The Norse King’s Daughter (30 page)

She made a snarling sound and was already digging into a briefcase-style purse the size of a boar’s behind. As she bent forward, he relished the sight of her reddish-blonde hair falling forward out of the knot at her nape. He also relished the sight of the cleavage exposed under her flimsy upper garment, a wisp of flesh-toned silk and lace. Immature? No doubt. But when a Norseman had been celibate for a hundred years, he got his kicks wherever he could.

“Ah, here it is.” She held up a pocket-sized canister that might fell a dwarf, but not a man his size, and certainly not one with his supernatural composition.

He tried but failed to hide his grin. “Blow away, but the only effect it will have is to make me sneeze. You do not want to see a vampire angel in a sneezing fit. Last time, my fangs turned my lower lip into bloody pulp, and feathers flew everywhere.” That was not quite true, his not being winged yet, but exaggeration was a God-given Viking prerogative, in his opinion.

“Angel?” she scoffed. “First you’re a vampire. Now an angel. I can’t wait to hear what else you claim to be.”

“Viking.”

“Huh?”

“I’m a Viking vampire angel. A vangel. My brothers and I, Viking to the bone, are called the VIK, leaders of the vangels.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Are journalists usually so cynical and . . . discourteous?”

She blushed. “No. Let’s start over here. I’m Alexandra Kelly,
World Gazette
magazine.” She extended her hand toward him.

“And I am Vikar Sigurdsson.” He shook her hand, but only lightly, fearing a recurrence of the current that flowed betwixt them. “I mean you no harm, that I do swear.” He placed a hand over his heart for emphasis.

She studied him for a moment, then set her canister on the desk that was piled high with bills and account books and wallpaper samples, a Bible, and two empty bottles of Fake-O. Cobwebs hung from every corner. Mr. Clean, he was not.

Apparently she’d decided he was no longer a threat. How humbling was that for a fierce Viking warrior? But then humility was part of his ongoing penance.

“How come you’re being so open now, when a few minutes ago you were refusing my interview?”

“Because I saw the fang marks on your neck.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Enough! There was no way to convince this woman that he needed to suck out a bit of her blood to test for a demon infection. No quick way, leastways. And time was of the essence.

So, with a speed faster than any human could comprehend, he grasped both her wrists and held them behind her back with one of his hands, his hips propelled her back against the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and his other hand grasped her chin, forcing it to the side so that her neck lay open to him. With a reflexive hiss of anticipation, he sank his teeth into her skin where she’d already been bitten.

He’d done this hundreds of time before. He could do it in his sleep. He could do it and recite the
Poetic Edda
in his head. He could be cool, calm, and as collected as any Viking vampire angel in the midst of a fanging. But this was different, he recognized instantly.

The taste of her washed over him like a tidal wave. His cock shot up without warning and went lance hard without any forewarning. It was a thickening so exquisitely orgasmic that he felt his knees begin to buckle.

Jerking backward, he released his hold on her and put the back of his hand to his mouth, rubbing. Staggering to the other side of the desk, he plopped down to the swivel chair to hide the continuing erection that tented his shorts, the thigh-length
braies
men wore in the summer months.

At the same time, she appeared more stunned than angry, although the anger was sure to come. Gingerly picking up a dirty tunic from another chair, she dropped it to the floor before sitting down to stare across the desk at him.

“Who
are
you?” they both asked at the same time.

Was that arousal hazing her green eyes? Was she feeling as shocked as he was? And why, after being dead for one thousand and sixty-two years, was he being sucker-punched with this kind of temptation?

Mike
, he immediately thought. St. Michael the Archangel, their heavenly mentor.

On the other hand, what if the fiendish Jasper, head of all the demon vampires, had a hand in this? What if this strawberry-blonde vision was actually a Lucipire? Hmmm. He would have to tread carefully. At least the pole between his legs was unthickening.

“I am Vikar Sigurdsson,” he repeated. “I am the owner . . . um, developer of this property.” A seventy-five-room, run-down castle built by a coal baron in the Pennsylvania hills. Well, ’twas true. To a point. He was developing . . . something.

“And a vampire?”

The smirk on her face was not pleasing to him. Not at all.

Still, he advised himself, tread carefully. “Not precisely. The word
vampire
implies dark. Evil. I am neither of those.”

She arched her pretty reddish-blonde brows in question.

“I am a Viking vampire angel. A vangel, to be precise.”

“Do you have wings?” The snide tone to her voice betrayed her disbelief, but she must have realized how impolite she sounded for a person requesting a favor . . . an interview. “Sorry. Sometimes I have trouble suspending disbelief. Let me rephrase that. Do you have wings, Lord Vikar?” This time she asked the question without mockery.

“Not yet.”

“Seriously, what’s going on here?”

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

“Try me.”

“Are you a Lucipire?” he blurted out.

“Huh? No. I already told you my name is Alex.”

“Lucipire is the name for one of Lucifer’s vampires. You know, fires of hell, burn and sizzle, and all that.”

“Sizzle? Hah! Don’t blame me for this sizzle between us. I didn’t create this fire. That’s your magic crap.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, realizing how once again she’d failed to rein in her tongue.

