Kiss of Surrender (26 page)

Inside, eating a bowl of Lizzie’s pasta, was none other than . . . Zeb.

The demon didn’t seem at all surprised to see him as he casually dabbed at his mouth with a cloth napkin. Some prisoner! Where were the chains and torture implements?

“You idiot! I went to the Norselands to give myself up to Jasper in exchange for your freedom while you sat here basking in luxury.”

Zeb gave the stone walls and cobwebbed corners a disbelieving survey. Then he bowed his head at Trond. “You were going to sacrifice yourself for me. I was going to do the same for you. Tit for tat. It appears as if we both failed in our noble attempts. I wonder why.”

They both exclaimed at the same time, “Michael!”

Trond couldn’t help himself then. He pulled the man up into an embrace and hugged him. In a manly fashion, of course.

He soon learned that the shield around Jasper’s castle had been Mike’s, not Jasper’s, and when Zeb had attempted to return to Horror—that was the appropriate name of Jasper’s domicile—Mike had jerked him back, just as he had Trond. And dragged Zeb by the ear—it would have been the tail, if his tail had been out, according to Zeb—back to the vangels’ headquarters in Transylvania.

Michael’s admonition in placing him here had been similar to Trond’s as well: “Do not dare move from here, demon, or you will suffer the consequences.”

So now, a week later, Trond was stomping about, missing Nicole, complaining, complaining, complaining.

Although there were dozens of vangels working about the place, Vikar was his only brother in residence. The others were out on various missions. Vikar told him to go talk with Zeb, that he was personally sick of sharing in Trond’s misery.

Trond found Zeb on his knees working in Alex’s flower garden out back. “Some prisoner you are!” he observed.

“I guess you could call this work release,” Zeb replied. For some reason, Vikar and Alex and the other vangels sensed the same thing about Zeb that Trond did. There was goodness in the demon, enough so that they did not fear his presence in their home, even around the two toddlers. It was puzzling, really. And scary. Because if there could be goodness left in an ancient demon, there could be evil left in an ancient vangel.

He plunked down on a bench and sighed.

“I think this place needs a grape arbor,” Zeb said right off. “I used to be a vintner, you know. The climate’s not perfect for vines, but some varieties would do well here. Maybe along that sunny wall there. We could even press a wine, or two. It’s not that hard.”

Trond hated to break the news to Zeb, but he probably wouldn’t be here long enough to see any vines take root, let alone stomp any grapes. He wouldn’t tell him that, though.

“I have a philosophy,” Zeb said. “The man who has garden dirt under his fingernails is planting seeds of grace in Heaven.”

“Bet that philosophy went over great in Jasperland.”

Instead of being offended, Zeb just smiled and tossed what smelled like cow shit onto the roots of some roses. At least he hadn’t thrown it at Trond, as he deserved.

Trond braced his chin over one fist with his elbow resting on his knee and contemplated his fate, whatever it might be.

“I don’t understand why you’re so miserable,” Zeb said. “It’s wonderful here.”

Trond glanced around at the crumbling castle that had scaffolding up on four sides, as it had for months for workmen to repoint the stonework and reglaze the windows. The slate roof was apparently intact, but not much else. There were seventy-five rooms, give or take, in this gray monstrosity. It would take Vikar forever to get it in shape. But then he had forever, or close to it.

“You have family. You have a roof over your head, such as it is, and a warm bed to sleep in. You have good work. You have peace and . . . and hope.”

Now Trond felt guilty for being so mean-spirited. Still he had to say what was on his mind. “But I don’t have Nicole.”

“Ah!” Zeb said. “Would you like to hear my philosophy about bad men who love good women?”

“No!”

“Then help me plant some winter onions. There’s nothing like gardening to soothe the soul.”

Trond said something foul as he stood abruptly. Zeb was laughing as he stomped off to complain to someone else, someone more sympathetic. Maybe the twins. Better yet, maybe he should have a beer, or five.

Twenty-four

Not your run-of-the-mill castle!  . . .

A
fter several connecting flights, Nicole finally ended up at Harrisburg International Airport, where she rented a car with a GPS set to Transylvania, Pennsylvania. In one hour, she would be at Trond’s home.

