Vampire in Paradise (10 page)

“I heard an alarming rumor,” Jogeir interjected. “There is a boat coming tomorrow with prostitutes. Sex trafficking. They will be provided to sate the perverted tastes of some of the men . . . and women, I suppose.”

Sigurd frowned. “I cannot imagine why they would do that with the news media watching their activities.”

“They will probably keep them out on the water, on one of yachts,” Jogeir guessed. “International waters, no laws being broken. Pimps, especially these big-scale operators, find ways to avoid arrest, especially of clients with money and a preference for children.”

“That is a vile practice,” Karl said, summing up the opinion of them all.

Armod looked particularly disturbed, having been subject to just such evil as a young boy. Karl reached over and squeezed his forearm in understanding.

“I will kill them with my bare hands,” Armod vowed, his fangs emerging long and deadly.

“No, Armod, you will follow my directions. No hasty actions that will call attention to us vangels,” Sigurd said, then softened his tone. “Do not worry. You will have your opportunity to avenge yourself on these miscreants, but only in the proper vangel manner.”

Armod nodded reluctantly.

After they concluded their meeting, Sigurd said to the others, “So, anyone want to party tonight?” He explained about Harry Goldman and the yacht festivities.

Armod had dance rehearsals. The others claimed job duties as well.

Thus it was that Sigurd was alone when he teletransported himself that evening out to the yacht. For a while, he just prowled about, admiring the fine workmanship. Teak woods. Brass fittings. Sleek lines. Sigurd loved boats. All kinds, but especially oceangoing vessels.

Sigurd had to admit, he envied Harry this fine specimen. Why did evil men such as Harry get such prizes while he worked away, endlessly, for a greater good? It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t.

It was a useless question, the type he avoided under normal circumstances. Envy would ever be his bane.

His distraction caused him to miss the fact that he was not alone on the lower deck. And the first “person” he encountered was one of Jasper’s mungs. No one else was about.

It didn’t look like a mung, at first. Instead, Sigurd saw a tall, handsome man in white dinner jacket, silk shirt, bow tie, and black pants. Immediately, they sensed each other for what they were, and with a hiss the mung morphed into its true demonic form.

There was a hierarchy in the Lucipire society: the elite haakai, mungs, and then Jasper’s foot soldiers, the imps and hordlings. Mungs were big creatures, often more than seven feet tall, and like the other demons, had scales, claw-like hands, red eyes, fangs, and a whopping big tail, which they could swish like a deadly weapon. In addition, mungs oozed poisonous slime, or mung; thus they were aptly named. This character was all that and more. Sometimes mungs were mute. Not so in this case.

“Vangel!” it hissed and gnashed its teeth. “You are mine!”

“I do not think so, beast!”

Lucies hated to be called “beast,” and this one growled with outrage, rising even taller. “Sinner!” it howled.

Vangels hated to be called sinners, although that was precisely what they were. Why else would they be vangels? But somehow, being called “sinner” by a Lucipire put them in the same repulsive class.

Sigurd’s fangs elongated with a shssshing sound, and he could feel the bloodlust of a warrior race through his body, giving him extra-human strength. One of the vangels back at the Transylvania castle was an experienced tailor. Sigurd was wearing one of Calvin’s specially designed sports coats with unique, hidden interior pockets and loops. Vangels almost always wore jackets, or loose-layered shirts, or even cloaks to hide their arsenals, everything from knives to guns.

Faster than a blink he had a throwing star in one hand and a long-bladed knife in the other. At the press of a button, the knife became a sword, a switchblade sword, to be precise, that had been invented by a vangel who’d been a blacksmith in another lifetime. Both weapons had been treated with the symbolic blood of the Lord. They’d been hidden under his jacket.

The mung lunged for him with its own weapon raised high—a heavy broadsword like those once used by Vikings and Saxon knights alike. Sigurd sidestepped and the mung’s blade cut deep into a wood railing. If the demon had managed to hit Sigurd, he would have been cleaved from head to belly.

Vangels felt the same physical pains as humans did, but they could recover almost miraculously from the most dire wounds, ones that would prove fatal to humans. But some injuries could not be reversed, such as a split skull. Those vangels who died before their time went to Tranquility, which was a holding place similar to Purgatory, where they would await the final Judgment Day.

