Kiss of Wrath

by Sandra Hill

  Sam and Ben gave Miranda away. Larry served as a junior groomsman. All looked adorable in their child-size tuxedos.

  Maggie and Linda were bridesmaids in frothy green dresses. Linda wore a tiara, as well, one Mordr had bought for her in a costume store. And Vikar’s twin children, Gunnar and Gunnora, served as ring bearer and flower girl, when they weren’t scurrying around, chasing a big white bear of a dog wearing a huge green ribbon. Green was the color theme of the wedding, to match the bride’s eyes, Mordr told everyone.

  The minister, who arrived to perform the ceremony and left immediately after, wore austere clerical garb, which only enhanced his almost celestial appearance. Some said the sun shone down directly on the priest as he stood at the improvised altar, creating the illusion of a halo, which was impossible, of course. When he was performing the rites, he used an aspergillum to sprinkle holy water over the rings the bride and groom would exchange. He managed to wave a goodly amount in Mordr’s direction, too, dousing his entire face with holy water. “A Viking can never be too holy,” the archangel explained, clearly unapologetic.

  Mordr wiped off his face using a St. Jude handkerchief, passed up to him by an old lady from Louisiana sitting in the front pew. Tante Lulu, she was called. Miranda had met her during her short visit to Ivak’s home after the kidnapping by Roger. Because the wedding was in Las Vegas, Tante Lulu was dressed like a ninety-year-old showgirl. (Don’t ask!)

  Before he left, Michael took Harek, Cnut, and Sigurd off to the side and he was seen, stern-faced, wagging a forefinger at them. Everyone surmised it was a warning not to follow their brothers’ suit in pursuing mortal women.

  The star of the day, aside from the bride, was two-week old Michael Sigurdsson, nicknamed Max, to distinguish him from that other Michael. The archangel who had been there soon after the birth—possibly during, no one knew for sure—had told Ivak, “Do not think to get on my better side by naming your child after me.” To which Ivak had replied with wide-eyed innocence, “There is a better side?” Everyone could see how Michael doted on his namesake, appointing himself as the little one’s personal guardian angel.

  But the one who almost brought the house down—rather the tent—was a young vangel named Armod, who was an avid fan of Michael Jackson. He did a rendition of “Billie Jean” that had the crowd clapping and shouting for more. With that encouragement, he performed “Beat It,” and “Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough.” After which he was seen teaching all the children how to do his killer break-dance routine. Jack Trixson, who’d provided a deejay for the event, said Armod could join his dance revue any day. Mordr said it was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard of, a Viking who break-dances, but he was seen to tap his feet during the songs, too.

  Miranda told Armod how impressed she was with his dancing.

  “If you think I am good, you ought to see the VIK dance!” Armod rolled his eyes at her. “They do a cool version of the ‘Chains, Chains, Chains’ dance from that John Travolta movie Michael.”

  “Who or what is the VIK?” Miranda asked, wondering how anyone could describe Mordr as “cool.”

  “The seven Sigurdsson brothers. Our commanders.”

  “Really?” Miranda turned to address Mordr who was talking to Tante Lulu. “Mordr, you told me that you couldn’t dance. Now I find out that you do a wonderful Michael dance. And you’re cool!”

  Mordr shot Armod a scowl, and the boy hurried away, laughing.

  “I saw Ivak do the chains dance one time in Loo-zee-anna when my family was doin’ a musical revue at Angola Prison. Talk about!” Tante Lulu piped in.

  There had to be a story there, Miranda decided.

  “They were really, really good. Even better than Richard Simmons, my all-time favorite fella.”

  Still another story, Miranda thought.

  Mordr steered Miranda away, toward the side of the house. “I am not dancing today. Do not even think of asking the deejay to play that song.”

  “Whatever you say, sweetling.” She rather liked the Viking endearment, and by his grin, Miranda assumed that Mordr liked it, too, when she reciprocated. “Will you do the dance for me later when we’re alone?”

  “I intend to be naked when we are alone.”

  “That works for me.”

