Vampire in Paradise, Page 3

  “Why not? We don’t have to like all the people that come to the salsa bar, but we still serve them food and drinks.”

  “I don’t know,” Marisa said.

  “There’s something else to consider.”

  “If you’re going to suggest that I might find a sugar daddy to pay for Izzie’s operation, forget about it.” But don’t think that idea hasn’t occurred to me.

  “No, but there will be lots of Internet types there. Maybe you could find someone with the technical ability to set up a website for Izzie to raise funds.”

  “I already tried that, but every company I contacted said it has been overdone. There’s no profit for them.”

  “Maybe you’ve made the wrong contacts. Maybe if you met someone one-on-one . . . I don’t know, Marisa, isn’t it worth a try?” Inga was serious now.

  “I’ll think about it,” Marisa said, to her own surprise.

  “Applications and interviews for employment are being held at the Purple Palm Hotel in Key West next Friday,” Inga pointed out. “Don’t think too long.”

  “Don’t push.”

  They heard the salsa band break out in a lively instrumental with a rich Latin American beat. A prelude to the beginning of another set of dance music.

  As they headed back to work, Inga said, “I’ll drive.”

  Chapter 2

  Transylvania, Pennsylvania, 2015

  It was a male fantasy assignment . . . or was it? . . .

  Sigurd was late arriving at the castle for the conclave called by St. Michael the Archangel.

  He’d run into a traffic pile-up on the Beltway when he left his job as a physician at Johns Hopkins. Then he’d gotten behind a vampire parade in this wack-job touristy town that celebrated . . . guess what? Yep. Dracula wannabes.

  Hah! If they knew how inconvenient fangs actually are, Sigurd thought, running his tongue under his own pointy set, they would keep their fool mouths shut and take up a saner hobby, like sword fighting. Try kissing a maid when the incisors are out. Or drinking a cold beer, modern man’s wonderful invention that surely rivals our ancient Viking favorite beverage . . . warm mead. I scare even myself when I happen upon a mirror and see how I look.

  He could have teletransported, but vangels were warned to use that talent only on special occasions. Like when they were needed quickly to back up one of their fellow Viking vampire angels. (He still shuddered after all these years to consider himself one of those.) Or when a Lucipire was about to gobble them up.

  He pressed the code numbers into the remote on his SUV dashboard and watched as the gates opened onto the massive property where his oldest brother, Vikar, was converting an old, run-down castle into one of the headquarters for all the vangels. Vikar was three years into the project, and the progress was slow, as evidenced by scaffolding around one of the towers. Sigurd parked his vehicle in the back courtyard, rather than going down into the underground parking garage. He didn’t expect to be staying long.

  He entered the kitchen, about the size of most longhouses “back in the day,” a modern expression he was embarrassed to find himself using way too much lately. He wasn’t that old. Well, actually he was. Twenty-seven human years, but a mind-boggling one thousand, one hundred, and sixty-five vampire angel years. His original sentence . . . uh, assignment as a vangel had somehow been extended, and extended, by a few transgressions he was unable to avoid over the years. Or a lot. But, really, did Mike (the rude name Sigurd and his six brothers had given their heavenly mentor) expect virile Viking men to remain celibate for decades, let alone centuries?

  Sigurd shook his head to clear it. His mind seemed to be wandering so much today. Probably overwork on his latest medical project, not to mention having gone on a vangel mission in Baltimore over the weekend where a Lucie horde had been nesting in one of the slums, preying on drug addicts. Lucies was a nickname he and his brothers had given to demon vampires.

  The scent of cooking food hit Sigurd first, and he noticed one of the vangels, their cook, Lizzie Borden (yes, that Lizzie Borden) hacking away at what appeared to be the hind quarter of a cow, then tossing the pieces to brown in a huge, sizzling iron skillet.

  “Good morning, Miss Borden,” he said.

  “Pfff! What is good about feeding fifty ravenous Vikings?” Lizzie always complained about her cooking chores, but she guarded her domain like a Norseman protecting his longship.

