Vampire in Paradise (16 page)

Sigurd was watching her, as if mesmerized.

“What?” She wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“If you swive like you eat, sex with you must be spectacular.”

She was pretty sure that
swive
was an archaic Norse synonym for the F word. She should have been offended, but she wasn’t. Instead, she felt a little tingle in her girl parts . . . all of them. “You sure have a way with words. Strange words.” She motioned for him to eat, too. Which he did, with gusto, prompting her to wonder, to herself of course, if he swived like he ate.

He must have guessed what she was thinking because he said, “Yes, I do,” and winked at her.

She felt that wink all the way to her toes, and, yes, the girl parts in between.

“Tell me about your daughter,” he urged as he helped himself to a cheeseburger, chips, and half her salad, after having already consumed the Reuben and drunk one of the bottles of beer.

In between bites of the chicken salad sandwich, which was as delicious as it had looked, she told him, “I’m a single parent. Izzie was born five years ago. I dropped out of college to take care of her. At first, I was able to manage working as a massage therapist while continuing my education. I always intended to get a degree in physical therapy. But then, two years ago, Izzie . . . got sick.” Her voice choked up, and she cleared her throat. “After that, I quit school altogether and added a waitress job at a salsa bar. I also moved back home at that time to save money. Izzie and I live in an apartment over the garage. Mom and Dad help a lot in caring for Izzie while I’m at work. That’s it. The whole story,” she concluded, and picked at her half of the salad.

“Your friend Inga told me that your daughter has a tumor. What kind, specifically?”

“Grade III brainstem glioma. It started with headaches and vomiting and unusual drowsiness. Moved on to moodiness, muscle weakness, seizures. We have most of those conditions under control now, but there has already been some respiratory and heart function impacted, which will get worse as she and her brain continue to grow. Doctors tell me that the tumor is inoperable because of its location.”

He nodded and said, “I’m not a brain specialist, but I understand the problem. If it’s inoperable, why are you trying to raise money by . . .” He was probably going to say something about her prostituting herself for the money, but instead he let his words trail off.

“There’s a clinic in Switzerland that has been having luck with a new type of laser that can more precisely kill tumor cells, but it’s experimental, and outside the country, and not covered by my medical insurance. In other words, very expensive.”

Sigurd was picking out the peaches from the fruit plate and licking the juice from his fingers as he ate. A disconcerting action in light of the serious news she was imparting to him. To his credit, he was also listening intently to her every word. “I have a passion for peaches,” he said with a shrug when he noticed her watching him eat.

“You are such a little boy,” she observed, but his use of the word
passion
gave her other ideas.

“I do not think I was ever a little boy,” he countered enigmatically. “But back to your daughter . . . have you tried prayer?”

Shocked that a medical person would offer such a suggestion, she just gaped at him for a moment. “Not you, too!”

He arched his brows.

“My mother. That’s her remedy for everything.”

“It can’t hurt,” he said with a shrug.

She recalled then that he’d told her he was some kind of angel. A vampire angel, of all things. It made a warped kind of sense that he would suggest prayer.

“Not that I’m saying the operation should not be done. Like my brother Trond always says, ‘Trust in God but bring your gun.’”

“The SEAL?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not really helping, you know.”

“I do not have that kind of money on hand, but I might be able to get it from . . . someone,” he said tentatively.

“And what would I have to do in return?”

“So suspicious,” he said, wagging a forefinger at her. “I would expect you to trust me by letting me fang out your sin taint and leave the island.”

He is like a broken record.
She shook her head. “I can’t do that. It’s my problem. I’m responsible. I can’t just walk away and trust that someone else, a virtual stranger, and a weird one at that, will take care of us.” She patted her heart. “Furthermore, when a child is sick, family members do everything,
everything
, to heal them. Don’t you agree?”

He looked at her with a strange expression on his face, then said in almost a whisper, “Not always.” Taking a long draw on his beer, he turned to her again and said, “I could make you leave, you know. In fact, I could teletransport us back to your home in a second. ’Twould not be easy, and it would drain my energy for a day, but it can be done.”

“Not that I believe you, but don’t you dare! If you find a way to make me leave, and I lose the opportunity to save my daughter, I’ll blame you. Do you really want the death of a child on your conscience?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” he revealed. The expression on his face was serious.

“What?” she asked.

His jaw was clenched tight, and there was a slight tic at the side of his mouth. He was probably gritting his teeth. He refused to elaborate.

