The Angel Wore Fangs

by Sandra Hill

  “Usually. But with Dyna . . . well, I have to admit, she just laughs.”

  I would, too, Cnut thought. Was I ever this dumb about women? Honestly, Thorkel is generally a smart man, a great warrior. What is it about women that turns men into morons?

  “I am far-famed in bedsport skills, but Dyna won’t give me a chance to prove myself. What do you think, Cnut?”

  Me? Why me? “Have you asked her what she wants?”

  “She wants marriage.”

  “So you have said before,” Cnut pointed out. “How old are you? Why is that a problem? Mayhap it is time you took the step all men must take if they want sons. Legitimate sons.”

  “Twenty and five. It is not marriage itself that is the problem, but Dyna demands that I promise to take no other wives or concubines, that I promise never to beat her or her son, and any children we may have together, no matter the circumstances, and that I never, ever try to make her fart during sex. Who was it amongst you, by the by, who blabbed that fact to her?”

  Ulf’s already ruddy face got redder. “I might have mentioned it to Helga who might have mentioned it to Girda who might have—”

  Thorkel clouted him with a leather glove. “Lackwit. Some secrets are meant to be kept amongst us men.”

  “I don’t know, Thorkel. One woman only for life. Sounds like torture to me,” said the elderly Njal, who had to have had at least three wives and God only knew how many concubines over the years. Even at his advanced age, there were two women who lived with him.

  “Best you look elsewhere,” Ogot the Blacksmith advised. “Women are like swords. You can always find a better one.”

  “On the other hand,” Cnut found himself saying, “the good ones are worth more than gold.”

  They all looked at him for further explanation, for which he had none.

  Cnut had taken three of the dogs with him today, and they soon sniffed out the herd of wild boar that was feeding in a forest near where they’d caught the one before, and within the hour, a half dozen were lying on the ground, arrows or swords or lances protruding from vital body parts. This was cause for celebration, especially since several other bands of men were out hunting, as well, in other parts of the region. Reindeer would be welcome. Too much to hope for another bear during this hibernating season. A brace of grouse. Ducks and geese were long gone. Perhaps, God willing, it would be a happy yule at Hoggstead this year, after all.

  It was especially propitious that they’d killed so many boar on this first day out because the air was growing colder and the wind more blustery. Njal confirmed Cnut’s premonition by rubbing his sore knees and saying, “A storm is coming.”

  After gutting the animals and draining the blood, with the dogs gorging themselves on the innards, they built a fire and camped for the night. Before that, some of them worked on sledges to carry the game back to the keep. The next morning, though, Cnut noticed something . . . or someone . . . in the trees beyond their camp and announced, “You men go back. Take the dogs with you. I’m going to do a little exploring farther north. See if there’s evidence of any more Lucibears.”

  They all protested that it would be dangerous to go on alone, especially with the storm brewing, but he was adamant, assuring them, “I will be fine. I won’t take any chances.” Each of the men in turn offered to accompany him, but he needed to be alone.

  The presence he’d seen in the woods had been none other than Zebulan the demon vampire, who might or might not be a double agent for the vangels. No one was sure if he could be trusted. Cnut couldn’t ignore Zeb’s sudden appearance, though. It had to be deliberate that he’d shown himself to Cnut.

  But it was mid-morning, after hours trudging along on the snowshoes he’d finally donned, before he found any sign of Lucipires. The pungent smell of rotten eggs . . . sulfur . . . came to him on a rising breeze. He unsheathed his sword and moved carefully toward a clearing where three Lucipires had surrounded a man. He recognized the man. Ivan Long Beard, a fur trapper. A meaner Viking there never was. He’d seen him cut off a woman’s hand one time for failing to cure one of his beaver skins properly. And the slaves he kept to help with his trapping business often had haunted looks in their eyes.

  Well, under normal circumstances, it would be Cnut’s job as a vangel to try to save the sinner before the Lucipires could take him to an early grave, and therefore to be transformed into a demon vampire. But it was too late for Ivan. He already had several bite marks on his skin; in fact, hunks of his fur cloak, wool tunic, and skin came away in the massive Lucie jaws. Ivan fell onto his back and the three Lucies began feeding on him, in such a frenzy that they didn’t notice Cnut at first.

