Jasper fang-smiled him back.
Demons ever did like to dwell on the original forbidden fruit and how Satan had succeeded with Adam and Eve.
“That is to say,” Reynaldo continued, “geographically, set apart from the mainland, the island is somewhat free from the eye of authorities. People coming and going. So that, when they go missing, it is assumed that they returned back to Key West for business or home emergencies. It will be weeks before the number we have taken registers with law enforcement. Even then, they will be unable to prove anything. The island will be empty once again, and the conference organizers scattered hither and yon.”
“Zebulan thinks we should limit this mission to a smaller harvest, to avoid detection. One hundred, at most. Do you agree?”
“I do. These hit-and-run operations in the end will garner more for our side than massive operations that result in all-out warfare once the vangels know we are about. Not that they don’t already know we are here on Grand Keys Island.” Reynaldo paused for emphasis. “That is my good news for you today, m’lord. Not only are there vangels here already, but I recognized one of the VIK.”
Jasper straightened and almost dropped his thin cigar. Placing it carefully in an ashtray with fingers that nigh trembled with excitement, he asked, just to be sure, “One of the Sigurdsson brothers?”
Reynaldo nodded, pleased with himself to have brought such pleasure to his master.
“Holy brimstone! You continually surprise me, Reynaldo.” He paused. “Which one?”
“Sigurd Sigurdsson. The doctor.”
“Ah! He is the one guilty of the sin of envy.”
“Envy? That is all? Envy does not seem such a great sin to me.”
“It can be, and it is and was in Sigurd’s case. He killed a child, his own younger brother, out of envy. Envy eats at a sinner’s soul, like a cancer. A great sin, truth to tell, because it can lead to so many other sins.”
“I discovered his presence by accident, actually,” Reynaldo admitted. “I was following this young woman I fanged a day or so earlier, just to plant a sin taint. Of Spanish descent like myself, she was not yet ‘rotten’ enough, ha, ha, ha, to be taken, but she is contemplating some great sin. I was just helping her along with my initial bite, but last night I watched for her to leave the restaurant where she is working. My intent was to check on the course of her contemplated sin, but then I saw a man waiting for her. It was the doctor.”
Jasper rubbed his scaly hands together, creating a raspy sound. Even when they were in humanoid form, a Lucipire’s skin tended to be dry and flaky. Reynaldo would send Jasper a tube of his favorite skin cream later.
“Shouldn’t you have stayed and waited for an opening to pounce?”
“They went into his hotel room and after waiting for hours, I realized the VIK was nailing the wench. And you know those Vikings. Once is never enough. Though I thought sex was forbidden to vangels.”
“Pfff! They are Vikings, as you say. Do you think they can stay away from a wet twat for long?”
“Of course not.” Reynaldo loved when his master shared such crude conversation with him. It implied a closeness he hoped to nurture.
“This is perfect,” Jasper said, smacking his lips, which was not easy to do with fangs. “Even if we only take a hundred humans, one vangel—bloody hell, one VIK—would make the whole mission a success. Satan might even celebrate with us!”
And I would get the promotion I want. Reynaldo bowed his head with a humility he did not feel. Instead, he wanted to crow with triumph.
“I’m surprised that Zebulan didn’t know about this.”
“I am, too.” Reynaldo had always been a little suspicious of the Hebrew Lucipire. Always missing at certain times, always in his face at others. But he would not dare speak of those suspicions without proof. Zebulan was a known favorite of Jasper.
“This is what we will do,” Jasper said, down to business now. “You will concentrate entirely on Sigurd, and the woman if she helps you nab the VIK. Let the others harvest regular sinners.”
“Your wish is my command.” Hallelujah and here comes the council seat!
Jasper rang a little bell, and in slipped Beltane on silent feet to stand near a console table holding glassware, an ice bucket, and bottles of beverages. “A drink to celebrate?” Jasper arched a brow at Reynaldo.
Reynaldo nodded.
“Scotch and blood on the rocks?”
“Perfect!”