While the mung attempted to yank the sword up and out of the wood, Sigurd aimed a sharp-pointed star for the back of its head. A blow that would render it dead, if not immediately, eventually, but that was not good enough. Unless Sigurd pierced its heart, the demon would resurrect itself later and come back in Lucipire form.

Angry at having been thwarted, the Mung abandoned the broadsword and went for Sigurd with outstretched claws and fangs that were at least four inches long, oozing mung.

A mistake, thank the Lord! That position gave Sigurd the opportunity to thrust his sword up and into the beast’s heart, but not before it had swiped the side of Sigurd’s face. Immediately, the Lucipire began to dissolve into a pool of slime, leaving behind only its clothing and a shiny, expensive-looking watch that had no doubt been pilfered from one of the party guests.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” a voice yelled from behind Sigurd.

Immediately, he retracted his sword and tucked it and the throwing star into his hidden, interior jacket pockets. And he made sure his fangs were retracted before turning to see what must be one of the waiters coming toward him. He wore black pants, a white shirt, and a red bow tie. His name tag said “Barry Hinton.”

“Some dude just hurled his guts out. You better not get too close,” Sigurd warned.

“Phew! That stinks. I’ll have to get maintenance. I’m not touching that crap.”

Sigurd nodded and stepped away from the mess.

Barry frowned. “Why are those clothes sitting in the middle of the barf?”

“The idiot was knee-walking drunk. Said something about being hot. Took off his clothes and then hurled. I couldn’t get around him.”

“Where is he now? Oh no! Did he go overboard? These drunks are a hazard to themselves. Oh shit, shit, shit!” The waiter looked as if he might very well do just that in his own pants.

Quickly, Sigurd told him, “No! He ran away . . . rather staggered away . . . in that direction.” He pointed to the area opposite from which the waiter had approached. “He said something about needing to piss.”

“Why didn’t he just piss over the railing? Never mind. I’ll let security take over.” Hinton narrowed his eyes at Sigurd. “What are you doing down here? It’s for employees only.”

“I was looking for a men’s room. The one on the upper deck had a line outside.”

“That’s what happens when the booze flows. There’s a men’s room over there.” He pointed to the left. “Then you better get back to the party.”

“Right.”

“Hey, bud, your face is bleeding. Did you know that?” Barry was looking suspicious again.

“Cat scratched me,” Sigurd lied.

“Here? On the boat?” Barry asked incredulously.

“No. Back on the island. I thought it had stopped bleeding.” He put a hand to his cheek and shivered. “I hate cats.”

“Me too.” Barry grinned and waved him off.

With a sigh of relief, Sigurd went into the small room, locked the door, and washed his face and hands. The scratches on his face were not deep. In fact, they would be healed before the night was over. But he had to make sure there was no poisonous mung in the cuts.

He called his brother Vikar on his secure cell then. “Hey, Vikar! Sigurd here. I just erased a Lucie.”

“What was it?”

“A young mung.”

“Only one?”

“So far.”

“They are definitely on the island then.”

“Yes, but this was out on a yacht called
Brass Balls
.”

Vikar laughed at that name. “Those idiots definitely have that.”

“I’m going to the upper deck now. I’ll investigate and let you know if I see more. Still, you better send backup.”

Sigurd had an alarming thought then. If there were Lucies on board, and if Marisa had been fanged even slightly as he suspected, her scent would lure the demon to complete the job. A fate worse than death because the human sinner would then go not to Heaven or Hell, or those other holding places, like Purgatory or Limbo or Tranquility, but become a Lucipire for eternity.

Ending his call, Sigurd was on the upper deck in a flash and found Marisa almost immediately. Talking to that evil person, Harry Goldman. She was wearing a red strapless dress.

How is the damn thing being held up? Oh. Oh!

The dress ended mid-thigh . . .

I am not thinking about what is only a few inches higher. No, I am not. But I am imagining.

. . . leaving miles of legs and shoulders exposed.

Is her skin actually sparkling? Yes! She must have sprinkled herself with crystal dust. I wonder if it is edible.

Her hair was upswept, baring her nape, like a Lucie, or vangel, target.

Mayhap she would not notice if I just dropped a fly-by lick on the curve where shoulder meets neck. And just the tiniest bite.

She wore black strappy high-heeled shoes, making her a half head taller than Goldman.

