Kiss of Pride (4 page)

“I have an appointment.”

“That’s what they all say. Sorry.”

“Really, I have an appointment.”

“With whom?”

“Lord Vikar.”

“So you say. And your name is . . . ?”

“Alexandra Kelly from
World Gazette
magazine.”

He ran a forefinger down a list on his clipboard. “Nope. No Alexandra Kelly. Sorry.” He turned and walked away from her.

Now what? She pulled out her cell phone and saw that she had no bars. Swearing beneath her breath, she decided that she’d have to go back to town and call Ben, see if he could clear up the misunderstanding. Turning her car around, she was halfway down the dirt road to the highway when she saw a big-wheeled pickup truck headed in her direction. Thinking quickly, she pulled over to the side of the road and got out, waving the pickup to a stop.

“Hey, buddy, can you give me a lift? I ran out of gas.”

The guy, who could be no more than sixteen, had the same fangs, pale skin, and pale blue eyes as the gate guard, except his black hair was combed like Michael Jackson in that “Thriller” video and he was, in fact, dressed in a similar red jacket and one white glove. She would bet her BlackBerry that inside she’d see slim black pants with white socks exposed . . . the whole nine Michael Jackson yards. “Uh, I’m not thaposed to give anybody a ride.”

“It’s okay. I’m the interior designer here to meet with Lord Vikar.”

“Oh, I guess ith all right then.”

She crawled up onto the passenger seat, not an easy feat with it being about four feet off the ground. “Thanks,” she said. “Have you been here long?”

“I justh got here lath week,” she thought he said, but his lisping voice could barely be heard or understood over the loud music blaring from the speakers. “Beat It,” of course. He was seat dancing and singing along as he drove.

Uh-oh, they were approaching the gate. So, again thinking quickly, Alex tipped her purse over, dumping the contents onto the floor. With her hunkered down and with the truck up so high, the guard just waved the truck through after her driver called out, “Hey, Svein,” and the guard called back, “How’s it going, Armod?”

They drove another quarter mile or so until the castle came into view.

“Holy moley!” she exclaimed.

“Yeah, ain’t it greath?” Armod said, pulling up front to drop her off. “I need to go around back to unload,” he explained.

It was a huge stone castle. Probably four or five stories high, with turrets and gargoyles. Oddly, all the shutters were closed over what must be leaded windows. She’d already done her research on the lumber baron with aspirations to royalty who’d built the place more than a hundred years ago. It had been unoccupied for more than fifty years . . . and it showed. Creepy would be an understatement with the grounds overgrown with monster weeds and wild bushes.

At least a dozen workmen’s trucks and vans were parked nearby, and scaffolding was already erected around the exterior where work had started on repointing the stonework and repairing broken shutters.

“Thanks for the lift, Armod,” she said, jumping down.

She smiled as “Billie Jean” could be heard in his wake.

Walking carefully up the broken sidewalk, she noticed how interested some of the workers were in her appearance. Hard to tell whether they were outside contractors or resident dilly bars. She approached the enormous iron-studded, double front doors with a brass knocker big enough for Godzilla. There was a half-installed high-tech security plate on the right side of the threshold, where tools were lying on the steps and wiring hung out of the metal plate.

She knocked a few times.

No answer. In fact, despite all the workmen and vehicles outside, the house . . . rather, castle . . . seemed oddly silent.

Just then, she noticed a doorbell. She pressed the button and could hear a gonging noise inside. How cornily appropriate, she thought with a smile. If Herman Munster answered the door, she was going to puke.

Still no answer.

After the rebuff by the gate guard, and now this, she was getting more than frustrated. Plus, when she’d dressed this morning in a black silk pants suit, it had been a little chilly. Now it was hot. She took off the jacket, fanned herself with her notebook, then leaned on the doorbell. Really leaned on it. It should be heard all the way to Hell and back.

“Go away!” she thought she heard someone shout from some distant place inside.

No way! She gave the doorbell a good press this time and didn’t let up.
Gong, gong, gong, gong, gong . . .

“WHAT?” a belligerent voice yelled at her, yanking the door open suddenly.

She would have liked to say,
Well, hello to you, too
, but she was stunned, at a loss for words.

Standing before her was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen, and the oddest. Early thirties, she would guess. He had long, dirty blond hair down to his shoulder blades, with pencil thin braids framing each side of his face. The braids were intertwined with turquoise beads. He had beautiful blue eyes and almost perfect facial features. She was tall, five-nine, but he had to be six-foot-four. And what a body! The odd thing, though, was his attire. He wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt, drab green cargo shorts, and flip-flops, like some overage surfer dude. Not your average vampire. He had a nice deep tan, unlike the others she’d seen so far. She’d probably just caught him out of costume. In one hand, he carried a long-handled net.

“Butterflies?” she asked.

“Bats.”

Okaaay!

“Who in bloody hell are you?” the man asked rudely.

