Page 44 of Good Vampires Go to Heaven

“Bullshit!” Regina didn’t consider him her master any more than did her cat, Thor, which must have escaped from the pantry where it had been locked because it now hurled itself, not at Regina, but at the old crone who dropped her broom and bag to open her scrawny arms wide. “There’s a pretty. Come to Mother.” She smiled . . . and Vikar doubted she had more than two teeth, and both of them fangs . . . and petted the cat which was already draped around her shoulders.

Regina didn’t look at all put out at the disloyalty of her cat. In fact, she muttered, “You’re welcome to him.”

“Is baby hungry? Does he want a little mouse to eat?” The old crone glanced toward the kitchen.

“His name is Thor,” Regina told her, as if that mattered. “And this is Vikar.” She nodded toward him, then told him, “This is Grimelda.”

“How do you do?” he said as politely as he could muster. Then in a misguided attempt at humor, he asked, “Do people call you Grimey for short?”

“Only if they value black tongues and bleeding hemorrhoids.” She waggled the fingertips of one hand at him as if wielding a curse. And she cackled, of course.

Lizzie straightened with indignation, or as much as she could with her short frame, and not about Regina’s failing to introduce her. “There are no mice in my kitchen. I keep a clean kitchen, that I do.”

Not to worry. Grimelda, or Grimey . . . what a name for a witch, he thought . . . reached down into her burlap sack and pulled out a dead rodent (long dead by the dryness of the thing) and gave it to the cat. It probably came from Horror and was a demon mouse. Thor, pleased at his prize, took it in his pointy teeth and jumped off her shoulders to go off and devour the treat.

Vikar had always been told that cats only eat live prey. Perhaps witch cats were different. Yuck!

Grimelda was off, as well, brushing past Lizzie into the kitchen. “I need a cauldron. Where do you keep the cauldrons?”

“No, no cauldrons!” Lizzie screeched, rushing after the witch. “Don’t touch anything. And leave that filthy broom outside.”

Andrea, Cnut’s wife and a pastry chef, who helped Lizzie in the kitchen, walked in then and stared after the old woman who was surprisingly quick on her feet and cackling up a storm as Lizzie chased her around the long kitchen island. Andrea wore a white chef’s coat over black jeans. Must be she was preparing to bake for the masses today. His stomach rumbled at the prospect of her warm bread spread with butter and peach jam from the Amish market.

Vikar would notify Michael of Regina and Zeb’s arrival, and the archangel might very well be here to confront the two of them by this afternoon, or maybe tomorrow. He would have to tell Andrea to bake some of those chocolate-filled croissants that the archangel favored. Yes, even heavenly beings had sweet tooths.

A huffing Lizzie gave up on her chase and came over to them. “She’s a witch,” Lizzie whispered to Andrea.

Andrea arched her eyes in surprise, but not too much surprise. She was a human, not a vangel, and, during the year or less she’d been here, there had been lots more, bigger surprises than a mere witch.

Grimelda, who was standing a short distance away, must have heard the remark, though, because she eyed Andrea’s attire which would seem odd to her, and instead of remarking on her white coat, she asked, “Ya got any eye of newt around here?”

She was probably kidding.

Wasn’t she?

Quick to react, Andrea replied, “Just the eye of my husband Cnut,” and waved to the vangel who had jumped off the gazebo and was grinning as he walked toward her. By the gleam of lust in Cnut’s blue eyes, you’d think he had been gone a year and not just a day.

“Well, one new witch down, two more to go,” Vikar said to Regina. “What were you thinking? Bringing witches here. Demon witches.”

She shrugged. “I had no choice. They helped me rescue Zeb.”

“You had a choice, all right, girl. Starting with your decision to leave this castle without permission.”

“I am sorry.”

“You are not!”

“Well, I’m sorry that I had to defy your orders . . . implied orders, I might add. You never actually said that—”

“Do not play word games with me,” he practically shouted. “There have been vangel transgressions over the years, but none so serious as yours. And none with such monumental consequences that affect us all. God only knows what your punishment will be. If it were up to me, it would be banishment.”

“No!” she cried. “Let me explain—”

The young male witch interrupted them now, stretching out a hand to Vikar. “Y’all mus’ be Vikar Sigurdsson. It’s a privilege ta meet you. Mah name is Beauregard Doucet from La-fay-ette, Loo-zee-anna. At yer service. Call me Beau.”

Vikar shook his hand, before withdrawing it quickly with distaste. Vangels did not willingly touch demons, and there was no doubt this man was still a Lucipire. He reeked of it.

“And this heah is mah friend, Patience Allister.”