Good Vampires Go to Heaven Read online

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all those men and women who are in the trenches fighting global terrorism, which has become a menace to the entire world. Surely these warriors vs terrorists represent Good vs Evil, much the same as the vangels, who have been a force against the most horrifying sinners, Lucipires, in my Deadly Angels series. I refer, of course, to the government agents and local law enforcement, and especially to our armed forces who sacrifice their lives to protect all of us in this war against hate. Blessings to them all!

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Reader Letter

  An Excerpt from The Cajun Doctor

  Chapter 1

  Glossary

  About the Author

  By Sandra Hill

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  What is your secret fear?

  Satan came to visit me today.

  Me! Zebulan, a mere Hebrew of no great fame, in the presence of the Boogie Man of Sin! And not a welcome mat in sight. Hah! If I had one, I’d try to hide under it. And I am not easily frightened.

  You probably think that I mean Satan’s visit as a metaphor for some bad deed I’ve committed. God knows . . . rather, Satan knows . . . I’ve committed plenty. No, I mean the real deal, scary-as-hell (pun intended . . . can you tell I’m losing it here?), evil personified, primo devil.

  Really.

  Can’t you see him? He is standing right there before me.

  In person.

  Well, not “in person” precisely because, as everyone knows, the biggest, baddest of all demons isn’t a person. Never was. Lucifer, as Satan was known in the beginning, existed as an archangel for eons, if not forever, before his fall from grace, never having started as a human, or so it is said. People do not realize that angels were created by God, and that humans do not become angels after death, no matter how good they might have been. Blame the misconception on movies like It’s a Wonderful Life with the line about angels getting wings every time a bell rings. Hah!

  I am rambling, mentally, as you can tell. A defense mechanism, I suppose. It’s either that, or scream with fright. You’d think there was nothing worse than the torture I have undergone this past year. I’ve grown at least two inches, thanks to the rack. (And I was already more than six feet tall.) Flaps of skin hang here and there from the floggings. (Needles and thread would come in handy, not to mention a nurse. I would do it myself if I could. But I am tied up at the moment. Ha, ha, ha!) No toenails or fingernails. (Ah, well. Saves money on manicures and pedicures, not that I’ve ever had either.) Barbed wire around my cock and round-the-clock porn shown on a ceiling screen. (Ouch! Gives new meaning to “Ring Around the Rosie.”)

  The only reason I still have eyes or a tongue is because Jasper, another fallen angel, wants me alive for centuries to prolong my agony. He thinks I betrayed him.

  I did.

  But back to Satan. Believe me, a visit from the Essence of Evil does not bode well for me, especially when he deigns to visit me in The Pit, this hidden cave deep in the bowels of Horror, Jasper’s castle headquarters.

  Jasper is king of all the Lucipires, or demon vampires (in case you didn’t know), of which I have been one for the past two thousand or so years. Leastways, I had been until the Big Transgression. That’s what Jasper calls my attempt to join the other team, as in vangels (Viking vampire angels). And, no, I am not a Viking. But I would try my damnedest to become one if it meant release from this demonic obligation. I’d even wear a ridiculous horned helmet, and learn to ride a longship, and eat that stinky gammelost, and . . .

  “You find humor in my presence, Zebulan?” Satan’s voice is so soft and beguiling one might be fooled into thinking his feelings are hurt. Does the Chief Devil even have feelings?

  “No. I was grimacing, not smi . . .” My words trail off as I turn to look directly at Satan for the first time.

  He is beautiful.

  Holy hellfire! I’m not sure what I was expecting. Demonoid form, for sure. Scaly green skin and tail and drooling mung. Claws with razor-sharp nails. Blazing red eyes and fangs. A darting, snake-like tongue. Maybe even horns.

  But, no, he is in humanoid form, and his appearance is so attractive it startles. Even Jasper, who stands in the background, still in demonoid persona, gazes at his master with awe.