“I’m Alexandra Kelly. From
World Gazette
magazine. I have an appointment with Lord Vikar.”

“Is that a fact?” he said, leaning lazily against his bat catcher pole, giving her an insolent once-over, with a pause over her ivory-colored camisole top.

“Are you the pool boy, or something?”

“Or something.”

“Are you going to invite me in?”

“No.”

No?
“Listen, whoever you are, I’m hot. I’m tired. My feet hurt in these new heels. I’ve driven all the way from D.C. I’m staying with Donald and Ivana Trump Yoder in a farmhouse out of the nineteenth century with the ambience of eau de pig poop. And I’m starting to get annoyed. Move aside. I’ll wait inside for your boss.”

“I do not think so, wench.” He spread his arms and legs, barring her way.

“Wench? How juvenile!”

They were at a stalemate. Her glaring at him. Him not budging.

“I have a gun in my purse,” she blurted out before she could bite her tongue.

He laughed. The jerk had the nerve to laugh.

Just then another man came up behind the jerk. “Who is it?”

“Nobody.”

Nobody?
She’d like to give him
nobody
, right in his insolent six-pack abs.

The second guy pushed the jerk to the side. And, whoa, another good-looking stud muffin, this one in a gladiator outfit. Of the same height as blondie but different as night and day. He had shorter black hair, barely reaching his shoulders, and wore a belted, leather tunic thingee that only reached midthigh, exposing bare, hairy legs down to heavy sandals.
Gerard Butler in the flesh!
she decided.
But no, Gerard Butler played a Spartan, not a Roman, didn’t he? Whatever!

“I think I’ve landed in Bedlam,” she remarked.

“I often have the same thought,” Spartacus said before extending a hand to her. “Greetings, m’lady. I am Trond Sigurdsson. And you are . . . ?”

She shook hands with him and said, “Alexandra Kelly.”

“You’ve met my brother Vikar Sigurdsson?”

Her eyes went wide.

“Vikar! Have you been surly again? Tsk, tsk!”

Vikar shoved his brother inside with a sharp hip slam and closed the door behind him, leaving them both on the doorstep. She could hear laughter on the other side of the door.

“You’re Vikar?”

“In the flesh,” he said on a long sigh.

“Lord Vikar?”

He nodded.

“Ha, ha, ha! You? Some kind of Lord of the Vampire Dance?”

“Surely you jest, m’lady. I do not dance.”

“No offense, honey, but you look more like a silly Viking than a vampire.”

“Silly Viking?” he hissed suddenly and flashed a pair of impressive fangs at her.

“Spare me the hokey act. I’ve seen more than enough fangs in town today. Lots more authentic than yours, too.”

“You are not afraid of me?” He seemed confused.

“Not a bit.”

He shook his head as if to clear it, then seemed to come to a decision. “Listen, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I agreed to no interview with your magazine. There were several phone calls asking for an interview with a man named”—his eyebrows raised with sudden understanding—“Alex Kelly.”

“Obviously not a man.”

“Obviously,” he agreed, his eyes regarding her with deliberate sexual interest.

Oh jeesh, this guy must really be Lord Vikar. Hope I haven’t killed my chances for an interview.

“But I did not agree to an interview. So, male or female, it is a moot point.” He put his hand on the doorknob and was about to go back inside.

“Your agent arranged it,” she said quickly.

“My what?” He half turned back to her.

“Agent. A guy named Mike Archer.”

“Mike Arch-her,” he said slowly, facing her directly again. Then understanding seemed to hit him. He was not pleased with whatever that understanding was. “That figures. No matter! I am not doing an interview. Send me a bill for your expenses, and I’ll send a check. In the meantime—” He stopped suddenly and put a hand to her chin, turning it so that her neck was exposed. Sparks erupted where he touched her skin, and they slingshotted throughout her body. She was immediately aroused. “You have two marks on your neck.”

At first she was bewildered, but then she put a hand to her neck. “Oh, those are just mosquito bites. Did I tell you I’m staying on a farm? The Bed & Blood. You wouldn’t believe how many— Whoa, what are you doing?”

He’d opened the door with one hand and grabbed her by the upper arm with the other, yanking her inside with him. The door closed loudly behind them.

At first she was disoriented because of the poor lighting, which was not helped by the closed shutters. All around them, on the wide stairway, in the corridors, and in what must have once been salons, standing on high ladders with feather dusters and paint rollers, and on hands and knees on marble floors with scrub brushes, strange-looking men and a few women stared at her. Big half-opened boxes of furniture and accessories—recently delivered, she presumed—towered in piles up to the ceiling, including what must be at least a dozen wide-screen TVs. In the background, on what must be a castlewide sound system, hymns played.
Hymns?

The strange people silently gawked at her, as if she were the oddball. Or the next item on their menu, if those licking their lips were any indication.

