Even Vampires Get the Blues: A Deadly Angels Book (22 page)

Camille was the only one who was tied hand and foot—the others had their limbs free—and didn’t that raise questions about what Camille might have done to earn this special attention. But wait, the girl was still trying to burrow inside Camille’s blouse.

“It’s not working,” the girl wailed, and went back on her haunches.

“Don’t worry, Maggie. It’s not your fault.”

“What in bloody hell is going on?” Harek asked Camille.

“Can’t you tell?”

You were about to have sex with a girl, in the midst of being kidnapped by ruthless terrorists?
That was lame, he realized immediately. “Actually, no.”

“My breast binder slipped and now one breast is exposed. I’m the bleepin’ One-Breast Wonder.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t help but notice, now that she’d called his attention to the fact, that she looked lopsided, with a flat chest on one side and a nice plump breast on the other. He also couldn’t help but smile.

“Fix it,” she demanded.

“Me? How?”

“Squirm yourself over here and use your teeth to pull the fabric back up.”

Squirm? Is she demented?
He tried to picture himself doing that, tied up as he was. “Are you serious?”

“Serious as a train wreck on a black op. I have to get straightened out before Red Scarf comes to take me for my afternoon pee.”

“Did you say afternoon tea? Why would the BK serve you tea?”

“Not tea, you idiot. Pee, as in urine.”

“Someone serves you urine, and you drink it?” These BK were more perverted than he’d thought.

“I swear, you must have lost your IQ to aliens, or the jungle heat. Red Scarf comes in and carries me over to that bucket, pulls my panties down, and put me down to pee. Is that clear enough?”

He snapped his gaping mouth shut and realized that the Red Scarf she referred to must be the same sadistic bastard who’d been torturing him. He saw red for a moment, and it wasn’t any scarf, either.

“So hurry up. Squirm your pretty ass over here and put those fangs to good use.”

“Fangs? What fangs?” the blond cutie next to him asked.

“She thinks my teeth are pointy. It’s a joke,” he explained, and glared at Camille for her careless words.

Just then, all thoughts of breasts and fangs evaporated at the loud noises outside. He recognized the roar of Lucipires, and his brothers’ angry taunts.

Camille made eye contact with him, even as he was slipping a thin blade from the sole of his boot and using it to carefully slice the rope that bound his hands behind his back. “The SEALs?” she asked.

He shook his head and, now that his hands were free, began sawing at his ankle restraints. “My brothers and the Lucies.” He put a fingertip to his mouth for silence.

The guard at the door was nervously watching some scene outdoors, his rifle aimed and ready to fire when Harek moved up, faster than the blink of an eye, and grabbed the man from behind. With the stink of lemon on the fellow, a clear sign he was far gone in grievous sin, Harek made a split-second decision and sliced his throat from behind, grabbing his rifle as he fell to the ground.

“Wait!” Camille yelled as he was about to rush out and help his brothers. He eyed the giant, old-fashioned key in the door, and decided he would lock the girls in for now. “Cut me loose first. I can help.”

“Not a chance,” he said. “You are not fighting Lucies.”

“What are Lucies?” he heard the girls asking one another.

“I can at least protect the girls here.”

He went over, slit her ankle and wrist ropes, then tugged her to her feet. Handing her the confiscated rifle, he gave her a quick kiss, and murmured the same words he’d said to her before, “Wait for me”—except this time, he added, “ . . . heartling.”

Then, with a whoosh of speed, he was gone.

Chapter 20

Evil comes in many forms . . .

H
orrible noises were coming from outside. The schoolgirls huddled together in fear, but Camille admonished them to be quiet and get to work. First she untied one girl and thereafter each of them worked on their classmates until they were all free. Free, except for being locked inside their “prison.” Not that anyone was willing to venture out to those violent sounds of battle.

Camille couldn’t help herself, though. She pulled an empty water bucket over to a high window, upended the container, and stood on it. If she stood on tiptoe, she was barely able to see through the bottom edge of the filthy glass. She recoiled and almost fell at what she saw.