A perfect fit for me. For talking. I do not have to crick my neck to speak with her. That is the only fit I was imagining, just in case someone up there is listening to me. Not that someone up there ever listens, when I want someone up there to listen. Aaarrgh!.

On her lips was crimson lip paint, which should have appeared garish but was not.

More like licksome. I wonder if it tastes like cherries, or strawberries. Or, God forbid, sweet apples.

In essence, she looked like sin on a silver platter.

And he was a sinner.

Alas and alack, the voice in his head said,
She is not on your menu, Viking
.

D
espite the circumstances, Marisa was having a good time.

The boat was luxurious.

Okay, revision here. Remember, do not call a yacht a boat. I’ve been corrected on that point enough already. Like it matters! Men and their . . . boats!

The champagne fizzed cool and delicious on the tongue.

It’s wasted on me, though. I would be just as happy with an icy diet soda.

Waiters carrying gold-plated trays offered appetizers, everything from mini black truffle bruschettas to beluga caviar on toast points.

Can anyone say “doggie bag”?

The music played by a small jazz combo provided a soft backdrop.

Salsa, people! Haven’t you ever heard of salsa?

She hadn’t expected such a sophisticated gathering of roughly seventy-five guests. The movers and shakers of the porn industry. Even Harry, whom she’d been talking to as he networked among the crowd, was looking nice in what had to be a hand-tailored tux.

Nice, but still old. For me
, she thought.
Well, age doesn’t matter . . . shouldn’t matter . . . if it gains me my daughter Izzie’s life-saving operation.

I am not really considering this . . . thing.

Oh yes, I am.

She had to give Harry credit. He was acting super polite toward her. Host-like. Not at all pushy as he’d been earlier.
Maybe I misinterpreted his actions. Maybe he’s not even interested in me
that way.

“Nice party,” she told him.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Shall I introduce you to some of my guests?”

“No, I’d rather just mingle on my own.” She glanced around at the teak walls and crystal chandelier. “I love your b—yacht.”

His eyes lit up, then drifted half closed in a slow, deliberate perusal of her body. He probably thought he looked sexy doing so. “Would you like a tour?”

Tour, schmore! He’s interested, all right. The devious old pervert is up to something. Although I suppose old man/young woman isn’t really a perversion. It’s been going on forever. Even in the Bible, for heaven’s sake. Though, for the sake of accuracy, the Good Book doesn’t condone illicit, out-of-wedlock activities. Jeesh! My brain is splintering apart with all these speculations.
“Maybe some other time. I can’t stay much longer. Got to get up early for work tomorrow.” They’d been at the party for more than an hour already. Boats were available to take anyone back to the hotel at any time.

“Do you have to? Work, I mean?”

“Definitely.”

“I could help . . .” His words trailed off as he seemed to realize it was too soon for what he might have been going to propose. “How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“I work at the Phoenix Restaurant during the dinner hour.”

He barely controlled a twitch of frustration. “A late dinner? Here on my yacht?”

“Not tomorrow.”

The expression on his face was almost hostile before he masked it over with a shrug of acceptance.

“Perhaps another night?” she suggested. By then, she might have made up her mind to do . . . whatever.

“Definitely,” he said, leaning up to kiss her on the cheek before moving on to talk to a man she recognized as a famous Hollywood movie director. Clinton Farentino. Maybe he was considering a move to “art” films.

The hot topic of conversation throughout was how the porn industry was moving its physical operations, lock, stock, and beds, from California to Las Vegas because of a new Los Angeles voter-approved regulation requiring male actors to wear condoms. Supposedly the number of permits to make porn films in Los Angeles County had declined by more than ninety-five percent since the law was passed.

Someone, she couldn’t recall who, had told her tonight that there were four thousand to eleven thousand porn films made in the U.S. every year.
Yikes!
And despite the decline in the sale of home videos, almost fifty million people watched porn on the Internet on a regular basis.
Double yikes!
Obviously, if she hadn’t known it before, she did now: Porn was big business. No wonder people like Harry with legitimate business success were turning to smut.

She scanned the room and noticed Dr. Sig chatting with Becky Bliss and some outrageously good-looking guy wearing a tuxedo with a Blue Devils baseball cap. Was the brown-haired stud yet another adult film actor? If he wasn’t, he could be. In fact, he would be a hit in regular films, as well, based on his appearance alone. Both men could. Brad Pitt and Alexander Skarsgård had nothing on them.

