Vampire in Paradise (26 page)

“Izzie made them for you,” she said, pressing one of the cookies against his mouth. It was delicious.

After creeping into Izzie’s bedroom and seeing that she did indeed appear to be sleeping normally, he went into Marisa’s bedroom with her. They closed the door.

Before he made love to Marisa again, he wanted to clear the air first.

“Marisa, I killed my little brother a long, long time ago.”

“How?”

“By neglect.”

She made a scoffing sound.

“’Tis true. I had healing talents, even back then, but I was envious of my brother Aslak, who was only five years old. Like your Izzie. When he became ill, I did nothing to save him.”

She winced, but then she asked, “Sigurd, how old were you?”

“Ten.”

“Oh, Sigurd!” She hugged him. “As you said, it was a long time ago.”

“I am a grave sinner. Always envious of others. And I am selfish, too, so selfish that I want you to marry me.”

“Why is that selfish?”

“Because you have a child. You would stay the same age, as I would, as long as I remain a vangel, while Izzie would grow older, as humans do. But then, if I should die, you would, too. What would happen to Izzie then?”

“What would happen to your brothers’ children if they should die?”

“We care for each other. We are all one large family.”

“See. If my parents weren’t still alive, your family would care for Izzie, right?”

“Right. You make it sound so simple.”

“It is, if we love each other. Will Michael approve of us being married?”

“I think so. I think it’s why he offered me the big temptation, as a trick.”

“What big temptation?”

“I’ll explain later. Suffice it to say, I have a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar check in my pocket,” he said, picking her up, her legs wrapped around his waist, and spun several times before dropping them both down to the bed. It was surprising the bed frame didn’t break, with that falling on his arse nonsense again. “But first, I want to pledge my troth to you, Viking-style.”

And he did.

Vikings did it better than anyone.

Vikar said so.

Marisa said so, too.

Much later.

S
igurd and Marisa were married a month later in a Miami church by a visiting clergyman named Father Michael. They would have been married at the castle, which Marisa and Izzie had already visited, except it would have been impossible to have Marisa’s parents, her newly paroled brother Steve, her friend Inga, and others as guests where there were always dozens of vangels in residence.

Even so, all of Sigurd’s brothers were in attendance along with Vikar’s wife, Alex; Trond’s wife, Nicole; Ivak’s wife, Gabrielle; Karl and his wife, Faith; Gunnar and Gunnora; and the new baby, Michael. Izzie had already made great friends with Gun and Nora as they raced around the reception hall after the ceremony. You’d never know the little girl had been sick.

Marisa was beautiful in a long, cream-colored wedding dress by Nicole Miller, the real deal, not a knockoff. Inga, her maid of honor, wore Vera Wang, and that’s all she would say on the subject. Steve had offered to get Hugo Boss tuxes for the men, but Sigurd had politely declined. He and his brothers wore plain black suits. “You’re lucky we aren’t wearing cloaks,” he told his fiancée when she suggested a visit to a downtown tailor.

Marisa’s parents had gone all out in arranging a traditional Cuban wedding reception with exotic foods and rum punches, although many of the Vikings preferred their beers. There was a cooler of Fake-O in a back room for any vangels in need of emergency sustenance. The band played nonstop salsa, except for the occasional Michael Jackson song requested by Armod.

“Just out of curiosity, why did you give in so easily?” Sigurd asked Father Michael during one of the breaks. The archangel was holding a sleeping baby Michael in his arms.
Did I mention that Ivak was a suck-up?
“I mean, you didn’t even raise a protest when I told you I wanted to marry Marisa.”

“I gave up. It has become a losing battle with you Vikings. I am thinking I should just marry off the rest of you VIK and be done with it, except I would do the choosing this time. There is this ex-nun in Poland, a pretty girl, despite the unfortunate warts. Or how about Regina? Two vangels together might be a good partnership.”

Harek and Cnut overheard those remarks and gasped with horror, seeing as how they were the only VIK left unwed. They were seen leaving the party early for parts unknown.

“By the way, I’ve decided what you can do with that check that’s burning a hole in your pocket,” Michael continued. “Along with Marisa's hundred thousand.”

Sigurd had been hoping that Michael had forgotten about that.

“A down payment on an island.”

“
What?
”

Marisa came up to stand beside him, and he reflexively put an arm around her shoulders, tugging her close to his side. She fit perfectly.

“I was just telling Sigurd about his new assignment. Both of yours, actually, since you are now partners.” Michael smiled, and it was not a nice smile.

