Kiss of Temptation: A Deadly Angels Book (10 page)

“I’ve seen enough,” she whispered to Ivak.

Once again, quicker than she could fathom, they were back in her apartment. She blinked several times, wondering if she had imagined the whole thing.

“No, you didn’t imagine that scene.”

“God! Can you read minds, too?”

“No, I just guessed by the expression on your face. Gabrielle, I swear, what you saw is what goes on behind the scenes at Anguish.”

“Who . . . what are they?”

“Lucipires. Demon vampires. Jasper is the leader, and Dominique, who owns Anguish, is one of his top commanders. There are torture chambers there, Gabrielle. Unspeakable things go on. You need to be away from here. It’s not safe.”

“You mean, I’ve lived two years with this danger on my doorstep?”

“Mostly you would be safe. Lucies . . . that’s our nickname for Lucipires . . . prey on humans who are in a state of mortal sin. They fang them and suck out their blood, causing them to die before their time, before they have a chance to repent. For others who are on the verge of some great sin, they fang them with a sin taint that causes them to grow more and more evil with their deeds; then, they, too, are killed. After that, they either go to Hell, or become Lucies. But that is not to say that you are not in danger. If you get in their way, they would kill you before asking questions. And . . .” He hesitated.

“What could be worse than what you’ve already told me, or that I’ve seen with my own eyes?”

Ivak exhaled whooshily. “They might come after you because they were thwarted in getting Leroy.”

“Whaaat?” she shrieked.

“Now, don’t get upset, but—”

“Don’t get upset? I’ve been nothing but upset ever since I met you.”

“—we recently discovered that some Lucies have infiltrated Angola, and one of them tried to fang Leroy.”

She started to hyperventilate, panting for breath.

“Wait, wait, wait . . .” he said, “Leroy is fine. I was able to override the sin taint.”

“Oh, that makes me feel better.”

“As you probably suspected, Leroy had been contemplating something very bad. He probably would have killed the convict who testified against him in the prison murder trial.”

She put both hands to her head and pulled at her own hair.

“I’ll keep an eye on him from now on.”

Gabrielle was reeling with shock. “I thought Angola was hell before, but this takes it to a new level.”

“My brothers and I are working to correct that situation.”

Which brought her to the most important question, one she was almost afraid to ask. “Who are you? I mean, how can humans fight those paranormal creatures?”

He forced her to sit down on the couch before answering. “Because we are not human. Not precisely.”

She felt as if her brain might explode. “What do you mean?”

“I am a vangel. A vampire angel. A Viking vampire angel, to be precise.” He smiled at that last addition as if it made what he’d said more palatable.

“I don’t believe this. I can’t believe this.” It was all too much for her to comprehend. Vampires roaming the world?
Twilight
in the French Quarter? Hell at Angola? What next?

He sat down beside her on the couch and pulled her into his embrace. “Trust me, sweetling. I will explain it all to you.”

She raised her tear-filled eyes. “Can you really help Leroy?”

“I can.”

“Then that’s all I need to know. For now.”

With those words, she fell into a dead faint.

That was how Gabrielle found herself later that night sleeping in a bed in a small cottage on Bayou Black, the snores of a ninety-plus-year-old woman coming from another bedroom, the sound of a gator growling outside her window, and a St. Jude nightlight providing a dim view of the room. Considering the kind of day she’d had, she was not surprised when she turned over and saw a blue feather lying on her pillow.

Eight

Wet dreams were either gifts from the gods, or else, just wet . . .

T
hat night, for the first time in ages, literally, Ivak dreamed. And it was an erotic dream of the most intense proportions.

Ivak had no home of his own at the present time. He slept in an isolation prison cell, giving him a limited amount of privacy. His choice of quarters brought even more disapproval from the warden; Benton couldn’t understand why Ivak wanted to stay with the inmates when he could have a very nice room in the Ranch House, the place the warden used as a daytime residence and a place to entertain visitors; it was near the B-Line village that housed two hundred or so guard families. Ivak had souped up his cell accommodation to fit his needs . . . a better mattress, books on a shelf, a small flat-screen television, an mp3 player. Still, it was a cell.

