“I would think chauvinism is the least of his faults.”
“Tell me about it. Do you know what he . . . well, he and some of his pals . . . did to a woman who refused to cover her hair when we went to the grocery store? They stoned her.” Tears filled Celie’s eyes.
Andrea was appalled that people did that kind of thing today, and that Celie had witnessed it. “Did she die?”
“No. They didn’t use big rocks. Just gravel from the driveway, but everyone was forced to throw a handful of stones at her. Even me,” she admitted. “Even so, some of the men threw really hard, and she was bleeding, and no one was allowed to help her.”
At least Celie hadn’t been forced to lop off any heads, Andrea thought with macabre humor. That might have come later.
“Anyhow,” Celie went on, running her fingers through her wet hair, “first thing back here, I made an appointment at Mimi’s Salon and had the works. Hair and eyebrows dyed back to my natural color, waxing, mani and pedi, massage.”
That had to have cost at least three hundred dollars, and Celie was usually short of cash. Andrea assumed Celie had billed it to their father. “Have you talked to Dad?”
“Uh-huh,” Celie said as she sipped at her tea. “They’re on a cruise, y’know?”
“I know.”
“Darla said you went to the ranch in Montana to rescue me,” Celie said, dubiously.
Andrea could understand Celie’s skepticism. The old Andrea would have been afraid to enter such a fray. Not that she’d had any clue what kind of fray there would actually be, as in, vampires of both the angelic and demonic persuasions. “I did.”
“Oh my God! Is that where you’ve been all this time?”
She pondered how much to tell her sister and decided, as little as possible. “You could say that.”
“Good heavens! You weren’t arrested or anything, were you? I mean, the news is loaded with pictures of people there being led off to jail.”
“No, I wasn’t arrested.” Nice of you to be so worried, though.
“How did you get here?”
“Some really cool guys rescued me. Weird, though. They wore long capes and carried swords. I think they might have been special forces in disguise.”
Sigurdssons, Andrea guessed. Cnut’s vangel brothers.
Andrea wasn’t sure if she’d ever find out exactly what happened at the ranch, due to government secrecy. Unless she found Cnut.
“How long have you been here, Celie? In my apartment?”
“Since Wednesday. Your super let me in. You don’t mind, do you?”
Andrea shook her head. “You can stay as long as you like.”
“I’ll be gone by tonight.”
Uh-oh! “Why is that?”
“I’m off to the Côte d’Azur. My friend Jilly has a friend who owns a yacht, Pierre Gaston, the magazine mogul. We’re gonna cruise the Caribbean for a few weeks.”
That is just great. My life is falling apart, all because of her, and she just scoots off to the South of France. But this is nothing new. This is Celie, and God knows, I love her. She walked over and hugged her sister. “Have a good time.”
“Here’s the best part. I’m going to be paid. It’s a job.”
The red flags went up again. “Um, what are going to be doing for pay, honey?”
“Cooking. I’m going to be an assistant cook.” Celie beamed at her, and Andrea didn’t have the heart to say that Celie burned toast and once got spaghetti sauce on the ceiling of Darla’s newly painted kitchen. Probably it wouldn’t matter to Pierre and his gang.
After Celie went back into the bedroom to get dressed, Andrea addressed her most important issue. Cnut. She called his business number, and all she got was his answering machine, which noted that he had twenty-five other messages. Then she called his cell phone. It had survived the travel back in time, so maybe it had made it forward. No luck there. She tried to think where else to try. Transylvania, Pennsylvania, he had said. Andrea went over to her desk where her cookbook notes lay, untouched, just as they had been a week ago. Somehow, a cookbook was the last thing in the world she was interested in now. Logging on to her laptop, she did a Google of “Transylvania, Pennsylvania castle.”
She got a hit. A castle that had been built more than a hundred years ago by a lumber baron. Long neglected, it was being restored by Lord Vikar Sigurdsson—Cnut’s brother?—and might eventually be turned into a hotel. Yeah, right! Unfortunately, it had an unlisted phone number. The picture next to the short article showed a really creepy-looking castle, the kind vampires would live in, for sure. The small map showing its location indicated to Andrea that it would be about a three-hour drive from Philly.
