Okaaay. At least Trond is the one blushing with embarrassment now, not me.
“I do not even know if they have survived. Last I heard they were in a hot-air balloon over the Norselands. And they were not alone.”
This just got more and more bizarre.
Vikar and his brothers exchanged glances. “A hot-air balloon?” Harek mouthed, probably thinking that even he wouldn’t have come up with that one. And what did Michael mean about them not being alone?
“Have you any idea what thou hast unleashed by not acting sooner?” Michael asked Vikar then.
Vikar wasn’t about to argue about the unfairness of that statement, even though he considered it was unfair to blame him, totally.
“Jasper is in an evil rage. Satan’s fury is even greater.”
That is to be expected. And, frankly, yippee!
There were grins all around as the others silently shared his glee.
“They have launched an all-out war against all vangels, three thousand Lucipire strong and growing.”
“Bring ’em on!” Trond, the bigmouth, said, even though they all thought the same thing. At first, anyhow.
But whoa! Last I heard from Zeb a year ago, there were a little over a thousand Lucipires. Now that number is tripled? Well, Jasper has a never-ending supply coming from Hell, I suppose. But they wouldn’t be trained as Lucies, not so quickly, would they?
“Have you not seen the news? Wars, beheadings, bombs, every evil imaginable and some unimaginable to draw you vangels out into the open. Their goal is total obliteration of every single VIK and vangel and their human families.”
Vikar and his brothers exchanged glances, not sure exactly what Michael meant.
“They are planning their very own Armageddon.”
“Oh, Lord!” Vikar whispered.
Instead of being offended at Vikar’s use of the expletive, Michael chose to view it as a prayer and said, “Exactly.” Then he rubbed his hands together, as if getting down to business. “Vikar, I assume this castle is secure.”
Vikar nodded.
“Make it more so. Double the shielding. Post more guards. Lock down and stay out of sight. Consider this a siege for those left behind when you all go out to battles, and, yea, there will be more than one battle at a time.”
Vikar’s mind was already working with plans for which vangel to assign to which task, and worry over his wife and the children.
“Ivak, how about your plantation? Do you have the shields up yet?”
“Not totally. It’s a vast property,” Ivak replied, beginning to get Michael’s drift. “Gabrielle and Mikey aren’t safe there, are they?”
Gabrielle was Ivak’s wife, and Mikey was their son, who’d been named after the archangel.
“They are not,” Michael said. “Get them out.”
Ivak had already pulled out his cell phone and was presumably texting his wife.
“Sigurd? Your island hospital compound?” Michael asked.
“Good. Ivak, take your family and vangels there.”
Sigurd ran a pediatric cancer hospital on an island in the Florida Keys, but it also served as a vangel headquarters. In an emergency, and this was definitely an emergency, the patients could be moved to a mainland facility, and the island would be turned into a fortress of sorts. He, too, was on his cell phone, texting his wife, who was there with his adopted daughter, Izzie.
Mordr was doing the same for his family in Las Vegas.
“First off, then,” Michael said, “everyone must be gathered to this castle or the Florida Keys island. Everyone.”
“But . . . but . . . there are a thousand of us, and more, including extended family,” Vikar pointed out. “How will I fit five hundred of us here in the castle?”
Michael gave him a look that was almost a sneer. Very unsaintly. The expression pretty much said “Deal with it.” Michael would probably be thinking that they had become soft, and that Vikar didn’t recall the times they had no roof over their heads, let alone a huge castle.
Sigurd had probably wanted to ask the same question, but had held his tongue. Smart of him! Sigurd had a massive hotel on his island that he’d converted into a hospital and vangel headquarters.
“Since Satan obviously must be sending reinforcements to Jasper, will you be sending us backup fighters, as well?” This from Mordr.
Thank God, Mordr had asked that question, and not Vikar.
“No,” Michael answered bluntly.
That was plain enough. Another unspoken “Deal with it!”
