Even Vampires Get the Blues: A Deadly Angels Book (25 page)

Epilogue

The blue vampire was no longer blue . . .

T
hey were married two weeks later at Heaven’s End plantation. There had to be some irony in that.

It was a rushed affair because Harek kept fearing that Michael would pull the rug out from under them for engaging in sex before marriage. Lots of sex before marriage.

“We could always go celibate until the wedding,” Camille had suggested.

“Bite your tongue, woman,” Harek had said. “Better yet, let me.”

Camille’s mother almost had a heart attack when she learned her only daughter was getting married in a heated rush. In a run-down plantation once owned by their despicable ancestor? Was she pregnant? No? Why so soon then? Didn’t she want a big lavish church wedding? Actually, no.

In the end, it was only her parents, Alain and Inez, and a few cousins and great-aunts who lived in the region. On Harek’s side, there were his brothers; the spouses of those who had wives; Karl Mortensen, who was still healing but getting better, along with his wife, Faith; and a vangel named Armod who had a fixation on Michael Jackson as evidenced by his attire and constant moon dancing. Only a few of the Coronado contingent had been invited, including Cage and his wife, Emelie, who lived in New Orleans. And Marie and Bobby Jo, who served as her maid of honor and bridesmaid, respectively. There were also Tante Lulu’s bayou family members, headed by the irrepressible old lady, who declared on hearing the news of the impending wedding, “I tol’ ’em the thunderbolt was a-comin’.”

“This is a disaster waiting to happen,” Harek kept saying as the guest list grew larger and larger. “We have to keep our vangelness a secret.”

“Then keep your fangs in your mouth. We are not eloping to Las Vegas.”

The ceremony was performed under an outdoor tent by a priest wearing a pure white cassock with a gold cord belt and a gold crucifix hanging from his neck. Afterward the priest was seen to be conversing intensely with Tante Lulu, something about her favorite saint, St. Jude.

Ivak had hired a band of ex-cons from Angola to play for them. They were really good, playing all kinds of music, including Camille’s favorite blues songs. People were dancing on the flagstones of the side garden. A little uneven on the high heels, but no one seemed to mind.

The men were wearing tuxes. Camille wore a long, cream-colored gown similar to the Pippa Middleton one she’d worn at Alain’s wedding. Harek made a point of telling her he liked the back view, more than once.

When the afternoon was winding down, Michael, who surprised everyone by staying around, walked up to the microphone and said, “I understand the Sigurdsson men do a special dance in my honor.”

There was a lot of groaning that followed as seven sets of Sigurdsson eyes turned to see who had told. Tante Lulu—who was hot to trot that day, by the way, in a red suit, red hat, and red wedgie shoes, with blue—yes, blue—hair—gave a little wave.

The band began to play that Aretha Franklin song “Chains, Chains, Chains,” and the seven studly men did the snake-like dance around the patio that was made famous by John Travolta in the movie
Michael
. After that, Armod demonstrated his dancing expertise to the song “Thriller.” And the LeDeux men from Tante Lulu’s family, not to be outdone, showed a proficiency in the Cajun two-step with their women to wild zydeco music.

Michael was heard to tell Harek that he was well pleased with his plans for the island. And then he was about to walk off toward the trees where the demon Zebulan was watching the festivities with a sad, yearning expression on his handsome face.

“An angel’s work is never done,” Michael remarked.

“How about a demon vampire’s work?” Harek asked.

“Doubly so. I’m thinking about giving vangels tails, by the by, so they can stop attracting females.”

You could have heard a pin drop at Heaven’s End then.

“Just kidding,” Michael said. Angels sometimes had a warped sense of humor.

At the end of the day, Harek gave Camille a big box of chocolates. She gave him a book of philosophy called
Snoopyisms
. They gave each other additional gifts that night in the bridal suite of the Royal Hotel in New Orleans. Camille killed all her ghosts that day.