Which brought Andrea to her next problem. Her purse with all her credit cards was still back at the ranch in Montana. Probably in FBI hands by now. She had no money, or way to access it without a debit card. She would need to buy gas. But then she remembered the check her Dad had given to her for her birthday, which she’d yet to cash. Two hundred dollars. Thank you, Daddy! Of course, she had no ID to cash the check at the bank, but she could do that at La Chic Sardine. Sonja wouldn’t mind.
So it was that two hours later, after showering and changing her clothes and stopping off at the restaurant, Andrea was cruising up the turnpike toward Transylvania. She prayed that Cnut would be there when she arrived. If he wasn’t, only God could help him now.
Chapter 21
A LITTLE ISLAND MEAL
Grilled red snapper with lemon and onion slices
Remoulade sauce
Green salad with lettuce, tomatoes, onions, radishes, and balsamic vinaigrette dressing
Rice parboiled in fish stock
French baguette bread
Strawberry cheesecake
Beer
Tears of a Viking . . .
“I am going to kill you. I swear I am going to kill you,” Cnut said when he finally recovered from the worst teletransport of his life. He could swear Zeb had hit every sky turbulence, rain storm, tornado, and flock of geese in creation.
Zeb was picking goose feathers off his Wise Man clothes when he reminded, “I’m already dead.”
“I’ll find a way to kill you again.” Cnut looked around then, fully expecting to see dungeon walls with chains and whips and racks and the like. Instead, he was sitting in a buttery yellow leather recliner, which matched the recliner that Zeb lounged in with his legs fully extended. He was sipping from a can of Bud Light.
“Care for a beer?” Zeb asked.
“No, I do not want a beer. Where the fuck am I? I thought you were taking me to Horror. If this is Horror, man, have we vangels been misled!”
“No, this isn’t Horror. It’s my secret Caribbean hidey-hole.”
He looked around, and sure enough, he could see through the windows on the one side onto a deck that overlooked the turquoise blue of a Caribbean sea. The dwelling appeared to be a banana leaf–roofed bungalow. On one wall of the large room was a flat-screen TV, and on the other, paintings that looked like they belonged in a museum. Behind them, through a wide archway, was a kitchen with red granite countertops and high-end stainless steel appliances.
“Hidey-hole?” was the only thing Cnut could think of to say, so gobsmacked was he by this side of Zeb. “What are you, like, ten years old?”
“No, more like two thousand plus years, a lot older than you, my friend. As evidenced by my being able to overpower you so easily.” He snapped his fingers and pinged Cnut on the back of the head as he rose lithely from his recliner and walked behind Cnut, heading toward a back door. “There are fishing rods in the hall closet. Why don’t you see if you can catch us something to eat for dinner, and I’ll go get some stuff from the garden?”
Cnut got up and followed him, stunned to see the demon pick up a basket and hoe and head up a small incline toward a fenced-in garden. The island appeared to be small, but all of it was lush with tropical plants, and the garden itself thrived with all kinds of healthy plants. Among it
ems he put in the basket were tomatoes, peppers, green beans, peas, carrots, radishes, several varieties of lettuce. There were also some lemon and orange trees.
“A gardener? You? I thought you were a Roman soldier at one time,” Cnut said, leaning against a fence post, eating a small tomato right off the vine. It was delicious.
Zeb shrugged. “For my sins, I was. But I also owned a small vineyard. Being a vintner is like a glorified farmer. You should see my grapes.” He pointed to some trellises where there were, indeed, huge purple and green grapes, not yet ripe. “Most of the stuff I grow just rots. I can’t eat it all, and it’s not like I can be carrying it back to Jasper as a gift. He would want to know where I got it. Besides, he’s not much for vegetables and fruit.”
More like blood and guts. “Do you always garden in Wise Man clothing? You must be hot.”
Zeb glanced down, surprised. Instantly, he changed. Bare-chested, with Hawaiian print board shorts and flip-flops. “You should change, too.”
Cnut was hot, still wearing the Viking garments intended for a Norse winter feast, not a tropical temperature.