The first years after his turning, his nightly dreams had been more like nightmares. Over and over and over, he relived his dastardly deeds that culminated in Serk’s suicide. His best friend’s face as he’d hung from the stable rafters featured in all of them.

Centuries and centuries of dreamless nights followed. His pattern thereafter was to sleep lightly and not for many hours at a time. Maybe, subconsciously, he was forestalling the return of the nightmarish retelling of his last human day on earth.

But now, this night, the dreams returned with a vengeance, and they were not nightmares by any definition. Oh, he knew about sleep peakings, what they called wet dreams in this time. Not that he’d experienced them all that much in his human life. Engaging in so much sex as he had then, when he’d fallen into bed, he’d been too sated to succumb to imaginary sleep sex.

It was that kiss with Gabrielle that was to blame, of course. And his suspicion that Gabrielle might be his destined mate.

H
e was standing in a room full of people. What they called a cocktail party in this country and time.

In walked Gabrielle. She wore the sleeveless red dress that Charmaine had worn this afternoon at the prison, except that it was different. On Gabrielle, it appeared to be a wraparound affair that hugged her abdomen down to a wide belt that cinched her small waist, curving outward over her hips down to her knees. The material molded her behind and her breasts, half exposed by a deep, plunging neckline. It was obvious she wore no undergarments. Sheer silk stockings enhanced her long legs, and her red high heels caused her body to arch seductively. Her lips were painted crimson, matching the dress.

Her dark hair curled from a pile atop her head, leaving bare her nape and the sides of her neck, tempting the vampire blood in him.

Ivak barely stifled a hiss of arousal. He closed his mouth to hide his emerging fangs.

But wait. She was with a man who wore a dark suit with a pristine white shirt and a tie. His face was turned away from Ivak, but then his identity did not matter. He had no business being with Ivak’s woman.

Jealousy raged inside Ivak like a green-eyed monster.

He surged forward, but invisible bonds held him back. He could not be angry about the restraints, reminding himself, belatedly, that he was a Viking . . . Ivak the Viking. He shouldn’t have to make an effort. Women came to him. He did not pursue them. Leaning back against the wall, Ivak watched. And waited.

The man took two stemmed wineglasses off a tray carried by a waiter and handed one to Gabrielle. To his chagrin, Ivak recalled an old adage the skalds were wont to quote. “Wine makes good women wenches.”

It better not, Ivak fumed. Not with another man.

Just then, as she sipped at her drink, Gabrielle raised her thick lashes and looked at him. A little Mona Lisa smile tugged at her lips.

The witch! She knew he was here and was enjoying his jealousy.

He definitely would not go to her now.

The man in the dark suit, his head averted from Ivak, led Gabrielle off to an alcove, directly across the room from Ivak. It was as if there were no other people in the teeming room where at least two dozen people chatted
amiably, except for Ivak, Gabrielle, and the mystery man.

Gabrielle’s partner stood facing outward in the alcove, his face in shadows. Gabrielle stood in front of him, also facing outward. Framed by the arch, they resembled a picture. A moving picture, Ivak soon realized.

While she sipped at her wine, her dark eyes held Ivak’s gaze. And the man leaned down to lick the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder.

Gabrielle shivered and arched outward, which caused her breasts to press against the fabric of her dress. Even from this distance, Ivak could see the clear delineation of her nipples. At the same time, she tilted her head to allow the stranger better access to the delicious curve.

Ivak stiffened and pressed his shoulder blades against the wall behind him. His blood thickened and slowed. His cock swelled.

While he watched, the man set both glasses aside and reached under Gabrielle’s arms to
lift her breasts, using his thumbs to strum the tips into even harder peaks. Gabrielle’s crimson lips opened slightly on a sigh.

