Even Vampires Get the Blues: A Deadly Angels Book (17 page)

“A time or two. This is just about friends, right?”

Damn, damn, damn.
“I’m feeling very friendly.”

“You never give me a straight answer.”

“Here’s straight for you. I want you so much my heart is racing and my hands are shaking. I’m afraid to step closer to you because my knees might buckle. I’m one thousand, one hundred, and ninety-five years old, and I have never felt this way about a woman before.”

“Is that the truth?”

“The God’s honest truth.”

“I feel the same way,” she confessed, “although I don’t have that many years under my belt. What do you suppose it means?”

Did Eve talk so much in the Garden of Eden? No wonder Adam ate the friggin’ apple!
“I’m afraid to guess.”

“Not the life mate nonsense?”

He shrugged. What else could it be?

“What should we do?”

Now,
that
he had an answer to. “Carpe diem. Seize the day. Live for the moment and let the chips fall where they fall.”

“You’re full of clichés today, aren’t you?”

Either that or I’m full of shit. I’m a grown man, experienced, intelligent even beyond my years, but I feel like an untried youthling with his first maid. And if she doesn’t stop chattering, I’m going to pull out my hair, one gelled strand at a time. Aaarrgh!
He sat on the edge of the bed and toed off his athletic shoes. Then he leaned back on the stacked pillows and folded his hands behind his neck, extending his long legs and crossing them at the ankles, tapping the footboard. “Take off your clothes, sweetling. Slowly. But don’t put those shoes away. I have plans for them, later.”

Camille studied him for a long moment. He could tell she was contemplating whether to take orders from him or not. But then she tugged her tank top up and over her head, exposing a black lace bra. She leaned back against the door and let him just take her in.

He did.

Finally, she kicked off her shoes, unzipped her pants, and shimmied out of the tight fabric, leaving just brief, black lace bikini underpants. Sliding her shoes back on, she placed her arms over her head and posed for him against the door.

He was stunned speechless for a moment. Had he really thought she was plain at one time? Amazing the things women could hide from clueless men! Even with the brash red hair, she was beautiful. Sultry, even. And, yes, she’d dyed her hair down below, too, he saw through the filmy, almost transparent silk. He couldn’t wait to taste it. Was there such a thing as flavored hair dye, like flavored lip gloss? Probably not. But there should be.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked.

“Because I’m happy.” And that was the truth. He wasn’t a morbidly unhappy person, like his brother Mordr, but living in bumfuck Siberia on the darkest, coldest nights, yeah, he knew what depression felt like. The opposite of happiness, for sure. But more than that, he now sensed what he’d been missing for all these centuries, even when he’d had all the material possessions a man could want. So, this was happiness? This warm, glowing sensation that emanated from the heart and filled the senses. Amazing! “Keep going,” he said, his voice raspy with emotion.

“Turn on the stereo. I need a little music if I’m going to do a striptease. Too bad I don’t have a pole.”

I have one
, he thought, and thankfully didn’t say it aloud. He stood and went over to a stand beside the dresser. Sitting there was an old-fashioned stereo that played vinyl records. “Isn’t this kind of dated?” he asked as he stacked the records that were already there on the turntable.

“Yes, but the sound is remarkably better than all that downloaded crap today.”

“You have a thing for the blues, huh?” he noted. All the records seemed to be classics by old, long-dead soul singers.

“You can’t be from Nawleans and not be a fan of the blues. You don’t like the blues?”

“I like all kinds of music. Even vampires get the blues,” he told her. Was it synchronicity that he’d just been thinking about depression and she liked the soulfully sad music?

“How about angels?”

“Oh yeah. Being good all the time definitely causes the blues.”

“You’re funny,” she commented.

“Not the trait I’m going for!” He finally got the records lined up and hit the play button.

Immediately, Etta James began to belt out “At Last.” It was a slow, sultry soul song.

He turned and leaned against the dresser.

She was singing under her breath, eyes closed. As she got into the groove, writhing from side to side, she lowered her hands and slowly undid the front clasp on the bra. For a moment she held the sides together, then she opened her eyes, dropped her hands, and let the black scrap of silk and lace fall to the floor.

“Like?” she asked.