The hotel staff forever after called it the Chocolate Roses suite. No matter what they did, the scent could not be erased. And, actually, brides and grooms of the future claimed it had an aphrodisiac effect.

Go figure.

Reader Letter

Dear Readers:

Did you like Harek’s story? This geeky Viking vampire angel has been a favorite of mine for some time now. I hope I did him proud.

Next up will be Cnut, the last of the Sigurdsson brothers. We don’t know a whole lot about Cnut. He’s the mysterious one, except he’s taken to wearing a braided scalp lock sort of hairdo lately, similar to Ragnar Lothbrok in the History Channel’s
Vikings
series. Is this a clue to what he’s been up to lately? Hmm? I have something special planned for this bad boy.

And not to worry about that being the end of the series. I have to write a story about the tormented Lucipire (demon vampire) Zebulan who is hoping to change teams, as in become a Viking vampire angel. A seemingly impossible dream. Remember, though, that St. Michael the Archangel can do anything, if he is so inclined, but by now he’s pretty much fed up with the lot of them.

After that, what’s next? Well, there are still some vangels who could use a story. How about Regina, the witch? Or Armod, the Michael Jackson fan? Not to mention lots of Viking historical romances yet to be told, like Alrek, the clumsy Viking; Tykir’s other sons; the Welsh knight, Wulfgar; Jamie, the Scots Viking; and so on. There are so many choices! And don’t forget the Cajun twins from Alaska, Dr. Daniel LeDeux and pilot Aaron LeDeux.

I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all of you loyal fans who have followed me through these various genres. You are a blessing. These past two years have been difficult for me personally with the medical crises in our household, but your letters uplift me. Don’t ever stop.

For more information about my books, check out my website at
www.sandrahill.net
or my Facebook page at Sandra Hill Author. As always, I wish you smiles in your reading.

Sandra Hill

Glossary

AFSOP—Air Force Special Operations.

A-Viking—A Norse practice of sailing away to other countries for the purpose of looting, settlement, or mere adventure, could be for a period of several months or years at a time.

Balaclava—A knitted cap that covers the head, neck, and most of the face.

Boko Haram—A militant Islamic terrorist organization based in northeast Nigeria, responsible for many deaths and kidnappings; its purpose is to institute Sharia, or Islamic law, including the ban on all Western education.

Boondockers—Heavy boots.

Braies—Slim pants worn by men.

BUD/S—Basic Underwater Demolition SEALs.

Ceorl—Free peasant, person of the lowest classes.

Cher
—Dear in Cajun (male), comparable to friend.

Chère
—Dear in Cajun (female).

Chéríe
—French term of endearment meaning dear or darling.

Concubine—Mistress.

Coppergate—A busy, prosperous section of tenth-century York (known as Jorvik or Eoforwic) where merchants and craftsmen set up their stalls for trading.

Drownproofing—A Navy SEAL exercise that involves having the feet bound together and hands tied behind the back, then thrown into deep water.

Drukkinn
(various spellings)—Drunk.

Fibbies—FBI.

Fjord—Narrow arm of the seas, often between high cliffs.

Frankland/Frankish—Early name for France.

Grinder—Asphalt training ground in the middle of the SEAL compound in Coronado.

Gunna—Long-sleeved, ankle-length gown for women, often worn under a tunic or surcoat, or under a long, open-sided apron.

Haakai—High-level demon.

Hedeby—Viking-age market town where Germany now stands.

Hersir
—Viking military commander.

High and tight—Military haircut.

Hird
/hirdsman—A permanent troop that a chieftain or nobleman might have.

Hordlings—Lower-level demons.

Housecarls—Troops assigned to a king’s or lord’s household on a longtime, sometimes permanent basis.

Imps—Lowest-level demons, foot soldiers, so to speak.

Jihad—Religious duty or holy war.

Jorvik—Viking-age York, known to the Saxons as Eoforwic.

JSOC—Joint Special Operations Command.

KA-BAR—Type of knife favored by SEALS.

