Kiss of Surrender

  “Aren’t you all?” the Prince of Snideness responded, arms folded over his chest.

  “I met Trond Sigurdsson in California recently and he told me to drop by any time.”

  “Is that so?” He twirled his fingertip for her to go back to her car.

  “I’m not leaving.” She folded her arms over her chest, mirroring him.

  She thought she saw a smile twitch at his red lips, but it was hard to tell with the fangs. In fact, he made a hissing sound at her to scare her away.

  “Oh please!” she said. “I’ve been hissed at by better than you. In fact, you need to work on your hiss.”

  “What’s wrong with my hiss?” he asked before he could catch himself. “Never mind. Listen, lady, I don’t care where you’ve come from. You are not on the list of expected visitors, and therefore you are not coming in. Don’t make me get physical with you.”

  Just then a black SUV drove up with a woman driving. She blew the horn and waved at the guard.

  “Are you going to move, or do I have to toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your car? That’s the boss’s wife and I need to let her through. You’re blocking the way.”

  “That’s Alexandra?” she asked, and before the guard could grab her arm, Nicole ran back to the SUV. Speaking as fast as she could, she said through the open window. “Hi, I’m Nicole Tasso. A . . . a, um, friend of Trond’s. The guard won’t let me pass.”

  The woman tilted her head to the side. “Nicole? The female SEAL?”

  She nodded.

  “Thank God!” Alex exclaimed.

  Nicole had no idea what that meant, but it had to be good. Unfortunately, she was the only one who heard it.

  The guard had a hold of Nicole’s arm now and was trying to drag her away.

  “Let her go, Svein,” Alex called out. “This is the woman Trond has been driving us crazy over.”

  Svein looked more closely at her, and not in a complimentary way. “I can see why she would drive someone crazy. She says I have a bad hiss,” Svein grumbled.

  “Maybe we can finally get some peace here. Hop in,” she told Nicole. And to Svein she said, “Move her car and bring it around back, please. I can’t wait to see Trond’s face.”

  Nicole got a better look at the woman driving now that she was inside the vehicle. A strawberry blonde with green eyes . . . probably Irish, she was tall, about five-eight or -nine, wearing a white silk blouse tucked into black jeans with sandals. While Nicole glanced at the overladen backseat, Alex told her, “I’ve been grocery shopping.”

  For an army?

  Just then, the implications of what Alex had said on first meeting her sank in. “Trond is here?” Nicole asked as they drove through the gates, to the front, then around the side of the castle.

  “Yep. He’s been here for ten miserable days.”

  “He’s here? He’s safe? And he didn’t even call me?”

  “Uh-oh!” Alex murmured, then, “I think he’s out back planting onions with Zeb. Or maybe it’s grape vines. He’s sort of between missions. So is my husband, and they’re both antsy.”

  “Zeb is here and safe, too?”

  Alex nodded, no longer sure she should be revealing so much to a stranger.

  “I’m going to kill the man. And I don’t even care if Trond is already dead.”

  Alex laughed and reached over to squeeze her hand. “Welcome to the club, honey.”

  First they entered a huge kitchen with commercial-grade appliances and freezers. An older woman was hacking away at several whole, raw chickens with a cleaver. “Chicken cacciatore with pasta,” she said with snarl of disgust, thus exposing her fangs. “Honestly, Mrs. S., I’m making pork and sauerkraut tomorrow, and everyone better eat it, too.”

  The fragrant pot of tomato sauce already simmering on the range must hold at least twenty quarts. As she cut the chicken into portions, she tossed them into an equally huge frying pan already sizzling with green peppers, onions, and garlic.

  Alex smiled and said, “Nicole, this is Lizzie Borden, our cook.”

  Nicole looked at the woman dressed in a Victorian-era, long, lace-trimmed black dress with an equally long white apron. Her gray hair was gathered in a bun at her neck. Nicole looked again at the cleaver that could be construed to be an axe, she supposed, and connected the name with the implement. Surely not, she thought, but Alex grinned and gave her an inconspicuous nod. Nicole recalled then that Trond had told her about Lizzie one night while they were at Zeb’s hideaway.

