Vampire in Paradise (21 page)

And she dreamed.

Not the erotic dreams she would have expected, reliving the events of the night before. No, these were strange dreams with strange people saying strange things.

There were two men standing in her bedroom. One of them looked remarkably like Clark Gable from
Gone with the Wind
, and the other was some well-dressed Spanish dude in a designer suit, who looked vaguely familiar.

Marisa tried to sit up, but she seemed frozen to the bed with invisible ties. But she wasn’t panicked. Yet. It was just a dream.

“Are you sure she is the one?” Clark asked.

The one what?

“Yes, master.”

Master? Who calls anyone master today? Am I dreaming that I’m living in a different time? The Civil War era, maybe. But wait, that can’t be. The other guy is wearing Hugo Boss, or I don’t know my designer labels.

“The sin taint is gone, Reynaldo,” Clark said with disgust.

Boy, is it ever!

“We can’t fang her now. Innocents cannot be turned,” Clark pointed out.

“I know. The VIK must have removed the sin taint I planted in her earlier. I should have returned earlier to finish the job.” Reynaldo’s fingertip trailed raspily, like a claw, along the skin of her neck on the left side, where she no longer had any bite mark. She knew because she’d checked in the bathroom mirror when she’d returned to the bungalow.

Then how did this Spanish creep know about fanging and sin taints?
She struggled against her invisible ties. Were these demons in her room, or were they vangels? No, vangels wouldn’t be disgusted that she was pure again. Well, pure as a woman could be after being screwed every which way but and including loose. She tried to scream for Sigurd, but no sound came out of her wide-open mouth.

Now she was scared. This was no dream. It was a nightmare, one of the worst kind, so vivid it felt like it was actually happening.

“It would not have worked,” Clark pointed out. “She had not completed the great sin she was contemplating.”

“Still, I should have fanged her again, to increase the compulsion.”

“Woulda, coulda, shoulda,” Clark said with a laugh. “Don’t you love some of these modern sayings?”

Ignoring the question, Reynaldo went on, “But she
has
been fornicating with the VIK. I can smell the sex on her. Is that not a sin?”

“Christians frown on illicit sex, but it does not rise to the level of high crime. It was not even adultery. Or sex for hire. No, she would have to become much more sinful before she would be ripe for Lucipiredom.”

Thank you, God!

“So we cannot take her with us now?”

“No.”

“Can I fuck her?”

“If you wish, but later. Use her as a lure for Sigurd first. You do think he is enamored enough to come back to her for more, don’t you?”

“Definitely.”

“And she . . . is she still receptive to the VIK’s attention?”

“Hah! The two of them are so lustsome for each other, the air fair reeks around them.”

“Good, good.”

“I wonder, though . . .”

“What?”

“The woman has a sick child, and I wonder how long she would welcome the vangel to her bed if she knew what you told me about Sigurd . . . you know . . . that he killed a child, his own little brother.”

“Actually, it wasn’t the only time. He was about to throw a baby, King Haakon’s newborn child, over a cliff when Michael intervened. To my mind, though, some of the sins he has committed due to his grievous weakness for envy are even worse than that. Still, you could be right. Perhaps we could plant the idea in her head. Child killer.”

No, no, no! It’s not possible. Sigurd is a doctor, a healer, not a killer. And definitely not a killer of children.

“Shall I take Sigurd now? He is in the hotel medical office, I believe. I have a mung and two hordlings standing guard.”

What? I have to go warn Sigurd.

“No, he is too strong, and the setting is too public. Watch the woman. He will come to her. When he does, bring him to me. This will be a glad day in Horror if you accomplish this task. And, Reynaldo, you will be rewarded accordingly, if you get my meaning.”

“Yes, Jasper.”

Jasper? Jasper! Criminy, the king of all the Lucipires is standing here in my bedroom.

Even as she stared, aghast, the two “men” morphed into these huge, scaly beasts with red eyes and fangs and tails, then disappeared into thin air. The only thing that remained was the faint, sulfurous scent of rotten eggs in the air.

A short time later, Marisa awakened to the loud ringing of her alarm clock. Blinking awake, she was able to sit up and stare about her. Nothing had changed. And everything had changed.