Kaupang—A Viking-age market town, one of the first towns in Norway.

Keffiyeh—Checkered scarf worn about the head and neck, usually by Arabs.

Knarr—A Viking merchant vessel, wider and deeper than a regular longship.

Kudzu—Seriously invasive plant growing wild in the United States.

Longships—Narrow, open watergoing vessels with oars and square sails, perfected by Viking shipbuilders, noted for their speed and ability to ride in both shallow waters and deep oceans.

Lucifer/Satan—The fallen angel Lucifer who became known as the demon Satan.

LZ—Landing zone.

Mace—A weapon with a heavy heal on the end of a handle or chain.

Mancus—A unit of measurement or coin equal roughly to 4.5 grams of gold or thirty silver pence, also equal of one month’s wages for a skilled worker in medieval times.

Martian—Alien.

Mead—Fermented honey and water.

Mung—Type of demon, below the haakai in status, often very large and oozing slime and mung.

Muslim—Follower of a religion based on the Koran with the belief that the word of God was revealed through the prophet Mohammed.

Muspell—Part of Nifhelm, one of the nine worlds in the Norse afterlife, known by its fires guarded by Sert and his flaming sword.

Nithing
—A Norse insult meaning that a person is less than nothing.

Norselands—Early term referring not just to Norway but all the Scandinavian countries as a whole.

Norsemandy—Normandy.

Northumbria—One of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, bordered by the English kingdoms to the south and in the north and northwest by the Scots, Cumbrians, and Strathclyde Welsh.

O-course—Grueling obstacle course on the training compound, also known as the Oh-my-God course.

Odin—King of all the Viking gods.

OUTCONUS—Outside the continental United States.

Parure—Set of jewelry intended to be worn together, such as earrings, necklace, bracelet, and brooch.

Pattern-welding—Method of making a sword by forging several different metals together to form a pattern.

Plaçage
—White/Creole men of New Orleans often had two families, one legal and the other to women of color, known as left-handed marriages; the system that often involved contracts, cash settlements, homes, etc. was known as
plaçage.

Placée
—Women of color who entered into
plaçage
arrangements.

Po-boy—Type of Louisiana submarine sandwich served on a baguette.

Quadroon—Person of one-fourth black ancestry, offspring of a white and a mulatto (offspring of a white and a black).

Sagas—Oral history of the Norse people, passed on from ancient times.

SEAL—Sea, Air, and Land.

Sennight—One week.

Sharia Law—Very strict law regarding Muslim behavior, especially restrictive toward women.

Skald—Poet.

Sugar cookies—Type of SEAL exercise that involves wetting body in ocean, rolling in sand, and then engaging in strenuous exercise.

Swabbies—Sailors.

Tangos—Terrorists, bad guys.

Teletransport—Transfer of matter from one point to another without traversing physical space.

Thralls—Slaves.

Torque—A collar-like necklace, usually of twisted bands of metal.

Trident—The pin earned by SEALs after completing BUD/S training, nicknamed the “Budweiser” because it is rather garish, containing an anchor, a trident, a pistol, and an eagle.

Vangels—Viking vampire angels.

VIK—The seven Sigurdsson brothers who head the vangels.

WEALS—Women on Earth, Air, Land, and Sea.

Wergild—A man’s worth offered in payment.

Zydeco—Type of Cajun music.

Don’t miss the next

DEADLY ANGELS

book by
New York Times
bestselling author

SANDRA HILL

The Angel Wore Fangs

Coming May 2016

Prologue

Weight Watchers, where art thou? . . .

C
nut Sigurdsson was a big man. A really big man! He was taller than the average man, of course, being a Norseman, but more than that, he was . . . well . . . truth to tell . . . fat.

Obesity was a highly unusual condition for Men of the North, Cnut had to admit, because Vikings were normally vain of appearance, sometimes to a ridiculous extent. Long hair, combed to a high sheen. Braided beards. Clean teeth. Gold and silver arm rings to show off muscles. Tight braies delineating buttocks and ballocks.

