could emerge in the oddest places.
Just then a heavyset, older woman bustled in from the back door. She wore Victorian upper-class attire, a fringed, black silk shawl over a white, high-necked, lace-trimmed, mutton-sleeved blouse that was tucked into a full-length black skirt.
“Miss Borden, thank God!” Vikar said, going over to give her a hug. “We expected you two days ago.”
“Stuck in Portland. A male prostitute there was a bugger to save.” She grinned at her pun as she handed the shawl to Armod, the Michael Jackson wannabe, who was in the process of unloading groceries. Armod got a strange look on his face at the woman’s words, but then the woman noticed his expression, and said, “Sorry, Armod.” She gave the boy a quick hug, then began to roll up the sleeves of her blouse.
“Miss Borden, you know Armod, obviously, and Ulf, and Floki. This is Alexandra Kelly. She’s a . . . uh, visitor.”
Miss Borden eyed her warily as she hiked an obviously heavy canvas carryall up onto the counter and pulled out a meat cleaver. “Just call me Lizzie.” On those ominous words— Lizzie Borden —she began to expertly carve the side of beef into steaks and ribs, calling out orders as she worked. “Floki, get me some freezer paper. Ulf, do we have a roasting pan big enough for a twenty-pound rump? Armod, what in bloody mud are you doing with all those cans?”
Armod’s pale face turned pink. “No one wanted to cook, so we’ve been living out of cans,” he lisped as he pointed to industrial-size cans of stew, SpaghettiOs, SPAM, fruit cocktail, soup, pudding, tuna, and sardines. “Mostly we been having pizza delivered. Domino’s loves us.” He grinned sheepishly, exposing his two fangs.
“Well, put it all away,” the cook said. “Vikar, you could go out and help my assistants bring in bags of potatoes and some sweet corn I bought at a roadside stand.”
Vikar groaned and told Alex in a whispered aside, “You think lisps are bad? You do not want to see vampires eating corn on the cob.”
She laughed, but then had to ask, “Lizzie Borden? The Lizzie Borden?”
“One and the same.”
“And she was a vampire?” Alex had noticed that the woman’s upper lip protruded a bit, as if fangs were there, though not extended.
“Not until she died.”
“And she was a Viking?”
“She has a bit of Viking in her family history. Bordenssons from way back.”
He chucked her under her hanging jaw and went out to do the lady’s bidding.
While he was gone, Alex walked around the kitchen, examining things. All the appliances appeared new, including one whole wall of stainless-steel refrigerator and walk-in freezer units. She opened one and saw dozens of different kinds of beer. She laughed and took out a Sierra Nevada, one of her husband Brian’s favorites. Amazingly, that remembrance, and the image of them sitting on the back deck of their Barnegat Bay cottage drinking beer and eating late-night snacks, didn’t squeeze her heart as it might have months ago. Of course, that had been in the early years of their marriage. Before his betrayal.
The next unit held a pigload of pint- and quart-size glass containers, like old-fashioned milk bottles, holding a red beverage. They were marked Fake-O. She didn’t need to ask what they were, and, really, whatever was going on in this wacky castle, they knew how to get the special effects right. Creepy, that’s what it was.
She was opening the next unit where she discovered about fifty different gallon pails of ice cream when Vikar’s brother Trond walked into the kitchen. He picked up an apple from a basket on a side table and began to chomp on it as he approached her. His fangs were recessed, or in his pocket more likely, so he had no trouble eating.
“Vampires with a sweet tooth?” she inquired, pointing with her long neck toward the open freezer.
“More like Vikings with a sweet tooth. Back in our day, sugar was rare,” he replied, tossing his apple
Just then a heavyset, older woman bustled in from the back door. She wore Victorian upper-class attire, a fringed, black silk shawl over a white, high-necked, lace-trimmed, mutton-sleeved blouse that was tucked into a full-length black skirt.
“Miss Borden, thank God!” Vikar said, going over to give her a hug. “We expected you two days ago.”
“Stuck in Portland. A male prostitute there was a bugger to save.” She grinned at her pun as she handed the shawl to Armod, the Michael Jackson wannabe, who was in the process of unloading groceries. Armod got a strange look on his face at the woman’s words, but then the woman noticed his expression, and said, “Sorry, Armod.” She gave the boy a quick hug, then began to roll up the sleeves of her blouse.
“Miss Borden, you know Armod, obviously, and Ulf, and Floki. This is Alexandra Kelly. She’s a . . . uh, visitor.”
Miss Borden eyed her warily as she hiked an obviously heavy canvas carryall up onto the counter and pulled out a meat cleaver. “Just call me Lizzie.” On those ominous words— Lizzie Borden —she began to expertly carve the side of beef into steaks and ribs, calling out orders as she worked. “Floki, get me some freezer paper. Ulf, do we have a roasting pan big enough for a twenty-pound rump? Armod, what in bloody mud are you doing with all those cans?”
Armod’s pale face turned pink. “No one wanted to cook, so we’ve been living out of cans,” he lisped as he pointed to industrial-size cans of stew, SpaghettiOs, SPAM, fruit cocktail, soup, pudding, tuna, and sardines. “Mostly we been having pizza delivered. Domino’s loves us.” He grinned sheepishly, exposing his two fangs.
“Well, put it all away,” the cook said. “Vikar, you could go out and help my assistants bring in bags of potatoes and some sweet corn I bought at a roadside stand.”
Vikar groaned and told Alex in a whispered aside, “You think lisps are bad? You do not want to see vampires eating corn on the cob.”
She laughed, but then had to ask, “Lizzie Borden? The Lizzie Borden?”
“One and the same.”
“And she was a vampire?” Alex had noticed that the woman’s upper lip protruded a bit, as if fangs were there, though not extended.
“Not until she died.”
“And she was a Viking?”
“She has a bit of Viking in her family history. Bordenssons from way back.”
He chucked her under her hanging jaw and went out to do the lady’s bidding.
While he was gone, Alex walked around the kitchen, examining things. All the appliances appeared new, including one whole wall of stainless-steel refrigerator and walk-in freezer units. She opened one and saw dozens of different kinds of beer. She laughed and took out a Sierra Nevada, one of her husband Brian’s favorites. Amazingly, that remembrance, and the image of them sitting on the back deck of their Barnegat Bay cottage drinking beer and eating late-night snacks, didn’t squeeze her heart as it might have months ago. Of course, that had been in the early years of their marriage. Before his betrayal.
The next unit held a pigload of pint- and quart-size glass containers, like old-fashioned milk bottles, holding a red beverage. They were marked Fake-O. She didn’t need to ask what they were, and, really, whatever was going on in this wacky castle, they knew how to get the special effects right. Creepy, that’s what it was.
She was opening the next unit where she discovered about fifty different gallon pails of ice cream when Vikar’s brother Trond walked into the kitchen. He picked up an apple from a basket on a side table and began to chomp on it as he approached her. His fangs were recessed, or in his pocket more likely, so he had no trouble eating.
“Vampires with a sweet tooth?” she inquired, pointing with her long neck toward the open freezer.
“More like Vikings with a sweet tooth. Back in our day, sugar was rare,” he replied, tossing his apple
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