  “And Miss Borden, this is Trond’s friend Nicole.”

  “Do you like pork and sauerkraut?” Miss Borden asked her curtly.

  “Uh, yeah.” Sometimes.

  “The vangels in residence have taken a liking to pasta lately,” Alex explained, “and Miss Borden is getting tired of making the same kind of food every day.”

  “Just because it looks like blood don’t mean it is blood,” the old lady complained.

  “Do you have any idea where Trond is?” Alex asked Miss Borden.

  “He and Zeb are babysitting your little ones.”

  “Where’s Vikar?”

  “He had some important business with . . .” Miss Borden rolled her eyes upward.

  Nicole wasn’t sure if she referred to God, or St. Michael, or just that he was upstairs. It wasn’t her place to ask.

  Just then, Nicole noticed a young man, about sixteen, sitting at the other end of the kitchen on a high stool before a counter, with a small DVD player in front of him while he crunched away at a bowl of cereal. His black hair was slicked back off his face, and he wore a red jacket and white-sock-exposing black pants, just like . . . Oh, this must be the Michael Jackson aficionado that Trond had mentioned. He had fangs, too, and was oblivious to them even being in the room as he watched the DVD player playing . . . what else? A Michael Jackson video.

  As Alex led Nicole in a search for Trond, she couldn’t help but be impressed by the interior of the castle that was indeed in the process of renovations, but the bones of this edifice were unique and potentially beautiful. Deep-grained woods. Marble veined in various colors. Murals-in-progress on some walls. Massive chandeliers. And the architectural details were probably of historic importance, especially the highly carved staircase in the front hallway.

  Fanged men, and some women, were busy at work everywhere they passed, everything from scrubbing floors to computer work. Finally, they came to what might once have been a formal second parlor but was now a “family room” with widescreen TVs—three of them—toys, deep comfortable sofas, and lamps with soft lighting. On the carpeted floor, Zeb lay on his back with a little boy dressed in denim coveralls bouncing on his chest. In a far corner, Trond sat in a rocking chair reading a book to a little girl—The Three Little Pigs, by the sound of it. On one of the TV screens, a sports channel was showing highlights from a recent NFL football game. On another of the screens, it was The Lion King.

  “And he huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down,” Trond said in a deep, gravelly wolf voice when he glanced up and saw Nicole standing, frozen, in the doorway. She wasn’t sure if the sudden heightened color in his cheeks was from shock or embarrassment at being caught in such a cozy situation.

  Zeb sat up, also surprised, but there was pleasure on his face at seeing her again. “Hey, Nic!” he said amiably.

  But she had no time to think about Zeb now. It was the other jerk in the room that consumed her attention. While Nicole had wept buckets over Trond, unable to sleep at night, worrying about the torture he was undergoing, he’d been home all along. Eating frickin’ pasta. Planting frickin’ onions. And playing with children.

  And he’d never bothered to contact her, never considered her feelings, was apparently okay with a permanent separation. And she, pathetic, love-struck woman that she was, had chased after him. “You slime-sucking, two-bit jerk!” she gritted out.

  She had to get out of here. Right away.

  Swiveling on her heel, she began to run back the way
she’d come. If she could make it to her car, she would escape with at least a little of her pride intact.

  “Nicole! Wait! I can explain,” Trond yelled behind her.

  The time for explanations had long passed, in Nicole’s opinion. When would she ever learn not to trust men? Trond had told her that he loved her that last day. Well, not really told her. He’d mouthed the words as he’d disappeared.

  That kind of love she could do without.

  Not the reunion he’d been hoping for . . .

  Nicole was here!

  She’d come looking for him.

  All his misery of the past week and more melted away, and he smiled. He’d been stunned with surprise, but it had been a good kind of surprise. Setting little Nora on her wobbly toddler feet, he’d stood and started to smile with happiness. But wait. Was that look of loathing on her face directed at him?

