Christmas in Transylvania (12 page)

Inga waved a newspaper article at her and read aloud, “
All the movers and shakers in the freedom of expression industry will be there. Multibillion-­dollar investors, movie producers, Internet gurus, actors and actresses, store owners, franchisees—­
”

“Franchisees of what?” Marisa interrupted. “Smut?”

Inga made a tsking sound and continued, “
—­sex toy manufacturers, instructors on DIY home videos—­
”

“What's DIY?” Marisa interrupted again.

“Do it yourself.”

“Oh good Lord!”

“
Martin Vanderfelt—­
”

“A made-­up name if I ever heard one.”

“Please, Marisa, give me a chance.”

Marisa made a motion of zipping her lips.

“
Martin Vanderfelt, the conference organizer, told the
Daily Buzz
reporter, ‘Our aim is to remove the sleaze factor from pornography and gain recognition as a legitimate professional enterprise serving the public. Freedom of Expression. FOE.'
”

Marisa rolled her eyes but said nothing.

“This is the best part. It's being held for one week on a tropical island off the Florida Keys. Grand Keys, a plush special events convention center, offers all the amenities of a four-­star hotel, including indoor and outdoor pools, snorkeling and boating ser­vices, beauty salons and health spas, numerous restaurants with world-­class cuisines, nightclubs, tennis courts—­”

“I'd like to see some of those overendowed porno queens bouncing around on a tennis court,” Marisa had to interject.

Inga smiled.

“I thought they always held the pornography thing every year in Las Vegas.”

“The expo is held there, but that's more for public show. They have booths and stuff and even an awards show like the Oscars. This is more for industry insiders.”

“Inside, all right,” she said with lame humor.

“So cynical! Becky Bliss will be there. You know who she is, don't you?”

Even Marisa knew Becky Bliss. She was the porno princess famous for being able to twerk while on top, having sex. “Are you suggesting we might learn how to do
that
?”

“It wouldn't hurt. Maybe it would enhance your nonexistent sex life.”

“Not like
that
!”

“Okay. Besides, Lance Rocket will be there, too.”

Marisa had no idea who Lance Rocket was, but she could guess.

“Anyhow, this conference isn't for your everyday Joe, the porn aficionado. It costs five thousand dollars to attend. The only access to the island is by water. They expect to see lots of yachts and seaplanes.”

Marisa was vaguely aware of the private islands comprising the Florida Keys: an unbelievable seventeen hundred islands, some inhabited, others little more than mangrove and limestone masses. The islands lie along the Florida Straits dividing the Atlantic Ocean from the Gulf of Mexico.

“Okay, I give up. Why would you or I even consider something like this? Oh my God! You're not suggesting I make porno films to raise money for Izzie, are you?”

“Of course not. Look. This article says they're looking to hire employees for up to two weeks at above-­scale wages, all expenses paid, including transportation. Everything from waiters and waitresses to beauticians to diving instructors . . . even a doctor and nurse. Waiters and waitresses can expect to earn at least ten thousand dollars, and that doesn't include tips, which could add another twenty K or more. Upper-­scale professions, much more.”

“Why would a hotel have to hire so many employees for just one event? Wouldn't they have a staff in place?”

“The company that owns the island went bankrupt last year, and the property is in foreclosure. In the meantime, until it is sold, the bank rents it out at an exorbitant amount. You know how abandoned properties deteriorate or get vandalized. Plus, the bank probably hopes one of the wealthy dudes or dudettes who attend this thing might fall in love with the place.”

“You know an awful lot about Grand Keys Island.”

Inga shrugged. “I checked it out on the Internet. Hey, here's an idea. You could even work as a massage therapist. Betcha lots of these porno stars need to work out the kinks. The
big
ones would leave hundred-­dollar tips.” She grinned impishly at Marisa.

Marisa couldn't be offended at Inga's teasing her about the popular misconception of professional masseurs and masseuses. “Kinks . . . that about says it all. Pfff! Can you imagine what they would expect of a massage therapist at one of these events?” She lowered her voice to a deep baritone and added, “ ‘My shoulders are really tight, honey, and while you're at it, check out down yonder.' ”

Inga laughed. “I'm just saying. If you worked as many hours there, let's say double shifting between waitressing and therapy, you might very well earn close to thirty thousand dollars. In less than two weeks! When opportunity comes down the street, honey, jump on the bus.”

