The Angel Wore Fangs

  “Isn’t this your country, too?”

  She could tell that she’d caught him in a slip of tongue. “It is now,” he said.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Many places,” he said.

  Talk about evasive! She exhaled whooshily with exasperation. “Where is your home? Where did you grow up?”

  “You could say my home is Transylvania,” he answered hesitantly.

  She tossed her hands in the air in a so-there! fashion. “You’re from Romania? Holy cannoli!”

  “Not that Romania. Transylvania, Pennsylvania. Can we get back to the subject of your sister and the ranch?”

  She could tell he didn’t like talking about himself. Big fat hairy deal! “I’ve heard of that town. The Inquirer did a Sunday feature on the loony-tunes vampire activities up there. There’s even a Dracula-type castle there that . . .” At the expression of horror on his face, she realized that she’d inadvertently hit on something important. “Oh my God! Your home is that castle.”

  “Well . . .” His face couldn’t get any redder. With nervousness, he reached for one of the Hershey’s Kisses sitting in a small, cut-glass bowl, unwrapped it, and popped it in his mouth, and was already reaching for another before he’d even started chewing. The foil-wrapped chocolates were made in a factory less than two hours from here. She used lots of them in her cooking, or for just plain melt-in-your-mouth deliciousness.

  “Are you royalty, or something?”

  He choked on his chocolate. “What in bloody hell would give you that idea?”

  “A castle. A town fixated on vampires. Count Dracula. A natural conclusion.” Or not.

  “Oh. I see. Well, hardly a royal. I am a Viking, as I already told you. A plain old Viking. Though I was a jarl in the Norselands at one time. That was comparable to a Saxon earl.”

  She’d only been teasing. Jeesh! A jar-earl? In the Norselands? Where the hell was that? Somewhere in Pennsylvania, near Transylvania? She’d never heard of it, and she’d grown up here. She was about to ask, then caught herself. Enough of this skirting around the issue at hand.

  “Do you have a contract for me to sign?”

  “No. I’ll get your sister back to you, either willingly or unwillingly. Then it will be up to you to get her deprogrammed, if necessary. I can recommend some places.”

  She nodded. That sounded good. “But shouldn’t we have a written agreement? Payment. Time limits. Terms and conditions.”

  He cocked his head at her. “Terms and conditions?”

  “For one thing, I am going with you to Montana.”

  “You are not going with me.”

  “I’ve already notified my employer that I might need to take vacation time soon.” Actually, she’d told Sonja nothing, but she wasn’t worried. There was an assistant pastry chef who could substitute for her for a few days.

  “It should only take a few days, shouldn’t it?”

  “I would hope so, but you’re not going with me.”

  “When do you want to leave? Today is Wednesday. How about Friday? My parents will have left for their cruise that day. Good timing.” She walked to the kitchen while she was talking to him, over her shoulder.

  “Good . . . good . . .” he sputtered, getting up and following after her to sit down at a stool in front of the counter. “Your parents are going on a cruise while their daughter is mixed up with a bunch of terrorist wannabes? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You are not going with me.”

  She plunked the plate of Peking duck pancakes into the microwave, along with sides of candy-striped beet salad, artichokes with mustard aioli, and saffron-scented rice. Then she poured two cone-shaped beer glasses—more thrift shop bargains that she loved—with some cold boutique beers that had been sitting in her fridge since Christmas.

  His eyes widened and he seemed to murmur, “Help me, Lord!” when she placed the plate in front of him, along with fresh fruit in an orange curd tart. In fact, he made the sign of the cross and said aloud, “Forgive me, Lord.” He closed his eyes, as if in ecstasy as he chewed. “Delicious. Sinfully delicious.”

  She took that as a compliment, although the entrée wasn’t one of her creations. “So, what should I pack? Casual clothes, I would think. Jeans, boots, that kind of thing. Unless we’re going as city slicker guests. Even then, I think we would go casual, don’t you?”

  “You are not going with me,” he said.

  “Will you make the travel arrangements or should I? Do you need a retainer? My father will pay, but don’t go overboard. My stepmother, Darla, will have a fit.”