  Cnut was able to pull a treated knife from a scabbard on his belt and throw it directly into one mung’s back. With a roar, the beast rose and began to melt into noxious sulfur slime. Ivan himself was dissolving just as fast, leaving only his clothing and weapon behind.

  One of the other Lucies, a female hordling, had been wounded by Ivan—a bloody gash across her neck—but she would recover in time. It was not a mortal wound. But she had been weakened and thus was easy pickings for Cnut’s broadsword, which he wielded in a wide arc, decapitating the creature and nicking the heart. (And one might ask, Cnut mused, how I knew it was a female? Ah. Think breasts. Scaly breasts with red nipples the size of cherries. Can anyone say, “Honey, I have a headache.”)

  Okay, two down and on their way to Hell. They would no longer be Lucipires but mere demons. Satan would not be pleased. Which left only one Lucipire—a haakai, but a young one. Still, haakai were not to be dismissed easily. He bellowed his outrage on viewing the diminishing remains of his cohorts and lunged at Cnut, sword raised ahigh.

  Cnut was able to dance away at the last moment.

  Which infuriated the haakai, who hissed and gnashed his fangy teeth, drool dripping down his scaly chest. He came at Cnut with more deliberation now, thrusting and parrying his sword, playing with Cnut, confident of his superior skills.

  But Cnut was more skillful, and a more devious fighter. He lured the haakai to a certain position so that when he lunged this time, the evil creature slipped on the puddles of slime. Cnut immediately stood over him, sword poised over his dead heart. Before Cnut sank in the blade, he said, “Give Satan my regards.”

  He was breathing heavily then, realizing belatedly that he hadn’t kept one of the Lucies alive long enough to interrogate. Oh well. Maybe there were others. Of course there were. Lucipires were like cockroaches. Kill one and two others pop up.

  At first, he didn’t recognize the sound off to his left. But then he realized it was clapping.

  It was Zebulan, of course, sitting on a boulder, clapping his huge clawed hands. Zeb was a high haakai, a member of Jasper’s command council. As such, he was a huge mother of a creature, at least seven feet tall, fangs the size of walrus tusks, a tail that could whiplash an elephant. And he stunk like rotten eggs. If Cnut didn’t already know him, he would be scared. Hell, he was still scared.

  “What are you doing here, Zeb?” Cnut asked, sitting down on a fallen log a short distance away. He was cleaning the blood and slime off his sword with clumps of snow as he spoke.

  “The better question is: What are you doing here?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I had a hell of a time finding you.”

  Now that sounded ominous. Why would Zeb be looking for him? “Why are there Lucies here in the ninth century in the middle of nowhere?”

  “We go wherever there are dreadful sinners, and you Vikings do it so well. Plus famine brings out the worst in some folks.” Zeb morphed into his humanoid form, wearing blue jeans, athletic shoes, a sheepskin jacket, and his signature Blue Devils ball cap.

  “Why aren’t you back at that ranch in Montana in 2016 doing your demon vampire thing?”

  “Jasper has another ‘demon vampire thing’ for me to do.” He was staring pointedly at Cnut as he spoke.

  Uh-oh. “Spit it out, Zeb. What’s up?”
<
br />   “People . . . demons . . . are complaining about me. They think I’m slacking off. Jasper has given me orders. Bring back a Sigurdsson, or else.”

  Nothing new there. Jasper has been salivating over a VIK coup for centuries. And he almost accomplished it when he captured Vikar a few years back. “Define ‘or else.’”

  Zeb looked scared suddenly, an expression Cnut had never seen on his face before. Face it, demons, especially demon vampires, had seen it all when it came to evil, but what Jasper could deliver when angry defied imagination. Zeb shook his head, finally. “You do not want to know. There was a demon vampire one time, two centuries ago, who betrayed Jasper in some manner. Argon was . . . is his name. Argon is still in the torture room at Horror, being brutalized daily. Sometimes he is skinned. Other times, disgusting objects are stuck in every orifice of his sad body. Once he was burned at the stake. He lived in a snake pit for a year. He hung upside down on a cross another year. On and on. And Argon was not as close to Jasper as I am. Ah, well, no need to worry about that.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you, my friend, are a Sigurdsson, and you are lost, temporarily. Your brothers will not come to your aid until it is too late.”

