Kiss of Surrender (4 page)

Was she the only one who recalled the last time they’d worn those outfits? They’d gotten arrested for inciting a riot.

But then Marie expounded that famous Louisiana philosophy, “
Laissez les bons temps rouler.
”

Let the good times roll.

Something was going to roll, all right, but Nicole was afraid it was going to be their sorry behinds.

There’s more than one way to go a-Viking . . .

Trond was splatted out, facedown, on his cot in the two-man room of the SEAL bachelor quarters that he shared with Karl. Because he and Karl fell into that ambiguous category of visiting special forces, they hadn’t been forced to bunk with the other trainees, which was a blessing considering the secrecy the two of them had to employ for some things.

Trond wore only boxer briefs in light of the poorly functioning air conditioner and the ninety-degree heat outside. This being Friday night, he wouldn’t mind sleeping until Monday. But he couldn’t do that. There was a half day of PT for trainees in the morning.

After a shower, a six-pack of reconstituted Fake-O blood that he and Karl had shared surreptitiously, on top of ten hours of SEALs training, not to mention Gig Squad, he was flat-out beat, mentally and physically. Besides that, a quick check of e-mail had shown messages from each of his brothers and one alarming IM from Mike:

Why have you not yet saved the sinners, Viking?

Well, gee, Mike, it would help if I knew who those sinners are.

Why are the Lucipire terrorists still thriving, Viking?

Earth to Archangel: You expect me to save the entire world all by myself?

IMO, if you have time to jest, I have not given you enough work to do, Viking. LOL.

Trond was going to LOL someone, probably his brother Harek, who’d taught Mike how to use a computer.

So, did Mike mean sinners, as in plural, or was that a keyboard error? Talk about pressure! Ever since Mike had discovered the Internet, the archangel sent him messages via the computer, rather than in his head. Way too many of them! Never cheery ones, either, like “Good job, Trond! How are you? Anything I can do for you?”

Karl came in, making enough noise to wake a hibernating grizzly with his new pair of rubber-soled shoes that squeaked with every step he took. Squeak! Squeak! Squeak! Each squeak was like scraping fingernails on a weary concrete brain.

Trond cracked open one eye and saw his partner was fully dressed in T-shirt, open button-down shirt with silver angel epaulettes on the shoulders, jeans, and the irksome athletic shoes with the tortuous squeak. As Karl sat down on the opposite bunk to tie said athletic shoes, Trond asked, “Where you going?”

“Down to the exchange to buy a few things.”

“Condoms?” Trond inquired teasingly, knowing full well that Karl wouldn’t be having sex with any woman, and not just because he was a vangel. Karl had been twenty-two when he died in 1972 during the Vietnam War. He was still a perpetual twenty-two since he’d joined the vampire angel network. Unfortunately, or fortunately, Karl’s wife was still alive. Despite her being sixty-three years old now, and despite Karl not being permitted to show himself to her, he still remained faithful to his marriage vows.

“Hah!” Karl snorted. “More like deodorant and cigarettes.”

Karl smoked every chance he got, which wasn’t often here on base where “No Smoking” signs were posted everywhere. He couldn’t blame the man, though. There weren’t many sins a vangel was permitted. And while smoking might be a stinking habit, chances of the vangel smoker dying of cancer were nil since he was already—ha, ha, ha—dead. Besides, Karl claimed the “coffin nails” relaxed him and helped him play his role, blending in with humans.

“Of course, I could buy some condoms for you,” Karl said. “Maybe you’ll get lucky sometime soon.”

“Yeah, right. The only kind of sex I have doesn’t require protection.” And he hadn’t even had that kind—his famous “near-sex”—in ages. Literally.

“Listen, buddy,” Karl began, “the Fake-O just isn’t doing it for me anymore. Being out in the sun so much is a killer. I can feel my skin color fading, despite the SPF 1000, and my energy level is zapped with the least exercise. I’m finding it harder and harder to keep my fangs retracted. You’ve had centuries more experience with it than I have. We need to feed from a saved sinner sometime soon, or kill a few Lucipires.”

Blood, pure blood, taken through the fangs was essential to the Viking vampire angels. Contrary to popular opinion, vampires . . . or vampire angels, leastways . . . could go out in sunlight, providing they’d blood-fed properly to avoid their skin getting whiter and whiter, eventually translucent.

In an emergency, they used blood ceorls in their community or the unsatisfactory Fake-O. Or, as his brother Vikar had discovered recently, he could flourish off the occasional feeding on his life mate, or eternity mate in their society. But the best way remained drinking blood of a person they had saved from Satan’s vampires, once purified by repentance or failure to act on sin.

