"Got canceled. Thank God! I just got highlights last weekend, and that chlorine is a killer for the hair."

With all the attention the news media gave to Navy SEALs lately, they usually fixated on how strenuous BUD/S, the training program, was. What the public didn't realize was that SEALs, and WEALS for that matter, had to continue that brutal physical program even after graduation into the teams. And that included "drownproofing," where the person had hands and feet bound together and was then tossed into the water to "bob for life." Great fun! And, yes, it was a killer on the hair, even with a rubber cap. Not that the SEALs with their high-and-tights minded, but the women did. They all recalled the time Candy William's bottle-blonde hair turned green after a drownproofing session.

"Not my favorite rotation!" Nicole agreed.

"I'm starved. Wanna go out for a pizza?"

"I can't. I'm teaching a motivational class at the teen center at seven, and then I'm taking a Zumba class at the aerobics studio at nine."

"I swear, girl, do you ever just relax and do nothing? It's Friday night, for heaven's sake!"

"I like to keep busy."

"There's busy, and then there's busy. You've got more energy than a school of Asian carp."

"Carp?"

"Yeah, remember that National Geographic special we watched where the carp were so big and so overpopulating lakes that they were jumping out of the water like popcorn? Do you mainline Red Bull?"

Nicole laughed. "Natural metabolism." Well, that was only part of the picture. In truth, she was always aware of those three wasted years where she'd done practically nothing, except what Billy had allowed her to do. No going outside, especially not shopping or doing lunch with the few friends she'd retained, not even to go jogging; she'd loved running, even then. No books or magazines, unless they were ones he approved. TV forbidden during the hours when he was on shift because he believed she was being influenced by shows like Oprah or The View.

Now that she could do whatever she wanted, she wanted to do it all. Seven years since she'd left, and she was still letting the brute affect her life!

She and Marie talked about everyday things then. Base gossip. What they'd done that day. What was coming up the next week. As they talked, Nicole drove and enjoyed the passing scenery in her peripheral vision. The idyllic resort community of Coronado, where she lived, was nestled between the massive North Island Naval Air Station and the much smaller Naval Amphibious Base on the Silver Strand, with the Special Warfare Center located on the ocean side of Highway 75 bisecting the base. The small touristy town boasted white sand beaches on the Pacific side and a marvelous view of the San Diego skyline on the other.

As she pulled into the driveway of their cottage on the palm treelined street, she could hear music blaring through the open windows. Blues queen Etta James was wailing out that classic "Stormy Weather." Their other housemate, Donita Leone, must be back from her mission to Fallujah.

She and Marie exchanged worried glances. When Donita played the blues, it spelled trouble. Mostly she preferred upbeat songs by Lady Gaga, or even Marie's rowdy zydeco CDs.

Entering the small living room, she and Marie followed the music to the tiny kitchen where Donita stood in all her five-ten, ebony-skinned glory, stirring a pot of what smelled like Crab Alfredo. On the counter was a freshly baked chocolate cheesecake. Of course, Donita didn't have to worry about gaining weight. As a former Olympic swimmer, she had a body to die for.

But the cooking, along with the blues?

"I smell trouble." Marie was sniffing the air, and it wasn't the food she was referring to as trouble.

"Donita?" Nicole said, walking up and placing a hand on her arm. She saw then how red-rimmed her friend's eyes were.

"I hate the bastard."

"Uh-oh!" Marie said behind her.

They both knew who the bastard in question was. Sylvester "Sly" Sims had been a well-known black underwear model before joining the SEALs after 9/11. Like Marie, Sly had lost a family member in the 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers; in his case, a brother. Sly and Donita had been involved in an on-again, off-again, love-hate relationship for the past five years. He must have been on this mission with Donita.

"What'd he do this time?"

"He's engaged."

"What?" she and Marie both exclaimed. As many times as Donita and Sly had broken up and made up over the years, there had never been any question that they belonged together.

"Are you sure?" Nicole asked Donita, who was dumping pasta into a pot of boiling water. A pigload of pasta! Was she expecting company, or was she expecting them to eat all this stuff?

"Oh, I'm sure, all right." Donita swiped the back of her arm over her teary eyes. "Kendra Black is sporting a diamond the size of a golf ball."