“I think there’s a Speedo in my bedroom closet.”
“Not a chance. I’d rather go naked.”
“Please don’t.”
A short time later, wearing a pair of cargo shorts and athletic shoes he’d found in the spare bedroom, Cnut made his way down the mountain path with a fishing pole to the narrow strip of beach. He returned an hour later carrying a good-size red snapper that he’d already cleaned by the water.
By early evening, he was sitting at the counter enjoying a meal with Zeb. The fish had been grilled outside on a charcoal barbecue with sliced lemons and onions inserted in the artistic slashes of its flesh. Along with it, they had a fresh salad tossed with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, some parboiled rice, a thawed baguette, and a cheesecake for dessert. And beer, of course.
“You know, Cnut, the first thing Jasper would do when he has you in his clutches is ascertain your weaknesses and fears. In your case, gluttony would be a biggie. Homing in on that, he would fatten you up, but lots worse than last time you were alive. I’m thinking he wouldn’t stop until you were, say, eight hundred pounds. Then he would diet you down ’til you were skeletal. Meanwhile, homing in on your other gluttonous appetites, he would probably have you injected with super sex hormones so that you were inclined to fuck day and night. Then would begin the actual physical torture, like, oh, skinning you alive, or plucking out your eyeballs, or—”
“Enough! I get the picture,” Cnut said. And he did. Too well! “So, Zeb, what’s this all about? Are you turning me over to Jasper, or not?”
“I don’t know.”
Well, that was promising. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s a tough decision. I really had my heart set on becoming a vangel someday. I’ve even been taking lessons on how to be a Viking.” He smiled at Cnut. A rather sad smile that didn’t reach his brown eyes that had, yes, incredibly long lashes.
Cnut had to admit that Zeb was a good-looking guy, just as Andrea had said, long eyelashes and all.
“Well, if you give me to Jasper, you’ll never become a vangel.”
“I know. Here’s the deal, buddy. I could give up the idea of being a vangel if I could just stop being a Lucipire. I’d ask you to kill me, in return for saving you, but then I’d just be sent to Hell to be Satan’s minion. I don’t suppose, if I saved you, Michael would come save me. You know, a reward for my good deed? I wouldn’t even care if he made me a vangel as long as I didn’t play on the other team anymore.”
“I don’t know, Zeb. Mike is hard to predict. You saw that in how he hasn’t made you any firm promises for being a double agent. I could try to intercede for you, but, honestly, he’s never shown any particular favor toward me.”
“I hear he’s fond of Ivak’s little one.”
“He dotes on the kid.” Cnut thought a moment. “How about if you come back with me to the castle and ask Vikar for protection?”
“Could he do that without Michael’s permission?”
“Well, no, but—”
Zeb put up both hands. “So we are back to step one. Michael.”
They finished eating and watched the nightly news while they both cleaned up. All the stations were reporting on the latest ISIS atrocities. “Satan and Jasper must be eating this stuff up,” Cnut remarked.
“Yep. Like shooting fish in a barrel, all these homegrown evil terrorists just waiting to be picked off.”
“Fighting them reminds me that modern carnival game. Whack-a-Mole. Ever heard of it? No. It pretty much amounts to trying to hit moles with a hammer as they randomly pop in and out of holes. Almost impossible to win. It also refers to repetitious and futile efforts to combat something.”
“Like terrorists,” Zeb guessed.
Cnut nodded. “And Lucies.”
Zeb bowed, as if he’d given him a compliment.
After watching a couple of shows on TV—the reception was spotty and often went in and out—Zeb said he was going to bed. He had a lot of thinking to do. Before he left, Cnut asked, “Andrea? Are you sure she’s safe?”
“Is she your lifemate?”
Cnut didn’t hesitate. “She is.”
“Then know that she’s safe . . . no matter where you end up.”
“Thank you for that.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
Cnut had a lot to think about, too. He honestly didn’t know what to do about Zeb. He sensed his sincerity, and frankly, he liked the guy, even if he was a demon. But Cnut didn’t feel in a position to help him.