She’d seen the two men arrive with Becky earlier. She wasn’t sure if Sigurd or Blue Devil was her date.
Maybe they all came together. A threesome?
In this crowd, she shouldn’t be surprised, but she was.

Becky was talking a mile a minute, and both men were just listening, bored expressions on their faces. How bored could any man be with the queen, rather princess of erotica as his date? Especially wearing that white silk gown that showed her lack of underwear every time she moved. Well, it was none of Marisa’s business.

Inga was in a group with Tiffany and Lance. They’d practically had to use a shoehorn to help Tiffany get into the pink rhinestone, deep-cleavaged sheath. In fact, Tiffany had lain down on the bed, face first, while Doris straddled her hips and held the sides together so that Marisa and Inga could tug up the zipper. If Tiffany was planning on getting lucky with Lance, he’d have to cut the dress off.

Though luck was in the eyes of the beholder, Marisa mused, finding the male porn star’s sexuality too blatant. The torpedo he sported between his legs, even in a tux, was alarming, especially if it was in a relaxed state.
I cannot believe I am thinking about the guy’s anatomy. On the other hand, someone else’s anatomy, that I could understand. And I don’t mean Harry Goldman. Vikings and longboats came to mind.

Shaking her head to rid it of such unwelcome thoughts, Marisa watched Inga, who was holding her own in a knockoff Valentino beaded peacock chiffon dress and color-coordinated Jimmy Choo stilettos. Truth to tell, Inga was in her element. The quintessential party girl.

Marisa, not looking too shabby herself in a simple red Alexander McQueen sheath, made deliberate eye contact with her friend. She and Inga had long had an agreement that when they went to parties together, they always stayed within eye contract. It was a nasty fact of life that drinks could be spiked, even in the safest groups.

Indicating with a hand motion that she was stepping outside for a moment, Marisa set her champagne glass down on a table and walked out onto the open deck where the evening air was balmy and sweet. The sound of the combo, which had moved on to old classics of the Frank Sinatra era, became fainter. Off in the distance, she heard a splash. Probably some fish jumping for a quick meal of bugs or smaller fish. Or maybe it was a shark. Nah. The only sharks in these waters were the ones inside the yacht.

Leaning against the rail, she was startled when Sigurd came up to stand beside her. “You” was all she said.

“Me.”

“Did you crash or were you invited?”

“What do you think?”

What she thought was this man was too good-looking for her well-being. He wore black slacks, a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and a black sport coat. His blond hair hung loose to his shoulders, except for two thin braids that framed either side of his face . . . braids that were interwoven with blue crystal beads the exact color of his pale eyes. And he smelled wonderful . . . that scent she’d noticed before, evergreen with oranges. He couldn’t convince her that it wasn’t his cologne.

“I think you came riding on Becky Bliss’s coattails.”

“Coat?” He shook his head. “Tail, yes. Though I wouldn’t quite say ‘riding.’”

“That was crude.”

“Yes, it was. Sinners have that effect on me.”

“Sinners? Aren’t you being a bit judgmental?”

He shrugged and idly ran a fingertip along her shoulder. Well, not so idle. He put that fingertip between his lips and sucked.

Holy hormones!
She would have smacked his hand, but his action had been so unexpected and quickly over, and her lady parts were jumpstarting into gear. Va-room, va-room.

He made a face of distaste, and licked his lips to rid them of the remaining sparkles, then rubbed a forefinger over his bottom lip to see if it was all gone. They weren’t.

“Are you crazy?”

“’Twould seem so.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Lick my Sparkle Sprinkles.”

“You . . . they . . . looked edible. Call it curiosity!”

“Call it disgusting. What if these Sparkle Sprinkles are poisonous?”

“Why would you wear something poisonous?” He was looking at his sparkled forefinger as if it might explode.

“What would you do if I . . .” She’d been going to ask what he’d do if she licked his finger . . . or his lips where there were indeed still a few sparkles.
Slow down, girl. We are not off to the races today.
She stopped herself from completing the sentence just in time.

Somehow, he knew, though.

“I would probably swoon with delight,” he said. Then added that odd expression that she’d noticed him use before, “For my sins. I wonder if Satan invented Sparking Sprinkles to tempt sinners, such as me?”

“Sparkle Sprinkles,” she corrected.