“You say opportunity, I say bad idea. Honestly, Inga, I can't see us doing something like this.”

“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.”

 

New to Sandra's Vangels?

Find out where it all began!

Read on for a look at

KISS OF PRIDE

the first Deadly Angels novel!

Available now in print and ebook from Avon Books.

 

Prologue

Long ago in the icy North . . .

O
UT OF THE
barren glaciers and snowcapped mountains, fjords emerged like shimmering snakes, and a god-­like race was created.

Tall men with glorious features. Strength to survive the harsh climate. Wicked smiles to lure women to their frigid lairs. Superb lovemaking talents perfected over long winter nights. Brave fighting skills to defend their homeland.

These seafaring warriors came to be called Vikings.

And God was pleased. Some said these Men of the North were like angels on earth (which really annoyed some angels Up There).

For three hundred years they reigned, until God realized how arrogant and bloodthirsty they had become, not to mention their worshipping false gods, like Odin and Thor. Then, one Viking family displeased Him mightily. The Sigurdssons. Not only did Sigurd the Vicious participate in the infamous raid on Lindisfarne, a Saxon monastery, but his seven sons offended God by each committing one of the seven deadly sins in a most heinous manner.

Lust. Gluttony. Greed. Sloth. Wrath. Envy. Pride.

“I am deeply disappointed in the Vikings. I made them proud examples of a favored race.” Lightning bolts shot from God's hands, which He raised on high, and the clouds wept.

“Michael!” God called out, and immediately appeared the Archangel Michael, feathers flying as he rushed to His side.

Without words, Michael could see down below to what had so offended his Lord. “Tsk, tsk!” was the best he could come up with.

“Let it be known henceforth that the Viking race, male and female, will fade into extinction. Furthermore, for their wickedness, these seven sinners are condemned to Hell for all eternity. Take care of it for me.”

St. Michael, who was the patron of warriors everywhere, decided to intercede on their behalf, despite his having no liking for the full-­of-­themselves Norsemen. “I agree that these Sigurdsson men have gone too far, but maybe they would change if given a second chance. On the other hand . . .” Already he was wishing he had bitten his angelic tongue.

Still, he reminded God that Sigurd was the seventh son of a seventh son and that Sigurd in turn begat seven sons of his own. Ivak, Trond, Vikar, Harek, Sigurd, Cnut, and Mordr. Seven was a
number of import in holy circles, sacred and magical.

“I am touched by your plea, Michael, but this family has to be punished. After all, I banished Adam from the Garden of Eden for a much lesser sin.”

Michael bowed his head, waiting for his orders.

After much thought, God proclaimed, “This I say unto you, the Viking race will dwindle off into nonexistence, but not by death. No, they will blend into other cultures, losing their identity. Their pride is too great to stand alone. Hereafter, no one will worship Norse gods ever again.”

“As you say, Lord.” Michael paused before asking, “And the seven Sigurdsson sons?”

“These seven sinners must prove themselves sevenfold. By sins they were judged, by grace they will be saved. For seven hundred years, they must roam the earth doing good works. If they fail, Satan may have them for his unholy domain.”

“Shall they be priests, or missionaries?”

“No, that would be too obvious. And too easy.”

And then Michael knew.

Satan had recently delegated his comrade-­in-­rebellion Jasper to unleash on the earth creatures of the most evil nature. Lucipires . . . Lucifer's vampires. These vultures fed on human souls, no longer allowing free will to play itself out. Instead, they swooped in before a sinner had a chance to repent, thus ensuring a hellish eternity. Why couldn't good vampires be created to save those prey to the dark legions before they did their unholy work?

God loved Michael's idea. “You will head this enterprise. Viking vampire angels. Well, not really angels. More like angels-­in-­training.”

The archangel gasped with horror at his mistake. “Oh, not me, Lord. I have to help St. Peter repair the Pearly Gates. And Noah is building another ark. We have no room to put another ark. And those hippos! Phew!”

God frowned.

Michael sank to his knees and nodded his head in assent.