Was it all a bad dream? Or reality? She was having trouble distinguishing between the two, and not just because of what she’d just “witnessed.”

She jumped out of bed and quickly pulled on a robe. She had to contact Sigurd as soon as possible. She had to warn him about the Lucipires.

But when she called Sigurd’s office on her cell phone a few minutes later, and Karl called him to the phone, the first thing she said was: “Are you a child killer?”

S
igurd stared at the phone in his hand, his heart hammering against his chest walls. “Marisa? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me, dammit. Answer me. Are you a child killer?”

When he hesitated, she did not wait for an answer, but he did hear her gasp before she clicked off.

Who would have told her about his past? The only one he could think of was Armod, whom Sigurd had assigned to protect her. The boy did tend to let his tongue run loose betimes, but this was a breach of the highest confidence.

“Karl!” his voice boomed out as he opened the door to the reception room. His nurse had taken a lunch break, and Karl was handling the reception desk for the few patients who waited for Sigurd’s services.

Several patients jumped in their chairs, their charts having revealed to him on earlier inspection a migraine, an infected paper cut, and a yeast infection. Nothing critical. Karl just raised his brows.

Sigurd motioned for Karl to come into his office, and he closed the door after him. “Where is Armod?”

“He was waiting to talk to you, and he just went down the hall to get a Pepsi.”

“I told him to guard Marisa,” Sigurd said through gritted teeth.

“He says that he has important news to impart to you, and that Marisa is safely sleeping under guard of her pistol-packing roommate.”

“I find no amusement in this situation, Karl. So stop smirking. Which roommate? Surely not the twittering one with the bosoms.”

“Nope. The short FBI one with no bosoms to speak of.”

“What FBI?”

“Is there more than one?”

Sigurd growled.

“I’ll let Armod explain.”

And he did. After being excoriated by Sigurd for failure to stick to his mission of guarding. The boy would not fail to obey his orders to the letter in the future, that was for sure. But more important, if Armod had not spoken to Marisa about Sigurd’s past, who had?

The possibilities were beyond frightening, even to a vangel.

After directing Karl to cover for him in the office, Sigurd sent a chastened Armod off to his dance rehearsal (apparently, a new member of the company was a Lucipire imp creating chaos, though why Armod had failed to tell him before this was hair-pulling frustrating). Sigurd then teletransported to Marisa’s bungalow. He told Svein to follow discreetly after Armod to make sure the youth didn’t get himself killed by a mere imp demon.

Marisa was standing in the small kitchen, wearing naught but a white terry-cloth robe, making a cup of coffee in the microwave. She smelled of peaches. He almost smiled, but cut himself short when he noticed the glare she directed his way.

“I won’t ask how you got here so quickly,” she said. “I’ve had enough creepy stuff for one day.”

Was she calling him creepy? Was this the warm . . . nay, hot woman who’d left his bed hours ago? The one who’d welcomed his caresses and promised more when they met later this evening?

He moved closer and opened his arms, about to embrace her. Forget about waiting until tonight. He’d like to pick up where they’d left off, and do lots more. Lots. Mayhap he could love the anger out of her.

She ducked under his arm.

Or mayhap not.

She took her cup to the living room, where she placed it on the low table and turned on him. Arms folded over her chest, she tapped one bare foot impatiently.

“Sweetling?”

She put up a halting hand. “No more endearments.”

“Heartling?” he coaxed, trying a new endearment, one he rarely used because it seemed too intimate. He held his arms out to her again.

She waved him away. “Sweetling, dearling, heartling . . . enough with the meaningless love words! Why not say it like it really is . . . fuckling?”

He grimaced at her coarse word, though it was an apt description for some women he’d known in his time. Not her, though. “What has happened?”

“Have you ever killed a child?”

“Who told you that?”

“That’s not important. Just answer me.”

“Yes, for my sins, I have.”

She flinched and backed away from him, as if he were suddenly repulsive to her. “Get out!”

“I can explain.”

“I doubt that, and I don’t want any explanation. You know my situation. You know I have a child that needs saving, and you have done just the opposite. How many children have you killed, by the way.”

He felt his face fill with color. “Just one.”

“
Just
.”

“One,” he corrected.