Marisa stiffened slightly. She was not yet accustomed to being dictated to. She would learn.

“You will buy Grand Keys Island and begin a renovation of the hotel.”

“Another renovation!” Sigurd exclaimed. “First Vikar with that crumbling castle and then Ivak with that run-down plantation.”

“As I was saying, you will renovate the hotel. It will be another vangel headquarters, though we probably should be expanding into other countries. Later. In any case, your cover will be that it is a clinic for very ill children. A place where families can come to recover, along with the sick. I haven’t thought out all the details yet. I am sure you will come up with something wonderful.”

“But . . . but I’m not that kind of a doctor.”

“You will be.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” his traitorous wife said.

He squeezed her tight to show he was not amused.

“I do think it’s a good idea,” she insisted. “There are all kinds of possibilities.”

“Smart lady,” Michael said as he walked off. Then he yelled, “Someone come take this baby. It just did something very unangelic.”

“Do you really think you could live on an island?” Sigurd asked her later that night after demonstrating some new Viking bed tricks. Norsemen were ever inventive when it came to loveplay.

“Are you kidding? Me. A vampire. In paradise. What else could any woman want?”

“Don’t forget angel. And Viking.”

“An excess of riches,” she declared.

And he showed her just how much excess he had in him.

She later said her cup runneth over. He wasn’t sure how she meant that, but he chose to take it as a compliment.

Dear Readers:

Vampire in Paradise
is my fifth Deadly Angels book. I hope you liked Sigurd’s story. Did you know that there really are X-rated conferences like the one depicted in this book? Maybe not on a tropical island, but similar just the same. Who knew!!! I didn’t.

So far, I’ve taken my Viking vampire angels to Transylvania, Pennsylvania (
Kiss of Pride
), Navy SEAL land in Coronado, California (
Kiss of Surrender
), the bayou with that rowdy Cajun LeDeux family (
Kiss of Temptation
), Las Vegas (
Kiss of Wrath
), and now an island off the Florida Keys (
Vampire in Paradise
).

Next up will be Harek’s story. He’s the Viking brother who is a computer genius, the one guilty of the sin of greed. Mike (that would be St. Michael the Archangel, the vangel’s heavenly mentor) wants Harek to set up a website for him on the Internet. Meanwhile, Harek’s trying to hide the huge bundle of money he made on the stock market, but every time he tries to “lose” it, he makes even more. He is stuck in Siberia. But not for long!

There will be even more vangel books coming, of course. After all, there is one more Sigurdsson brother, Cnut, left with his story to tell. And, hey, you have to check out my novella,
Christmas in Transylvania
, in which Cnut shows up with a Ragnor Lothbrok hairstyle. If you’ve been watching
The Vikings
on the History Channel, which is wonderful, by the way, you will know what I mean. Travis Fimmel could float any lady’s boat, Norse or not, if you get my meaning. That’s who I’m picturing as I write Cnut’s book.

And then, of course, Zebulan, the good demon, intrigues me with his tragic past. Don’t you think he would make a good hero? And I have a sinking feeling that Regina, the vangel who used to be a witch, deserves her story to be told.

In addition, there are still a few Vikings dying (forgive the pun) to tell their stories in a historical setting. Alrek the clumsy Viking, Wulfgar the Welsh knight, Jostein the somber Viking with an estranged wife, Jamie the Scots Viking, Finn the Vain, or Tykir’s brothers, Guthrom, Starri, or Selik. Or how about the Viking Navy SEALs? So many choices! Do you have a preference?

Please keep checking my website, www.sandrahill.net, or my Facebook page, Sandra Hill author, for more details on all my books and continually changing news. There are often special promotions with bargain prices on books. I periodically have great Viking or angel jewelry giveaways on my Facebook page. Also, signed bookplates are available for any or all books by sending a SASE to Sandra Hill, P.O. Box 604, State College, PA 16804.

As always, I wish you smiles in your reading.

Sandra Hill

Above the salt—In medieval times, salt was a valuable seasoning. It was placed in the middle of the table. And those of noble status or favored guests were placed “above the salt.”

Abuela—Grandmother.

Braies—Slim pants worn by men.

Buelita—Grandmother.

Café con Leches—Coffee with steamed milk.

Ceorl (or churl)—Free peasant, person of the lowest classes.

Drukkinn (various spellings)—Drunk.

Fjord—A narrow arm of the sea, often between high cliffs.

Frisian—Refers to a Germanic coastal region along the southeast corner of the North Sea.

