Kiss of Wrath

  Darla, who still had the pistol in hand, barked out, “Are you carrying, buddy?”

  He looked pointedly at his open hands.

  “You know what I mean,” Darla insisted.

  Actually he did. “Yes, I am carrying.”

  “You got a license to carry?” This Darla person was like a bulldog tugging at a rope, never letting up.

  At first he was going to tell her it was none of her business, but then he recalled some document Mike had given him a long time ago . . . well, long by human standards. Three years ago. Taking a wallet out of his back pocket, being careful not to open his shirt too wide and expose his weapons, he took out a folded piece of paper and handed it to her.

  Meanwhile, Miranda just glared at him, arms folded across her chest. Did she think she could cower him with a dark look? He was the master of dark looks. “Wait. Let me see that,” Miranda said, reaching across the desk for his wallet.

  At first, he was going to resist, but then recalled he had nothing incriminating on him. Except for a folding sword, two knives, including a K-Bar used by the SEALs, and a Sig Sauer, all of which had been specially treated to kill Lucies, as well as evil humans when the need arose.

  “Mordr Sigurdsson, 777 Colyer Lane, Transylvania, Pennsylvania,” Miranda read aloud from his driver’s license. “Are you joking? Transylvania?’ ”

  He shrugged. He got that reaction all the time.

  “I thought Transylvania was in Romania,” Miranda remarked.

  “This is a different Transylvania.” Totally, incredibly different in a most ridiculous way, truth to tell.

  “Mordr,” Darla said, leaning over to scan the license in Miranda’s hand. “What nationality is that?”

  What did a twelve-hundred-year-old angel vampire answer to that? “I am Norse by birth.”

  “A Viking? Like the kids said?” Miranda laughed.

  He saw nothing funny about being a Viking and so he replied with ice in his voice, “Precisely.”

  Darla pulled the laptop computer on the desk so that it was turned in front of her and poised her fingers over the keyboard. “You should know, I’m the director of security for a small casino off the Strip. I have access to all kinds of information.”

  Was that supposed to intimidate him? “I am in security, too.”

  “Really?” both women said.

  He nodded hesitantly, already regretting having brought up that sore subject.

  He was right to be hesitant because the next question from Miranda was, “Where did you work security most recently?”

  He felt his face heat as he revealed, “Director of security for a cruise ship.”

  The jaws of both women dropped.

  But Darla narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s your social?”

  “Social? Even though I worked a cruise ship, I am not a very social person.” More like anti-social, according to his brothers.

  “You know very well what I mean. Your social security number,” Darla snarled. “Never mind.” She took a small card from his wallet and began typing on the keys of the laptop.

  While she was doing whatever she was doing with the laptop—Mordr didn’t understand the things himself, though his brother Harek was an expert in that field—he gave his attention to Miranda. “What is this danger you are facing here?”

  She appeared startled by his question. “How do you know there is danger?”

  “I would not have been sent here to protect you if there were no danger.”

  She tilted her head to the side, causing some curls to escape from the red pile atop her head. He had to admit it wasn’t a bad shade of red, not that orange-ish red that he hated. Still, it was red. “Who sent you?”

  How did he answer that question? Not Michael the Archangel, for a certainty. She was not ready to hear about angels and vampires, or demons, for that matter. “A friend.”

  “Of yours?”

  Hardly. “Yours.”

  “Who?” she demanded, her face heating with color.

  Just then, Darla exclaimed, “Oh my God!” as she stared at the laptop screen, which he could not see from his position.

  He was about to tell her that it was unwise to take the Lord’s name in vain, but, before he could speak, she turned to Miranda and said, “He’s former CIA and a decorated special forces hero with two tours in Afghanistan.”

  “I am?” he said, then quickly amended to “I am.” He was always surprised to learn how Michael changed the vangels’ credentials with all his special connections.

  “And you’re here to protect me . . . and the children?”

  “Did I not say so afore?”

  She bared her teeth at him, before curbing her temper.

  “Did my lawyer send you? Bradley Allison? That’s it, isn’t it? Oh, the dear man!”

  Mordr said nothing. Let her think her lawyer sent him. Better that than for him to mention St. Michael the Archangel.

  He noticed that Darla had set aside the pistol, no longer considering him a threat. Foolish woman. He could be a villain pretending to be someone else.

  Well, he was pretending to be someone else, but that was different.

  “Do you have a résumé?”

  “A what?”

  “A résumé. You know, a summary of all your education—.”

  “I never had any education. Leastways not formal schooling.”

  “Your skills?”

  “I can fight like a mad grizzly with his foot in a steel trap. There isn’t a weapon I can’t use and do it well. When I say I will protect someone, I will do just that. I never fail.” Except for the one time when it mattered most.

  “Whoa! Someone has a high opinion of himself,” Darla commented, but she was eyeing him like a hungry bitch for the new dog in the neighborhood.

  He was not interested. Not one bit. “Before this goes any further, exactly what or who would I be protecting you from? The children’s father?”

  The two women nodded.

  “He’s been released or about to be released,” Miranda explained.

  “Has he threatened you?”

