Vampire in Paradise

  Tiffany toddled off to the beauty salon table, blowing an air kiss their way. Marisa and Inga headed for the restaurant and bar staff line. Marisa went first.

  A chic, middle-aged woman in a pearl-gray Chanel business suit over a white silk Dior blouse motioned for her to sit in the chair across the folding table from her. She wore minimal makeup, but tastefully done. Erno Laszlo, by the tone of her skin, Marisa guessed. Her short salt-and-pepper hair was expertly cut. Her name tag said: “Eleanor Allen, Human Resources.” Pecking away at a small laptop, she said, “Name?”

  “Marisa Lopez.”

  “Your application form?”

  Marisa removed the completed paperwork from her purse and handed it over. The forms had been available on the conference’s website.

  Ms. Allen scanned the document. “And you’re applying for a job as a waitress?’”

  “Yes.”

  “We have five restaurants on site. Buster’s, Steak Alley, The Hub, Calloways, and the Phoenix.”

  “I prefer the Phoenix.” It was an upscale bar/restaurant where Marisa believed the tips would be best. Not too rowdy, like Buster’s, but not too luxurious, like Calloways. Sometimes the wealthiest diners were the worst tippers.

  “Your background experience is more than satisfactory. I don’t see any reason for you not to be hired or to get your pick of restaurants.”

  Marisa didn’t know whether to be pleased or dismayed by that news.

  The lady discussed the pay and potential for tips. Rules for employment, including no photographs or tweeting of news from the conference.

  Marisa hadn’t even thought about that. She probably could have made a bundle sneaking cell phone shots of Lance or Becky and selling them to the Star or some Internet pseudo-news site.

  “Salary will be withheld for any infraction,” Ms. Allen emphasized. “Employees are required to sign a confidentiality agreement not to disclose private information about individuals at this affair, prominent or otherwise.”

  Marisa couldn’t imagine how they would enforce such a rule. And, yes, she tucked that idea for raising extra cash away in a folder called “Only If I’m Desperate.” As if she weren’t already desperate, as evidenced by her being here to begin with.

  “What happens on Grand Keys Island stays on Grand Keys Island,” Marisa joked.

  Ms. Allen’s thin lips didn’t even twitch with a smile. “That goes without saying.”

  Okaaay! I lost a point with that one.

  “I notice that you have a child. We have a strict rule of no children under twelve being allowed on the island.”

  Marisa wondered about those children aged thirteen or fourteen, but brushed the lurid speculation aside. “My daughter will be cared for at home by my parents.”

  Ms. Allen nodded. Tenting her fingertips against her chin, she stared at Marisa for a long moment. “I’m curious, Ms. Lopez. You already have a job, two jobs in fact. You’re a very attractive woman. You could probably get other jobs on the mainland, if you are dissatisfied with your current employment. I don’t see any evidence of interest in the pornography industry on your part. Your clothing bespeaks couture. Why are you here?”

  Marisa could have made a snide remark, her MO of late, but Ms. Allen’s face had softened, almost maternal now. She arched a brow at Ms. Allen’s smart suit. “I could ask you the same thing. That’s a Chanel suit, I believe.”

  “Touché!” she replied. “But five years old.”

  Marisa glanced down at her own designer attire and admitted, “Knockoff.”

  They grinned at each other, conspirators in the silly game of designer importance.

  Then Ms. Allen revealed, “My husband of thirty years, a stockbroker, emptied our bank account . . .”

  Marisa almost rolled her eyes, expecting the same old/same old story. Older man runs off with young bimbo, probably his secretary, blah, blah, blah.

  But, instead, Ms. Allen said, “The idiot donated it all to a wacky religious order that is opposed to government, the pope, George Clooney, and bathing. He’s living in a hut in some commune in the Himalayas, hiding from the IRS, last I heard. For all I know, or care, the fleas have eaten him alive. I’ve been taking any work I can get to stay off welfare.”

  Ms. Allen gave her explanation in such a matter-of-fact manner that Marisa couldn’t help but smile.

