Page 6 of Good Vampires Go to Heaven

“Not an angel. A vangel. A Viking vampire angel. Put on earth to destroy Lucifer’s demon vampires, wicked creatures who prey on sinful humans, killing them before their fated time of death, giving them no chance to repent.”

“Huh?”

“Explanations can come later. Dost thou choose Hell or vangeldom?”

“That’s some choice! For how long?”

Michael was growing impatient. “As long as it takes. Centuries. Mayhap even until the Final Judgment Day.”

“And I will live all that time, growing older and older, more feeble?”

“Dost deliberately misspeak, witch? Thou wouldst stay the same age.”

“Oh. Really? Well, yes, then. Of course I agree.” She paused. “But what exactly is a vam-pyre? Does it have anything to do with fire, or is—”

The time for questions had passed. She’d agreed. That was enough for Michael.

Raising both arms, he levitated her high in the air so that she twirled about, screaming as her upper jaw broke and restructured itself to accommodate newly formed fangs and her shoulder blades cracked open and grew bumps that might one day become wings. Her green eyes turned the clear blue of all vangels. Now, do you understand what a vampire is? At the same time, for his own pleasure, Michael sent the bristling, hissing familiar with her. Take that, cat!

“I changed my mind,” Regina screeched.

Too late! The witch was flying through the air to parts unknown to take on her new role. And Michael was off to see what the Sigurdsson brothers were up to now. An archangel’s work was never done!

Chapter 2

Transylvania, Pennsylvania, AD 2016

Beware of red-haired witches with fangs . . .

Aha! I’ve got him! He won’t escape me now, the yellow-bellied son of a Norse boar!

Regina was in a rage.

And she’d finally trapped the one man who could help her. He wouldn’t escape her this time.

“I’ve had enough of this glass ceiling!” she yelled up at Vikar Sigurdsson who was standing atop a twelve-foot ladder changing one of thirteen bulbs in the chandelier of the third parlor.

“Huh?” The Viking pivoted to look down at her, then had to use both hands to steady himself, which caused one of the bulbs to fall and shatter on the parquet floor.

He muttered something foul under his breath about fucked-up, bothersome witches. It was the kind of thing vangels were not supposed to say. At least he hadn’t used the Lord’s name as an expletive. That was a definite no-no. Still, he better hope Mike hadn’t heard him. Mike was the rude nickname the vangels gave St. Michael. Not in his presence, of course. They weren’t total fools. And anyway, why were male vangels always blaming the witch side of her nature for every little mishap; she was as much a vangel as they were, and that was the point.

Good thing she’d locked Thor in her bedchamber or the cat would also be blamed if Vikar came tumbling down on his fine Viking arse or his hard Viking head. Folks were always saying lackwitted things about witches, black cats, and stepladders!

“What glass ceiling?” Vikar sniped, now that he’d steadied himself. “I swear, we’ve replastered every ceiling in this damn castle, all hundred or so of them, and not one of them was glass.” Restoration of the rundown castle was a sore point with Vikar, who had been attempting to make the crumbling ruin livable for the past five years. A never-ending battle, he was always bemoaning. Guilty of the sin of pride, Vikar still found it hard to reconcile that he was forced to live in a dump in Transylvania, of all places, and not Transylvania, Romania, either. This was the town of Transylvania, Pennsylvania, a corny, vampire tourist trap. If Regina didn’t have other things on her mind, she would taunt him about his lowly assignment.

“You dope!” She probably shouldn’t insult the head of their vangel clan, so to speak, but she was spitting mad. “Glass ceiling is a metaphor for the invisible barriers that keep women from rising to the top.”

“Met-a-whore? What’s that? No, don’t tell me.” He rolled his eyes and muttered something about there being a reason why he avoided witches, and her in particular, all the time. He probably knew all along what a glass ceiling was, and a metaphor, too. “Holy clouds, woman! Can’t this wait until I am off this death trap?”

“What difference does it make? You’re dead anyway,” she pointed out, arms folded over the chest of her tunic, tapping her foot impatiently.

Vikar noticed her foot tapping, and her attire, as well. The idiot preferred that the female vangels wear gowns in the ancient Norsewoman fashion, complete with ankle-length, open-sided apron, to distinguish them from the human females. Hah! She would wear an apron when Vikar started wearing ballet slippers, and she’d told him so, more than once. Regina much preferred leather braies and belted tunics. She looked good in such an outfit, too.

“What’s your point, Regina? I let you put a Crock-Pot in your room.”

“A Crock-Pot is not a cauldron,” she asserted with affront. Vikar . . . in fact, all the Viking men . . . liked to mock her witchly activities. He probably thought she wanted to brew some bat wing and rat tail concoction, and not some healing remedy for bloody tongues. Vangels were always accidentally biting their tongues with their fangs. It was an occupational hazard, you might say.

“And even though I have rules against indoor pets, I have allowed your cat free rein of the castle.”