“No offense taken. The first of those, actually. This is just a job. I have a wife and two kids to support, and my acting career was going nowhere. So, we left Hollywood and came here. Until the economy hit the toilet, I was doing well as a female impersonator.”
They talked for some time until Jack had to return for the second show of the day. Mordr declined his invitation to attend. In the end, it was Jack who gave him directions to Crescent Street. Turns out it was right around the corner from Jack’s own home in a new development, which was why Mordr had been having trouble finding it on the GPS, as the policeman had suggested earlier.
By mid-afternoon, Mordr got to Crescent Street. He was surprised to find a residential neighborhood, and 111 Crescent Street, the address Michael had given him, was a two-story home of impressive proportions with a wide lawn being currently pampered by a sprinkler system, which was unusual in the afternoon. Most of these contraptions operated only at night. And wasn’t that another strange thing about modern times? Wasting water to grow weeds, which was what grass was, really. He could just imagine King Olaf telling one of his servants, “Go water the weeds in the courtyard so the horses won’t bruise their hooves on the hard-packed dirt when they come back from battle.”
Not sure what to expect when he came here today, Mordr was armed with a back holster pressed against his white T-shirt, under an unbuttoned black shirt worn over cargo pants with all the appropriate pockets for knives and other specially treated weapons. Normally, he would have worn a cape to hide his armaments, but that would be too obvious in this desert heat.
He walked up the sidewalk to the front door, unsure whether to first circle and study the property to assess any potential danger. There were Bulldog Security notices in various windows, tiny cameras placed in strategic locations, what was probably a motion detector that was operational at nighttime, a numbered panel next to the door frame to bar entry by strangers. Definitely a place in need of protection, for one reason or another. He sniffed the air for the sulfurous scent of Lucies. Nothing. No scent of lemons, either, which would indicate a person hell-bent on . . . well, going to Hell, who might already have been fanged with a Lucie sin taint but not yet crossed over to the dark side. In other words, a human he might be able to save.
While he was pondering his choices, the door flew open and a young girl of no more than ten years took him by the arm and, with surprising strength, yanked him inside. He had only a brief moment to notice her bright red curls and blinking, owlish eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She had water spots on her red blouse, as if she’d just run in from a rain shower. “You’re late,” she accused. “That’s no way to get a job. I may be a kid, but even I know that tardiness is a no-no in job hunting.”
“Late for what?”
The little girl rolled her eyes, as if he were a dunderhead. Which he felt like at the moment. “Oh well. Thank God, you’re here. Finally.”
“No. Thank Michael.”
“Is he the head of the agency?”
“You could say that.” God’s special agent.
“You better come with me. Ben and Sam are about to do something really dumb.”
“Who are Ben and Sam?” Mordr knew of no Ben or Sam.
“My brothers,” she said with decided disgust. “They’re eight-year-old twins who are always in trouble. Idiots! Ben thinks he’s Evel Knievel. One time he tried to roller-skate off the garage roof onto a mattress and almost cracked his fool head open. Sam thinks he’s a born gambler. He’ll probably try to con you into a game of blackjack. Don’t play with him. He cheats.”
All Mordr could think to say was “Huh?”
“This could be dangerous. C’mon. You need to stop them.” She tugged on his arm, trying to move him down the hallway toward what sounded like a party or something in the distance. A crash, like a trash can falling over. Loud voices, like a television set, with screams and shrieks and laughter. Farther away, young voices, human, mixed with screams and shrieks and laughter.
“Laughter? That does not sound like any kind of danger requiring my help.” He was about to warn her that it was dangerous for a young maid to invite a grown man, a stranger, into her house.
Before he could speak, she tapped a foot with impatience. “Ben can’t start the barbecue and he’s looking for gasoline to help him. I hid the can under the patio umbrella in the shed, but he could find it any minute now. Ben thinks that, just because Sam is running the hose, it will put out any explosion. Did I mention that they’re idiots?”
Ah, the water spots. He gave a brief nod of understanding, though he didn’t understand much.
“I told them that they would be in big trouble. I told them gasoline wasn’t the same as lighter fluid, which is also dangerous, but they wouldn’t listen to me. Said they were hungry for hamburgers from the grill and that they knew what they were doing. Boys!” She shook her head as if the entire male race of the younger set were hopeless. Him, too.
Despite himself, he was starting to admire the warrior lass. She had ballocks, trying to rule her brothers.
But wait. Did she say gasoline? The house could be afire soon. “Where’s your mother?” he demanded, quickly scanning the hallway and the living room and dining room off to either side, both of which were empty. He would have something to say to a woman who would neglect her children so.
“Dead.”
Oh! “Your father?”
“In prison.”
That is not good. “Well, who in bloody hell is caring for you?”
“I’m pretty sure ‘bloody hell’ is cursing. You’re going to have to put a quarter in the swear jar.”
“Aaarrgh! Who in bloody hell is caring for you?” he repeated.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk!” she had the nerve to chastise him before explaining, “Aunt Mir cares for us, ever since Mom died, but she got delayed at the casino—”
A casino! A sin palace, for a certainty. Not that I have any room to judge. But what kind of mother, even a foster mother, gambles, leaving her children to fend for themselves? She will probably arrive home drukkinn.