  “Miranda!” He grinned. “How daring you are when we are in the midst of a party! I will dance for you if you will do something for me.”

  She laughed. “I think I’ve already done that.”

  “This is something different. Will you ride the motorcycle with me around our property when everyone is gone?”

  That sounded too tame for Mordr. She figured there had to be a catch.

  There was.

  “Naked.”

  “No way!” she said, ducking out from under his arms and returning to their guests.

  “Have you never heard, wife, that it is unwise to challenge a Viking,” he called after her.

  In the end, a whole lot of shaking did go on, but it might have just been dancing. Or not.

  When they were almost asleep in each other’s arms way later that night, Mordr said. “I will love you forever, heartling.”

  The trouble was, he meant that literally.

  Matchmakers . . . and angels . . . come in all sizes . . .

  Somewhere, high in the skies, Michael was sitting on a cloud with two small children. A black-haired boy of five, and a golden-haired girl of six.

  “Is Father happy now?” the girl asked.

  The archangel nodded.

  “Good,” the girl and boy said at the same time.

  Michael, who was ofttimes referred to as the Warrior Angel, stood, “Come, Jomar, we will practice on your swing some more.” He handed the boy his small wooden sword.

  Kata preferred to stay behind and sort through the skeins of colored ribands a kind father had bought for her many, many years ago.

  Reader Letter

  Dear Readers:

  Kiss of Wrath was a hard book to write. So many characters! Not just the hero and heroine, the six brothers, the heroine’s friend, the Demon Zeb, the cross-dressing neighbor, the Lucipire king, and of course the five children, all of whom needed unique characteristics. But it was an especially satisfying story to write because of Mordr’s poignant history. I hope you liked it.

  So far, I’ve taken my Viking vampire angels to Transylvania, Pennsylvania (Kiss of Pride), Navy SEAL land in Coronado, California (Kiss of Surrender), the bayou with that rowdy Cajun LeDeux family (Kiss of Temptation), and now Las Vegas. Too late my editor suggested that a better title for this might have been A Vangel in Vegas. Wouldn’t that have been great?

  Next up will be Sigurd’s story. He’s the Viking brother, a noted healer and currently a physician at Johns Hopkins, who is guilty of the sin of envy. This is proving to be another hard book to write. How to make a man eaten up by envy into a heroic character? Methinks (Good heavens, I’m starting to talk like a Viking {grin}) Sigurd needs a good woman to turn him around, don’t you?

  There will be even more vangel books coming, of course. After all, there are two more Sigurdsson brothers left with stories to tell. Plus, Zebulan, the good demon, intrigues me with his tragic past. Don’t you think he would make a good hero?

  In addition, there are still a few Vikings dying (forgive the pun) to tell their stories in a historical setting. Alrek the clumsy Viking, Wulfgar the Welsh knight, Jostein the somber Viking with an estranged wife, Jamie the Scots Viking, Finn the Vain, or Tykir’s brothers—Guthrom, Starri, or Selik. So many choices! Do you have a preference?

  Please check my website, www.sandrahill.net, or my Facebook page, SandrHillauthor, for more details on all my books and continually changing news. There are often special promotions with bargain prices on books. I periodically have great Viking or angel jewelry giveaways on my Facebook page. Also, signed bookplates are available for any or all books by sending a SASE to Sandra Hill. PO Box 604, State College, PA 16804.

  As always, I wish you smiles in
your reading.

  Sandra Hill

  Glossary

  Asgard—home of the gods, comparable to Christian Heaven

  Aspergillum—liturgical instrument used to sprinkle holy water

  A-Viking—a Norse practice of sailing away to other countries for the purpose of looting, settlement, or mere adventure; could be for a period of several years

  Berserker—an ancient Norse warrior who fought in a frenzied rage during battle

  Birka—Viking-age market town where Sweden is now located

  Braies—slim pants worn by men

  Brynja—flexible chain-mail shirt

  Ceorl (or churl)—free peasant, person of the lowest classes

  Cotters—farmers or peasants

  Cubit—type of Biblical measurement, usually equal to roughly 17.5 inches

  Drukkinn (various spellings)—drunk

  Fjord—a narrow arm of the sea, often between high cliffs

  Frankish—having to do with Frankland (as France was known at that time)

