“Give me an idea of how much we need to survive the winter,” he said to Finn, who was at his side on the low dais that evening, enjoying a better meal than any of them had enjoyed for a long time. It had probably been unwise to release a whole deer and quarter section of bear for roasting, not to mention a ten-pound bass Arnstein had brought in today, but Cnut figured his people needed some reward for all their suffering. They would resume rationing after tonight. Ulf was given the bear heart, roasted but still oozing its juices, because his had been the final shot to bring the massive animal down. It was so big, he’d shared it, though. Glutton that Cnut was, or is, he probably would have gulped down the whole damn thing himself.
“Not counting the villagers and farmers, or the oats for the cows and horses, we would need at least fifteen boar; two dozen red deer, or reindeer; a hundred or so rabbits; an elk or another bear would be nice; all the fish we can catch to supplement the main dishes. Dried fruits if we can buy them somewhere. And vegetables—anything except turnips. Another milch cow or two would not be turned away. And another ten barrels of flour, or the barley or rye to grind our own. Otherwise, we will be making flour out of acorns like some of the villagers already do.” Finn sighed as if it were impossible. “Of course, there are different ways of working those numbers. Less boar, more deer, that kind of thing.”
Cnut put his face in his hands, but then he raised his head and assured Finn, “We’ll make it.” Somehow he knew they would. Even if it meant praying for manna from heaven.
Andrea had been elusive all evening, declining to sit and dine with him. Instead, she was bustling about, helping to bring full dishes in and take dirty trenchers out. He noticed some of the men, and women, too, snickering as she walked by, which caused Cnut to bristle. After all she’d done for them!
“What’s that about?” he asked Finn.
Finn glanced where Cnut was staring pointedly and laughed. “Oh, ’tis just a jest of sorts. Your woman wore a shert with a message on it, which some women took offense to, but the men consider an invitation.”
“What message? What invitation?”
“Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.”
At first, Cnut couldn’t believe what he’d heard.
“A cowboy is a man who rides a horse and tends cows,” Finn explained.
“I know what a cowboy is,” Cnut snapped.
“’Tis comparable to saying, ‘Save a Longboat, Ride a Viking,’ I am told.”
Cnut choked on the ale he’d just swallowed and splattered drops of the liquid all over the front of his tunic.
“I think she meant it as a jest. A lewd jest.”
When she passed by next time, Cnut said, “Stop and rest a minute. I want to talk to you.”
“Not now. I have a surprise for everyone. I’ll be right back.” And she scurried off to the kitchen again.
“I think I’ve had enough surprises for one day,” he murmured.
Apparently not.
Because Andrea and Girda and Dyna were carrying in trays heaped with what he could swear were doughnuts. Glazed doughnuts. “Be still my Krispy Kreme heart,” he exclaimed.
“What?” Finn asked.
“Be prepared for a real treat,” he said to Finn, even as he gave the beaming Andrea a little salute. Somehow, she’d managed to use her pastry chef talents in a Dark Age kitchen. Turned out she’d concocted some sourdough starter, which she’d used to raise the doughnuts in lieu of yeast or other raising agent, and instead of sugar, they were glazed with watered honey. Magic! Well, not magic magic. He knew about sourdough starter because he’d watched it being made on one of those Alaska homestead shows on TV.
And so he discovered another thing he loved about Andrea. Her doughnuts.
And so did more than fifty Viking men who not only envisioned their sexual appetites being met by becoming Andrea’s own private horse, but her satisfying their sweet tooth appetites as well.
Cnut needed to have a talk with Andrea. Or something.
After he ate another doughnut.
Ting-a-ling-a-ling . . .
Andrea was so pleased with herself. She’d finally sat down beside Cnut, sipping at a cup of bitter ale, and she relished the exhaustion of a day well spent.
Her doughnuts were a huge success. Even if they hadn’t risen as much as they should and were heavier than lead sinkers, and even though the honey glaze wasn’t as sweet as she wanted, everyone claimed them to be food from the gods, which made Cnut cringe (the mention of multiple gods, that was), him being an angel of sorts. Supposedly.