There were dozens of beasts . . . that was the only way to describe them. The same as what Harek had shown her in a cloudy fog picture back at her parents’ home in New Orleans. Giant creatures, men and women, but not really human, with red eyes, scaly bodies, claws, and enormous fangs. They were fighting with swords and other weapons against what Camille knew must be vangels. Dozens of them, too.

Even if she didn’t recognize Trond, and Ivak, and Harek, she would know they must be some kind of angels by the bluish hazy wings at their backs. They had large fangs, too. Except for the wings and fangs, they resembled Viking warriors of old. Belted leather tunics over slim pants. And ancient-looking broadswords and battle-axes and spears.

Even Harek had somehow become so attired. A quick change from here to there? Not possible. He claimed not to be a magician, but . . .

It was a brutal, to-the-death battle. Blood spurting out, on both sides. Slime forming as demons were stabbed through their hearts. Some vangels injured and being carried to the sidelines. Some of the demons had severed limbs and still fought on.

Meanwhile, the Boko Haram guys must be hiding or had run off, if they were seeing the same things as Camille was. Their practice of mass executions that so outraged the world must seem tame compared to this.

The girls crowded around, wanting to know what she was seeing.

“What’s happening?”

“Can I look?”

“Is it the SEALs?”

“Are we being rescued?”

“No, it’s not the SEALs,” Camille said. “Not yet, but I’m pretty sure they’re on their way. And, no, none of you are looking out this window. You would be scarred for life.”

“We’re already scarred for life,” someone said.

And she was probably right.

As quickly as it started, it was over. Suddenly, any remaining demon vampires were fleeing the scene, and the vangels were picking up their injured and carrying them off. All that was left was a lot of slime, which smelled putrid, even from this distance. The Boko Haram began to filter out of their hidey-holes, gazing about them in confusion.

What? Surely the vangels weren’t going to abandon Camille and the girls to the terrorists now that they’d destroyed their own enemy? Surely Harek wasn’t going to abandon her.

But then she realized that the “real” rescuers had arrived. And another battle ensued. This time between the Navy SEALs, Nigerian military, and other operatives against the terrorists. This was a more normal type of warfare, one Camille yearned to participate in. Gunfire, grunts, roars of fury, expletives, death cries. It was what she’d been trained to do. But she also knew that protecting the girls was equally important. She stepped down from the bucket and kicked it aside. Adjusting her breast binder, she picked up the rifle and waited. If one of the BK came through that door, hopefully Red Scarf, he was dead meat.

Only a half hour or so later, they heard the key turn in the lock. Camille had her rifle trained on the door, but it was only Slick who stepped through.

“U.S. Navy SEALs. We’re here to take you home.”

Guess who’s coming to dinner? . . .

H
arek expected to teletransport back to Transylvania, where he would assess the day’s mission with his brothers, help Karl to continue healing, and then bebop, so to speak, back to check on Camille. What he had not expected was to land on the sandy beach of his small Caribbean island hideaway.

And he was not alone.

Nope. Sitting at the edge of the beach, his bare toes cooling in the surf, was none other than St. Michael the Archangel. He was wearing Hawaiian-print swimming trunks and a white T-shirt. A gold crucifix on a chain hung around his neck. His long black hair was pulled off his face with a leather thong at his nape. No wings today, but there were obvious bumps on his shoulder blades.

Harek’s first thought was
Uh-oh, my secret getaway island isn’t so secret.

His second thought was
Uh-oh, I am in trouble.

Michael’s presence here was not good news.

Harek sank down onto the sand beside the archangel, but what he’d really like to do was dive into the cool water and wash away the dirt and blood and scum of the past few days.

“Go ahead,” Michael said, reading his mind.