But sizzle? She feels the sizzle, too. Her blood is on fire for me. Oh, I am in big trouble
. “Lucipire. L. U. C. I. P. I. R. E. One word.”

Her face turned a lovely shade of beet.

“A demon vampire.”

She rolled her eyes. “You people in this town really do take this whole vampire charade a bit too far. I understand why. The tourist attraction and all that. But I’m not writing a promo piece for you in my magazine. If you’re not going to be straight with me, you’re wasting both our time. And, frankly, I don’t appreciate your biting me, either.” She put a hand to the bite mark on her neck, but the way she rubbed it was almost a caress.

Which caused the air to crackle again and ripples of electricity to shoot right to . . .

Down, thickening! Down!

All right, so maybe she wasn’t in league with the devil. But how much information could he trust her with? On the other hand, she said Mike had sent her. Besides, there wasn’t any way he could let her leave after having tasted her blood. She’d definitely been infected. He had work to do on her if she was to be saved.

“You’ve been bitten by a Lucipire, not a mosquito. That’s why I had to sample your blood, to evaluate the extent of your infection.”

“Oh, please . . .” she started to say.

He held up a halting hand. “The Lucie must have been interrupted in the midst of feeding on you.” He tilted his head in question at her.

“The Yoders’ dog did start barking wildly, now that you mention it. I slapped a hand at my neck at the same time I heard Mr. Yoder walking down the hall to call the dog in. But it was a mosquito,” she insisted, “not some dumb-ass devil bloodsucker.”

She is going to have to do something about her language before Mike gets here.
“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

The warrior in him recognized that ’twas best to surprise the enemy with a sudden attack. Not that she was his enemy. So he launched his big question point-blank: “What big sin have you committed?”

“What?” That question certainly got her attention and caught her unawares, as he’d planned.

“You are clearly in a state of mortal sin.”

“How dare you make such a personal statement about me, a perfect stranger?”

“The Lucipires only attack those who have committed some grave sin, or are contemplating such.” Plus, the sin-scent teased his enhanced sense of smell, as well.

“Oh.” That one word said it all, guilt personified, along with another beet blush.

So, the sin has not yet been committed. That is good. Although even the small amount of demon infection is already heightening her temptation to evil.
He tented his fingers in front of his face, his two forefingers resting on his forehead. Finally he came to a conclusion.

“You have to tell me everything so that I can save you,” he said.

“Save me?” she sputtered. “Like you’re my guardian angel?”

“So to speak,” he agreed. Time enough to explain later.

“That’s it. I’m out of here.” She stood and walked to the door. When she tried the doorknob, it was, of course, locked. “Unlock. This. Door.” She glared at him over her shoulder.

“Sorry, m’lady, but you are going nowhere.”

She gasped. “You’d force me to stay?”

He shrugged. “I prefer to say you are the first guest of the Hotel Transylvania.”

“Are you people escapees from a mental hospital? Is this the vampire version of
One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest
? Am I going to see Jack Nicholson popping out of the woodwork with an axe in hand like he did in
The Shining
?”

She was going to see an axe or two, that was certain. Battle-axes. Lots of them. Along with swords. Maces. And any number of modern weapons, including his favorite Sig pistol. But he did not need to inform her of that just yet.

“Aren’t you a little old for these kinds of silly games? How old are you anyway?”

“You do not want to know.”

“Which means you’re older than you look. Let me guess. That’s a weave you’re wearing to hide your receding hairline. And they say women are vain about their appearance!”

He hated that she’d hit his sin right on its unruly head. Vanity, ever his downfall! Still, he attempted to defend himself. “I shaved my head one time so I could avoid the sin of pride. Mike made it grow back even better. He said cloistered virtue was no virtue at all.”

“The poet John Milton was the one who said that.”

“He did? Wait ’til I tell Mike about stealing someone else’s quote.”

“Who’s Mike?”

Would you believe St. Michael the Archangel?

“Saint . . . I mean, Mike Archer. My . . . uh, agent.”

“And he told you not to shave your head?”

“I have a thing about hair.” He shrugged.

She went on to discuss just about everything that was wrong with the male gender, from plagiarism, to comb-overs, to infidelity, to sex obsessions, to selfishness. On and on she went, lumping him in with the worst.

He let her vent for a while longer, then asked politely, “I don’t suppose you know how to cook? We have a side of beef in the kitchen that we got from a local Amish farmer, and our cook has not yet arrived. No one knows how to cook it without building a fire, and that would surely ruin the new floor tile.” He was teasing, of course, just wanting to stop her tirade.

She told him to do something to himself that he knew for a fact was physically impossible. “I take that for a no.”

“Correction. That would be: Hell, no!”

“We don’t mention that place here.”

She gave him a look, the one women have perfected over time that essentially said of their menfolk,
Dumb dolt!

He widened his eyes with innocence, pretending not to understand.

“I need a drink. A dirty martini would go over great about now. Even a Bloody Mary, minus the blood. I don’t suppose you vampires have any alcohol?”

“M’lady! We are Vikings. We practically invented beer.”

“Angels who drink beer,” she muttered as she followed him out of the office. “And vampires, besides. I suppose you only suck on beer-sodden alcoholics.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” he said. “You have much to learn, wench. Much!”

He wondered if her obvious sense of humor would be intact after a day or two in VIK land.