Page 8 of Kiss of Wrath

Mordr laughed. “Role reversal? You are becoming too modern by half.” Actually, Mordr was trying to steer the conversation in another direction. Unlike most Vikings—bloody hell, unlike most men in general—Mordr did not like to discuss sex. Too close to a reality he avoided thinking about. Truth to tell, while his brothers and many of the vangels found their forced celibacy to be a hardship, Mordr did not have all that much interest in mating these days. That particular urge was overshadowed by the always simmering rage inside him. He feared he would hurt any woman he took to his bed. But if his brothers got even a hint of his “problem,” there would be jokes aplenty about his lance having lost its steel, or his candle having no wick. Which would probably cause him to go berserk and hurt one of them for the jest.

“By the by, where is your entourage of vangels?”

“Someone needed to stay behind to maintain my undercover security force there, and Mike didn’t precisely request their presence here. Only that of the VIK.” The VIK was an acronym for the seven Sigurdsson brothers, leaders of all the vangels. “Besides, they, unlike me, enjoy cruise ships.”

Vikar arched his brows.

“Efrim has developed a taste for bikini-clad women. Gissur is in the ship’s kitchen making caviar tarts fit for a king. Halveig sings like an angel as part of the shipboard entertainment. Teit has been showing off his talent on a high board, diving through a ring of fire. Haki is teaching a class on swordplay.”

“Sounds like they fit right in.”

“Like lackwit pegs.”

“Dammit, Mordr! I just noticed your paleness. Are there no sinners on those cruise ships?”

“Plenty,” he said, “but the hot Caribbean sun counteracts all the repentants I am fanging.”

A vangel’s skin changed from pale, even translucent, to a healthy tan after they saved human sinners, partaking a small amount of their blood, or when they destroyed (not merely killed) Lucipires.

Vikar opened the commercial-size refrigerator, taking out two cartons of Fake-O, the synthetic blood invented about fifty years ago by their physician brother, Sigurd, to supplement the needs of vangels. Mordr quaffed them down quickly, followed by several swallows of the hot coffee to kill the putrid taste. It was questionable which tasted worse. “Son of a troll! Could Sig not add some flavoring to this scum? Tastes like curdled piss!”

“Actually, some of the younger vangels have requested strawberry or chocolate Fake-O. Armod wants carbonation added, like Pepsi.”

Mordr gaped at Vikar to see if he was serious. He was.

“Can you imagine thickened, bubbling, slimy, Pepsi-flavored Fake-O?”

He and Vikar both shivered with disgust.

Speaking of the devil—uh, angel—Armod, a young Icelandic Viking with slicked-back, black hair, walked into the kitchen. Rather, he moonwalked into the kitchen.

Mordr was the one gaping now.

Vikar laughed as Armod gave them both a wave, mid-moonwalk, and went over to a cabinet where he pulled down a box of Froot Loops. He poured the sweet cereal into a bowl and covered it with milk. “Armod fancies himself Michael Jackson reincarnated. He moonwalks everywhere he goes about the castle, plays that ‘Thriller’ music ad nauseam, and wears his braies so short his white hose is exposed.”

“I’ve met Armod many times before,” Mordr reminded Vikar, “but I thought he would have outgrown this foolishness by now.”

“Hardly. In fact, he is gaining a following.”

Mordr shook his head at the image. “Really, Vikings moonwalking? Or rather angels moonwalking?”

“Don’t forget vampires.”

“You complain about your arse being tied to this moldering castle,” Mordr said, “but I would wager my best sword that your arse enjoys being tied to your wife’s bed, moldering castle or not.”

“There is that.” Vikar grinned.

“Can you imagine how much worse it would be if we were in the real Transylvania?”

Vikar made an exaggerated grimace. “I met Count Dracula one time when we vangels were still time traveling. He was one scary dude, and you know we Vikings are rarely scared.”

Dude? Vikar really is becoming too modern. “Speaking of scary, I heard a rumor that Mike is thinking about turning Ivan the Terrible into a vangel,” Mordr said, popping a few more grapes into his mouth and crunching loudly.

Just then, Lizzie came ambling into the kitchen. She wore the same Victorian gown she’d worn in Victorian times and carried a cleaver. For chopping meat, Mordr hoped. A half dozen kitchen ceorls followed after her.

Lizzie must have heard the tail end of their conversation because she muttered, “He better not send Ivan here. I have enough to do cooking for Vikings. I draw the line at learning Russian cooking.”

Vikar just smiled. “It’s just a rumor, Lizzie.”