Kiss of Temptation

  As the crowds left the arena, the warden, his friends, and the LeDeuxs stood around talking about what a success the event had been.

  Ivak asked Tante Lulu if one of his brothers had blabbed to her.

  “You have brothers?’ the old lady asked. At his confusion, she told him, “The saints talk to each other, you know.”

  Was she implying that St. Michael had outed him to St. Jude?

  He was about to ask her just that but she was off to the side already, yakking away at Calvin . . . about St. Jude, no doubt.

  “Will you be home in New Orleans tonight?” he asked Gabrielle.

  She nodded. “Will you come?”

  “I’ll try, but it might be very late.” He didn’t want to tell her, but the big assault against the Lucies still remaining in the Angola area had fallen through last night, but would definitely be held tonight. After this, Louisiana would hopefully no longer be a Lucipire enclave. Oh, he had no delusions about wiping them out altogether, but if he and his brothers, who were just waiting for his signal, could destroy the majority, the demons would have to hover close to some other nest.

  “I’m off this weekend, so whenever you can get there will be okay.” She ran her hand up his bare arm and smiled mischievously when he shivered. “Have you heard from Michael?”

  Knowing that she referred to Michael’s reaction to their sexual activity, he shook his head. The silence from above was ominous. Maybe the big guy was waiting until the Lucie mission was completed before dealing with Ivak’s transgressions.

  “One thing,” he suggested to Gabrielle, running his hand up her arm now and watching with equal satisfaction as she shivered. “Can you be wearing the red dress and high heels?”

  He had to give his girl credit for quick thinking because she immediately countered, “As long as you give me a personal demonstration of the Michael dance. Naked.”

  Twenty-Three

  They celebrated the way all soldiers do . . . with beer . . .

  The battle between the vangels and Lucies in Louisiana was almost anticlimactic.

  Ivak used vangels as bait within Angola and in the surrounding parishes to lure the Lucies into the swamps and thick forests surrounding several sides of the prison property. Mordr was an incredible battle strategist. Always had been, even back in Viking times. Now, with the aid of computers and Harek’s expertise, Mordr was able to come up with plans almost instantaneously.

  Ivak and four of his brothers—Cnut and Sigurd were busy elsewhere—took battle stances along with their legions at four strategic points to catch those Lucies trying to escape. Rather like a vangel net.

  A bloody war ensued. Bloody and slimy.

  It was too soon for final accounts, but Ivak guessed that they had sent at least three dozen Lucies to their final slime tonight. There didn’t appear to have been any haakai about, but perhaps it was too soon after Dominique’s passing for new high commanders to have been sent to the region. There had been mighty mungs, though, and they’d fought hard, wounding many of the vangels.

  To their almighty regret, the VIK lost three vangels. They were hopefully in Tranquillity now, licking their wounds and waiting the long years until the Final Judgment. Ivak and his brothers always considered it a success when vangels “died” but were not taken by the Lucies to their torture chambers in hopes of turning them. That was truly a fate worse than death.

  As their various karls and ceorls did the cleanup work, Ivak and his four brothers gathered in an all-night roadside tavern that was so seedy the drinkers didn’t pay any attention to them, even with their long cloaks. The Vikings were drinking beer, of course.

  “Do you think we got them all?” Trond asked.

  “I doubt it, but the ones who are left . . . I’m guessing less than a dozen . . . will scatter. Unless Jasper assigns a new commander here right away, they won’t linger. And there were wounded Lucies, as well, but they’ll sneak off to heal somewhere safe.” This was Ivak’s opinion, anyway.

  They spoke of other aspects of the operation and mused on what Michael might have in mind for them next.

  “Will you continue to serve at the prison?” Harek asked.

  “For now, I will. Until I hear otherwise from Mike.”

  “Cnut thinks some of us might be sent to the Middle East. Iran is stoking the terrorist fires these days,” Mordr said.

  There was always some terrorist hot spot these days.

  “Where are you working?” Ivak asked Mordr.

  “Pfff! Some cruise boat in the Caribbean.”

  They all looked at him with disbelief.