On the other hand, holy shit! Cnut was facing the prospect of unimaginable horror at what Jasper would do in torturing him. Did any man, even a vangel, know for sure that he would withstand that kind of torture? What if Cnut turned?
Cnut got down on his knees then and prayed. “Help me, Lord. Help me to be strong.”
He awakened the next morning in the spare bedroom to the scent of fresh coffee brewing in the kitchen. When he came out of the bathroom after a quick shower, he saw that Zeb was nowhere to be found. But there was a note:
Cnut:
I’ve placed a force field around the island. It will last twenty-four hours, after which you can teletransport out of here. Pray for me, friend. I am so frightened.
Zebulan the Hebrew
Cnut kicked the walls and swore a bloody streak. He should have known what Zeb would do. He should have tried harder to come up with a compromise they could both live with. After that, Cnut wept.
Are you there, God? It’s me, Andrea . . .
Andrea arrived in the town of Transylvania at about five p.m. and got stuck in the downtown traffic for a half hour, which gave her time to look around. And, oh my goodness, what a hokey tourist trap devoted to everything vampire.
She used her GPS to find the turn-off for the castle. Soon, she came to a closed electronic gate. A sign read: “No Trespassing. Private Property!” She was so stressed out and pumped up that she probably would have tried to ram right through the thing, but luckily a man stepped out of a small gatehouse. He appeared to have been reading a book, which he still carried in one hand. A graphic novel of The Walking Dead. In the other hand, he carried a pistol. Although he wore modern attire, jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, he was Viking to the core, with a tall, lean physique, blond buzz cut, and sharp Nordic features.
“Can’t you read, lady?”
And arrogant, another Viking attitude.
“I can read, Einstein. I’m here to see Cnut Sigurdsson.”
“Is that so? He’s not here.”
Andrea’s shoulders slumped. “Well, then, I need to talk to his brother Vikar.” Or someone.
“And why is that? The man was leaning down closer to her open window now, and she could see that he had slightly elongated lateral incisors and silver-blue eyes, just like Cnut.
“Because Cnut is in danger, and I need help to save him.”
The ma
n gave Andrea a pointed survey, or as much as he could with her sitting inside the car. The look pretty much said, A skinny girl like you going to save a big ol’ Viking? It is to laugh! In fact, he did laugh. “And who might you be?”
“Cnut’s lifemate,” she snapped. “He’s probably in Jasper’s hands right now as you delay. Now, will you let me through?”
He did, and got immediately on his cell phone, she could see through her rearview mirror. By the time she drove up the winding drive to the front of the castle, she had no time to be frightened by the creepy castle that rose up many stories before her. There was a gang of Vikings waiting for her on the steps. And they didn’t look happy.
No sooner did Andrea step out of her car than they started asking questions, all at the same time.
“Where’s Cnut?”
“What danger?”
“How do you know about lifemates?”
“Jasper has Cnut? Where?”
And finally, one voice said, “Welcome.” It was a female voice that belonged to a strawberry-blonde woman who reached out to shake Andrea’s hand. “I’m Alex Sigurdsson. And these are Cnut’s brain-dead brothers. You must be terrified. Come inside where we can talk.”
Andrea began to weep with relief as Alex took her hand and led her through the double front doors, past parlors and dens, a dining room, and a chapel. Everywhere, Andrea saw what could only be vangels with silver-blue eyes and pointy teeth, working or standing about, watching her. Finally, they came to a large office, and everyone crowded in. Some of them, including herself, sat down, while others stood about. In a blur of introductions, Alex named Cnut’s brothers, who were all present, Vikar, Trond, Ivak, Mordr, Sigurd, and Harek, and explained that they were all there because one of their vangels, Armod, had been hurt in the Circle of Light battle and they’d all come to help him recover.
Then there was silence as they waited for Andrea to speak.
She started at the beginning, back when Celie had gone missing, and told them everything—well, not the details of her relationship with Cnut, but it was implied—up until her return to her Philadelphia apartment earlier today. In the course of her lengthy discussion, someone had handed her a glass of ice water, which she’d needed to quench her parched throat. Time traveling took a lot out of a person.