Page 20 of Kiss of Wrath

“Not yet,” Zeb said, and that sealed the deal for Jasper.

“Have a good time, then work hard to make this new operation successful,” Jasper said, patting Zeb on the shoulder.

Once his council members had departed, Jasper sighed with satisfaction, thinking, Betimes it is good to be me. Then he turned to Beltane and said, “Care for a game of eyeball Ping-Pong?”

Four

Even Vikings get lost sometimes . . .

Mordr was in a foul mood.

He had walked from one end of the famous Las Vegas Strip to the other. All he had was a blister on his heel and a stupid address. At first he had cruised the gambling mecca in the cool air conditioning of the Lexus SUV with blacked-out windows that Trond had lent him, but the GPS was malfunctioning. So, he had reverted to the age-old method of transport. Walking. Even a street policeman he had approached had no idea where Crescent Street was. Must be a new development, the cop had said.

“Develop what?” he’d asked.

“Move it, buster.” The cop must have thought he was jesting. Like Mordr ever jested!

At an all-you-can-eat buffet palace (though there was naught about it that resembled a palace), he’d eaten so much that the manager gave him dirty looks. He’d dirty-looked the lackwit right back, then flashed his fangs, something that was not only immature but forbidden to vangels in less-than-dangerous situations. He was inordinately pleased to see the miscreant scurry away in fright.

He’d been propositioned three times back on the street. One time the offer had involved some explicit sexual activity that defied imagination. He was not interested, though he was curious. He would have to ask Ivak later. Ivak fashioned himself the expert on all things of a sexual nature.

In a casino, bored to the bone, he put a dollar in a Wheel of Fortune machine and, to his embarrassment, heard bells and whistles go off all around him. Folks turned to stare at him. Apparently, he’d won some kind of jackpot. Five thousand dollars. Michael would have his skin if he knew he’d been gambling.

He’d stopped two young men from picking the pocket of an elderly woman in denim braies, high-heeled boots, and a cowboy hat. The woman, who was eighty if she was a day, also tried to proposition him, as a reward. Not if his eventual wings depended on it!

One hotel pretended to be a Roman palace (Las Vegas had a thing about palaces—Caesar’s Palace, the Palace Café, the Palace Wedding Chapel, Palace Deli, Palace Pedicures). Another hotel claimed to be a riverboat. In the middle of the desert! Yet others were an American frontier town, a circus, a Greek spa, even a Viking world, complete with a longship in the lobby in a miniature pool that churned out waves, like an ocean. That particular hotel was called—what else!—Valhalla. The waitresses were dressed up as some halfbrain’s idea of what a Valkyrie would wear. As if Odin would allow his females to half expose breasts pushed up nigh to their chins by some artificial means or other. They wobbled about in heels so high their buttocks arched out. He supposed some men might consider them a lustsome sight. Mordr did not!

The last straw for him was when a half dozen Elvis clones riding bicycles almost ran him over and didn’t even stop to see if he was all right. Disgusted, he went into a little tavern where he ordered a cold beer. He was sitting there when an exceedingly tall woman came in and sat on a bar stool beside him. She was what was known here as a showgirl . . . or a prostitute. It was hard to tell the difference in this town. With feathers in her big blond hair, thick makeup including red pouty lips and eyelashes so long and curly they had to be fake, and a skimpy outfit that was three sizes too small, she let out a long sigh. Without her placing an order, the bartender, who obviously knew her well, passed over a tall glass of iced water.

“How’re tricks, Trixie?” the bartender quipped.

“Tricky.” The woman shrugged and used a napkin to pat the perspiration from her forehead. “Only a dozen people in the audience today. If we don’t get more business, the show will close down.”

“The economy,” the bartender concluded.

“Tell me about it.”

As she sipped at her drink, being careful not to smear her lipstick, the woman turned to him and said, “Where you from, pal?”

You do not want to know. Just then, Mordr noticed something. Under the thick layer of paint on the woman’s face was a faint hint of . . . whiskers? He arched a brow.

“Yep,” the woman—uh, man—replied with a grin.

Mordr burst out with a short laugh—at himself for being so easily duped.

“Jack Trixson,” the man-woman said, stretching out a hand in greeting.

A nice Viking name, Mordr decided, and shook the man’s hand. “Mordr Sigurdsson.”

“Great hair, Mordr!” Jack remarked.

Mordr did not think much about his appearance. His hair was long in the Norse style with war braids framing each side of his face, but to him the color seemed a dull blondish brown and unremarkable. Normally, he would have scoffed or done violence at such a compliment, especially from a man, but he needed to tread carefully in this strange city. “Thank you. Yours is quite . . . um, impressive, too.” Impressive it was, indeed. Big and blond, reaching down to his wide shoulders.

“A wig,” Jack informed him with a grin. “Looks real, doesn’t it? Pantene conditioner. You oughta try it. It’ll give your hair more body and luster and take care of those split ends.”

Split ends? I have split ends? What are split ends? This was the strangest conversation Mordr had ever had with a man . . . or woman. He could not contain his curiosity then. “Are you a man who likes women? A man who likes men? A man who likes both? Or . . .” He tossed his hands in the air. “I mean no offense. Truly.”

“No offense taken. The first of those, actually. This is just a job. I have a wife and two kids to support, and my acting career was going nowhere. So, we left Hollywood and came here. Until the economy hit the toilet, I was doing well as a female impersonator.”