  “I have a sick child,” she said.

  “Ah,” Ms. Allen replied. “Let me make a few suggestions then, my dear. Be very careful. Don’t turn your back on that island. Don’t trust anyone. These are not nice people. They will . . .” She let her words trail off. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. You could get me fired.”

  Marisa shook her head and patted Ms. Allen’s folded hands that rested on the table. “Just between us.”

  “Now, let me make another suggestion. If you are really in need of money, why don’t you go over to the health spa table and see if you can get additional work as a massage therapist. I noticed in your application that you’re a licensed therapist.”

  In need of money? More like desperate.

  “I understand why you would be hesitant, but if you spell out your conditions ahead of time, you should be able to bring in a significant amount of tips there. They are understaffed and not getting the number of applications they need. Besides, I know the lady who is running the spa. Hedwig Meyer. Hedy is a good, no-nonsense German woman.” She grinned and added, “Her husband fell in love with a clown. Apparently clown sex is the new politically correct perversion.”

  Marisa was beyond being shocked. So she wasn’t about to ask what clown sex involved, other than appearance.

  Guessing her question, her interviewer said, “Mostly it involves fake noses in unaccustomed places. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “Holy crap!”

  “You have no idea.”

  “By the way, will you be working on the island at this conference, Ms. Allen?”

  “Call me Eleanor,” she said. Then, “God help me, yes.”

  They both laughed.

  An hour later, Marisa had locked in jobs with both the Phoenix Restaurant and Grand Keys Oasis Spa, while Inga would be working at the Phoenix and Buster’s, both of them maxing out the numbers of hours to earn the most in salary and tips. They carried envelopes with the job descriptions, regulations, and tickets for ferry passage to the island a week from Monday. They would get their uniforms when they arrived. When she’d asked what the uniforms looked like, Eleanor had just rolled her eyes.

  As they walked through the lobby, a group of suited men walked out of one of the conference rooms. The movers and shakers of this whole shebang, Marisa surmised.

  She noticed the oddest thing then. The smell of lemons permeated the air. In the midst of them all was Dr. Grumpy, who gave her the oddest look. It said loud and clear:

  Go away! Run as fast as you can. Danger!

  She put her fingertips to her lips in seeming dismay. The middle finger might have been raised slightly higher.

  His clear blue eyes widened in surprise. Then he scowled.

  She did, too. It had been that kind of day.

  Chapter 4

  Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work they go . . .

  When Sigurd arrived on Grand Keys Island by seaplane a week later, he was well-tanned and ready for this new assignment. So was his medical assistant, Karl Mortensen, a young vangel who remained a perpetual twenty-two after dying in Vietnam more than forty years ago.

  Five other vangels, already on the island, had been hired for various jobs at the conference, everything from snorkeling instructor to desk clerk. Among them was Armod, who fashioned himself a reincarnation of Michael Jackson. Yes, a moonwalking vampire angel. Enough on that subject! The boy from Iceland was only sixteen human years old, but he carried fake identification proclaiming him to be twenty-one, or he would not have been permitted to work on the island.

  This would be Armod’s first mission, and his undercover job would be as a dancer in one of th
e nightclub acts. It better not be lewd dancing, Sigurd had warned, and Armod had pointed out that most modern dancing did cross the line at times. At least it would not be stripper-type dancing. That’s all Sigurd would need to explain to Mike. A Viking vampire angel shimmying his braies off!

  Armod, nigh shivering with excitement when Sigurd had left him back at the hotel this morning, kept asking, “Are you sure I’m tan enough, Sig? I could drink more Fake-O.”

  The boy had already drunk so much Fake-O, he’d be pissing buckets all day.

  Sigurd had been out on a mission to the Rocky Mountains with his brothers and their troops for several days, saving sinners who were being hunted by Lucies at some wild orgy-like music festival. Thus, his skin sported a deep tan, allowing him to blend in with the sunbathing crowd. For some reason, modern folks considered leathery skin attractive.