She assumed he meant that he’d been unable, as a doctor, to save some children. A totally different matter.

“Why would you accept money from that evil Goldman but not from me?”

“Having sex with Harry would be distasteful, but done for a good cause. I don’t think that counts as prostitution when there is a good reason for it, do you?”

“I hardly think God makes that distinction.”

“Whereas sex for money with someone with whom you might conceivably have a relationship feels sick to me.”

“We do not have a relationship,” he said with horror.

She was rather offended by his horror. Still, she said, “Yeah, but we probably could under the right circumstances. I’m not saying we will. But there is always that possibility.”

“I never said that I would require sex in return for any cash I might be able to garner.”

“Doesn’t matter. Taking money, a large amount of money, from a potential lover would be icky.”

“Lover?” he choked out. Then, “Icky.” He shook his head at her, “That is the finest example of female illogic I have ever heard.”

“Said by a professed vampire angel. Talk about illogic!”

“Well, then, you will have to at least let me fang the sin taint out of you.”

“Do you never give up?”

“Never. Well, hardly ever.”

“And don’t you dare think about holding me down and doing . . . that thing you said.” She shivered with distaste.

“I cannot force you. Removal of the sin taint must be voluntary.”

“You have rules and everything for all this crap?”

“Believe you me, it is not crap. It is very serious life-or-death, Hell-or-Horror business.”

She glanced at her watch and let out a little squeal of dismay. She had to be dressed and back in the hotel to waitress in a half hour. “Finish up. I’ve got to get dressed.” Ten minutes later, she came out and saw that all the food was gone. All of it! Lordy, the man must have a big appetite, but he didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. If she ate like that, she’d be a blimp. Clearing her throat to get his attention, she asked, “What do you think?”

She wore the same black nylon dress with the red belt and her red high heels. Sigurd had indeed lengthened the hem by two inches, but it was still three inches above her knees. Worse, though, was the buttoned front that was now sewn strongly right up to mid-breasts. But the result was a very tight-fitting bodice from under her breasts to her waist, much like a bustier, causing her breasts to jut out. That, in combination with the belt cinching in her waist, made her look like one of those Playboy Vargas models.

Sigurd’s mouth dropped open, and the only thing he said was, “Lord. Have. Mercy!”

And he wasn’t praying.

Just then Sigurd’s head shot up and he sniffed the air. Turning, he stared at a waiter approaching on the path leading to the bungalow. Not the same one as before. But nothing unusual in that. The young man was probably coming to remove the cart and dirty dishes.

In the blink of an eye, Sigurd had pulled a long knife from a hidden pocket in his jeans and moved toward the patio. Without looking back at her, he said, “Lock the door after me, and do not open it under any circumstances.”

“Huh?” Her puzzlement was multiplied when she saw the waiter seem to recognize Sigurd and smile. And then . . . and then, oh Lord! . . . the waiter began ripping off his clothing.

A flasher? Criminy! I shouldn’t be surprised, being here on Porno Island. But that’s all I need. How am I going to get by him? And only a half hour until my shift!

But, no, it was much worse than any half-wit getting thrills by sporting the junk in his trunk. No, the young man was evolving—like that Michael Jackson
Thriller
video where he morphs into a vampire—to become some kind of beast. Taller, about seven feet, with claws and a scaly body oozing some kind of slime, red eyes, and long fangs that extended almost to the chin. And he . . . it . . . suddenly had an even bigger knife than Sigurd’s.

Holy frickin’ hell!
And she meant that literally if this was indeed one of the demon vampires Sigurd had mentioned.

She noticed that Sigurd’s fangs had elongated, too, by some magic trick, she hoped. Because, frankly, this whole scenario of vampire demons and angels was freaking her out.

They were going at each other now, like warriors. Skilled, for sure, as they sliced and stabbed, lunged and swerved. It was over almost before the strange fight began. Sticking out a long leg, Sigurd tripped the beast, causing it to fall forward on its ugly face. Before it could rise again, Sigurd kicked it hard so that it rolled over. In that brief moment of surprise, Sigurd raised his knife high and stabbed the monster through the heart.

Before her very eyes, Marisa saw the beast dissolve into a pile of what appeared to be slime. With an expression of distaste on his face, Sigurd took a pair of disposable gloves from his back pocket. She supposed doctors carried the things around all the time in case of some emergency, or was it the vampire angels who needed them in case some demon vampire happened to pop out of the bushes.
Ha, ha, ha! I’m losing my mind.