  Sigurd opened the commercial-size fridge to get a bottle of Fake-O, the blood substitute he had invented several years ago to supplement the vangels’ supply when it had been too long since they saved sinners or annihilated Lucies. Blood caused a vangel’s skin to have a nice suntanned hue. Without it, their skin turned lighter and lighter until it was almost transparent.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked Lizzie after quaffing down the thick beverage in one long swallow, then wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, fighting a shiver of disgust. One of these days, when he had more time, he would have to do something about the taste.

  “In the front parlor. They started an hour ago,” Lizzie pointed out with relish. She did not care overmuch for men.

  “Thanks, Liz,” he said, just to annoy her.

  She said something very unangelic as he walked away. Not that any of them were angels. More like fallen angels.

  On the way down the long corridor he ran into Regina, who had been a witch back in the thirteenth-century Norselands. A real witch, the kind who brewed potions in a boiling cauldron and issued curses hither and yon. She was always threatening to do unsavory things to the manparts of the various VIK when they displeased her, which was all the time. VIK was the name given to the seven brothers as the rulers of the vangel society.

  “Why aren’t you in the meeting?” he asked, in a very polite manner, if he did say so himself.

  Despite his good manners, she sneered at him. “Mike was done with us peons hours ago. He is dealing with the sins of you VIK now.” She cackled. She actually cackled, and added, “Someone is about to have his arse chewed up good and well.”

  “Me?” he inquired with mock innocence, and made a rude gesture at the hissing black cat that followed on Regina’s heels.

  The cat tried to piss on his boot but he managed to get away, unscathed. Regina was muttering something behind him, probably a curse. He would have to get a codpiece to protect himself when he left here today. Where did one buy a codpiece, anyhow?

  He tried to enter the parlor unobtrusively, to no avail.

  His six brothers turned as one, eyebrows arched, lips twitching with humor at his expense. They sat in a semicircle before Mike, who was sprawled lazily in a throne-like, wingback chair, jeans-clad legs crossed at the ankles over a pair of athletic shoes. The latest, very expensive Nike ones. He probably thought the swoosh emblem represented an angel wing, but then Mike had a fascination with modern footwear. A large gold cross hung on a thick chain around his neck, nestling on his pure white T-shirt. The only other indication of his saintliness was a rather halo-like glow about his long, black hair. No wings today.

  As Sigurd passed behind his brothers’ chairs, each had a special greeting for him.

  Vikar, the oldest of his brothers, the VIK assigned to man the Transylvania castle headquarters, grinned and said, “Welcome home, Dr. Sig. Did you lose your watch?”

  Ivak, an Angola Prison chaplain, who fashioned himself the most handsome Viking dead or alive, said, “You look like death warmed over, Sig. I hope those bags under your eyes are due to something pleasant.”

  “And he smells like Saxon shit. Can you not invent a new Fake-O that does not reek?” asked Trond, a Viking Navy SEAL, of all things, especially considering how lazy Trond was known to be. And, really, those Navy SEALs worked so hard in senseless exercise that Trond knew better than anyone what reeked. Like himself. Of body odor. Not today, of course, but when he’d jogged five miles in heavy boots and monstrous backpack, whew!

  Mordr just scowled. Wrath had been Mordr’s sin, and his demeanor wa
s ofttimes grim, though he was not so bad since he’d married and taken on five . . . yes, five . . . children.

  Cnut, a security expert just returned from some Pentagon secret training program, winked at him, as if he knew a secret that Sigurd did not.

  Finally, he came to Harek, their technology guru, who was tapping away on a laptop with fingerless gloves. He was huddled in a massive fur cloak. Ever since Harek had returned from Siberia, a penance assignment if there ever was one, he claimed to be unable to get warm again. Mike was not sympathetic.

  No more brothers. Sigurd sank down into the empty chair. The one closest to Mike, unfortunately.

  “Ah! The prodigal vangel deigns to honor us with his presence,” Mike said. Sarcasm was a favorite tool of Mike’s, and it was usually directed at the VIK. None of them was immune.

  “Sorry. There was a—”

  Mike waved a hand, uninterested in his explanation. “Vikar, recap for the tardy one what we have been discussing.”