“I think I know where they are,” Cnut said suddenly. “If they survived, that is. Regina and Zeb would probably go to his island hideaway. He took me there before going off to turn himself in to Jasper.”
“I was there, too, at one time. Nicole and I both were,” Trond said.
“Why didn’t you say so before?” Vikar asked.
“Remember, Michael, you told us that Jasper had Zebulan,” Cnut continued. “So, we had no reason to . . .” His words trailed off, realizing that placing blame on Michael might not be a good idea.
Michael rolled his eyes, as he often did when dealing with them. “Do you know how to get to Zeb’s island?” he asked Cnut and Trond.
They both shook their heads.
“He was careful to make sure I didn’t know the coordinates,” Cnut told Michael.
“I might have been unconscious,” Trond added.
Harek raised his hand. “For the sake of disclosure, I have to admit I knew Zeb had an island hideaway. It’s what gave me the idea for my own island. I was never on Zeb’s island, though.”
Michael shook his head with disgust. “Can you figure out where it is located?” Harek was their computer genius. If anyone could figure out where it was, it would be him.
Harek bit his bottom lip, pondering. “Possibly. If Cnut and Trond give me any details they recall, I might be able to figure it out.”
“Are you certain they aren’t on your island?” Michael asked Harek.
Recently, they’d all learned that Harek had been harboring a secret island getaway, the one he’d just mentioned to Michael. Now, they began to realize that it was modeled after Zeb’s own island hideaway, or the idea of it anyway. But Michael had found out about Harek’s island, and it was now being transformed into a vangel electronics compound.
There were a whole lot of islands being discussed today. Confusing!
“My island is safe, so far,” Harek replied. “I came from there today, and no sign of Lucies. However, now that I think about it, I better pull in all my vangels from there, too. The island isn’t secure enough yet if high-level haakai Lucies come poking around.”
“Go with God,” Michael said then. “Call for me if, and when, you have Regina and/or Zebulan back here.”
On those words, he was gone, and all his angels with him. They would be sweeping up feathers outside for the next week. But that was of no importance. It was just like Michael to drop a bomb on them and then leave them to find a solution.
Like today. “Satan is waging a war against vangels. Do something about it.”
As if it would be easy, or even possible! But they had to try.
For a moment, Vikar was overwhelmed with all that he would have to do:
—Reinforce security at the Transylvania castle and make plans for housing and feeding all those additional bodies.
Alex could handle the logistics of accommodations with ease. She would probably draw up charts and everything. Right down to how many bars of soap and rolls of toilet paper per person.
And they would need to stockpile food for the duration. No ordering Domino’s during the lockdown. Lizzie knew every farm and market within fifty miles. He was confident she could handle that task, though she would complain mightily. Cnut’s wife, Andrea, was a chef; she could help Lizzie.
—Make sure the same was done for Grand Key Island.
—And secure Harek’s island and Ivak’s plantation, even though both places would be vacated.
—Rescue Regina and Zeb, if they were still “alive.” Cnut and Trond could handle that. Or maybe Trond alone, thus releasing Cnut for other duties. No, they could both go, and hopefully accomplish the mission in short order and return for other orders.
—Develop battle plans against the Lucipires. Mordr could head that operation, being a seasoned fighting man. But he would need all the brothers, especially Harek, to develop specific missions for various parts of the world. Maybe Trond, with his connection to Navy SEALs, could engage the military’s help in the terrorists’ aspect of these battles.
—Training would commence immediately in the dungeon gyms and outdoor fields. They’d been lax of late. Vangels’ earthly bodies must be continually tuned and fighting skills kept up to date. Like modern military special forces.
—Weaponry must be checked and new pieces seasoned with the symbolic blood of Christ. Swords, bullets, knives, throwing stars, whatever. The vangel Kurt Mortenssen would be good for that job.
—Order more Fake-O.
—Pray.
Vikar looked at his brothers who were on their cell phones, calling spouses and preparing to bring them all in, either here or to Grand Key Island. Then Cnut and Trond went into a huddle with Harek who already had his high-tech laptop out and was tapping away.