Soon after, as they sipped their delicious drinks, Jasper made a toast, raising his crystal tumbler to clink with Reynaldo’s. “Here’s to sin!”
Chapter 16
It didn’t take long for her bubble to burst . . .
Marisa couldn’t stop grinning.
It was barely one p.m., and the sun was high overhead as she lay in her bikini on the patio chaise, basking in a bit of rare relaxation, waiting for her hair to absorb the conditioner she’d applied a short time ago. A stone statue of a dolphin streamed water into a small fountain. A soothing, splashing sound, mixed with that of the ocean waves in the distance. The tropical plants and flowers that flourished in abundance were aromatherapy at its best. This island truly was a paradise.
If she wasn’t careful, she would fall asleep, and she had too much to do. Canceling her date with Harry being priority number one. She’d realized after parting company with Sigurd that she didn’t have a phone number for Harry, and she doubted information would have a listing for a boat. So she’d stopped by Martin Vanderfelt’s office, knowing full well they wouldn’t give out such private information, but instead left a message with the secretary, asking that Harry contact her on her enclosed cell number.
Her roommates were at work, where she should be under normal circumstances. But she’d stopped at the spa after leaving Sigurd’s hotel room, and Hedy had assured her that she’d been covered for the morning, thanks to Sigurd’s intervention. If Marisa wanted to come in at three, she could get in another couple of appointments before her restaurant job, Hedy had said. Fortunately, Hedy hadn’t asked any questions, but she probably guessed where Marisa had been.
Inga hadn’t been so discreet when Marisa had met up with her on her “walk of shame” home that morning. “Somebody got laid!” she’d hooted. Tiffany and Doris were working, but Inga didn’t need to report for her shift until this afternoon. So Inga had been off to soak up some rays by the pool before doing some shopping for toiletry items in the hotel gift shop.
At the moment, Marisa couldn’t care less if Inga or anyone else knew what she’d been doing all night, and this morning, too. Besides that, by what she’d witnessed on her walk back in the hotel corridors, open meeting rooms, even by the pool, the tone of this conference had been amped up considerably on the freedom of expression meter. Couples could be seen half-naked making out in public. On the leather lobby sofa, against the wall next to the elevator, on the sink vanity of the unisex restroom.
Eleanor Allen, the woman who’d interviewed Marisa initially for her job here and was now working the front desk, had noticed Marisa’s gaping mouth and told her as she passed, “Not to worry, the maintenance staff uses disinfectant spray by the gallon, or in some cases they just hose everything off nightly.”
“That is disgusting,” Marisa had said.
“You have no idea,” Ms. Allen said with a grimace.
Continuing down the corridor, Marisa had seen, through the open double doors, a packed meeting room. The sign on the door had read “How to Masturbate on Camera.” Becky Bliss and two other actors, one male and one female, were holding a panel discussion complete with demonstrations on a twenty-foot screen behind them.
“It’s important to look moist there all the time to give the appearance of arousal. I usually have the stagehand spray me with cooking oil,” Becky said with a giggle.
The other woman, a young redhead with torpedo-shaped breasts practically falling out of a tank top, had piped in with “I doan need ta do nothin’ down yonder. I’m slicker’n
spit on a doorknob durin’ a love scene. I love sex and it shows.”
The guy, who turned out to be Lance Rocket, had made a rude gesture rubbing his crotch and said, “Hell, I’m always ready,” which caused the audience to burst out with laughter.
Becky had glared at them both, then put the other actress in her place, “Let’s see how spitty you are when you’ve done the same love scene ten times, honey.”
When Marisa had reached the outdoor pool, she saw four couples playing nude volleyball.
“Winners get to screw the losers,” Tiffany had informed Marisa. Tiffany was sun-bathing, topless, with her legs dangling in the water.
Marisa didn’t think she’d be swimming in that pool anytime soon. She needed a shower. Another shower! “Holy frickin’ cow!” had been her only comment. Tiffany had probably thought she’d been referring to the volleyballers and not her very large breasts, which stood up perkily all by themselves. God bless silicone!