In any case, Sigurd donned the gloves and picked up the clothing the waiter had worn, dropping the items onto the fire pit, which he immediately lit with the fire starter wand sitting on a nearby table. Then, with the efficiency that bespoke his having done this numerous times before, he went over and turned on the landscape hose coiled onto a bracket attached to the bungalow. He hosed the slime off the flagstones, then returned the hose to its holder. He removed and tossed his gloves onto the fire as well, which was soon dying down.

Only then did he turn and notice her standing at the door, gaping at him with horror. Even as she watched, she saw his fangs retract until they were the normal, slightly longer incisors.

Normal? Hah! There was nothing normal about this guy.

She should be frightened. She was certainly frightened of that beast he’d just destroyed. But for some odd reason, Sigurd himself didn’t scare her. Though she was a little repulsed by what she’d just witnessed.

Sigurd seemed to sigh, then walked purposefully toward the door and her. Only when he was inside and the door locked behind him did he speak.

Raising his chin high, as if he sensed her revulsion, he said, “Now do you understand why I must fang you?”

S
igurd sat alone on the deserted end of the beach, waiting for Marisa’s waitress shift to end.

Despite being scared spitless after what she had witnessed, the stubborn woman had insisted on going to work.

She still wasn’t convinced that vangels and Lucies existed. “It must be some kind of magic. A mirage or something,” she had said, hoping he would agree.

“What further proof do you need?”

“None!” She’d backed away from him, as if he was the monster, not the devil he’d destroyed.

Now he had other things to ponder.

“Michael!” Sigurd called out.

Silence.

“I need to talk with you,” he yelled, looking upward.

More silence, except for the shush of the waves that hit the shore in a foamy spill and the occasional gull overhead
caw-caw
ing in its flight over the waters, searching for fishy food.

The stars blinked above. The moon shone brightly, bouncing off the water like celestial sparks. But, as usual, Michael didn’t come when summoned in a flash of wings and a graceful landing. In fact, most times, he appeared when least expected, when least wanted. Although Sigurd surely wanted him now, as evidenced by his having the balls to summon an archangel. Leastways, Michael would view it that way. Sigurd couldn’t be concerned about the repercussions now. Surely more years added on to the already expanded original penance.

Pressing his palms together, fingertips pointing upward in a prayerful position, he pleaded, “Please come.”

“What now?” Michael somehow managed to be sitting next to him on the sand, staring out toward the ocean. He was wearing denim jeans and a T-shirt, just like Sigurd, except his were white, all white, and his feet were bare. His long, dark hair hung loose to his shoulders. Sigurd was not a man given to admiring the looks of other men, but Michael was truly glorious in appearance, even in modern clothing. Besides that, there was an aura of light around him, and the essence of some divine perfume, like sandalwood or frankincense. Essence of angel.

My brain is falling apart, bit by bit. Really. Me, speculating on what kind of cologne an archangel exudes!

“Is God’s creation of this world not wondrous?” Michael sighed with appreciation at the scene before them. “The oceans, the skies, the moon and stars. Like a fine painting, His brushstrokes created—”

“I need a favor,” Sigurd interrupted. When Michael started on a discussion of all the wondrous things the Lord had done, he could go on for a long time. Not that the Lord hadn’t done all that Michael tended to drone on about, but time was of essence to Sigurd. “A
big
favor.”

“Oh? And thou art deserving of favors . . . why?”

“The Bible says, ‘Ask and you shall receive.’ So I thought I would ask.”

“Thou darest quote the Bible to me? Verily I say, as I have always said, you Vikings are thickheaded fools.”

Sigurd felt his face heat. He would like to argue with Michael over that overused insult, but he needed to get in his good graces.

“Furthermore,” Michael continued, "the Bible also says, ‘Remember, nothing happens but what God wills.’”

“Are you saying that the child is destined to die?” He didn’t bother to explain which child. Michael knew. Michael knew everything, if not instantly, then eventually.

“Idiots! I am always having to deal with these idiots.” Michael rolled his eyes heavenward. “How true that proverb, ‘There is more hope for a fool in Heaven than for someone who speaks without thinking’!”

I am not about to get into a Bible quotation debate with Michael. I would lose before I began.
“All I need . . . all she needs . . . is a little bit of money.”

“How much?”

“Seventy thousand dollars.”

Michael arched his brows.

“To you, that is a small amount.”

“How do I know you will not go out and buy a big boat?”