Fake-O was a product that had been invented by their very own ceorl chemist. Not as good as real blood, but it sufficed as a stopgap. Back in the old days, like the Roman empire, there had been no sunscreens or tanning salons, obviously; so, the vampires had to hide out in caves until nighttime, thus giving rise to all the idiotic notions about vampires needing to sleep all day, usually in coffins. Yeech!

Satan’s demon vampires, on the other hand, needed the blood of their victims in order to contaminate them. They preyed on humans who were on the brink of some grievous sin, giving them that little extra boost toward damnation. First, they bit the neck of their victims, bringing them to stasis, after which they blew their unholy breath into the person through any bodily orifice, preferably the mouth or ear. This made the victim weak and open to temptation. Once they took the “bait,” acting on temptation, and committed the sin, the demons drained them dry and took them to the underworld. All this in a matter of seconds. Their human bodies just disappeared.

Trond sat up with alarm. Karl wasn’t a complainer. If he was worried about lack of pure blood, there was a problem. Except for not having tanned-to-the-point-of-leather skin, he looked just like any other SEAL. Short, almost bald hair, muscle-toned body, a rigid military demeanor in the way he carried himself.

“You can always feed on me,” Trond offered.

Karl shook his head vigorously. “No. That is an absolute last resort. It would weaken you in an environment where we have no backup. I’ll return to Transylvania, or have a blood ceorl sent here for a few days, before I take your blood. Thanks for the offer, though, my friend.” Karl hated using the female ceorls because of his marriage vows. Even though feeding from a blood ceorl wasn’t normally a sexual act, Karl considered it a betrayal of sorts.

Trond homed in on something else Karl had said. He was glad to hear Karl refer to him as friend and not master, as he’d been wont to do for a long time, being lower down the vangel totem pole. Trond and his six brothers, the VIK, were considered the jarls, or upper class, in the vangels. It would have been way too hard to explain “master” to this bunch of freedom fighters.

“We have to figure out which of these SEALs is ready to turn bad, or has already made the transition,” Trond said.

“Any clues?”

“Not yet. In addition, we need to get ourselves assigned to a mission where we can battle some Lucipires. I heard some rumblings today of an active op brewing. This might be it.”

Karl stood and shook out the legs of his jeans. “Okay, I’m out of here. Do you need anything?”

“No, but, Karl, you’ll tell me if things get too bad, won’t you?”

“I will.”

Trond sat on the edge of his cot after that, elbows on his knees, face in his palms. Being a Viking vampire angel was the pits sometimes.

“Whoa! No sad sacks allowed!” said Cage, whose room was across the hall, or leastways it was his room when he decided to stay on base. He had an apartment over in San Diego. That’s what he and Karl should do—get a place off-base—once they finished this training program, assuming they would be staying here that long.

“What the hell’s a sad pack?”

“Not a sad pack. A sad
sack
. A depressed person. As my mawmaw allus sez, ‘You have a face so long you could eat oats from the bottom of a barrel.’ ”

Trond glanced up with disbelief. First, motivational sayings from Nicole, now hokey Cajun sayings from Cage. “I’m just tired.”

Cage was wearing tight denim braies, or pants, an equally tight black T-shirt with the logo “It’s Only Kinky the First Time,” cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat tipped rakishly on his long hair. Full-fledged SEALs did not have to adhere to strict military appearance, the rationale being that they could infiltrate foreign countries better if they didn’t resemble white-walled jarheads. Trond, for one, intended to let his own hair grow from now on.

“We’re all tired,
cher
.”

“Where are you off to tonight?” He gave the Cajun’s attire another full-body scan, shaking his head with amusement. “The rodeo?”

Cage grinned. “I wouldn’t turn down a rodeo or two, if you get my meaning. But, no, we’re off to the Wet and Wild. Me, JAM, Geek, and F.U. Cold beer and hot women ring any of your bells?”

Oh yeah. Clang, clang, clang. Those two—alcohol and sex—would quench two of his always throbbing bodily appetites, thirst and hunger. But the temptations in such a wild spot might be too much for even a thousand-plus-year-old vangel to withstand. After all, his original “penance,” or assignment, had been for seven hundred years. He and his brothers should have been done by 1550. Not surprisingly, they, being Vikings, had erred on occasion, little sins here and there—okay, a few big ones, truth to tell—which kept piling on the years.

“Nah. I think I’ll stick around here. Order a pizza. Watch a few
Band of Brothers
DVDs that I’ve missed. Thanks for asking, though.”

