Kiss of Surrender (9 page)

“And lucky me that I get to suffer for your sins . . . as well as mine.” Karl, who was done and bent over panting for breath, referred to his being assigned with Trond to Navy SEAL duty.

Trond felt a little guilty then for all his griping. Just a little. This
was
the most exercise he’d ever had in all his misbegotten life.

They were alternately freezing cold from the icy Pacific water, then hot from the blistering Pacific sun. And all the time, they were covered, head to toe, and inside every body orifice, with sand. They spit sand, they ate sand, and, some even claimed, they pissed sand. Add to that mix, bone-deep pain and exhaustion.

They’d started this particular day at dawn with a favorite SEAL torture known as Surf Appreciation. The Marquis de Sade, whom Trond had met one time with much displeasure, would be impressed at this assignment where several dozen trainees sat in water up to their shoulders, arms linked, as waves crashed over them. Then they were ordered to make “sugar cookies” . . . in other words, roll their wet bodies in the sand. And all that was preliminary to a short five-mile run in heavy boondockers along the beach. Followed by Volcanoes. Another idiotic rotation that called for a bunch of grown men to stand together in a tight cluster and toss sand in the air so that it would land on their sweat-sticky bodies.

All the time, the instructors were shouting out various inanities. Instructors always hollered, they never spoke in a normal tone of voice.

“The only easy day was yesterday!”

“There is no I in team!”

“You look like a gaggle of monkeys trying to fuck a hairy football!”

“Mind over matter, boys! We don’t mind! You don’t matter!”

“Haul ass! Bust ass! Get a move on it, assholes!”

“Work it out, maggots!”

“Embrace the suck!”

He had a few Old Norse sayings he would like to deliver to some of these instructors involving swords and dark places to sheathe them, but not wanting to do another bout of Gig Squad on a Saturday, decided to save the wisdom for later.

Now, it was almost noon—heaven be praised!—and their class was working out on the grinder, one last run through the O-course. They’d already finished the Skyscraper, the Slide for Life, the Wall, the Cargo Net, the Spider Wall, Parallel Bars, the Tower, and the Dirty Name.

“Stand easy,
boys
,” called out the instructor, who was several years younger than Trond and would have had his tongue lopped off for such an insult back in Viking times. “That’s it for today.” He could have complimented them for a job well done, but no, pain was expected of them all, nothing to garner praise or commiseration. If he heard one more instructor say, “Pain is your friend,” he might just hurl the contents of his belly, or hurt someone.

Just then, Trond noticed a man leaning against the fence watching him. His muscular body was covered with cargo shorts, a plain black T-shirt, white socks rolled over to the tops of his boondockers, and a brimmed San Diego Chargers cap over shoulder-length blond hair.

“I’m going to the chow hall,” Karl remarked from his side. “You coming?”

“Later,” Trond said, waving Karl on, still concentrating on the stranger who began to walk—no, swagger—toward him. An odd, mystical connection seemed to shimmer between them, the closer the man got. Two things became apparent to Trond then. The man was a SEAL, and he was a Viking. But something more, something not normal, in the same way that Trond was not normal. Or different.

“Who the fuck are you?” Trond inquired in Old Norse. And, yes, Vikings had known that ancient Anglo-Saxon expletive. The whole ancient world had, for that matter.

The man grinned and responded, in Old Norse, of course. “Better question. Who the fuck are you?”

The man was not a threat to him, Trond sensed immediately. He did not have a Lucie aura about him, either.

He grinned back at the man, extending a hand in greeting. “Trond Sigurdsson, but everyone here calls me Easy.”

“Torolf Magnusson, but everyone here calls me Max.” The man appeared to be a few years older than Trond’s twenty-nine years. “Where you from, Easy?”

“The Norselands.”

“Ah. Me too.” Max eyed him suspiciously.

This has to be the first time I’ve mentioned the Norselands to anyone and not had them say, “Huh?”
He eyed Max back just as suspiciously.

“This might sound like a dumb question, or might not,” Max said. “What year were you born?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Actually, I would.”

Uh-oh!

