The Angel Wore Fangs

  “Spoiled! You Vikings are spoiled.” If Michael had his way, they would probably be wearing hair shirts and sleeping on thorn bushes. “Was a time, if you recall, when sleeping on the ground was good enough.”

  Cnut remembered. They all did. Those first years as a vangel had been rough, to say the least. When they’d been lucky enough to find a cave, they’d considered it a luxury comparable to a Hilton suite today.

  Harek, the smartest of all the VIK, told them then about the Caribbean island he was converting into an electronics center that would bring vangels into the computer age. Really, to fight modern-day Lucies, they had to become modern-day vangels, or so Harek contended. Harek was the last of his brothers to be wed, and that despite Michael’s initial warning that none of them were to be involved with women. He’d married Camille Dumaine, also a member of WEALS, last year.

  “And when will my archangel website be ready?” Michael asked Harek.

  Michael had been badgering Harek for years to set up an Internet site for archangels to help humans.

  “Um,” Harek said, his face red with embarrassment. It wasn’t Harek’s fault that he’d failed to create a cyberspace home for the archangel. In fact, with his skills, Harek could probably build a website in an hour, but Michael kept changing his mind about what he wanted.

  In quick order, Michael got updates from all the VIK. He turned to Cnut then and asked, “What art thou doing about ISIS?”

  “ISIS?” he said dumbly.

  “Do you not know of this ISIS?”

  “The Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham. Formerly aligned with Al-Qaeda. A worldwide terrorist threat,” Cnut regurgitated a Wikipedia-like definition. That’s about all he knew.

  Michael nodded. “Destroy it.”

  “Huh? What? Me?”

  “Are you not our security expert?”

  “I am.”

  “Is ISIS not the greatest threat, equal only to the Nazi Holocaust or the evil Roman Empire?”

  Cnut nodded, hesitantly, not sure what this had to do with him.

  “That will be your goal for this year. Destroy ISIS.”

  “Me? Alone? How will I do that?”

  Michael shrugged. “That is not for me to say.”

  Aaarrgh! That is Mike-speak for “Figure it out, Viking.”

  “Did you say something?” Michael inquired, too sweetly.

  “You do realize that armies from around the world, not just the United States, have been fighting ISIS for years, and they just keep growing,” Trond pointed out to the archangel.

  Thanks for intervening on my behalf, brother. Cnut gave a nod to Trond.

  “Jasper’s influence, no doubt,” Michael agreed.

  “How can I do what thousands have failed to do?” Cnut asked.

  “Not just you. All of you.”

  His brothers sat up straighter, no longer complacent that Cnut was the only target of Michael’s outrageous demand.

  “Jasper’s evil hordes, and ISIS because of the Lucipire evil influence on some of its members, will be the mission of all vangels this year, and possibly years to come. That is not to say that there will not be smaller operations wherever Lucipires settle in, but mainly you all must concentrate on this abomination. Mass murders. Beheadings. Rapes. All in the name of some distorted religious belief. The Lord weeps at the atrocities.” For a moment, Michael’s head was bowed. Then he straightened and said, “But it will all start with you, Cnut.”

  “Thy will be done,” Cnut agreed, but he had no idea where to start.

  As if reading his mind, because of course he could read minds, Michael explained, “ISIS is no more than a glorified cult, much like those started by David Koresh and Jim Jones in the past. Yea, the numbers are much larger, but the principles are much the same. Blind worship of a false ideology. Start small with one of the cults, Cnut. Then your brothers, and other military operations, will aid you from there.”

  “One of the cults?” he murmured.

  “There is a modern expression that applies here, Cnut. Nibbling away like ducks. That is what thou must do. Start nibbling.”

  Under his breath, Cnut said, “Quack, quack.”

  “Death by a thousand paper cuts,” Ivak said, agreeing with Michael.

  Cnut glanced at his other brothers and saw that they came to the same communal opinion of Ivak. Suck-up!

  “If enough people around the world begin nibbling, they can eat away at the core of ISIS,” Michael contended. “And keep in mind, it is the goal of vangels to destroy Lucipires and save dreadful sinners, not to ensure world peace.”