“—and her friend Darla came to watch us ’til she gets home.” The girling was midway down the corridor, continuing to talk as she waited for him to rush to her assistance, while he stood in place by the front door. Shoving her glasses up higher on her little nose, she blinked. “Or ’til you got here.”
“Me?”
“Yep. Our new nanny.”
“A nanny? Are you calling me a goat?”
She closed her eyes and appeared to be counting. When she was seemingly in control of her temper, she explained very slowly, “Well, household manager then. That’s the title the agency gave Aunt Mir. Darla is supposed to keep you company until Aunt Mir can interview you. Aunt Mir said you’re the answer to all our prayers and Darla was to sit on you if you tried to escape, but I think she was kidding. Don’t you?”
“Don’t I what?” Did she really say I am the answer to someone’s prayer? Hardly! More like the opposite. And anyone trying to sit on me is going to have trouble getting me to the floor first.
“Are you a Viking? You look just like those men on that series we watched on the History Channel.”
“Yes, I am a Viking, but I am not a house person, like you mentioned. Nor am I the answer to some fool prayer. You have me mixed up with—” Oh no! Mike, you didn’t!
“Whatever.” The girl, who probably thought he was arguing about the title, not the job itself, was jumping up and down with agitation. “You need to help us. Now! Hurry, hurry, hurry.”
He reached up to pull at his long hair in frustration, but restrained himself. Instead, he fisted his hands at his sides and counted to ten, in Old Norse. “Where is this Darla person?”
From upstairs, he heard a pounding, like someone knocking on wood. And muffled curses.
The girl’s face got red as she looked everywhere except upward.
“What’s that noise?” he asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
“
It might be Darla,” she said, looking everywhere but up at him.
“Why is she yelling?”
“She might be locked in the bathroom.” Still not making eye contact with him.
“Why?”
“Don’t worry about that now. We have to stop Ben and Sam first.”
With a snort of disgust, he followed the girl through the kitchen, which looked as if a horde of Huns had swept through. There was food and books and a spilled pitcher of some red drink . . . not blood, he was certain. Well, fairly certain. The source of the television sounds came from a small set on the counter showing a lackwit sponge that talked. He’d seen his brother Vikar’s children watching the same show on numerous occasions. And people thought Vikings had been strange for believing in gods and trolls and dragons and such.
Outside, a big white dog, which resembled a polar bear, was barking as it galloped in circles around the backyard, over and over and over. It was being chased by a boy, about eight years old, in a red St. Joseph’s Academy T-shirt who had a running hose in his little hands. Another boy in a blue St. Joseph’s Academy T-shirt, the twin of the hose wielder, was standing over a cold barbecue, striking match after match, trying to set the grill afire. The matches must have been wet because not one of them ignited. Thank God! The two boys were as soaked as the dog. An even smaller boy, about five years old, with blond spiky hair and a freckled face, was bemoaning the fact that he’d been unable to find the gasoline can, so far. And suddenly latched on to Mordr’s thigh was a little girl, about the same size and similar appearance to freckled boy number three. Not identical but possibly another pair of twins. Her hair was long and blond and held off her face with butterfly clips, and she was missing two front teeth. He glanced down and saw her soulful greenish-gray eyes gazing up at him as if he were some hero come to save their personal planet.
“Are you my daddy?” the little one asked.
“Don’t mind Linda. She asks every man that,” Owl Girl informed him.
In that instant, he realized that for the first time in a thousand and more years he was face to face with not only a little girl, roughly the same age as Kata had been, looking for a lost father, but also a boyling, or several boylings, much the same size as Jomar had been. Before their deaths. Blood drained from his head, his legs turned to butter, and he reached out for the door frame to brace himself. “I . . . have . . . to . . . go,” he gritted out.
“You can’t go,” Owl Girl howled. “You’re a Viking. Practically a superhero. You have to help us.”
“He’s a Viking?” all three boys said as one. “Wow!”
The still-running hose was turning the sparsely grassed plot of the backyard into a pool of mud, but none of them seemed to notice, even though they were barefooted.
“We’re getting a Viking for a babysitter!” Red Shirt remarked with obvious pleasure. “Cool, dude!”
“Do you have a sword?” Blue Shirt wanted to know.
“I can’t wait to tell Johnny Severino. This beats his pet snake any day,” said the smallest boy.
“I have to pee,” the gremlin attached to his leg whined.
“You guys are in big trouble!” Owl Girl yelled.
The three boys made a rude gesture at her that involved sticking out their tongues and blowing.
“Aaarrgh!” she screamed with frustration, then put her hands on her narrow hips and tapped a foot impatiently, like she was some mini-adult, or something. “Are you going to help us or not?”
“Let the Darla person help you.”
“I told you. Darla is locked in the bathroom,” she replied, as if he were too thickheaded to understand simple English.
“Unlock her then.”
“We can’t,” the boy in the blue T-shirt said. “The dog ate the key.”
They all turned to look at said dog, a huge mongrel of an animal, who was presently sitting with a big doggie grin on its face.
