Christmas in Transylvania (10 page)

“You didn't like my uproar?”

“I loved your uproar. I'm hoping we can uproar again in a few minutes. For hours.”

She smiled against his chest.

“Alex explained a lot of things about vangels and humans. The thing that bothers me is that you didn't discuss it with me. Shouldn't I have a choice?”

“In the end, Mike has the final choice, but, yes, I suppose I should have been the one to explain all the difficulties to you.”

“Difficulties can be overcome. Stubborn, mulish silence can't.'

“Faith, you've been through so much. You deserve a normal life.”

“What's normal in today's society?”

“Well, it sure as hell isn't eternal life glued to the side of a vampire angel who fights demons for a living.”

“I kind of like being glued to you,” she said, and swung a leg over his, rubbing her calf against his furred thighs.

“You're making this really hard for me,” he said on a sharp inhale.

“I can tell,” she said, and glanced down at his rising hardness.

“Witch!” he said, and smacked her playfully on the rump.

“Was this room a torture chamber at one time?” she asked then as she distractedly stroked the hair on his chest.

“Something like that. The dungeon is here more to be authentic to the castle idea than for any gruesome activity. The original owner was an eccentric lumber baron who built this monstrosity for his young wife, who died before she gave him any children to fill the place. I suppose he could have used this as a prison for his competitors in the lumber business, but I doubt anyone even came down here until . . . oh, my God! I forgot.”

He sat up abruptly and rose to his feet. “Hurry up and get dressed.”

“Why? I thought we were going—­”

He was throwing he clothes at her. “I told you that I came looking for you. I told you I had a confession to make. We have a visitor.”

“A Christmas visitor? Alex really is going all out with this holiday celebration, isn't she?”

“This visitor has nothing to do with Alex. Oh, man, you are going to be either so happy, or so angry.”

She was dressed by now and trying to comb her fingers through her unruly hair. “Me? I'm going to be angry about this Christmas visitor?” She frowned with confusion.

“You might be angry with me for having something to do with this visitor's being here,” he elaborated.

“Will you stop speaking in riddles and spit it out?”

“It's your brother.”

“What?” A chill passed over her body. “Zach? That's impossible. Zach is in prison. I think.”

“Not anymore. Honey, Zach is dead.”

She gasped and put a hand to her heart. A tiny sob was her only vocal response.

“And he's here.”

 

Chapter Nine

Off to the Big Apple . . .

I
T HAD BEEN
a week since Karl had engaged in wild-­monkey sex with Faith down in the dungeon, an exercise he had hoped to repeat a time or five, but he hardly saw the woman. Her every spare moment was spent with her brother Zach, a dazed, newly turned vangel.

When Karl had asked Harek to use his Internet talents to discover the whereabouts of Zachary Larson, he had hoped to give Faith a Christmas surprise. Little did he know it would end up being this kind of surprise. Apparently her brother had a long rap sheet, in and out of prisons since he was a teen, most recently in Rockview for murder. His death had come last week at the hands of another inmate. Michael must have heard about Karl's inquiries and turned the young man into a vangel. Zach was the “youngest,” meaning most recently turned, vangel they'd ever had though he had thirty-­three hard human years under his belt.

Karl was preparing to go to New York City for the cathedral mission. The team would be gone for three days at most, staying in a whole floor of rooms rented in a small, nearby hotel for twenty-­five of the vangel operators. The seven brothers, Jogeir, Svein, Armod, himself, and a dozen or so others. The initial group would study the perimeter of the church and its grounds, make specific plans and assignments. By the time Saturday afternoon rolled around, they would have a precise “battle” plan. The sulfurous scent of Lucies was supposedly already in the air.

But Karl wanted to speak with Faith before he left. He found her in the basement, where she was watching while two vangel trainers were drilling Zach on basic vangel behavior. Zach looked stunned, as well he should, especially with his new fangs cutting into his bottom lip. Other than the fangs, Zach resembled his sister in leanness and blond hair.