  That’s a relief! Not! Cnut was doubtful of his abilities for such a huge mission, and he didn’t know what he was expected to do, exactly, or where to start.

  “You will know when you will know,” Michael told him.

  You will know when you will know, Cnut mimicked in his head. Another Mike-ism! Clear as celestial clouds on a dark Norse fjord.

  “By the by, Cnut, your hair has become a favorite topic Up Above. Angels far and wide have adopted the style. In fact, legions of them look like dim-witted Vikings.”

  The archangel was not pleased.

  Neither was Cnut.

  He was even less pleased when he got text messages from his brothers over the next few days:

  If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and looks like a duck, it must be . . . Cnut.

  You lucky duck!

  Lord love a duck!

  A duck walks into a bar . . .

  You ever were a sitting duck, bro.

  Some ducks turn to swans, don’t they?

  Actually, Cnut didn’t mind his brothers’ lame attempts at humor. Vikings appreciated a good jest.

  Still, he responded to each of them, Shut the duck up!

  Then he prepared to get all his ducks in a row back at his office so he would be ready for Michael’s mysterious moment when he “would know when he would know.”

  For some reason, Cnut had a sudden and fierce craving for turducken. And that night, on the Food Network, the host of Everyday Gourmet made a duck cassoulet. And wasn’t it a sad commentary on his life that Cnut, once a fierce Viking warrior (when he had been so inclined and/or able to get off his fat arse), actually knew what a cassoulet was? But hadn’t a clue how to save the world from ISIS.

  Were the fates conspiring against Cnut, or just Michael?

  Chapter 3

  Sweet temptation!

  It was Andrea’s third pass by the agency door as she gathered her nerve to go in. Her lunch hour would soon be over if she dawdled around much longer. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have an appointment.

  Still, she peered dubiously through the shaded windows of Wings International Security, located just down the street from La Chic Sardine, trying to see inside. What kind of legitimate business had shaded windows? And a single metal desk and filing cabinet with two folding chairs? But she’d looked up the firm on the Internet, and the office appeared to be a reliable agency for tracking and protecting individuals or groups, with a special emphasis on terrorists. She’d done her due diligence. So, what was the problem?

  •A creepy feeling she got up the back of her neck?

  •A sense that something wasn’t quite right?

  •Her first time seeking outside help for her sister’s shenanigans?

  •Her family expecting her to drop everything and clean up another of Celie’s messes?

  Pick any one of those. Or all of them.

  Or maybe it was just plain exasperation. Why do I have to be my sister’s keeper? No, that’s selfish. I don’t really mean that. I love my sister. It’s just . . . just . . . frustrating. And, frankly, a little bit scary this time.

  “Oh hell!” she muttered, and opened the door. Then stopped dead in her tracks. “Holy freakin’ sex on a stick!” she said in an undertone, before she had a chance to curb her tongue.

  Andrea was almost thirty years old, and while she wouldn’t describe herself as having been around the block, she’d ha
d several relationships, three if you counted Pete the Perv. More important, she’d never been attracted to musclemen. But son of a biscotti!

  Standing beside the desk was a man, dressed in a plain blue, tapered, Oxford-collared dress shirt, untucked, over black jeans and black athletic shoes. But that was the only thing plain about him. He had to be six foot three or -four of lean muscles from wide shoulders to narrow waist and hips and mile-long legs. His lightly tanned face was a masterpiece of sculpted Nordic features, topped by a unique hairstyle, shaved on the sides and sort of French braided from his forehead to the back of his neck, where the remainder of dark blond hair was tied off with a leather shoelace, or something.

  “Are you a Viking?” she asked.

  At the same time, he asked, “Are you a doctor?”

  He said yes, and she said no. Then they both laughed.

  And, Lordy, even his laugh was sexy. Low and husky and masculinity personified.

  She glanced down at her white linen chef jacket worn over white skinny jeans and comfortable Crocs. “No, I’m a chef. A pastry chef.”