They all had pale blue eyes. Many had very light skin, although there appeared to be something resembling a tanning bed on the other side of the hall in the old dining room, where two men paused in the midst of a fencing match using huge swords. A set of free weights lay along the edge, along with boxing gloves and a yet to be installed punching bag.

Some of the people wore regular T-shirts and jeans. Others wore historical attire totally out of place in this time period. A Mississippi riverboat gambler. More Vikings. A Regency lady. And, of course, Spartacus, who was grinning, as if he were in on the joke of the century. Which would be her.

Almost all of them showed fangs.

She glanced toward Lord Vikar.

He smiled at her through white, straight teeth . . . no fangs in sight now. “Welcome to Hotel Transylvania, my dear.”

And thus her nightmare began.

Three

Welcome to
my
world, sweetling . . .

“I
need to taste you,” Vikar said and almost immediately wished he’d bitten his tongue, except his fool fangs had come out in anticipation of—what else?—a taste.

Son of a troll! How he hated these fangs! They were embarrassing, really. And inconvenient. In fact, they seemed to have a mind of their own. Like another part of his body.

But wait. Something strange was happening here. The air fair crackled, and he could swear his skin tingled. Tingled, for the love of a cloud! Every hair on his body was standing at attention, like bloody antennae.

The woman backed up a bit, but he was between her and the door to his office where he’d yanked her after seeing her alarm on first viewing his fellow vangels. There was a telling silence on the other side of the door now, as if all twenty-seven vangels in residence so far were attempting to listen in on how he would handle this latest disaster.

He wasn’t sure if she sensed the same chemistry in the air, or if it was his rude behavior that frightened her. Probably both.

“Taste . . . taste . . . ?” she sputtered, her green eyes sparking anger at him. “In your dreams, buster. I’m here for an interview, and nothing else. I don’t appreciate your manhandling me, either.”

“I ‘manhandled’ you for your own safety. The tasting must be done, for your own safety.”

“That’s a new line, right up there with ‘I have to have sex or my blue balls will fall off.’ ”

She has a mouth like a
drukkinn
sailor. I like it.
“You have a coarse tongue, m’lady.”

“Yeah, well,
m’lord
, you put
your
tongue, coarse or otherwise, anywhere near my private parts, and you will be very sorry.”

“What? That is not what I meant by tasting.”
But now that you’ve planted the picture in my mind, I wonder if it fits in with Trond’s “near-sex”?
“You missay me. ’Tis your blood I must sample in order to—”

“Whoa! The only taste you’re going to get is of the mace I’m going to blow your way.”

“A gun and mace? What are you, some kind of bounty hunter?” He was fairly certain she referred to the eye-blinding substance, not the medieval ball and chain weapon. So he put both hands up in mock fear.

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

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 six brothers and I, Norsemen to the bone, are called The Seven, or the VIK. I am the oldest, but not by much. We seven are leaders of the vangels.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Are journalists usually so cynical . . . and rude.”

She blushed. “No. I apologize. 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 erotic 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. Apparently, she’d decided he was no longer a threat. “How come you’re being so open now, when a few minutes ago you were refusing my interview?”

I have no idea.
“Because I saw the fang marks on your neck.”
Maybe Mike has put a motor on my tongue now.

“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, his fangs came out and he sank his teeth into her skin where she’d already been bitten.

He’d done this hundreds of times 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 he 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 here 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, one hundred and sixty-two years, was he being sucker-punched with this kind of temptation?

Mike
, he immediately thought. Again.

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

“I am Vikar Sigurdsson,” he repeated.
I sound like a dumb dolt
. “You ask who I am. I am the owner . . . um, developer of this property.” Well, that was true. To a point.

“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.” Betimes honesty was the best policy. She’d never believe him anyhow.

“I notice you’ve put your fangs away.”

Vikar felt himself blush. “I only go fangy on occasion. We Vikings are vain about our appearance.” He shrugged as if he could not help himself.

“Do you ever turn into a bat?”

He shivered with distaste. He hated the ugly buggers.

“Do you even have wings?”

“Not yet.”
Probably never.

“And you drink blood.”

“Anything red will do,” he joked.

“So, a vampire and a Viking. I guess instead of going a-Viking, you go a-vamping.” The snide tone to her voice betrayed her disbelief. She must have realized how impolite she sounded for a person requesting a favor . . . an interview. “Sorry. Sometimes I have trouble suspending disbelief. Seriously, though, 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 Satan’s vampires. You know, fires of Hell, burn and sizzle, and all that.”

“Sizzle? Hah! Don’t blame me for the 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.”

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 Lucipire 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 devil bloodsucker.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

The warrior in him recognized that it was 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. She stared at him like a deer in the headlights, poleaxed.

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

No longer poleaxed, she was now pole-stiff. “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 scent of it 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 heightening her already heightened inclination 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. Lances. 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?”

“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 prepare 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.

The woman was going to have to do something about her language before Mike got here. “I take that for a no.”