Haakai—High-level demon.

Hersir—Military commander.

Hordling—Lower-level demon.

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

Longship—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 became known as the demon Satan.

Lucipires/Lucies—Demon vampires.

Mead—Fermented honey and water.

Mima—Mom.

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

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

Natilla—A flan.

Ropa Vieja—Cuban dish whose literal translation would be “old clothes.”

Skald—Poet.

Stasis—State of inactivity, rather like being frozen in place.

Sword dew—Blood.

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

Thor—God of war.

Tia—Aunt.

Trifle—A dessert made with layers of custard, fruit, and cake, and sometimes wine or fruit juice or jelly.

Tun—A cask or measure equal to roughly 252 gallons.

Valhalla—Hall of the slain, Odin’s magnificent hall in Asgard.

Vangels—Viking vampire angels.

VIK—The seven brothers who head the vangels.

Whelp—Puppy or young offspring of a human.

Hedeby, 850
A.D.

E
verything he touched turned to gold, or leastways a considerable profit, and thank the gods for that because Harek Sigurdsson was a brilliant Viking with an insatiable hunger for wealth and all its trappings.

It didn’t matter that he had vast holdings in the Norselands, an estate in Northumbria, several hirds of warriors who served under him when called to battle by one grab-land king or another (Harek was a much-sought battle strategist), amber fields in the Baltics, trading stalls in the marketplaces of Hedeby, Kaupang, and the Coppergate section of Jorvik, a fleet of twelve longships and two knarrs, and numerous chests filled with coins, jewels, and rare spices. It was never enough! Not to mention two wives and six concubines . . . or was it seven?

Not that he wanted or needed any more wives or concubines. Like many Viking men (Hah! Men of all lands, truth to tell), he was betimes guided by a body rudder known for its lackwittedness when it fancied a woman. The Wise Ones had the right of it when they proclaimed: A cock has no brain. Well, at the ripe old age of twenty and nine, he had finally taken a sip from Odin’s famed well of knowledge. In future, when he came upon a comely woman, he would bed her, not wed her, then send her on her merry way with a pat on the rump and a pouch of gold coins. Cheaper that way and lots less trouble!

Harek had just completed a meeting with Toriq Haraldsson, his agent here in Hedeby. Toriq had once been a hersir overseeing Harek’s Norse housecarls. Unfortunately, the fierce swordsman had lost an arm in battle. Harek had no qualms about hiring the handicapped man as his business representative. Loyalty and honesty were more important in that role than fighting skills. Besides, Toriq had once saved Harek’s life in battle at a time when Harek had been young and not yet so adept in fighting. A berserk Dane had been about to lop off Harek’s very head. Suffice it to say, the wergild for a man’s head was enormous.

As they walked side by side on the raised plank walkways that crisscrossed the busy market center, men and women alike glanced their way, not just because of their impressive Norse height and finely sculpted features. Their attire . . . fur-lined cloaks, gold brooches fastening shoulder mantles, soft leather halfboots . . . could support a tradesman’s family for years.

Unaware or uncaring of the attention, Toriq scowled and grumbled under his breath. Toriq was not happy with Harek today.

“Spit it out, man. What troubles you?”

“This latest venture of yours . . . it ill-suits a man of your stature,” Toriq said, but then he had to step aside to accommodate a crowd that had gathered to watch a craftsman blowing blue glass into a pitcher. Other artisans were hammering gold and silver into fine jewelry. In fact, Harek noticed an etched armband he might purchase later. In other stalls, workers could be seen carving wood and ivory, or firing clay pots in kilns behind the trading tables.

Hedeby was an exciting city, always something going on. To Harek, the bustle of commerce, the sounds of money being made, were like music to the ears. There wasn’t anything that couldn’t be purchased here, from the prized walrus rope that was cut in a single spiral strip from shoulder to tail to . . . well . . . to his latest venture.

“Slave trading, that is what rubs you the wrong way?” Harek asked, now that he and his agent could walk side by side once again.

“Yea, and it should rub you the same, boy.” Toriq always referred to Harek in that way, even though Harek had long since been blooded in battle and thirteen years since he’d saved his bloody head. Toriq himself had not yet seen forty winters.

“’Tis just another way of amassing a fortune.” Harek shrugged, not taking offense. After all, Toriq was a free man, welcome to voice his opinion. Still, it did not hurt to remind him of certain facts. He glanced pointedly at the massive gold ring that adorned Toriq’s middle finger, a writhing dragon design with ruby eyes, worth a small fortune. “My ventures helped make you a wealthy man, Toriq.”