He nodded. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he was keeping his lips shut tight so she wouldn’t see how his incisors were already elongated with arousal. Not his most attractive feature! In fact, fangs were an affront to any Viking’s vanity, but not much vangels could do about them. Vikar had tried to file his down at one point, but only succeeded in breaking the drill. Ivak had gone to a cosmetic dentist, who only laughed when asked to design a cap that would fit over the fangs and hide them. “I’m a dentist, not a magician,” the dentist had said. Harek had considered having his gold plated, but that would only call attention to the orthodontic imperfections. Plus, Michael would consider it an outward sign of his greed and punish him in some way. Siberia, for a certainty.

Back to Striptease-ville. All those “crazy” songs back at the Wet and Wild must have turned him a little bit crazy. Why else would he be thinking about teeth when a near-naked woman was about to become totally naked in front of him?

Camille’s breasts, which he’d seen before, of course, were pretty, that’s all he could think. With her now red hair, the pinkness of her areolas and nipples seemed even brighter. The little nipples were already erect, or as erect as they would be without his further attentions, which were coming up, for damn sure.

But wait, she had her thumbs inside the elastic on each of her hips. Undulating slowly, in imitation of the sex act, she inched the garment slowly down until her red curly hairs were exposed. Then they were down her legs and off.

She stood there, wearing nothing but the red high heels, arching her brows at him.

“What?”

“Your turn.”

A record dropped down and now it was Bessie Smith wailing, “Nobody Loves You When You’re Down and Out.”

He started to rip off his shirt.

But Camille cautioned him, “No, no! Slowly.”

He smiled. This wasn’t his kind of game. Or at least it hadn’t been before. But, hey, he was a Viking. He could improvise. “Lie on the bed so I can entertain you.”

“Think you can?”

“I can hot damn try.”

And he did. Even though the Bessie Smith song was a slow one, it had a beat. He swayed from side to side. Then, slowly, he turned his back on her, bent over, and took off one sock, then the other, tossing them over his shoulder. One of them landed in the waste can. A slam dunk.

“Wow! Maybe you could do that again, later, when you’re nude.”

“Make a basket?”

“No, silly. Bend over when you’re bare-assed naked.”

What? That’s the kind of thing I should be saying, not my woman. My woman? Save me, Lord.
“Sure. But only if you do it, too.”

“Dream on!” She laughed.

We’ll see about that, witch!

Next, he rolled his shoulders and eased his T-shirt up, up, up so that more and more of his abdomen showed.

“Very nice.” Camille was half lying on the bed, braced against the headboard, with one knee raised slightly. Her hair was still held onto the top of her head with some kind of comb claw. “You must work out a lot.”

“Not much else to do in Siberia. Are you going to comment on each bit of skin I uncover? It’ll take forever. We’ll never get to the good stuff.”

“Hey, this is good stuff.”

He bowed at her praise and undid the snap on his jeans and unzipped them halfway, all to the tune of “Stormy Weather.” He closed his eyes and tried to find a slow beat in the music. In the end, he did a slow—very slow because he didn’t know what the hell he was doing—bump and grind. Then he eased off his jeans and boxer briefs at the same time and kicked them aside.

He widened his stance, put his hands on his hips, and threw his shoulders back.
Get a good look, baby.

She did. And suddenly she was no longer Miss Chatterbox. Instead, her lips were parted and her eyes were wide with interest.

Another record dropped down and Muddy Waters told the world, “I Just Want to Make Love to You.”

I’ll second that
, he thought, and made a flying leap for the bed, landing atop Camille, who let out a little “oomph!” of distress, although he hadn’t really hurt her, having caught the brunt of his weight on braced arms and knees. Knees that had somehow managed to land between hers and spread her wide. Just like he wanted.

“Hi!” he said, and rubbed his rising enthusiasm against her blinking hot center. Well, it seemed like it was blinking and flame-like, the red curly hair and all that.

“I never knew sex could be so fun,” she said.

It
was
fun, Harek had to admit, but then he grew serious. “Are you in love with me, Camille?” he asked. Where that question had come from, he had no idea.

“Good Lord! I hope not.”

He nodded, although his spirits sank a little.

“Are you in love with me?” she inquired, tracing a forefinger over the edge of his lips, giving pause at the bumps covering his fangs.

He was going to scoff and say,
Of course not
. It would be the worst thing that could happen. Not the worst thing, but not a good thing. At least he didn’t think it would be. He was the smartest of all the vangels. He was going to figure a way to escape the prison of vangeldom’s restrictions. Maybe impress Michael so much that he would allow him to earn great wealth and material possessions. That was what he really wanted. Wasn’t it?