The trainers were teaching Zach how to retract his fangs, which was difficult at first. They repeated, over and over, the rules he must follow. Secrecy must be maintained, they emphasized. And then there was his new need for blood; his skin was almost translucent at the moment, despite their almost force-­feeding him Fake-­O. Soon they would show him how to feed on one of the blood ceorls here at the castle. Actual feeding in battle would be a long way off.

Karl tapped Faith on the shoulder, and whispered in her ear, “Faith, come upstairs. I need to talk with you before I leave.”

“Leave?” she asked, turning to face him. The poor woman looked as if she hadn't been sleeping well. Not a good sign on top of her recent injuries.

“I have to leave on a mission. I'll be gone for a few days.” He took her hand and led her upstairs, then into Vikar's office, the only room that appeared to be empty at the moment. “Promise you'll be here when I get back.”

“Of course I will. Zach is here.” She must have realized by the expression on his face how he felt because she added, “And you, too.”

He sat down in one chair in front of the desk and motioned for her to sit in the other chair, facing him. He took her hands in his and kissed the knuckles. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “Oh, Karl! I'm so confused. I always dreamed . . . I always thought that someday I would find Zach and bring him home with me. That we would be a family. I knew he'd gotten in trouble. I even knew he'd been in prison, but I had no idea . . .” She let her words trail off, staring at him with hopelessness.

“Faith, this is not a bad thing. If Zach had not been turned into a vangel, he would be in a far worse place now.”

“I know that. Deep down, I know that. But it's still hard to accept. I guess I don't know where I fit in all this now.”

“I'm hoping it will be here. With me. And Zach.”

“I don't know. I thought I did, but I don't know.”

His heart sank. “Do you love me?”

She nodded.

“That's enough for now.” It wasn't. Not nearly, but he would hold on to that.

“Will this mission be dangerous? I mean, is there a chance you won't come back?”

“There's always that chance.”

She whimpered.

“Don't worry, honey. I have too much to live for.”

“I'll be here when you get back.”

He had a proposal to make . . .

But Faith was not there when Karl returned two days before Christmas.

The mission had gone off with hardly a hitch. Twenty sinners saved, ten of the fifty Lucies annihilated, including two high haakai, and several vangels with serious injuries, but no vangel deaths. A success!

The twenty-­five vangels returned the castle in high spirits, all looking healthily suntanned, the usual effect of feeding on sinners and trouncing Lucies. They were all looking for showers, beers, and pizza, which was supposedly on the menu tonight, and their lifemates where applicable, not necessarily in that order.

Karl now put himself in that latter category. Faith
was
his lifemate. He was convinced of that. He had an important question to ask her. But she was nowhere to be found. What was it about this confounded maze of a castle that he was always hunting for her?

When he discovered that her VW bug was missing, he became frantic with worry. What if she'd left for good? She'd threatened to find her own safe house. What if she'd departed to someplace where he could never find her.

But her brother Zach was still here. (Where else would he go?) Faith would never leave him. At least not so soon. He hoped. He found Zach watching television in the family room. He told Karl that Faith was probably shopping. She had been going out every day and returning about dinnertime.

Okay, so she had been coming back every day, but Faith didn't strike him as the shopping type, or at least not the type to spend hours at the activity. Besides, she didn't have much money, as Karl recalled. He would have to do something about that.

Alex and the other ladies were just coming in from their own shopping by the looks of them, not to mention numerous boxes of pizza. As they put the delicious-­smelling pies on the counter, Karl approached. “Do you know where Faith is?”

“Working,” Alex answered.

“What?”

“She's been working at the diner to earn some money for Christmas. She should be back any minute.”

“Alex!” he chastised. “You let her go out on her own like that?”

“Is there a problem? I thought the nasty boyfriend was gone.”

“He is, but . . .” Karl hated any reference to Leroy as Faith's boyfriend, even in the past tense. “She's not well enough to be working.”

