Even Vampires Get the Blues: A Deadly Angels Book (23 page)

In the end, she left word with her roommates where she would be, and was off to the Deep South. That’s when her nightmares began.

He wasn’t feeling very angelic . . .

M
ichael was driving Harek bonkers.

First of all, for a guy—okay, an angel—who claimed to know nothing about computers, Michael had somehow managed to block Harek’s e-mail so that he couldn’t contact Camille or anyone else for that matter. Same was true of his cell phone. And Harek, who could probably hack into the FBI, the CIA, and Interpol, all in one click of his keyboard, couldn’t figure out how to undo Michael’s action.

When he asked him about it, Michael just blinked at him with innocence . . . and a bit of iron regard. “Sorry. I thought you would like privacy for work. Is there someone special you want to contact?”

He wasn’t sorry at all, Harek could tell. So Harek seethed but kept his mouth shut, for now, and worked on the website, which they’d decided to call The Archangels Network. Very uncreative, but sometimes simplicity was best. They’d wasted one whole day just arguing over titles. Discarded had been Angels Around Us, Wings Away, Flutters, Heavenly Warriors, Miracles in a Modern World, Mike’s Café, Messages from Above, Angelic Musings, Ladders to Heaven, and Celestial Sense.
Yeah, I know. Gag me with a feather.

There would be the main home page with menu options, such as Q&A with an Angel, History of Angels, Blogs, Recommended Reading, Prayers, Angelic Miracles: Past and Present, even a one-on-one chat room. Harek was beginning to think he would be spending the rest of his “life” maintaining what was becoming a gargantuan website.

“Not to fear,” Michael reassured him as he prepared to go off and relax on the beach,
again
, and probably catch another damn fish. Harek was sick of eating damn fish. He was especially sick of degutting and cleaning damn fish. And he wanted his phone and e-mail privileges back, dammit. “I will do my part, and Gabriel and Rafael will help, as well. Maybe some guardian angels, too. Even the pope might have some wise words.”

“The pope? You know the pope?”

“Of course I know the pope. All of them. Oh, by the way, I have a wonderful suggestion for the ‘wallpaper’ background for our website.” Michael put down his towel and rosary beads and went back to his bedroom to get something. Harek liked the way Michael had said “our” website. Not! That implied further involvement on Harek’s part, and, frankly, his skills were better utilized elsewhere, if you asked him, which, of course, Michael didn’t.

Harek’s eyes about bugged out when he saw what Michael was carrying. It was an absolutely gorgeous oil painting of angels. In the forefront was a warrior angel, presumably Michael, and in the background, a sort of mural of various angels through history. Gabriel with the Virgin Mary, for example. The whole thing was only about twenty by thirty inches, but the details were exquisite. Even Harek, who was not an art expert, recognized its quality. Then he noticed the signature at the bottom, “Michelangelo.”

Harek groaned. “Where did you get this?”

“I had it painted especially for the website. Isn’t it perfect?”

“Michael! You can’t just have a new painting by an Old Master show up out of the blue, without explanation.”

“Why not?”

“People will wonder where it came from?”

“A miracle? After all, the website is about angels and the miracles of God and religion—”

“No!”

“Well, I’m not as fond of Picasso’s work, but—”

“No!”

“Perhaps I could fix this one. Hide the signature, a dab of paint here, a dab there. No one would know it was done by Michelangelo.”

Harek exhaled with frustration. “You can’t ruin a masterpiece like this. Don’t you have someplace to hang it for your own enjoyment? Some wall in your mansion in the sky?”

“What mansion? What would I do with a mansion?”

That’s the way their conversations went over every little thing. That’s why a week had gone by, and they still weren’t done.

“Shall I bring a coconut back with me from one of those palm trees on the beach?” Michael had propped the painting on the floor against the wall, as if it were a Wal-Mart print and not a gazillion-dollar painting, and picked up his towel and rosary beads again. “Coconut shrimp would be good for dinner.”

“We don’t have any shrimp,” Harek said, disgruntled.

“I’ll catch some.”

“There are no shrimp in these waters.”

Michael gave him a look that pretty much translated to
Says who?

Harek was alone again, tapping away on his keyboard, resigned to doing whatever Michael asked, according to his own time frame. It was futile to try to hurry up an archangel.

