The Angel Wore Fangs

by Sandra Hill

  “So, you have to help me save Cnut,” she concluded.

  They all stared at her, then they began talking among themselves.

  “Backward time travel? I thought we were done with that.”

  “Can you imagine what they must have thought back at Hoggstead when they saw a new and improved Cnut?”

  “It would be funny if it weren’t so sad.”

  “Sad? Sad doesn’t begin to describe what Cnut must be going through if Jasper has him.”

  “I really thought Zeb was changed. A devil doesn’t change his ways, I guess.”

  “He had no choice, apparently. It was him or Cnut.”

  “He had a choice.”

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do without Michael’s say-so.”

  “Yeah, but you know what Mike said when he rescued you that time, Vikar? He said never again would he enter Jasper’s unholy domain.”

  Vikar looked sick, actually physically sick, at that reminder of his onetime captivity. Which meant that Cnut was in for more horrendous torture than Andrea could even imagine. Or was he sick knowing there would be no celestial intervention for his brother.

  Finally, the one named Vikar said, “Are you certain that Zeb took him back to Jasper?”

  “Yes. I mean, not exactly.” She took a deep breath and reiterated, “Zeb told Cnut about his orders from Jasper. Zeb showed up at the yule feast. Zeb sent me home, or took me home, or teletransported me, or whatever the hell you all do. What else can I conclude?”

  “He’s at Horror,” one of the brothers—the grim one . . . Mordr, she thought he was called—said with finality.

  “We have to contact Mike. ASAP,” another brother said.

  “But first, let us pray for our brother,” Vikar suggested, and everyone in the room bowed their heads in silent prayer.

  That scared Andrea more than anything. That they were relying on prayer to save the man she loved. What was that old saying, “Pray to God, but pass the ammunition”? She wanted ammunition, lots of it. Still, she found herself praying, “Are you there, God? It’s me, Andrea.”

  Just then, the door swung open, and someone said, “What’s going on?”

  It was Cnut.

  Andrea fell into a faint. Right off her chair. Ker-plop onto the floor.

  It was a blessing, really.

  Chapter 22

  Interview with an archangel . . .

  Cnut sat next to the guest room bed where Andrea slept soundly after being given a sedative by Sigurd. Poor girl . . . woman! She’d been through hell, for him. He kissed her forehead, which was creased with worry, even in slumber.

  But now he needed to go down and face the music. Michael would be here shortly, and there was going to be hell to pay. Mostly by him, he was sure.

  At least he wasn’t in Horror.

  Oh, Zeb! he thought for about the hundredth time since he’d found the note yesterday morning. Over the past twenty-four hours, he’d pondered and discarded a dozen plots to save the demon. None of them would work, not without the help of his brothers. Or Michael.

  When he got downstairs, everyone was waiting in the formal parlor for Michael. Soon after, he arrived in a fury, in full archangelic regalia. Long white robe, rope belt, wooden crucifix hanging from his neck, eyes blazing, long dark hair flying, his wings fully extended. He carried a sword in one hand. Heads were going to roll, figuratively speaking.

  Cnut and his brothers had been sitting in chairs arranged in a half circle before a throne-like Queen Anne chair. They all stood with reverence on his entrance. Michael waved them to sit back down and turned directly to Cnut. “What. Have. You. Done?”

  What is he referring to? The time travel? Andrea? Zeb? Cnut held his ground, without giving anything away. Or so he thought. “Nothing.”

  “Dost thou think that excuses you, sinner?”

  Best to give a blanket mea culpa. “I do not.”

  “You plan to go off half-cocked, offering yourself to Jasper in exchange for Zebulan, don’t you?”

  Cnut paused. Since when do angels use the word cock? “Yes.”

  “At least you are honest. Why bother saving the demon? And why you?”

  “Because he’s a better man than I am.”

  Michael didn’t concur, but he didn’t disagree, either. “What would you have me do?”

  “Save him.”

  “Pfff! Just like that, you expect me to wipe up your mistakes? And Zebulan’s, too?”