In that moment, Vikar realized that life as the seven brothers had known it was about to change, just as it had one thousand, one hundred and sixty-seven years ago when they’d first become vangels.
But where would that change put them next?
Chapter 8
And then they got company . . .
Zeb was out on the deck, absorbing the sun’s healing rays. He lay on a floral cushioned chaise lounge, made of natural cane by his own hands at one time, thank you very much, during an idle period twenty-five or so years ago when he’d fancied himself a woodworker. That was after his yoga period (meditation hadn’t done crap for him, except make him more depressed), but before he’d turned to farming (being a grape grower was really just glorified farming), and thus the overgrown garden he had outside the cottage, up on the hill, being weeded at the moment by Grimelda, who might very well be planting pot for all he knew from the myriad seeds she carried in her bag. Or some kind of poison plants to put in the ever-boiling cauldron, aka his former canning kettle (and, yes, I used to can vegetables and fruits from my garden, live with it!) that she had placed on his patio barbecue.
Patience was probably in the rain forest shower in his bathroom, depleting their water supply, again. Good thing it rained a lot here to replenish the cistern tank. Zeb’s hideaway might be a humble cottage, but he’d made sure it had all the modern amenities. Anyhow, as a Puritan, Patience had never experienced such luxuries before. And, as a lower-level Lucipire with no warrior skills, she’d never left Horror. A sheltered life, so to speak. But, no, he could hear her clanging pots and pans in the kitchen, preparing lunch, no doubt. She was probably wearing a bikini, also something new to her once modest lifestyle, and frankly Lucipires in the cold north didn’t get much of a chance to sunbathe. Zeb would have no more curtains or tablecloths left if she kept sewing up more of the skimpy bathing outfits. She even made one out of the fabric of a broken red patio umbrella. Nicely water-repellent. Not that she’d gone swimming, at all, or even knew how to swim, for that matter.
As for Beau, Zeb could hear him, cursing and banging away, up on the roof where he was bound and determined to get some TV reception from the antenna. The boy yearned for a ball game, or even an old episode of Swamp People. Zeb referred to him as a boy, even though he wasn’t that much older in human years, but he had him by centuries, even thousands of years, in Lucipire time.
In any case, Zeb had tried to tell Beau that it was a lost cause. Only occasionally was he able to get any reception, and even then it was intermittent and snowy. Same was true of cell phones. The Cloud didn’t come here, apparently. The island’s shielding probably didn’t help, either.
Zeb stretched out his arms, or tried to. It was more than four days since the escape from Horror, and he was still so weak and wracked with pain that he couldn’t walk or even sink into his whirlpool bathtub without help.
Demon vampires had no problems with sunlight, unlike angel vampires whose skin turned lighter and lighter, unless they got some blood from fighting Lucipires or saving sinners. Not an issue currently for Regina, whose skin had turned a creamy gold from the blood she’d been exchanging with him. And barely a freckle in sight. He knew. He’d checked. He could tell you precisely where all five of them were. Coppertone would love her for an ad campaign. “Who Says Redheads Can’t Tan?”
Skin tone was the least of Zeb’s concerns. He wore only loose boxer shorts to avoid chafing his still irritated penis. And forget about shoes on his raw feet, which were growing new skin, but not fast enough. He was still unused to his bald head which was smooth as a cue ball. In fact, he continued to be startled when he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, not recognizing the person who stared back at him. He didn’t blame Regina for the shaving while he’d been unconscious. Craven had done a job on him, yanking out tufts of his long hair by the roots. This evened him out. A fresh start.
If only the rest of his life could have a fresh start.
He was not a demon anymore; he was convinced of that, which should give him hope. The proof, if he needed it, was that he was unable to teletransport or morph into demonoid form. The only thing about him that was the same was his fangs. Which should have been promising, a sign he was on his way to becoming a vangel, but, no, he didn’t have angel bumps on his shoulder blades, the precursors to wings; so, he wasn’t a vangel, either.