"No way!" Nicole's jaw dropped. "Did you talk to Sly?"

Donita shook her head. "He tried to talk to me, but I told him to go fuck himself. He had the nerve to say, 'You snooze, you lose, babe. I got tired of waiting, and Kendra gives good-' That's as far as I let him go. The two-timing rat bastard! Honestly, he's been different lately, ever since he came back from survival camp on San Clemente Island. He even wanted me to . . . well, never mind."

If a black woman could blush, Donita was doing it now.

"What did he want you to do?" she and Marie both asked.

"A threesome." The look of disgust on Donita's face was nothing compared to theirs.

"Eeew!" Nicole said.

Marie's curiosity got the better of her, though. "With whom? I sure hope he meant another guy joining the sheets, not another woman. Never mind, the whole idea sucks big-time. I can just hear it now," she said in an imitation of a deep, male-husky voice, "I love you, baby, but I gotta share you with my friends." Reverting back to her own voice, she concluded, "Yeah, right, that's love."

"I really thought Sly loved me," Donita said, more tears slipping down her face.

"Honey, he probably does, but men are as loyal as their options," Nicole told Donita, handing her a tissue.

Donita blew her nose loudly and tossed the tissue in the trash. "I'm a good-looking woman. I take care of myself. Why is it that the grass is always greener in some other woman's yard?"

"I still believe there are good men out there who don't feel compelled to mow every pretty lawn in sight," Nicole contended.

Marie gave Nicole a disbelieving look and glanced pointedly at a pile of her motivational books-on-tape that sat on the counter. Her roommates thought she was a Pollyanna for always looking for positive sides of everything. Well, not everything, or everyone, Nicole thought. She certainly had negative thoughts about Trond Sigurdsson.

Donita and Nicole jumped when Marie suddenly slapped a hand down on the countertop with anger. "Here's a news flash, ladies: Men! Fucking assholes! They go apeshit over any woman who twitches her ass at them. And Kendra has been twitching her ass at Sly for a looong time. Talk about!" Normally Marie was supportive of Donita's relationship with Sly, probably because of their shared grief over 9/11, but friendship trumped unfaithfulness.

That was true about Kendra, but probably unfair. Kendra was a fellow WEALS whom they all knew well. Women everywhere twitched more than their asses around Navy SEALs these days, especially after the Bin Laden killing. Not just Kendra. In fact, there was an expression called "yo-yo panties" that referred to the climate on any military base the day before deployment. These days, the expression applied to SEALs just about all the time. It was sickening, really.

On the other hand, Nicole had heard that due to all the physical endurance exercises in SEAL training these elite forces were known to exhibit some remarkable, let's say, endurance in making love, too. No wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am for them. Not that she knew that from experience.

For some reason, an image of Trond Sigurdsson came to mind. Bet my latest motivational book series he knows a lot about endurance. She shook her head to clear it. No way was she going there! Besides, he was so lazy, he probably wouldn't make the effort to prolong sex. Too much work!

"I know what you need . . . what we all need," Marie said.

Oh good Lord! Is she reading my mind?

"Screw your classes for tonight, Nicole. We're taking Donita to the Wet and Wild for a girls' night out."

Oh, that. Whew!

The Wet and Wild was a bar frequented by Navy personnel, men and women alike, but especially SEALs and SEAL trainees. The hangout featured a wet T-shirt spraying machine at the doorway, like a mini car wash with side sprayers. The doorman waived cover charges for any women willing to walk through it. Lots of them did. Political correctness was not a priority around military men, especially full-of-themselves SEALs, and some women just wanted to let loose and have a good time.

"Sly and Kendra might be there," Nicole pointed out.

"All the better. Show him you don't care," Marie advised Donita.

Donita turned off all the burners on the stove and said, "I'll go, but only if we all wear our Slut Sisters outfits."

Oh my God! Donita was referring to the skinny black jeans, sparkly tube tops, and red cowboy boots the three of them had bought for Mardi Gras a few years back. Cowgirl hats and Band-Aids over the nipples optional. "I can skip my Zumba class, but I have to show up at the teen center for the motivational class. There's no one to substitute for me on such late notice and no way to notify the kids of a cancellation."