But not him.

Cnut did not care.

Even now, when three of his six brothers, who’d come (uninvited, by the by) to his Frigg’s Day feast here at Hoggstead in the Norselands, were having great fun making jests about just that.

The lackwits!

Cnut cared not one whit what they said.

Not even when Trond made oinking noises, as if Cnut’s estate were named for a porcine animal when he knew good and well it was the name of the original owner decades ago, Bjorn Hoggson. Besides, Trond had no room to make mock of others when he was known to be the laziest Viking to ever ride a longship. Some said he did not even have the energy to lift his cock for pissing, that he sat like a wench on the privy hole. That was probably not true, but it made a good story.

Nor did Cnut bother to rise and clout his eldest brother Vikar when he asked the skald to make a rhyme of Cnut’s name:

Cnut is a brute

And a glutton, of some
repute
.

He is so fat that, when he goes a-Viking for
loot,

He can scarce lift a bow with an arrow to
shoot
.

But, when it comes to woman-
pursuit,

None can
refute

That Cnut
can
“salute”
with the best of them.

Thus and therefore, let it be known

And this is a truth
absolute,

Size matters.

“Ha, ha, ha!” Cnut commented, while everyone in the great hall howled with laughter, and Vikar was bent over, gasping with mirth.

Cnut did not care, especially since Vikar was known to be such a prideful man he fair reeked of self-love. At least the skald had not told the poem about how, if Cnut spelled his name with a slight exchange of letters, he would be a vulgar woman-part. That was one joke Cnut did not appreciate.

But mockery was a game to Norsemen. And, alas and alak, Cnut was often the butt of the jests.

He. Did. Not. Care.

Yea, some said he resembled a walking tree with a massive trunk, limbs like hairy battering rams, and fingers so chubby he could scarce make a fist. Even his face was bloated, surrounded by a mass of wild, tangled hair on head and beard, which was dark blond, though its color was indiscernible most times since it was usually greasy and teeming with lice. Unlike most Vikings, he rarely bathed. In his defense, what tub would hold him? And the water in the fjords was frigid except for summer months. What man in his right mind wanted to turn his cock into an icicle?

A disgrace to the ideal of handsome, virile Vikinghood, he overheard some fellow jarls say about him on more than one occasion.

And as for his brother Harek, who considered himself smarter than the average Viking, Cnut glared his way and spoke loud enough for all to hear, “Methinks your first wife Dagne has put on a bit of blubber herself in recent years. Last time I saw her in Kaupang, she was as wide as she was tall. In fact, she waddled when she walked. Quack, quack. Now, there is something to make mock of!”

“You got me there,” Harek agreed with a smile, raising his horn of mead high in salute.

One of the good things about Vikings is that they could laugh at themselves. The sagas were great evidence of that fact.

At least Cnut was smart enough not to take on any wives of his own, despite his twenty and eight years. Concubines and the odd wench here and there served him well. Truly, as long as Cnut’s voracious hunger for all bodily appetites—food, drink, sex—was being met, he cared little what others thought of him

When his brothers were departing two days later (he thought they’d never leave), Vikar warned him, “Jesting aside, Cnut, be careful. One of these days your excesses are going to be your downfall.”

“Not one of these days. Now,” Cnut proclaimed jovially as he crooked a chubby forefinger at Inga, a passing chambermaid with a bosom not unlike the figurehead of his favorite longship,
Sea Nymph
. “Wait for me in the bed furs,” he called out to her. “I plan to
fall
down
with you for a bit of bedplay.”

Vikar, Trond, and Harek just shook their heads at him, as if he were a hopeless case.

Cnut did not care.

But Vikar’s words came back to haunt Cnut several months later when he was riding Hugo, one of his two war horses, across his vast estate. A normal-sized palfrey could not handle his weight; he would squash it like an oatcake. Besides, his long legs dragged on the ground. So, he had purchased two Percheons from La Perche, a town north of Norsemandy in the Franklands known for breeding the huge beasts. They’d cost him a fortune.