Harek stood and shucked out of all his clothes, except for his boxer briefs. Nudity was no big deal to him, but he was oddly modest around the celestial mentor. Running out into the surf, he dived into the undertow of a wave and then swam overhand for about twenty yards before dipping under water. Then, flipping to his back, he did a backstroke horizontally to the shore for another twenty yards, going and coming, before swimming back to plop down onto the sand.

“Feel better?” Michael asked. And he wasn’t even being sarcastic.

What’s up with that?

“Is it not wondrous what God has created in this world?” Michael remarked to him as he stared out over the clear blue water and the coral reef that could be seen in the distance. Sea birds floated through the cloudless sky.

It
was
beautiful. That’s why he’d purchased it.
Without Michael’s permission.

“Of course, ’tis nothing compared to Heaven. A veritable Garden of Eden, the Lord’s home is.”

“I’d love to see it.”

“Only you can determine that, God willing.” Michael gave him a probing look. “Is there something I should know?”

If he thinks I’m going to provide the blade to cut my throat . . . uh-uh. Later, I will broach the subject of Camille. When I have a clearer idea what’s going on. He doesn’t seem in a bad mood. Still . . .
“No, nothing important.”

“So, what have you done so far?”

What? He does know!

“Seems to me, two years is plenty of time.”

Huh?
“For what?”

“You Vikings are so thickheaded betimes. For a man blessed with a sharp brain, you can be very dull. The Internet, Harek. The Internet. Remember, you are supposed to be bringing us angels into the modern age so that we can spread God’s word in a more relevant manner.”

“Oh, that!” Harek said with obvious relief.

Which caused Michael to give him another probing survey.

Because he was so relieved that Michael wasn’t here to call him on the carpet—uh, sand—over personal issues, Harek blurted out, without thinking, “That’s not my fault. You can’t make up your mind what you want.” He immediately wished he could take the words back. Nothing to be gained by alienating his touchstone with the higher powers. Hah! He
was
a higher power himself.

Instead of taking offense, Michael gave him a short bow of apology and said, “You are right. I have been busy, but this is important. Thus, I have made special time to get the job done. That is why I am here.”

“Uh,” Harek said with the dullness Michael had just accused him of. “What exactly do you mean?”

“I will stay here with you until the websites, and blogs, and whatnot are set up. Day and night we can work on it until He is satisfied that the product is to His satisfaction.”

Ah, Harek was beginning to understand. Michael was the one who’d been called on the carpet . . . cloud . . . whatever.

“That could take days,” Harek pointed out.

“I know,” Michael said, standing and drawing his shirt over his head. He began to walk toward the water.

“Are you saying that you and I are going to stay together in my bungalow, together? It’s kinda small. You’d feel cramped. Wouldn’t it be better if you tell me what to do, and I can stay here alone while you go off and do angel things?”

“You don’t know cramped until you’ve been in certain parts of Heaven. Like Disney World on the Fourth of July it is, on All Saints’ Day,” Michael said over his shoulder.

Harek just gaped at him.

Michael turned and grinned at Harek. What a red-letter day this was turning out to be. He couldn’t wait to tell his brothers that Mike had grinned at him. “That was a jest, Harek.”

Which was not funny, at all.
“There’s only one bedroom,” Harek tried as a last-ditch attempt to save his sanity.

“You can sleep on the couch,” Michael said, and waded deeper into the sea. He seemed to be studying the knee-high water, searching for something.

“What are you doing?” Harek asked, standing to get a better view of the angel who was now waist-deep and bending over to peer through the clear depths. With a swift swoop, he ducked underwater and came up grinning. Again! In his hands, he held a squirming, big-ass fish. A three-foot monster, with jagged sharp teeth the size of Lucipire fangs.

The 1970s song “Barracuda” by Heart came immediately to mind.

“Thanks be to God,” Mike said. “Dinner.” He tapped the fighting fish on its nostril and it went immediately still.

“I don’t suppose loaves will be falling from the sky any minute?” Harek quipped. He was kidding. Sort of.

