anchored in the clear blue waters.

  “It is an island off the Florida Keys. That large structure there is a special events hotel. And, whoo boy, is there a special event being planned there.” This from a grinning Harek.

  “One which Jasper hopes to infiltrate where he will harvest more souls for his evil legions,” Michael told Sigurd.

  “The first ever International Conference on Pornography.” Harek grinned at him.

  Sigurd frowned, suspicious of that grin, and turned to Mike. “What has this to do with me? I am a physician at Johns Hopkins.”

  “Not any more,” Mike said. “Thou art about to render thy resignation.”

  “Why? I do good work there,” Sigurd protested.

  “You do, but you have been in one place for twenty years, and you do not age. ’Tis time for a change.”

  Sigurd understood. “Then another hospital?”

  Mike shook his head. “Thou art about to start a new . . . job. Thou will be the resident physician on St. Lucy Island for the duration of this vile affair.”

  Sigurd almost choked on his tongue, so stunned was he. His brothers barely stifled their snickers.

  “Me? I am going to a porno convention.”

  “Thus sayeth the Lord,” Mike pronounced.

  Bullshit! Sigurd thought. Thus sayeth Michael the Irksome Archangel.

  That was how Sigurd found himself the following week in Key West, Florida, applying for a new, unenviable position.

  For the love of a troll! He was a fierce fighting warrior, a practicing healer and physician, a Viking vampire angel. He’d thought he could not be shocked anymore.

  He was wrong.

  About the Author

  Sandra Hill is a graduate of Penn State who worked for more than 10 years as a features writer and education editor for publications in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Writing about serious issues taught her the merits of seeking the lighter side of even the darkest stories.

  Please visit her on the web at

  www.sandrahill.net

  www.avonromance.com

  www.facebook.com/avonromance

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  ROMANCES by Sandra Hill

  KISS OF WRATH

  THE PIRATE BRIDE

  KISS OF TEMPTATION

  KISS OF SURRENDER

  KISS OF PRIDE

  THE NORSE KING’S DAUGHTER

  THE VIKING TAKES A KNIGHT

  VIKING IN L
OVE

  HOT & HEAVY

  WET & WILD

  A TALE OF TWO VIKINGS

  THE VERY VIRILE VIKING

  THE VIKING’S CAPTIVE (FORMERLY MY FAIR VIKING)

  THE BLUE VIKING

  TRULY, MADLY VIKING

  THE LOVE POTION

  THE BEWITCHED VIKING

  LOVE ME TENDER

  THE LAST VIKING

  SWEETER SAVAGE LOVE

  DESPERADO

  FRANKLY, MY DEAR

  THE TARNISHED LADY

  THE OUTLAW VIKING

  THE RELUCTANT VIKING

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Excerpt from Vampire in Paradise copyright © 2014 by Sandra Hill

  KISS OF WRATH. Copyright © 2014 by Sandra Hill. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition JUNE 2014 ISBN: 9780062210470

  Print Edition ISBN: 9780062210463

  FIRST EDITION

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  About the Publisher

  Australia

  HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

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  Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

 

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