What awaited her there?

At the very least, she hoped for news. Would they know what happened to Trond once he entered Jasper’s version of Hell? Would Jasper have even released Zeb in trade for Trond? After all, Jasper was a devil. He didn’t have to obey rules of ethics, like promises, or deals.

One after another, little things surprised Nicole as she approached the small town.

First of all, Trond had failed to mention that he lived in Amish country. Rolling hills and neat farmsteads charmed the eye, along with quaint Amish buggies on the highways and side roads. Life certainly moved at a different pace here.

Her first clue that she was entering Land of the Weird—surprise number two—was when she saw the words on the local Catholic church’s outdoor bulletin board: “Vampires Welcome.” Driving through the main street, she saw stores and restaurants and bars, all catering to the touristy allure of vampires, with names like Good Bites, or the Dark Side, or Drac’s Hideout. Even Suckies. Everywhere she looked she saw people wearing capes and fake fangs. A dentist advertised a teeth filing service. Yeech! A banner near the town hall announced a Fall Festival featuring a costume ball, a blood-drinking contest, aka Kool-Aid, a stake-throwing event, and a marathon of vampire movies, everything from Bela Lugosi to
Twilight
.

The gas station attendant who gave her directions to the castle warned her, “They won’t let you past the gates up there.”

She’d see about that!

As she approached the castle up a winding, narrow dirt road, she was astonished. Trond hadn’t been kidding. A huge,
huge
, rundown castle rose up against the mountainside. Even from a distance, she could see scaffolding and workmen’s trucks and vans, but from here it appeared as if only a tiny dent had been made in the renovations. Who would have built such a massive edifice in the middle of nowhere?

When she neared an iron gate, a guard stood there, holding up a halting hand. He pointed to the “No Trespassing” sign and motioned for her to turn around and leave.

No way!

She got out of her vehicle and approached. Before she’d met Trond she might have been frightened by a six-foot-five, blond Viking with pale, almost albino-ish skin, faded blue eyes, and real, not fake fangs, but now she was only mildly frightened. “Hi! I’m Nicole Tasso. Here to see the Sigurdssons.”

“Aren’t you all?” the Prince of Snideness responded, arms folded over his chest.

“I met Trond Sigurdsson in California recently and he told me to drop by any time.”

“Is that so?” He twirled his fingertip for her to go back to her car.

“I’m not leaving.” She folded her arms over her chest, mirroring him.

She thought she saw a smile twitch at his red lips, but it was hard to tell with the fangs. In fact, he made a hissing sound at her to scare her away.

“Oh please!” she said. “I’ve been hissed at by better than you. In fact, you need to work on your hiss.”

“What’s wrong with my hiss?” he asked before he could catch himself. “Never mind. Listen, lady, I don’t care where you’ve come from. You are not on the list of expected visitors, and therefore you are not coming in. Don’t make me get physical with you.”

Just then a black SUV drove up with a woman driving. She blew the horn and waved at the guard.

“Are you going to move, or do I have to toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your car? That’s the boss’s wife and I need to let her through. You’re blocking the way.”

“That’s Alexandra?” she asked, and before the guard could grab her arm, Nicole ran back to the SUV. Speaking as fast as she could, she said through the open window. “Hi, I’m Nicole Tasso. A . . . a, um, friend of Trond’s. The guard won’t let me pass.”

The woman tilted her head to the side. “Nicole? The female SEAL?”

She nodded.

“Thank God!” Alex exclaimed.

Nicole had no idea what that meant, but it had to be good. Unfortunately, she was the only one who heard it.

The guard had a hold of Nicole’s arm now and was trying to drag her away.

“Let her go, Svein,” Alex called out. “This is the woman Trond has been driving us crazy over.”

Svein looked more closely at her, and not in a complimentary way. “I can see why she would drive someone crazy. She says I have a bad hiss,” Svein grumbled.

“Maybe we can finally get some peace here. Hop in,” she told Nicole. And to Svein she said, “Move her car and bring it around back, please. I can’t wait to see Trond’s face.”

