Christmas in Transylvania

  “Rum balls,” she corrected, “and, no, I didn’t. A girl could get blitzed at fifty paces just breathing those things.”

  “Why do you have that little secret smile on your face?”

  “I found the pregnancy tests when I was dusting your room,” she revealed as she nibbled at his bristly chin. He hadn’t shaved that morning, not having anticipated getting his bells rung today.

  “And?” He tipped her face up with a forefinger to get her full attention.

  “And I’m not preggers.”

  Hallelujah! he thought, then wiped the grin off his face. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. Do you really think I wanted to have that monster’s baby? I mean, I would have had the baby and loved it, but it’s better this way.” She was rambling, nervously.

  She had nothing on him in the nervous department. He tried to register what she was saying, but the scent of cotton candy was swirling around him. “You smell sweet enough to eat, and I’ve developed a sudden taste for cotton candy,” he revealed.

  “Maybe it’s my bath gel. And you smell like peppermints again. Have you been stealing candy canes off the tree?” she teased.

  “It’s not candy canes, or some friggin’ soap. When vangels find their life mates, they exude a scent from their pores, like an aphrodisiac. Sometimes it’s honey, or ginger, or clove, or pine, but in my case, it must be peppermint. Yours is cotton candy.”

  “Are you saying that we’re soul mates, or lifemates, or whatever you said?”

  “I have no idea. I just know that I want you so bad, I ache with it.” Can anyone say jingle bells?

  “Really? How do you want me?” She cocked her head to the side.

  Was she serious?

  “I want you in my bed, against the wall, in the tub, under a shower, in my truck, and right now on the bathroom floor.”

  “That’s a lot!” she said, and wiggled herself against his crotch, which was doing the happy dance. And jingling.

  “The Vikings have a word for arousal. It’s called enthusiasm. As in, ‘My enthusiasm is rising.’ or ‘I’m so enthused I can scarce stand.’ Baby, my enthusiasm is a rising tide. You keep jiggling like that, and you’re going to be caught in the undertow.”

  “I can swim,” she said in a small, tentative voice.

  This is so not a good idea, he told himself.

  The other side of his brain, the one with a direct line to sex central, argued, This is the best idea we’ve had in a long time.

  I’ll be punished.

  It’ll be worth it.

  Maybe we could just fool around a little, and that will be enough.

  Enough for who, birdbrain?

  I should be chivalrous . . . get up and walk away.

  Chivalry, my ass!

  Faith interrupted his mental argument by quoting the refrain of a popular country music song he’d heard on the radio a short time ago, “You gonna kiss me or what?”

  “Or what,” he answered, and dove right in. High tide and repercussions be damned!

  He kissed her like a crazy man, or a man so hungry, he couldn’t get enough. Thankfully, her lip was no longer sore, or he’d be doing some damage. But, hey, she was kissing him back with equal fervor. His hands were on her rump, hers were framing his face, to hold him in place.

  As if he had plans to go anywhere! He was right where he wanted to be.

  Rolling over so that she was on bottom, he grabbed a few towels to put under her back so he wouldn’t hurt her ribs. They were supposedly healed, but he was taking no chances. Then he spread her legs with his knees and dry-­humped her a few times to get her primed.

  She let out a howl of pure pleasure, letting him know she was not only primed but pumped and ready to go.

  He eased his jacket off, and she had her hands under his shirt helping him shove it over his head. He reciprocated with her T-­shirt and bra. For a moment, he just stared at her breasts, which were small but perfect for her thin frame. The nipples and areolas were pink. What else?

  He licked his lips.

  “I haven’t got much,” she said, as if bracing herself for some insult. “Leroy says—­“

  He put his fingertips to her mouth. “Don’t mention his name ever again. He’s gone. He never existed.”

  She nodded and kissed his fingertips.

  “We should go to the bedroom,” he suggested, even as he palmed her breasts until he felt the nipples harden.

  She let out a blissful hiss, and said, “I can’t wait.”

  “The floor’s too hard for you, sweetheart.”