At least it had shut the mouth of some of the men who’d been making sexual innuendos to her all night about her T-shirt.
“I give a good ride, m’lady. All the wenches say so.”
“Wouldst care to try my saddle?”
“My longboat goes in and out, in and out, for a smooth ride in the waves.”
“Forget a smooth ride. My longboat can take rough waves. Up, down, up, down.”
Men! Andrea just ignored the lot of them. Most meant no harm, except one man who’d gone too far, touching her breast. She’d kneed him in his “longboat,” which wouldn’t be leaving its harbor anytime soon.
“Did you really wear a shirt that says ‘Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy’ to the ninth century?” Cnut had asked with a shake of his head.
“Well, how was I to know I was going to the ninth century?”
“You have a point there. Was it any better carrying that message to a ranch with cowboys?”
She’d blushed but countered, “For all I knew, they were all terrorists there, not cowboys. And, as it turns out, beasts with tails, too. Believe me, I had no interest in riding them!”
That conversation had been hours ago. Now she took another sip of ale and sighed. There was a festive air in the hall tonight, unlike anything she’d seen so far. Girda and others had assured her that this was not a feast, like would be held at Jól, which was similar to the yule season for Christians, or when there was visiting royalty, or one of the Norse days of revelry. Just a minor celebration of thanksgiving for a good hunt and fishing.
It seemed pretty feast-like to her, though she wouldn’t even taste the bear brains, even with the tangy mustard condiment that accompanied many of the meats. Andrea had eaten some strange foods in her culinary history, but brains was pushing it for her. She had promised Girda to make some dish with the bear and deer tripe tomorrow, as long as it wasn’t soup.
When he’d first entered the hall, before he sat down at the “high table,” Cnut had raised his hands and said, “Let us give thanks to God for the good hunting and fishing which has come our way. May He bless this food we are about to eat, and be with us in the future as we work to end the agony of famine. Amen.” He’d raised his horn of ale then and smiled. “Cheers!”
There had been much murmuring at Cnut’s words. Why weren’t they thanking Odin, or the other gods? Why was their master suddenly a Christian? Next they would be having a priest sitting at a high place in the keep. Despite the grumbling, most of the people had joined in on the toast. Andrea suspected that the Vikings wouldn’t be converted just because Cnut wished it so. If that was even his intent.
Now, Andrea noticed Dyna leaning against a nearby wall with that handsome rogue Thorkel, whose elbow was braced above her head, putting them almost face to face. Was he bothering her? Should Andrea intervene, or ask someone to aid the woman? No. Dyna was smiling up at Thorkel as he spoke earnestly, trying to convince her about something. Andrea could guess what. But Dyna wasn’t fighting him off. In fact, she appeared to be flirting . . . oh, so this must be the man Dyna had alluded to, the one she liked but who couldn’t keep his penis in his pants. Hopeless, was Andrea’s guess.
After the meal, there was music. One of the men, an Irishman named Brian the Skald, played a lute type instrument and sang softly of Kristin, a maid whose lover, Erland, went a-Viking and never returned. Was the man lost at sea or did he find another love? Years went by, her hair grew white, and still
she waited for her jarl to return.
Then a woman who proclaimed herself a skald as well stood up and said she knew a different version of that story. Apparently, it was unusual for a woman to be a poet, and the crowd appeared uncertain about whether she should be given the floor to speak. The skald with the lute was definitely not happy. They all looked to Cnut for direction.
“Wonderful! I have always wanted to hear a female point of view in these sagas. And there is naught wrong with having more than one skald in a keep. Go on, Luta.”
Erland went a-Viking
As men are wont to do.
Kristin stayed at home
As women are wont to do.
Erland loved Kristin
But he loved other women, as well.
In fact, his dangly part
Would always swell.
At mere sight of a shapely
Arse. Oh well!
What Erland didn’t know
All Viking men didn’t, in fact,
Is that their lady loves
No brains do they lack.