  “You’re complaining about being on a longboat?” Ivak asked. “You’re a Viking, Mordr. Have you forgotten?”

  “And the Caribbean!” Vikar interjected. “Do you remember how cold it was in the Norselands? Nigh froze my balls off betimes.”

  “Believe you me, a cruise ship is nothing like a longship,” Mordr said with disgust. “There are so many hungry women trolling for husbands, and—”

  “Definitely you’ve lost your Viking genes,” Harek concluded, “if you think hungry women are a problem.”

  Ignoring their teasing remarks, Mordr went on, “—and all that sunlight can be a problem. I’ve been drinking so much Fake-O and having to search out passengers to save, lest my skin turn into Saran Wrap.”

  “I should have your problems! I swear the sun never shines inside those walls,” Ivak said. “Try living with five thousand men with hunger of a different kind. I always have to be watching my back, and I mean that exactly how it sounds.”

  His brothers grinned at that picture.

  “And your girlfriend . . . how is that going?” Harek asked, having met Gabrielle in her New Orleans apartment.

  “Good. Great, actually.”

  “And Mike?” Trond was grinning, having faced a similar situation not so long ago.

  “No word yet.”

  “Uh-oh!” his brothers said as one.

  Ivak stood. “I’ve got to go back to the prison and meet with Jogeir and Svein. Make sure the prison is clear of Lucies. Take a shower. Then . . .”

  Four sets of eyebrows raised in unison.

  “ . . . then I’m off to get my reward for a battle well fought.”

  “A medal?” Vikar teased.

  “More like red high heels,” he said, and walked out before his brothers could question him any more.

  Back at Horror, the mood was . . . well, horrible . . .

  Jasper was pacing the great hall in his palace named Horror, fury coming off his demonoid body in scales.

  He had not been happy when Dominique’s domicile had been demolished in New Orleans, not that he regretted her demise, personally. He was better off without her irritating self. But now that he’d learned that dozens and dozens of Lucipires had been destroyed by the vangels, leaving Louisiana and the southern region almost empty of a demon vampire presence, well, that was horrible.

  To blame was that damn pain-in-the-arse VIK, of course. Every time Jasper raised his ranks significantly, the vangels swooped in to block his growth. It was unacceptable. He made a sweeping slash with his clawed hand and knocked over a glass-topped table and two chairs. The humans being turned down below in his dungeons would be wondering what all the noise was up above. He would take out his fury on them later. Maybe pluck out an eyeball or two or try out the new anal jackhammer.

  Just then, Beltane brought in a battered Lucipire. A hordling with red hair and wounds seeping slime over various parts of his body.

  “Sorry to disturb you, master, but this man has news about the Louisiana situation,” Beltane said.

  The red-haired man bowed low until Jasper gave him permission to stand.

  After giving a brief report on the pathetic battle, the man whose tattered name tag read “Roland O’Malley” told Jasper, “I believe one of the VIK is serving at Angola where I was a guard. Ivak Sigurdsson, by name. And I believe there is a woman you could use to lure him out.”

  Ah! Domi
nique had mentioned this woman being with Sigurdsson, Jasper recalled.

  “Beltane, get me that photograph that Dominique sent to me weeks ago.”

  When Beltane returned, he showed the picture to O’Malley. “Is this the woman?”

  O’Malley nodded vigorously. “If we get her, we get him.”

  If Jasper had even one of the VIK in his hands, he might be able to redeem himself with Lucifer before the Master of Evil found out about the Louisiana debacle.

  “Get the wench and bring her here,” Jasper ordered the guard, barely restraining himself from rubbing his clawed hands together with glee. That could be painful. Then to Beltane, he said, “Polish up one of the killing jars. It appears we will soon have a new ‘butterfly’ to play with.”

  The worst possible thing happened then . . .

  Ivak was unable to get to Gabrielle’s apartment until the following morning. It was almost noon; so, he’d brought take-out food from Heavenly Eats, a bottle of wine, and a jar of chocolate body paint he’d seen in a French Quarter window on the way here.