  Showing a surprising strength, she shoved him over so that he was on his back again, and she was on top, kneeling astride his thighs. He watched with a pleasure bordering on pain as she undid the button on his jeans, then slowly unzipped him. His “enthusiasm” popped up, and she laughed, an innocent, playful sound that warmed his heart.

  He toed off his boots and socks, then shimmied out of his jeans and briefs, but only got as far as his knees before she grabbed his cock. Holding him in two hands, she caressed him a little, then smiled that little cat smile of hers when she noticed the bead that appeared on the tip. Clearly admiring his size, she said, “Wow!”

  That one word was like the “Gentleman, start your engines” signal at a NASCAR race. He was off and running. He had her jeans and panties off so fast, she might have brushburns. He left the pink socks on because . . . okay, sue me . . . they were as sexy as a Victoria’s Secret thong to this long-­deprived farm boy.

  Lifting her by the waist above his body, he smiled with pure joy, then lowered her inch by inch onto his pulsing erection. Once he could see beyond the haze of his overwhelming arousal, he realized something. “Dammit. I don’t have any condoms.”

  He was about to lift her off him, but she shook her head. “This is a safe time.”

  It was probably unsafe to take chances, despite her assurances, but then he recalled that vangels were sterile. Other than not being sent to hell when he died, he finally had a reason to be thankful that he was a vangel.

  “Okay. Hold on, baby. This is going to be short and sweet.”

  And it was. Short. Using his big hands to guide her hips into a lift-­and-­thrust pattern, it was three, four, five strokes, and her inner muscles were rippling around him. The stunned expression on her face was priceless, one that would be embedded in his memory forever. And it was all it took for him to arch up, lifting her with his hips, as he roared out his own climax. Sweet! Better than sweet.

  For several long minutes, she lay with her face against his chest, as if listening to his thundering heartbeat. His hands were caressing her back. He could count each precious rib. He was still inside her, soft but growing again. He couldn’t have that, not so soon.

  He lifted her face with both hands, kissed her lips, and said, “Next time will be in bed. But first, we have a mess to clean up.”

  They both rose carefully and looked around them before bursting out with laughter. In the process of their frenetic mating, they must have knocked the bucket over. There was soapy water everywhere, including on themselves. Faith’s braid was soppy and half-­undone, her socks dripping wet. His feet squished in the water.

  “Okay, in the tub with you. I’ll mop up the floor with some towels.”

  To his surprise, she didn’t argue. She was still staring at him, as if stunned. He wasn’t sure if she was surprised at her own amazing orgasm or the fact that they’d done the deed at all. It couldn’t be because of his prowess because no man wanted to be known for a two-­minute fuck.

  She was bent over the tub, naked, pouring rose-­scented bath salts under the running faucets, and he was on his hands and knees, naked, mopping up soapy water, when there was a slight knock on the door, which opened. Armod popped his head in, and said, “Karl, Vikar wants you to . . . oh, boy!” He was gone in an
embarrassed flash.

  “Are we in trouble?” Faith asked.

  “I am,” he said, then added with a wicked grin, “Do I look like I care?”

  After Karl joined Faith in the bubble bath, and they’d soaped themselves clean and other things in the sloshing water, they’d had to mop the floor all over again.

  Faith said she was going to have a hard time explaining twelve soaking-­wet towels to the laundress.

  Karl told her he’d buy her a gross of new towels.

  Then they went to bed and never slept. By the shimmer of the two-­foot artificial tree he’d bought her with its white lights and tiny pink poinsettias, they made love and talked, and made love, took a brief rest, then did it all again. Through dinner, through the night, and before dawn, when they were both startled by a loud sound outside, overhead.

  “It sounds like a million pigeons,” Faith said. “Or bats.”

  He was spooned against her, with a sheet, a blanket, and the quilt over them to ward off the chill air.

  “It’s not pigeons or bats.” Karl groaned. “It’s archangels. Michael is here, and he must have brought some pals with him.”

  “Michael?” She rubbed her butt against him.

