Christmas in Transylvania (11 page)

“You'll need them for sucking blood.”

“From what?”

“What do you think? From a peach? Idiot! From ­people . . . or demons.”

“
What?
Eeew!”
He expects me to drink blood? From living persons? Or demons? I do not know about this bargain.

“Thou can still change thy mind, Viking,” Michael said.

Reading my mind again! Damn!
“And go to Hell?”

“Thou sayest it.”

Sigurd thought about negotiating with the angel, but knew instinctively that it would do no good. He nodded. “It will be as you say.”

Moments later, when the pain subsided somewhat, the angel raised him up and studied him with icy contempt, or was it pity? “Go! And do better this time, vangel.”

On those words, Sigurd fell backward and over the cliff. Falling, falling, falling toward the black, roiling sea. He discovered in that instant that there was one thing a vangel didn't have. Wings.

 

Chapter One

Florida, 2015

Sometimes life throws you a lifeline, sometimes a lead sinker . . .

N
O ONE WATCHING
Marisa Lopez emerge from the medical center in downtown Miami would have guessed that she'd just been delivered a death blow. Not for herself, but for her five-­year-­old daughter, Isobel.

Marisa had become a master at hiding her emotions. When she'd found out she was pregnant midway through her junior year at Florida State and her scumbag boyfriend Chip Dougherty skipped campus faster than his two-­hundred-­dollar running shoes could carry him. When her hopes for a career in physical therapy went down the tubes. When she'd found out two years ago that her sweet baby girl had an inoperable brain tumor. When the blasted tumor kept growing, and Izzie got sicker and sicker. When Marisa had lost her third job in a row because of missing so many days for Izzie's appointments. And now . . . well, she refused to break down now, either, not where others could see.

And there
were
­people watching. Looking like a young Sophia Loren, not to mention being five-­eleven in her three-­inch heels, she often got double takes, and the occasional wolf whistle. And she knew how to work it, especially when tips were involved at the Palms Health Spa, where she was now employed as a certified massage therapist, as well as the salsa bar where she worked nights at a second job. Was she burning the candle at both ends? Hell, yes. She wished she could do more.

Slinging her knockoff Coach bag over one shoulder, she donned a pair of oversize, fake Dior sunglasses. Her scoop-­necked, white silk blouse was tucked into a black pencil skirt, belted at her small waist with a counterfeit red Gucci belt. Walking briskly on pleather Jimmy Choo knockoffs, she made her way down the street to her car parked on a side street—­a ten-­year-­old Ford Focus. Not quite the vehicle to go with her seemingly expensive attire, a carefully manufactured image. Little did folks know that hidden in her parents' garage was a fortune in counterfeit items, from Rolex watches to Victoria's Secret lingerie, thanks to her jailbird brother, Steve. A fortune that could not be tapped because someone besides her brother would end up in jail.
Probably me, considering the bad-­luck cloud that seems to be hanging over my head.

It wasn't against the law to wear the stuff, just so long as she didn't sell it. To her shame, she'd been tempted on more than one occasion this past year to do just that. Desperation trumps morality on occasion. So far, she hadn't succumbed, though all her friends knew where to come when they needed something “special.”

Her parents had no idea what was in the green-­lidded bins that had been taped shut with duct tape. They probably thought it was Steve's clothes and other worldly goods. Hah!

Once inside her car, with the air conditioner on full blast, Marisa put her forehead on the steering wheel and wept. Soul-­searing sobs and gasps for breath as she cried out her misery. Marisa knew that she had to get it all out before she went home, where she would have to pretend optimism before Izzie, who was way too perceptive for her age. Marisa's parents, on the other hand, would need to know the prognosis. They would be crushed, as she was.

A short time later, by midafternoon, with her emotions under control and her makeup retouched, Marisa walked up the sidewalk to her parents' house. She noticed that the Lopez Plumbing van wasn't in the driveway, so her father must still be at work. Good. Marisa didn't need the double whammy of both parents' reaction to the latest news. One at a time would be easier.

Marisa had moved into her parents' house, actually the apartment over the infamous garage, after Izzie's initial diagnosis two years ago—­to save money and take advantage of her parents' generous offer to babysit while Marisa worked. Her older brother, Steve, who had been the apartment's prior occupant, was already in jail by that time, serving a two-­to-­six for armed robbery. The idiot had carried an old Boy Scout knife in his pocket when he'd stolen the cash register receipts at the 7-­Eleven. Ironically, he'd never been nabbed for selling counterfeit goods—­his side job, so to speak.