She parted her thighs, balancing herself on high heels. Her rump was braced against the man’s thighs that were also parted into a widespread stance to cradle her hips.

The man slipped one hand inside the deep neckline of her dress and played with the bare skin of her breast. The other hand tipped her chin so that she was turned sideways for his kiss.

Blood sang in Ivak’s ears so he could hear nothing but his racing heartbeat. Fury gurgled up like a volcano about to erupt. But before he could act, Gabrielle was raising the hem of her dress inch by inch, exposing long, long legs that were like a two-lane highway to paradise. The lace
tops on her thigh-high hose left a patch of bare skin above leading to the dark curls of her woman-fleece. To his amazement, and, yes, appreciation, she used her own fingertips to pleasure herself.

He saw the moment that her peak arrived because she was undulating her hips forward and backward against the man’s thighs.

Ivak’s enthusiasm rose and rose until, to his embarrassment,
though no one seemed to notice, he spilled his seed inside his braies, like an untried youthling.

Only then did Ivak notice something extraordinary. The man behind Gabrielle glanced upward, staring at him.

The man was Ivak.

H
e awoke in his prison bed, the sheets damp with the evidence of his erotic dream.

Centuries of no dreams, then suddenly he dreamed, and his dreams involved this new woman. What did it mean?

Was Gabrielle intended for him?

Or some other man?

Was he destined to pursue her, to no avail?

Was he being shown what he could have, if only he did something or other?

Was Mike giving him a taste of paradise, just to pull it back in further punishment for his lustsome ways?

Ivak closed his eyes and hoped he would dream again.

Nothing came. Literally.

Where’s Simon Cowell when you need him? . . .

The biggest surprise of the day was not the arrival of Tante Lulu to help with the talent show auditions, along with another member of her presumably huge family . . . in this case, her nephew René LeDeux. Nor was it Warden Benton bending over backwards—a difficult task with his excess weight—trying to please these Cajun celebrities.

Ivak really did appreciate the proffered assistance from the LeDeuxs. It was a six-hour round-trip drive for Gabrielle to make her frequent visits to Angola from New Orleans, and about the same from Bayou Black. Nothing to be sneezed at. But the old lady had enlisted yet another nephew, Remy LeDeux, a pilot, to fly them here in a small plane he owned, then pick them up this afternoon.

No. Ivak’s biggest surprise was Leroy Sonnier and how helpful he was as his assistant now that he’d resigned himself to being in Ivak’s, or more precisely God’s, hands. Really, except for being an angel . . . sort of . . . Ivak didn’t consider himself a religious person, but Leroy had taken his words to heart. He was saved! And that meant he was sticking to Ivak like celestial glue. And being more than competent, truth to tell. Prison must have taught Leroy some skills, or more likely, he’d taught himself.

The only problem . . . well, one of the problems . . . was that Leroy had the mouth of a sailor . . . or a convict . . . and every other word was “motherfucking,” “goddamn,” “son of a fucking bitch,” “Jesus!” and numerous other expletives. Ivak had advised him to come up with some substitute swearwords, as he tried to do. “Holy clouds!” “Son of a troll!” That kind of thing.

Leroy had gaped at him and said, “Are you nuts? If I start saying ‘golly gee!’ or ‘good heavens!’ or ‘son of a toad!’ they’re either gonna cart me off to the loony bin, or some big bruiser of a convict is gonna think I’m gal-boy bait.”

“You could be right. Maybe you should only speak when spoken to until you can control your tongue, around outside people, at least.”

Using an ancient laptop—at least three years old—Leroy had compiled a list, peck by peck with his big fingers on the small keys to the tune of various colorful swearwords, of all the people who had auditioned so far and those on the list yet to perform, along with background data, like were they prone to shank anyone who rejected their dubious talents?

“You doan want too many yodelers,” Tante Lulu advised Ivak now as they sat side by side in the auditorium.

She must think I am a lackwit.