Caught! Michael knows that I was envious of Goldman’s yacht.
“I wasn’t going to kill the man over the boat, which truly was a work of art, though I probably will have to kill him in the end.” Even he could recognize how lame his defense sounded.

“Or buy a vintage automobile with angel wings?”

“I was only admiring the damn . . . uh, vintage vehicle. And they are fins, not wings.” He referred to the restored, classic 1956 Cadillac Coupe de Ville driven by his hospital director. “Dr. Morgan doesn’t deserve such a car.”

“And you do?”

“Well, yes. I have been working hard. Do I not deserve a reward?”

He recognized the mistake of his thinking when he saw the stern expression on Michael’s face. “When will you learn that envy is your great sin, one you must continually work to conquer?” Michael shook his head as if Sigurd were a hopeless case. “As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his folly.”

What a picture!
“I wasn’t going to steal the car or anything. And I certainly don’t have the funds for a yacht. Jeesh!”

“Did thou just use the Lord’s name in vain?”

“All I said was ‘Jeesh!’”

Michael narrowed his eyes at him.

He hadn’t thought about it before, but he supposed the word was just a softened way of saying Jesus. “Sorry.”

“Sorry carries no credence with me, fool. Besides, should thou not be more concerned about your mission here on this island? What news have you for me?”

“I met with Karl, Svein, Jogeir, and Armod earlier this evening. We spread out and searched every part of the island we could access, and it is our belief there are at most a dozen Lucies here, in addition to the five we have destroyed so far, two of them my kills.”

“So few?”

Sigurd shook his head. “There are undoubtedly some on the boats anchored off the island, and Jasper is expected to arrive tomorrow on his own yacht.”

“Pfff! It does not surprise me that Satan’s comrade would array himself in splendor, as if the fine trappings of an opulent ship could hide his stink. Jasper ever was a vain man, even when he was an angel.”

Sigurd did not want to go off on that tangent. Michael liked nothing more than to talk about the fallen angels—Lucifer, Jasper, and the lot—whom Michael had expelled from Heaven. “In any case, according to Zeb, Jasper intends to use only about fifty Lucipires on this mission, his goal being a low-key operation that would garner little attention.”

“And how is Zebulan doing?”

“Doing . . . how?”

“Does he show signs of remorse for his sins?”

“He has always shown that . . . as long as I have known him, leastways. Are you really going to turn him into a vangel?”

Michael shrugged. “The Lord’s ways are not for me to fathom.”

Sigurd wanted to say,
Bullshit!
That Michael had tremendous influence with the Almighty. But that rude expletive would gain him nothing.

Time to bring the subject back to his request. “Will you give me the money to help the child?”

“No.”

Would it be a sin to punch an archangel? Probably.
“That is all, just no?”

“When wilt thou learn, Viking? That is not the way of our Father. If it was, more people would be winning lotteries, passing exams, getting a new car”—he gave Sigurd a meaningful scowl at that last—“having babies, not having babies, getting miraculous cures, and so on.”

“Then why say, ‘Ask and you shall receive’?”

“Because when you pray, God always answers your prayer, but not always in the way you want. He guides you toward what is best for you, in the long run.”

That was as clear as the water in a Norse fjord on a cloudy day. And Sigurd did not like the sound of that “in the long run.” There might not be time for a “long run” for Marisa’s child.

“Why dost thou care so much about this child? You have worked with many children losing the battle with cancer. Oh. Could it be that it is the mother you care about?”

“Of course not,” Sigurd said quickly. Probably too quickly by the looks of Michael’s suspicious eyes.

“Remember my admonition when your brother Mordr married that human last year. No. More. Wives. For. Vangels.”

“Hey, I’m not as dumb as you think I am. I got the message loud and clear. I do not even know Marisa all that well, let alone be considering marriage.” He might be considering other things, though. Like that old Viking adage: “Bed her, not wed her.” He looked directly at Michael to see if he’d read his mind. He hadn’t. This time. “And that is your final word? You will not give me the money?”

“I will not.”

“I don’t suppose you would toss out a miracle for the little girl? No? I didn’t think so. I know, I know. ‘That is not the way of the Lord.’”

“I trust that you will find a way,” Michael said, patting him on the thigh.

“What does that mean?”

But Michael was already gone.

Marisa ended her shift at the Phoenix Restaurant shortly after midnight. She was tired to the bone, having worked since five p.m., but it had been a successful night in terms of tips. A whopping thousand dollars.

But that thousand dollars, along with any other money she earned this week, would be gravy. She hoped. The money for Izzie’s procedure would come from another source. She hoped.

