Not to be outdone by the shops, the restaurants and bars in Transylvania displayed names like Good Bites, Blood and Guts, Vlad’s Vittles, Fangy Foods, Suck and Suds, Drac’s Hideout. He noticed a new one that must have opened since he was here last, called Whips and Cuffs, offering Fifty Shades of Blood (Cocktails).
He stopped at a red light, and his bike idled with a va-room, va-room that seemed overloud in the quiet street. Two young women in waitress uniforms glanced his way, then gaped. Leather did that to some women, or motorcycles. Then again, it might be the Ragnar Lothbrok hairstyle he’d adopted the last year or so, worn by that character in that History Channel show The Vikings during the first few seasons. Shaved on the sides, with triple dark blond braids interwoven together from his forehead to his nape, then tied off with a leather thong to hang down his back. His brothers mocked the fashion as some weird form of vanity, but it was more a case of efficiency on his part. It kept the hair out of his face, always a good thing for a fighting man, which he was, and, frankly, it suited him, dammit. No different than the war braids Viking men of old wore, framing both sides of their faces, ofttimes intertwined with crystal beads or fine jewels. Leastways, that’s what he told himself.
He gave a little nod of acknowledgment to the women, no more than twenty. Practically children to this old man. One of them giggled. The other pointed a forefinger at him, then herself, then crossed that forefinger with the one of her other hand and raised her eyebrows at him in invitation. No way when he was about to be raked over the coals by Michael! He just smiled and eased off as the light changed.
He drove out of town, then up the mountain road that led to the castle. New electronic gates had been installed, and he tapped in the code on a secure app he’d downloaded onto his cell phone. Soon he was approaching the castle itself, which was, as always, a work-in-progress. It appeared as if something was being done on the fourth-floor windows, maybe reglazing of the old glass. He drove around the side of the massive structure to the back courtyard where he could have entered the underground garage, but a note had been tacked on the door, “Lot Full, Park Outside.”
So everyone must be here already. Probably arrived last night. His own dozen vangels who were stationed with him in Philadelphia would be here by noon, their presence not required until after the morning session.
He glanced around the back area of the castle, which at one time had been nothing but a cobbled courtyard but now held an in-ground swimming pool, bathhouse, gazebo, patio, and other luxuries that Cnut found hard to believe Michael had approved. Vikar, at least, was living the good life, or so it seemed. Unlike Cnut, who lived in a Philadelphia row house, the first floor of which housed his company, Wings International Security; the second floor, his austere two-bedroom apartment; and the attic, dorm-style living for his vangels.
The first person he saw when he went inside was Lizzie Borden—yes, that Lizzie Borden—who gave him a fangy smile of welcome as she bustled about, beginning to prepare the morning meal for what must be a virtual army in residence at the moment. A half-dozen, sleepy-eyed young vangel women did her bidding, pulling hams, eggs, bacon, and such from the commercial-size fridge. It was going to be a banquet by the looks of the two enormous gas ranges, where various meats and potatoes sizzled, including some of the Amish or Pennsylvania Dutch specialties of this region, like scrapple and blood sausage. A feast fit for a king, or at least an archangel, right hand of the King.
Cnut grabbed a carton of Fake-O while the door was open. The synthetic blood invented by his brother Sigurd tasted like curdled horse piss, but it sufficed to satisfy the vangel need for the real thing in between missions. He chugged it down with a shiver of distaste, followed by long swig of bottled water, then tossed both empty containers into a trash bin. When Lizzie’s back was turned, he grabbed several crisp bacon strips that were draining on a paper towel–covered platter and popped them into his mouth. Delicious. Before he realized what he was doing, the plate was half empty. He reached for more, then caught himself. No, no, no. Must resist temptation.
He made his way toward the family room, where he could hear a television playing. Cartoons. The children must be up. You’d never know vangels were sterile by the sounds of youthling chatter. Actually, most everyone was up by now, he realized, as he passed and spoke briefly to vangels in the dining room, the chapel, the front and side parlors, the computer room, and Vikar’s office. Obviously, Michael was not yet here.
He was shrugging out of his leather jacket in the hallway when he noticed Regina leaning against the wall, arms crossed over the bosom of a loose, floor-length gown which failed to hide her voluptuous form. Her silver-blue eyes, same as all the vangels, gave him a quick head-to-toe survey. “Holy freakin’ fangs, Cnut! I can’t decide whether you look like a rock star or a lackwit vain Viking compensating for a wee wick. Just because you can now fit into leather braies does not mean you should.”