Kiss of Temptation: A Deadly Angels Book (11 page)

“What does that mean?” Ivak couldn’t keep up with the old lady’s quirky sayings.

“Desperate men do desperate things,” she explained.

Ivak couldn’t argue with that.

“If you feel so strongly about the rodeo, tell the warden,” René advised Ivak.

“Do you think I haven’t? That’s probably why he assigned me this job. Sorry, Tante Lulu,” Ivak said then, glancing her way, “I know Pierce Benton is a friend of yours, but honestly he’s a man who enjoys being seen as a kindly dictator, when in actuality he’s a bit of a sadist. In my opinion.”

“Hah! I trust that man as far as I could sling an alligator by the tail.” Tante Lulu waved a hand in dismissal. “Doan be apologizin’ ta me. I know Pierce is a toad. Allus was. But sometimes you gotta risk a few warts and pond scum ta get things done.”

Don’t I know it? In my case, it’s slime I’ve got to risk. Lucie slime.

“Besides, Pierce does a lotta good here, too, I reckon. The prison ain’t nearly as bad as it was some years back. They usta call it the Alcatraz of the South.” Tante Lulu sighed philosophically. “Sometimes you gotta take the good with the bad.”

“Guess you’ve got more restraint than I have.”

“I know how you feel,” René said. “Sometimes a good fist in the face holds a lot more appeal than nicey-nice. I used to work as an environmental lobbyist. Believe me, I know all about being polite to people you don’t respect.”

Ivak was liking Tante Lulu and her family more and more. “Prison dehumanizes men, emasculates them, turns even good men bad. Don’t get me wrong, I know how bad the crimes are that these inmates have committed, and I understand the public could not care less about what happens inside these gates, and I know that most of them are irredeemable, but—” Ivak stopped short when he realized that he was sermonizing. Him . . . a world-class sinner . . . sermonizing people? It was a fine turn of events when the fox turned preacher. “Oh shit! I sound like a half-baked, bleeding heart ACLU-er.”

Tante Lulu patted his hand. “Yer jist showin’ you have heart, honey.”

A dead heart.

Time to get back to the business at hand.

Next up was Calvin Corl, a skinny, elderly, black lifer from Alabama who was going to sing the hymn “Amazing Grace.” René went over to the out-of-tune upright piano to accompany the singer. He promised to bring his own keyboard next time.

Calvin wasn’t a bad singer, and his voice was strong for someone so frail, but he rushed through the song so fast that it was hard to understand the words.

Despite René’s admonition that they didn’t need perfection, Ivak couldn’t stand any more. He jumped up and walked over to the low dais on which the auditions were being held.

“No, no, no! Calvin, that is probably the most beautiful hymn in the word. Each word should be savored. You need to draw out each word, like A-maaa-ziii-ing Graaaa-ce. Do you see what I mean?”

Calvin shook his head slowly, and tears filled his rheumy eyes.

“Now, Calvin,” Ivak said, putting an arm around his shoulder. “You have a fine voice. You just need to take your time. Close your eyes and feel the words. Like this.”

With that advice, Ivak closed his own eyes, and began to sing. Soon, he was lost in the sweet lyrics. He and his brothers had good voices, they’d discovered. Like angels, some said.

Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me!

I once was lost, but now am found;

Was blind, but now I see.

The most wonderful thing about this song was that it appealed to almost every person in the world, each making a personal connection with the message. He was especially fond of the stanza that finished some versions of the hymn:

When we’ve been here ten thousand years,

(or more than a thousand, as I have)

Bright shining as the sun,

(and, yes, vangels were shiny angels-in-training)

We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise

(like forever)

Than when we’d first begun.

(which last count was one thousand, one hundred, and sixty-three years ago, give or take)

As Ivak’s voice trailed off and he slowly opened his eyes to tell Calvin that was how he wanted him to sing the song, he saw that the inmate was staring at him, slack-jawed, as if he was seeing some glorious apparition. It was then that Ivak realized how silent the small auditorium was. René must have stopped playing. Turning, he saw that Tante Lulu was weeping silently, Leroy and René were staring at him with shock, and spectators had come in from the corridor . . . prison staff and a few trusties . . . and were standing at the back, equally stunned.

Ooops!
he thought, and immediately admonished himself.
Do not call attention to yourself, lackwit. Do not call attention to yourself, lackwit, Do not . . .

“Uh, that’s how I want you to try to sing the song,” he told Calvin.

“You were born on Crazy Creek if you think I could ever sing like that,” Calvin protested.

“I’ve had years more practice than you have,” Ivak assured him.
Many years more! More years than you can count.
“You’ll do fine. Just slow down and think about the words.” And this time, while René accompanied him, Calvin sounded pretty good.