  Oh yeah, he’d immediately answered himself when she’d tossed those expletives at him and rushed away. Time for some damage control.

  Alex and Zeb were laughing at him, which caused Nora, short for Gunnora, and her twin, Gunnar, to laugh, too, thinking Trond had done something to amuse them. He called after Nicole but she ignored his pleas to stop, and being a WEALS, she could run really fast.

  He caught up with her just as she was about to climb into her rental car. Her eyes were misted with tears, but he suspected they were tears of anger more than sorrow, at this point.

  “C’mon, Nic, give me a chance to explain.” He grabbed her arm and slammed the car door. Pinning her against the frame, he said, “I missed you, dearling.”

  “Fuck you!” she snarled.

  “Maybe later.”

  She was not amused by his response and tried to squirm out of his grasp. When that didn’t work, she tried kneeing his groin.

  A part of his body that had been especially happy to see her just barely escaped injury.

  “Let me go, Trond. My coming here was a mistake.”

  “No. It was not a mistake.” When she continued to fight him, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder fireman-style. Alex, Vikar, and about three dozen vangels were out on the back verandah or at the back windows on all four floors watching him make a fool of himself. He didn’t care.

  Walking swiftly to the garden gazebo, he sat her down on a cushioned wicker chair and planted his braced hands on either side of her. Only inches separated their faces when he asked her, “Why are you so upset?”

  At first she balked and turned her face away from him. When he refused to let her go, she sliced him with a glare and said, “You’re safe, and you never bothered to tell me.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  That response surprised her. “Why?”

  “Mike stopped me right outside Jasper’s place in northern Norway and wouldn’t let me go in.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t come to talk to me yet. I suspect . . . I know . . . I’m in big trouble, but Mike doles out his punishments when and how he chooses.”

  “That doesn’t excuse your not contacting me and telling me you were safe. Even if you don’t love me, it would have been common courtesy—”

  “Don’t love you? Where would you get that idea?”

  She stared at him as if he was a thickheaded lackwit.

  “Oh. I guess you thought my silence meant—”

  “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  “I’m as much a prisoner here at the moment as Zeb is.”

  “That’s another thing. Both of you are jerks for making me care about you, then leaving me in the dark. And, frankly, this place resembles no prison I’ve ever seen.”

  “Mike ordered me to stay here and make no contact with anyone outside the castle until he decides my fate.”

  That seemed to soften her a little bit. “Well, now that I know you’re okay, I’ll go back to Coronado.”

  He laughed. “Not a chance!”

  “You can’t make me stay.”

  His arched brows told her loud and clear without words, Wanna bet?

  “Why do you want me to stay?”

  “Do you honestly need to ask me that? Because I love you.”

  Any response from her was stalled when Vikar yelled out to him, “Mike is coming. He’ll be here within the hour.”

  “That’s my brother Vikar.” Trond looked at Nicole then, putting a hand to her face in gentle entreaty. “Will you stay, at least until after Mike leaves?”

  “St. Michael the Archangel is coming here?” Her eyes were huge with a mixture of wonder and disbelief.

  He nodded.

  Coming closer, Vikar nodded a greeting at Nicole. “One more thing. Mike wants to talk to her, as well.”

  “Me?” Nicole squeaked out, putting a hand to her heart in dismay. “How did he know I was here?”

  He and Vikar both gave her a look that pretty much said the archangel knew everything.

  “What could the archangel possibly want with me?” she asked Trond as Vikar walked back to the castle.

  Trond didn’t have a clue. “He probably wants to know your intentions toward me,” he teased, but then he wondered, Could that possibly be true?

  Do-overs sometimes are possible, it seems . . .

  St. Michael the Archangel arrived with a flourish of widespread wings. Sometimes it was necessary to establish his authority with a show of angelic strength.

  These vangels! Even after all these years, they behaved like little children. Rules needed to be spelled out to them. Over and over. They thought the world revolved around them and forgot they were here by the sufferance of a higher authority. They needed to be punished.