  His first clue that something was wrong was his knocking on her door and getting no answer. Well, she might have gone out to do an errand. He berated himself for not having phoned to tell her he was on the way.

  His second clue was when he tried the door and it was unlocked. Frowning with concern, he went inside and placed his purchases on the coffee table.

  His third clue was Gabrielle’s purse hanging from a coatrack.

  In her bedroom, he saw the red dress lying on the bed, and the red shoes peeking out from the edge of the coverlet on the floor.

  The fine hairs stood out on the back of his neck. He walked into the kitchen, where a strange odor emanated. It was the teakettle on the electric stove; the water had boiled out, and the smell was that of hot metal. He turned the heat off and stood, thinking.

  Why would Gabrielle leave without her purse, with a teakettle boiling? That’s when he noticed something on the floor. He reached down and swiped up the clear substance with a forefinger. Sniffing, he immediately recognized the smell. Sulfur. A Lucie had been here.

  Ivak’s brain almost exploded with the images that flickered through it with painful stabs. Gabrielle in the hands of the Lucies. His heart was shattering at the implications that nigh brought him to his knees.

  Inhaling and exhaling several times to keep himself from flying off in several directions, he tapped Trond’s number into his cell phone.

  The minute Trond picked up, Ivak asked, “Do you know how to contact Zeb?”

  Zebulan was a double agent . . . a Lucipire who was supposedly working for Michael.

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “I need to talk to him. Immediately.”

  “Ivak! I’m on top of the cargo net, in the middle of PT.” Trond was in Navy SEAL training at Coronado, California. Ivak assumed he was referring to some type of exercise.

  “The Lucies have Gabrielle,” Ivak said, his voice rising with panic. “I think it’s only been a few hours.” He was going by the teakettle. Much longer and the metal would have been melting.

  “I’ll take care of it right away,” Trond said. Ivak could hear him talking to someone, probably a superior, indicating he needed a break. Then, back on the phone, Trond told Ivak, “Sit down and breathe, bro. I can hear your breathing all the way here. We’ll get her back. Stay where you are.”

  “I have to go looking for her. I can’t just do nothing.”

  “Stop it, Ivak. You know very well that’ll accomplish nothing. Help is on the way.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Ivak was sitting on Gabrielle’s sofa, bent over at the waist, his face in his hands, when Vikar and Harek arrived.

  “I talked to Trond,” Vikar said. “He was able to make contact with Zeb.”

  “And?” Ivak asked.

  “Jasper has Gabrielle at Horror.”

  Ivak roared out his pain and would have teletransported himself immediately to that far, far northern region of the Norselands if his brothers hadn’t pinned him to the sofa.

  When he calmed down . . . if the loud white noise in his head was being calm . . . Vikar said, “We’re going to do this Zeb’s way.”

  Ivak shook his head. “Jasper wants me. That’s what this about.”

  “Think, Ivak,” Hared ordered. “Do you honestly think Jasper will just relinquish Gabrielle if you hand yourself over? We must have a plan.”

  “Time,” Ivak groaned. “Every minute she is in his hands means torture. I cannot bear it.” He tore at his own hair.

  “There’s something else,” Vikar pointed out. “I was in the same situation when I gave myself up for Armod, and Trond tried to give himself up for Zeb. Michael will not allow it.”

  “Where is Michael when we need him most?” Ivak was angry with the archangel, and he didn’t care how blasphemous he sounded.

  It was an hour before they heard from Zeb. In fact, he arrived in person. One minute, the four of them were sitting around, waiting anxiously—Trond had arrived by then—and the next, Zeb was sitting with them.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. In his humanoid form, Zeb, a two-thousand-year-old Hebrew, wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and a Blue Devils baseball cap. “Looks like someone needs my help.”

  Ivak raised pleading eyes to the demon, unable to speak over his agony.

  “Impressive fangs,” Zeb said, observing Ivak’s incisors that were elongated with the hunger for violence against the Lucies.

  “Fuck you,” Ivak replied.

  Zeb hissed and flashed an equally impressive set of fangs.