  Zeb is thinking about turning me in. To save himself! This is news Michael would like to hear. “But then, my friend,” Cnut replied, “you will never get to be a vangel. I thought that was your greatest wish.”

  “It is. It is. I sicken at the thought of what I am forced to do as a Lucipire. But there are no promises from Michael that he will ever add me to his team. In truth, forgiving a demon has never happened before, let alone turning one into a vangel.”

  That was true.

  Also, Zeb wasn’t even a Viking or of some Norse descent, as all vangels were. The vangels could no longer call themselves Viking vampire angels if Zeb joined them. It would have to be Viking vampire angels, plus a Hebrew. Or would that be a Jew? No matter. It would probably never happen, and Zeb knew it.

  At most, Michael had only hinted that he might consider Zeb’s request to become a vangel if he played double agent for fifty years or more. No promises. No guarantees.

  Cnut saw Zeb’s dilemma. Give Cnut up, or give himself up. Cnut couldn’t deny he felt fearful himself. He wasn’t sure he could withstand the type of torture Jasper would employ to persuade a vangel to become a Lucipire.

  “So, what are you going to do?” Cnut asked. He was prepared to fight, but he wasn’t sure he would win with Zeb, who was much older and more experienced and stronger than he was.

  “I don’t know,” Zeb said. “You might consider praying.”

  “For myself?”

  “For both of us.”

  “One last thing, Zeb. Contact one of my brothers. You and Trond are close. Tell him where I am and that he needs to get Andrea out of here.”

  Cnut expected Zeb who ask who Andrea was, but he didn’t. He was already gone.

  It wasn’t Santa, but the Abominable Snowman who arrived . . .

  Andrea was happy as she went about her work all day following Cnut’s departure. In fact, she found herself singing bits of that Pharrell Williams “Happy” song and occasionally breaking into a little improv happy dance, which caused the folks at Hoggstead to gawk at her. They probably thought she was going crazy.

  In fact, one kitchen maid whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Lady Andrea has gone barmy.”

  But Girda had smacked the girl with a long-handled wooden spoon and replied, “Hush yerself, Freydis. The lady has just got herself swived silly.”

  That about summed it up.

  Hard to believe she could feel so contented with all that had happened to her, and so much that was unsettled. Amazing what a good bout of sex—who was she kidding, a phenomenal bout of sex—could do for a woman. But it was more than that, and she knew it. She was probably falling in love. And there lay disappointment. But she wasn’t going to think about that now.

  There was much work to be done even with a reduced population in the castle. Preserving the meat and fish brought in the day before by smoking, salting, pickling, drying, or just hanging to age in the cold cellar. Cooking and cleaning. Endless laundry. Feeding and milking the cows. Spreading feed for the chickens and gathering eggs. Making butter and cheese. Making flour by grinding oats or barley in handheld stone querns. Weaving cloth. Making clothing. Mending clothing. Tending fires. On and on.

  Andrea was beginning to realize that the people who lived up here on the castle motte spoke of famine, but they hadn’t really suffered like the people down below. Apparently, they’d been able to live reasonably well with stored meat and goods. It was only during the recent weeks that they’d begun to feel the pinch of rationing, lack of variety in diet, and fear of what would happen when all the food ran out.

  But, oh, the village people who came to the door every day tore at her heart. They were starving, and they looked it. Andrea and Girda, and Finn, too, did their best to give them enough to subsist, for the time being, but would it be enough? How could anyone see a starving child with bulging eyes and sunken cheeks and stick-like arms and legs and not hand over everything you had? How could you eat when little ones could not? Apparently, Cnut had done just that.

  She was having trouble reconciling that Cnut with the one she’d lain with all night. They weren’t the same person; that was the only conclusion she could come to. Otherwise, how could she care for such a monster?