  When saving a human, even the small amount of blood taken was like heavenly vitamin C to a vangel. Same was true of destroying a Lucipire. Lack of a saved’s blood, or lack of celestial points for taking down a demon vampire, over time turned the skin white and then transparent. What better way to announce to humans they encountered, Hey, I’m a vampire. Wanna get sucked? Sigurd recalled a time, soon after being turned, that his skin became so light, all the veins in his body stood out, like a blinkin’ Etch A Sketch.

  In an emergency, vangels used blood ceorls in their community or the unsatisfactory Fake-O. Or, as his married brothers had discovered recently, they could flourish off the occasional feeding on their life mates, or eternity mates in their society.

  But the best way remained the drinking blood of a person they had saved from Satan’s vampires, or annihilating Lucipires. Sigurd expected to have numerous opportunities to do both on Grand Keys Island.

  “Wow!” Karl said as they approached the island, and the pilot landed them neatly in the water, close to one of the docks. “This is paradise.”

  “Yes, but remember Eden. There’s always a snake in the garden,” Sigurd reminded him.

  “More than one in this case,” Karl agreed, rubbing a hand over the flat-top haircut that he maintained, though it had gone out of style many years ago.

  The island was beautiful. A paradise of stately palm trees and lush flowers flourishing in the semi-tropical climate. The island itself was probably only eight square miles, big enough to handle the massive hotel that rose from its center and the private bungalows that were situated along the rungs of a half pinwheel stemming from the back and two sides. Several yachts, expensive sailboats, and more seaplanes dotted the clear blue water, most of them about a quarter mile out from shore. There were no deep water docks on either the ocean or gulf sides of the island, just wharves to cater to smaller craft.

  Sigurd’s brothers and about a hundred vangel soldiers were on call to come to his aid if it was discovered that there was a large Lucie presence on the island. Last he heard, they were arguing about what kind of boat to purchase as an off-island headquarters for their operation. Vikings did love their boats!

  Vikar was pushing for a longship. Like that wouldn’t be conspicuous!

  Cnut suggested a blimp that could sort of float over the island. Really? Sort of float? Had none of them heard of the Hindenburg?

  Ivak wanted a large speedboat, but was voted down when the size limitations were pointed out. Not to mention, the Coast Guard would probably be on their tails for speeding or reckless boat driving. Ivak already had a dozen traffic tickets for speeding down the Louisiana highways. Sigurd had no doubt Ivak’s behavior would be the same on the high seas.

  Trond, a Navy SEAL, knew someone who knew someone in the military who could get them a used submarine. I think I have a headache, Sigurd had thought when that subject was brought up. A big one!

  In the end, they’d decided to let Harek investigate buying a yacht on the Internet. There was a listing for what Harek described as a “big-ass cruiser,” that once belonged to an Arab sheik. What happened to the days when sheiks confined themselves to desert tents? “It even has special suites for his harem.”

  “That will go over big with Mike,” Sigurd had pointed out, to no avail. No one listened to reason when Vikings were on a roll discussing their favorite subjects. Ships and women. Well, beer, too, but that was a given, no matter what vessel they decided upon.

  “And what are you going to do with a yacht once this mission is over?” Sigurd had asked.

  “Sell it on eBay,” Harek said.

  Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?

  “Or we could keep it out on Colyer Lake,” Vikar had suggested.

  Sigurd doubted that the lake near the castle in Transylvania, Pennsylvania, was deep enough to hold a seagoing yacht, and how they would get the yacht there posed another problem. But the biggest problem was that Mike would never allow it. Too much fun!

  In any case, he and Karl and the other six vangels were now on the island, and the others would come, when and if he summoned them. How was something his brothers could work out without his input.

  Workers were emptying boxes of supplies off the more mundane-looking vessels and piling them onto wheeled carts, which they pushed up the inclined path toward the hotel. All-terrain vehicles were also used to transport goods. A ferry was offloading passengers, probably employees, like themselves. The conference wouldn’t officially start for another day.