Whilst men are out a-playing
Swiving everything in sight,
Their women are doing the same
With a much-younger knight.
So, Erland, go about your ways
Ride your silly boat
Because Kristin isn’t pining,
Your absence she does not even note.
For she is busy at home doing
A-Viking of a different sort.
The moral of this saga is:
What is good for the gander
Is good for the goose.
The women hooted and cheered. The men looked a bit disgruntled, but they smiled as well. And Cnut called out, “Well done, Luta! Well done!”
Andrea loved that these Vikings had a sense of humor. There was nothing sexier than a man who was self-confident enough to laugh at himself.
Whoa! Where did that observation about sexy men come from? Andrea glanced down and saw that the fingers of her free hand were laced with one of Cnut’s. When had that happened? He was always doing that, since he returned this morning. Touching her in passing. Brushing against her. Taking her hand. Caressing her with his eyes.
Now that she’d noticed their joined hands, she became intensely aware of the sensations there. The pulse at her wrist beat a counterpoint with his. His thumb unconsciously stroked her thumb. And she tingled! Oh . . . my . . . goodness! Like ripples, the tingles started where their skin touched and went out in long, slow waves to other parts of her body. Her breasts seemed to swell and the nipples engorged. Between her legs, there was a rhythmic pulse, matching that at her wrist.
It was alarming and, at the same time, felt so good.
She glanced up and saw that Cnut was staring at her. His eyes had become so silvery, they were more gray than blue. “What are you doing to me?” he asked.
“The better question is, what are you doing to me?” She shivered as a massive wave of tingles passed over her, and she was assaulted with the scent of peppermint. She would never be able to chew gum in the future without getting turned on. Assuming there was a future for her.
“I feel such a hunger,” he said.
Oh! He’d told her before that he was a glutton. “Do you want something else to eat? The doughnuts are gone, but—”
“It’s not food I hunger for.” He squeezed her hand.
More tingles, and now she could smell coconut mixed with the peppermint. Someday, she was going to make a three-tiered white peppermint cake, with a frothy whipped cream frosting, and coconut and peppermint sprinkles on top. She was going to name it Tingling Mint Coconut Dream Cake. It would be a hit, she just knew it would.
“What is it you hunger for then?” she asked, as if she didn’t already know.
“You.”
Meanwhile, back at the ranch . . .
Jasper was having a hell of a good time. The Circle of Light was overrun with Lucipires and evil terrorists. Yay for our team! The innocents had run for the hills, or were dead if they’d been dumb enough to get in a demon vampire’s path. Big dumb deal! The vangels had been chased away. Tomorrow is another day. Lucipires had ruled the day.
The Lucipires had almost caught one of the vangels, a lackwit Viking boy who fashioned himself Michael Jackson reincarnated, moonwalking and all. The boy had escaped, but a good bite had been taken out of his leg. He wouldn’t be dancing any time soon. In fact, he might very well perish. I can only pray . . . uh, hope.
Life was good! Or, rather, nonlife was good.
“Tell me again why we’re sitting out here on our arses with a smoky fire, being bitten by flies the size of baseballs,” Zeb complained, swatting at yet another of the buggers who zapped him in the neck.
“Because I always wanted to try wienies on a stick and marshmallow s’mores. You should have stayed in demonoid form, like me. The bugs can’t penetrate scaly skin.”
Zeb was laughing like a loon a short time later when Jasper and the others around the campfire were trying to lick gooey chocolate and marshmallow from their claws. “Next you’ll be wanting to have a sing-along,” Zeb gasped out.
Jasper couldn’t be offended. It was a mess. A bad idea. Besides, he was too happy over today’s results to let a little thing like sticky claws spoil his mood. They’d harvested two dozen evil humans, most of them terrorists guilty of despicable crimes, who were already in butterfly jars back at Horror, halfway to stasis.