  “Zeb did nothing wrong, in this case. Nor did I. Not really,” Cnut protested.

  “Is that so?” Michael asked, raising his eyes heavenward, or at least up to the third-floor bedroom where Andrea still slept. “Mayhap if you’d been paying more attention to your life work as a vangel, this would not have happened.” In other words, he’d been fucking around when he should have kept his eyes on the target.

  “That’s not fair!”

  “Fair? Fair?” Michael roared, and they all quaked. “Who promised you fair? Where in the Holy Book does it mention life is fair?”

  “In Cnut’s defense,” Vikar interjected, “Zeb was given orders by Jasper to bring back a Sigurdsson before he ever met his lifemate . . . um, Andrea.”

  Michael turned on Cnut again. “Lifemate, is it now?”

  Cnut raised his chin and nodded.

  “Have you considered this, Viking? If you marry this so-called lifemate and then trade yourself for Zeb, she would be sentenced to either an instant death, if you die, which probably would not be the case. More likely, Jasper would want to torture you for centuries, thus forcing your female to live all those years, perhaps eternity, without you, knowing that you are in endless pain.”

  Cnut cringed. “I hadn’t thought that far.”

  “Obviously.”

  Michael threw up his hands in disgust.

  “What should we do? What can we do? For Zeb, I mean?” Cnut asked. “Surely he’s earned salvation.”

  “Dost think so, Viking? And who made you judge of mankind? I never promised Zebulan anything.”

  “Even so,” Cnut argued.

  “How much do you want this favor?” Michael asked suddenly.

  “Desperately. With all my heart.”

  “Really? Would you trade places with him? Knowing what I have just told you?”

  “I would not marry. That is the solution. No lifemate to be threatened by my actions.” Cnut’s heart sank at his own words. But then, he had been overpowered by guilt these past twenty-four hours. It was the only solution. He gulped, but then he raised his chin. “God’s will be done.”

  Michael stared at him in silence for a long time, then said, “Stay here. All of you. I will investigate and see what I can find.” As he walked off, then disappeared from sight, the archangel was heard to mutter, “Vikings! The plague of my life!”

  When love is not enough . . .

  Andrea awakened in a strange bedroom. Very spare. A single bed with an Amish quilt. A dresser with a mirror. And a chair by the diamond-paned, leaded glass window. Beside it was a floor lamp. The walls were plain white, the only adornment a picture of the Last Supper. She went into the small en-suite bathroom and bathed her face in water and rinsed out her mouth.

  She was still in shock over the events of the day—over the past week, actually. But she needed to do something. Starting with finding Cnut.

  She made her way down a hallway toward the back of the castle, then down an enclosed staircase. She assumed it was the onetime servants’ access to the upper floors. Finally, she emerged on the first floor into the most spectacular kitchen. For a person trained as a chef, this was paradise.

  It was a large room with a commercial-size refrigerator and freezer. The center island with stools had to be twenty feet long. There were multiple gas ranges and ovens. Windows and French doors looked out over a patio, pool, and gazebo.

  Working about the kitchen were several people washing dishes, beating some batter in a huge bowl, entering and leaving a pantry the size of her apartment.
Their companionable chatter stopped on her entrance. They watched silently as she made her way over to the older woman in a Victorian-looking gown and apron, her hair in a bun, who was chopping up several chickens with a kitchen cleaver on a cutting board and putting them into an iron cauldron.

  “What are you making?”

  The woman looked up. Andrea noticed right away that she had the silver-blue eyes and pointy teeth, even though she wasn’t smiling. “Chicken pot pie. Amish style.”

  “Yum. With dumplings?”

  “Rivels,” the cook said.

  And Andrea thought, Is that synchronicity or what?

  “Who are you?” the woman asked bluntly.

  “Andrea Stewart. I’m a trained chef, and I’m in love with your kitchen.”

  “I’m Lizzie Borden . . .”

  Okaaay! The axe murderer. Andrea glanced at the cleaver with new interest.