Just then, JAM stuck his head in the door. That would be Jacob Alvarez Mendozo, a former almost Jesuit priest, of all things. The fine hairs rose all over Trond’s body as he stood and stepped closer. Yep, the scent of lemons, a clear sign of a sin taint.

But wait, maybe JAM was wearing some citrusy cologne. Menfolk in modern times tried everything in their power to hide honest male sweat. Some men even shaved their chest hairs. What was wrong with men being men? That’s when he noticed the two small marks on JAM’s neck.

He and Karl, who had returned, exchanged glances.

Trond did a mental fist pump in the air. Finally,
finally
, he had found his mission. Or at least part of his mission. This must be the SEAL they’d been sent to save. All along he’d been thinking it was someone like the obnoxious Frank Uxley, aptly named F.U. Never had it occurred to him that their target was a seemingly religious man like JAM. What exactly had he done or was he contemplating doing?

“Uh, maybe I’ll go with you guys, after all.”

Three

Satan’s bedfellows . . .

J
asper, king of the Lucipires, was about to hold court with his commanders, who made up the Lucipire Council, in the great hall of Despair, his palace in the remote icy mountains of northern Scandinavia, sometimes known as the Land of the Polar Night. A U-shaped conference table had been set up with comfortable armed chairs, everything made ready for the arrival of Jasper’s guests.

Most humans couldn’t withstand the extreme cold or long periods of total darkness beyond Svalband, Norway, the northernmost inhabited region of Europe, but those were the very conditions that appealed to vampire demons. A person had only to spend an hour in Hell, let alone hundreds of years, to appreciate the cold and snow of this Arctic wilderness. Plus, lack of neighbors was an asset for the type of activities Lucipires engaged in, not the least of which was torture. Welcome Wagon would have to be pulled by a dogsled here.

Of course, the long period of polar nights also led to what was commonly known as Land of the Midnight Sun, days and days of nothing but sunshine. The Lucipires relocated during those times or stayed in the windowless dungeons.

Jasper’s band of Lucipires had been almost totally annihilated by those damnable Viking vampire angels following the Sin Cruise, one of his most creative projects, if he did say so himself, even though it had failed. If that hadn’t been bad enough, their cave headquarters had been destroyed by St. Michael the Archangel himself, Jasper’s most hated enemy.

The Lucipires had learned from their mistakes, though. Lucifer, their master, had made sure of that before sending reinforcements to replenish their depleted ranks, which were a thousand strong now, and growing.

Jasper was now forced to work side by side with Heinrich Mann, a former Nazi general who was . . . well, a Nazi about organization. Who ever heard of demons getting orgasmic over spreadsheets and P&L statements, the profits and losses referring to victims? If it were up to Heinrich, their victims would be forced into regiments that goose-stepped, German army–style, to and from their killing jars in the torture chambers.

Jasper had been a Seraphim angel at one time, one of the fallen princes exiled from Heaven along with Lucifer; therefore, he was superior in authority to Heinrich, who was a mere mung demon. However, the casual observer would never know it by the constant interference of the arrogant bastard. Mungs were a species of great size, often seven feet or more, oozing a poisonous mung or slime from every pore.

In addition to the Seraphim demons and the mungs, there were also the prestigious haakai demons, such as the five who were walking into the hall now with great pomp, their magnificent capes trailing behind them. Lucipires were humanoids; they could transform their bodies into any outward appearance they wanted, but their basic form was scaly skin, red eyes, fangs, and sometimes tails. Kneeling next to each of the five chairs were five young, newly turned human girls, naked, with their hair pulled back to expose their necks. Just in case his guests wanted a “beverage.” He knew from personal testing that these five were especially tasty . . . damn sweet.

His haakai commanders bowed first in deference to him as their king before taking assigned seats at the conference table, where brass nameplates spelled out their names and territories.

Finally, accompanying these lords of the Dark Side, came the imps and hordlings, Satan’s foot soldiers. Each commander had a hundred or more serving him . . . mungs, imps, and hordlings. The goal was to increase that number tenfold in the upcoming years. Talk about pressure! It was enough to give a demon ulcers. As it was, he’d taken to popping antacids like PEZs.

“Hector,” Jasper greeted the first of the haakai to come forth. Hector wore the attire of a Roman soldier under his cape, his occupation when he’d been alive. “How are things in Terror?” Terror was the name of the hidden catacombs under the Vatican that Hector used for his Italian headquarters. A classic case of hiding in plain sight.