  For the first time in the past thirteen hours, his enthusiasm did not rise to the occasion. He’d forgotten that Michael was coming. Now there was an erotic buzzkill!

  “Michael the Archangel. Remember, I told you about him?”

  She turned so that she could look at him in the dim light. “You were serious? About all that vangel/demon/vampire stuff.”

  “Serious as . . .” He lifted the covers to stare at their nude, much-­sated bodies, “ . . . sin.”

  “Are we in trouble?” she asked, repeating an earlier question

  He gave her the same answer as before, “I am.”

  And, man, was that an understatement, he soon found out. Hell hath no fury like an archangel with a bone to pick, the bone being Karl.

  Chapter Eight

  Angels we have heard on high, and down below, too . . .

  EVEN THOUGH HE’D arrived at dawn, it was late morning before Michael called for a meeting of the vangels.

  Before that, Karl took a tray upstairs for Faith, with coffee, orange juice, two buttered croissants, and a banana. He urged her to stay put unless she was invited to come downstairs.

  “Will I be invited? I’ve never met an angel before. Except for you, and you’re just an almost-­angel.” At his raised brows, she added, “I’m not saying this right.”

  “I understand perfectly,” he said, and kissed her lightly. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Not being a VIK, Karl was able to step back and observe, for the most part. First, Michael had been engaged in a closed-­door meeting with Vikar, while Gabriel, who’d accompanied him, was in the dungeon . . . uh, basement, discussing training exercises with some of the newer vangels. Rafael led a prayer ser­vice in the chapel and listened to some of the hymns they’d been rehearsing for the Christmas Eve ser­vice. After that, they all attended Mass, celebrated by Father Bernard, who’d come up from St. Vladamir’s, followed by a hearty workman’s breakfast for the archangels . . . sausage, bacon, fresh-­baked rolls, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and toast . . . served by Lizzie and her helpers, who were clearly suffering hangovers. Once the archangels were gone, Karl was sure the kitchen staff would be crawling into their beds. The rest of them would have to make do with Domino’s Pizza or takeout the rest of the day though the storm had laid down another six inches of snow last night, and it was snowing again. Travel might be a problem, even into town for a bucket of KFC. Best they stick to home and open a can of soup or something. Not that anyone was thinking that far ahead. The vangels were too worried about why Michael was here and whether any of them was in the archangel’s crosshairs.

  None of the archangels were smiling, which Karl took for a bad sign. The only indication Karl had that he was in particular trouble was a frown directed his way by Michael and the one-­word warning, “Later!”

  The other brothers, and their families, began drifting in. Their late arrivals were excused by the fact that Michael hadn’t been expected until tomorrow. Sometimes, he liked to surprise them. In an attempt to catch them doing something wrong, Karl supposed. Like Karl had been. Though it hadn’t felt wrong at the time. Still didn’t.

  There was Trond with his wife Nicole, both Navy SEALs. Well, Trond was a SEAL, but Nicole was a member of WEALS, the female Navy SEAL unit. They were followed by Sigurd, Harek, and Mordr, whose new wife Miranda and their five children would be arriving later. And Cnut, who was being teased by his brothers because of his new hairstyle.

  The light brown hair was shaved on both sides of his head. On the top, three narrow braids ran from his brow to the crown of his head, where they met in one long braid that hung down to his shoulders. He also had a neatly trimmed beard and mustache.

  “Who the hell are you supposed to be?” Vikar asked.

  “Travis Fimmel who plays Ragnar Lothbrok in that History Channel series called The Vikings,” Harek answered for Cnut with a wide grin.

  “You look like an idiot,” Vikar observed.

  “Up yours, bro,” Cnut replied. “It’s the latest style.”

  “You wouldn’t know style from a pile . . . of shit,” Trond contributed.

  “I like it,” Nicole said, and waggled her eyebrows at Cnut.

  “You do?” Trond asked and rubbed his hand over his short military cut.

  “You do know how Ragnar ended up in real life, don’t you? King Aelle threw him in a snake pit, where he died painfully.” This from Harek.