  He crossed his eyes, then glared at her. “You are not going with me.”

  Chapter 5

  A MID-FLIGHT CARRY-ON SNACK

  Chopped chicken breast salad with crisp green grapes, walnuts, and apples, topped with cranberry orange relish and arugula, served on a croissant

  Penn State cheddar cheese with sesame crackers and Gala apple slices

  Greek pomegranate yogurt

  Easy-peel baby clementines

  Apricot pecan nut rolls

  The Lone Viking and his sidekick, to the rescue . . .

  She was going with him.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Coconut. Vanilla. Coconut. Vanilla.

  Madness, madness, madness.

  Cnut wasn’t sure how it had happened. A combination of cajolery, threats, smiles, frowns, tears, swoon-worthy Peking duck, and general coconut-vanilla intoxication, he supposed. In other words, no excuse. It was a bad, bad idea to have a woman along on a vangel mission, a human woman, that was. Especially one who was so scared, she practically wet her pants every other minute, including now, as they waited for takeoff of their Delta flight to Bozeman from the Philadelphia International runway.

  And it wasn’t just fear of flying that had the wench alternately wringing her hands and popping Dramamine tablets. She was belatedly realizing how dangerous this little adventure into ISIS Lackwit Land would be. “Maybe all those beheadings were just photoshopped,” she proffered hopefully.

  Yeah, and the moon is made of white chocolate fudge and the stars are just sugar sprinkles.

  Then, too, she was afraid of horses. “Do I really have to ride a horse? All that bouncing can’t be good for a person’s insides. Besides, I’ll probably be having my period.”

  I wouldn’t touch that one with a ten-foot longboat oar. So much for her riding experience!

  She was also scared spitless by spiders: “All those hairy legs!”

  Hah! She should see the legs of some Vikings I knew. Thicker than kudzu. Luckily, mine are blond and not so noticeable. Much.

  Horror movies: “C’mon, even you have to admit Freddy Krueger is creepy.”

  Freddy who?

  High diving boards: “Do I look like I have a death wish?”

  Yes!

  And Ouija boards: “I didn’t talk to Grandma Stewart when she was alive. Why would I want to talk to the old bat when she’s dead?”

  “That, I can understand. My paternal grandsire had so much lice in his beard, it moved, and he smelled like gammelost all the time. Legend said that the stinksome cheese was served to ancient Viking warriors before battle to turn them berserk.”

  She blinked at him as if he was rather odd. He could only imagine how she would react if she saw him in full vangel mode—elongated fangs, bloody sword, and mists of blue wings rising out of his shoulders. Or Lucipires! Holy clouds! Lucies scared him, too, when they morphed into demonoid form, all mung-oozing scales, claws, tails, red eyes, and fangs. She would probably have a heart attack or be scarred mentally for life.

  He had to give her credit, though. The girl faced her fears and barreled on, teeth chattering but chin raised pugnaciously. That was real bravery. Or stupidity.

  Andrea sat next to the window, and he on the aisle, of the first-class accommodations. They’d argued about that, too—“the unnecessary expense”—along with fifty other things about this trip, but there w
as no way his long legs would fit into economy class.

  “Prepare for takeoff,” the pilot said over the intercom system.

  Buckled in, the passengers braced themselves. Some more than others. Cnut glanced Andrea’s way, then did a double take. Her white-knuckled fists clutched the armrests, her eyes were wide and unblinking, shivers rippled over her body. A small keening whimper escaped her parted lips.

  This he could understand. Flying high above the earth was unnatural to man, and the first time he’d done it (in an airplane; he’d yet to receive real angel wings), Cnut had felt as frightened as Andrea was now. In fact, he’d clutched an armrest so tightly, the wood had cracked.

  Cnut did the only thing he could to distract Andrea.

  He kissed her.

  Well, it wasn’t the only thing he could think of. But the only thing that wouldn’t get him arrested.

  So, he kissed her.

  No big Viking deal, right?

  Wrong!