Harek couldn’t help but worry about Camille, though. Was she all right? Was she as worried about him as he was about her? Was she still waiting for him? Was the time right to broach the subject with Michael?

How the hell did you make coconut shrimp?

That night he dreamed about Camille, and it was a really weird dream.

Chapter 21

Dream lover, for sure . . .

T
o her surprise, Camille was enjoying her “vacation” in the empty Evermore mansion in the Garden District. The staff had been given time off while Emile and Jeannette were away on the cruise, which was just the way Camille wanted it. No one to watch her laze about, eat junk food, watch corny TV shows, wallow. Just eat, sleep, and dream.

Dr. Feingold had given her the names of several Crescent City psychiatrists that she could consult while here, but she didn’t feel the need for help, until the second night. That’s when the dreams . . . fantasies . . . nightmares . . . whatever . . . started.

It was the 1850 Quadroon Ball, and she was there. Wearing a white ball gown with tiny embroidered roses and her light brown hair piled atop her head in cute ringlets, she was the picture of innocence, except for the off-the-shoulders neckline that exposed half her breasts. And she was dancing, along with about fifty other young women, some no more than fifteen, wearing beautiful pastel creations that gleamed like jewels under the candle chandeliers.

One man after another danced with Camille. Some young. Some old. Dressed the way she imagined Creole gentlemen of another era might. Tailored jackets over brocade vests and snowy white shirts, slim pants, shiny shoes, trim mustaches. One thing the men all had in common: the spark of lust in their eyes. This was after all the marketplace for buying a slave . . . a sex slave. Call it
plaçage
, call them
placées
, but the end result was the same. Was that what would happen to the kidnapped girls in Nigeria? Sold as forced brides, or sex slaves?
Is that what would have happened to me?

But then she noticed a man leaning against the open French doors leading to a balcony, a thin cheroot in his mouth. Camille hated men who smoked, especially cigars, but she wasn’t repelled by this guy, for some reason. The thin cigar seemed almost like a prop to give the appearance of lazy indifference. His dark blond hair was mussed a bit, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. He was taller, much taller than these rather short Creole men. His outfit was all black, except for the blue silk vest that matched his eyes.

It was Harek, of course. A Civil War–era Harek, but Harek nonetheless. Was he here looking for slaves to trade, or for a mistress? Each was equally abhorrent to her. And she would tell him so.

Walking up—not an easy task in about fifty yards of swishing fabric—she confronted him. “You have some nerve showing up here.”

He just raised his insolent eyebrows at her. Meanwhile his eyes took in her décolletage.

“Why are you here?”

“For you,
cherie
.” He tossed the cheroot into a sand-filled pottery jar and took her hand in his, leading her onto the dance floor. The band started playing a waltz.

“I’m not sure I know the steps,” she said, although she’d been dancing all night.

“Just follow me.”

And she did. In fact, when he smiled down at her, she would have followed him anywhere, so entranced was she. Was this how her grandmother, the quadroon, had felt all those years ago? Not trapped but loved?

The second night, the dream/nightmare started the same way, but then, instead of dancing, he led her to an anteroom, where he shoved down the bodice of her gown and made love to her breasts, just her breasts, until she was moaning out her ecstasy, while he was asking her, “Will you be mine? Will you be mine?”

“Your what?” she’d asked, and he’d just laughed.

The third night, as they rode through the French Quarter in a closed carriage, he’d knelt on the floor, flipped her gown up, and showed her that even back then, men knew what to do with their tongues. “Viking men,” he’d corrected her. She’d forgotten about that.
And, by the way, oral sex with the added element of fangs was something else again. They sort of framed a part of the female anatomy for . . . well, you get the drift.
When the carriage stopped on Rampart Street, he pointed to a small, pretty cottage of pale yellow with blue shutters and said, “Yours, if you will agree.” And Camille wept inside, because all he was offering her was
plaçage.

The next day, Camille knew she had to do something. She feared what she might agree to in her dreams. She feared it would change the Camille of the future. She either had to make an appointment with a psychiatrist or find Harek and discover what the hell was going on. She decided on the latter.