“How about the baby on the cliff?”

He was shocked that she knew about that. He had thought that only he and Michael were aware of what he’d been about to do that long-ago night. “I did not do it, and probably would not have.”

“Probably? Probably?” she nigh shrieked.

“Marisa, I need to know who told you.”

“Get out. I don’t want to see you ever again. Please, just go.” There were tears in her eyes that tore at his soul.

“I will go, but you must tell me who told you. Was it Michael?”

She shook her head, slowly. “It was a dream, or nightmare, or something. There were these two men. Jasper and Reynaldo, I think they were in my bedroom, and—”

“
What?
Jasper was here?
With you?
He dared . . . He tried . . . Oh my God!” With a roar of outrage, he raised his eyes and hands upward and called for help, “MICHAEL!”

With a whoosh of flapping wings and flying feathers, the archangel landed in the little bungalow between him and Marisa. Even Sigurd, who had met the celestial being on hundreds of occasions, was impressed with the visage he presented today. White robe, gold linked belt, shining halo, feathered wings the size of small airplanes when extended.

“You called?
Again?
”

Uh, maybe he should have waited to seek Michael’s help in private.

“
Maybe?
” Steam nigh rose from Michael’s nostrils. “I have more important places to be, things to do, than be at the beck and call of a mere Viking.”

Sigurd was about to explain himself, but Michael raised an arm and pointed a forefinger at him. “You and I will definitely speak, and you will not like what I have to say.”

Then Michael turned and pointed the same forefinger at Marisa, who was staring at the archangel as if he was a heavenly apparition, which he was. “And you, oh doubtful daughter of Eve, need to have more faith.”

Marisa was unable to speak. At the sight of an archangel in her living room, she was as frozen as Lot’s wife when she turned into a pillar of salt.

“Vikings! The bane of my life!”

On those words, Sigurd was teletransported out of the room so fast that he lost his breath and fell flat on his arse when he and Michael landed on the top of a mountain. Sigurd had no idea where. Mount Everest, for all he knew. In fact, he stood and peered over the edge, then jumped back. There was about a hundred-thousand-foot drop, with no bottom in sight, and him not having earned his wings yet.

Sigurd had heard the expression “Sink or swim.” Was Michael going for a new one, “Fly or fall”? Was this the way a vangel finally got his wings? If so, he’d rather not.

“Idiot!” Michael muttered. Then, “Now!
What
have you been up to, Viking? Seduction to remove a sin taint? Tsk, tsk, tsk!”

Archangel tsking was not a good sign. Sigurd knew in that moment that rewards were the last thing Michael had in mind for him. Sigurd was in big trouble, only a small part of which was due to Jasper’s presence on Grand Keys Island, the reason he had called on Michael.

For a few lackbrain moments he’d forgotten that he was the one who summoned Michael. Again.

Marisa was beginning to think she might be having a nervous breakdown of some sort.

Really, the things that had been happening to her didn’t make sense. Not the man who claimed to be a vampire angel, not the beast he’d fought out on her patio, not the two men who appeared so life-like in her dream, and now an archangel in her living room. She was becoming delusional, that was the only explanation, and she just couldn’t afford to get sick, mentally or physically, with all that she needed to do for Izzie.

And speaking/thinking of Izzie, she was not surprised when her cell phone rang, and the caller ID said it was her parents’ home line.

“Hello.”

“Marisa, honey . . .” her mother began.

Marisa’s heart tightened. She knew right away that it was not good news. “What? What’s happened? Is Izzie okay?”

“Izzie is all right. Well, she hasn’t wanted to get out of bed today. Claims she’s sleepy, and her head hurts, but—”

“That’s not like Izzie.” Her daughter got up at the crack of dawn, even when she wasn’t feeling very well. And her head hurts? Marisa didn’t even want to think about the implications of that.

“I know. I called Dr. Stern, and he said to keep taking her temperature and blood pressure every couple hours. It’s probably nothing. Just a low-grade fever that won’t go away.”

It was not nothing, Marisa just knew it wasn’t.

“But that’s not why I called, not entirely. You are to call the clinic in Switzerland as soon as possible. Here’s the number.” Her mother rattled off a long list of numbers.

“Why? What did they say?”