Alex laughed. “The way I hear it, she's well enough for a lot of activities.”

He felt himself blush.

When Faith pulled into the back courtyard an hour later, he was outside in the blistering cold waiting for her. The minute she stepped out of her vehicle, wearing that pink jacket and ridiculous, fluffy pink hat, he said, “I should paddle your ass.” And yanked her into his arms to hug her tightly.

“Is that a sexual suggestion?”

He pinched said ass, and drawled, “It could be if you want.”

She laughed. “Your face and hands are freezing cold.”

To punish her, he ran his cold hands under her jacket and shirt and up her bare back.

She shivered. He wasn't sure if it was because of his cold hands or his hotly talented hands. He preferred the latter.

“I've been worried about you,” he growled against her neck.

“Why?”

“I thought you left.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “I told you I would be here.”

“I know, but you weren't here, and I thought . . . oh, Faith, my world crashed when I thought you were gone.”

“Silly man! I love you.”

He smiled, weak with relief, even though she would pay later for that “silly man” remark. “I went shopping when I was in the city,” he blurted out.

She had to be wondering what that had to do with his wickedly wandering hands. “Oh? I thought you hated shopping.”

“Not this kind,” he said, and went down on one knee. “I hadn't planned to do it like this, but damn, I'm so nervous, I can't wait. Faith Larson, will you marry me?” He pulled a small pale blue Tiffany box from his jacket pocket.

She clapped both pink-­mittened hands to her heart. “Are you allowed to do that?”

“No, but I'm doing it anyway. I'll ask Mike for permission. Later. If he says no, I'll keep asking. I'm determined to have you.”

She smiled. “Then yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

As he slipped the diamond solitaire on her finger and stood to kiss her, they heard clapping. Turning, they saw about forty vangels, and a few humans, including two little jumping rascals, waving at them. And he could swear some of them were singing, “Another one bites the dust.”

A Very Merry Vangel Christmas . . .

Everyone agreed it was the best Christmas holiday, ever, and the first of many traditions were set that year in a Transylvania castle high on a Pennsylvania hill.

The live Nativity Scene outside St. Vladamir's Church was so successful that the townfolks who were holding their own vampire holiday events complained that so many tourists were hanging out over at the church instead of at their paying enterprises. Faith played the Virgin Mary, Ivak was Joseph, and baby Michael was the infant Jesus. Gabrielle and Nicole and Miranda were angels. Lizzie Borden held a shepherd's crook instead of an axe. The twins, Gunnar and Gunnora, were shepherds, as well. The eight-­year-­old twins, Ben and Sam, and five-­year-­old Larry, three of Mordr's adopted children, were adorable as the Three Wise Men. Mordr's other adopted children, ten-­year-­old Maggie and five-­year-­old Linda, sang in the choir. There was much laughter from the participants, as well as the spectators.

And the Christmas Eve concert at Midnight Mass was spectacular. Truly, the voices were angelic. Everyone said so.

All the children basked in numerous gifts on Christmas morning, including a new Alvin and the Chipmunks DVD some fool had given to Gunnar and Gunnora. Everyone else enjoyed their gifts, too. Karl gave Faith a car; she gave him a black negligee with peekaboo lace, which should have seemed odd, but Karl knew exactly who would be wearing the garment and who would be enjoying the gift. He didn't complain.

The best part of the holiday, some said, was the New Year's Eve wedding of Faith Larson and Karl Mortenssen. The ceremony was officiated by none other than St. Michael the Archangel in St. Vladamir's Church. The bride wore white, the groom wore his old Army dress uniform. The wedding march was, “Angels We Have Heard On High.”

Later, when someone asked Michael why he had agreed to yet another wedding amongst the vangels, he replied, “God wants all his creatures to be happy. Even Vikings.”