"Honey, we can go to the Wet and Wild after your class. Besides, if you show up in your cowgirl slut outfit, that'll be more motivation than those teens ever got." This from Donita, who was already piling dirty dishes into the sink. She looked up pleadingly. "So, are we agreed?"

Hesitantly, Nicole joined her two friends in a three-handed high five.

"All for one and one for all," they shouted.

Was she the only one who recalled the last time they'd worn those outfits? They'd gotten arrested for inciting a riot.

But then Marie expounded that famous Louisiana philosophy, "Laissez les bons temps rouler."

Let the good times roll.

Something was going to roll, all right, but Nicole was afraid it was going to be their sorry behinds.

There's more than one way to go a-Viking . . .

Trond was splatted out, facedown, on his cot in the two-man room of the SEAL bachelor quarters that he shared with Karl. Because he and Karl fell into that ambiguous category of visiting special forces, they hadn't been forced to bunk with the other trainees, which was a blessing considering the secrecy the two of them had to employ for some things.

Trond wore only boxer briefs in light of the poorly functioning air conditioner and the ninety-degree heat outside. This being Friday night, he wouldn't mind sleeping until Monday. But he couldn't do that. There was a half day of PT for trainees in the morning.

After a shower, a six-pack of reconstituted Fake-O blood that he and Karl had shared surreptitiously, on top of ten hours of SEALs training, not to mention Gig Squad, he was flat-out beat, mentally and physically. Besides that, a quick check of e-mail had shown messages from each of his brothers and one alarming IM from Mike: Why have you not yet saved the sinners, Viking?

Well, gee, Mike, it would help if I knew who those sinners are.

Why are the Lucipire terrorists still thriving, Viking?

Earth to Archangel: You expect me to save the entire world all by myself?

IMO, if you have time to jest, I have not given you enough work to do, Viking. LOL.

Trond was going to LOL someone, probably his brother Harek, who'd taught Mike how to use a computer.

So, did Mike mean sinners, as in plural, or was that a keyboard error? Talk about pressure! Ever since Mike had discovered the Internet, the archangel sent him messages via the computer, rather than in his head. Way too many of them! Never cheery ones, either, like "Good job, Trond! How are you? Anything I can do for you?"

Karl came in, making enough noise to wake a hibernating grizzly with his new pair of rubber-soled shoes that squeaked with every step he took. Squeak! Squeak! Squeak! Each squeak was like scraping fingernails on a weary concrete brain.

Trond cracked open one eye and saw his partner was fully dressed in T-shirt, open button-down shirt with silver angel epaulettes on the shoulders, jeans, and the irksome athletic shoes with the tortuous squeak. As Karl sat down on the opposite bunk to tie said athletic shoes, Trond asked, "Where you going?"

"Down to the exchange to buy a few things."

"Condoms?" Trond inquired teasingly, knowing full well that Karl wouldn't be having sex with any woman, and not just because he was a vangel. Karl had been twenty-two when he died in 1972 during the Vietnam War. He was still a perpetual twenty-two since he'd joined the vampire angel network. Unfortunately, or fortunately, Karl's wife was still alive. Despite her being sixty-three years old now, and despite Karl not being permitted to show himself to her, he still remained faithful to his marriage vows.

"Hah!" Karl snorted. "More like deodorant and cigarettes."

Karl smoked every chance he got, which wasn't often here on base where "No Smoking" signs were posted everywhere. He couldn't blame the man, though. There weren't many sins a vangel was permitted. And while smoking might be a stinking habit, chances of the vangel smoker dying of cancer were nil since he was already-ha, ha, ha-dead. Besides, Karl claimed the "coffin nails" relaxed him and helped him play his role, blending in with humans.

"Of course, I could buy some condoms for you," Karl said. "Maybe you'll get lucky sometime soon."

"Yeah, right. The only kind of sex I have doesn't require protection." And he hadn't even had that kind-his famous "near-sex"-in ages. Literally.

"Listen, buddy," Karl began, "the Fake-O just isn't doing it for me anymore. Being out in the sun so much is a killer. I can feel my skin color fading, despite the SPF 1000, and my energy level is zapped with the least exercise. I'm finding it harder and harder to keep my fangs retracted. You've had centuries more experience with it than I have. We need to feed from a saved sinner sometime soon, or kill a few Lucipires."