“I sense . . . I have a feeling . . . oh hell! I’m taking a gamble here by telling you this, but a number of the guys here already know . . .” Max hesitated, then revealed, “I was born in the year 984 and left the Norselands with my father and eight brothers and sisters in the year 1000 when I was sixteen years old, leaving a brother Ragnor and sister Madrene behind at Norstead.”

“Norstead! I know where that is.”

“Really? You’ll have to tell me more. Later. Back to how my family got here. We arrived in America in the year 2003. Ragnor and Madrene followed us here later.”

Trond’s jaw dropped as he tried to assimilate all that Max had told him. There were so many questions. At one time, he would have said there was no such thing as time travel, but he’d learned the hard way that anything was possible. “Are you vangels?”

“Huh?”

That answers that question.
“Are you human?”

“Uh, what else would we be?”

If you only knew!
“You age like a human?”

“I
am
a human. Aren’t you?”

Trond waved a hand dismissively. “You were picked up in one time period and landed in another? You’ve been here eight years? And you’re a Navy SEAL?”

Max nodded, hesitantly.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you willingly—I assume it is willingly—undergo the torture to become a Navy SEAL?”

Max grinned at his homing in on the most irrelevant of what he’d told him. “Seemed logical at the time. Vikings, SEALs, same thing, really. We both love the water, ships, fighting, drinking, sex . . .” He let his words trail off and winked, as if they shared a joke.

They did, except that the joke was on Trond.

Trond knew he’d have to answer Max’s questions soon or he’d have both him and Nicole riding his ass. Nice thought, that, he mused with what was probably hysterical irrelevance.
Oh crap! Is Max yet another SEAL I must save? No, there’s no sin scent. No Lucie scent, either. Much more sniffing and people will think I’m one of those drug-inhaling addicts. Like I need another sin to add to my inventory!

“You find me amusing?”

Trond shook his head. “No, it’s our situation that is amusing, and you will soon realize why.”

“Cut to the chase, dude. The commander wants to see you ASAP, and we’re wasting time here. Are you a time traveler, too?”

“Sort of. I was born in the year 821, and I died in the year 850. Yes,
died
. Since then, for one thousand, one hundred, and sixty-three years I have been bouncing around through all the time periods, back and forth, like a demented rabbit, on various missions.”

“And you stay the same age?”

He nodded.

“Awesome!”

Trond wasn’t sure how “awesome” it was to live on, and on, and on, or to have fangs, or to be forbidden some of life’s greatest pleasures, like rampant sex. “I will be staying in present time from now on.”

“And still staying the same age as the years go on?”

“Yes.”

“Awesome!” Then he seemed to think of something. “Missions . . . you mentioned missions. For whom? Holy Thor! You haven’t infiltrated the SEALs for some tango warlord, have you? If so, I’m gonna have to kill you, buddy.”

Not gonna happen. In fact, can’t happen.
“My overlord is no tango.”

“Are you working for Najid?”

“Who?”

“Najid bin Osama.”

“No, I work for . . . uh, a guy named Mike.” That’s all he would say, for now.

Max narrowed his eyes at him. “But you are here on a mission, aren’t you?”

Trond hesitated, then admitted, “I am.”

“Fuck! Double fuck! I don’t know what to do now. The CO wants you involved in an upcoming SEAL operation, but I can’t in good conscience allow that until I know more about you and why you’re here.”

Trond put a hand on his arm. “Trust me. I suspect you and I are puppets whose strings are being pulled by the same master.”

Max frowned. “Uncle Sam?”

Trond laughed. Looking up toward the sky, he said, “A higher authority than that.”

“Good Lord!”

“Precisely.”

Max was clearly unconvinced and confused. “Wait a minute. You asked me before if I was a vangel. What the hell’s a vangel? Don’t tell me, you’re a bloody angel? Ha, ha, ha!”

You got the bloody part right.
“Um.”

“
What?
You can’t be serious. A Viking angel?” Max hooted with mirth, slapping a hand on his thigh with delight at the idea.

