Vampire in Paradise
Deadly Angels Series
Book 5
Sandra Hill
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Publisher: Avon/Harper Collins
Date of Publication: 11/25/2014
ISBN: 9780062210487
Number of pages: 352
Book Description:
It’s been centuries since the Norseman Sigurd Sigurdsson was turned into a Vangel-a Viking Vampire Angel-as punishment for his sin of envy, but he’s still getting the hang of having fangs that get in the way when seducing women. Slaying demon vampires known as Lucipires and using his healing gifts as a cancer research doctor, Sigurd is sent to Florida’s Grand Keys Island as a resident physician where he encounters the most sinfully beautiful woman.
The only hope Marisa Lopez has of curing her five-year-old daughter of is a pricey experimental procedure. When she meets the good-looking doctor, Marisa is speechless. Then Sigurd tells her he believes he can help her daughter. Could this too-hot-to resist Viking doctor be an angel of some sort sent to bring a miracle for her daughter? Or is he just a vampire bent on breaking Marisa’s heart?
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PROLOGUE
The Norselands, A.D. 850…
Only the strongest survived in
that harsh land…
Sigurd Sigurdsson sat near the
high table of King Haakon’s yule feast sipping at the fine ale from his own
jewel-encrusted, silver horn. (Many of those “above the salt,” held gold
vessels, he noted.) Tuns of ale and rare Frisian wine flowed. (His mead tasted
rather weak, but mayhap that was his imagination.)
Favored guests at the royal feast
(He was mildly favored.) had their choice amongst spit-roasted wild boar,
venison and mushroom stew, game birds stuffed with chestnuts, a swordfish the
size of a small longboat, eels swimming in spiced cream sauce, and all the
vegetable side dishes one could imagine, including the hated neeps. (Hated by
Sigurd, leastways. He had a particular antipathy to turnips due to some
youthling insanity to determine which lackwit could eat the most of the root
vegetables without vomiting, or falling over dead as a stump. He lost.) Honey
oak cakes and dried fruit trifles finished off the meal for those not filled to
overflowing. (Peaches, on the other hand, were fruit of the gods, in Sigurd’s
opinion.) Entertainment was provided by a quartet of lute players who could
scarce be heard over the animated conversation and laughter. (Which was just as
well; they harmonized like a herd of screech owls. Again, in Sigurd’s opinion.)
Good cheer abounded. (Except for…)
In the midst of the loud, joyous
celebration, Sigurd’s demeanor was quiet and sad.
But that was nothing new. Sigurd
had been known as a dark, brooding Viking for many of his twenty and seven
years. Darker and more brooding as the years marched on. And he wasn’t even
drukkinn.
Some said the reason for Sigurd’s
discontent was the conflict betwixt two warring sides of his nature. A fierce
warrior in battle and, at the same time, a noted physician with innate healing
skills inherited from and homed by his grandmother afore her passing to the
Other World when he’d been a boyling.
Sigurd knew better. He had a
secret sickness of the soul, and its name was Envy. Never truly happy, never
satisfied, he always wanted what he didn’t have, whether it be a chest of gold,
the latest, fastest longship, a prosperous estate, the finest sword. A woman.
And he did whatever necessary to attain that new best thing. Whatever.
‘Twas like a gigantic worm he’d
found years past in the bowels of a dying man. Egolf the Farrier had been a
giant of a burly man in his prime, but at his death when he was only thirty
he’d been little more than a skeleton with no fat and scant flesh to cover his
bones. The malady had no doubt started years before innocently enough with a
tiny worm in an apple or some spoiled meat, but over the years, attached to his
innards like a ravenous babe, the slimy creature devoured the food Egolf ate,
and Egolf had a huge appetite, in essence starving the man to death.
“Sig, my friend!” A giant hand
clapped him on the shoulder and his close friend and hersir Bertim sat down on
the bench beside him. Beneath his massive red beard, the Irish Viking’s face
was florid with drink. “You are sitting upright,” Bertim accused him. “Is that
still your first horn of ale that you nurse like a babe at teat?
“What an image!” Sigurd shook his
head with amusement. “I must needs stay sober. The queen may yet produce a new
son for Haakon this night.”
“Her timing is inconvenient, but
then a yule child brings good luck.” Bertim raised his bushy eyebrows as a
sudden thought struck him. “Dost act as midwife now?”
“When it is the king’s whelp, I
do.”
Bertim laughed heartily.
“In truth, Elfrida has been laboring
for a day and night so far with no result. The delivery promises to be
difficult.”
Bertim nodded. ‘Twas the way of
nature. “What has the king promised you for your assistance?”
“Naught much,” Sigurd replied
with a shrug. “Friendship. Lot of good that friendship does me, though. Dost
notice I am not sitting at the high table?”
“And yet that arse licker Svein
One-Ear sits near the king,” Bertim commiserated.
I should be up there. Ah, well.