“No. I’m fresh out of miracles.” Michael walked up and handed the fish to Harek.

The weight—at least fifteen pounds—surprised him, and he almost dropped it.

Michael yawned. “I think I’ll take a nap. Wake me when dinner is ready.”

Huh?
Harek stared at the departing archangel, whose wings suddenly appeared on his back, so huge that the tips swept the sand as he walked. The modest wood bungalow was raised on stilts, a necessity against the occasional hurricane flooding in this region. Michael’s wings dragged against the steps, as well, as he climbed.

Harek realized in that moment that he had not only gained a roommate who happened to be an archangel, but he was expected to be a cook for him as well, and a website designer. Who knew what else? It occurred to him then that Michael never asked about the outcome of the events of the day with the Lucipires in Nigeria. He probably already knew.

A Viking living with an angel? I will be scarred for life. On the other hand, I am dead, so it doesn’t matter. Ha, ha, ha. I am going off the deep end here.

With a sigh of surrender, Harek followed after Michael.

Not for the first time, Harek thanked God for modern computers. He needed to Google something ASAP: “how to cook a barracuda.”

The aftershocks are often worse than the tragedy itself . . .

U
pon return to Coronado, a debriefing was held with all team members, as usual. Even though sixty-three of the Global School girls had been rescued, even though twenty-two of the Boko Haram tangos were dead, and even though twelve BK had been taken prisoner, including two high-ranking members of the terrorist cell, even though CNN and the other networks painted the SEAL Deadly Wind operation a huge success, the mission was not deemed a success by the SEALs themselves. There were still twenty-some girls missing, they’d lost one of the Deadly Wind team—the FBI agent Henry Rawlings—and numerous injuries were sustained.

“Like I predicted, a goat fuck,” Geek concluded.

“We learn from our mistakes,” Slick said, though it was obvious he was as disappointed as anyone at the outcome.

They spent days going over every detail of the mission, the good and the bad, to determine what they had done right and wrong. The SEALs and WEALS would not be involved in any immediate plans to attempt another rescue; that would now be up to the Nigerian army and diplomatic efforts on the parts of various countries. In other words, probably a lost cause. A goat fuck.

In addition to the classroom exercises in Monday morning quarterbacking and woulda/coulda/shoulda, each of the team members was required to meet with the base psychiatrist, Dr. Abe Feingold, based on the principle that killing, even for a noble cause, did a head job on people. Although the jocks usually pooh-poohed this requirement, Camille realized after a week of counseling that she was having a delayed reaction to her Deadly Wind experience. Borderline PTSD. Probably it was the realization that she’d just barely escaped her most terrifying nightmare: slavery.

“I’m recommending that you take a leave of absence,” Dr. Feingold told her. “Two weeks minimum, a month preferably. You shouldn’t be working out with that wrist anyhow.”

“But—” Camille felt a sudden panic at the idea of nothing to do but dwell on her near escape . . . and other things.

“Maybe you could go home to Louisiana for an extended visit. Let your family pamper you a bit.”

Camille almost laughed at that prospect, but then she recalled that her mother and father were on that cruise. She would have the house to herself. Appealing.

But . . .

Bottom line was, she hadn’t heard from Harek since he’d kissed her good-bye in Nigeria and asked her to wait for him. Trond claimed not to know where he was, said he hadn’t seen Harek all week, either. Rumor was that he was in the Caribbean on a special mission.

The Caribbean? That sounded more like a vacation than a mission. A mission for whom?

Trond had just shrugged.

Camille wavered over whether to use the forced liberty to leave Coronado for a while. What if Harek came back and she wasn’t here, as she’d promised. Well, he’d told her a week, and a week had already passed.

But maybe there were extenuating circumstances.

Yeah, like some island beauty.

He could have at least called her, asked how she was feeling, told her that he “thought” he loved her. Ha, ha, ha.

Am I pathetic or what?

Oh Lord, am I being dumped again?