  Gammelost—pungent Norse cheese with a greenish-brown crust

  Garth—yard or courtyard

  Haakai—high-level demon

  Halogland—Northern Norway

  Hauberk—long defensive shirt or coat, usually made of chain links or leather

  Hedeby—Viking-age market town where Germany is now located

  Hersir—military commander

  Hird/hirdsmen—permanent troop that a chieftain or noble might have

  Hnefatafl—a Viking board game

  Hordaland—Norway

  Hordling—lower-level demon

  Housecarls—troops assigned to a king’s or lord’s household on a longterm, sometimes permanent, basis

  Imps—lower-level demons, foot soldiers so to speak

  Jarl—high-ranking Norseman similar to an English earl or wealthy landowner, could also be a chieftain or minor king

  Jomsvikings—legendary troop of elite Norse mercenaries

  Jutland—Denmark

  Kaupang—Norse market town

  Keep—house, usually the manor house or main building for housing the owners of the estate

  Longship—narrow, open water-going vessels with oars and square sails, perfected by Viking shipbuilders, noted for their speed and ability to ride in both shallow waters and deep oceans

  Lucifer/Satan—the fallen angel Lucifer became known as the demon Satan

  Lucipires/Lucies—demon vampires

  Mead—fermented honey and water

  Mjollnir—Thor’s hammer

  Motte—a high, flat-topped earthworks mound

  Mungs—type of demon, below the haakai in status, often very large and oozing slime or mung

  Muspell—part of Nifhelm, one of the nine worlds in the Norse afterlife, Muspell is known by its fires guarded by Sert and his flaming sword

  Nithing—a Norse insult meaning a person who is less than nothing

  Odin—king of all the Viking gods

  Purdah—practice in certain countries of screening women from men or strangers by wearing all-enveloping clothing

  Sennight—one week

  Seraphim—high ranking angel

  Skald—poet

  Stasis—state of inactivity, rather like being frozen in place

  Svealand—Sweden

  Sword dew—blood

  Teletransport—transfer of matter from one point to another without traversing physical space

  Thralls—slaves

  Traiteur—Cajun folk healer

  Trepanning—drilling a hole in the head for medicinal reasons

  Uisge beatha—Scotch whiskey

  Valhalla—hall of the slain; Odin’s magnificent hall in Asgard

  Valkyries—female warriors in the afterlife who do Odin’s will

  Vangels—Viking vampire angels

  Vestfold—Southern Norway

  VIK—the seven brothers who head the vangels

  Wergild—a man’s worth offered in payment

  Read on for a sneak peek at

  Vampire in Paradise

  the next book in the

  DEADLY ANGELS SERIES

  from New York Times bestselling author

  SANDRA HILL

  Available in print and ebook from Avon Books

  December 2014

  Prologue

  The Norselands, A.D. 850 . . .

  Only the strongest survived in that harsh land . . .

  Sigurd Sigurdsson sat near the high table of King Haakon’s yule feast sipping at the fine ale from his own jewel-encrusted, silver horn. Tuns of mead and ale and rare Frisian wine flowed.

  Favored guests at the royal feast had their choice amongst spit-roasted wild boar, venison and mushroom stew, game birds stuffed with chestnuts, a swordfish the size of a small longboat, eels swimming in spiced cream sauce, and all the vegetable side dishes one could imagine. Honey oak cakes and dried fruit trifles finished off the meal for those not filled to overflowing. Entertainment was provided by a quartet of lute players who could scarce be heard over the animated conversation and laughter. Good cheer abounded.

  In the midst of the loud, joyous celebration, Sigurd’s demeanor was quiet and sad.

  But that was nothing new. Sigurd had been known as a dark, brooding Viking for many of his twenty and seven years. Darker and more brooding as the years marched on. And he wasn’t even drukkinn.