  Satan has long, silk-like red hair. Who would have ever guessed a demon redhead? But then, redheads do have a reputation for fiery personalities. His skin is the creamy color of aged ivory. A perfectly muscled, tall body is shown off in black leather tunic and tight pants tucked inside tooled ebony snakeskin boots. The chain belt around his waist is pure gold. About his neck is another gold chain from which hangs a crucifix, of all things, meant to be a sacrilege, I assume.

  Satan carries not the caricature pitchfork portrayed in Christian images, but a long-handled whip with dozens of hair-thin, silver flails with weighted tails. The calm expression on his face is belied by the way he keeps tapping the whip against his knee, causing the metal to shimmer in the dim candlelight of the cave and make a metallic shushing sound.

  Shush, shush, shush!

  It is Satan’s eyes that are the giveaway, though. Clear green orbs against a blood red background that almost seem to pulse with fury. They are mesmerizing in their attempt to draw a person into their cyclonic swirls of sin.

  Shush, shush, shush.

  The eyes and the repetitive rhythm of the whip hypnotize.

  Shush, shush, shush.

  I look away, afraid of what I might say or do if I fall under the devil’s spell.

  “Thou hast wasted enough time, Zebulan. ’Tis time to admit thy betrayal, beg for forgiveness, and promise to remain a Lucipire, never to stray again.”

  Shush, shush, shush.

  Do a demon vampire’s work for eternity? Continue to fight the vangels. Prey on human sinners. Kill, kill, kill. My body count is well over a thousand by now. The prospect of continuing that dark work is more horrific to me than anything Satan might do to my body. “No. Kill me and get it over with.”

  “You are already dead.”

  Shush, shush, shush.

  “Just send me to Hell then. You can torture me there all you want.” Brave words when I am shaking in my shackles!

  Shush, shush, shush.

  “Ah, that is the rub,” Satan says.

  Shush, shush, shush.

  “Alas, I cannot take you home . . . yet.”

  Huh? I turn my head to look at Satan and, whoa! I understand immediately. This puts a whole new light on my situation. It almost makes the past year of torture worthwhile. Apparently, my eternal fate is in question. My good acts for the vangels must have gained me points up above. Oh, it wouldn’t be enough to get me through the Pearly Gates, but maybe Purgatory’s more tarnished portals. “My pal Michael must have put in a good word for me.” I start to smile and stop when my dry lips crack and begin to seep blood again, my fangs cutting deeper. It’s a wonder I have any blood left.

  Satan hisses and lashes his whip across my chest. The metallic threads
cause an excruciating pain, more like a searing burn. Thin welts immediately rise on my skin.

  “You will not mention that name again!” Satan’s red-rimmed, green eyes are now totally red. He is still beautiful, though, dammit.

  Satan refers to Michael, of course, the archangel warrior responsible for kicking the fallen angels out of Heaven, including Lucifer, aka Satan.

  “Michael, Michael, Michael,” I taunt, foolishly, but with great delight.

  The whip shoots out again, crisscrossing the chest welts. I probably look like a blank crossword puzzle. Give me a five-letter word for “person who taunts the devil.” IDIOT. My warped sense of humor is the only thing keeping me from crying out with pain.

  “Shall I send for Craven?” Jasper asks Satan. “My chief tortureologist has developed new methods of persuasion that are very effective.”

  Tortureologist? More like one sick bastard with more muscle than brain!

  “Not so effective if this sinner can stubbornly refuse to surrender,” Satan remarks.

  Shush, shush, shush.

  “Ah, but Hebrews ever were a stubborn race,” Jasper points out.

  Not a wise move! Even Zeb in his pain-riddled haze knows that one does not argue with Satan.

  Satan scowls at Jasper. Believe me, a Satan scowl is nothing to be encouraged. Better Jasper than me.

  “I mean, of course Craven has not been so effective in Zebulan’s case, but . . .” Jasper attempts to backpedal.