“Whatever.” He sniffed the air, then leaned closer and sniffed some more.

As if she smelled!
Is it my perfume? No, I forgot to bring perfume.

With a grunt of disgust, he took her by the hand and dragged over to a dark corner of the deck, under an overhang.

“Let me go!” she protested, but he had her backed up against a wall and not with any lascivious intent, either. The expression on his face was stone-cold serious.

“I need to bite you, Marisa,” he said.

That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. She was shocked.

“No, no, do not struggle. ’Tis for your own good.”

“For my own good,” she sputtered. “You
are
crazy. Let go of me, at once, or I’m going to scream my head off.”

She opened her mouth to do just that, but he laid his lips over hers to halt her protests. And any inclination she had to struggle died a quick death of molten, wet heat, emanating from their joined lips and ricocheting to all her extremities and some interesting places in between.

A groan of raw hunger, low in his throat, caused a mirroring groan from deep inside her, and she wrapped her arms around his wide shoulders. Needing no further invitation, he tugged her even closer, one hand behind her neck, the other under her butt, moving himself into the cradle of her hips, giving her a message, loud and clear, or was that hard and insistent, of just how much he wanted her. And, oh my goodness, did she want him, too!

Never, in all her life, had she been so aroused by a man. Not so quickly. Not so strongly.

The kiss seemed to go on forever as he slanted his open mouth over hers, this way and that, seeking the perfect fit. And when he found it, his tongue teased hers with slow, sensuous, in-and-out forays of taste.

At one point, he whispered into her ear, “You have done something bad, Marisa.”

“No,” she whimpered, too mindless to be annoyed at his suggestion.

“Then you are contemplating something bad.” He wet the side of her neck with a wide swath of his tongue and placed his teeth against the moist skin.

She could swear she felt the imprint of his fangy incisors. “Just contemplating,” she admitted. “Not decided yet.”

“Let me take a little of your blood,” he murmured seductively, even as his left palm massaged her buttocks . . .
Thank heavens, I’m wearing a thong
. . . and the right hand caressed the skin of one arm, from one ear, over shoulder, to elbow and back again, causing all the fine hairs on her exposed flesh to stand on end. Wanting more. Much more.

Then he gave it to her.

The right hand homed in on her breasts. Just a brush of his knuckles.
Thank heavens, I’m not wearing a bra.
Any blood left in her head shot down to her chest, and she felt her knees buckle.

He caught her, promising in a sexy whisper against her ear, accompanied by a nip of the lobe, “I can remove the temptation.”

“I bet you could,” she murmured, arching her body even closer to his, “but I like the temptation.”

He chuckled, and pinched her behind. “Not
that
temptation.”

“Aren’t you tempted?” She tipped her head back, still in his tight embrace, to see his expression.

He made a deliberate attempt to close his lips—lips that were bruised from her kisses, she noted with inordinate pleasure—over his teeth where those two fangy incisors were prominent once again. How was it that they came and went? “If you only knew, sweetling! If you only knew!” he said on a moan.

He leaned in then and proved just how much he was tempted. With a growl, he kissed her deeply, so deeply she could barely breathe, and didn’t want to. He seemed to be taking in enough oxygen for them both.

Is he actually breathing into my mouth even as he deep kisses me? Talk about multitasking!

Did I just suck on his tongue?

Through her lust-infused brain blur, she heard a male voice call out, “Hey, buddy!”

Sigurd went immediately stiff. No, not that kind of stiff, which he’d already been. Stiff all over.

“Where you hiding, Sig my friend? Do not think you can schluff that blonde lackbrain off on me.”

“Schluff?” Sigurd groaned against her ear.

“Schluff, as in ‘take her off your hands.’ She actually asked me the size of my . . .” The man in the tux and Blue Devils baseball cap walked closer, then halted when he saw Marisa. “Whoa!”

Sigurd didn’t turn around, but pressed himself tighter against her, as if in protection.

From what? First, he wants to keep me away from Dirty Harry, and now from a tuxedo-clad guy in a baseball cap.

“Get lost, Zeb,” Sigurd gritted out.

“Not a chance! I did not know vangels were allowed to do
that
. All the more incentive for me to join the good team!” Instead of leaving, the man propped himself against a nearby rail, arms folded, ankles crossed, and smiled. He, too, had little pointy incisors.