Hector shrugged. “The catacombs are actually quite comfortable, and many sinners come to Rome, as you know. We can fang them before they have a chance to repent. But all that hymn singing above us is . . . well, annoying. Holy this! Holy that! Praise God ad infinitum!” He rolled his seeping red eyes at Jasper.

Jasper understood completely. Hadn’t he lived for years in a cave in America? Try sleeping to the sound of bat wings fluttering. Lots of bat wings! That’s why he’d chosen to build a castle for himself this time, albeit in the land of glaciers. No bats here. Too cold!

Next up was Haroun al Rashid, the Silk Road merchant who had been responsible for hundreds of slave deaths in his greedy human life. Haroun did the touching of heart, mouth, and above the head form of obeisance to him before saying, “Greetings to you from the Arab lands.” Haroun lived in Torment, a tent city in some remote Afghan region that he’d furnished lavishly to fit his tastes.

“No need to ask you how things are going,” Jasper chuckled. The battlefield was a great harvesting ground for demons.

After that came Yakov, the Russian Cossack who had established a command center in Siberia aptly named Desolation, and Zebulan, the Hebrew warrior, who lived in a honeycombed volcanic ruin on a Greek island called Gloom. Then, there was the only woman in their command group, Dominique Fontaine, a six-foot-tall, black-haired voodoo woman, whose New Orleans mansion, Anguish, had a popular eating establishment and a torture chamber that defied description. To say that Dominique was a repulsive demon was an understatement, even for Jasper. One of Dominique’s passions was snakes. At the moment, she had one of the diamond-headed monsters draped around her neck like a feather boa. Both of them presented impressive fangs. Dominique bowed to him, and he bowed back. Words were unnecessary. He did not like the woman, and she did not like him.

Jasper rapped his gavel on the table as a call to order. It was the femur bone of his very first vampire angel kill eons ago. At the same time his femur gavel hit the wood, his assistant, Beltane, a French hordling, came up to whisper in his ear, “He is here.”

No need to spell out who
he
was. Heinrich liked to arrive late and make a grand entrance. He was dressed in his old Nazi uniform, loaded with medals, his back ramrod stiff. No tail today. Nor was he oozing slime as most mungs did. In fact, he was looking rather dapper with his blond hair parted on one side and slicked smoothly off his face. “
Heil!
” he said, stretching his arm outward toward Jasper, as if he were a frickin’ Hitler, when everyone knew Der Führer was roasting in Satan’s own version of Auschwitz.

News flash, Heinrich. You lost the war.
Jasper nodded to the seat beside him and rapped on the table once again.

“Sorry I was late, everyone, but I was in conference with Luce,” Heinrich told them with an exaggerated grimace of apology. Luce being Lucifer, of course.

What a name-dropper! Jasper seriously considered sticking his gavel up the asshole’s asshole, knobby end first.

“Proceed!” Heinrich waved a hand airily, as if he were in charge of this meeting, and not Jasper. Most mungs were mute; unfortunately, Heinrich was not.
How much trouble would I be in if I amputated his tongue? Hmm.

Jasper bared his teeth at the idiot and hissed. His fangs were so long they almost touched his jaw.

Heinrich glanced over at him and said, “Oops! Did I step on someone’s tail?” Then he pulled a laptop out of his leather shoulder bag and proceeded to tap away at the keys.

What the fuck is he doing now? E-mailing Satan? Holy Hades! Is there wireless in Hell?
Jasper couldn’t allow the mung’s insolence to go unchecked, especially when all the haakai were watching for his reaction to his authority being undermined. “The next time you arrive late,
Heiny
, the doors will be locked to you. I would suggest that you check your attitude before addressing me in future. You will not like the consequences. I’m thinking you would look good with a humpback.”

Jasper turned away then, but not before noticing Heinrich’s appearance begin to revert. His pretty Aryan skin was turning red and scaly. Apparently he had no fondness for humpbacks.

Good!

Zebulan, at the other end of the table, grinned with satisfaction. Heinrich hated Zebulan with an unholy passion since he was of Jewish descent. Zebulan suffered no love for the Nazi, either. More than once, the two had tried to fang each other.

“Now, let us hear reports from each of the commanders,” Jasper said, “starting with Dominique.” Let Heinrich try to interrupt
her
and see what happened!

Dominique spoke of all the victims she’d lured to her dungeons by way of her four-star restaurant and she told them with relish about some of the new torture methods she was experimenting with to turn her victims more quickly. Most of them involved snakes.