  “. . . and you can have my kitchen any time you want. I’m sick of cooking for hungry Vikings who don’t know . . . rivels from dumplings. If it was up to them, they’d have pizza and beer all the time.” She grinned at that and her fangs showed more prominently. Andrea could tell she was self-conscious about them because she immediately pressed her lips together.

  “I’m looking for Cnut,” Andrea said then.

  Lizzie motioned with her head toward the French doors.

  Andrea went outside and found Cnut up by the gazebo. She waved as she passed Alex, who was in the pool teaching two small children how to swim. There were other people—or vangels—about, some lounging by the pool, others working on the landscaping or other projects, like repointing the stonework on the crumbling castle. It appeared to be a never-ending work in progress.

  Cnut had been sitting with his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his palms, when she entered the gazebo. He stood when he saw her and opened his arms. She walked into his embrace and held on tight. In fact, they held each other for a long time.

  Finally, they both sat down on a cushioned wicker sofa, and he told her what had happened after she left Hoggstead. “I assume that your ancestral home will survive without you, but what about poor Zeb?” she asked.

  “It’s in Mike’s hands now . . . or rather God’s,” he answered. “But I feel so guilty.”

  “It’s not your fault, Cnut,” she said, taking one of his big hands in both of hers and kissing the knuckles. “I have to believe that this was all predestined.”

  “But we have choices.”

  “Still, as hard as it is to accept, just like death is, some things are going to happen.”

  “Like bad things happening to good people?”

  “Exactly. Or good things happening to good people. Like us. Which brings us to the question, what’s going to happen to you and me?”

  His eyes turned bleak.

  Which scared her.

  “What do you want to happen?” he asked.

  “Everything,” she said. “And you?”

  “More than everything, but it appears that may be impossible.”

  Now she was really scared.

  Sensing her fears, he kissed her lightly on the mouth, then not so lightly. “Would you marry me if we could? Would you link your life to mine, even if it meant living forever, or dying whenever I do? Would you be able to accept never having children?”

  “Yes, and yes, and yes. Because the alternative would be an empty life, full of sorrow, feeling more dead than alive. Besides,” she told him, “Lizzie has already offered me her position as cook.”

  “She’s been trying to pass that job off for years.” He laughed. “Does that mean we would have real cream-filled doughnuts and, oh my clouds! Coconut cake.”

  She nodded. “With peppermint filling.”

  “I love you, heartling,” he said.

  “I love you, too.”

  He turned more serious again. “But, can’t you see, if I go after Zeb, if Michael gives his approval, I would already be sealing your fate? Instant death for you, or centuries of living alone knowing I am living in an exile of torture. An impossible situation!”

  Andrea gasped. “And those are the only choices?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Nothing has been decided yet. We can always pray.” He was half kidding.

  “For Zeb?”

  “Well, yes, but for us, too.”

  They got the news a short time later when Andrea got her first view of a real live (or dead, depending on your perspective) archangel. And he was spectacular. There seemed to be a glow about him. A full body halo? His face was grim as he told the vangels, along with Andrea and Alex, “Zebulan the Hebrew is gone.”

  “Gone? What does that mean?” Cnut demanded to know.

  The archangel gave Cnut a steely glare. “His fate is in another’s hands. Satan’s. Thy efforts would be in vain.”

  Cries of horror went around the room and not a little weeping. In fact, there were tears in the archangel’s eyes.

  “I still think I should try to—” Cnut started to say.

  “Enough!” Michael made a chopping motion with his hand. “You are to stop making this a personal vendetta, Cnut. Jasper would have taken any one of you brothers. The fact that you happened to be in Zebulan’s vicinity at a certain moment has no particular significance. Are you suggesting that all seven of you are equally responsible for Zeb’s fate?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “You are not to mention his name again.”

  And that was final. Andrea could see that on the faces of everyone in the room.

  This was the best and worst day of Andrea’s life. She presumably could have Cnut now, but Zeb was gone.