  “Ah, that explains it.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “The scent of vanilla and fresh baked bread. And coconut. Lots of coconut.”

  “I was making vanilla bean crème brûlées and artisan breads this morning,” she said. “But nothing with coconut.” She frowned, trying to recall if she’d been handling any coconut. “Nope. Not today.”

  She had to stop gaping at the guy, so she sank down into one of the folding chairs, without being invited. It was either that or faint or something equally objectionable, like jump his bones.

  In her defense, he was staring at her, too, but it was unclear whether he found her presence objectionable or whether he was as magnetically attracted as she was. That soon became clear when he sat down, as well, behind the desk, which was oddly empty of paperwork or any kind of personal objects, except for an open laptop computer. “What do you want?” he asked rudely.

  “Uh, I have an appointment.”

  “No, you do not have an appointment. I would know if . . . wait. You’re Andy Stewart? My twelve o’clock?”

  “Yes. Andrea Stewart.”

  “Blessed clouds!” he swore, as if that were a foul expletive. “Why would a woman like you use such an unfeminine name?”

  “Like me?”

  “Sex on a fucking stick,” he explained, repeating her own words back at her, though more graphically.

  She was embarrassed that he’d overheard her original assessment of him and that he was viewing her in the same sexist way she’d viewed him. Not that she could ever be considered sex on anything. Not even a Popsicle stick. Her sister, maybe. Not her, even on a good day. Anyhow, she was beginning to reassess him to something more like jerk on a stick.

  He must have recognized the change of expression on her face because he apologized, “I’m sorry. Let’s start over. I’m Cnut Sigurdsson, owner of Wings International.”

  Stretching a long arm across the desk, he shook her hand. At that mere touch of palm against palm, she felt the oddest shock wave pass through her body, ripples of warm heat going to all her extremities, but mostly girl central.

  Cnut caught himself gaping at the woman as the oddest shock wave passed over his body, causing warm heat to slingshot to all his extremities, especially one particular extremity. Sizzle ensued along with the scent of sweet, delicious coconut, and he didn’t even like coconut, or leastways he hadn’t up ’til now. He didn’t love coconut now; he was ambivalent about the stuff. He much preferred chocolate or fruit on his pastries. Sometimes nuts, but not pine nuts, unless they were toasted. He’d had a chicken orzo salad one time with toasted pine nuts that was delicious, except for an overload of basil.

  Can anyone say food addict?

  Thank God, the woman didn’t smell like lemons, too. That was a sure sign of a dreadful sinner, in need of a vangel intervention or on a fast track to Hell. Lucipires were lured by that scent, catnip to a demon soul. But coconut? That was a new one.

  What in bloody hell is going on here? He dropped her hand and sank back in his desk chair. I’m. Losing. My. Fucking. Mind.

  He’d been hanging around the Wings office for several days now, waiting for clues to Michael’s mysterious mission. Although he sometimes took on private clients, providing all kinds of expert security services, this Philadelphia office mostly served as a front for his vangel activities.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Stewart?” He assumed she was Miss since there was no ring on her fingers. Not that it mattered. Much. Or at all.

  She was wringing her hands in her lap, eyes darting around the barren room, clearly as nervous as he was, and stalling for time. “Cnut like a newt lizard?” she asked, irrelevantly.

  He winced and said, “Yes, but spelled C-N-U-T.” He said the letters carefully in case he mixed them up and offended her even more.

  She nodded, inhaled for courage, and revealed, “I’m here because I need help finding my missing sister and bringing her home.”

  There is no way I am getting involved in some domestic dispute. Especially with someone who smells like a sweet macaroon. But I should at least sound interested. Be polite. “Missing? How do you misplace a person? Ha, ha.”

  She didn’t smile at his humor. So much for being polite! “Missing from where? Did she run away?”

  “I don’t mean missing in that way. I know where she is, I think.”

  “Why don’t you just go and get her yourself? Or your parents? Why aren’t they here, by the way?”

  Her face pinkened. “They’re getting ready to go on a cruise.”

  “Lady, you’re wasting my time. I run a serious business.”