  Cnut felt as if he’d fallen off the highest cliff. First, there was the shock, lips touching lips, then the incredible sense of floating through the air like a feather on an erotic wind current, as she breathed into his mouth, and he breathed back.

  With one of his arms behind her back, he used the other hand to cup her cheek and turn her more directly toward him. Her face rested on his shoulder, and she surrendered with a sigh. Another exchange of breath as he shaped her lips to his and deepened the kiss.

  Then he surrendered, too.

  He knew about surrender. Hah! All his life, his former life, had been about surrender. To hunger. To thirst. To fornication. To gluttony in all his excesses. But this was different. This was surrender “of” not “to.” Of himself. Not to some temptation.

  And that made as much sense to him as practically devouring a woman in a public place. His peripheral senses, which had been on temporary shutdown, heard a giggle from the seat behind them, and a snicker from across the aisle. Slowly, he eased his mouth off hers, still cradling her face in one big hand.

  She stared at him, dazed, but no longer with fear. Her brown eyes glistened like gold, her kiss-swollen lips parted as she breathed heavily, wisps of her blonde hair fluttered about her face. She wasn’t pretty, exactly, but she was more attractive, to him, than any woman he’d met in more than a thousand years.

  “You smell like peppermint,” she said breathily.

  He let out a hoot of laughter and moved his hand off her face, reluctantly. He also eased his other arm from around her shoulder. “That’s me. A big old Peppermint Pattie.”

  “Or a peppermint stick.”

  “And you smell like coconut. That’s some combination. Cocomint. Or peppernut.” He was trying for jest to lighten this amazing cloud of sensuality that seemed to cocoon them.

  But she took him seriously and said, “Hey, don’t knock it. I bought a scented candle one time that was just that. Coconut mints.”

  What a ridiculous conversation! Even more ridiculous, why am I grinning like a halfbrained youthling with his first cockstand? “Well, at least you’re no longer shivering like a cat in a dog kennel.”

  Her shoulders slumped at his flippant words, and she glanced quickly out the windows, just now realizing that they were airborne. Her cheeks bloomed with embarrassment. She had to think he’d only kissed her to distract her from airlift jitters. Which he had. At the beginning.

  The flight attendant took their drink orders—a light beer for him and cranberry juice for Andrea. “Are you sure you don’t want a glass of wine?” he suggested. Anything to relax her.

  She made a face of distaste. “The wine they serve on airlines might as well come in screw-top bottles.”

  “A wine snob?”

  She seemed surprised at his question, but then shrugged. “Probably. I lived in France for a while when attending cooking school. The French claim to make the absolute best wines in the world. Even the working class there appreciates a good vintage. I’m not sure that’s true anymore, about French wines being superior. There’s so much competition today, including American vintages.”

  “The Franks always did consider themselves superior beings. No surprise then that they self-proclaim themselves the kings of grape. Personally, I am more a beer guy. All Vikings are, having been practically weaned on the sweet mead of our culture.”

  She blinked several times at his seemingly irrelevant comment. “Okay, yes, I am a wine snob,” she conceded, “but I feel the same way about food, in general. Garbage in, garbage out. Quality ingredients, quality product.”

  He put up his hands in mock surrender. He’d meant to distract her, not get a lecture.

  She caught the frown on his face and apologized. “I get carried away on the subject. It’s a sore point with me. We’re a nation of processed food addicts. Quick and cheap wins over fresh and homemade every time.”

  “I don’t disagree with you. I love good food.” All food, actually, but his taste buds had become more refined over the years.

  No surprise then that when the attendant came to take their order for lunch, beef Wellington or chicken Cordon Bleu, Andrea declined both and said she’d packed her own meal. He sat eating the red meat encased in a flaky crust with small potatoes, and it wasn’t half bad, but he had to admit the sandwich she’d pulled from a soft-sided freezer bag under her seat looked more tempting. Noticing his stare, she pulled out a second plastic-wrapped sandwich and handed it to him. It was delicious, and he moaned his appreciation. Chicken salad on a crisp croissant, but not just chicken and the dressing; there were other crunchy things in it besides the usual celery and onion. Grapes, walnuts, and apples. And covering it all was some kind of sweet-sour relish, a combination of cranberries and oranges, maybe. The lettuce on top was coarse-chopped and bitter, but not unpleasantly so. Arugula, he guessed, from his TV food show gleanings.