  “Let us pray for Zebulan, wherever he may be,” Michael said then, mirroring Cnut’s earlier suggestion.

  And they all said, “Amen!”

  Epilogue

  A happy ending, somewhat . . .

  Despite the dark cloud of Zeb hanging over them, Andrea and Cnut were married two weeks later before a priest at a small chapel in Philadelphia. The only people present were Cecilia Stewart, the maid of honor, and Vikar Sigurdsson, the best man. Also present were Andrea’s parents and her boss/friend Sonja, along with Vikar and his wife, Alex, and their two children, Gunnar and Gunnora. The bridal couple had decided that they could take no chances of Andrea’s family being at the Transylvania castle among all the vangels, and keeping the secret.

  But later that day, they were married again in true Viking style in the gazebo, which was adorned with roses and officiated by a priest who strongly resembled—in fact, was—Michael the Archangel, who was heard to mutter, “Thank God there are no more VIKs to plague me with this lifemate nonsense.” But at the same time, he smiled adoringly at the little boy being held by the firm hand of Gabrielle, Ivak’s wife. The boy was Mikey, named after none other!

  At the earlier ceremony, Andrea had worn a white dress with a gold belt and white high heels, and Cnut a dark suit with a pretty blue tie that matched his eyes, but now she wore the emerald gown and the amber pendant with a circlet of flowers on her head, and Cnut, at her request, was in Viking attire. Which amused the huge crowd at the castle who considered themselves modern Vikings, and were dressed accordingly. As in black tie and cocktail dresses.

  Andrea was surprised to see so many children about but they were Dr. Sig’s adopted daughter, Izzie, and Mordr’s adopted family of five children. Not to mention Gunnar, Gunnora, and Mikey.

  At the end of the marriage ceremony, they all said a silent prayer in remembrance of the demon who almost became a vangel. Michael left soon after, warning the vangels that their mission for the foreseeable future was to destroy ISIS. Then he was heard murmuring something about the Pearly Gates falling down, again, as he disappeared into the skies.

  After that it was a wild Viking party. Rock music provided by a vangel band. The newly recovered Armod showing that he could still do a credible moonwalk. The seven VIK doing an amazing Michael dance to “Chains, Chains, Chains.”

  The foo
d was plentiful and the beer flowed. Holding center place was a five-tiered cake that Andrea had baked herself in the Transylvania kitchen with Lizzie’s help. It was a white cake, covered with coconut and peppermint sprinkles. Everyone said it was fabulous.

  Andrea and Cnut weren’t sure where they would be living. She’d quit her job, figuring she could work on her cookbook, or not. She had all the time in the world to decide. Literally.

  They’d decided not to go anywhere for their honeymoon, but would be staying in her Philly apartment. They’d both had enough of travel for the moment. Besides, there was nothing he could do in the Bahamas that he couldn’t do in the City of Brotherly Love, Cnut told her with a wicked Viking gleam in his eyes.

  They’d already made love once at a rest stop between the city and Transylvania, between their two weddings. They could barely make it back to her apartment later that night. In fact, Cnut took her against the closed door with her gown hiked up around her waist.

  “Have I told about a new sex spot I heard about? It’s called an Angel’s Kiss.”

  “That’s nothing,” she said (although she really didn’t mean it, it was definitely something!). “I read somewhere that if a woman eats enough peppermint sticks, she will taste like peppermint . . . you know . . . down there.”

  Sometimes life was good for a vangel, Cnut decided later.

  And for his mate, Andrea agreed.

  And the story continues . . .

  In a place, far, far way, deep inside a hidden cave, Zebulan the Hebrew lay stretched out on a rack, hunks of his flesh hanging here and there from the metal flails of the whips. He had no toenails or fingernails. One eye was swollen shut.

  And Jasper gloated with glee. “Suffer, Zeb. See how I repay those who betray me. And no one cares about your fate. Except for Satan, the master, who is taking a special interest in you. Do you hear me? No one in your human or vangel world is going to rescue you. You are mine for all eternity.”