“They have an opening in less than two weeks. Otherwise, you might have to wait another six months if you’re still interested.”

And have the money. Always it comes back to the money.
“I’ll call right now. Let me know if there’s any change in Izzie’s condition, good or bad. I’ll get home right away if you need me.”

“I know that, honey.”

“Tell Izzie I love her.”

“I will. All she can talk about is the really big seashell that your friend promised her.”

“My friend?” Marisa’s brow furrowed.
Oh. She means Sigurd. The really big child killer. He won’t be bringing my daughter anything now, that’s for darn sure, if he ever was.
“Tell her Mima will be bringing the really big shell.”

It took some time to complete the international call, and then a further delay connecting with Adrian Sorrel, the clinic’s administrative assistant in charge of scheduling. She’d never met the woman in person, but she felt like she knew her well; they’d spoken on the phone so often.

“Marisa, I’m so glad you got back to us so quickly. I have good news. Dr. Frankel’s schedule has a sudden opening. He can do Isobel’s operation on July 27.”

“That’s only ten days from now.”
Three days after my work here on the island is completed. If I stay that long.

“Shall I put your daughter on the schedule? If so, she’ll have to be here the day before to start pre-op procedures. We already have your hundred-thousand-dollar deposit on file, but we’ll need the remaining seventy-thousand dollars on the day of the procedure. Will that be a problem?”

Marisa was about to tell her that she didn’t have the money yet, but Adrian knew her situation well. With a sigh of resignation, Marisa knew what she had to do. “We’ll be there, Adrian. With the money. E-mail me the details, and contact me by phone if there’s any change.”

No sooner did she click off than the phone rang again. The caller ID said “private number.” She answered, figuring she could hang up if it was Sigurd.

“Mar-is-a, darling, you were trying to contact me? Please, don’t tell me you are going to cancel our dinner date.”

It was Harry Goldman. What perfect timing! She girded herself with resolve. She could do this. She had to do this. “No. I’m looking forward to seeing you. In fact, I’m going to take off early this evening. Would nine o’clock be all right, instead of twelve?”

“Perfect! I’ll send a hotel cart to pick you up at a quarter ’til.” There were golf-style hotel carts that operated among the various paths for the paying guests.

“I can walk. You don’t have to do that.”

“Of course I do. I treat my women well,” he said in an insinuating manner.

Well, she guessed she’d given him the right by agreeing to the date.

“I’ll go put the wine on to chill right now.”

“So that’s it. I’m definitely going to do it,” she said to herself after saying good-bye. Suddenly, she smelled lemons. Raising a forearm up to her face, she sniffed. It was as if she was exuding the lemon scent from her pores.

Could Sigurd have been telling the truth?

Did demon and angel vampires really exist? Did a big sinner or someone about to commit a big sin turn lemony? Had that apparition in this very room been a high-ranking angel? St. Michael himself?

She shook her head in dismissal, not because she refused to believe—it was hard not to believe with all the facts being stacked in Sigurd’s favor—but because it no longer mattered. She had an ill child, and she no longer had any choice for helping her.

Whoa, whoa, whoa!
she could swear she heard a voice in her head say.
There is always a choice.
It was probably just her conscience.

Screw conscience! Screw the devil. Screw angels flying too close to the ground. Screw Sigurd. Wait a minute. I already did that.
A giggle escaped her then, a sign of her crumbling sanity, no doubt.

Besides, committing a sin for a good cause should count for something.

Sin is sin. Sex for money equals prostitution.

Yeah, but sex for money to save a life is a good kind of prostitution. Isn’t it?

Am I crazy? Good prostitution?

It’s not like I would be enjoying the sex. In fact, eew!

Eew! is not an excuse for sin.

Surely the gravity of sin is mitigated by the circumstances. Like Robin Hood stealing from the rich to save the poor. Or murder in self-defense. Or—

Am I seriously attempting to negotiate with God? Really?

Not God. My conscience.

Same thing!

Aaarrgh! Bottom line: A mother does what a mother’s got to do. And I certainly can’t rely on Sigurd anymore. A child killer, for heaven’s sake!
Her head ached at the thought, and she refused to think there might be an explanation. There could be no justification for murdering a child.