  “Not lately,” Miranda admitted, “but the first year he was in jail he sent me numerous threatening letters. He blames me for keeping him in prison. For adopting his children. For not letting the children visit him while incarcerated; that was their decision, by the way. For stealing his house.”

  “And you think he will come here?”

  “Absolutely,” Miranda and Darla said as one.

  “I’m a psychologist . . .” Miranda started to say.

  Oh, wonderful! A mind doctor. Another person to pick at his brain, digging for hidden emotion.

  “. . . but you don’t have to be a professional to conclude that Roger has serious emotional problems. At the least, rage issues and the need for anger management. At the worst, he’s psychotic and unable to control his impulses.”

  Mordr wondered what she would think of his “rage issues.” That’s all he would need, a psychologist probing his mind, trying to discern the cause of his “problem.” Asking questions, like “Did you suck your thumb as a child?” He knew this because he watched Dr. Phil on the television when he was bored between missions. It was either that, or watch Armod’s endless Michael Jackson videos until he wanted to hurl the contents of his stomach. Even so, he saw an amusing picture in his head of Armod teaching three little trolls and two girlings how to moonwalk. If he were not so somber, he would smile at the image.

  Mordr called his attention back to the present. He had to stop these mind wanderings.

  “The thing I fear most is that he will harm the children,” Miranda said with a wobbly voice.

  That raised the hackles on him like nothing else could. “Why would he harm his own children?”

  “Some men do,” Darla pointed out. “You read about them in the news all the time.”

  And it revolted Mordr every time he heard about it.

  “Roger was a wife beater and he wasn’t a model father, even bef
ore he went to prison.” Miranda grimaced with revulsion. “Verbal abuse of the kids, certainly. And occasional physical abuse, like the beating he gave Maggie. His rages were escalating, and I think Cassie, my cousin and the kids’ mother, realized that. Cassie didn’t have to be a psychologist to know that Roger would be physically abusing all of them in time. That’s why Cassie turned him in.”

  “A nithing,” Mordr said.

  “A what?” Darla asked.

  “A man who is less than nothing, below contempt.”

  “That’s for sure,” Darla concurred.

  “I’ve done research on his personality type, and I believe he will overreact when faced with rejection from the children,” Miranda expounded. “Assuming the courts even allowed him visitation, the first time one of them whined about not wanting to go with him, or wet the bed, or failed to do something he ordered quick enough, it would likely trigger one of his rages.”

  Mordr had his own triggers, but she didn’t need to know that, and his certainly didn’t involve children. “I understand. You are wise to be concerned,” Mordr said.

  Miranda nodded, then got down to business. “If I hire you, it has to be as my home manager. If you’re here as a guard, it would alert Roger. Like waving a red flag in front of a bull.”

  “You mean nanny. Speak plainly, wench.”

  Miranda would clearly relish knocking him aside the head with a hard object, but she was probably desperate for his help, or becoming so. Thus she held her sharp tongue. “Well, they’re the same thing, except a home manager does more than care for the children. There wouldn’t be many cleaning chores, though, because I have a housekeeper come in for two hours five days a week.”

  That is good because I would not have a clue how to run a vacuum, and I don’t want to learn.

  “There are two more weeks of school and they get the bus in front of the house.”

  “How safe are they at school?”

  “I’ve given orders to the administration and teachers that they are not to release the children, under any circumstances, to anyone but me or Darla, and definitely not to Roger. I’ve filled them in on the safety concerns.”

  He nodded, but was unsure if that was enough.

  “They need supervision while at home, and they’re all involved in after-school activities for which they will need to be transported. Karate, soccer, swim team, ballet, chorus.”

  Modern parents spoiled their children overmuch, in his opinion. Why did they need all these extra activities? What was wrong with mere play? But he would not speak of that, for now.

  “You would have to prepare some meals. Plus, the kids like to take bag lunches to school.”

  His eyes widened with surprise. “You want me to cook?”

  “Yes. Can you cook?”

  Not even a boar’s leg over an open fire. “Of course.”

  “They don’t need anything fancy.”

  Good. I will have to call Alex and get some tips, or Lizzie Borden. No, Alex would be best. Lizzie never did like me much, always holding on to that cleaver when I am about. Says I eat too much. I am a big man. What does she expect? And what is a bag lunch, anyhow?

  “Listen, you two iron out all those details,” Darla said. “I have to be off to work.” She stood and gave him what she must consider a menacing look, “If you do anything to hurt Mir and the kids, I’ll be after you like your worst enemy.”

  Lady, I know more than you could ever guess about enemies. He quelled his irritation and assured her, “They will be safe with me.”

  With that, Darla departed, and he was left alone with Miranda.

  “You will have to live in, of course,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap.

  “Of course.”

  He could tell she was nervous being alone with him. Truth to tell, he was a mite nervous himself, and nervousness was a new experience for him.

  “We can discuss all your specific duties later. Don’t you want to know what your salary will be?”

  “Not particularly.”

  She smiled. “Bradley’s influence again, I suppose.”

  He shrugged and leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his nape, just looking at her. He liked looking at her.

  She stared at him, too. Rather dazed, he thought. But then she shook her head, as if confused. “Let me show you to your room. It’s off the kitchen, not very big. Nothing fancy.”