Nicole got a better look at the woman driving now that she was inside the vehicle. A strawberry blonde with green eyes . . . probably Irish, she was tall, about five-eight or -nine, wearing a white silk blouse tucked into black jeans with sandals. While Nicole glanced at the overladen backseat, Alex told her, “I’ve been grocery shopping.”

For an army?

Just then, the implications of what Alex had said on first meeting her sank in. “Trond is here?” Nicole asked as they drove through the gates, to the front, then around the side of the castle.

“Yep. He’s been here for ten miserable days.”

“He’s here? He’s safe? And he didn’t even call me?”

“Uh-oh!” Alex murmured, then, “I think he’s out back planting onions with Zeb. Or maybe it’s grape vines. He’s sort of between missions. So is my husband, and they’re both antsy.”

“Zeb is here and safe, too?”

Alex nodded, no longer sure she should be revealing so much to a stranger.

“I’m going to kill the man. And I don’t even care if Trond is already dead.”

Alex laughed and reached over to squeeze her hand. “Welcome to the club, honey.”

First they entered a huge kitchen with commercial-grade appliances and freezers. An older woman was hacking away at several whole, raw chickens with a cleaver. “Chicken cacciatore
with pasta
,” she said with snarl of disgust, thus exposing her fangs. “Honestly, Mrs. S., I’m making pork and sauerkraut tomorrow, and everyone better eat it, too.”

The fragrant pot of tomato sauce already simmering on the range must hold at least twenty quarts. As she cut the chicken into portions, she tossed them into an equally huge frying pan already sizzling with green peppers, onions, and garlic.

Alex smiled and said, “Nicole, this is Lizzie Borden, our cook.”

Nicole looked at the woman dressed in a Victorian-era, long, lace-trimmed black dress with an equally long white apron. Her gray hair was gathered in a bun at her neck. Nicole looked again at the cleaver that could be construed to be an axe, she supposed, and connected the name with the implement.
Surely not
, she thought, but Alex grinned and gave her an inconspicuous nod. Nicole recalled then that Trond had told her about Lizzie one night while they were at Zeb’s hideaway.

“And Miss Borden, this is Trond’s friend Nicole.”

“Do you like pork and sauerkraut?” Miss Borden asked her curtly.

“Uh, yeah.”
Sometimes.

“The vangels in residence have taken a liking to pasta lately,” Alex explained, “and Miss Borden is getting tired of making the same kind of food every day.”

“Just because it looks like blood don’t mean it is blood,” the old lady complained.

“Do you have any idea where Trond is?” Alex asked Miss Borden.

“He and Zeb are babysitting your little ones.”

“Where’s Vikar?”

“He had some important business with . . .” Miss Borden rolled her eyes upward.

Nicole wasn’t sure if she referred to God, or St. Michael, or just that he was upstairs. It wasn’t her place to ask.

Just then, Nicole noticed a young man, about sixteen, sitting at the other end of the kitchen on a high stool before a counter, with a small DVD player in front of him while he crunched away at a bowl of cereal. His black hair was slicked back off his face, and he wore a red jacket and white-sock-exposing black pants, just like . . . Oh, this must be the Michael Jackson aficionado that Trond had mentioned. He had fangs, too, and was oblivious to them even being in the room as he watched the DVD player playing . . . what else? A Michael Jackson video.

As Alex led Nicole in a search for Trond, she couldn’t help but be impressed by the interior of the castle that was indeed in the process of renovations, but the bones of this edifice were unique and potentially beautiful. Deep-grained woods. Marble veined in various colors. Murals-in-progress on some walls. Massive chandeliers. And the architectural details were probably of historic importance, especially the highly carved staircase in the front hallway.

Fanged men, and some women, were busy at work everywhere they passed, everything from scrubbing floors to computer work. Finally, they came to what might once have been a formal second parlor but was now a “family room” with widescreen TVs—three of them—toys, deep comfortable sofas, and lamps with soft lighting. On the carpeted floor, Zeb lay on his back with a little boy dressed in denim coveralls bouncing on his chest. In a far corner, Trond sat in a rocking chair reading a book to a little girl—
The Three Little Pigs
, by the sound of it. On one of the TV screens, a sports channel was showing highlights from a recent NFL football game. On another of the screens, it was
The Lion King
.