“That they have, and most appreciative I am.”

“And your eight children, as well?” Harek mentioned, trying to lighten the mood. “How else would you dower all those daughters?”

Toriq was always complaining about how expensive it was to support females, much as he loved his six daughters and his lone wife, Elsa. “All boys need is a sword and occasional change of braies and boots, but girls want gunnas and hair beads and slippers and brooches for every occasion and all the household fripperies that are a seeming necessity,” was Toriq’s usual refrain.

Not today, though. He just shook his head sadly at Harek.

“I am always looking for new ways to earn still more gold. Slave trading is no different than trading in amber or money lending, both of which have been our mainstay. I’m only surprised I haven’t tried it afore.”

“There is a vast difference, Harek.”

“How so? In every country, there are thralls. You have thralls yourself.”

“Nay. I have indentured servants. Due to their own circumstances, some folks are forced to sell themselves, but only for a time. Then they are free.”

“You are splitting hairs, my man. Vikings are known to free thralls if they are well-pleased. Some even wed their thralls or take them as concubines. Slavery is a fact of life. Why should I not profit from it?”

Toriq threw his arm out in frustration . . . and almost knocked over a plump maiden. After apologizing profusely, he turned to Harek once again. “You have riches enough to buy a small kingdom. Why can you not be satisfied with what you have?”

Harek was approaching frustration himself now, and he bristled. Criticism, even from a friend, could go too far. “A man cannot have an excess of gold. All the sagas say ’tis best to save for rainy days.”

“Pfff! It could rain for forty days and forty nights, like it did for that Noah character the Christians babble on about, and you would still stay afloat. On the other hand, you would probably fill your Ark . . . rather longship . . . with gold, and it would sink from its very weight. Then, where would you be? Sunk by your own greed.”

Realizing the inadvertent humor in his remark, Toriq laughed and squeezed Harek’s forearm. “Peace, my friend. You gave me back my life when I thought I no longer had worth as a man. You know I will do whate’er you ask.”

“Even if it leaves a bad taste in your mouth?”

“Even then.”

They had almost arrived at the harbor when a horn blared, announcing the arrival of yet another sea vessel. Hopefully, it would be
Silver Serpent
, Harek’s largest longship, which was expected any day from the eastern lands. With its human cargo.

Anyone entering or exiting Hedeby, located at the junction of several major trade routes, had to do so by foot or horse or cart through one of three gateway tunnels built into the massive, semi-circular ramparts of the fortified city. Once they passed through into the bright light onto the wharves, Harek surveyed the seventy or so ships and boats with flags of many colors, denoting family, business, or royal allegiance, tied at anchor or beached farther on for repairs.

The new arrival was indeed Harek’s slave trader. To his dismay and Toriq’s horror, they could practically smell the “cargo” afore the passengers even alighted.

And what a motley bunch they were! More than fifty men, women, and children of various nationalities, from ebony to white skin, wobbled on shaky sea legs over the wide gangplank onto the dock. There should have been a hundred. Harek shuddered to ask what had happened to the others. Even a dimwit could see this was a disaster that meant money lost. The most tight-fisted farmer knew you did not starve a pig before market.

As a whole, the starvling group, wearing raggedy garments, was filthy, some covered with dried vomit and other body emissions. Scabs, bruises, and lice were in clear evidence. Their eyes as they passed by him were dead, except for a few in shackles that held his stare with murderous intent.

“The reeking ship will have to be scrubbed down with lye afore used again for any purpose,” Toriq noted, as if Harek had not already come to the same conclusion.

“I want these thralls bathed, fed, and clothed. A healer will have to be called to treat some, I warrant,” Harek told Toriq.

“It will be a sennight or more before any of them are fit for the auction block.”

“And time wasted means money lost,” Harek repeated one of his favorite proverbs.

“Precisely.”

“Meanwhile, I have a thing or two to say to the captain of this floating cesspit.”

“Where shall I take them?” Toriq studied the individuals, some of whom were shivering despite the summer heat. Obviously, they could not be housed in the slave quarters where goods and persons were stored before auction, not in this condition. If naught else, there would be fear of contagion. Odin only knew what diseases bred on these sorry bits of humanity.

“I have no idea where to house them. To Muspell, for all I care, at this point.”