Mayhap if I do the king this one new favor... He shrugged. The seating was a
small slight, actually.
A serving maid interrupted them,
leaning over the table to replenish their beverages. The way her breasts
brushed against each of their shoulders gave clear signal that she would be a
willing bed partner to either or both of them. Bertim was too far gone in the
drink and too fearful of the wrath of his new Norse wife, and Sigurd lacked
interest in services offered so easily. The maid shrugged and made her way to
the next hopefully-willing male.
Picking up on their conversation,
Bertim said, “The friendship of a king is naught to minimize. It can be
priceless.”
Sigurd had reason to recall
Bertim’s ale-wise words later that night, rather in the wee hours of the
morning, when Queen Elfrida, despite Sigurd’s best efforts, delivered a
deformed, puny babe, a girl, and Sigurd was asked by the king, in the name of
friendship, to take the infant away and cut off its whispery breath.
It was not an unusual request. In
this harsh land, only the strongest survived, and the practice of infanticide
was ofttimes an act of kindness. Or so the beleaguered parents believed.
But Sigurd did not fulfill the
king’s wishes. Leastways, not right away. Visions of another night and another
life and death decision plagued Sigurd as he carried the swaddled babe in his
arms, its cries little more than the mewls of a weakling kitten.
Despite his full-length, hooded
fur cloak, the wind and cold air combined to chill him to the bone. He tucked
the babe closer to his chest and imagined he felt her heart beat steady and
true. Approaching the cliff that hung over the angry sea, where he would drop
the child after pinching its tiny nose, Sigurd kept murmuring, “’Tis for the
best, ‘tis for the best.” His eyes misted over, but that was probably due to the
snow flakes that began to flutter heavily in front of him.
He would do as the king asked. Of
course he would. But betimes it was not such a gift having royal friends.
Just then, he heard a loud voice
bellow, “SIGURD! Halt! At once!”
He turned to see the strangest
thing. Despite the blistering cold, a dark-haired man wearing naught but a
long, white, rope-belted gown in the Arab style approached with hands extended.
Without words, Sigurd knew that
the man wanted the child. To his surprise, Sigurd handed over the bundle that
carried his body heat to the stranger.
“Take her, Caleb,” the man said
to yet another man in a white robe who appeared at his side.
“Yes, Michael.” Caleb bowed as if
the first man were a king or some important personage.
More kings! That is all I need!
The Michael person passed the
no-longer crying infant to Caleb, who enfolded the babe in what appeared to be
wings, but was probably a white fur cloak, and walked off, disappearing into
the now heavy snowfall.
“Will you kill the child?” Sigurd
asked, realizing for the first time that he might not have been able to do it
himself. Not this time.
“Viking, will you never learn?”
Michael asked.
He said “Viking” as if it were a
bad word. Sigurd was too stunned by this tableau to be affronted.
“Who are you? What are you?”
Sigurd asked as he noticed the massive white wings spreading out behind the
man.
“Michael. An archangel.”
Sigurd had heard of angels before
and seen images on wall paintings in a Byzantium church. “Did you say arse angel?”
“You know I did not. Thou art a
fool.”
No sense of humor at all. Sigurd
assumed that an archangel was a special angel. “Am I dead?”
“Not yet.
” That did not sound promising.
“But soon?”
“Sooner than thou could imagine,”
he said without the least bit of sympathy.
Can I fight him? Somehow, Sigurd
did not think that was possible.
“You are a grave sinner, Sigurd.”
He knows my name. “That I freely
admit.”
“And yet you do not repent. And
yet you would have taken another life tonight.”
“Another?” Sigurd inquired,
although he knew for a certainty what Michael referred to, and it was not some
enemy he had covered with sword dew in righteous battle. But how could the
man…rather angel… possibly know what had been Sigurd’s closely held secret all
these years. No one else knew.
“There are no secrets, Viking,”
Michael informed him.
Holy Thor! Now he is reading my
mind!
Before Sigurd could reply, the
snow betwixt them swirled, then cleared to reveal a picture of himself as a
boyling of ten years or so bent over his little ailing brother Aslak, a
five-year-old of immense beauty, even for a male child. Pale white hair,
perfect features, a bubbling, happy personality. Everyone loved Aslak, and
Aslak loved everyone in return.
Sigurd had hated his little
brother, despite the fact that Aslak followed him about like an adoring puppy.
Aslak was everything that Sigurd was not. Sigurd’s dull brown hair only turned
blond when he got older and the tresses had been sun-bleached on sea voyages.
His facial features had been marred by the pimples of a youthling. He had an
unpleasant, betimes surly, disposition. In other words, unlikable, or so Sigurd
had thought.
Being the youngest of the
Sigurdsson boys, before Aslak, and the only one still home, Sigurd had been
more aware of his little brother’s overwhelming popularity. In truth, in later
years, when others referred to the seven Sigurdsson brothers, they failed to
recall that at one time there had been eight.