  Vikar winked at Sigurd. “It appears that Jasper and his demon vampires are growing in number. Well over two thousand, at last count. Whereas the number of vangels is closer to five hundred.” Jasper was the king of the demon vampires, one of the fallen angels who had been kicked out of Heaven along with Lucifer. It was the job of the vangels to kill Lucipires . . . not just kill them but annihilate them through the heart with swords or bullets symbolically treated with the blood of Christ. Just killing them resulted in their coming back again as demon vampires. In addition, vangels attempted to save sinners, especially those who had been fanged by a Lucipire, clearly identified by their lemon scents. A lemony human was on the fast track to becoming a Lucipire . . . a worse fate than going to Hell.

  “We are going to add more new vangels to our ranks . . . one hundred at a time, under the training of Cnut and Mordr,” Michael continued. “And there is a big event being planned by Jasper for next month.”

  Sigurd tilted his head in question.

  “Let Harek show you,” Mike directed.

  Harek sat in the chair on Sigurd’s other side. He was the computer guru in their ranks. He slid the laptop from his knees to Sigurd’s and pointed to the screen. “Grand Keys Island.”

  “And is that not an appropriate name?” Mike interrupted.

  Sigurd saw a picture of a lush, tropical island with what appeared to be a massive hotel complex from which bungalows stemmed out like the spokes of a wheel. Luxury yachts and sailing vessels were anchored in the clear blue waters.

  “It is an island in the Florida Keys. That large structure there is a special events hotel. And, whoo boy, is there a special event being planned there.” This from a grinning Harek.

  “One which Jasper hopes to infiltrate where he will harvest more souls for his evil legions,” Mike told Sigurd.

  “The first ever International Conference on Pornography.” Harek grinned at him. He must have finally warmed up, enough to tweak him, leastways. “Well, they don’t call it that. The new word for pornography is FOE, Freedom of Expression.”

  Sigurd frowned and turned to Mike. “What has this to do with me? I am a physician at Johns Hopkins.”

  “Not anymore,” Mike said. “Thou art about to tender thy resignation.”

  “Why? I enjoy working there.”

  “Ah, and that is your goal as a vangel, is it not? Pleasure?” More Mike sarcasm.

  Well, I opened myself up for that one. “I do good work there,” Sigurd protested.

  “You do.”

  “I’m supposed to be finding a cure for cancer.”

  “Someone else will.”

  That put Sigurd in his place, good and well.

  “Thou hast been in one place for twenty years, and you do not age, Sigurd. ’Tis time for a change.”

  Sigurd understood. “Then another hospital?”

  Mike shook his head. “Thou art about to start a new . . . job. Thou will be the resident physician on Grand Keys Island for the duration of this vile affair.”

  Thou, thou, thou! I am getting sick of Mike’s thous. Usually they are followed by some unpalatable assignment. As this island is sure to be. Sigurd almost choked on his tongue, so stunned was he by the prospect of doctoring on some remote island inhabited by scurvy pornographers. His brothers barely stifled their snickers.

  “Me? I am going to a porno convention?”

  “Thus sayeth the Lord,” Mike pronounced.

  Bullshit! Sigurd thought. Thus sayeth Michael the Irksome Archangel.

  Sigurd wondered briefly what his sin of envy had to do with this assignment. Usually Mike assigned them penances—or, rather, missions—to places or duties related to their weaknesses. What envy had to do with pornography was a puzzle to Sigurd.

  “Thou wilt know when the time is right,” Mike told him.

  Sometimes Sigurd forgot that Mike could read minds.

  That was how Sigurd found himself the following week in Key West, Florida, applying for a new, unenviable position.

  For the love of a troll! He was a fierce fighting warrior, a practicing healer and physician, a Viking vampire angel. He’d thought he could not be shocked anymore.

  He was wrong.

  It takes all kinds! . . .

  Marisa and Inga arrived at the Purple Palm Hotel at eight a.m. Interviews were to start at nine, but already the line ran out the door and down half a block.

  It wasn’t just the numbers that amazed. What a crowd it was lined up in front of them!

  “Good Lord!” Marisa said.

  Inga agreed. “Every crazy in the Sunshine State must have gotten up at dawn.”