  “Are you two dogs done marking your spots?” Harek remarked.

  Zeb exhaled loudly, then demanded, “You have to let me handle this.”

  “But—” Ivak protested.

  Zeb raised a halting hand. “There is no way for any of you to enter Jasper’s domain and ever leave. Do not think for one minute that he would release the woman in exchange.”

  “But he released Armod for Vikar that one time,” Ivak said.

  “That was after days had passed. Vikar had time to plan for an exchange. Do you really want your woman to be in his hands that long?”

  “No!”

  More gently, Zeb said to Ivak, “I will do whatever I can.”

  Ivak blacked out then, having been unaware that Harek had come up behind the couch and pinched him on a certain point of his neck. Vikar held him down so that Harek could complete the task. An action of unwelcome mercy.

  Ivak did not want mercy. He wanted Gabrielle.

  The lone demon to the rescue . . .

  Zebulan teletransported immediately to Horror, but he didn’t go inside right away. Instead, he stood staring up at the massive “castle” that was coated with ice and dripping icicles. It must be twenty degrees below zero on a good day here in the polar region.

  It was important . . . nay, critical . . . that Zebulan succeed with this mission. He hated being a demon vampire. The first few hundred years he hadn’t minded so much, having been numbed by the terrible sin he’d committed to earn him this eternal sentence, but then the hundreds and hundreds, then thousands of years after that, he’d come to loathe the atrocities he was forced to perform.

  Last year, after doing a favor for Trond Sigurdsson and his woman, he’d earned a meeting with St. Michael, who’d offered him a deal. If Zebulan would remain a Lucipire for fifty more years while secretly doing God’s work, Michael would consider releasing him from the horrible fate. Zebulan’s quick assent had been a no-brainer.

  Zebulan had to find a way of incapacitating Jasper or getting Jasper out of his castle, if only for a short time. And he had to find a way of rescuing Gabrielle that would not be laid at his door so that he could continue with his fifty years as a “secret agent.” He only hoped that the woman had not been tortured yet. If she had, she would never be the same again, and not just because of the physical wounds that could be healed. The things she would have seen marked a soul indelibly. Ivak would bl
ame himself throughout eternity.

  Zebulan thought a moment and then smiled as a plan occurred to him. Yes, that might work.

  First, he teletransported himself to Russia, where he made some purchases. The finest white beluga caviar in the world, worth many thousands of dollars, which he immediately doctored with a powdered sleeping draught. A bottle of Russo-Baltique vodka which could fetch a fortune at auction, also containing a drug. And a gallon of pure virgin’s blood. All of which he placed in a fine gift box tied with a black bow. Attached to it was a card reading “With fondness, To my master.” Hopefully, Jasper would think it came from Yakov, formerly a Russian Cossack, now one of Jasper’s High Command. Yakov lived in a command center in Siberia, aptly named Desolation.

  Zebulan placed the box on Horror’s front doorstep, rang the bell that sounded like a gong, and stepped back to hide. Soon Jasper’s assistant Beltane answered the door, picked up the box, looked around to see who had delivered it, shrugged, then took it inside, closing the door behind him. Zebulan knew that Jasper would be unable to resist the caviar and the makings for a Lucipire version of a Bloody Mary, two of his worldly passions.

  Zebulan waited an interminable hour before entering Horror. He figured Gabrielle had been here at least five hours. That meant she would already be down in the dungeons.

  Being careful not to be noticed, he snuck into the building. Sure enough, Jasper was fast asleep, slumped in a chair in his main salon, a half glass of the vodka mix sitting on a table beside him, and the caviar container with a spoon in it and a large amount missing.

  Also lying there fast asleep was Beltane. Jasper must have offered him a sample, too.

  Good! So far, so good!

  Making his way stealthily down to the dungeons, he passed with distaste all the humans on various torture apparatuses, some screaming, some with eyes and mouths wide open with terror at their fates. Then there were the tall, clear Plexiglas cylinders known as killing jars that held the humans, similar to butterfly boxes. Jasper used them to bring humans to a state of stasis before beginning his various games.