God's frown was a frightful thing, like a lash to the soul. Besides, Michael was the one who had cast Lucifer, the fallen angel now known as Satan, from Heaven. But then God's expression softened. After all, Michael was one of His favorites. “Who better than you to lead these angelic vampire soldiers?” God asked softly.

Angelic? Vampires being angelic? Hah! And Vikings? Really, Vikings being angelic? Hah!

Michael rolled his eyes and wished he had kept his mouth shut.

Thy will be done . . .

Thus was born in the year 850 a band of Viking vampires, a mere two hundred or so years from the time when the Northmen would begin to disappear from the earth. These vampires, known as the VIK, were different from any other vampires because they were made by God.

Some said they were fallen angels . . . the darkest of all God's angels.

Others said they were God's sign of hope for all mankind. Redemption.

The Sigurdsson brothers, who were thereafter referred to as The Seven, or the VIK, thought they were God's joke on the world.

They were all right.

And then he saw the light . . .

Vikar awoke, as if from a deep sleep. The air was still around him, and he was alone on a vast plain with not a tree or fjord in sight. The skies were dark as pitch.

It felt as if every bone in his body was shattered when he slowly sat up. Glancing downward, he realized that he was naked.

Not even his trusted sword Death Flame was at hand.

With what must be hysterical irrelevance, he noted that Death Flame was a highly prized damascened sword made by the pattern-­welded process with two different colored metals twisted and refired over and over until the final blade had a design on it. In his case, flames.

What
was
relevant was that the sword was worth a fortune. He never went anywhere without it.

But wait. There was a light approaching. A light so bright he was blinded for a moment. Then the blaze of light faded to a shimmering glow, especially about the head of the most glorious-­looking creature. A man, about his height, but beauteous of features. He wore a long, white, belted robe, but even so Vikar could see he was built like a warrior . . . a warrior with the face of an angel.

That should have been a clue, but betimes Vikar was thickheaded.

“Who are you? Declare yourself,” he demanded, though he felt foolish giving orders when he was naked and weaponless.

The man did not answer, but there was a flutter near his back.

Oh my gods! Wings. Massive white wings.
Now that he looked closer, he could see that the shimmery light had settled about the man's head like a halo.

It really was an angel.

“I must be dead, then,” he murmured, accompanied by a few Norse expletives.

“Not quite,” the angel replied, “and if I were you, I would watch thy mouth.”

“Chastened by an angel? Ha, ha, ha! Where are my seventy virgin Valkyries to welcome me to Valhalla?”

“I told you, Viking. You are not dead yet. And besides, there will be no virgins where you are headed.”

Uh-­oh!
“Who
are
you?” He deliberately toned down his belligerence. A good soldier knew when to pick his battles.

“St. Michael.”

Although he worshipped Viking gods when it suited his purposes, Vikar had been baptized in the Chris­tian church . . . a convenience practiced by many Norsemen traveling to far lands. As a result, he knew a little about the One-­God and His followers. “The archangel?”

The angel nodded. “Some call me St. Michael the Archangel.”

“Slay any dragons lately?” Vikar quipped.

The angel did not smile. “St. George does all the dragon slaying these days.”

“Oops! So what are you slaying? Toads?”

“Best you ponder your fate, Viking, instead of making jests.”

No sense of humor.
If Vikar could laugh at this horrible situation, why couldn't the angel? But then he had no idea what his situation was. Frowning, he tried to imagine what had happened.

“Think, Viking,” Michael said, as if he could read his mind.

Hmm. I better not insult him in my thoughts.
“Last I recall, I was in the midst of a
holmganga
. That is a form of duel fought on a cloak. Whoever steps off the garment is considered a coward. Whoever wins such a fight to death gets all of the loser's property, including his women.”

Michael made a snorting sound of disgust. “You cared only about Jarl Gaut's comely wife, whom you wanted to add to your many concubines.”

Vikar shifted uneasily from hip to hip. In truth, he had realized just before the duel began that Bera was newly wed to Gaut and fancied herself in love, but by then his pride was great. He could not withdraw the challenge. Besides, a little tupping never hurt any woman, even if she was marriage-­bound to another.

“Can you hear yourself? Do you honestly dare to justify your actions thus?” Then more softly, Michael added, “You were not always so black-­hearted.”

