“Hey, why are you putting that straitjacket on me?”
Apparently, Roger would be staying at the funny farm, not the prison farm, at least for the time being.
Ivak, the too-good-looking-for-his-own-good Sigurdsson brother, shielded Linda’s eyes and ears from the sight of her babbling father being arrested. And, yes, Ivak was wearing the long black cloak with angel epaulets. He quickly escorted her and Miranda down to the Lexus SUV and immediately took off, wheels squealing. Other vangels rode in the backseat, weapons ready. Several others followed in vehicles behind them.
Recognizing the SUV as the one Mordr had been using while in Las Vegas, she asked, “Where’s Mordr? Why didn’t he come for us?”
“He’s . . . uh, indisposed.”
Now that she was free, she had time for other emotions. Like anger. “Indisposed? Like he has better things to do?”
“Like he has nothing to do,” Ivak answered enigmatically.
“I want Mordr,” Linda said. She was sitting on the front seat, on Miranda’s lap. Not the safest place to be, according to the law, but the little girl was holding on to Miranda like a life buoy in the middle of the ocean. She’d been through an ordeal most children never faced and never should.
“He had to go away for a while, sweetheart,” Ivak said, patting Linda’s hand.
“Is he coming back?” Linda wanted to know.
Miranda would like to know, too.
“I cannot say for certain,” Ivak answered honestly, slanting a look of apology Miranda’s way.
That look said it all.
Mordr had told her over and over that Michael would never let him stay with her. Until now, she’d thought it was still a possibility. “Michael?” she whispered.
Ivak nodded.
Anger was now replaced by worry. What would the archangel do to Mordr? There was sure to be some punishment for his involvement with Miranda. Mordr had told her so.
Suddenly, she realized that Ivak wasn’t headed toward the suburb where she lived. “Where are we going?” she asked in a panic.
“The airport. When all hell broke loose last week, we took the other children to my home in Louisiana. For protection. That’s where we’re going now.”
She couldn’t believe that she hadn’t asked about the other children, first thing. Maybe she was in more shock than she’d realized from this whole experience. Even though she was now out of danger, even though Roger would be gone for years to come, a delayed reaction was setting in, and she began to weep . . . silently, so as not to alarm Linda, who’d fallen asleep.
“Everything has a way of working out, Miranda. Just relax. Enjoy a few days at Heaven’s End. Maybe you’ll even get to meet our good friend Tante Lulu and her friend St. Jude.”
Why that last statement brought a mischievous gleam to his eyes, she had no idea. “St. Jude? I thought St. Michael was the saint du jour.”
Ivak laughed. “Mike is our saint du jour. Jude is Tante Lulu’s.”
That made no sense at all. “Heaven’s End? Is that like some celestial planet or something?” she asked, just to make conversation. Oh God, she hoped they weren’t going planet hopping now, on top of everything else. If they could teletransport, she assumed they could do that, too.
“Don’t ask,” Ivak warned. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Turned out Heaven’s End was the name of Ivak’s run-down—really run-down—plantation in southern Louisiana. Mordr had told her about it one time, she recalled now. For several days, she and the children stayed with Ivak and his wife, Gabrielle, on the property they were going to restore as soon as she had her baby, which would be any day now.
Miranda learned a lot about vangels from Gabrielle, another human brought into this web of angel vampire beings, or whatever they were.
“No offense, but you’re a lawyer, presumably an intelligent woman. And yet you married a vampire angel! Didn’t you have reservations about that?”
“Plenty. Especially since vangels are sterile. But Ivak’s swimmers never got the memo.” Her eyes twinkled merrily as she relayed that information. There was a story there, Miranda was sure.
They were sitting out on the verandah, Miranda with a mint julep and Gabrielle with a cold sweet tea. The children were off with Ivak trying to trap more of the snakes that plagued the property.
“There are a thousand different snakes in the world, and nine hundred and ninety species are in residence here at Heaven’s End,” Ivak had told her on her arrival. Heaven’s End, clearly an oxymoron, was the name of the former slave plantation.
“How does it work . . . this vangel/human thing? Don’t they live forever, or for centuries anyhow?” Miranda asked Gabrielle.