“So, do you serve snake on your restaurant menu?” Zebulan inquired with a grin.

Dominique licked her fire-red lips with a tongue that would do Gene Simmons proud while giving Zebulan a lascivious once-over. “No,
mon ami
. Just Hebrews.”

They all laughed, even Zebulan.

After that, Jasper turned to Haroun.

“We took a dozen Al-Qaeda members just last week, Lucifer be praised,” Haroun informed him. “And many soldiers of all countries who were at their tipping points for sin. Most important, I am well pleased with the progress we are making in turning Najid bin Osama, who, as you know, is from my territory. It helps that he is the long lost son of Osama bin Laden, one of dozens of his sons, lost or otherwise.”

“And a wonderful job you are doing with him, Haroun.”

“By the by,” Heinrich interrupted, “Satan is having a grand time ‘playing’ with Osama bin Laden down there in his deluxe suite.” Heinrich grinned, which, with his fangs exposed, gave him a most ludicrous expression, like a clown.

Ignoring Heinrich, Jasper addressed Haroun once again. “The havoc Najid is creating worldwide is leading to something special, I presume.”

“Most definitely.” Haroun passed folders to everyone at the table. “September 11 of this year, the anniversary of that most infamous event, we have planned multiple events around the world.”

Everyone skimmed the documents, and various members of the council praised Haroun’s efforts.

“Well done, Haroun! Well done!!” Jasper said, clapping his hands. The others joined in.

After each of the other commanders discussed issues of importance in their territories, with special emphasis on newly killed humans and newly created Lucipires, there was another round of applause. Five hundred and sixteen kills in the past three months! Not bad!

“Master?” Heinrich said then, raising his hand for attention.

Jasper wasn’t fooled by the sudden deference, but he tilted his head in recognition.

“Lucifer has a particular interest in the Special Forces Project that was started recently. Can we hear more about this?”

“Haroun is heading that project, as well.” Jasper sat down and gave the floor to Haroun.

The Arab stood. “As we all know, for many centuries our emphasis has been on increasing our kills and expanding our ranks, part of that through reorganization around the world.” He nodded to others around the table for emphasis. “But then, several months ago, a suggestion was made that we could increase our stature if we were able to add some of the military special forces to our side. Although we don’t have any firm ‘recruits’ yet, there have been ten initial fangings that we intend to follow through on. Two of them are Navy SEALs, two Delta Force, two Mossad, two British SAS, and two Russian Spetsnaz.”

“I thought our goal was to get some vangels in our nets, especially one of the seven VIK. I would love to nab one of those seven brothers.” Yakov, the Russian Cossack, licked his lips at the prospect of such pleasure.

“Wouldn’t we all?” Dominique remarked. “The things I could do with one of The Seven! Pleasure-pain is my specialty, you know.”

Yes, they all knew!

“Aren’t we overextending ourselves a bit?” Zebulan asked.

Jasper could feel Heinrich stiffen beside him. Any opinion the Hebrew extended would be rejected by Heinrich out of hand.

“Wouldn’t we be better off directing our energies where they would be most effective . . . the general population?” Zebulan continued. “Those special forces guys are a breed apart. I mean, they might be wild on occasion, but bravery and fidelity and discipline and all those graces are hard to dilute with a sin taint.”

“We just have to work harder on those fellows,” Heinrich interjected.

Any more interjecting, and Jasper was going to interject something in him. And wasn’t it ironic how Heinrich always said
we
but never managed to exert himself into any significant doing.

“And, by the way, there are female SEALs now, too,” Heinrich interjected, then ducked his head when he realized he’d spoken out of turn again.

“Did you see all the press on those Navy SEALs when they took down Bin Laden? Superheroes turned into demons? I don’t see it happening,” Zebulan argued.

“Zebulan makes a point,” Hector agreed. “We are working hard enough to rebuild our ranks. Why lose momentum now?”

“Because one of those SEALs would count for a dozen, two dozen others,” Heinrich replied. “Imagine what we could turn them into? Super demons.”

There Heinrich went with the
we
business again.

Jasper hated to agree with Heinrich, but he had to in this case, even though he did consider himself super. “We are always on the lookout for the vangels. No matter what other goals we may have, capture or killing of a vangel supersedes everything. But the special forces kills would be almost as good.”

“In a way, the Special Forces Project would be the icing on our devil’s food cake,” Zebulan remarked with droll humor.

Everyone groaned at his joke.

“As I mentioned earlier, our most revered leader, Lucifer, is so impressed with this project that he wants it to be expanded,” Heinrich relayed, more serious now.