Jasper’s troops didn’t take all of the ISIS folks. In fact, they’d deliberately left behind some of the worst. Based on a principle Zeb had told him about from his association with Navy SEALs, called force multiplication, Jasper hoped that those remaining terrorists would continue to convert more people to their dogma, which in turn would multiply the ranks of evil humans. The Lucipires would swoop in periodically to take more of them for their own conversion. Voilà! A win-win situation for everyone. Everyone evil, that was.
Later, when they were back at the lodge and Jasper was in humanoid form, he had his bare feet soaking in a basin of Epsom salts water. The damn cowboy boots had given him blisters. Did John Wayne ever have this problem? “What happened to that Cnut Sigurdsson who was here with some human woman?”
“No one knows for sure. Yet. Not even his brothers,” said Zeb, who was eating one of the leftover hot dogs on a bun with mustard and onions, a can of cold beer beside him on the kitchen table. “He’s probably hiding somewhere, from Michael, for failing in his mission here.”
“Who was the woman?”
“No one important. An innocent human looking for her sister, who also disappeared.”
“Together? I mean, all three of them?”
Zeb shrugged.
“So, tell me your plan,” Jasper encouraged Zeb.
“Well,” Zeb said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, “I believe the vangels will return. They weren’t expecting so many of us Lucipires and were so greatly outnumbered, they decided to retreat. I can’t help but think it was a temporary retreat.”
“So we should be prepared for an attack?”
“Yes, but they’ll be hovering over the wounded vangel first, trying to heal his wounds. Good luck with that!” Jasper commented gleefully. Lucipire venom was almost impossible to remove, even if a bite wasn’t deadly. “Should we retreat like they did and come back another time?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. We have a hundred demon vampires scattered around this ranch. If I hear that they’re bringing bigger numbers, I can call on Tess to pull from her legion in New York. Or I can call in the rest of mine from other assignments.”
Jasper accepted Zeb’s counsel. “Have you established a new headquarters yet?”
“No. I’m using New Orleans for the time being. But I might try Los Angeles later.”
“Good, good. Both sinful cities.” Jasper sighed with pleasure over a day well-spent. “I bet the Sigurdsson bastards are upset over the events here today. I bet they’ll come back themselves f
or retribution. Holy Hades! I would love to have me a vangel, especially one of the VIK. On second thought, bring in more fighters, just in case.”
Zeb nodded, finished off his hot dog in one big bite, and washed it down with a long swig of the beer. He was about to rise from his chair and leave but Jasper put up a halting hand.
“Beltane,” he said to his assistant, who was fussing about the kitchen, cleaning up dirty dishes left by those there before them, “leave us alone. I would have a private word with Zebulan.”
Zeb’s head shot up at the use of his full name, and he went immediately alert. Jasper was fond of the Hebrew demon, always had been, but Jasper was troubled by news of late.
Jasper stepped out of the water onto a towel and allowed himself to morph into his full demonoid form, which was formidable, even to other Lucipires. More than seven feet tall, sometimes eight, and massive in breadth. His tail extended all the way to the dining room, knocking over a bench.
“Why have you killed no Navy SEALs and brought them to Horror?” Jasper asked right off. That had been Zeb’s mission the past few years, and while Zeb had worked hard harvesting sinners in general, not one of them had been a member of the elite special forces who valued bravery and loyalty and all those good things most hated by Satan.
Zeb also changed into demonoid form. He was large and fiercesome but not nearly as big or strong as Jasper was. “It’s hard, but that’s no excuse. I have failed you, master. Do you want to pull me from that assignment?”
“No. Not yet. But there have been complaints about you.”
“Complaints? From whom?” Zeb hissed through elongated fangs. “Who dares to criticize me behind my back? It was probably that Nazi Heinrich.”
Jasper conceded the point with a tilt of his heavy head, and he almost burped. All that chocolate and marshmallow was upsetting his stomach. He needed a good dose of blood, preferably a virgin sinner’s blood. Good luck with that! “Heinrich, yes, but others, too. It has been called to my attention that even though you bring in large numbers of kills, they are mostly dreadful sinners who would never repent anyway and would have ended up in Hell without any prodding from a Lucipire.”