  Forget the vangels! He had someone else to deal with first.

  “You!” He pointed a finger at Zebulan and motioned the demon vampire toward the library.

  It was a fabulous room, even by angelic standards, with a rich burgundy and cream Oriental carpet, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a highly carved fireplace mantel with Rookwood tile surrounds, a stained glass screen, and a massive walnut partner’s desk at one end, in front of which were arranged beautiful armed chairs with leather seats.

  Zeb was impressed, too. He could imagine peaceful winter nights sitting in an upholstered chair with a footstool beside a roaring fire, reading a book, maybe even the Bible, perhaps sipping at a glass of fine wine. Or was that his vision of what Heaven must be like?

  Sitting down behind the desk, Michael adjusted his wings over the chair back and glanced at a folder he’d brought with him. Zebulan stood nervously at attention before the desk.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk!” Michael clucked as he read.

  Zebulan flushed, but he remained ramrod stiff.

  “You have sinned mightily,” the archangel pronounced, slapping the folder shut.

  “I have.”

  “There are vangels . . . one in particular . . . who have interceded on your behalf.”

  Zebulan started to speak, then stopped himself. “I did not ask him to.” Not precisely, anyhow.

  “Are you sorry for your sins?”

  “Desperately,” he answered without hesitation.

  “What would you have me do?”

  “End it. I do not want to be a Lucipire anymore. Send me to Hell if you must, but I can no longer bear to perpetuate evil. I hate myself.”

  Michael nodded his understanding. “You were willing to give yourself up for Trond and his woman. I cannot discount that. However, I cannot excuse your sins.”

  Zeb felt tears well in his eyes. He had been a Hebrew, but he’d betrayed his people by serving the Roman armies, all in hopes of saving his vineyards and his family, of course. Beautiful Sarah and the adorable twins, Mikah and Rachel. Little had he known that his family had fled to Masada for refuge while he’d been gone, and the siege in which he’d participated had led to their deaths, as well.

  “It is not that sin I refer to, Zebulan. ’Tis the centuries of sin you have done on Jasper’s behalf.”

  Zebulan bowed his
head in contrition. His shoulders slumped, realizing there was going to be no easy forgiveness here.

  “God has noticed the speck of goodness left on your black soul, Zebulan, and He is offering you another chance. If you will go back into Jasper’s world and work undercover as an agent of mine for fifty years, your sentence as a Lucipire will end.”

  “And then?” The demon cocked his head to the side.

  “And then you would become a vangel.”

  “But I have no Viking blood. I thought only those of Norse descent could become vampire angels.”

  “You will be the first non-Viking to join their ranks.”

  Zebulan smiled then. “I can imagine how happy that will make The Seven.”

  “It is not for them to be happy or unhappy about my decisions.”

  “There’s a problem, though. I’ve been gone too long, and I haven’t followed Jasper’s orders to bring him Trond and Nicole. He won’t accept me back into his wicked fold.”

  Michael shrugged. “I will give you three dozen evil humans . . . sinfully unredeemable souls . . . for you to present to Jasper in reparation. You will tell him that you were unable to fulfill his demands, but that you gathered these humans together in the meantime. Jasper will not be happy but he will accept your ‘gift.’ ”

  “Only fifty years . . . a mere half century?” Zebulan asked, time meaning something different in the demon/angel world.

  Michael nodded and smiled at him.

  As Zebulan dropped to his knees, Michael walked around the desk and placed his hand on the man’s head. “God be with you!”

  Angels wept at that moment.

  Twenty-five

  The road to happiness is long and winding . . .

  Zeb smiled at Trond and Nicole when he left the office.

  “Do you have to go back to Jasper?” Trond whispered to Zeb.

  Zeb nodded, but he said nothing more. And, oddly, he was still smiling as he sauntered down the hall toward the kitchen. He’d probably been given orders to keep his fanged mouth shut. At least for now.