But now Marisa was back at the bungalow, having showered, and was letting the conditioner do its work. She rarely had time for such personal pampering back home.
Lying there, her body practically hummed with satiety, despite aches in some intimate places. Muscles she hadn’t used in years, if ever, had been exercised. The best possible workout, better than any gym. She would go inside shortly to soak in the bubble bath she’d purchased at the spa. Peach-scented.
She grinned some more.
Maybe Sigurd would join her. No, he wouldn’t. He was off holding office hours. She would see him later tonight, though. “Rest up, dearling,” he’d told her after kissing her good-bye two hours ago. “I have some ideas.”
She loved the Viking endearments he used with her . . . sweetling, dearling. She loved the way he kissed. She loved the way he made love. She loved his ideas.
More loopy grinning.
Oh, she knew she had lots to worry about. Izzie still needed an operation, and Marisa was still short on the funds to pay for it. But for this moment at least, she was going to leave it in someone else’s hands. Not Sigurd’s. She was not that foolish. But somehow, with the calmness that seemed to have seeped into her soul following Sigurd’s fanging out the sin taint, the oddest refrain kept shifting through her brain: “Let go, let God.” And she wasn’t even a religious person, not outwardly anyhow, and especially not after all the ungodly things she’d done with Sigurd.
She found herself grinning again.
Good thing no one could see her.
But then someone did, or soon would. Marisa heard voices approaching.
“Yikes!” She shot to a sitting position and grabbed for a towel to cover her skimpy suit.
Doris was walking up the path, prodding a young man forward in front of her with a pistol pressed into his back. It was Armod, the young friend of Sigurd’s, the one with the Michael Jackson fixation. He was arguing with Doris over his shoulder.
“I was guarding Mar-is-a, I tell you.”
Who? Me?
“Against what? Lizards?”
There were a lot of lizards around. Harmless, but creepy creatures.
“Against evil forces. Put the weapon down, m’lady. I do not want to hurt you.”
“Hah! As if you could—”
Spinning on his feet, Armod knocked the pistol out of Doris’s hand and it flew up and into the small dolphin fountain. He couldn’t have been more accurate if he’d aimed for it. Maybe he had.
Tackling a flailing Doris to the ground, face first, Armod held her hands behind her back and knelt over her. “Stop struggling and let me explain.”
“I’ll explain you, buster. I’m with the FBI, and you are in big trouble.”
What? Doris is with the FBI? Well, that made sense, Marisa supposed. It explained the pistol and Marisa’s original suspicion that Doris was not the cleaning lady type.
Oh no! Was it possible the FBI knew about Steve’s secret stash of knockoffs in the garage? Was it possible that Doris had recognized all of Marisa’s clothes and shoes and jewelry as counterfeits? Reflexively, she hid her wrist with the Tiffany watch on her lap. With a barely stifled groan of despair, Marisa wondered if she was going to “take the fall” for her brother? Was she going to be charged as an “accessory” to the crime? She’d learned those terms on Law and Order. But, really, was she going to be called an accessory for wearing knockoff accessories? No, she answered herself. The FBI didn’t go after such low-level criminals, did they?
“I do not care if you are FBI, AFT, CIA, or AB-frickin’-C. That is no excuse for hitting me over the head with a hard object,” Armod snarled, raising a leg to straddle Doris’s back. He then sat on her rump and held her joined hands in his when she refused to stop struggling. With Doris being about five-foot-two and Armod about six-foot-two, and with Doris bucking and snorting her anger, they resembled a giant sitting on a small pony, or something out of a Monty Python comedy.
“It was only a small rock. And it didn’t even break your skin.”
“There will be a big bump, though.”
“How else was I going to stop you from attacking Marisa?”
“I was not attacking her. I was guarding her, you lackwit.”
Aaarrgh! Enough is enough!
Standing, Marisa went over and chastised the two of them. “Are you two nuts? You’re going to have hotel security here in a few minutes if you don’t stop raising such a ruckus. Doris, I know this young man. He’s a friend of Sigurd’s, the hotel doctor. And Armod, Doris is my roommate. I don’t know about this FBI stuff, but I’ll find out.”