Toriq tapped his chin thoughtfully, then said, “I will take them to the storage building behind the amber trading stall. It is mostly empty now. Elsa will know what to do about delousing these people and fattening them for market, though she will not thank me for the task.” That was as close as Toriq went to taunting him with I-told-you-so’s.

“Buy her a new gold neck torque with my regards,” Harek advised.

“You do not know women if you think that will suffice,” Toriq told him.

“Do whate’er you must then.”

It was, in fact, three sennights before Harek returned to Hedeby from a brief trip home to his Norse estate where he’d been summoned to handle a crisis involving a neighboring chieftain with a land dispute. The lackbrain Viking would think again afore trying to steal property from Harek in his absence, especially in his present mood.

His first wife, Dagne, resided there, and what a shrew she’d turned out to be! Now that the first bloom of youth had passed Dagne at twenty and five, Harek could scarce bring himself to give her a conjugal duty-swive. ‘Twas hard to find her woman place in all that fat, Dagne now being as wide as she was tall. But did she appreciate his husbandly attentions? Nay! She was too busy complaining:

“There is not enough wood for the hearth fires.”

It is summer. You do not need to keep all the hearth fires burning.

“The cook is too mouthy and disrespectful.”

Probably because you invade her domain too much.

“One of the privies needs cleaning.”

Then, clean it.

“Why can’t we have a beekeeper in residence?”

Because you would tup him, as you did the blacksmith, the shipwright, the horse breeder, and the monk.

“The rushes in the great hall are flea ridden.”

Um, I can tell you where we keep the rakes, my dear.

“Your mustache is too bristly.”

Then stay away from my damn mustache.

“I heard that Queen Elfrida has a new silver fox-lined cloak. Why can’t I have one, too?”

Because a dozen foxes would have to die to cover your bulk.

“There is a black bear in the north wood needs killing.”

I can think of something else that needs killing.

“I might be increasing again.”

And yet I have not been home for nigh on ten months. How do you explain that, my halfbrained wife?

There was a good reason why Norsemen went a-Viking so much.

In the end, Harek left his Norse estate, with good riddance, vowing to himself not to return for a long while. And renewing his vow never to wed again.

To his relief, Toriq had already handled the thrall situation in his absence. Not only cleaning and feeding them, but selling them at the slave mart the day before. “Four thousand mancuses of gold for fifty slaves! That is wonderful!” Harek exclaimed, doing a quick mental calculation. “Even with expenses . . . initial purchase price to the slavers, sixty seamen’s wages for one month, food and clothing for the thralls during the voyage, medical care where needed, the auctioneer’s commission, and a goodly bonus for you . . . there has to be a clear profit of at least twenty-five hundred mancuses.”

Toriq nodded. “A few of the skilled slaves . . . a carpenter, a farrier, a wheelwright, a weaver, and a beekeeper . . . brought a goodly amount by themselves.”

Good thing Dagne, with her sudden yen for honey, did not hear of the beekeeper.

“And, of course, the younger, more attractive women raked in considerable coin. I saved one especially nubile Irish wench from the bidding block. For your bed play, if you choose. Otherwise, my Elsa says she must go.” He waggled his eyebrows at Harek.

He slapped Toriq on the shoulder in a comradely fashion. “A job well done, my friend! Already I can see the possibilities for the future. Longships sent to different ports to gather new cargo. The Rus lands, Byzantium, Norsemandy, Jorvik, Iceland. With more selective purchases and better treatment, I guarantee there will be even better returns on investment.”

“Cargo? Cargo?” Toriq sputtered. “You are speaking of human beings, Harek. Many of whom are stolen from their homes.”

“You still object?” Harek was surprised. “I thought . . . I mean, you did such a good job. I thought you now accepted the wisdom of slave trading as a side business.”

Toriq shook his head vigorously. “I mean no insult, Harek, but you will have to find another man to handle this trade. I did it this once, but no more.”

“No offense taken,” Harek said, but, in truth, he
was
offended. Perhaps that was why he was so dissatisfied with the Irish woman in his bed furs that night. Beautiful, she was, but Toriq had failed to mention that she could not stop weeping for her young son who had been sold to a Frankish vintner and a husband who had been left behind on a poor Irish farm. Never mind that it had been the husband who’d sold her and his youngest son into thralldom.

Disgusted, Harek made his way to the sleeping quarters on his largest knarr anchored at the docks. There, instead of celebrating a new, successful business venture, he succumbed to a long bout of sullen mead drinking which led to alehead madness. Leastways, it had to be madness for the
drukkinn
apparition that appeared to him out of the darkness was not of this world.