  At least twenty-five of the men had gone out, hunting, fishing, or trapping. Normally an estate, or whatever you called it in these days, wouldn’t be left so ill-manned against possible siege from enemies, Girda told her at one point when Andrea was showing her how to care for the sourdough batter, in the event Andrea was no longer there someday. From my lips to God’s ears. But apparently attacks rarely happened during the harsh winter months, and, besides, the famine was weakening everyone’s defenses.

  Girda listened patiently to her explanation, then patted her on the shoulder, as if she were a small child, homing in on the part of what Andrea had told her about going away. “Best ye settle yerself in fer the winter, m’lady. Ye ain’t going anywhere ’til the spring thaw when the fjords open up.”

  Wanna bet? “You could be right.”

  Dyna confided in her that afternoon that Thorkel was pressuring her to be with him.

  “To marry him?” Andrea asked.

  “Well, not exactly, though I imagine if I hold him off long enough, he would offer wedlock.”

  “But that’s not what you want?” Andrea guessed.

  Dyna shook her head miserably. “I wed Kugge’s father when I was breeding, as I told ye afore. I let my wanton passions rule, and ended up with child and having no choices. I will not take that risk again.”

  “Why is it a risk? I mean, Thorkel would marry you, wouldn’t he? And now that Cnut named him chief hersir, he has prospects for the future, I would think.”

  “Yea, Thorkel would offer wedlock. Under pressure. With no protections for me. I do not come from a highborn family that could secure a dowry on me and all the restrictions that go with it. All I have is me and Kugge.”

  “What exactly is it that you fear, Dyna?”

  “I fear having sex with the lout and becoming pregnant, giving over all control to my man, like I did last time. I fear being a first wife. The more danico, multiple wives, is accepted practice amongst our people.”

  “How about multiple husbands? Is that accepted?”

  “No. But who would want more than one? Not me!”

  Andrea laughed.

  “Too many times I have seen what happens to first wives when their husbands take on second or third wives, or numerous concubines. She becomes little more than a servant to those who follow her into the bed furs. I fear Kugge having no birthright when other sons may come. I fear so many things, and yet . . . and yet . . .”

  “And yet you want Thorkel?”

  “Desperately.”

  “Well, there is one thing
I can help you with.”

  “There is?” Dyna questioned dubiously.

  “Where I come from there are methods of birth control, ways of having sex without conception.”

  “Oh, you mean the man pulling out before peaking?” Dyna asked. “Pfff! The man always promises he will, but in the heat of passion, he rarely does, and then the woman is, once again, waddling around with a big stomach.”

  Andrea laughed. “Actually, that’s not what I meant. Where I live, there are ways women can control their own destinies. There are devices they can use, or insist that their partners use, to prevent conception. I have none of those here, but there is a rhythm method of birth control that some people use. It’s not perfect, but it works most of the time if it’s followed scrupulously.”

  “Rhythm method. Like having sex in a certain rhythm? Pfff! That sounds like something a man would say when in high enthusiasm.” Once again, Dyna was regarding her with skepticism.

  Once again, Andrea laughed. “No. Rhythm based on a woman’s menstrual cycle. It’s called natural family planning. A way in which couples can avoid pregnancy by abstaining from sex on the days of a woman’s ovulation cycle when she’s most likely to conceive.”

  “Huh? I thought a woman could catch a man’s seed any day of the month, even if she is bleeding.”

  “Not really.”

  “What is oh-view . . . oh-view, whatever you said?”

  “Ovulation,” Andrea said and explained it in basic terms. “Like I said, the method isn’t perfect, but it is at least something that can be tried. And, really, there are only eight days or so of the month when the woman is fertile. Five or so days before ovulation, the day of ovulation, and up to two days afterward. Keep in mind that the male sperm . . . um, seed . . . can live for a couple days inside a woman’s body and connect with a woman’s egg before it dies off.”

  Dyna was frowning with puzzlement. “Explain this to me. In detail. Slowly.”

  Andrea did, or as much as she was able to remember from her high school health class where teenagers were given a belated introduction to sex education.