They were able to accomplish a lot by the time Tante Lulu and René went off to have lunch at the Ranch House. Leroy had to report for work at the
Angolite
. Ivak had a job to do, too. A van full of new inmates was being brought in, and Ivak liked to be there to help in any way he could. In particular, he tried to protect those younger, weaker inmates . . . “fresh fish,” who would be pounced upon by older, jaded, evil-to-the-bone predators to serve as sexual partners, or even sexual slaves, bought and sold.

To Ivak’s surprise, eight of the ten new inmates were vangels sent by his brothers to infiltrate the prison and act as backup for Ivak in routing out Lucies in the area. Ivak had nothing to do with inmate assignments, but he noticed that each of the eight was sent to different living quarters. Mike’s doing, he assumed. Two in the Main Prison where the most hardened criminals were housed, and the others to the camps. They made eye contact with Ivak, but did not speak to him directly. The other two inmates were repeat offenders who were familiar with Angola and not in need of Ivak’s help.

It was only then that Ivak allowed himself to think about Gabrielle. And not just the kiss, either. There was that wild erotic dream to mull over . . . and over . . . and over.

With a smile, he called Tante Lulu’s telephone at her cottage. It was one p.m., so Gabrielle should be up and about by now, even though she had appeared totally exhausted last night when he’d carried her into the tiny bedroom.

Now that he had other vangels in place here at the prison, he might be able to get away for an hour or two to spend some time with his soul mate. Assuming that is what she was. He needed more time with her to make sure. Maybe, if he was lucky, she would still be in bed. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could try some of Trond’s near-sex activities. Or they could reenact last night’s dream.

Turned out he was not to be lucky that day.

After showering and changing his clothes, he teletransported himself to the bayou cottage. And found it empty. How could that be? Her car was still back in New Orleans since he’d teletransported them both here. Could she have been taken by Lucies? No, they would have no way of tracing her here to this location; nor would they have reason to pursue an innocent, leastways not until they made a connection with him, or Leroy.

Quickly, he teletransported back to Angola and stomped into the newspaper office. “Where the hell is your sister?”

“Huh?” Leroy said, glancing up from the computer keyboard he had been pecking away at, writing an article, Ivak presumed. “You told me that she wouldn’t be visiting me today because she was resting at Tante Lulu’s.”

“That’s where she’s supposed to be, but I just came back from there, and the place is empty.” He could tell that Leroy was about to ask him how he’d gotten to Bayou Black and returned here in such a short time, but Ivak cut him off. “I left a note for her, ordering her to stay at the cottage today, not to come to the prison. And Tante Lulu left a note telling Gabrielle that she would be back late this afternoon, that she and her nephew would handle things related to the talent show for the time being. I can’t imagine why she would leave—”

“Wait a minute.” Leroy held up a hand to halt Ivak’s next words. “You frickin’
ordered
my sister to stay home?”

Ivak nodded tentatively.

Leroy started laughing hilariously. “You dumb fuck! You don’t know my sister at all.”

Nine

You can’t hold a good woman down . . .

G
abrielle awakened abruptly to bright sunshine and noticed by the St. Jude clock on the bedside table that it was a shocking ten a.m.

Well, no wonder, after that dream last night. It
had
been a dream, hadn’t it? Her face burned just thinking about what she had done.

When was the last time she’d had a dream like that?

Never.

When was the last time she’d slept so late?

Not since she was in college, before law school.

Her inner alarm had been a dependable wake-up call at six a.m. as long as she could remember. In fact, her best work was done during those early morning hours before the rise and shine of the rest of the world.

Ah, well, she thought, stretching. She’d been under a lot of stress lately. Forget about six a.m. How about waking up every hour during the night, worrying about Leroy?

Suddenly, she recalled the events of the night before. Not the dream. The
other
events.

Had she really witnessed those horrific creatures in the back courtyard of the Anguish restaurant? Had Ivak Sigurdsson, the Angola chaplain or whatever he was, really told her that fantastic story about demon and angel vampires? Had she willingly agreed to leave her apartment in the city to come stay here at Tante Lulu’s cottage? Or had she been under some kind of spell?

Well, she was under no spell now. With belated determination, she jumped off the bed and immediately noticed the blue feather on her pillow. Picking it up, she had the odd impulse to sniff it. The fine hairs stood out all over her body as she recognized the scent of cloves and sandalwood.

Shaking her head to clear it of the creepy sense of unreality that surrounded her, she tossed the feather, chagrined to see it flutter back onto the pillow. Following the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee through a silent house, she made her way to the kitchen.

There was no one in the kitchen, but there was a note. Two notes, actually. The first, on a piece of writing paper with a St. Jude letterhead, was from Tante Lulu, of course. Her small, perfect script read: “Gone with René to Angola to help with the talent show. Make yourself at home and rest today. Tante Lulu.”