  She also handed him several clear bags, one with slices of hard yellow cheese, seeded crackers, and thin slivers of crisp apples. In addition, there were tiny, easy-to-peel oranges; crunchy red grapes; yogurt with pomegranates; and apricot-filled nut rolls.

  A gourmet meal, he recognized, even in its simplicity. And he ate every sumptuous bit of it.

  Was that a sign of his continuing gluttony, or just an indication of his refined taste buds? He knew which one Mike would choose.

  “How do you stay so slim? Eating this kind of fare every day? All day, I assume, since you must taste what you make.”

  “Genes.”

  “I would gorge myself on this kind of food and blow up like a grotesque balloon.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. I’m sure you get enough exercise to burn up the calories.” She sized him up in a way that made him glad he was half his former size.

  “I once weighed more than four hundred pounds,” he blurted out, though he had never actually weighed himself back then, of course, nor would the term pound have been used as a measurement. It was a guesstimate. He could have said, I once weighed as much as a small longboat. Or, I once weighed as much as a large, wild boar. That would have just raised questions he was not prepared to answer, like how much exposure had he had to longboats, and how did he know anything about wild boars?

  But where his sudden disclosure had come from, he had no idea. He never discussed his past life of gluttony. The only ones who knew of his shameful former self were his brothers, who loved to needle him on occasion. Usually, he ignored their jests. Betimes, he gave them a bloody nose or blackened eye, if they persisted too long.

  “Really? Well, you are tall.”

  “Not that tall. Six foot four.”

  “You were obese?”

  “Fat.”

  She gazed at him in disbelief, giving him another of those full-body surveys that warmed him in places that should not be warm in a public setting.

  He nodded. “I was a glutton.” I am a glutton. He noticed then that he’d eaten not only his airline meal, but his Andrea-packed lunch and half of hers as well. He felt his face heat and he turne
d away, berating himself, Glutton, glutton, glutton!

  Sensing his dismay, she patted his hand. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up. It’s okay to overindulge once in a while. Besides, we’ll be getting plenty of exercise on the ranch.”

  That’s what he was afraid of.

  The attendant took away their meal debris, then asked Cnut, “Can I do anything else for you, Mr. Jackson?” The message was clear, an invitation, and did not include Mrs. Jackson, at his side. He and Andrea were pretending to be Curt and Andrea Jackson, and they had valid paperwork to document their identities, thanks to Michael’s angelic network. They were on the way to a dude ranch in Montana for a vacation.

  “No, thank you.”

  When she left, Andrea raised her brows at him, “That was a bit brazen. Does it happen to you a lot?”

  He shrugged. “She probably thought you were my sister.”

  “Yeah, right. Must get tiresome.”

  She was teasing, or so he surmised. Despite centuries of having lost his repulsive fat, he still thought of himself as unattractive. He was, inside. “Very,” he agreed with what he hoped was a tone of sarcasm . . . and finality. Enough on that subject. “How did you get interested in cooking?”

  “Necessity. At first. I was an only child the first ten years of my life. My mother kept having miscarriages every other year until she had Celie. Then, after Celie’s birth, she got cancer. For three years, between chemo and radiation, remission and reoccurrence, and finally death, I became the chief caregiver for both my mother and the baby. My dad was a basket case, burying himself in work. Oh, we had help . . . a housekeeper/nurse/cook, but somehow I became the anchor of the family. I was the one who took care of the baby, Celie cried for everyone but me. Feeding her, changing her diapers, rocking her. In the beginning my mother helped, especially during the remission periods, but she just got weaker and weaker. And she begged me, before she died, to always take care of Celie. What else could I do?” She shrugged. “Even when my school and my childhood, such as it was, suffered. I never did catch up academically. Barely graduated from high school.”

  He could see now why she felt such a responsibility for her sister. It was like a blood oath to her dead mother.