But even with the sturdy destrier and his well-padded arse, not to mention the warm, sunny weather, Cnut was ready to return to the keep where a midday repast, a long draught of mead, and an afternoon nap would not come amiss. But he could not go back yet. His steward, Finngeir the Frugal (whom he was coming to regard as Finn the Bothersome Worrier), insisted that he see the extent of the dry season on the Hoggstead cotters’ lands.

Ho-hum.
Cnut barely stifled a yawn.

“Even in the best of times, the gods have not blessed the Norselands with much arable land, being too mountainous and rocky. Why else would we go a-Viking but to settle new, more fertile lands?”

“And women,” Cnut muttered. “Fertile or not.”

Finn ignored his sarcasm and went on. Endlessly. “One year of bad crops is crippling, but two years, and it will be a disaster, I tell you. Look at the fields. The grains are half as high as they should be by this time of year. If it does not rain soon—”

Blather, blather, blather. I should have brought a horn of ale with me. And an oatcake, or five.
Cnut did not like Finn’s lecturing tone, but he was a good and loyal subject, and he would hate the thought of replacing him. So, Cnut bit back a snide retort. “What would you have me do? A rain dance? I can scarce walk, let alone dance. Ha, ha, ha.”

Finn did not smile.

The humorless wretch.

“Dost think I have a magic wand to open the clouds? The only wand I have is betwixt my legs. Ha, ha, ha.”

No reaction, except for a continuing frown, and a resumption of his tirade. “You must forgive the taxes for this year. Then, you must open your storerooms to feed the masses. That is what you must do.”

“Are you barmy? I cannot do that! I need the taxes for upkeep of my household and to maintain a fighting troop of housecarls. As for my giving away foodstuffs, forget about that, too. Last harvest did not nearly fill my oat and barley bins. No, ’tis impossible!”

“There is more. Look about you, my jarl. Notice how the people regard you. You will have an uprising on your own lands, if you are not careful.”

“What? Where? I do not know—” Cnut’s words cut off as he glanced to his right and left, passing through a narrow lane that traversed through his crofters’ huts. Here and there, he saw men leaning on rakes or hauling manure to the fields. They were gaunt-faced and grimy, glaring at him through angry eyes. One man even spat on the ground, narrowly missing Hugo’s hoof. And the women were no better, raising their skinny children up for him to see.

“That horse would feed a family of five for a month,” one toothless old graybeard yelled.

His wife—Cnut assumed it was his wife, being equally aged and toothless—cackled and said, “Forget that. If the master skipped one meal a month, the whole village could feast.”

Many of those standing about laughed.

Cnut did not.

Good thing they did not know how many mancuses it had taken to purchase Hugo and the other Percheon. It was none of their concern! Cnut had a right to spend his wealth as he chose. Leastways, that’s what he told himself.

Now, instead of being softened by what he saw, Cnut hardened his heart. “If they think to threaten me, they are in for a surprise,” Cnut said to Finn once they’d left the village behind and were returning to the castle keep. “Tell the tax man to evict those who do not pay their rents this year.”

By late autumn, when the last of the meager crops was harvested, Cnut had reason to reconsider. Already, he’d had to buy extra grains and vegetables from the markets in Birka and Hedeby, just for his keep. Funerals were held back to back in the village. And he was not convinced that Hugo had died of natural causes last sennight, especially when his carcass had disappeared overnight. Cnut had been forced to post guards about his stables and storage shed since then. Everywhere he turned, people were grumbling, if not outright complaining.

That night, in a drukkinn fit of rage, he left his great hall midway through the dinner meal. Highly unusual for him. But then, who wouldn’t lose their appetite with all those sour faces silently accusing him? It wasn’t Cnut who’d brought the drought, even the most insane-minded creature must know that. Blame the gods, or lazy field hands who should have worked harder, or bad seed.