It was almost with a warped sense of relief that she had made a decision about Harry Goldman. He had been dining in the restaurant with several bigwigs, including Martin Vanderfelt. When Harry had approached her privately as she came out of the kitchen, she had agreed to a late dinner with him on his yacht the following evening. Very late, because she would have to shower and change after her night shift.

A woman did what a woman had to do, Marisa had decided. But she was not dumb; there would be terms set before she, as Sigurd had so crudely put it, “spread her thighs” for the man. She felt queasy at the thought, but not at all guilty, even if Sigurd did claim it to be a grievous sin. Izzie’s clock was ticking and Marisa had spent enough time searching for solutions.

Her only goal at the moment was to return to her bungalow, where she hoped to get five hours of much-needed sleep. One of the best things about being so busy was that she hadn’t had time to dwell on the gory scene that had occurred earlier that night on her patio.

Vampires?
Hah! Didn’t matter that they were angel or demon vampires, they were still vampires.

She had a sneaky suspicion, though, that this involved porno flicks in some way. In fact, she’d mentioned to Sigurd first time they’d met in that line outside the Purple Plum Hotel that she’d read an article in
People
magazine about a new porno film series called
Sucked!
But how would Sigurd the Viking Doctor be involved? He’d denied knowledge of the series then. Still . . .

Even more alarming was the possibility that he might have slipped some hallucinogenic drug in her food or diet soda that produced that horrific, imaginary scene. But what would be the purpose of that?

Her head hurt just trying to figure it out.

Exiting the restaurant into the lobby, she was not surprised to see the man himself leaning against an opposite wall, waiting for her. He must have showered and changed because his hair, which had earlier hung loose with thin braids framing his face, was now pulled back in a long ponytail. He wore an unbuttoned, long-sleeved denim shirt over a white T-shirt tucked into button-fly jeans. Well-worn Nike high-tops on his big feet. No designer duds for this dude. He didn’t need them.

And, yes, she noticed the button fly, even as she tried to tamp down her irritation with the guy. He couldn’t seem to take a hint that she didn’t want him hanging around. Forget about the protection he promised against some unseen and unbelievable threat. She hadn’t needed protection until she met him.

“This is getting old,” she said on a sigh, walking toward him.

When she got closer, his head shot up and he sniffed the air. “What have you done, Marisa?”

“Huh?” She felt herself blush. He couldn’t possibly know about her date with Harry. Could he? “I have no idea what you mean. And stop sniffing me like I smell or something.”

“You smell, all right. Like a bloody damn lemon. I could turn you upside down, dunk you in a fountain, and we’d have lemonade for a hundred people.”

“You sure know how to compliment a girl.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“No kidding.”

“Sarcasm again! Truly, a quarrelsome woman is like a constant dripping,” he told her. “So the Bible says, and I agree.”

“I thought that verse referred to a nagging
wife
.”

“Same thing,” he muttered, and grabbed her by a forearm, steering her across the lobby.

“Hey, we’re going the wrong way. My bungalow is that way.”

“We are not going to your bungalow.”

Uh-oh!
“Where are we going?”

“To my hotel room.”

“I don’t think so!”

“I
do
think so, you willful, irksome wench.”

“I’m not going to have sex with you.”

“Mayhap you should wait until you are asked.”

She felt herself blushing again. Especially since he’d practically frog-marched her into the elevator, where several people were listening intently to their conversation. He pressed the button for the fifth floor and stared straight ahead. His left hand held her right hand, tightly.

“I could scream,” she said under her breath.

“Go right ahead. I might even enjoy sticking my tongue down your throat.”

“That was crude.”

“I am crude.”

“I thought you were a doctor.”

“Can doctors not be crude?”

“Don’t you even care that we have an audience?”

Sigurd didn’t even glance at the two men and one woman pretending not to listen to them. “They are vangels.”

“They are not!” she said, indignant that she wouldn’t know the difference between abnormal beings, like vampire angels, and other beings at this porno conference, who were also abnormal, in her opinion. The woman was all tarted up with high hooker heels, a huge mass of blonde hair, thanks to extensions, and a skin-tight, low-cut, red dress. And the two men, with thick locks slicked back off their faces and wearing slim black pants and garishly colored polyester shirts unbuttoned to the waist, thick gold chains, resembled blond-haired John Travoltas from
Saturday Night Fever
. Someone’s idea of what a male porn star would look like, she supposed.