“Better than that,” Trond revealed. “A Viking vampire angel.” Turning so that only Max could see, he flashed his fangs at him.

Max jerked back with surprise. If he weren’t a Viking, he probably would have pissed his pants, the reaction vangels often got. As it was, all Max said was “Awesome!”

Eight

Some women have a taste for pigs . . .

N
icole shouldn’t have been watching the doorway for Trond, but she was. Darn it! What was it about women and gay men? Women knew they couldn’t change them, and yet there was this innate urge to try. Especially when they were so sinfully good-looking.

To her embarrassment, Marie had to nudge her a time or two to pay attention.

Finally, after forty-two minutes, not that she was keeping a precise count, Max returned to the command center with Trond, and the two of them looked like long-lost pals. Not gay pals—Max was married—just birds-of-a-feather, swaggering, SEAL-type buddies. Plus, they were both of Norse origin, she recalled. Who could figure out male bonding?

Trond must have been working out all morning. He was wet and sandy and badly bruised on one cheek and a forearm. Perspiration soaked his T-shirt and shorts. Despite all that, he looked healthy and downright virile.

He spotted her then, and their eyes connected. For only a second. But it was a powerful second. She felt as if he’d zapped her with some erotic shock, just by gazing at her. Then she noticed the odd expression on his face, and she realized that he was equally affected by this strange attraction between them.

Holy moly! Maybe I’m going to be the first woman in history to turn a gay guy?

No, no, no! I am not getting involved with him.

Why not?

I can’t believe I’m arguing with myself.

You haven’t had sex in a year, and that one time didn’t really count. A year and a half would be more accurate. A one-night stand with a sailor suffering predeployment performance issues does not equal good sex.

I want a low-maintenance guy this time. Trond Sigurdsson would not be low-maintenance. He would demand too much. Expect to be catered to. Too much work.

Yeah, but the rewards!

“Tassy!” Marie hissed into her ear. “You’re drooling.”

Nicole felt her face flame. Luckily no one else noticed since the commander was addressing Trond. “Captain Sigurdsson, has Lieutenant Magnusson brought you up to speed on what we have planned?”

“Briefly, sir.”

“Are you interested in joining our effort?”

As a visiting elite force member, not an actual SEAL, Trond did have a choice. “Definitely, sir. As you’re no doubt aware, Pashto and Dari are the two primary languages spoken in Afghanistan. Mostly Dari. But the Turkish language is also prevalent, Uzbek and Turkmen, along with other languages, like Baluchi, Pashai, and Nuristani.”

Okay, that’s impressive. I have to give him credit for having a brain, darn it.

“In other words, we won’t know till we get there what language or dialect is being spoken in the drop area,” the commander concluded with an exhale of disgust.

“Correct,” Trond said, “but if we look at a map of our insertion place, we can make an educated guess . . . subject to change, of course.”

“And that’s where your expertise would be invaluable,” the commander commented.

Trond gave a nod of thanks at the compliment. “There’s another thing, though.” He paused and wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of a forearm. He and Max were still standing near the closed door. “My Jaeger comrade who came here with me, Karl Mortenssen, is just as adept at languages as I am, possibly better. I would respectfully suggest that you add him to this team, as well.”

“We’ll consider it,” the commander said. “Is your participation conditional on our accepting Mortenssen?”

“No. I’m in, regardless, but it would be a lost opportunity for you . . . in my opinion, of course . . . not to utilize all the talent available. Sir,” he added at the last.

“As I said, we’ll consider it and let you know shortly. We’ll catch you up later on what you’ve missed this morning after the lunch break, which we’ll take at thirteen hundred. In the meantime, have a seat. Everyone,” he said then to make sure the entire room was paying attention, “relax for a few moments while we set up the daily schedule for the next three weeks. Be prepared to work your asses off.”

Max took his previous seat near the front next to Cage and JAM. For some reason, Nicole was not at all surprised when Trond, on the other hand, walked to the back of the room and sat down beside her. She heard Marie snicker on her other side.

While the commander and Slick were directing Geek on which slides to put up next, Nicole asked Trond in a whisper, “So, is Karl your lover?”