Gabrielle nodded. “Michael allowed me . . . and my two sisters-in-law . . . to marry vangels. We will live as long as they do, and no longer. We will not age, same as them. If they die tomorrow, though, we would die, too. As for the baby . . .” Gabrielle’s voice quivered. “Ivak and I will not age, but our child will. In other words, we will one day bury our boy. That is what we are having. A boy.”
“That seems rather cruel.”
Gabrielle shrugged. “It’s a choice I made.”
“Why aren’t I being given a choice?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Ivak tells me that Mordr is being held prisoner or something back at the castle in Pennsylvania, that he’s not permitted to contact me.”
“It’s not you personally. It’s the whole idea that Michael objects to. Vangels and humans are not meant to mix, or at least that was the way it was originally intended. I think it has something to do with fallen angels having sex with human women in biblical times, or maybe that’s just a story that has no merit. In any case, after Ivak and I married, Michael swore it would be the last time.”
Miranda nodded. She’d been told this before, but somehow it didn’t seem fair. “The children miss him so much. I don’t know how he bonded with them so well in such a short time, but he did. To give him credit, he fought their touch a lot.”
“And how about you?”
“Did I bond with him?”
“Do you love him?”
“I think so.”
“How about Mordr? Does he love you?”
“I don’t know. He never told me so.” But then, she hadn’t told him, either. She was so confused. “There is one thing.” Miranda told Gabrielle about the heart sign Mordr made just before he’d left for the last time.
Gabrielle had tears in her eyes when Miranda finished. “Ivak never made that sign to me.” He probably would before nightfall.
“What should I do?” Miranda asked.
“Pray!”
At first, Miranda thought it was Gabrielle who’d given that oversimple suggestion, but then she realized that someone else had stepped up behind them. It was a little old lady dressed in neon orange biking shorts with a purple tank top, sporting the logo “I’m Not Old, I’m Ripe,” and white orthopedic shoes and pink ruffled anklets. An explosion of liver spots covered every inch of exposed, sagging skin. Her gray curls were held back off her face by a rhinestone-studded headband. Makeup filled all the crevices on her wrinkled face, accentuated by false eyelashes and bright red lipstick. Grandma Moses with a Mary Kay addiction.
“Tante Lulu!” Gabrielle said, pushing herself clumsily out of her chair and offering the seat to the old lady. She went to the verandah rail and pulled another chair over. Before she sat back down, Gabrielle poured a glass of sweet tea and handed it to her guest. “I didn’t know you were coming today.” Eyeing her outfit, Gabrielle raised a brow. “You been out jogging?”
“In this heat? I swear, it’s so dry t’day, the bushes are followin’ the dogs around. No, I ain’t climbed on the crazy train yet.” Smiling at Miranda, whose jaw had been hanging open, she extended a hand and said, “Hi! I’m Louise Rivard, but you kin call me Tante Lulu, like everyone does. You mus’ be Miranda. Ivak tol’ me ’bout you.”
“Did you brin
g that snakebite medicine for Ivak?” Gabrielle asked, then explained to Miranda, “Tante Lulu is a famous traiteur, that’s what they call a folk healer here on the bayou. Ivak and his workers have been getting some bites from the nonpoisonous snakes that’re causing rashes and nausea and stuff.”
“I brought my Piss ’n’ Boots remedy. Tee, hee, hee! It’s made up of goat urine and boiled cowhide with a little gator fat ta bind it all t’gether.”
“You’re kidding!” Miranda said before she had a chance to bite her tongue.
“Pfff! I ain’t got time ta be kiddin’. If I hesitate too long, I might find myself on the Other Side.” She grinned to show Miranda that she wasn’t offended. “Anyways,” she addressed Gabrielle now, “I brought Jem Hawkins with me t’day. He’s a professional snake catcher. I swear, that guy is so skinny if he closed one eye he could pass fer a needle. And stink? Pee-you. Smells lak swamp water all the time. Thass why we call him Stinky Hawkins. I’ll hafta spray mah car with a gallon of air freshener.”
After that ramble, the old lady took a long drink of her tea, then leaned back in her chair and studied Miranda. “So. You gonna take my advice, girl?”