  “This is dead serious,” she persisted. “My sister is in grave danger.”

  “Was she kidnapped?”

  “Noooo, not exactly.”

  “Is she being held against her will?”

  “No. Yes. Maybe.”

  He rolled his eyes. “How old is she?”

  “Nineteen, but—”

  “Oh good Lord! I mean, oh good gourd! Miss Stewart, your sister is an adult.”

  “That’s questionable, but age has nothing to do with it. Celie needs help, no question about that. Her boyfriend—”

  Uh-oh! The boyfriend crap! Parents don’t like the boyfriend, daughter runs away. Parents hire detective to bring spoiled child home. He put up a halting hand. “I don’t get involved in domestic disputes. I got the impression from the message left with my answering service that there was terrorism involved. Otherwise, an appointment wouldn’t have been scheduled.”

  “There is, there is!” Quickly, she lifted a carry bag onto the desk and pulled out a thick folder, shoving it toward him.

  Oh no! Not a folder. Do not open it, Cnut. She’ll think there’s a chance that I will take her case.

  “This is the material that the private detective gathered about my sister, Cecilia Stewart. Celie, we call her.” Her voice wobbled as she spoke, and she took out a tissue, dabbing at her golden-brown eyes, which were now misted over with tears.

  Oh no! Not tears. That is so predictable. “A detective?”

  “Frank Randolph from West Chester. Do you know him?”

  He shook his head. I think I’ll have Mexican for lunch today. That new take-out place on Chestnut Street. Maybe tacos and enchiladas.

  “He’s supposed to be a really good detective.”

  “And he located your sister?” With a side of rice and refried beans.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why isn’t he rescuing your sister?” Might as well have some tiramisu, too. Is it too early for a margarita? Naw, I’d rather have a beer, or three, anyhow.

  “His exact words to my parents were, ‘I don’t get involved with terrorists. Especially ISIS. I value my head too much.’”

  That got his attention. Looks like no lunch today. He sighed and flipped open the folder and examined some of the photographs. An attractive bl
onde woman, shorter and curvier than her sister. He could tell, even with the chef jacket hiding her assets, that Andrea Stewart was one of those skinny women with no breasts to speak of. Probably anorexic. Which made it doubly odd that he would be attracted to her. And he was, dammit. That would be really ironical. Him with a love of food and her with a hatred of food, if that was the case. But how could she be a chef and hate food? Nope. Must be something else.

  In one of the photographs, Cnut saw the sister—Celie—wearing cut-off denims and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. In another, she wore a bikini, displaying an amazing number of tattoos. Then she was covered by a burqa with black eyebrows. He also skimmed over some of the detective’s findings.

  “Here’s the deal, Miss Stewart—”

  “Call me Andy.”

  Never. “Andrea,” he conceded, “here’s the deal. Your sister is legally an adult. If she wants to run off with her boyfriend, Arab or otherwise, there’s nothing you can do. It’s her choice.”

  “But it’s not,” she protested. “Not willingly. Not anymore. I don’t think.” She pulled a thin laptop out of her carry bag, set it on the desk, and opened the lid. Tapping a few keys, she apparently got to the page she wanted and turned the computer so that he could see the screen. “My father got this e-mail attachment three days ago. A video. His wife, my stepmother, forwarded it to me right away.”

  A young woman in a black burqa, with a netted half veil covering her lower face, was speaking. “Daddy, I need some money. Can you send me fifty thousand dollars? It’s for a good cause. Honestly.” Suddenly, tears seemed to fill her eyes and she burst out, “Help! Help me, Daddy! I can’t get away!”

  A male voice spewed out some expletives in Arabic, about the only Arabic Cnut recognized, bitch being the predominant one. The woman was yanked out of the picture, and the screen went black.

  “We haven’t been able to contact her since then.”

  “I repeat, why aren’t your parents here? I would think it was their responsibility.”

  She shook her head. “No. Celie is my responsibility. She always has been. Daddy cares about her. He really does, but . . .” She waved a hand dismissively. “A long story.”