He didn’t flinch at her question, which was rather disappointing. Had she been expecting him to tell her it was all a joke? “Nosy little bird, aren’t you?” A slight grin twitched at his lips as he stared at her mouth.

Was her lipstick smeared? No, she hadn’t had time to put makeup on. Maybe she had dried milk from her breakfast cereal. She licked her lips quickly to make sure.

His grin was full-blown now.

“Cut it out, birdbrain.”

“Huh?”

“Stop looking at my lips,” she said.

Blinking with surprise, he inhaled and exhaled with an odd hissing sound, and blinked several times more.

Crime-in-ey! Was there anything sexier than a guy with almost no hair and eyelashes like silky black fans? It made her wonder about other hair. Like, did he have a sweet Happy Trail veeing down to . . . oh my God! Her mind was out of control. She coughed to clear her throat and barely choked out, “Are you still in the closet?”

“What closet?” Seeing the glower on her face, he concluded, “Oh, you mean is my sexual activity a secret?”

She nodded.

“You could say that,” he said, then muttered something that sounded like “More like nonexistent.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.” She put a hand on his thigh and squeezed in a gesture of reassurance.

“Oh no!” Almost immediately, the front of his shorts tented. He glanced around quickly to see if anyone had noticed, but everyone was busy with their own little conversations, and the commander and Slick were still speaking with Geek as he showed them something on his computer screen.

She jerked her hand back and tried not to look, but it was like watching a car wreck. You couldn’t look away even when you knew you should. Tilting her head in question, she started to ask him to explain, but he beat her to it.

“It’s a miracle!”

Nicole didn’t believe in miracles, and the expression on her face must have told him so.

“Don’t rub the lamp if you don’t want the genie to come out.”

“I did not rub your . . .
lamp
.”

“Well, if it’s not a miracle, maybe some cocks are dumb and blind when it comes to male or female hands,” he surmised, taking her notebook from the floor and setting it on his lap with a decided whack. He was teasing her.

Beware of men with teasing eyes.

“Dumb cock!” she concluded with a shake of her head.

“For sure!” he agreed.

“I think this is all some nefarious charade you’re pulling on me.”

“Nefarious?”

“You’re a liar,” she explained.

“I never lie.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Practically a fact. Mostly a fact. Ninety-nine and seven-eighths percent a fact.”

Despite herself, she laughed.

He turned fully in his seat and smiled, probably thinking her laugh was a signal that all was forgiven . . . or forgotten. Not a chance!

He smiled some more.

Beware of men with smiles.

It was one of those wicked, all-male smiles that women should take as a warning:
Hold on to your panties, baby. The seduction is coming
.

“I have an idea,” he said, tapping his closed lips thoughtfully.

Beware of men with ideas.

“We should get together later and conduct some experiments.”

That unsubtle suggestion was a bucket of cold water on her hot libido.
The lying son of a gun must think I’m stupid or something. First of all, he’s purposefully carrying on this type of conversation in a crowded room, just so I’ll be wary of how I react.

He fluttered those erotic weapons at her some more, this time in a clearly deliberate attempt at exaggeration.

Beware of men with lashes longer than your own.
“Experiments?” she asked, although by now her suspicions were on high alert.

“You know,” he replied, waving a hand toward his notebook-covered crotch, “to see if it really is a miracle. Or—”

Beware of men who are players.

Hah! Two people can play games. Watch your six, sailer. I’m going to uncover your secrets. Just watch me.
“Or?” she asked sweetly.

He just waggled his eyebrows at her, a trick she’d never managed to master herself, not even in front of a mirror.

Beware of men who can move certain body parts at will.
With a bubble of laughter that had several people surrounding them turn to see what was going on, she said, “When pigs fly!”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he replied.

Beware of men who surprise you.
“You’ve seen pigs fly?”

“Sweetling, I’ve been called a pig more than once,” he told her, and on that strange note, he stood and walked up to speak with Max, his erection no longer erect, she noted. He turned at the last moment, though, and winked at her.