The other note was from Ivak. For a blip of a second, Gabrielle had a memory of the man placing her in bed last night, tucking her in, and kissing her forehead. Was that a memory, or a dream? And then there was the dream itself! Looking down, she saw the same clothes she’d had on last night . . . the silk PJs . . . and bare feet.

Ivak’s note said in big, masculine strokes: “Stay here today, sweetling, and be safe. You are under my shield now. I will take care of everything. Ivak Sigurdsson.”

“Stay here today,” she repeated aloud. Did the man dare to give her orders? Did he think she would stay home like a meek little lamb, just because he said so? Hah! She hadn’t planned to go to Angola today anyhow, having been there yesterday, but she had a job and a two p.m. meeting with all the employees at the Second Chances office in New Orleans to go over the schedule of legal cases for the next month. Leroy was not the only inmate they were working to release from prison. Not by a Louisiana long shot.

Gabrielle drank two cups of the strong coffee that Tante Lulu had left in the pot on the stove, along with a platter of scrambled eggs and sausages and heavenly light, buttered biscuits that had been left warming in the oven. It was only then that Gabrielle recalled that she had no car here. She had no memory of how she’d gotten here, but knew instinctively that it hadn’t been in her car. When she looked out the window to the driveway, her suspicions were confirmed. She was trapped here in the middle of bayou nowhere with no vehicle. After a couple of minutes of pondering, she picked up her cell phone and called the number of Charmaine’s beauty spa in Houma, which was tacked on a small bulletin board in the kitchen.

“Charmaine LeDeux, please?” she said to the receptionist.

“Who’s calling?”

“Gabrielle Sonnier. I’m at her aunt’s place on Bayou Black.”

“Just a minute. Here she comes.”

“Charmaine Lanier here.”

Oops. Gabrielle realized that she had asked for Charmaine by her maiden name. “Hi, Charmaine. This is Gabrielle Sonnier. Listen, I’m kind of stuck out here at your aunt’s place with no transportation. Is there a taxi service or a bus I can catch to New Orleans? I have a two o’clock appointment.”

“How about Lillian?”

“Who?”

Charmaine laughed. “Lillian is Tante Lulu’s car.”

“She has a car?”

Charmaine laughed again. “Oh yeah! It’s parked in the small detached garage on the far side of her cottage.”

Gabrielle walked through the house to the other side and glanced out a window. Yep, there was a small building there. “Do you think she’d mind if I borrow the car for the day?”

“She’d thank you for giving it a run. Lillian isn’t taken out much these days. The keys are on that pegboard by the pantry.”

“Thanks a lot, Charmaine. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen Lillian.”

How bad could it be? After tidying the kitchen, Gabrielle showered and dressed, having discovered a packed suitcase in her bedroom. Had Ivak packed it? She shook her head, not wanting to picture him going through her underwear drawer.

Locking the house, she went over and opened the old-fashioned folding wood doors of the garage. She now knew why Charmaine had laughed.

Lillian was a lavender Chevy Impala convertible, circa 1965, with a St. Jude wobbly doll on the dashboard. On the back was a bumper sticker that said, “Not So Close, I’m Not That Kind of Car.” It was so big it barely fit in the small garage, and it took Gabrielle a good fifteen minutes before she was able to back out without scraping the sides.

Actually, Gabrielle enjoyed driving the big old relic of a luxurious past, with its white leather interior and all the bells and whistles of an older time, including, thank you, God, blessed air-conditioning, although she wouldn’t need that with the top down.

Of course, it took her a half hour to find a parking place big enough for the politically incorrect Purple Princess in the busy Saturday French Quarter, even though the Second Chances storefront offices were on a side street off the usual beaten path. Several of her coworkers who were just arriving stopped to witness her attempts to parallel park the oversize Lillian. She had no idea how the diminutive Tante Lulu managed.

Since she was early, she decided to walk down to her apartment, a mere two blocks away, and check on things. Surely she’d dreamed that a bunch of Viking vampire angels had suggested staying in her place to watch demon vampires across the street. It was too fantastical to be true.

She glanced over at the Anguish restaurant from the other side of the street, and everything looked perfectly normal, with tourists and Quarter residents walking in and out casually. No beasts with tails in sight. It must have been a bad dream.

Enough with the dreams already!

She unlocked the outside, street-level door to her apartment building and walked up the steep steps to the landing. Using a second key, she opened the door . . . and almost had a heart attack as one person yanked her inside the entryway, and five other people crammed into her small living room pointed weapons at her. Everything from rifles to swords. And was that a machine gun over there? Good Lord!

Each of them was yelling at her:

“Drop the briefcase!”

“Hands up!”