They both stilled and looked up at her, though Doris was still flat on her belly and Armod was still straddling her.
“Let her up, Armod. And, Doris, control yourself. We’re going to sit down and discuss this, without violence.”
A short time later, the three of them sat around the patio table, drinking Tiffany’s sweet tea in plastic glasses. Doris had changed from her hotel maid uniform into shorts and a T-shirt. Armod wasn’t wearing his usual Michael Jackson duds today—white socks, lone white glove, etc,—but he did have on a black T-shirt with the logo “Thriller” under an unbuttoned Hawaiian floral shirt with blue jeans and sneakers.
“Who are you?” Doris demanded of Armod. “Are you on the hotel security staff? You look about sixteen years old.”
“I am twenty-one,” Armod declared indignantly, but his face flushed with color.
Marisa wondered idly how many vangel years he was besides those human years. Then chastised herself because she still wasn’t buying all that vampire angel/demon crap.
“I am a dancer in the Michael Jackson revue in the nightclub,” Armod informed Doris, his chin raised proudly.
Doris frowned. “Why would the hotel doctor hire you to guard Marisa?”
Marisa felt the need to intervene before Armod said something he shouldn’t. “Sigurd is sort of my boyfriend.” After one night? My boyfriend? It sounds so high school–ish, but what else can I say. “He’s my vampire angel lover who needed to fang me”? Hardly. “He’s being overprotective.” Well, that’s the truth.
“You can’t tell anyone that the FBI is here,” Doris told them both.
“Who would I tell?” Marisa asked. “It’s not like I know any bad guys. Besides, I don’t know why you’re here.”
Armod, still affronted over the age insult, promised nothing. He would be blabbing as soon as he got back to Sigurd was Marisa’s guess.
“Just suffice it to say, there is suspicious crap about to come down on this island.”
For some reason, that strange creature thing she’d seen on this very patio the day before came to mind. But that couldn’t be what Doris was referring to. “Are you talking about demon vampires?”
Armod shot her a glance of shock, whether at the fact that she knew about those supposed creatures or that she was mentioning them out loud.
“What? You mean those dumbass actors in that porno flick Sucked!? No. Hell, no. Have you ever seen anything more stupid than thos
e folks walking around with fake fangs?”
Armod immediately clamped his lips shut tight.
“Terrorists?” Marisa asked then, realizing how stupid she must have sounded, mentioning vampires. “You think these pornographers are terrorists?”
Doris shrugged.
“What would be the point of bombing an island or whatever it is you think they’re planning?” Maybe Sigurd was right. Maybe Marisa did need to go home.
“That’s some jump in conclusions, Marisa. I never said they were planning a bombing.”
“What exactly are you saying? Who are they?”
“There are some bad characters here. Ones who’ve been on our watch list for years.” At the frown of confusion on Marisa’s face, she added, “Money laundering. Sex trafficking. Prostitution. That kind of thing.”
“Oh,” Armod said, clearly relieved that his cover wasn’t blown.
“Anyone in particular?” Marisa asked. Was Harry engaged in any of that stuff? Probably. Would she take that kind of dirty money if it meant saving Izzie? The moral dilemma kept getting more and more complicated. Good thing she wasn’t going to have to face that question since she’d agreed to cancel her date.
“That is information I cannot divulge. I’ve already said more than I should have.” Finishing her tea, she plunked her glass on the patio table and rose to go inside. As she opened the door, she turned to Marisa for one last warning, “It would be a good idea for you to go home before all hell breaks loose.”
“Why does everyone want me to leave the island?” Marisa muttered then.
Armod was still there, shifting nervously, and Marisa suspected he was anxious to get back to Sigurd and relate all that Doris had told them. “Go ahead and report back to your boss,” Marisa told him, not sure where she got the idea that Sigurd, a doctor, was the head guy on this island for the vangel gang, but there was no doubt in her mind. About that, at least.
“My orders are to watch you like a bloody hawk until you start your waitress shift.”