All she could think was
Huh?
Immediately followed by
He is no more gay than I am. And I am feeling decidedly nongay at the moment.

In her head, she could swear she heard angel voices sing,
Hallelujah!

And she thought,
Hallelujah, my ass! You are dead meat, Easy. And it is going to be so . . . easy.

Devils to the right of him, devils to the left of him, devils everywhere . . .

Chomping on a ham and Swiss sandwich he’d grabbed from the chow hall, Trond walked back to his room. He had a half hour to do twenty things before returning to the command center for the afternoon planning session, and all of them important. Top of the list, contact the VIK and get them out here ASAP, or at least some of them.

With his free hand, he punched in the programmed number on his cell phone for his brother Mordr and soon filled his brother in on what was happening. Trond and his six brothers were each guilty of one of the Seven Deadly Sins. While Trond’s transgression had been sloth, Mordr’s had been wrath. No wonder, him having been a berserker back in Viking times.

“This mission reeks of Jasper,” he concluded, after outlining all his concerns, “especially that Najid asshole.”

“I agree,” Mordr said. “I’ve seen TV clips of his sudden appearance on the international scene. Reminds me of Rasputin. You know what I mean. You were there with me when we tried to save the Russian bastard, to no avail. The monk could present different personas to different people. Two-faced, he was. And diabolical.”

“Diabolical? Funny you should say that. I watched a short video of one of Najid’s speeches this morning. Is it possible the man might be a Lucie himself?” The hairs on the back of Trond’s neck, what few were left after the last head shaving, stood out in alertness.

“Holy shit! This may be bigger than anything we’ve seen in years.”

That’s what Trond was afraid of. And only him and Karl here to fight what might be legions.

“Listen, I’m in Cuba at the moment. Don’t ask. And, no, I won’t bring you back any cigars. I’ll be there in California tonight, hopefully with a few karls and a dozen other vangels.”

Like ancient Viking society, the VIK was organized below The Seven into jarls, comparable to earls; karls, high but not necessarily of noble standing; ceorls; apprentices; and thralls. Trond and his brothers had been Viking jarls; now they were Viking vampire jarls. Same thing, sort of.

Mordr continued, “I’ll contact the others and see who else is available.”

“Maybe you should just come yourself or with one or two others, for now. Until you get the lay of the land,” Trond suggested.

Mordr agreed and added, “Someone should probably contact Mike, too. Not that he won’t already know. But he likes to be kept in the loop. Remember the time you failed to—”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, let someone else loop him. If he comes here, he’ll dig up more energy-sapping things for me to do.”

Mordr laughed. “Let’s plan on getting together later tonight, after midnight when the base is quiet.”

Trond nodded, a habit he had trouble breaking when on a phone. “You better bring a blood ceorl with you. Karl’s in bad shape, and I’m in need of a feeding myself. It’s been three months since I’ve been able to take blood from a saved human.”

By the time Trond clicked off his phone, he was back at the BQ, where he ran into Karl coming out. No doubt Karl had come back here over the lunch break to sneak a cigarette, although his half day of exercise was over and he could even leave the base. That was, until Trond had volunteered him for this operation, which the commander had approved a short time ago.

He explained to Karl all that was happening.

It was true that Karl was fluent in the Arab languages. In truth, vangels could understand any language in any time period; they had these internal translators, he supposed. Writing the many languages was another thing altogether, something Trond had had centuries to master, while Karl had been a vangel only for a mere forty years.

Karl was as excited as he to go on active duty. If there was anything a Viking loved, even a lazy one like him, it was a good battle.

As they walked together back to the command center, Karl let him know that he was equally enthused about the arrival of a blood ceorl. “Man, I haven’t wanted to say anything, but I am whipped. Any moment, I expect to look in the mirror and see that my skin has not only faded but it’s gone transparent.”

“I wouldn’t have let that happen. You would have fed from me whether you liked it or not.”

Karl’s upper lip curled with distaste but he didn’t argue. Smart guy!

“I should forewarn you,” Trond said as he reached for one of the double doors leading into the command center, “Nicole will be on this mission.”

“And I should worry about that . . . why?”