  “Watch and learn, Jasper,” Satan snarls. “The best torture works on the victim’s deepest despair. Their hidden fears. Their agonizing regrets. Their guilt. What might have beens. Their wish for do-overs.”

  Satan gives his full attention to me now, and I try to make my mind blank, to reveal nothing. At the same time, I brace myself, ignorant of exactly what he plans, but knowing I am in for something bad.

  It proves to be worse than I can imagine.

  “Do you remember Masada?” Satan asks me with well-honed cruelty.

  How can I forget? That ancient rock fortress overlooking the Dead Sea, the scene of one of Israel’s greatest massacres. It is the place where I lost my beloved wife, Sarah; and my twins, Mikah and Rachel.

  “Would you like to see how your wife and children died?”

  No! No, no, no, no, no, I cry silently. It is enough that I feel guilty over their deaths. That I mourned their loss every day of my human existence, which was not that long since I took my own life, but every day of my pitiful two-thousand-year-old Lucipire existence.

  My eyes are forced shut and behind the lids I see Sarah, but she hardly resembles my wife with smooth, sun-kissed skin and dancing brown eyes. No longer is she the beautiful woman who strolled through the neat rows of our small Shomron vineyard, laughing up at me, teasing. No, this creature more resembles those pictures I have seen of Holocaust victims during World War II. Gaunt, skeletal, walking like an elderly crone, rather than her twenty-five years. I know then that I am seeing Sarah as she was during the year-long siege of Masada, before the final assault, before the fires set by Roman soldiers. Of which, for my sins, I had been one.

  I arch my back on the rack, attempting escape. I scream, the first time in my captivity. A long wail of heartbreaking anguish.

  “Or perhaps you would like to see how your children fared?”

  When I do not respond, Satan says, “Everyone has a tipping point. Everyone.”

  What I see then pushes me closer and closer to the point of madness. And I know, deep down, that he will force me to view this scene over and over, flails to my very soul.

  It is too much!

  Chapter 1

  The Norselands, AD 1250

  There’s a little bit of witch in every woman . . .

  Regina Dorasdottir loved being a witch, but that had not always been the case.

  Witchiness was in her blood, her mother and grandmother before her having practiced the black arts. For years, she’d fought her gifts, especially when she was teased and bullied by the village children and even the youthlings up at Winterstorm Castle, but then when she was fourteen, the ignorant village folks burned her mother, Dora Sigrunsdottir, while still alive and inside her forest hut, blaming her for a year-long famine. This, despite the fact that her sweet mother had been a good witch, providing healing potions to the sick, birthing babies, giving, giving, giving.

  Regina could not claim the same goodness. After witnessing her mother’s brutal death, a bitterness and rage grew in her like a festering boil. She had to embrace her magical gifts, or explode. After a time, she rebuilt her mother’s home in the forest . . . a hovel, actually, but she did not care. It was only temporary. Eventually, she came to excel at and enjoy all that she could do, uncaring if anyone got hurt, sometimes deliberately inflicting pain on those for whom she carried a grudge. And later, over the next eleven years, she did not even discriminate in that way. Yes, she helped a great many people with her healing potions, but that became incidental. If people paid, they got her services.

  She loved the power. In a time when women were rarely given authority, she had a shadowy influence over many people.

  She loved making money. Forget about being paid in chickens, or barley, or mead, as many healers and midwives were. She accepted only coins, thank you very much, preferably gold, but silver would do, and occasionally copper.

  She loved pretending to be an aged, skinny crone with a huge wart on her hairy chin, skin splotches painted on her skin, similar to liver spots, which village cotters referred to as devil’s spittle, and a not-so-lovely ashy gray hair. Best for a woman living alone in a remote area to appear as loathsome as possible. In fact, she had seen only twenty-five winters, her hair was an unfortunate flame red, also considered a sign of the devil. A raggedy gunna hid an embarrassingly voluptuous figure. Those folks who’d known her as a child were long gone, or unable to recognize this scary creature of the woods. They were suspicious, of course, but accepted her explanation that the original Regina was gone and she was a member of the coven (with the same name, would you believe it?) who’d come to take her place. The fools shivered at the word “coven” and asked no more questions.