  “I do not need big or fancy.” Many, many times over the centuries, he’d slept on the hard ground or in hovels. He’d also slept in palaces and luxurious hotel suites. None of that mattered to him.

  They both stood, and Mordr was staggered by the smell of lilies and cloves as she walked around the desk toward him. It seemed to enter his nostrils and sweep through his body, causing his blood to heat and the fine hairs to stand out on the back of his neck. Without thinking, he said, “Your scent enthralls me.”

  At the same time, she said, “You smell delicious. Like sandalwood and lime. Is it cologne?”

  Mordr had never used cologne. Never ever. The most scent he’d ever put on his body would have been in his soap, and he did not recall the scent of sandalwood, or fruit, for that matter. Delicious? Me?

  Just then, Mordr realized what it was, and he almost reeled with disbelief. His brothers Vikar and Trond and Ivak, all of whom were married to life mates, claimed that at one point before the mating, a special scent emanated from couples. A sure sign of soul mates.

  No, no, no! This cannot . . . will not . . . happen to me.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” she said, no longer dazed. “Let’s make one thing clear. There will no sex involved in your duties. I am not interested.”

  “As if you were asked!” he scoffed. “For your information, I have been celibate for a long, long time.” Damn, damn, damn, when did I develop a loose tongue?

  “How long?”

  “Longer than you can imagine, and then more than that.” Think two hundred and fifty years, give or take.

  Her face softened. “I deal with problems like this all the time. Are you able to masturbate to orgasm?”

  Surely, surely, she did not say what he thought she did.

  He must have looked confused because she started to say, “Masturbation is the practice of—”

  “I know what masturbation is. Are you demented? Asking a man such a question!”

  “There are remedies for impotency today. I’m a professional. Like a medical doctor. Everything you tell me is confidential. No need to be embarrassed.”

  Mordr went rigid with consternation. “I am not impotent.” Leastways, he did not think he was. “It is a choice.”

  “Oh,” she said, though she clearly did not understand.

  “How would you feel if I asked you whether you pleasure yourself to a climax?”

  “I would answer yes.” She put her hand on the doorknob and motioned for him to follow.

  At first, he was too stunned to move. She masturbates? Why am I surprised? After seeing what is on modern television, Sodom and Gomorrah look like Mayberry. And, yes, he was familiar with that old television show. In fact, that Barney Fife character reminded him of a Viking he once knew, Lars Lackwit.

  She opened the door, and he followed, entertaining the most delicious mind fantasies.

  Five little bodies almost fell back on their little rumps. Apparently, they had been pressed against the door, eavesdropping. He hoped they hadn’t heard everything. At least they were clean, having taken showers as ordered, he assumed. Except for Ruff, who was still dirty as his fur dried in matted clumps.

  “Yay, we have a Viking nanny!”

  “When do I get my sword?”

  “I like peanut butter and jelly on my sandwiches, but only strawberry jelly. And no crusts.”

  “Can you tell bedtime stories?”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “I need help with my multiplication tables.”

  “It’s my turn to bring cupcakes for snack time.”

&nbs
p; “We’re out of milk.”

  “The downstairs toilet is plugged up. I think someone used too much paper.”

  Miranda looked at him. “Welcome to my world.”

  Seven

  Talk about the BFF (best friend forever) from Hell! . . .

  Roger Jessup sat fuming in front of an ancient computer sitting on a battered desk in a shared living room of a shabby duplex in Akron, Ohio. It was Heaven’s Gate, the bullshit name for the halfway house he was “sentenced” to. “Hell’s Armpit” would be more appropriate.

  During the day, he was employed for minimum wage as a maintenance worker for the city, despite his having been a licensed electrician until a few years ago. Apparently, no one wanted to hire a convicted felon to wire their houses. It wasn’t like he was an axe murderer or anything, but that didn’t seem to matter.

  Once a week he had to sit in a class of misfits listening to some jackass teach him anger management. Hah! He had learned a thing or two about anger and how to manage to survive after serving two years in prison. Now, there were some psychos who needed anger management!

  No, none of those things were what had Roger’s jock strap in a twist at the moment. It was what he was reading on the computer screen. “Son of a fucking bitch!” he snarled.

  “Whassup, Jessup?” Without looking his way, Clarence Farrell chuckled from the recliner where he was watching another of the endless reality TV shows he was addicted to. This one was Amish Strippers. Before that, it was Gay Soldiers. Some days, Roger wished the cable box would explode and stay off, giving those voices in Roger’s head some blessed silence, a chance to think.

  “Nothing special,” Roger grumbled.

  A person didn’t want to get on Clarence’s bad side. He was a mean-ass repeat offender who’d just served ten years in Ohio Pen for assault with a deadly weapon, rape, kidnapping, robbery, and a long laundry list of other crimes committed against an ex-girlfriend. Caused the woman to lose an eye and sliced one ear half off. Eew! And it wasn’t his first offense. Clarence had been in the halfway house for a year now and would be released about the same time as Roger.

  “Whoa! Wouldja look at that? I like it when they bend over like that. Don’t you?” Clarence was licking his big lips.