Sigurd blinked and peered again
into the swirling snow picture of that fateful night. His little brother’s
wheezing lungs laboring for life through the long pre-dawn hours. His mother
Lady Elsa had begged Sigurd to help because, even at ten years of age, he had
healing hands. Sigurd had pretended to help, but in truth he had not employed
the steam tenting or special herb teas that might have cured his dying brother.
Aslak had died, of course, and Sigurd knew it was his fault.
Looking up to see Michael staring
at him, Sigurd said, “I was jealous.”
Michael shook his head. “Nay,
jealousy is a less than admirable trait. Your sin was envy.”
“Envy. Jealousy. Same thing.”
“Lackwit!” Michael declared, his
wings bristling wide like a riled goose. “Jealousy is a foolish emotion, but
envy destroys the peace of the soul. When was the last time you were at peace,
Viking?”
Sigurd thought for a long moment.
“Never, that I recall.”
“Envy stirs hatred in a person,
causing one to wish evil on another. That was certainly the case with your
brother Aslak. And with so many others you have maligned or injured over the
years.”
Sigurd hung his head. ‘Twas true.
“Envy causes a person to engage
in immoderate quests for wealth or power or relationships that betimes defy
loyalty and justice.”
Sigurd nodded. The archangel was
painting a clear picture of him and his sorry life.
“The worst thing is that you were
given a treasured talent. The gift of healing. Much like the Apostle Luke. But
you have disdained it. Abused it. And failed to nourish it for a greater good.”
“An apostle?” Sigurd was not a
Christian, but he was familiar with tales from their Bible. “You would have me
be as pure as an apostle? I am a Viking.”
“Idiots! I am forced to work with
idiots.” Michael rolled his eyes. “Nay, no one expects purity from such as you.
Enough! For your grave sins, and those of your six brothers…in fact, all the
Vikings as a whole…the Lord is sorely disappointed. You must be punished. In
the future, centuries from now, there will be no Viking nation, as such. Thus
sayeth the Lord,” Michael pronounced. “And as for you Sigurdsson
miscreants…your time on earth is measured.”
“By death?”
Michael nodded. “Thou art already
dead inside, Sigurd. Now your body will be, as well.”
So be it. It was a fate all men
must face, though he had not expected it to come so soon. “You mention my
brothers. They will die, too?”
“They will. If they have not
already passed.”
Seven brothers dying in the same
year? This was the fodder of sagas. Skalds would be speaking of them forever
more. “Will I be going to Valhalla, or the Christian heaven, or that other
place?” He shivered inwardly at the thought of that latter, fiery fate.
“None of those. You are being
given a second chance.”
“To live?” This was good news.
Michael shook his head. “To die
and come back to serve your Heavenly Father in a new role.”
“As an angel?” Sigurd asked with
incredulity.
“Hardly,” Michael scoffed. “Well,
actually, you would be a vangel. A Viking vampire angel put back on earth to
fight Satan’s demon vampires, Lucipires. For seven hundred years, your penance
would be to redeem your sins by serving in God’s army under my mentorship.”
Sigurd could tell that Michael
wasn’t very happy with that mentorship role, but he could not dwell on that. It
was the amazing ideas the archangel was putting forth.
“Do you agree?” Michael asked.
Huh? What choice did he have? The
fires of hell, or centuries of living as some kind of soldier. “I agree, but
what exactly is a vampire?”
He soon found out. With a raised
hand, Michael pointed a finger at Sigurd and unimaginable pain wracked his
body, including his mouth where the jaw bones seemed to crack and realign
themselves, emerging with fangs, like a wolf. He fell to his knees as his
shoulder blades also seem to explode as if struck with a broadsword.
“Fangs? Was that necessary?” he
gasped, glancing upward at the celestial being whose arms were folded across
his chest, staring down at him.
“You’ll need them for sucking
blood.”
“From what?”
“What do you think? From a peach?
Idiot! Fom people…or demons.”
“What? Eeew!” He expects me to
drink blood? From living persons? Or demons? I do not know about this bargain.
“Thou can still change thy mind,
Viking,” Michael said.
Reading my mind again! Damn! “And
go to hell?”
“Thou sayest it.”
Sigurd thought about negotiating
with the angel, but knew instinctively that it would do no good. He nodded. “It
will be as you say.”
Moments later, when the pain
subsided somewhat, the angel raised him up and studied him with icy contempt,
or was it pity? “Go! And do better this time, vangel.”
On those words, Sigurd fell
backwards and over the cliff. Falling, falling, falling toward the black,
roiling sea. He discovered in that instant that there was one thing a vangel
didn’t have. Wings.
*****
About the Author:
Sandra Hill is a graduate of Penn State and worked for more than 10 years as a features writer and education editor for publications in New Jersey and Pennsylvania.
Writing about serious issues taught her the merits of seeking the lighter side of even the darkest stories.
She is the wife of a stockbroker and the mother of four sons.
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