“Huh?”
“Pray. Dint you hear me tell you ta pray?”
“Oh. That.”
Really, the old lady’s brain skittered around from one subject to another without warning, like a human Ping-Pong ball.
“Yes, that. I woke up this mornin’—most days I’m jist glad ta wake up, truth to tell—and I felt St. Jude nudgin’ me ta come over here. When I heard you soundin’ kind of hopeless when I walked up, I knew you were ta be my mission.”
Oh boy!
“Tante Lulu is a great fan of St. Jude. He’s the patron saint of hopeless cases,” Gabrielle explained to Miranda.
“Well, I’m certainly feeling hopeless.”
“You came ta the right place, then. Tell me what the problem is.” Tante Lulu leaned forward, waiting avidly for her to spill her secrets.
To Miranda’s surprise, she did just that. For some reason, the old lady engendered trust . . . and, yes, hope.
Tante Lulu listened intently, especially interested in knowing that the man Miranda loved was Ivak’s brother. She nodded here and there, and shook her head at other times. Of course, Miranda didn’t mention all the vangel/Lucipire stuff.
When she was done, Tante Lulu squeezed her hand and said, “Sweetie, this is yer lucky day. I’m gonna be yer new best friend, and friends are God’s way of takin’ care of us, y’know.”
Okaaay! “So, what do I do about this situation with Mordr?”
“Pray. Dint you hear what I said ta begin with. You mus’ have cotton balls betwixt yer ears, bless yer heart.”
“I haven’t been to church in years, and I can’t remember the last time I prayed,” Miranda disclosed.
“Mebbe it’s time ta start,” Tante Lulu told her, wagging a forefinger. “Dontcha be worryin’, though. You aim fer the Big Guy, and I’ll be prayin’ ta St. Jude fer ya, too. A double whammy, thass what it’ll be.”
“Speaking of double whammies,” Gabrielle interrupted, “is it possible I’m carrying twins? I swear, I must have gained fifty pounds.”
Tante Lulu put her hand on Gabrielle’s tummy. “Nope. Jist one, but he’s burstin’ ta come out. Mebbe t’day.”
“Really?” Gabrielle squeaked out.
“Did I say t’day? Could be t’morrow.” Tante Lulu winked at Miranda, causing one of her eyelashes to go lopsided. It was hard to tell whether the old lady’s wink meant she really did know when the baby would arrive, or she was just teasing.
Archangel's nose, out of joint . . .
Miranda hadn’t really taken the old lady seriously when she’d mentioned prayer as the solution to all her problems, but when she was back in the house in Las Vegas the next night, and the children were crying for Mordr, she told them, “Why don’t we pray? Ask God to bring him back?”
And that’s what they did. Every night. For seven nights. On the eighth day, after dropping off the kids at Jack Trixson’s house to swim in his pool with his children, Miranda came home to a too quiet house.
But then, she was surprised by what sounded like a flock of birds overheard. Pigeons? One of them dropped down onto to the patio with a grunt.
Going out carefully, she looked and saw the most amazing thing. A man—a beautiful man with long black hair, perfect skin, a fine build, wearing jeans and a pure white T-shirt—sitting at her patio table. There were feathers fluttering all around him.
“I do not like people going over my head. Let me tell you that right off. Usurping my authority is no way to get on my good side.”
“Huh?” she said, and sank down into the chair opposite him.
“Did you not encourage your children to pray to God to bring Mordr back to them?”
“Well, yes.”
“Did you not know that God cherishes little children? Did you not know that God would be touched by the pleas of his smallest creations?”
“Um. I never thought about it. Who are you anyway?”
“Michael.”
“Jeesh! Am I really sitting here talking to an angel? Not just any angel. The primo angel of all time.”
“Dost think flattery will gain thy ends?” he asked, but he was smiling.
There was nothing more glorious than an archangel smiling. The very air seemed to glow around him. Like a halo. Well, duh!
“Here’s the deal,” she said, figuring this was her one shot at getting Mordr back. “I love Mordr. I think he might love me. My children love him and need him. What’s so wrong with that?”
