The Angel Wore Fangs(57)

“Why have you killed no Navy SEALs and brought them to Horror?” Jasper asked right off. That had been Zeb’s mission the past few years, and while Zeb had worked hard harvesting sinners in general, not one of them had been a member of the elite special forces who valued bravery and loyalty and all those good things most hated by Satan.

Zeb also changed into demonoid form. He was large and fiercesome but not nearly as big or strong as Jasper was. “It’s hard, but that’s no excuse. I have failed you, master. Do you want to pull me from that assignment?”

“No. Not yet. But there have been complaints about you.”

“Complaints? From whom?” Zeb hissed through elongated fangs. “Who dares to criticize me behind my back? It was probably that Nazi Heinrich.”

Jasper conceded the point with a tilt of his heavy head, and he almost burped. All that chocolate and marshmallow was upsetting his stomach. He needed a good dose of blood, preferably a virgin sinner’s blood. Good luck with that! “Heinrich, yes, but others, too. It has been called to my attention that even though you bring in large numbers of kills, they are mostly dreadful sinners who would never repent anyway and would have ended up in Hell without any prodding from a Lucipire.”

“That’s not true!”

“Mayhap not! Be on alert, though. I am watching you, and so are others.”

Zeb knew better than to argue with him. Instead, he bowed his head and said, “What would you have me do, my lord? How can I prove my loyalty?”

Jasper didn’t hesitate. “Bring me a Sigurdsson.”

He could see the alarm on Zeb’s face. Was it because he feared he would not succeed, or that he did not want to succeed? Jasper hated doubting his most trusted friend . . . or a comrade he’d thought was his most trusted friend. “Go for Cnut, the one who is missing,” he suggested. “Since his brothers are yet unaware of his whereabouts, you should be safe in tracking him down. The vangel will be vulnerable without his brothers’ protection.”

To give him credit, Zeb did not hesitate. “As you wish, master.”





Chapter 14


A-Viking they did go . . .

Cnut stayed down in the hall as late as he possibly could without falling asleep, face in his beer. And, yes, he’d overimbibed. More intoxicating beverage than he’d drunk in centuries. But it wasn’t the ale that was intoxicating him. It was a coconut blonde who was igniting the fire in his belly, and lower. What appeared to be the biggest temptation of his life.

He made his way through the tables, those that had not been dismantled for the night, heading toward the stairs. Along the way he noticed Thorkel snoring on one of the benches. Earlier he’d seen him kissing Dyna with the finesse he was known for, but apparently Dyna was playing for bigger stakes than a roll in the horndog’s bed furs. Cnut’s bet was on Dyna in this battle of the sexes.

As for himself, it wasn’t even a battle. Not like Thorkel’s, anyhow. To wed or not to wed. To bed or not to bed. Well, mayhap the latter. But that would be a foolish argument to have with himself when the future was so unknown.

But then, when hadn’t the future been unknown for him? Even back when he was a living human being.

All these questions—should he, shouldn’t he? could he, couldn’t he?—were driving him barmy. Cnut couldn’t put off his bed any longer. In the morning, he and a group of his housecarls would depart for more hunting. He needed his sleep. Andrea would certainly be asleep by now. Leastways, that was the excuse he gave himself for climbing the stairs. He was strong; he’d proven that with centuries of celibacy, except for a few lapses in the early years. He would be strong now, too.

All his good intentions were for naught when he entered the room and found Andrea still awake. And waiting for him. She stood before the hearth wearing a thin shift that was made near transparent by the small fire that still burned. What he couldn’t see clearly of her body, he imagined, and he had a good imagination.

“You’re awake,” he said dumbly.

“Damn right, I’m awake. What’s in the mead anyhow? An aphrodisiac?” A fire was burning in the hearth, but the room was still cool. Even so, she lifted the thin shift that barely covered her chest as if she were overheated. For added emphasis, she fanned herself.

It took less than a second for her words to sink in. She was turned on? His mind went blank, and his knees almost buckled, forcing him to hold on to the back of a chair for support. Once composed, he smiled.

“Your fangs are bigger,” she observed.

So is something else. “That happens when a vangel is in a state of high emotion. Like preparing for battle,” he told her, “or about to make love.”