Who was he kidding?

“Fangs drooling, wings over toenails, blood boiling, heart racing, dream about you at night, think about you all day. Nah, I’m not in love,” he said.

He looked down at her, just waiting for the sarcastic remark.

But it didn’t come. “Your eyes are all silvery, and there are wispy blue wings at your back,” she told him with seeming irrelevance. “And you smell like Godiva chocolate.”

“Your point?”

“I like your pretty eyes, and the wings are amazing. Most of all, though . . .”

He arched his brows at her.

“Have I told you that I love chocolate?”

She hadn’t told him that she loved him, but it was close.

Harek felts swirls of a rose-scented fog envelop him. He couldn’t have pulled away then if he wanted to. And he didn’t want to. Not for a moment. Not for an hour or a day. Maybe not forever.

Chapter 15

Sex on a bed of chocolate . . .

T
hat Christian Grey had nothing on Harek. The man knew things about sex. Forget fifty shades. Harek had a hundred shades of tricks up his talented fingers.

Not that she was counting.

She did remark on his skill for inducing multiple orgasms, and he replied, “Actually, we Vikings invented pleasing women in the bed furs.”

“You are so full of it,” she’d scoffed.

“Well, we
perfected
pleasing women in bedsport.”

“I’ll give you that,” she said.

“What else have you got to give?”

Another orgasm, it turned out. Could a woman die of overclimaxing? What a way to go!

“Wait, wait, wait. How could I forget? I bought something today.”

He got up from the bed and went over to his backpack, which he’d dropped on the floor near the door when they came in two hours ago. He was smiling widely, despite his usual efforts to hide his fangs . . . which were out in full force tonight due to overarousal, he’d explained. In his hand he held a jar and a brush.

“Wow! Chocolate body paint.” And not the cheap stuff, either. This was the designer chocolate that probably cost fifty dollars a jar. “You must have been sure you were going to get lucky tonight.”

“No, just hopeful. Come, stand over here so that I can paint all your good bits and then lick you clean.” He waggled his eyebrows at her for emphasis.

“Oh no! You got this all wrong. I’m the chocoholic here. I’m the one who gets to feed my addiction. Not the other way around.”

And she proceeded to show him exactly what he meant.

Turned out there were some things you could teach a Viking.

“I’m thinking about writing a book called
How to Make a Viking Cry
,” she said later when he sank down to his knees, facing her where she already knelt.

“Really?” He kissed her chin and murmured against her lips, “I’m thinking about writing a book, too.
How to Make a Witch Weep
.”

Turned out he knew how.

By two a.m., they’d taken a shower together to wash off the chocolate that still coated them both. More sex. Harek would be leaving soon.

Camille stripped the bed, which had many embarrassing brown stains, donned a robe, and prepared to go downstairs to run a load of laundry, while Harek was putting new linens on the bed. It went without saying that he was bending over, naked. Yikes!

About to enter the laundry room, she had the bad luck to run into Marie and Bobby Jo, who were just coming in. They sniffed the chocolate in the air, took one look at her and the sheets in her arms, and burst out laughing.

So much for her keeping her activity secret! So much for her getting him out of the house before her roommates returned!

“We’re just friends,” she said, which sounded lame, even to her own ears.

They burst out laughing again.

When she returned to her bedroom, instead of being dressed, Harek was back in bed, a single sheet drawn up to his waist. His back was propped against the headboard. Before she had a chance to protest, he lifted the sheet on one side for her. There was a serious expression on his face.

Still wearing the robe, she slid in beside him and he put an arm around her shoulders, tucking her to his side. “When you’re in the school compound, if you’re in trouble, I want you to concentrate really hard, think of me, and say in your head, ‘HELP!’ ”

“Does that work?”

“I have no idea. Seems like it should if we are life mates or connected in some way.”

She was about to say that they were not life mates but he put a fingertip to her lips.

“I don’t know what the future holds for us, if anything, but I care about you and your safety.”

“I’ve said it before and will say it again, Harek. This is what I’m trained to do. You have no right—”

“I have every right. The right of one who loves you.”

She sighed deeply. “You don’t mean that.”

“I think I do.”

Think? How can he make such a lame word so enticing?

“That was lame,” he said.

“It was actually kind of cute.”

“Great!”

“I’m not ready for that kind of commitment, Harek.”

“And you think I am?”

A sudden thought occurred to her. “Is this mission dangerous for you, too?”