  She did not worry overmuch about suffering the same fate as her mother. She was hardier than her mother and more careful. Plus, she’d honed a talent with knife throwing over the years, and her knives were razor-sharp. She could pierce a running rabbit at twenty paces and gut a randy Viking bent on rape. Never openly. Best not to raise suspicions to another level.

  Regina had no friends or family. She was alone, and that was how she liked it.

  She enjoyed making jest of others, without their knowing. Especially fun were her threats of ridiculously impossible curses tossed at lackwit Vikings, like “Do as I command, or I’ll make your cock the size of a thimble.” Of late, she took great delight in being creative with her spells. “Have you ever seen a candle melt into a limp wick, Bjorn?” Or “Svein, Svein, Svein! May the winds blow so hard your braies fall off, and your cock gets twisted into a triple knot.” Or “The gods are displeased at your misdeeds, Ivan, and they can turn your favorite body part black as night with running boils, stinksome as old lutefisk.”

  Men were so obsessed with their manparts, many of them coming to her with pleas for a magic potion to make theirs bigger, or thicker, or less ruddy. And they would try anything! Horse dung mixed with goat urine. Standing on their heads and chanting. Dipping their wicks in wax. Never once did she have a man ask to make his smaller, not even Boris the Horse who was said to resemble his namesake.

  Of course, women were just as bad. Always wanting love potions. Or ways to make their breasts bigger, or smaller, their buttocks less flabby, their hips wider. Half of them wanted concoctions to help them get pregnant, the other half wanted rid of the bairns already growing in their bellies.

  None of that mattered in her longtime scheme of amassing enough wealth to buy an estate in the Saxon lands and become a grand lady. Well, mayhap not so grand, but at least
respectable, in a class above the cotter class. She even had a particular property in mind, a small sheepstead with a barn and fields and a lovely stone manor house. But eleven long years of skimping and saving and still she didn’t have enough. She needed a bigger influx of wealth to finally fulfill her dreams, and it would come soon with the arrival of the young Jarl Efram of nearby Winterstorm.

  Ah, there he was now, just in time, leading his horse into the clearing.

  “Come, come, my jarl,” she said with an exaggerated cackle, motioning the fur-clad lording to follow her into her woodland hovel. Efram, new to the jarldom on the recent death of his father, was little more than a youthling at sixteen years. “You can tie your beast to yon tree, next to the boulder.”

  She could see that he was hesitant to go near the red-coated boulder, probably thinking the stains were blood. They were, but not human blood. She butchered her chickens and squirrels for the stew pot there. She cackled again, this time to show she noticed his squeamishness. Embarrassed, he looped the reins around the post, wiping his gloved hands on his braies.

  With a sniff of distaste, Efram stooped to enter the low door of her home. He might be young, but he was tall. The ceiling, from which hung numerous bunches of herbs, almost touched Efram’s blond hair, which he wore in a long, single braid. Her black cat, Thor, hissed and lunged for Efram’s pant leg, and the boyling jumped, causing dried rosemary and lavender and dill to shower his head and shoulders with aromatic dried particles.

  She chuckled, rather cackled, again when he shook himself of the chaff.

  He was not amused and tried to kick at Thor who was already bored and scooting away to his woven pallet by the hearth, where he stretched out and proceeded to lick his private parts. Men, even feline ones, had no manners.

  Inside the thatched-roof cottage was not much better than its wattle-and-daub exterior. The hard-packed dirt floor was uncovered by rushes, but she kept it swept clean and bug free. Not that the spoiled bratling, accustomed to finer fare, would notice such details.