René, who was a Cajun musician and had masterminded numerous LeDeux talent shows up and down the bayou over the years, made an interesting observation. “You’re taking this too seriously,
cher
.”

I have no choice but take it seriously. Do the job or scram (from the warden). Do the job or face unpleasant consequences (from St. Michael).

“You gotta have fun with it. Adopt a
joie de vivre
attitude.”

Joy of life. That is just great. Joy to my Angola world.

“You’re treating this like finding flea shit in a pile of pepper, my friend,” René continued.

Exactly.

“Sorry, Auntie, for my bad language.” René turned back to Ivak. “Stop trying to find the best singer or dancer or yodeler.”

“What the hell should I be looking for then? The worst singer or dancer or yodeler?”

“Maybe. For example, the Sonny and Cher act you told us about.”

“Me ’n Charmaine could create some neat costumes for them,” Tante Lulu offered.

Ivak could only imagine what those two would come up with. An inmate in fishnet stockings and a wig, paired with a guy wearing fur and nothing else. Fun times on the tier block that night!

Today Tante Lulu was wearing her talent scout outfit, presumably what she thought the Hollywood crowd wore. A knee-length white dress, belted at her tiny waist, similar to that famous dress of the screen sex goddess Marilyn something-or-other. If she stepped over an air vent, Ivak might have a stroke. And she very well might topple over with those wedge-heeled white sandals she wore. To top it all off, she wore a blond wig that was beyond description. Suffice it to say, there were curls.

But that was beside the point. René was on a roll now. “And combine some of the acts, too. Like Leroy’s horn with a soul singer.”

“Hey!” Leroy objected. “I never agreed to participate.”

Ivak gave him a telling scowl that pretty much said,
Be a team player or I won’t help you
.

Leroy muttered under his breath.

“Ooh, ooh, ooh! I have an idea.” Tante Lulu was practically jumping up and down in her seat. “We could get about ten hottie convicts to do a Chippendale kinda dance routine. Tee-John was a stripper once fer about a week; he could teach ’em how. They could start out wearing them old-fashioned striped uniforms. And mebbe we could even find a few men that looked like Richard Simmons. Yum!”

There were so many things wrong with what she’d just said that Ivak didn’t know where to begin. First, he mouthed to René, “Richard Simmons? The exercise nut?”

René grinned and nodded his head.

“Tante Lulu, I don’t think the warden would want that kind of racy act in the show,” Ivak tried to explain as politely as he could.
We’d probably have a riot amongst the rest of the prison population wanting the “hotties” for their latest girlfriends. Or boyfriends.
“Besides, I think we’d have trouble finding a large number of ‘hotties’ willing to dance and bare all for the crowds.” Actually, that wasn’t quite true. With the right incentive, and it wouldn’t have to be much, desperate men at Angola would do just about anything.

As for Warden Benton, he’d probably agree to a beauty pageant with the men in Speedos if he thought it would rake in more cash, some of which would surely fall into his pocket.
Or else, he’d do it just to irritate me.

Please, God, don’t let the idea enter his fool head.

“Betcha I could find a bunch of hot prison Chippies,” Tante Lulu insisted. “Leroy here, fer example, he’d make a great Chippie.”

“Whaaat? No fuc—no way! Playing the trumpet is one thing. Baring my . . . um, horn is another. No frickin’ way!”

Well, at least Tante Lulu had succeeded in getting Leroy’s agreement to play his horn.

“You doan hafta swear,” Tante Lulu said, a bit offended that no one had jumped on her suggestion.

“Let me explain why I’ve tried so hard to find real talent here,” Ivak said to Tante Lulu and René. “I hate the Angola Rodeo. Untrained inmates ‘volunteer’ to cripple or kill themselves getting gored by angry bulls. The rodeo makes a joke out of men’s desperation. The inmates are expendable entertainment.”

“Put a beggar on horseback and he’ll ride to Hell,” Tante Lulu proclaimed.