Suddenly, into Vikar's mind came an image of his first wife, Vendela. It was their wedding ceremony. She had been fifteen to his seventeen. Sixteen years back, it had been. And what a joyous occasion! He a smitten, newly blooded warrior, and she with adoration in her clear blue, virginal eyes as they stood under the bridal canopy.

“Your heart was pure then, Viking.” With a wave of the angel's hand, a new image came into Vikar's mind. Vendela again, but now she was twenty-­five, as he'd seen her last. With eyes closed, her face and body lay battered on the rocks below Lodi's Leap, the salt cliff.

Horror filled him, even now after five years. “Why would she take her own life?”

“Can you possibly be that thickheaded? You put Vendela aside for your viperous new wife, Princess Halldora.”

The daughter of King Ormsson from Norsemandy was indeed aspish on occasion, but seductive beyond compare. She had insisted that no other wives be in his keep afore speaking her vows, and he had been obsessed with her at the time. Even so . . . “I would have given Vendela her own steading at the far reaches of my estate. There was no shame in that,” he defended himself. “She should have seen the esteem such an alliance would give my name.”

“Thoughtless man!” the angel said with a shake of his head.

Tears burned his eyes and almost overflowed. He could not remember the last time he had wept, if ever.
Oh, Vendela! I am so sorry.
But immediately he shook such weak thoughts away.

The angel waved his hand again, and a new mind picture came to Vikar.

His grand home at Wolfstead. A palace, many said with awe. No wood fortress had been good enough for him. No, with the wealth amassed from his amber trading, along with a-­Viking for plunder, he'd insisted on a stone edifice, three floors high, with tapestries and finely carved furniture from far lands. All a monument to his success.

“A monument to your vanity,” Michael scoffed.

The picture in his mind changed. The stone castle dripped with blood, and he saw clearly the ten men who had died in the two years it had taken to build the structure.

He sensed where this was going. The angel meant to guilt him. “They were mere thralls. Slaves' lives do not matter.”

“Can you hear yourself, Viking?” Michael repeated, gazing at him with sadness. “I do not know what I was thinking when I pleaded your case. You are a lost cause.”

“I am not,” he argued, though for what he was not sure.

As if by magic, that Wolfstead vision was replaced with his most recent memory. Was it only this morn? A blood-­soaked cloak and a screaming female voice just before the heavens opened with raging thunder and lightning as he'd never witnessed before.

Had he offended Thor, god of thunder? He glanced up at the frowning angel.

“There is only one God,” the angel roared.

He flinched, but then he straightened. If death was his fate, he would face it boldly.

“I went to God, fool that I am, asking that He give you another chance,” the angel told him.

Vikar brightened. Not death, then? “What would you . . . He have me do?”

“For your sins . . . and they are grievous . . . you will do penance sevenfold. For seven hundred years, you will do my bidding against the armies of Jasper.”

“Jasper? Never heard of him. Is he a Saxon?”

Ignoring his question, the angel went on, “I will be the
hersir
of your soul.”

The chieftain of my soul? Pfff!
“Seven hundred years!” he exclaimed with outrage, but then an idea came to him of a sudden. “I would live for seven hundred years?”

“Sort of.”

That sounded like a trap to Vikar. “And the alternative would be . . . ?”

“The fires of Hell for all eternity.”

Well, that was certainly blunt. And he did so hate the thought of burning flesh, especially his own. “I agree,” he said without hesitation, especially when a brief image flicked in his brain of a fiery pit with screaming creatures that must once have been humans.

The angel almost smiled. It was not a nice almost-­smile. “Do you not want to know in what capacity you shall serve?”

Vikar waved a hand blithely. Seven hundred years was a very long time, but eternity in that fiery pit was unimaginable. “It matters not.” He assumed he would be a warrior in some land of the angel's choosing. Perchance even a warrior angel.

“So be it!” Michael raised both hands on high, causing his wings to flutter and feathers to fly on a sudden breeze.

Then the most ungodly pain hit Vikar's face. It felt as if his jaw was breaking and all his teeth were being yanked out, one at a time. And on his back, a sharp object appeared to be hacking at his shoulder blades. When it was over, he found himself lying on the ground, felled with agony. As he rose to his knees, he glanced up at the angel with a mixture of anger and inquiry, but the angel said nothing.