“And he huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down,” Trond said in a deep, gravelly wolf voice when he glanced up and saw Nicole standing, frozen, in the doorway. She wasn’t sure if the sudden heightened color in his cheeks was from shock or embarrassment at being caught in such a cozy situation.

Zeb sat up, also surprised, but there was pleasure on his face at seeing her again. “Hey, Nic!” he said amiably.

But she had no time to think about Zeb now. It was the other jerk in the room that consumed her attention. While Nicole had wept buckets over Trond, unable to sleep at night, worrying about the torture he was undergoing, he’d been home all along. Eating frickin’ pasta. Planting frickin’ onions. And playing with children.

And he’d never bothered to contact her, never considered her feelings, was apparently okay with a permanent separation. And she, pathetic, love-struck woman that she was, had chased after him. “You slime-sucking, two-bit jerk!” she gritted out.

She had to get out of here. Right away.

Swiveling on her heel, she began to run back the way she’d come. If she could make it to her car, she would escape with at least a little of her pride intact.

“Nicole! Wait! I can explain,” Trond yelled behind her.

The time for explanations had long passed, in Nicole’s opinion. When would she ever learn not to trust men? Trond had told her that he loved her that last day. Well, not really
told he
r. He’d mouthed the words as he’d disappeared.

That kind of love she could do without.

Not the reunion he’d been hoping for . . .

Nicole was here!

She’d come looking for him.

All his misery of the past week and more melted away, and he smiled. He’d been stunned with surprise, but it had been a good kind of surprise. Setting little Nora on her wobbly toddler feet, he’d stood and started to smile with happiness. But wait. Was that look of loathing on her face directed at him?

Oh yeah
, he’d immediately answered himself when she’d tossed those expletives at him and rushed away. Time for some damage control.

Alex and Zeb were laughing at him, which caused Nora, short for Gunnora, and her twin, Gunnar, to laugh, too, thinking Trond had done something to amuse them. He called after Nicole but she ignored his pleas to stop, and being a WEALS, she could run really fast.

He caught up with her just as she was about to climb into her rental car. Her eyes were misted with tears, but he suspected they were tears of anger more than sorrow, at this point.

“C’mon, Nic, give me a chance to explain.” He grabbed her arm and slammed the car door. Pinning her against the frame, he said, “I missed you, dearling.”

“Fuck you!” she snarled.

“Maybe later.”

She was not amused by his response and tried to squirm out of his grasp. When that didn’t work, she tried kneeing his groin.

A part of his body that had been especially happy to see her just barely escaped injury.

“Let me go, Trond. My coming here was a mistake.”

“No. It was not a mistake.” When she continued to fight him, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder fireman-style. Alex, Vikar, and about three dozen vangels were out on the back verandah or at the back windows on all four floors watching him make a fool of himself. He didn’t care.

Walking swiftly to the garden gazebo, he sat her down on a cushioned wicker chair and planted his braced hands on either side of her. Only inches separated their faces when he asked her, “Why are you so upset?”

At first she balked and turned her face away from him. When he refused to let her go, she sliced him with a glare and said, “You’re safe, and you never bothered to tell me.”

“I couldn’t.”

That response surprised her. “Why?”

“Mike stopped me right outside Jasper’s place in northern Norway and wouldn’t let me go in.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t come to talk to me yet. I suspect . . .
I know
. . . I’m in big trouble, but Mike doles out his punishments when and how he chooses.”

“That doesn’t excuse your not contacting me and telling me you were safe. Even if you don’t love me, it would have been common courtesy—”

“Don’t love you? Where would you get that idea?”

She stared at him as if he was a thickheaded lackwit.

“Oh. I guess you thought my silence meant—”

“That’s exactly what I thought.”

“I’m as much a prisoner here at the moment as Zeb is.”

“That’s another thing. Both of you are jerks for making me care about you, then leaving me in the dark. And, frankly, this place resembles no prison I’ve ever seen.”