  Men and women alike had bimboed themselves up—or was that down?—in outfits designed to accentuate their assets, the emphasis being on assets. Tights pants, cleavage down to the belly buttons in front and butt cracks in back, male junk sticking out like torpedoes, female butts that would make Beyoncé blush, boobs that defied gravity. And the tattoos! And the piercings!

  This was the third of five days of on-site, open applications for employment at the conference. Marisa had no idea how many people had been hired thus far, considering the turnout today, but the number of employees they were supposedly hiring was supposed to be four hundred for the ten-to-twenty-day period, which included both setup duties and cleanup afterward. Plus people had been hired already to prepare the hotel for the incoming rush and serve the early arrivals.

  To be honest, there were a lot of normal-looking people here, too, like she and Inga. Probably half of the two hundred or so in line so far. Still . . .

  “The ick factor here is off the chart,” Marisa remarked. “No way am I standing around for hours in this crowd in the heat to apply for a job I’m not sure I want.”

  “Y’all won’t hafta wait long, honey,” the girl in front of them said in a heavy Southern accent. “Mr. Vanderfelt, the darlin’ man, came out a bit ago and said once the doors open we’ll be movin’ faster’n a greased pig on a spit slide. Besides, lots of the folks in line are just fans.”

  Fans? Of what? Sleaze?

  Marisa and Inga just gaped.

  The short, slim girl, who on closer inspection was probably over twenty-one, wore a red spandex jumpsuit, which called attention to her impressive double-Ds, with matching sparkly stilettos. Her hair was blonde, and big. A teased fluff of sexy waves. Makeup completed the picture with false eyelashes and pouty crimson lips. She wore enough Shalimar to choke a goat.

  It was hard to tell if she was here for a job, or was one of the “fans.”

  Compared to Bimbo Barbie, Marisa and Inga looked like nuns. Well, not exactly nuns. Inga, her long blonde hair in a single braid down her back, wore a sheer tunic blouse over a darker blue tank top, with white capris, and a pair of Valentino “Rockstud” triple-ankle-strap pumps. Marisa was more subtle in a sleeveless, rose-colored Donna Karan dress that was nicely belted (thank you, Alexander McQueen) at the waist and came to just above the knees. The only thing that could be construed as sexy about her attire was her st
rappy, high-heeled, Prada gladiator sandals. Her hair was upswept and held to the top of her head with a tortoiseshell claw.

  “Hi! Mah name is Tiffany.”

  Sure it is.

  “I’m Inga, and this is my friend Marisa. Have you been standing here long?” asked Inga, a regular Miss Congeniality today.

  Unlike me, who is more Miss Grinchiality.

  “Only an hour. Where are y’all from?”

  The insane asylum. Or we will be if we actually go through with this insanity.

  “Miami,” Inga replied. “We drove in this morning.”

  “Ah came all the way from Georg-ah.”

  No kidding.

  “Ah took a bus yesdidday and stayed overnight at the Holiday Inn.” She tossed her blonde mane over one shoulder or tried to. The hair was so heavily lacquered it didn’t move. “Ah’m a hairstylist, y’know—”

  Could have fooled me.

  “—but Ah aim ta be a sensuality star like Becky Bliss. Ah prefer the word sensuality to pornography. Much more classy.”

  That answered the question of job seeker versus fan. And, yes, Marisa noticed Tiffany’s distinction between “sensuality star” and “porno star.” She hadn’t yet learned that no matter if you called a fake Rolex a Rolex, it was still a Timex at heart.

  “Truth ta tell, mah real name is Helen Biggers, but Ah cain’t see Helen Biggers on a movie marquee, kin you?” Tiffany sighed, and continued without waiting for a response, though what they could say to that, Marisa couldn’t imagine. “Did y’all know that Becky made a million dollars las’ year, an’ she has a mansion in Hollywood with a Jacuzzi and everythin’?”

  Un-be-liev-able! “I thought these jobs were supposed to be legitimate . . . I mean, regular jobs for regular people,” Marisa said, shooting Inga a dirty look.

  Inga elbowed her. “Stop being so negative.”

  “They are reg’lar jobs,” Tiffany insisted. “Ah’m applyin’ fer one of the hair salons, but Ah figure this will be mah opportunity ta get discovered. Becky Bliss got discovered in a Dairy Queen, y’know.”