  Some said the reason for Sigurd’s discontent was the conflict betwixt two warring sides of his nature. A fierce warrior in battle and, at the same time, a noted physician with innate healing skills inherited from and homed by his grandmother afore her passing to the Other World when he’d been a boyling.

  Sigurd knew better. He had a secret sickness of the soul, and its name was Envy. Never truly happy, never satisfied, he always wanted what he didn’t have, whether it be a chest of gold, the latest, fastest longship, a prosperous estate, the finest sword. A woman. And he did whatever necessary to attain that new best thing. Whatever.

  ’Twas like a gigantic worm he’d found years past in the bowels of a dying man. Egolf the Farrier had been a giant of a burly man in his prime, but at his death when he was only thirty he’d been little more than a skeleton with no fat and scant flesh to cover his bones. The malady had no doubt started years before innocently enough with a tiny worm in an apple or some spoiled meat, but over the years, attached to his innards like a ravenous babe, the slimy creature devoured the food Egolf ate, and Egolf had a huge appetite, in essence starving the man to death.

  “Sig, my friend!” A giant hand clapped him on the shoulder and his close friend and hersir Bertim sat down on the bench beside him. Beneath his massive red beard, the Irish Viking’s face was florid with drink. “You are sitting upright,” Bertim accused him. “Is that still your first horn of ale that you nurse like a babe at teat?”

  “What an image!” Sigurd shook his head with amusement. “I must needs stay sober. The queen may yet produce a new son for Haakon this night.”

  “Her timing is inconvenient, but then a yule child brings good luck.” Bertim raised his bushy eyebrows as a sudden thought struck him. “Dost act as midwife now?”

  “When it is the king’s whelp, I do.”

  Bertim laughed heartily.

  “In truth, Elfrida has been laboring for a day and night so far with no result. The delivery promises to be difficult.”

  Bertim nodded. ’Twas the way of nature. “What has the king promised you for your assistance?”

  “Naught much,” Sigurd replied with a shrug. “Friendship. Lot of good that friendship does me, though. Dost notice I am not sitting at the high table?”

  “And yet that arse licker Svein One-Ear sits near the king,” Bertim commiserated.

  I should be up there. Ah, well. Mayhap if I do the king this one new favor . . . he shrugged. The seating was a small slight, actually.

  A serving maid interrupted them, leaning over the table to replenish their beverages. The way her breasts brushed against
each of their shoulders gave clear signal that she would be a willing bed partner to either or both of them. Bertim was too far gone in the drink and too fearful of the wrath of his new Norse wife, and Sigurd lacked interest in services offered so easily. The maid shrugged and made her way to the next hopefully willing male.

  Picking up on their conversation, Bertim said, “The friendship of a king is naught to minimize. It can be priceless.”

  Sigurd had reason to recall Bertim’s ale-wise words later that night, rather in the wee hours of the morning, when Queen Elfrida, despite Sigurd’s best efforts, delivered a deformed, puny babe, a girl, and Sigurd was asked by the king, in the name of friendship, to take the infant away and cut off its whispery breath.

  It was not an unusual request. In this harsh land, only the strongest survived, and the practice of infanticide was ofttimes an act of kindness. Or so the beleaguered parents believed.

  But Sigurd did not fulfill the king’s wishes. Leastways, not right away. Visions of another night and another life and death decision plagued Sigurd as he carried the swaddled babe in his arms, its cries little more than the mewls of a weakling kitten.

  Despite his full-length, hooded fur cloak, the wind and cold air combined to chill him to the bone. He tucked the babe closer to his chest and imagined he felt her heart beat steady and true. Approaching the cliff that hung over the angry sea, where he would drop the child after pinching its tiny nose, Sigurd kept murmuring, “ ’Tis for the best, ’tis for the best.” His eyes misted over, but that was probably due to the snow flakes that began to flutter heavily in front of him.

  He would do as the king asked. Of course he would. But betimes it was not such a gift having royal friends.

  Just then, he heard a loud voice bellow, “SIGURD! Halt! At once!”

  He turned to see the strangest thing. Despite the blistering cold, a dark-haired man wearing naught but a long, white, rope-belted gown in the Arab style approached with hands extended.