“Enough! Who is responsible for this . . . this disaster?” he hollered, stepping out onto the stone-flagged patio.
All five children jumped at the volume of his voice.
“Ben did it.” The boy in the blue shirt pointed to his twin in the red shirt.
Red Shirt stuck out his tongue at Blue Shirt.
“Can you jump rope?” the one with a death grip on his thigh asked. Apparently, peeing was no longer of imminent importance. I am a Viking. I cannot believe I am saying—thinking—the word pee. Is this to be my punishment then? No doubt this is Michael’s brand of humor. Warped.
“Don’t be silly. Vikings do not jump rope.”
“Betcha they can.”
“They’re too fat.”
What? Mordr sucked in his flat belly.
“They’re not fat. They’re just big,” Owl Girl said in his defense.
Just then, he felt a wetness on his feet. Damn! Did the little one piss on his shoes? Glancing down, he stepped aside, realizing with relief that it was just a small puddle from the increasing pool in the yard.
“I’m gonna ask Santa for a sword next Christmas.”
“It won’t fit in your stocking, dumbbell.”
“It will fit under the tree, dumbbell.”
“Can you braid my hair like yours?”
Just then, one of the older twins got a bright idea. Dropping the still running hose to the ground, he shouted with glee, “Slip and slide!”
The other boys cheered.
Soon they were covered, head to toe, with mud as they ran fast, then slid face first across the mud. Mordr noted that the pool of slimy mud was getting deeper. Even the dog, chasing the children, did a slide. On its rump. The little girl clinging to him giggled. Only Owl Girl disapproved as she murmured, “Aunt Mir is going to have a fit.”
Enough was enough! The little trolls weren’t his responsibility, but someone had to take control. He walked over to the faucet and shut off the hose. Then he bellowed, “Get out of that damn mud, and come here. At once!”
Five heads shot up, and Owl Girl muttered, “Finally!”
The three boys, dripping mud, came to stand before him.
Using his most menacing voice, he demanded, “Who is responsible for this mess?”
They all spoke at once.
“Sam started the barbecue.”
“Linda said she wanted a hot dog.”
“Larry let the dog loose.”
“Ben hooked up the hose.”
“Maggie dropped the key that Ruff ate.”
Owl Girl, whose name was apparently Maggie, hissed with outrage, “It was an accident. I was trying to help Darla.”
“Well, you’re all going to clean it up,” he declared, “starting with that kitchen.”
There was some muttering, and Maggie said at his side, “That’s not fair. I didn’t—”
He glared at her. First, she wanted his help. Then, she wanted to tell him how to help.
She pressed her lips together, but she was not happy. She probably regretted having let him in the door.
As if he cared!
“Before you do anything, though, you need to get hosed off.”
The three boys smiled.
“And I am going to do the hosing.”
The smiling boys no longer smiled.
But just then, the boy in the red shirt said, “Holy shit! Look at Ruff. I ain’t never seen a dog do such a big dump before.”
“Swear jar, swear jar,” Blue Shirt hooted.
The huge dog was, indeed, squatting near the bushes at the side of the yard, doing his business. And it was an impressive dump.
“Someone better check his poop for the key,” Red Shirt pronounced, and five sets of eyes turned to him.
Fortunately, or not so fortunately, a female voice spoke sharply behind him. “What the hell is going on here? And who the hell are you?”
He turned as best he could with the girl still clinging to his thigh and almost staggered backward at what he saw. A woman with flaming red hair stood in the kitchen doorway holding a broom aloft, a
s a weapon, he supposed. She was glaring at him through icy green eyes, like a mother bear whose cubs were threatened. A red belt cinched in the narrow waist of a black linen dress on her tall, shapely figure. The dress came down to her knees, which were bare and led to smooth and softly curved calves, then shiny black high-heeled shoes.
He’d seen more beautiful women before. More voluptuous ones, too. But there was something different about this one, something he couldn’t quite define. Except that he knew one thing. Blood rushed from his wildly pumping heart to all his extremities, including the one that had been slumbering since oh, let’s say, the Dark Ages. For the first time in what seemed like forever, lust passed over him in waves so powerful he could scarce contain the urge to toss the wench over his shoulder and carry her to the nearest bed furs. The worm betwixt his legs became a snake, hard and huge and throbbing. He had to have this woman. He had to!
“You heard me, buster. Who the hell are you?” she demanded. “And where’s Darla?”
He was called back to his surroundings then, aware of the children watching his every move. Now was not the time for lustsome actions, or even lustsome thoughts. Later, he promised himself. For now, he knew that he had to choose his words carefully in responding to her question. But then, he recalled what Owl Girl had said to him on first opening the front door.
“I believe—” he started to say, then had to clear his husky throat. “I believe I am the answer to your prayers.”
Five
The answer to prayers comes in many forms, some bigger than others . . .
A short time ago, Miranda had walked into the kitchen, which appeared to have imploded onto itself, and turned off Nickelodeon’s annoying SpongeBob on the blaring television. No one had been around to notice.
Stepping up to the sink, she’d looked through the window to the backyard and had done a double take. She couldn’t believe what she’d been seeing.