Unfortunately, this wasn't Steve's first stint in the slammer, although it was his first felony. She hoped he learned something this time, but she was doubtful.

Marisa used her key to enter the thankfully air-­conditioned house. Immediately, her mood lightened somewhat in the home's cozy atmosphere. Overstuffed sofa and chair. Her dad's worn leather recliner that bore the imprint of his behind from long years of use. And the smell . . . ah! The air was permeated with the scent of olive oil, onions, and green peppers, along with dark, rich Cuban coffee. It was Monday, so it must be
ropa vieja
, or shredded beef, her father's favorite, which would be served over rice with freshly toasted Cuban bread with warm butter. Knowing her mother, there would be
natilla
for dessert.

Izzie was asleep on the couch where she'd been watching cartoons on the television that had been turned to a low volume.
Mima
was a stickler for the afternoon siesta. The pretty, soft, pink and lavender afghan her grandmother had crocheted covered her from shoulders to bare feet, but her thin frame was still apparent. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes. Even so, she was cute as a button with her ski-­jump nose and rosebud mouth, thanks to her father. But then, she'd inherited a Latin complexion, dark dancing eyes, and a frame that promised to be tall from Marisa, who was no slouch in the good looks department, if she did say so herself. No doubt about it, Izzie was destined to be a beauty when she grew up. If she ever did.

Marisa put her bag on the coffee table and leaned down to kiss the black curls that capped her little girl's head. She and her daughter shared the same coal-­black hair, but Marisa's was thick and straight as a pin. At one time, Izzie had sported a wild mass of dark corkscrew curls, all of which had been lost in her first bout of radiation. A wasted effort, the radiation had turned out. To everyone's surprise, especially Izzie's, the shorter hairdo suited her better.

With a deep sigh, Marisa entered the kitchen.

Her mother was standing at the counter, shredding with a fork the flank steak she'd slow cooked in special seasonings all day. She wore her standard daytime “uniform”: a richly embroidered apron covered a blouse tucked into stretchy waist slacks, and curlers on her head. Soon she would shower with her favorite soap from Spain, “Maja,” and change to a dress, control-­top panty hose, and medium pumps, her black hair all fluffed out, lipstick and a little makeup applied, to greet Daddy when he got home. It was a ritual she had followed every single day since her marriage thirty-­two years ago. Just as she maintained her trim, attractive figure at fifty-­nine. To please Daddy, as much as herself.

As for her father . . . even with the little paunch he'd put on a few years back and a receding hairline, when he walked into the house wearing his plumbing coveralls, Marisa's mother had been known to sigh and murmur, “Men in uniform!”

Marisa's mother must have sensed her presence because she turned abruptly. At first glance, she gasped and put a hand to her heart. No hiding anything from a mother.

“Oh, Marisa, honey!” her mother said. Making the sign of the cross, she sat down at the kitchen table and motioned for Marisa to sit, too.

First-­generation Cuban Americans, they'd named their firstborn child Estefan Lopez. He became known as Steve. Marisa Angelica, who came five years later—­a “miracle baby” for the ­couple who'd been told there would be no more children—­was named after Abuela Lopez “back home,” and Tia Angelica, who was a nun serving some special order in the Philippines.

“Tell me,” her mother insisted.

“Dr. Stern says the tumor has grown, only slightly, in the past two months, but her brain and other tissue are increasing like any normal growing child and pressing against . . .” Tears welled in her eyes, despite her best efforts. “Oy, Mima! He says, without that experimental surgery, she only has a year to live. And even with the surgery, it might not work.”

Izzie's only hope, and it was a slim one at best, was some new procedure being tried in Switzerland. Because it was experimental and in a foreign country, insurance would not cover the expense. Marisa had managed to raise an amazing hundred thousand dollars through various charitable endeavors, but she still needed another seventy thousand dollars. That seventy thou might just as well be a hundred million, considering Marisa's empty bank account, as well as that of her parents, who'd second-­mortgaged their house when Steve got into so much trouble.

She and her mother both bawled then. What else could they do? Well, her mother had ideas, of course.

After drying Marisa's tears with a handkerchief she always kept in her bra, her mother poured them both cups of café con leches, her special brewed coffee with steamed milk. No fancy-­pancy (her mother's words) Keurig or other modern devices for the old-­fashioned lady. They both put one packet of diet sugar and a dollop of milk in their cups before taking the first sip. A small plate of galletas completed the picture.

