Page 8 of Good Vampires Go to Heaven

“Back to Zebulan,” she said to Vikar. “I have an idea that—”

Vikar put up a halting hand. “Zeb has been gone for more than a year. If it were possible to rescue the Lucie, I would have taken an army to do the job long ago.” Lucie was the nickname that vangels gave to Lucipires, or demon vampires, of which Zeb was one. Well, leastways he had been until a few years ago when he’d turned double agent for Michael. He was still a demon, but a good one, if that were possible.

Cnut walked in then, coming up from the dungeon, rather the basement steps. He wore a T-shirt with the sleeves torn off and jeans, and athletic shoes. His head was half shaved on both sides and braided down the center in that ridiculous Ragnor Lothbrok style from the Vikings show on the History Channel. He was dripping sweat which meant he’d probably been teaching fighting skills to the newer vangels.

Wiping his forehead with a gym-style towel wrapped around his neck, he leaned over and kissed his wife, then said to Vikar, “Did I hear you mention Zeb? If anyone should go after him, it’s me. After all, he traded himself for my sorry ass.”

Vikar shook his head. “You know what Mike said. Zeb is dead to us. Gone to a place where he can no longer be helped. And he forbade us specifically from going after him.”

Cnut nodded reluctantly.

But Regina had another idea. “Actually, what he said was, ‘You men, all of you, are forbidden from rescuing Zebulan.’ You know what that means, don’t you?”

Andrea stopped piping whipped cream from a pastry bag into her delicacies. Lizzie stopped chopping the bloody meat. And Cnut turned inch by inch to gape at her.

It was Vikar who said, “What?”

“I am not a man.”

Ding dong, the witch is here . . .

Regina had a plan for rescuing Zebulan the Hebrew.

Okay, it wasn’t a plan exactly. More of a wish list for how things would work out. A wish list plan. I know, I know. A witch wish list. Try saying that real fast. Don’t laugh. At least I’m trying.

And she was going to succeed, or die trying. Again. Since she was already dead, of course. No, no negative thoughts. Focus. I am witch. I am vangel. I am woman. Hear me roar. Or cackle. Or something. Holy clouds, I’m so scared I could pee my skinny britches.

Through a series of hits and misses, Regina had managed to make several wrong turns on the teletransport highway. So sue me. I haven’t had that much experience with molecular transfer, no thanks to the frickin’ Viking powers-that-be, that chauvinist Vikar. And, you’re right, I don’t have a clue what “molecular transfer” means. Harek Sigurdsson, the smartest of all the vangels, taught me that phrase.

In any case, she’d accidentally skidded through time and the world into some creepy castles where she encountered even creepier inhabitants. Can anyone say Bran Castle, or Dracula? Now, that is one creepy dude! Or how about Moosham Castle in Austria, better known as Witches Castle, where several thousand young girls met their fate? Why does everyone pick on witches, by the by? And why fire? And then there was the Black Gate, which should have in no way been confused with a demon lair, but I somehow hydroplaned there. Yikes!

But she had finally located Horror, Jasper’s castle in the frozen tundra, far north of Norway. Check one off her list. And remind myself to bring a fur cloak next time, instead of this silk-lined one, if there is a next time, please not, God! Brrr! And forget skinny jeans! Whoever invented them couldn’t have been a woman. I’m cleaving my crotch here when I’m not freezing my buns off. If I bend over, I can’t breathe, and any breath that comes out is frozen in the air.

Get over yourself, Regina, she chastised herself. You are where you wanted to be. On an important mission.

Still, it would have been a lot easier if teletransport had GPS or if she had an iPhone with special apps. “Hey, Siri, where is Horror?” Or she could have googled Jasper’s address, like that would be listed! “Jasper Lucipire, 101 Frosty Lane, North Pole.” Or the Google search would have responded with an inquiry, “Did you mean Jasper Claus?” As if she was looking for Santa’s evil brother! Not!

In the best of circumstances, Vikar or Mike could have drawn her a map, but they hadn’t exactly given their blessings to undertake this road trip to Hell, so to speak. In her defense, she’d informed the vangel leader of her intentions regarding Zebulan, and to her mind that amounted to a permission of sorts, even though he’d said no. In fact, his last “No!” to her had been barely a shout. She figured she would have worn him down eventually, but she hadn’t wanted to waste the time. Better to err and ask for forgiveness later than seek permission ahead of time. Or so she justified in her mind. Some saint said that, didn’t he? Maybe St. Augustine. No, he was the one who prayed, “Dear God, let me be pure, but not yet.” Or some such thing. Whatever.

As for Mike, he probably knew of her transgression by now since she’d been gone for two, almost three days. She declined to think what her punishment might end up being. Surely, if I’m successful, there will be no punishment. Yeah, right. And I have a cloud to sell anyone who believes that! She couldn’t think about the future now.

Next, she’d had to case the perimeter of the vast building and grounds. More shivering! But check two on her list.

Infiltrating the castle had been easier than she’d expected. I am vangel, watch me teletransport through two-foot, iron-studded doors! Of course, vangels weren’t supposed to use their teletransporting skills in such a light manner, when other means of entry might be available, and she was new at this advanced level, but she couldn’t help but be delighted that she’d done it so well. Yay, me! Anyhow, check three for that one.

Now to find Zebulan’s location, which she’d heard via the witch grapevine was inside a cave, presumably connected to or below the castle. Check four. And, yes, there were still witches around today, more than modern folks would believe. They blended in now, though. No more pointy hats or riding brooms, if there ever had been. And only an occasional cackle, which Regina thought was unfortunate. A good cackle could make the biggest man wet his braies with fright.

She’d been hiding in a broken, ancient elevator shaft all day, waiting for nighttime to come when the castle would presumably settle down, and she could explore. Actually, this far north and at this time of the year, mid-October, it was dark except for a few hours daily. Polar Night, it was called. So, it was more silence than light she was waiting for. Demons presumably slept sometime.

The walls of the wooden chute refracted sound, creating an echo of footsteps above and below, along with more than a few screams as new recruits were being tortured. Maybe one of them was Zebulan. No. Somehow, she didn’t imagine him screaming, though everyone had a breaking point, as she well knew, having broken more than a few individuals herself in her time.

She’d never met the Hebrew in person, although she had seen him from a distance the few times he’d visited the castle in Transylvania. A handsome man when in human form. Tall. Lean, but well-muscled. Brown hair and eyes. Slightly aquiline nose. Like some ancient Hebrew warrior in a pair of blue jeans.

Silence finally overcame the castle. She waited several hours beyond that, past midnight, she guessed, and was about to emerge from her hiding place when a female voice whispered, “I smell witch.”

Regina jumped back.

“Mais, oui, Patience, darlin’. Ah cain’t help but notice the odor, too,” a male voice drawled out in a strong Southern accent. There were several exaggerated sniffing sounds, whether from the male or female, Regina couldn’t tell, but then the man resumed talking, “Smells lak the bayou. Ah declare, Patience, it reminds me of home. Toad and eye of newt, with a touch of banewort. Very swampy.”