Page 9 of Kiss of Wrath

“Besides, Ivan was no Viking,” Mordr pointed out, “and vangels thus far have been only Viking vampire angels.”

“Thus far.” Vikar homed in on just those words of Mordr’s. “Remember, Mike insinuated to Zeb last time he was here that, if he fulfilled his duties for another fifty years, he might make him a vangel. And Zeb is a Hebrew, a far cry from a Norseman.”

Zebulan was a Lucipire who acted as a double agent, so to speak, for Michael. Zeb had done some favors for Mordr’s brothers Trond and Ivak in recent years, which had apparently impressed Mike, not an easy thing to do.

Mordr and Vikar watched with fascination as Lizzie ordered her kitchen staff about with an authority that would do a Viking chieftain proud. “Alov, get four dozen eggs. Hove, five slabs of bacon and five pounds of sausage and no dawdling. Freya, start toasting and buttering bread. Torgny, whip up some of those biscuits you do so well. We’ll need ten quarts of orange juice. Someone start the juicer. Hurry, hurry, we don’t want to be eating when Michael gets here.” Soon, Lizzie was using her cleaver on the cutting board to expertly make thick, uniform slices of bacon, and the kitchen was being filled with delicious smells of cooking. “I forgot. Armod, go get that scrapple you and Mistress Alex bought at the Amish market. It would go good with syrup. You did buy a gallon of that good maple syrup, too, I hope.” Armod nodded, his mouth full of that sickeningly sweet cereal, and moonwalked off to do as he was ordered. They all did, except for the moonwalking, despite where they fell in the social strata of the castle. The lowest of them all, thralls, who were actually mere servants (slaves per se not being permitted in modern times) were rushing about setting placemats, dishes, and cutlery along both sides of the fifteen-foot island, working around Mordr and Vikar, and in the dining room. The vangels would eat in shifts, or fill their plates and go into other rooms, or outside.

Mordr’s brother Ivak, a minister of sorts in a Louisiana prison, strolled in, wearing rubber thong sandals, shorts, and a sleeveless muscle shirt over a clerical collar, which he best remove before Mike arrived. The archangel would not see the humor in the attire. Ivak saluted Vikar with his middle finger.

“I assigned him and his wife to different bedchambers last night,” Vikar explained with a grin. Another warped attempt at humor. Really, vangels had too much time on their hands.

To Mordr, Ivak said, “Welcome, Brother Grim. I have missed your merry countenance.”

Mordr started to rise to go after the fool, but Vikar held him back. “Temper, temper,” Vikar warned.

Laughing, Ivak went over to the stove, where he kissed Lizzie on the cheek. Eeew! Then, the fool snuck a piece of crisp bacon and popped it into his fool mouth.

Lizzie smiled.

“Did you see that?” Mordr asked Vikar. “In all these years, I have never seen Lizzie smile. I did not even know she had teeth. Well, except for fangs.”

Vikar shrugged. “Ivak always had a way with women.”

And a lot of good it did him, too. Ivak was guilty of the sin of lust. Not that he would be having lustsome thoughts about the old woman. Or would he? “Anyone else sneaking a bit of food risks her axe—rather cleaver—hitting a body part,” Mordr grumbled.

Just then, the sound of giggling could be heard coming from down the hall, soon followed by two little mitelings, Vikar and Alex’s “adopted” children Gunnar and Gunnora, who skipped into the kitchen. “Unca Mord!” the twins squealed as one.

What was it about children and dogs, that they always sought attention from people who favored them least, or were skittish around them? That is me. Skittish. Damn, damn, damn!

“Gun. Nora,” Mordr greeted them. Then, feeling trapped, he stood abruptly, knocking over his stool. His ears rang, and he felt light-headed as the little ones ran toward him, arms outstretched as they anticipated being swung high in the air, as all their uncles were wont to do. Except Mordr.

He swiveled on his boots and began to take long strides toward the back doorway.

“Why doesn’t Unca Mord like us?” he heard Gun ask his father in his little boyling voice.

Mordr’s heart, what was left of it, nigh broke, but he did not stop.

“Maybe he found out that you pick your nose,” Nora replied.

“Or that you cry like a baby when you fall,” Gun countered.

“Mordr!” Vikar called out with concern as he leaned down and took one child in each arm, lifting them up to his bare chest.

“Daddy, why don’t you have boobies, like Mommy?”

“Ask your mother,” Vikar advised with age-old male wisdom.

Mordr waved to Vikar over his shoulder, indicating he was all right. “I just want to check out the gazebo.”

Lackwit, lackwit, lackwit, Mordr berated himself as he walked around a huge hole in the backyard—another renovation project?—and sat on a gazebo bench, rubbing his face with both hands. When will I be able to bear being around children again? When will I stop seeing Kata and Jomar’s faces in every little person I come across? When will the pain of their loss end?

Vikar left him alone, thank God! And Mordr watched silently as more and more vangels awakened and went about their work, awaiting Michael’s arrival. He could hear Lizzie’s voice raised stridently as she continued to prepare breakfast for the horde. Laughter abounded as vangels who hadn’t seen each other in a long time got reacquainted.

What is wrong with me that I cannot be like all others? Why am I always so grim? Why am I without humor? Why, why, why?

Michael finally arrived. Mordr knew that because he could hear the sound of many wings. Apparently, the archangel had brought a legion with him this time. They better not be expecting breakfast. By the sounds of the morning activities, Lizzie would have breakfast over by now and the kitchen cleaned up. He would like to be there if Mike asked her to prepare an impromptu angelic feast. Mordr almost smiled at that image. Almost.

Soon after, Vikar came to get Mordr.