 

Read on for a sneak peek at

VAMPIRE IN PARADISE

the next Deadly Angels Book

by
New York Times
best-­selling author

SANDRA HILL

Available November 2014 in print and ebook from Avon Books.

 

Prologue

The Norselands, A.D. 850 . . .

Only the strongest survived in that harsh land . . .

S
IGURD
S
IGURDSSON SAT
near the high table of King Haakon's yule feast, sipping at the fine ale from his own jewel-­encrusted silver horn. (Many of those “above the salt” held gold vessels, he noted.) Tuns of ale and rare Frisian wine flowed. (His mead tasted rather weak, but mayhap that was his imagination.)

Favored guests at the royal feast (he was mildly favored) had their choice among 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, including the hated neeps. (Hated by Sigurd, leastways. He had a particular antipathy to turnips due to some youthling insanity to determine which lackwit could eat the most of the root vegetables without vomiting or falling over dead as a stump. He lost.) Honey oat cakes and dried fruit trifles finished off the meal for those not filled to overflowing. (Peaches, on the other hand, were fruit of the gods, in Sigurd's opinion.) Entertainment was provided by a quartet of lute players who could scarce be heard over the animated conversation and laughter. (Which was just as well; they harmonized like a herd of screech owls. Again, in Sigurd's opinion.) Good cheer abounded. (Except for . . .)

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 honed 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-­or-­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 snowflakes 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.

Without words, Sigurd knew that the man wanted the child. To his surprise, Sigurd handed over the bundle that carried his body heat to the stranger.

“Take her, Caleb,” the man said to yet another man in a white robe who appeared at his side.

“Yes, Michael.” Caleb bowed as if the first man were a king or some important personage.

More kings! That is all I need!

The Michael person passed the no-­longer-­crying infant to Caleb, who enfolded the babe in what appeared to be wings, but was probably a white fur cloak, and walked off, disappearing into the now heavy snowfall.

“Will you kill the child?” Sigurd asked, realizing for the first time that he might not have been able to do it himself. Not this time.

“Viking, will you never learn?” Michael asked.

He said “Viking” as if it were a bad word. Sigurd was too stunned by this tableau to be affronted.

“Who are you?
What
are you?” Sigurd asked as he noticed the massive white wings spreading out behind the man.

“Michael. An archangel.”

Sigurd had heard of angels before and seen images on wall paintings in a Byzantium church. “Did you say arse angel?”

“You know I did not. Thou art a fool.”

No sense of humor at all. Sigurd assumed that an
arch
angel was a special angel. “Am I dead?”

“Not yet.”

That did not sound promising. “But soon?”

“Sooner than thou could imagine,” he said without the least bit of sympathy.

Can I fight him?
Somehow, Sigurd did not think that was possible.

“You are a grave sinner, Sigurd.”

He knows my name.
“That I freely admit.”

“And yet you do not repent. And yet you would have taken another life tonight.”

“Another?” Sigurd inquired, although he knew for a certainty what Michael referred to, and it was not some enemy he had covered with sword dew in righ­teous battle. But how could the man—­rather angel—­possibly know what had been Sigurd's closely held secret all these years? No one else knew.

“There are no secrets, Viking,” Michael informed him.

Holy Thor! Now he is reading my mind!

Before Sigurd could reply, the snow betwixt them swirled, then cleared to reveal a picture of himself as a boyling of ten years or so bent over his little ailing brother Aslak, a five-­year-­old of immense beauty, even for a male child. Pale white hair, perfect features, a bubbling, happy personality. Everyone loved Aslak, and Aslak loved everyone in return.

Sigurd had hated his little brother, despite the fact that Aslak followed him about like an adoring puppy. Aslak was everything that Sigurd was not. Sigurd's dull brown hair only turned blond when he got older and the tresses had been sun-­bleached on sea voyages. His facial features had been marred by the pimples of a youthling. He had an unpleasant, betimes surly, disposition. In other words, unlikable, or so Sigurd had thought.