“What is wrong is that? Mordr is a vangel! He will probably go on being a vangel for centuries to come. You will never have children, that I guarantee. There will be no more mistakes like Ivak, not that babies are a mistake, but . . .” He scowled at her.
“I have five children. I don’t need any more.”
“And when they age and you do not?”
She gulped. She hadn’t thought of that. “I think I could live with that.”
Michael threw his arms out helplessly. “Well, ’tis out of my hands anyhow. God has spoken.”
“Huh?”
Talking with this archangel was like talking with Tante Lulu. A person wasn’t really sure what was being said but suspected it was important.
The archangel disappeared in a cloud of the most wonderful fragrance, unlike anything she had ever smelled. Not perfume precisely. Just heavenly air. She smiled at the fancifulness of her thought, then frowned. Now, she smelled sandalwood and lime.
Was that a sign of some sort?
Gamblers come in all sizes . . .
Harek was sitting at the high-stakes blackjack table in the Silver Nugget Casino.
He had a pile of winning thousand-dollar chips sitting in front of him on the green baize, along with a Jack Daniel’s in a tumbler, beaded with condensation. On his one side was a hot widow from Iceland who kept putting her free hand on his thigh, high up. On his other side was this entertaining fellow, P. Jack something-or-other, who had recently married for the fourteenth time. Harek and everyone else at the table, including the young dealer, were having a grand old time.
In fact, Harek hadn’t had so much fun in ages. Literally. His sin had been greed, very bad greed, and he’d been forbidden by Michael to gamble anymore. Who was he hurting? No one, except the casino owner, who was probably a mob boss or something, Harek justified. Besides, what Michael didn’t know wouldn’t hurt Harek. Another justification to himself.
Just then, as the dealer cut a new deck of cards, and was placing it in the shuffling machine, Harek glanced over to the walkway that surrounded the casino proper, cut off by a velvet rope. Then he did a double take.
Five midgets stood there waving at him. Midgets? Well, little people. And the most bizarre little people he had ever seen in all his thousand-plus years.
The two girls or women, it was hard to tell from this distance, wore wigs and wob
bly high heels, and enough makeup to plaster the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Their spandex dresses highlighted breasts that were either bad boob jobs or nature’s mutants. The boy-men wore little suits and hats . . . a beret, an oversize Stetson that kept falling down over the person’s eyes, and a baseball cap. Two of them had mustaches and one of them had freckles . . . a lot of freckles.
But why were they waving at him? And one of the females was squealing in a decidedly girlish, not womanish, manner, “Har-ek!”
“Oh. My. God!” he muttered when understanding seeped into his thick skull. It was Miranda’s kids.
And among the security guards who were rushing to the site was one who could be a twin of Mike. Or Mike himself. He knew the answer to that question even before he noticed the guard’s fierce scowl directed his way.
Oh, he was in big trouble!
“Cash in,” he told the dealer.
Everyone at the table protested his leaving in the middle of a winning streak, but he knew that he had no choice. Another minute and Mike would be over here dragging him off by the ear.
“What are you kids doing here?” he asked the minute he came up to them and steered them into a lounge area.
“What are you doing here?” Mike asked him.
“We were looking for you,” Maggie, the older girl, said, as she adjusted her drooping décolletage.
“Me? Why me?”
Mike was looking at him like he was scum.
“Because we’re trying to find Mordr, and we heard that you were here. We figured you would help us find Mordr.” This was Sam, who was eyeing the slot machines even as he spoke. Given a chance, the kid—the one who had an inappropriate-for-his-age interest in gambling—was going to make a dash for the nearest Wheel of Fortune.
In fact, a heavyset woman sat down at that particular machine, put in a dollar, and the thing went wild. “Wheel of Fortune, Wheel of Fortune, Wheel of Fortune,” its speaker kept saying, along with a lot of raucous bells and whistles. Apparently, she had just won a jackpot, as evidenced by casino personnel running to her side.
Sam looked as if he could puke. “That was my machine. I was gonna put in four quarters. See.” He held out an open palm that held four quarters. “She stole my winnings.” He was about to shoot across the rope fence and confront her.