“Of course. Any time a vangel engages in battle with a Lucipire, whether it is one on one, or legion against legion, there is a risk.”

“Of death.”

“Worse than that. If a Lucie captures a vangel, the intent is to get him to agree to a transformation from angel to demon. That involves horrific torture that can go on for months, maybe years.”

“Has this ever happened before?”

“Vangels have been caught and tortured, but they managed to escape. So far. One time Mike had to rescue Vikar, and his condition was . . . I do not want to talk about it. Like you said, it is what it is. This is my work. I would much rather talk about us.” He kissed the top of her head.

“Let’s not talk about love or commitment or relationships or any of that stuff. Not now. Maybe when we come back . . . I don’t know. Let’s just wait and see how we feel then.”

“Are you saying that you don’t have feelings for me?”

She sighed deeply again. “You know I do.”

He nodded. “That will be enough for now. It will have to be.”

Without words of love, Harek removed her robe and proceeded to show her just how much “love” he felt for her. It was a slow loving. Intense. With the soft murmur of endearments, both ways. Sweetling/sweetheart. Dearling/dearest. Heartling/my heart.

There was the usual sensual cocoon that enveloped them, but it was warm, not hot. And that was okay. Each level of sex play—kissing, touching, squeezing, talking—took them to a higher, more emotional plane. She couldn’t explain it, exactly, but it was like being lifted higher and higher, outside herself. She could see the things he was doing to her and the things she was doing to him, but at the same time, she was inside her body where all the bliss emanated. Not the sharp-edged pleasure of before when his tongue plunged into her mouth, or his teeth nipped at her breasts, but more powerful in some ways for its very subtle morphing into carnality.

When he took himself in hand and guided his erection into her body, she was more than ready for him. Without asking, probably sensing there wasn’t anything she would deny him, he placed his fangs against her neck and pressed lightly until he broke the skin. It didn’t hurt, or only for a second. And now, with each long, slow stroke into her body, when he hit her clitoris, he took a tiny sip at the same time, and every nerve ending in her body exploded with sensation, each more powerful than the one before. By the time he’d started his shorter, harder strokes and his sipping had taken on a rhythm, Camille was mindless with nerve vibrations. Every surface of her skin was an erogenous zone. She was so overstimulated she felt as if she would go mad with her need for relief.

“Just let it go, sweetling. Let us go,” he whispered against her ear. Even his breath teased her senses.

And then she did. Let go. And together they rode the groundswell of what had to be the most incredible mutual climax of all time. Wave after wave of contractions hit her and in turn grasped at him.

She cried out in wonder.

He roared his own wonder.

For a moment blood was pounding through her veins so hard, she was afraid she might have a heart attack.

Harek was panting for breath.

When she calmed down, she realized that Harek was lying heavily atop her. He finally raised his head and stared at her, “If that wasn’t love, what was it?”

Good question.

Shortly after, Harek was getting dressed. It was three-thirty, and Camille was going to be picked up at four. He went into the bathroom while she pulled on a sweatshirt and shorts. Glancing out the window, she did a double take. By the light of a streetlamp, she could see the driveway to her cottage.

“Harek,” she called out. “There’s a man leaning against your Jeep. Is it one of your brothers?”

“Probably,” he muttered.

“He’s wearing a Blue Devils baseball cap.”

The bathroom door flew open, and Harek had a look of worry on his face. “I know who it is, and it’s not one of my brothers.” He gave her a quick kiss and said, “I’ll say good-bye here. See you in a couple days. Be careful.” He grabbed his backpack and headed out the door. “Stay here. Don’t come down until K-4 and Nicole come to pick you up.”

Whaaat? After what they’d just shared, he thought he could rush out like that? Hah! She followed after him.

She eased the front door open and stood on the porch, out of sight of Harek and the stranger, but within hearing distance.

“Jasper has already dispatched two dozen Lucipires to the Sambisa Forest. That’s in addition to the two dozen already there. This has been a lucrative site for him, and he’s not about to give it up easily.”

“Does he still plan to hit the Global School in Kamertoon?” Harek asked the other man.

“Among other places.”

“When?”

“No definite date yet. Soon.”

“Do you have that list I asked for?”

“I do. Check your private e-mail account. Delete it as soon as you read it. The attachment has the most up-to-date maps with hideouts shown, as well as some names and photographs. You can print out the pictures, but don’t keep anything on your computer. Nothing is safe from hackers these days.”