Being the youngest of the Sigurdsson boys, before Aslak, and the only one still home, Sigurd had been more aware of his little brother's overwhelming popularity. In truth, in later years, when others referred to the seven Sigurdsson brothers, they failed to recall that at one time there had been eight.

Sigurd blinked and peered again into the swirling snow picture of that fateful night. His little brother's wheezing lungs laboring for life through the long predawn hours. His mother, Lady Elsa, had begged Sigurd to help because, even at ten years of age, he had healing hands. Sigurd had pretended to help, but in truth he had not employed the steam tenting or special herb teas that might have cured his dying brother. Aslak had died, of course, and Sigurd knew it was his fault.

Looking up to see Michael staring at him, Sigurd said, “I was jealous.”

Michael shook his head. “Nay, jealousy is a less than admirable trait. Your sin was the more grievous, envy.”

“Envy. Jealousy. Same thing.”

“Lackwit!” Michael declared, his wings bristling wide like those of a riled goose. “Jealousy is a foolish emotion, but envy destroys the peace of the soul. When was the last time you were at peace, Viking?”

Sigurd thought for a long moment. “Never, that I recall.”

“Envy stirs hatred in a person, causing one to wish evil on another. That was certainly the case with your brother Aslak. And with so many others you have maligned or injured over the years.”

Sigurd hung his head. 'Twas true.

“Envy causes a person to engage in immoderate quests for wealth or power or relationships that betimes defy loyalty and justice.”

Sigurd nodded. The archangel was painting a clear picture of him and his sorry life.

“The worst thing is that you were given a treasured talent. The gift of healing. Much like the saint physician Luke. But you have disdained it. Abused it. And failed to nourish it for a greater good.”

“A saint?” Sigurd was not a Chris­tian, but he was familiar with tales from their Bible. “You would have me be as pure as a saint? I am a Viking.”

“Idiots! I am forced to work with idiots.” Michael rolled his eyes. “Nay, no one expects purity from such as you. Enough! For your grave sins, and those of your six brothers . . . in fact, all the Vikings as a whole . . . the Lord is sorely disappointed. You must be punished. In the future, centuries from now, there will be no Viking nation, as such. Thus sayeth the Lord,” Michael pronounced. “And as for you Sigurdsson miscreants . . . your time on earth is measured.”

“By death?”

Michael nodded. “Thou art already dead inside, Sigurd. Now your body will be, as well.”

So be it. It was a fate all men must face, though he had not expected it to come so soon. “You mention my brothers. They will die, too?”

“They will. If they have not already passed.”

Seven brothers dying in the same year? This was the fodder of sagas. Skalds would be speaking of them forevermore. “Will I be going to Valhalla, or the Chris­tian Heaven, or that other place?” He shivered inwardly at the thought of that last fiery fate.

“None of those. You are being given a second chance.”

“To live?” This was good news.

Michael shook his head. “To die and come back to serve your Heavenly Father in a new role.”

“As an angel?” Sigurd asked with incredulity.

“Hardly,” Michael scoffed. “Well, actually, you would be a vangel. A Viking vampire angel put back on earth to fight Satan's demon vampires, Lucipires. For seven hundred years, your penance would be to redeem your sins by serving in God's army under my mentorship.”

Sigurd could tell that Michael wasn't very happy with that mentorship role, but he could not dwell on that. It was the amazing ideas the archangel was putting forth.

“Do you agree?” Michael asked.

Huh? What choice did he have? The fires of Hell, or centuries of living as some kind of soldier. “I agree, but what exactly is a vampire?”

He soon found out. With a raised hand, Michael pointed a finger at Sigurd and unimaginable pain wracked his body, including his mouth where the jawbones seemed to crack and realign themselves, emerging with fangs, like a wolf. He fell to his knees as his shoulder blades also seem to explode as if struck with a broadsword.

“Fangs? Was that necessary?” he gasped, glancing upward at the celestial being whose arms were folded across his chest, staring down at him.