He decided to visit the garderobe before taking to his bed. He was not even in the mood for bedplay tonight. He nigh froze his balls when he sat on the privy hole, and was further annoyed to find that someone had forgotten to replenish the supply of moss and grape leaves for wiping.

When Cnut thought things could not get any worse, he opened the garderobe door and almost tripped over the threshold at what he saw. A man stood across the corridor, arms crossed over his chest. A stranger. Could it be one of his desperate, starving tenants come to seek revenge on him, as Finn had warned?

No. Despite the darkness, the only light coming from a sputtering wall torch, Cnut could see that this man was handsome in appearance, noble in bearing. Long, black hair. Tall and lean, though well-muscled, like a warrior. And oddly, he wore a long white robe with a twisted rope belt, and a gold crucifix hung from a chain about his neck. Even odder, there appeared to be wings half-folded behind his back.

Was it a man or something else?

I must be more
drukkinn
than I thought.
“Who are you?”

“St. Michael the Archangel.”

One of those flying creatures the Christian believed in? This was some alehead madness I am imagining! A walking dream.

“ ’Tis no dream, fool,” the stranger said, as if he’d read Cnut’s mind thoughts.

“What do you want?” Cnut demanded.

“Not you, if I had a choice, that is for certain,” the man/creature/angel said with a tone of disgust. “Thou art a dire sinner, Cnut Sigurdsson, and God is not pleased with you.”

“Which god would that be? Odin? Thor?”

“For shame! There is only one God.”

Ah! Of course. He referred to the Christian One-God. Vikings might follow the Old Norse religions, but they were well aware of the Christian dogma, and, in truth, many of them allowed themselves to be baptized, just for the sake of expediency.

“So, your God is not pleased with me. And I should care about that . . . why?” Cnut inquired, holding onto the door jamb to straighten himself with authority. He was a high jarl, after all, and this person was trespassing. Cnut glanced about for help, but none of his guardsmen were about.
Surprise, surprise. They are probably still scowling and complaining about the lack of meat back in the hall. I am going to kick some arse for this neglect.

“Attend me well, Viking, you should care because thou are about to meet your maker.” He said Viking as if it were a foul word. “As are your brothers. Sinners, all of you!”

“Huh?

“Seven brothers, each guilty of one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Pride. Lust. Sloth. Wrath. Gluttony. Envy. Greed.” He gave Cnut a pointed look. “Wouldst care to guess which one is yours?”

No, he would not. “So, I eat and drink overmuch. I can afford the excess. What sin is that?”

“Fool!” the angel said, and immediately a strange fog swirled in the air. In its mist, Cnut saw flashing images:

—Starving and dead children.

—Him gnawing on a boar shank so voraciously that a greasy drool slipped down his chin. Not at all attractive.

—One of his housecarls being beaten to a bloody pulp for stealing bread for his family.

—Honey being spread on slice after slice of manchet bread on his high table.

—A young Cnut, no more than eight years old, slim and sprightly, chasing his older brothers about their father’s courtyard.

—A naked, adult Cnut, gross and ugly with folds of fat and swollen limbs. He could not run now, if he’d wanted to.

—A family, wearing only threadbare garb and carrying cloth bundles of its meagre belongings, being evicted from its home with no place to go in the snowy weather.

—Warm hearths and roofs overhead on the Hoggstead keep.

—A big-bosomed concubine riding Cnut in the bed furs, not an easy task with his big belly.

—The same woman weeping as she unwrapped a linen cloth holding scraps of bread and meat, half-eaten oat cakes, and several shrunken apples, before her three young children.

Cnut had seen enough. “This farce has gone on long enough! You say I am going to die? Now? And all my brothers, too? Excuse me if I find that hard to believe.”

“Not all at once. Some have already passed. Others will go shortly.”

Really? Three of his brothers had been here just two months past, and he had not received news of any deaths in his family since, but then their estates were distant and the roads were nigh impassable this time of year. The fjords were no better, already icing over, making passage difficult for longships.