“Identify yourself!”

“Frisk her for weapons!”

“Are you carrying a bomb, ma’am?”

She regained her composure once another person entered from the kitchen carrying a mug. With hysterical irrelevance, she presumed the mug must contain her instant coffee. She didn’t own a coffeemaker. It was one of the men she’d met here last night, Ivak’s brother Harek. When he yelled, “Halt!” the others froze. “It’s the owner of this apartment, Ivak’s soul mate.”

“I am not—” she started to say, then stopped.

“Ms. Sonnier, we were told you wouldn’t be coming back until we gave the safe signal.”

“I came in to work today and—”

“You work on a Saturday?” Harek interrupted.

“Yes, some of us need to work,” she snapped.

He shrugged an apology, realizing how rude his question had been.

“I needed some papers from my bedroom filing cabinet,” she prevaricated quickly. Jeesh! Since when did she need to explain herself to strangers?

“Sorry if we scared you,” Harek said, then introduced her to the other six “vangels” in the room. She knew that’s what they were because that’s how Harek identified them. Welcome to Weirdsville. Again. There were five men and one woman, besides Harek. All tall, physically fit, and Norse in appearance. They stared at her with curiosity; she just stared.

“Come, have some coffee with me in the kitchen,” Harek suggested.

She was about to protest that she had to be in her office soon, but he was already walking away from her. On her kitchen counter now sat a state-of-the-art coffeemaker, the kind that cost as much as her car at stores like Williams-Sonoma. The kind that used those expensive little individual cardboard cups of specialty gourmet coffee. When Harek opened her fridge to remove some cream, she noticed there were about a dozen different kinds of beer inside, none of which she’d purchased.

“Don’t worry,” Harek said, motioning for her to sit at the small table where he placed a cup of coffee along with packets of sugar and the cream. Most of the table was taken up with a laptop computer and paperwork that Harek must have been working on. “We will leave your apartment like we found it when we finish here.”

“I wasn’t worried about that. I’m just stunned by all of this.” She motioned toward her kitchen-turned-office and the living room that had been turned into a fortress.

Harek shrugged, leaning back against the counter and sipping at his own coffee. “It’s the usual reaction of people on first meeting us.”

Gabrielle fought for something normal to say in a situation that was far from normal. “Um, how long have you all been around? I find it hard to believe that vampires of any kind exist in real life, let along demon vampires and angel vampires.”

“Viking angel vampires,” he corrected her. “You can’t forget that, at heart, we are still Norsemen . . . and women. As for how long, in the case of me and my brothers, more than one thousand years.”

“Impossible!” That would mean Ivak must be . . . no, it was too unbelievable.

“Believe it or not, it is what it is.”

“Why are you . . . and Ivak . . . being so open about all this? Aren’t you afraid I’ll go to the police or the news media?”

“You could try. Before you could do that, though, we could erase your memory, but mainly we do not fear your treachery because you are obviously Ivak’s soul mate.”

“Aaarrgh! I am not a soul mate.”

“Ivak said you were, and I could practically see the sizzle between you two last night.”

The dream occurred to her suddenly. “Sizzle does not mean soul mate.”

“You could be right about that,” he said dubiously, “considering that Ivak is the expert on sizzle.”

She shouldn’t ask. She really shouldn’t. “The expert on sizzle?”

“I suppose Ivak hasn’t had time to explain everything to you. My brothers and I were each guilty
in a big way
of one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Mine was greed. Ivak’s was—”

“Lust,” she guessed.

Harek didn’t even bother to answer, just sipped at his own coffee.

“Why am I not surprised? That still doesn’t mean I’m some kind of freakin’ soul mate. Is this soul mate nonsense a common thing for you . . . um, vangels?”

“Not at all. Until recently, we didn’t even know that we vangels, especially the VIK . . . that’s what we call us seven brothers as leaders . . . could marry humans. But then my brother Vikar met Alex, a magazine journalist. They live in Transylvania.”

“Romania?” Why that shocked her, she wasn’t sure.

“No, our headquarters is a run-down castle in Transylvania, Pennsylvania.”

When she appeared too confused to ask more, Harek continued, “After that, my brother Trond met his soul mate at Coronado, California where they are both Navy SEALs. Well, he is a SEAL in training. She is a member of WEALS, or female SEALs.”

Gabrielle put both hands to her throbbing head. “This is too much for me to comprehend, and I have to get to my meeting ASAP.”

As he walked her to the front door, Harek remarked, “It’s really not a good idea for you to be in this neighborhood until we clear out the Lucies. I should accompany you, at least part of the way.”

She was about to open her door when it burst open and there stood an obviously furious Ivak, hands on hips, legs widespread in a battle stance, glaring at her.

“Wench, you are in such trouble.”