In truth, he didn’t know what he was, and maybe he didn’t want to know. It scared him to think that his lack of demon attributes might only be temporary, due to his injuries. He was certainly beginning to have unangelic feelings when he sucked Regina’s sweetly erotic blood, despite his penis’s inability to follow the lead. And thank the stars for that small blessing. If he got an erection, he’d probably pop a few stitches. Ouch!
While his body was far from healed, his mind was clear and he knew that time was their enemy. They had to get away from the island, to a safer place, hopefully in five different directions, or at least four, if he could convince his comrades-in-comedy to part ways with him and Regina, assuming she would take him with her to safety. That had been her original plan, after all. But no, the three demon witch vampires were hanging on to him and Regina like leeches. Which was unkind of him, considering their role in his escape. See. I’m far from a vangel if I can be so mean-spirited. Right? It was a sign of his unravelling brain that he carried on conversations like this with himself.
By now, more than four days in, Jasper would have all of Satan’s powers at his disposal, and the shielding here would be frailer than tissue paper, no match for high-powered Lucipires. And he didn’t need Regina to keep harping at him on the subject, either, as she surely would, he thought, as she came stomping out through the sliding glass doors.
“Well, have you thought of anything yet?”
“You mean, since you asked me fifteen minutes ago?”
“No need to be snide.”
“Sorry.” He had to keep reminding himself that he had much to thank her for.
They’d been sniping at each other ever since he’d been able to get up out of bed. From her side, he suspected it was because she resented getting turned on by their blood exchanges. From his side, he just wanted to be out of here, alone, without any help or any sidekicks. Besides, he was getting turned on, too. Except he didn’t resent it. And he really couldn’t do anything about it, without an erection; so, it didn’t really count as a sexual transgression, in his clueless male rulebook.
“I’m not accustomed to making decisions for anyone other than myself,” Zeb told her. “If we leave here, we’ve got to scatter, unless . . .” He gave her a questioning look.
“No way! I’m in enough trouble as it
is, if I try to get you into the castle at Transylvania. You and three witch Lucipires would push Vikar over the edge.”
“You’re a witch, too,” he reminded her.
“I know that.” She glared at him. “What’s your point?”
“No point.” He shrugged. Then sniffed the air.
“Stop that damn sniffing.”
“I can’t help it. You smell so cinnamon sweet and spicy.” Makes me want to gobble her up. Or something. And, yes, I am wondering how a certain place on her body, her sweet spot, would taste. Would probably numb my tongue. He didn’t say that, though. He might be a dumb man and a dumber demon, but even he knew not to ask a witch if he could eat her. Not under the circumstances. Okay, not ever.
Instead, he turned the tables by blaming her and said, “Do you have to keep tempting me with sexy attire?” It had become a running joke between them . . . who was he kidding? . . . from his end only . . . that she was tempting him to sin with all her bloodletting. Little did she know, it was the truth. Blood fanging, cinnamon high, rescuer worship, red hair, sexual healing . . . he was on fire for her, and not in a fever sort of way. More like an I-want-you-so-much-my-broken-bones-ache-to-have-you kind of fever. But an I-can’t-get-it-up way, too. My poor penis must be so confused!
Last night he’d told her, in a semi-serious tone of voice, as he prepared to fang her neck, “My train is definitely coming back to life. Good thing my engine is in sleep mode.”
And she’d quick as spit replied, “I could always rewrap your engine in barbed wire.”
No sense of humor.
Now, in response to his remark about her attire, she glanced down at his biking shorts that she wore (yes, he’d tried biking once years ago, but he kept morphing into demonoid form and his tail got caught in the spokes) covered by an oversized (for her, not him) Aerosmith T-shirt (gotta love “Walk This Way!”) that completely hid her generous curves (but he had a good imagination).
“Give me a break,” she said and sat down on the foot of a matching chaise lounge, facing him. Her red hair was pulled off her face and piled high on her head with a rubber band, thus leaving her neck exposed, where he could see the faint scars of his last fanging.