Page 7 of Kiss of Wrath

For the first time, the lawyer smiled at her. “You’ll never regret this decision, my dear.”

Miranda wasn’t so sure about that.

Two

In the year of Our Lord, two thousand and fourteen . . .

From cruiseship to casino, a vangel’s work was never done . . .

Mordr arrived at the castle shortly after dawn, in the year 2014, one thousand, one hundred, and sixty-four years since he had “died.” No one was up and about yet. Which was remarkable considering there were roughly seventy-five vangels in residence at any one time, and probably twice that number today with Mike flying in for a meeting, and, yes, Mordr meant that literally. Mike was the irreverent name the vangels gave to St. Michael the Archangel, their heavenly mentor.

There must have been hot times at the old castle last night if so many of the occupants were sleeping it off. Or the vangels might have been busy fighting Lucipires somewhere. Lucipires were Satan’s very own demon vampires, the reason for vangels’ existence here on earth. Wipe the Lucies out, and vangels could go off to their heavenly rewards. Presumably. One never knew what Mike would dream up next.

Guards patrolled the hundred acres surrounding the castle, of course. To keep out any Lucies that might stumble onto the so-far secret estate and any of the wacky townsfolk who were always sneaking around trying to take pictures of the “vampires” up on the hill. You’d think the photographers would be satisfied harassing the Amish in the area, who also abhorred picture taking.

Mordr was amazed at just how wacky the townsfolk were, but then what could you expect with a town named Transylvania? No, not Transylvania, Romania. This was Transylvania-frickin’-Pennsylvania, an economically depressed town that turned itself around five years or so ago by changing its name and jumping onto the vampire craze sweeping the country. A tourist trap of the vampire persuasion. Hah! Mordr would like to see some of these idiots have real fangs for a day. Then they’d know just how uncomfortable and unattractive they really were.

He parked his Hummer in the underground parking garage in the back, which had been his brother Vikar’s latest project here at the run-down castle he and his minions had been renovating the past few years. It was a never-ending job, which Vikar hated, which was probably Mike’s intent in assigning him here. Mike was all about pushing them beyond their comfort zones in the name of personal growth, or so he said, endlessly. Their brother Ivak was supposed to be renovating an equally run-down plantation house in Louisiana to be their southern headquarters, but apparently a snake problem was slowing him down. A big snake problem.

Mordr, ever vigilant to his surroundings, noted twenty-nine other vehicles parked in the underground garage. Vangels could teletransport, but they usually saved that for emergencies, like when rushing to aid a fellow vangel surrounded by a herd of Lucipires. It was important that vangels not call attention to their extraordinary skills, whenever possible.

Tapping in the codes on the security box, Mordr entered a steel-encased corridor. He walked quietly past closed doors that were once dungeons and wine cellars but were now padded-wall training rooms. There were also sleeping quarters, including large barracks-style ones for the younger vangels, those only a few hundred years old, unlike Mordr and his brothers, roughly twelve hundred years old, give or take.

When he entered the kitchen, he could smell coffee, even though no one was about. Lizzie, the cook, should be up soon. That was Lizzie Borden, the axe murderer. Now reformed, she wielded a sharp blade in a new fashion, cleaving meat and such. When she’d first arrived, one vangel had made the mistake of teasing her about her axe background; that vangel now had one less finger.

He went over to the massive coffeemaker, which had been set on an automatic timer, and poured a cup of the bitter brew. Sitting on one of many stools lined up before the pristine island that ran the length of the kitchen, he sipped at his coffee, just to occupy his time until everyone awakened.

Aside from the coffee, the smell of fresh fruit permeated the air, coming from the bowl of oranges, and apples, and bananas, and clusters of green and purple grapes in front of him. He plucked off one of the fat purple ones and popped it into his mouth, making a small sound of surprised pleasure at the succulent sweetness.

Ticking away the seconds was a new wall clock with a yellow smiley face in its center. Someone had a warped sense of humor around here. Surely not Lizzie, who wouldn’t know a smile if it hit her in the face. Not that Mordr was inclined to humor himself, but he didn’t surround himself with silly smiley faces, either. He could see how the ticking of the clock would be rather soothing, or irritating, depending on one’s mood.

The sun was just beginning to come up, peeping through the large windows, which looked out over a wide lawn leading to a gazebo. Someone had been doing some landscaping. Probably Vikar’s human wife, Alex. What Viking would ever waste space on such a frivolous structure, lest it was to store firewood for the cold winters in the Norselands?

He had hoped this peaceful atmosphere would calm his always fuming rage. Even after all these years, his berserkness lurked just below the surface, waiting for the least trigger to set him off. Modern people referred it as carrying a chip on one’s shoulder. In Mordr’s case, it was more like a boulder. It was a curse, really.

Vikar strolled in then, announcing his presence with a wide-mouthed, jaw-cracking yawn. “Hey, brother! You’re early.”

Mordr shrugged. “The sooner I got off that friggin’ boat, the better.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk!” Vikar clucked. “We are Vikings, Mordr. We grew up loving water and our longships. You have a dream job.”

“Pfff! Not my dream!”

“Remember the time you were assigned to those Quakers in Philadelphia. You in the midst of pacifists? Now, that was a flinch-worthy job for a berserker!”

Michael liked nothing better than putting the vangels in positions the opposite of the sins they had committed.

“Yea, I remember well. But you have suffered just as much. Like the time Mike forced you to prowl the poor streets of Britain as a leper. You wore ragged, stinksome garments, and even got lice. Folks made a wide path to get around you. Or when he made you a humble priest in a Russian monastery.” Vikar’s sin had been pride. Immense pride.

Vikar shrugged. “I still say a ship should be a welcome change for you. How would you like to be landlocked like I am here in the middle of nowhere, my arse tied to this moldering castle?” Vikar poured himself a coffee and scratched his belly as he leaned against the wall, watching him. Vikar was barefooted, wearing only a pair of sleep pants. Gone were the days when men were men and could walk about naked if they so chose in their mostly male keeps. Not that they subjected females, other than wives and concubines, to their nudity back then, either, unless they were drukkinn.

“First of all, I’m on a cruise ship, not a longship. Dodging every other minute the dozens of husband-hunting females.”

“You never fail to amaze me, Mordr. A Viking who dislikes women!”

“I did not say that I dislike women in general, but these are desperate females. A man likes to do the hunting, not be the hunted.”

“I do not know about that. In the old days, mayhap. Now, a little role reversal is not unwelcome, if you ask me.”