“First off, we will pray,” her mother declared. “And we will ask Angelica to pray for Izzie, too.”

“Mima! With the hurricane that hit the Philippines last year, Tia Angelica has way too much on her prayer schedule.”

“Tsk, tsk!” her mother said. “A nun always has time for more prayers. And I will ask my rosary and altar society ladies to start a novena. A miracle, that is what we need.”

Marisa rolled her eyes before she could catch herself.

Her mother wagged a forefinger at her. “Nothing is impossible with prayer.”

It couldn't hurt, Marisa supposed, although she was beginning to lose faith, despite being raised in a strict Catholic household. Hah! Look how much good that moral upbringing had done Steve.

That wasn't fair, she immediately chastised herself. Steve brought on his problems, and was not the issue today. Izzie was. Besides, who was she to talk. Having a baby without marriage. “Okay, Mima, we'll pray,” she conceded.
If I still can.

She let the peaceful ambience of the kitchen fill her then. To Cubans, the kitchen was the heart of the home, and this little portion of the fifty-­year-­old ranch-­style house was indeed that. The oak kitchen cabinets were original to the house, but the way her mother cleaned, they gleamed with a golden patina, like new. Curtains with embroidered roses framed the double window over the sink. In the middle of the room was an old aluminum table that could seat six, in the center of which was a single red rose in a slim crystal vase, the sentimental weekly gift from her father to her mother. The red leather on the chair seats had been reupholstered twice now by her father's hands in his tool room off the garage. A Tiffany-­style fruited lamp hung over the table.

A shuffling sound alerted them to Izzie coming toward the kitchen. Trailing the afghan in one hand and her favorite stuffed animal, a ratty, floppy-­eared rabbit named Lucky, in the other, she didn't notice at first that her mother was home.

Marisa stood. “Well, if it isn't Sleeping Beauty!”

“Mima!” Dropping the afghan and Lucky, she raced into Marisa's open arms. Marisa twirled Izzie around in her arms until they were both dizzy. She dropped down to the chair again, with Izzie on her lap, both of them laughing. “Dizzy Izzie!” her daughter squealed, like she always did.

“For you, Isobella.” Her mother placed before Izzie a plastic Barbie plate of chocolate-­sprinkled sugar cookies and a matching teacup of chocolate milk. Her mother would have already crushed some of the hated pills into the milk.

“I'm not hungry, Buelita,” Izzie whined, burying her face against Marisa's chest.

“You have to eat something, honey. At least drink the milk,” Marisa coaxed.

After a good half hour of bribing, teasing, singing, and game playing, she and her mother got Izzie to eat two of the cookies and drink all of the milk.

“What did the doctor say?” Izzie asked suddenly.

Uh-­oh!
Izzie knew that Marisa had gone to the medical center to discuss her latest test results. “Dr. Stern said you are growing like a weed. No, he said you are growing faster than Jack and the Beanstalk's magic beans.” At least that was true. She was growing, despite her loss of weight.

Izzie giggled. “I'm a big girl now.”

“Yes, you are, sweetie,” Marisa said, hugging her little girl warmly.

Somehow, someway, I am going to get the money for Izzie
, Marisa vowed silently.
It might take one of my mother's miracles, but I am not going to let my precious little girl die. But how? That is the question.

The answer came to her that evening when she was at La Cucaracha, the salsa bar where she worked a second job as a waitress and occasional bartender. Well, a possible answer.

“A porno convention?” she exclaimed, at first disbelieving that her best friend, Inga Johanssen, would make such a suggestion.

“More than that. The first ever International Conference on Freedom of Expression,” Inga told her.

“Bull!” Marisa opined.

They were in a back room of the restaurant, talking a break. They wore the one-­shouldered, knee-­length black salsa dresses with ragged hems, La Cucaracha's uniform for women (the men wore slim black pants and white shirts). They were both roughly five foot eight, but otherwise completely different. Where Marisa was dark and olive-­skinned, Inga was blond and Nordic. Where Marisa's figure was what might be called voluptuous, Inga's was slim and boy-­like, except for the boobs she bought last year. The garments they wore were not meant to be revealing but to accommodate the restaurant's grueling heat due to the energetic dancing. They needed a break occasionally just to cool off.