Kiss of Pride Read Free Page B

aware of that fact since I’ve been sporting these fangs for more than a thousand years.
    Or “Viking, I saw what you did on that yacht.”
    That wasn’t me. I swear, it was Mordr.
    Or “Viking, you are not here for a vacation.”
    No shit!
    And, by the runes, was Mike hard to please! At the last Reckoning in 1912 Vikar had another four hundred years smacked on to his “penance” for a few teeny tiny sins, including the bad sex. The angel jury of one had obviously not been of the same opinion on the “teeny tiny” evaluation.
    His brother Harek, once a highly skilled battle strategist, now a computer geek, of all things, was teaching Mike how to organize a software spreadsheet for every blasted member of vangeldom. Mike was inputting every single sin or grace each of them had committed. It was enough to give a Viking warrior hives. When Harek asked Vikar if he wanted to learn how to set up his own computer chart, Vikar told him what he could do with his mouse. Vikar did make use of Harek’s talents in ordering supplies for the castle, and clothing for all the vangels. It wasn’t that they couldn’t shop in stores themselves, but the less notice they garnered, the better.
    Mike might bring Gabe and Rafe with him this time. He hoped so; those two tended to act as a counterbalance to Mike’s testiness. That would be Gabriel and Raphael, in angel circles.
    “You better feed,” he advised Trond now. “Your skin is getting transparent, almost like Saran wrap. I can see your veins.”
    Back in the old days, like the Roman empire where Trond had spent the past twenty years, there were no SPF 1000 sunscreens or tanning products. Contrary to popular opinion, vampires could go out in sunlight, providing they’d blood-fed properly, except that their skin got whiter and whiter, eventually translucent, broadcasting to one and all, Hey, look at me. I’m a vampire. Wanna get sucked?
    On the other hand, demon vampire skin got red when overexposed to the sun. Really, really red.
    Trond walked over to the commercial-size fridge and took out three pint bottles of Fake-O, invented by their very own ceorl chemist, who worked with his brother Sigurd, a physician. Not as good as real blood, but it would do in a bind. Trond’s fangs slid out, and he punctured the thin plastic lids. He bowed his head and said grace in a low murmur. When he’d sucked the pints dry and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, his skin tone was already changing. Not the good, healthy color obtained by drinking real blood, but satisfactory. With a soft belch, he said, “I thought you might need some help. That’s why I came early.”
    “Hmpfh! I hope you brought an army.”
    “I did. Well, about fifty karls and ceorls. Half of them will be here this evening.” Like ancient Viking society, the VIK was organized below The Seven into jarls, comparable to earls; karls, high but not necessarily of noble standing; ceorls, who were apprentices; and thralls, or slaves. “Where are yours, by the way?”
    “Hiding.”
    “Hiding?” Trond folded his arms over his massive chest and leaned back against the stone wall.
    “I have twenty-seven karls and ceorls here already. I might have snarled at them one or two or a hundred times. Rollo is afraid of bats, and, whoo-boy, do we have a hird of them here. Any idea what I should do with a truckload of guano? That’s bat shit, in case you didn’t know.”
    “I know what guano is. Just because I’m lazy does not make me a halfbrain.”
    That was debatable, in Vikar’s opinion. Trond really was lazy—big-time, as modern folks would say. He had been condemned for sloth, which was one of the seven deadly sins. Vikar’s biggest sin had, of course, been pride.
    Vikar continued his tirade. “Thrain fell off a shaky balcony.” Everyone knew that Thrain had to be the clumsiest Viking, or vampire angel, who ever lived . . . or died.
    “Good thing he has a hard head.”
    “Tell me about it. Then there is