Driving out to Ivak’s plantation at Heaven’s End, she felt a sense of déjà vu. Was she in the twenty-first century, or reliving something in the past?

When she got there, Ivak was still at his job as chaplain at Angola Prison. He would be home “directly,” Gabrielle told her, and welcomed Camille as if they were old friends. She led Camille into the kitchen, where something delicious was bubbling on the stove. Crawfish gumbo, Gabrielle told her. They sat at the wooden block table, and Gabrielle served them both tall iced glasses of sweet tea with sprigs of mint and slices of lemon. There was also a plate of animal-shaped sugar cookies.

“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, but I haven’t heard from Harek in more than a week,” Camille said right off. “And I’m a little worried.”

“Gee, I’m the wrong one to ask. I’ve been so busy with my little one . . . He’s down for a nap right now, thank heavens.”

How anyone could sleep with all the sawing and pounding going on was beyond Camille. It appeared as if workmen were on the roof today.

“And I’ve been involved in a ton of pro bono legal cases for my agency.”

Camille recalled that Gabrielle was a lawyer who worked for a nonprofit in the city.

“What are you doing here in Loo-zee-anna?” Gabrielle asked then. “Visiting your parents?”

“No. Actually, they’re away on a cruise. I’m just hanging out in their house, decompressing from a recent mission.”

“Oh my God! Were you involved with those kidnapped girls in Nigeria?”

Camille nodded. Even though Gabrielle was sister-in-law to both a SEAL and a WEALS, she had to be careful how much she disclosed.

“Well, good for you! It makes me so damn mad to see women treated like that by men, in this day and age. It’s an outrage. I’ve donated to that save-the-girls effort, but I wish I could do more.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Are the conditions as deplorable as I think they are?”

“Worse.”

“You said you’re worried about Harek. Do you have some special reason to be concerned?”

“Not exactly. It’s just that he didn’t return to Coronado with the teams, as expected. He hasn’t called me all week, and he promised he would. He asked me to wait for him and said he wouldn’t make me wait for more than a week. And, well, a week has passed, and there are those blasted dreams.” Camille could tell she was blathering and not making much sense.

“What dreams?”

In for a penny, in for a pound
, Camille thought, and revealed, “I’ve been having these strange dreams, or nightmares, really, where it’s 1850, and I’m at a Quadroon Ball, and Harek is there.”

“You, too?” Gabrielle said and clapped her hands with delight. “Before Ivak and I got married, I had these strange dreams where I was a Southern belle living in this plantation house, and he came home, running up those front steps, and—” She blushed. It was obvious what came next.

“In this very house. Oh God! I hope it wasn’t my grandfather you were having sex with. Yuck!”

Gabrielle laughed. “I don’t think so. He looked just like Ivak. I mean, he
was
Ivak But then, he wasn’t.”

“Same thing for me.”

“Okay, you can’t stop there. Spill it, girl. What happened in your dream?”

To her surprise, Camille told her, in detail.

“Wow!” Gabrielle said when she finished. “That was some sexy dream!”

“Do you think so? It was like voluntary slavery, in a way.”

“It wasn’t real. And, as for your dreams, it’s okay to be politically incorrect in a fantasy. Can anyone say
Fifty Shades
? I mean, I don’t want to be spanked, but I don’t mind reading about it . . . or watching the movie.” She pretended to fan herself.

They both laughed then.

“Let’s backtrack a minute here,” Gabrielle said. “You mentioned that Harek asked you to wait for him. Wait for what?”

“He thinks he loves me, but he’s not sure.”

“Men! Dumb as dirt sometimes.”

“I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

“And why not? The things I could tell you about Ivak and the clueless things he’s done! Know this, though, sweetie, if a Viking tells you that he thinks he loves you, he’s already there. Harek just has things to iron out.”

“That’s what he said, pretty much.”

“And if he says he loves you and wants you to be with him, are you prepared for all that entails?”

“Like what?”

“Hasn’t he told you anything?”

“Some things.”

“You’ll never have children. You’ll live only as long as he does. You can’t have a normal life with friends and stuff because there’s always the fear that someone will discover that they’re vangels. Your life, everything about it, is secondary to a higher power. When Michael calls, they jump. They have to.”

“You don’t make it sound very appealing.”