Blood, pure blood, taken through the fangs was essential to the Viking vampire angels. Contrary to popular opinion, vampires . . . or vampire angels, leastways . . . could go out in sunlight, providing they'd blood-fed properly to avoid their skin getting whiter and whiter, eventually translucent.

In an emergency, they used blood ceorls in their community or the unsatisfactory Fake-O. Or, as his brother Vikar had discovered recently, he could flourish off the occasional feeding on his life mate, or eternity mate in their society. But the best way remained drinking blood of a person they had saved from Satan's vampires, once purified by repentance or failure to act on sin.

Fake-O was a product that had been invented by their very own ceorl chemist. Not as good as real blood, but it sufficed as a stopgap. Back in the old days, like the Roman empire, there had been no sunscreens or tanning salons, obviously; so, the vampires had to hide out in caves until nighttime, thus giving rise to all the idiotic notions about vampires needing to sleep all day, usually in coffins. Yeech!

Satan's demon vampires, on the other hand, needed the blood of their victims in order to contaminate them. They preyed on humans who were on the brink of some grievous sin, giving them that little extra boost toward damnation. First, they bit the neck of their victims, bringing them to stasis, after which they blew their unholy breath into the person through any bodily orifice, preferably the mouth or ear. This made the victim weak and open to temptation. Once they took the "bait," acting on temptation, and committed the sin, the demons drained them dry and took them to the underworld. All this in a matter of seconds. Their human bodies just disappeared.

Trond sat up with alarm. Karl wasn't a complainer. If he was worried about lack of pure blood, there was a problem. Except for not having tanned-to-the-point-of-leather skin, he looked just like any other SEAL. Short, almost bald hair, muscle-toned body, a rigid military demeanor in the way he carried himself.

"You can always feed on me," Trond offered.

Karl shook his head vigorously. "No. That is an absolute last resort. It would weaken you in an environment where we have no backup. I'll return to Transylvania, or have a blood ceorl sent here for a few days, before I take your blood. Thanks for the offer, though, my friend." Karl hated using the female ceorls because of his marriage vows. Even though feeding from a blood ceorl wasn't normally a sexual act, Karl considered it a betrayal of sorts.

Trond homed in on something else Karl had said. He was glad to hear Karl refer to him as friend and not master, as he'd been wont to do for a long time, being lower down the vangel totem pole. Trond and his six brothers, the VIK, were considered the jarls, or upper class, in the vangels. It would have been way too hard to explain "master" to this bunch of freedom fighters.

"We have to figure out which of these SEALs is ready to turn bad, or has already made the transition," Trond said.

"Any clues?"

"Not yet. In addition, we need to get ourselves assigned to a mission where we can battle some Lucipires. I heard some rumblings today of an active op brewing. This might be it."

Karl stood and shook out the legs of his jeans. "Okay, I'm out of here. Do you need anything?"

"No, but, Karl, you'll tell me if things get too bad, won't you?"

"I will."

Trond sat on the edge of his cot after that, elbows on his knees, face in his palms. Being a Viking vampire angel was the pits sometimes.

"Whoa! No sad sacks allowed!" said Cage, whose room was across the hall, or leastways it was his room when he decided to stay on base. He had an apartment over in San Diego. That's what he and Karl should do-get a place off-base-once they finished this training program, assuming they would be staying here that long.

"What the hell's a sad pack?"

"Not a sad pack. A sad sack. A depressed person. As my mawmaw allus sez, 'You have a face so long you could eat oats from the bottom of a barrel.' "

Trond glanced up with disbelief. First, motivational sayings from Nicole, now hokey Cajun sayings from Cage. "I'm just tired."

Cage was wearing tight denim braies, or pants, an equally tight black T-shirt with the logo "It's Only Kinky the First Time," cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat tipped rakishly on his long hair. Full-fledged SEALs did not have to adhere to strict military appearance, the rationale being that they could infiltrate foreign countries better if they didn't resemble white-walled jarheads. Trond, for one, intended to let his own hair grow from now on.

"We're all tired, cher."

"Where are you off to tonight?" He gave the Cajun's attire another full-body scan, shaking his head with amusement. "The rodeo?"