  “What’s your point?” Cnut asked.

  “Just sayin’,” Harek said, still grinning.

  Then came Ivak, with his wife Gabrielle and their baby Michael. What a suck-­up Ivak was, naming his child after the archangel although he claimed to have named him after Michael Jordan, the basketball player. Armod had been disappointed that the namesake hadn’t been Michael Jackson. Ivak, a chaplain at Angola Prison, wore a clerical collar under a denim shirt, probably hoping to impress Michael with his piety, which was a total crock. Did I mention suck-­up?

  Finally, the meeting was convened in the front salon. Michael sat in one of the two wingback chairs facing the room, Vikar in the other. The female vangels took the remaining chairs. Everyone else was crammed into whatever space they could find, on the floor or leaning against the walls.

  The archangel was in full celestial attire today . . . white robe belted with a golden rope, sandals, long, shiny, dark hair on which light reflected from the snow outside through the windows, rather like a halo. And wings. His massive white wings lay folded against his back. You never knew how Michael would show up. Sometimes he wore modern clothes, like jeans and T-­shirt, and athletic shoes, which he had a passion for, with no wings at all.

  “Rafael and Gabriel were called away to an emergency on Agatnor. We will proceed without them,” Michael said. “Those Agats are more bothersome than Vikings. Like gnats they are betimes.”

  That was a sample of archangel humor, but no one laughed, just in case it was not a joke.

  However, curiosity got the better of Harek, who stood next to Karl, and he dared speak, “What is Agatnor?” Harek was the brightest of all the Sigurdsson brothers, brighter than most anyone, for that matter. Not that it was very bright of him to call attention to himself by speaking unless called upon.

  Karl put a hand to his face and scrunched down lower, trying to be invisible. Impossible, of course.

  “Not what. Where,” Michael replied, amusement tugging at his lips when he might very well have been annoyed at the interruption.

  Harek tipped his head to the side. His mind was like an encyclopedia, and you could almost see the search going through it, like the computers he loved. Agatnor? Agatnor? Agatnor? “What contin
ent is it on?”

  Karl and others in the room braced themselves for Michael’s anger. Michael was not here to play puzzle games with the Vikings, but he surprised them again. First, by being so patient with Harek. (Maybe some of the Christmas spirit was rubbing off on him.) Second, by his answer, “Agatnor is not on any continent. It is a planet.”

  “Are you saying that there is life on other planets?”

  “Vanity, thy name is Viking,” Michael said, shaking his head at their hopelessness. “Only full-­of-­themselves Norsemen would think the world revolved around them and only them. But on to the business at hand.” Michael pulled a notebook from a pocket in his robe.

  Meanwhile, Harek was muttering under his breath. “Aliens! There really are aliens. I knew it!”

  After consulting his notes, Michael sniffed the evergreen-­scented air and surveyed the room. “Very nice,” he concluded. “Tell Alex I am well pleased with her efforts.”

  Alex and her cohorts had gone overboard in decorating. Not just the tree, which was like a ginormous air freshener, but holly arrangements and trailing pine garlands and candles and mistletoe and poinsettias and dozens of gaily wrapped presents. Karl had feared that the archangel, when he finally noticed the excess, would be upset by the commercial nature of the decorating, but, at Vikar’s insistence, there were also five Nativity Scenes of various sizes situated around the room. Under the tree, on the mantel, on side tables, on top of a glassed bookcase. Vikar was a suck-­up, too, when need be, or maybe he was just crafty when dealing with their heavenly mentor.

  Vikar nodded. “I will pass along your compliment.”

  “I hate to interrupt your holiday, but a mission has come up. Jasper, unfortunately, does not stop to celebrate the Lord’s birth.”

  They all went on red alert.

  “Five days before Christmas, there will be a large penance ser­vice at St. Ambrose Cathedral in New York City. Under the direction of Cardinal Santori, thirty priests are being brought in to hear confessions from the multitudes over a three-­hour period.” He paused so they could take in his words and ask questions, if there were any.