Page 72 of Kiss of Wrath

“Fight?” she gurgled, glancing pointedly at his cloak, which she knew by now hid many different lethal weapons.

“Besides, now that I look around, I see Lucies all over the place. That pit boss yelling at one of his underlings. The Valkyries carrying drinks to the baccarat area. By the by, Odin would nigh explode with anger if any of his Valkyries walked about with breasts and buttocks nigh exposed to one and all. On the other hand, certain parts of his dead warriors might come to life in appreciation.”

She rolled her eyes again, a habit he was beginning to find annoying, although he did like the way she turned in the cradle of his arm, still wrapped protectively around her shoulders, to look up at him, her mouth almost touching his. “I thought Odin and all those gods were a myth. Isn’t it kind of sacrilegious for an angel, even an angel vampire, to believe in other gods?”

“I did not say I believe in Odin. ’Twas just a . . . never mind.” He walked them out the doors and onto the crowded sidewalk of the Strip. They walked for blocks and blocks, she taking in the sights of Las Vegas, he taking in the sight of Lucies. “Stay close to me. That policeman over there . . . that prostitute on the corner . . . both Lucies.”

“How can you tell?”

“Mainly their scent, but also, we vangels can sense a Lucipire in the vicinity. The presence of evil hangs in the air. And they look a little different than humans, to us vangels.”

They walked into another hotel, this one lush with crystal chandeliers and velvety furniture. No bizarre themes, but the usual raucous noise of gambling—clanging slot machines, loud music, shouts and laughter, dealers calling out, “Place your bets, place your bets.” Here and there, he noticed Lucies working. A desk clerk. A concierge. Waiters and waitresses. With his free hand, he pulled out his cell phone, tapped one button, and sent a voice mail in Old Norse, “Lucies everywhere. Massive infiltration. Air filled with scent of sulfur and lemons. Send vangels.”

“Who are you talking to?” she asked.

“My brothers.”

She tilted her head to the side in silent question.

He didn’t have to answer, but he did. “There are demon vampires everywhere. Not in great numbers in any one place, but scattered about like a Satanic net. This city is in peril.” At the look of disbelief and pity on her face, he added, “Can you not smell them? The demons reek of sulfur. The sinners—those already fanged and on their way to being drained at first opportunity, or those already wallowing in their bad deeds, or those contemplating some great sin—they smell of lemons.”

“The only thing I smell is your cologne. Sandalwood and lime.”

“I told you afore, I do not wear cologne.” That damn life mate lure! “But that is neither here nor there. I must get you out of this town. All hell is going to break loose, and I mean that exactly as it sounds.”

“You’re starting to scare me, Mordr.”

“You should be scared.”

“Not that I believe there are such things as demon vampires, or vampire angels for that matter. The fact that you believe there are is what I find alarming.”

Just then, they got caught in a mob of folks shoving to enter a nightclub where a popular country music band was playing. Luckily, there was no smell of Lucies, just human body odor covered with vast amounts of deodorant, soap, and bottled scents.

Miranda escaped the half circle of his arm and stood before him, looping her hands behind his neck. Then she began to sway from side to side, smiling up at him. “Forget all that nonsense about demons. Let’s dance.”

The band began to play a song called “I Melt.”

For a certainty!

“What? Oh, no! I do not dance. I am too big and clumsy and . . . oomph!”

She yanked him flush with her body, her face resting on his shoulder. With each sway of her hips, she brushed his already burgeoning erection. An easy task with his parted cloak; the thin silk of her dress and the lightweight fabric of his braies provided no barrier at all to the size and power of his enthusiasm. He saw flashing lights behind his eyelids for a moment, but, no, it was the disco lights in the ceiling.

In another feat of surrender, he put his hands on her hips and yanked her even closer. All he did then was shift from foot to foot. If this was dancing, he was a sudden expert. A dancing fool!

In a futile effort to reinforce the crumbling wall of his defense against her attraction, he blurted out, “I do not like red hair.”

She lifted her head off his shoulder and glanced up at him. “Neither do I.”

So much for that attempt! “And I do not like it skinned back off your face like a drowned cat.”

“Meow!” Instead of being offended, she told him, “I only wore it this way because it was wet. It would have gone frizzy if I hadn’t.”

Huh?

While the band moved without break into “The Way You Look Tonight,” she tugged out some pins and let them drop to the floor. Then she shook her hair into a mass of flaming waves.

He groaned.