“Ah, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if we hadn’t been blessed with a child . . . by accident, BTW. And can you imagine the decision I had to make, knowing I will probably outlive my child because I won’t grow any older, but he will.”

“Well, like I said, the question hasn’t been asked.”

“But if it is, you need to ask yourself something. Would your life be better with or without him? Better yet,
can
you live without him? Because if you can, you should.”

Ivak came home soon after that, and he really didn’t know much more than Camille did. He promised to check around and let her know.

“No one has seen him since Nigeria. He just disappeared, but someone—I think it was Vikar—heard that he might be on this Caribbean island that he owns.”

“Harek owns an island?”

“It’s just a tiny island with a bungalow on it. Harek considers it his secret hideaway, but we all know about it. We’re just waiting for Mike to find out. The you-know-what is going to hit the fan then.” He smiled, as if he couldn’t wait.

“Maybe he’s there with Michael,” Camille offered.

“Wouldn’t that be ironical?” Gabrielle said.

“I love when you use big words,” Ivak said. “It turns me on.”

Gabrielle looked at Camille. “Did I mention clueless?”

Camille had a lot to think about as she drove back to New Orleans. When she got there, she took a bubble bath, ate a bucket of Cajun chicken and warm biscuits, drank two glasses of wine, and went to bed, where she dreamed about Harek the sugar planter. Again.

And this time the dream was X-rated. If she hadn’t already thought it before, she thought it now . . . Christian Grey had nothing on Harek in the lovemaking department, even a nineteenth-century Harek.

Could women have wet dreams?

She was pretty sure she just did.

It wasn’t a Sophie’s Choice, but it came close . . .

“W
ow!” Harek said aloud as he awakened from a dream that was so X-rated, he felt himself blushing. Well, almost blushing. Vikings really didn’t get embarrassed by much.

Camille was the star of his dream, of course, and he had to wonder if she was having the same dream somewhere on the other side of the world. Sort of life mate telecommunicating.

Does that mean I accept that Camille is my destined life mate?

What good does that do me, if I can’t have her?

Is it time to have that dreaded conversation with Michael?

Yesterday, out of the blue, Michael quoted something from the Bible to Harek about cutting off your hand or foot if they cause you to sin. That was not a good sign. At the time, they’d been sitting at the table eating—what else?—fish. Harek had instinctively placed a hand over his genitals, under the table. Discreetly, of course. Michael just stared at him in that way he had of seeming to see all.

Now, Harek squirmed on the couch where he’d been sleeping, trying to find a position that was comfortable. There was none. He yawned widely, checked the luminous dial on his watch, and saw that it was only six a.m. Barely dawn.

That was when he noticed Michael sitting in the chair across the room, facing out toward the sea. There was a glow about him, like a full-body halo, outlining his white, belted robe. His hair hung loose to his shoulders where the massive wings were tucked in against his back, but still overhanging the chair down to the floor. His eyes appeared to be closed, but his lips were moving, as if in prayer.

This was strange, stranger than anything Harek had witnessed this week, living with an archangel. Michael was stronger than the strongest soldier, in prime physical condition, as evident by the fallen palm tree that he’d lifted off the shore and tossed into the sea. And he was weak as a child in his innocence at times, taking joy in the smallest things. A seagull wheeling above the waters, like a celestial dance. A bag of M&M’s he’d discovered in the cupboard. A Snoopy cartoon Harek had shown him on the Internet where Linus is saying, “I love mankind. It’s people I can’t stand.”

“I must depart,” Michael said, without turning to look at Harek. He must have sensed that Harek was awake. Or maybe he had been waiting for Harek to wake up.

Uh-oh!

“What do you mean, you have to leave? You can’t leave yet. We haven’t finished constructing the website.”

Dawn was raising its orangeish-yellow head on the blue horizon. So Harek could see clearly now. He sat up and kept the sheet wrapped around him in the chill air.

“Thou wilt finish for me. I have been called to something more important.” Michael swiveled the chair to turn toward him. There was an expression of such sadness on his face.

“What? What is it?”

“The things humans do to each other,” he said on a sigh. “The Lord’s work takes me elsewhere.”

“But we’ve worked so hard on the website. We’ve accomplished so much. I thought you considered this important.”