  That’s when Sigurd saw the woman he’d spoken to in line before the Purple Palm last week. Karl was off in the bushes sneaking a cigarette, a filthy habit he’d picked up while in Vietnam and which he claimed “can’t kill me now.” Though, come to think on it, Sigurd had rarely seen Karl smoke since his recent marriage. He was probably checking in with his wife.

  Should he ignore her, as he was inclined to do? Do not get involved with anyone at this lackwit conference. Get his job done. Save a sinner or five. Destroy a legion of Lucies. Then maybe Mike would let him return to medicine . . . legitimate medicine. Something with prestige.

  Hah! Not bloody likely. He would have to do a lot of groveling before that happened. Prove that he could be humble, lacking in envy, like the next guy.

  So Sigurd rushed to catch up with the woman to apologize for his rudeness and perhaps offer a warning to her about that lecherous Goldman’s interest in her. That should earn him some points with the big guy.

  “Greetings!” he said. “My name is Sigurd. We met before.”

  She gave him a sideways glance. “You again!”

  Not a promising start! “And your name is . . . ?”

  She hesitated. “Marisa Lopez. Shouldn’t you be off doctoring or something in the VIP lounge?”

  He gritted his teeth. If there was anything that annoyed him, it was a woman with an irksome attitude. “I do not start my doctoring, or something, until tomorrow. Shouldn’t you be off massaging something?”

  Tipping her head at him in acknowledgment of his riposte, she replied, “I start tomorrow, too.”

  She really was a gorgeous woman. Skin a natural olive. Full, unpainted mouth, which was a natural rose color. Hair black and shiny that spilled out in a thick straight swath onto the bare shoulders of her strapless, form-hugging top. The stretchy red material hugged her breasts and abdomen, leaving naught to the imagination . . . his imagination, leastways. Same for the tight white braies, which ended mid-calf, calling attention to her long legs and rounded buttocks. On her feet were white, high-wedged, backless shoes with big red flowers, the same color as her top. Peeking out of the shoes were oddly sexy, clear, glossy toenails.

  Not that he was paying that much attention to her physical attributes. Who was he kidding? Sigurd felt a lurch low down on his body. He was not easily aroused these days, and it surprised him, for a moment.

  “Wouldst care to share a drink with me later?” he found himself suggesting.

  “Why?” she asked, narrowing her eyes with suspicion. She’d obviously noticed his appreciative perusal.

  “There are some things you need to know to protect
yourself whilst on this island.” And I want to touch your skin.

  She laughed. “From you?”

  He shrugged. “And others, who would not take no for an answer.”

  “And you would . . . take no for an answer?”

  “I would do a damn good job of convincing you to change your mind.” He smiled. But then he caught himself. What was he doing, engaging in senseless banter with a woman? He had no business suggesting that he would consider seduction, especially of a woman dim-witted enough to hire herself out at an event celebrating lewdness.

  She fanned a hand in front of her face. “Good heavens! When you smile like that, I believe you could.”

  Well, mayhap not so dim-witted after all. “Even with my little fangy teeth?” He recalled her remarking on his incisors that other day.

  She waggled her eyebrows at him. “Especially with those cute little pointy teeth.” She frowned then. “Which don’t seem to be pointy at all today.”

  Cute? That is a not a word a Viking likes to hear. “The points come and go.” He waved a hand dismissively.

  “Like magic?”

  He shrugged. “I am a Viking. We are known for extraordinary . . . things.” He was the one waggling his eyebrows now.

  “A doctor with a sense of humor. Amazing!”

  He laughed. It had been a long time since he’d flirted with a woman. A looooong time. He concentrated on tamping down his pleasure, before someone else did it for him, someone up there. “What I was trying to say was, there are evil men on this island. You could be in danger.” Really, he was saying more than he should. He forced himself to scowl, instead of grinning like a loopy lackwit.

  “Listen, Sigurd—” she started, pronouncing his name like cigar.

  “Call me Sig,” he said.

  “Listen, Sig. I’ve been taking care of myself for years. I don’t need your advice. Or whatever else you’re offering.”