“Will do. Thanks for the info. I’ll tell Mike how helpful you’re being.”

“He already knows. There’s something else. Haroun has you in his crosshairs. If he gets wind that you’re in Nigeria, he’s going to be after your ass, big-time.”

“What is it with Haroun? He’s always targeting me in particular.”

“You were both slave traders at one time, and Haroun resents what he considers your special treatment. You get to be a vangel, he’s a demon.”

Camille felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. She stepped forward and watched as the stranger walked away, in fact seemed to fade away.

Harek was opening the driver’s door of the Jeep. He’d just thrown his backpack in when he looked up and noticed her in the shadows.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Zebulan.”

“A friend?”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

“He’s not a vangel?”

Harek exhaled loudly and disclosed, “No. Zeb is a Lucipire.”

“A demon vampire? You brought a demon vampire to my house?”

“I didn’t bring him here. He just showed up. There’s no danger to you from Zeb, though. You could say he’s a good devil.”

She was not amused. “That’s just great. And who is this guy Roan?”

At first, Harek seemed puzzled. Then he said, “Not Roan. Hair-roon.”

“A slave trader?”

Harek’s jaw went tight and he walked up to her. He tried to put his arms around her, but she shoved him away. “A slave trader?”

“Yes, he was. In the days of the old Silk Road, Haroun al Rashid was an infamous slave trader.”

“And, you, Harek,” her voice came out in a croak. She cleared her throat. “Are you a slave trader?”

“For my sins, I was. For a short time. Long ago.”

She gasped and raised her hand, slapping him across the face, hard. “Get out!” she yelled.

“Camille, let me explain.”

“Don’t even try. Go away and don’t ever come back. You . . . you repulse me.” In fact, the scent of chocolate that still emanated from him made her sick. Much longer and she was going to upchuck on the lawn.

There was profound sadness in his blue eyes as he stared at her. Then he said, “So be it.”

She stood frozen as he got in the Jeep and drove away. Glancing down, she realized that she was clenching her right hand, which still stung from slapping Harek. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d slapped anyone. Yes, she could. It was Julian . . . the day he broke their engagement and told her he’d impregnated another woman, her best friend, Justine.

This was far, far worse.

When vangels sing the blues . . .

B
y Sunday evening Harek was three sheets to the wind and not a wing in sight.

“She’s never going to forgive me,” he told Trond, who sat in his TV room beside him on a low couch. Their booted feet rested on a coffee table, something that would never happen if Nicole were around. They were watching the latest episode of
The Walking Dead
. And wasn’t that a mood lifter?

They were both drinking beer, Trond’s one to his five, and Harek might have already had ten. Or more.

Trond just rolled his eyes and resumed watching a zombie eat some guy’s face like it was a world-class dinner. Harek got enough blood and slime when fighting Lucipires. He didn’t need to see it in his spare time. For entertainment, if you could believe that!

A commercial came on, advertising some kind of fancy car. A Lincoln driven by that actor Matthew McConaughey. Maybe Harek should buy himself an expensive car, to feel better. A Jaguar. Or a Maserati. That would be fine if he didn’t have a certain celestial being peering over his shoulder checking price tags and making tsking noises.

Not that Harek had heard from Michael lately. And wasn’t that ominous, on top of Harek’s bad ending with Camille?

“Harek, Harek, Harek. Have you not learned that some sins have a long shelf life?” Trond said, now that his attention was no longer riveted to the TV. “You cannot expect an overnight pardon.”

Said the sinner to the sinner!
Since when did Trond get to be all sanctimonious and lecturing? You’d think Trond was pure as first snow on a Norse fjord. His grievous sin might have been sloth and not greed, but the things he’d done had been just as bad.

Sour grapes anyone?

Was that Michael’s voice in his head? If so, the archangel was getting way too modern, in Harek’s opinion. And sarcastic.

“Overnight? Who said anything about an overnight pardon? More like one thousand, one hundred, and sixty-five years.”

“If Mike hasn’t wiped your slate clean in all that time, how do you expect Camille to forgive and forget just because you smolder at her?” Harek had made the mistake of telling Trond that Camille thought Harek had smoldering eyes. “Especially when your sin is particularly repugnant to her,” Trond continued. “For a man as intelligent as you are supposed to be, you have the brains of a gnat betimes. You should have known she would find out eventually. Our life mates always do. Preparation, that is the key. A good warrior never goes into battle without planning for all contingencies.”